#hamate pisiform triquetrum and lunate

[spilling-blood]

I didn't decide this randomly, either ya know. I had to take multiple anatomy and physiology classes. The first one, we had to learn every bone and were tested on it weekly. Pencil and paper numbers on the skeleton models no word bank.

[deadboyfriendd]

Sovereign Creatures: The Triumph Of Death

Summary: You plan on reanimating your lover piece by piece, today, you are in search of his eyes.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Mermaid reader, Plague Doctor!Steve Harrington, based off of The Salt Grows Heavy by Cassandra Khaw, period appropriate violence, gore, blood, self mutilation, surgical instruments

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

The bezoar sits encased in a glass cloche, its ruminating pulse the only thing to remind you that he was once alive, too– and that he may be alive again one day. 

The bezoar of your dead lover– a bolus of broken-off teeth and snarled hairs, fingernails, caked dirt, curds of mummified gray, colored glass. Over it all, a lettering of fine blue veins, like an alphabet that only muscle can decode – incubated his dwindling consciousness. You dreamed of the day this organ would pulsate behind flesh once more. 

You knew nothing of his pilot existence, where he learned his kindness. You did not know of the life he lived with a mother and father, where he learned to speak and run, where he felt the weight of the earth in all of its glory. Where the warmth of the sunburn overcomes the sting and the weight of existence is a beautiful one to bear. 

Instead you knew of his last existence. This one stunk with the morosity of being reanimated but never fully alive again. You’d wondered if his first death had been as painful as his last, even though you knew it would be foolish to assume that it hadn’t. Creatures of his nature rarely harbored peace in death. The weight of this existence was bruising– crushing, even. 

You knew this existence would be beautiful– almost as beautiful as he had been.

Your boy would be beautiful again, made in the image of your own ideal of it. 

Your finger traced over his notes, scared to smudge to ink despite its age. You felt the embossing against the parchment and tried to feel his hands against your fingers like reeds, blood flowing under his skin in its inky black beauty and pulsating through the ruminants of his inkwell heart. 

The study felt more like yours than his own now, though he had inhabited it for years before your existence. You were merely a vessel for his findings. A piece plucked and carved from this rib of his essence. A slave to the bezoar behind a glass cloche. 

It still pulsated its erratic song in a fleshy waltz. You looked for the hum of his voice beneath it, not quite able to remember its exact pitch. You listen to it again and again, the mellow drone of it a backing that fills your studies. Sometimes you listened for a whisper, sometimes you listened for permission to continue. 

There were more pieces of you covering this place than there were pieces of him, it felt like. You could no longer differentiate your books interwoven with his on the shelves– the lines between your handwriting and his becoming one blurred entity, the line where your being ended and the pieced-together formations of where his new being began intertwined as one desolate, threadbare creature. 

The human hands can be differentiated by the presence of an opposable thumb, made different from the other phalanges marked by the absence of the middle phalanx… the metacarpal is the connecting factor to the smaller subset of carpals within the wrist. 

This you knew was his writing, and you were thankful in the beginning for how thorough he had been in his studies. You allowed yourself the pleasure of feeling the ridges of his writing:

Trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, hamate, scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform. 

You try to feel them in your own wrists, try to feel the sutures in bone and the roll of ligament over them. You tried to feel the feeling of being alive once more, differentiating it from what– you weren’t quite certain. You tried to remember a time in which he had been alive. 

“That’s it.” He would have whispered to you, through a velveteen smile, his own gentle fingers wrapped delicately around your wrists– feeling the roll of ligament over bone the way you tried to feel now, “So Long To Pinkie, Here Comes The Thumb.” 

Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, hamate, capitate, trapezoid, trapezium.  You jotted down alongside his writing. 

His hands were one of the few things remaining after the day of the saints– your body seethed like the embers that remained of him. You watched them settle low against the glass in their formaldehyde home and wished desperately that you could pull one out to cradle your face just once– the way he had. 

You wished that you could trail your fingers over the hills and valleys of the soft plush of his hands in search of the canyons between his fingers in which yours would seek solace just once more. You wished to feel his thumb run rivers across the crest of your lip, pilling downward over the plush and settle in the crevice between there and your chin. Just once do you wish to  feel warmth behind flesh. 

It had been years, now. More than you could remember. 

His existence, the way he was before the only remnants of him you had were his studies, seemed blurry now– a far off memory in which you could not quite soft through. But you remembered the warmth that radiated from him like the sun. You do not remember who he was, yet the remnants of his previous existence consumed your entirety. 

The violence in which he gave his life for you no longer stings, but fills you with a hot, blinding anger.

His existence was violent and painful, manufactured to be that way, yet nonetheless beautiful. Sometimes you believe he does not want to live again, but you are selfish. You will show him that there is existence without pain. 

You press tender fingers, cold and aching against the glass cloche. A promise to him that you will return in due time. That you will come bearing gifts. That you will hold each other once more. 

The air is clammy this time of year, salty on your tongue when you inhale and chilled from the sea air. The cobblestone is right beneath your feet, and you walk with more caution than you typically would during the day. A fire burns in the distance, woolen-cloaked bodies stand around it in a horde in silence, staring into its molten nucleus. Humans were like that, you found, drawn to warmth. Maybe you had lost your edge. Maybe the frailty of humanity was contagious. 

Maybe a part of him had stayed human. 

He had been drawn to it as a moth to a gas lamp, quick to release his body to her thrashing, ravenous hands. Had the fire been the cause? Or, perhaps, the warmth in which death held him delicately between her fingers. He had held you the same way. You would hold him that way again. 

The first doctor was one that he was close to in his reanimated life; they had been brothers in death, harvested and reanimated at the hands of The Saints. They had passed years of orphaned childhood by playing kill the pig– a sickening game it was, even to you. Swine to slaughter, children for sacrificial youth. The saints plucked pieces from their bodies like ripened fruit, replaced them with other displaced pieces, ugly shows in sick theaters under the guise of ritualism for the other children to watch– until there were no remnants of them to be left. A quilt of leftover parts and shells of children that once were and would never be again. 

The woods that congregate like hooded men at the mouth of where river meets ocean are deep. His house is hidden deeper within them, not unlike your own, a dry thatched roof and stone walls. Solitary, with sea salt tears brimming cobblestone eyes. Yet, somehow warmer than yours. It felt like the depths of the ocean in which you resided. The part of you that human-adjacent held it close to you. 

His name is Edward. It was one of the few things he kept for himself in his old life, along with his eyes. When you would ask why, he would say:

“The Saints preferred colored eyes, my dear.” 

You’d figured that was why you were searching for your own pair now. Green, like the moss that covers the dirt in a spongy expanse in the spring.

You knock on the door and he is warm in greeting– almost as warm as it is within his house. 

“Ah, you’re here for them.”

There is a code in the way the plague doctors speak, they are warm to each other, but speak around the visceral topics of what they are actually doing. The world still feared them. In your bluntness, you had still not mastered the art. 

“The eyes, yes.” 

His back is to you. Even with his figure cloaked, you can see the misshapenness flex and roll beneath a linen sea. There is a tincture clinking as the jars bounce off of another in a song as he picks each one up and examines it– contents dancing formaldehyde dances. He is a creature in his own respect. You feel a solidarity to him despite the sovereigness to your creation. 

Your hands were not warm, not like his were. Skin rubbery and catching along itself in a tacky half-dryness as you reach to your back. Scales lay there, green and blue like the refraction of abalone. Sharp against any flesh that dare come close. The skin there is raised where you had done this before. 

It stings less for this time, but the dull ache pulsates beneath the skin where the pockets still remain. Your fingers bleed from the grip, and a deep blood seeps from the wounds like outstretched arms that reach for the scale. 

There is an infatuation that resides within the plague doctors with your existence. These pieces of you had proven incredibly valuable to them in the past. 

A book on the shelf calls to you– bound in leather and charred to an inky blackness around the edges. Necromantia. 

An old magic. Older than your lifetime. 

“What will that cost me?” You asked, Edward, who, in turn, pulls the book from the shelf. 

“We will settle that in time.”

You aren’t quite sure what it means, regardless, you tuck the book into your cloak– near your chest. It ruminates its own pulse, respires its own breaths– much like the bezoar. 

“You know,” he begins, eyes somber and black against the golden glow of the fire light, “the saints had a way of resurrecting us, of sorts… bringing us to life without actually killing us–”

“Rebirth without death.”

“Yes, so it was.” His eyes have become pits, swirling blackness of eternal oblivion. A rift in the seams of this world that points you toward his damnation. 

They had only been children. 

“I know this may be difficult to hear,” He says, voice low– you cannot tell if it for preservation of your emotions or for caution of violence, “but it may be best to let the dead be dead.” 

You assumed his resentment towards the saints was a mirror reflection of Steven’s. A fiery hatred that burned like embers deep within his chest– the lifeblood in which kept him alive for so long. He fed off of this hatred, he burned his own body to ash in search of it. He wanted The Saints dead– so much that he would offer himself to this hatred, too. 

This resentment burned in your throat tonight. It burned in choking sobs and hot tears that rolled down your rubbery flesh. It clouded your vision as you splayed ocular nerves. It burned your nose in tandem with preserving fluids. It burned in your chest as you took a step back, admiring his beauty in anatomical pieces. 

He isn’t dead. Just incomplete.

You should let him be dead, but the pulsating of the bezoar pleads to stay alive. 

When he opens borrowed eyes again, would he resent you too?

[sanguinaryrot]

I realize this is only really relevant to me, the single Kienböck's-having vexilography enthusiast on the planet, but making art and graphics has always been a good way for me to handle stress. So i present: The Keinböck's Disease Awareness Flag.

Kienböck's Disease is avascular necrosis of the lunate bone, or bone death because of lack of blood flow in one of the eight bones in your wrist called the lunate. This causes pain, stiffness, swelling, and decreased range of motion and grip strength. There is no cure, but treatments to alleviate pain and pressure in the wrist include radial shortening (fracturing and shortening the radius bone of the arm) or a Proximal Row Carpectomy (removing three wrist bones.) Out of every 100,000 people who have their wrists scanned, around 7 will have Kienböck’s Disease.

the eight stripes represent the eight bones in your wrist: the hamate, capitate, trapezoid, trapezium, scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, and pisiform bones. The sixth stripe is the lunate, which is red to represent the inflammation, chronic pain, and stiffness associated with the disorder.

[radioactiveradley]

It’s SPOOKY SCARY SKELETONS MONTH

So let’s talk about yer bones! Yeah, that’s right, Captian Holt. I said –

An adult has (roughly) 206 bones (I say ‘roughly’! You can have non-pathological anatomical variation, such as lumbarised sacral vertebrae (an extra bone in your back) or accessory sesamoids like the flabella (a little bone at the back of the knee!))

A newborn has (roughly) 300 bones

That's a big difference! Almost 100 bones of difference! Where do they go?

Well, you see - as you get older, every time you come into the hospital we steal more of your bones...

Just kidding.

...Or am I

As an embryo, your skeleton is completely composed of cartilage. This gradually ossifies as you age, until, as an adult, you have a full skeleton, with only the interactive portions of joints being capped with hyaline cartilage.

[Paediatric normal whole leg radiograph, showing epiphyseal plates around the head of the femur, the femoral condyles, the proximal tibia, the distal tibia and the lateral malleoli that can mimic fractures. Courtesy of radiopaedia]

See all those weird blobs? Those are bones in the process of fusing together! The transverse lines that could be mistaken for fractures are actually epiphyseal plates – hyaline cartilage bridges between the shaft of a bone and what will become its tip, which don't attenuate x-rays, and thus appear black on our radiographs! This is where bone growth occurs - the cartilage forms a sort of template matrix that then ossifies into bone.

Compare our paediatric radiograph to the AP knee radiographs of an adult with no visible pathology:

[Adult normal AP knee radiographs, showing fully fused bones. Courtesy of radiopaedia]

See how all those ragged pieces have joined up? That’s endochondral ossification, BABY!

This is how we can figure out the age of a paediatric service user from their bones! Certain bones form at different times.

Let’s check out the carpal bones – all those fiddly little bones in your wrist! Anyone who’s binged Hatecrimes MD – sorry, House MD as often as I have will know the classic acronym for remembering the names of these bones. Moving thumb side to pinkie side, we have…

Scared (Scaphoid - red)

Lovers (Lunate - dark blue)

Hate (Hamate - green)

To (Triquetrum - yellow)

Try (Trapezium - orange)

The (Trapezoid - light blue)

Coolest (Capitate - purple)

Positions (Pisiform - pink)

[Normal adult wrist radiograph, shown with and without coloured carpal bones. Courtesy of radiopaedia.]

But did you know that these bones form at different times?

The Capitate ossifies at 1-3 months

The Hamate ossifies at 2-4 months

The Triquetrum ossifies at 2-3 years

The Lunate ossifies at 2-4 years

The Scaphoid, Trapezium and Trapezoid ossify at 4-6 years

And the Pisiform ossifies at 8-12 years

So, I can look at this picture, and tell you that this child is approximately 3 years old, because their Capitate and Hamate have ossified, and their Triquetrum is just visible, starting to ossify below the thumb (circled!)

[Normal wrist radiograph of a paediatric patient, triquetral ossification centre circled. Courtesy of Radiopaedia.]

Your bones continue to form and fuse until you reach about 25! Your olecranon (the bump of your elbow) starts to ossify at 6-11 years, and fuses at 13-16 years! We can look at the base of your fifth metatarsal to age afab folks who are approx. 10 and amab folks who are approx. 12, as this bone fuses in the 2-4 years following these ages! The medial end of the clavicle can be used to assess your age from approximately 18-22, and your facial bones continue to ossify into adulthood! How cool is that?

If you’re over 25, fret not – there’s still plenty of funky stuff happening to your bones. But we’ll get into all of that next time, when we take a look at the function of osteoblasts and osteoclasts and explore all the cool little jobs that your bones perform within your body - it's more than you might think! So, tune in next time for more Bone facts...

And thank you for reading!

[bcnes]

"let's listen in on our inner thoughts"

Send "let's listen in on our inner thoughts" to hear a thought my muse has had but would never vocalize.

...caphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate, hamate... radius, ulna, humerus - he fractured that seventeen months ago, incident in the sparring room - scapula, clavicle...

[milfholder]

scaphoid lunate triquetrum pisiform trapezium trapezoid capitate hamate

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

daisy, chapter three

A/N: dude... I am unwell after writing this... I am lightheaded. I am screaming. holy fucking shit. I have no words, no words, this is just uunghhhhhh 😵‍💫

summary: the one with the diary incident

warnings: private school!reader, perv!steve, smut, kissing, stealing underwear, male masturbation, fingering, dirty talk, mentions of improvised sex toy

word count: 2529

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist

previous chapter - series masterlist - next chapter

“…hamate, triquetrum, pisiform, lunate and this last one is called scaphoid,” you said as your finger nervously danced over the root of Steve’s palm, recalling the names of all the bones there because apparently, that had been the most logical thing for your brain to distract you with when handholding turned into a butterfly inducing comparison of yours and his hands, but mostly just you drooling over his, clenching your thighs together every time he tried to aid your inspection by wiggling his fingers or something that would make the prominent veins pop and dance. 

“Good to know,” Steve ducked his head down, waiting for you to meet his eyes again. Your sudden waterfall of an anatomy lesson came out of the blue, but he didn’t seem to mind, especially not when you blushed like that. “You are gonna be such a good doctor. Like, I don’t wanna get sick or hurt, but I would give my right arm for you to be my doctor.”

“Oh yeah?” your eyes finally flickered up to meet his, “your right arm?”

His infectious grin almost immediately rubbed off on you, “yeah.”

“That’s quite a sacrifice.” 

“What can I say, I love you,” he leaned in and gave your lips a soft peck, “and it would also be super hot,” gently resting his palm on one of your crisscrossed knees, the tips of his fingers played lightly with the bottom of your pastel dress. 

The giggle that bubbled out of you didn’t stop him from kissing you. He simply kept it up till your amusement died down and you melted into him completely. 

When the phone suddenly started ringing from down the hallway, it took the two of you a surprising amount of time to detach long enough for you to go answer it. 

“Hello?” you glanced over your shoulder to where you could still see Steve exactly where you’d abandoned him. Previously just sitting comfortably on the bed, he now fell back dramatically and melted into the mattress. 

“Hi honey,” your mother’s voice rang loud and clear in your ear, 

“Oh, hey mom!” you fiddle with curly cord, wrapping it around your finger, “what’s up?”

“So, I’m gonna be home a little later than I thought, and you know how the Robinsons asked us to water their plants while they’re away on vacation?”

“Yeah,” you recalled how your mom had been running over to your neighbour's house every day for nearly a week now.

“Well, I forgot to do it this morning, so do you think you could do it for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Oh, wonderful! Thank you so much,” she cheered, “the key is under the mat, and they’ve hung a pretty specific guide on the fridge.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tonight.”

“See you tonight, bye.”

Hanging up, you called out before you reached your room again, “hey Steve, I gotta go for a second, okay?”

“What?” he sat up, “why?”

“I just gotta go water the neighbour's plants.”

“Seriously?” his fingers reached for you as soon as you were close enough, “can’t you just do it later?”

“No,” you tried to pry him off of you, “I wanna do it before you and your big, brown, sparkling eyes make me forget.”

Letting go, he leaned back and smirked, “my big sparkling eyes?”

“Just, shut up. I’ll be right back.”

Earlier today, Steve had managed to sneak up and scare you. Tickled your sides till you begged for mercy. Now, it would just be plain dumb if you didn’t take this as an excuse for a little payback.

Sneaking back into the house, you crept your way down the hallway, weary of the creaky floorboards you knew all too well.

You couldn’t wait to see his face. Oh, it had been way too long since you’d given him a good scare, you always had a way of giving your presence away before you could manage to actually scare him. But not this time. This time he wouldn’t see you coming. 

Your bedroom door was still ajar, a sliver of light painted the hallway as you snuck up and carefully pushed it open just a tad more to get an inkling of where in the room he was. 

There he stood, leaning over your vanity, and completely enthralled in a book that laid there. But there was something else, something that made it impossible for you to move any further. His right arm was moving and, in the reflection, you caught sight of just how far it was jammed down the front of his jeans. 

Taking a seat on the small stool, you heard the sound of him tugging down his zipper. Skimming a long finger over the pages, it was now that you recognised what book it was. The bright pink cover was noticeable even from across the room. That was your diary. He was reading your diary. Or, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t just reading it…

A moan filled the room and your felt your nails dig into the wooden door frame. You could still see his face in the mirror. Heavy lids and his mouth hung agape as he reread the same entry over and over again. 

Pausing for a moment, he reached over into the hamper to the side and snatched up a pair of dirty panties from the very top of the pile. Weaving his fingers through the cotton, he raised the floral material up to his face and inhaled deeply, letting his eye flutter shut, just for a moment. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, lowering the fabric down towards his obscured length and no doubt enveloping his cock in your pretty little underwear, wrapping himself up in your musk and fucking into the closest thing he could find to your cunt. 

Within a short amount of time, his vulgar noises became louder, and his face contorted. 

And there you still stood, just frozen in place. Throbbing, but frozen. Just watching him regain his breath as you tried to regain your own.

Finally looking up, he discovered you in the reflection, staring back at him.

“Ace, I-… how long have you been standing there?” 

Watching as he quickly tugged himself away, you also noticed the attempt at being subtle, hiding the cum covered underwear in his pocket.

You didn’t know what to ask first. Are you reading my diary or did you just cum reading it?

“Is that my diary?” you forced your jelly-like legs to move, stepping into the room. 

Turning around in the chair, he faced you, looking like he was ready for you to slap him at any moment, “yes…”

“Did you just-”

“Yeah…”

“Oh…” not trusting your legs, you sat down on the bed, face surely completely crimson by now, “w-why? did me writing about how much I hate my teacher really do it for you?”

“That wasn’t the part I was reading… it, um… it was something about a dream…” his tone sounded searching, hoping that you’d remember, “I was apparently in it.”

“Which one?” you wrote most of your vivid dreams down in that book, “I’ve known you forever, it’s not that unusual for you to pop into one of my dreams…”

“It was dated sometime last month?” he then added as if he was trying to lighten the news, “it was a very nice dream…”

Last month… what dream did you have last month that could possibly have prompted him to do that? 

“Oh my god,” it suddenly hit you and your hands shot up to cover your face, “oh my god!” it felt like you had a fever from the way your face was burning up, “I can’t believe you read that!”

“I did,” how could he sound so calm in all of this? Was he smiling? It sounded like he was smiling, “and I really liked it. Obviously.”

“God, I’m so embarrassed…”

The idea of just covering yourself up underneath all of your blankets till he eventually left was sadly crushed when you felt the mattress dip beside you, “If it makes you feel better,” he scooted in a little closer, “need I remind you what you just walked in on me doing? You actually saw me getting off and I just read about you doing it.”

That entry hadn’t just been a description of the relatively tame wet dream you’d had, but also how you hadn’t been able to cum fast enough after waking up from it. 

“Yeah, no, that doesn’t really help me right now.”

Feeling his fingers wrap around your wrists, he gently dragged them down. All you could see was him. Just him and his gentle smile. 

Relaxing slightly under his gaze, some of the flustered nature still didn’t seem to wanna disappear just yet. Your breathing hadn’t returned to normal yet, and Steve’s fingers tickled slightly against your thighs that were, unbeknownst to you, rubbing together in search of release. 

Tugging a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his bold words hit you like a truck, “could you show me?”

“What?” 

“Show me how you make yourself cum?” you felt his fingers lightly play with your hair. 

“What,” you swallowed hard, “l-like right now?”

“Right here, right now.”

“Really?”

“You saw mine, I wanna see yours.”

“But you read about it,” you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to hinder the growing smirk. 

“I know,” he smiled, obviously thinking back to what he had just read about, “but I wanna see it.” It then clicked what it actually was that he was asking you to do and averted his gaze, “I’m sorry… it’s okay if you don’t want to. We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”

Taking a moment to truly think about it without his hypnotising gaze fixed upon you, you spoke up softly, “… I want to…”

Looking up at you in slight surprise, “yeah?”

“Yeah…” his lips quickly found yours in a heated kiss. Feeling slightly lightheaded, you twisted your face just enough to squeak out, “but, I don’t know,” fearing that the teaspoon-sized amount of courage you possessed wasn’t enough to get you over the finish line, “it’s just weird with you here…”

“Well,” placing a few more soft pecks upon your blushing skin, slowly making their way down your neck, “maybe I could help you… would you like that?”

“Yes,” you shuttered, practically feeling yourself drip at his offer. 

Climbing back behind you, he encouraged your body to lean back against his chest. Letting your eyes flutter closed, you nearly felt drunk in his warm embrace. Running his palms down your arms, he left millions of goosebumps in his wake, till he reached your hands, lacing his fingers with yours. 

“Tell me about the dream, ace,” his voice in your ear made you instinctually raise a shoulder up, rubbing the shiver away. 

“But you just read about it…” your hips rolled down into the mattress as he started to move your interlocked hands over your skin, quickly locating your boobs. 

“Please?” he nipped your neck, “for me?”

“We, um,” your breath was heavy as he set to decorate your neck with lavender marks, “were laying on a couch…”

“Mhm,” his voice vibrated against your skin.

“And we were kissing…”

“Yeah?” he closed his own and therefore making your own hands squeeze your tingly tits. 

“And that’s kinda it… we just made out…” you couldn’t help but feel foolish that such a comparatively mild dream had had such great power over you.

“And that was all you needed, huh?” he redirected your right hand down further south, “just a little dream of us kissing and you cream your pretty little panties?” you saw him hook a long finger over yours to hike up your dress.

“I, um…” you watched as both of your hands disappeared under the waistband of your underwear. Your left hand flexed under his own, catching your hard nipple between your fingers. 

His hands were glued to yours. He was controlling every single move, but it was still your hands that touched you, not his. 

Circling the tips of your fingers over your clit, he pressed down hard. “You just couldn’t stop yourself, could you? If the thought of me simply kissing you makes you do that, then just imagine what you’d do if something more had happened…”

Dipping down to catch some of the abundant arousal that leaked out of you, you almost felt embarrassed about how soaked you were. That show had clearly done more than you’d thought. 

“Fuck ace,” you could feel his hard on poking your lower back, “is what you wrote really what happened?” you nodded your head under his chin, “did you really fuck yourself with the handle of your hairbrush?”

It hadn’t been the first time… some days, your mind just wouldn’t quit till you had something remotely phallic in your present and that smooth end often did the trick.

“Y-yeah…”

Practically puppeteering your hand, he made you dip your middle finger down to tickle your buzzing entrance.

“You dirty little girl… fucking yourself with a hairbrush just because you were so desperate for my cock, huh? Is that why you did it? You wanted your best friend to come and fill you up?” he pushed your finger inside, little by little.

Throwing your head back into his chest, your eye caught sight of your reflection in the vanity mirror. Steve’s eyes were transfixed, watching closely over your shoulder at exactly what he did to you. Ogling the way both of your hands moved, entangled underneath your underwear, making the cotton bulge out. 

“Yeah, does this feel good? You want more?” you moaned in response, “do you want me to go get your precious little brush?”

“N-no.”

“No? Then what do you want, huh?” he was practically drooling on your neck, “Is it me? Do you want me? You want this?” he slipped his own long finger in beside yours. “Is that what you want, huh?” the way he moved it beside yours produced the lewdest of squelching noises, “does our fingers feel good? Together in your sweet little pussy, baby? Do they feel better than that hairbrush?”

“Yes! Fuck, Steve-” your thighs quivered, and you writhed to try and bury your face. 

“That’s it,” he took over most of the movements when the pleasure that his gave you made you forsake your own. Wrenching your left hand free, you clutched onto his forearm, feeling the muscles tense and flex at just how insistent his movements now were. “Good girl, cum on my fingers just like you came on the brush that you tame your hair with every goddamn day.”

Your toes were curling, your whole body was writhing, and he didn’t quit till you were practically screaming. 

As he withdrew his hand, he gave your puffy clit one last rub on the way out, making your hips buckle aggressively at the overstimulation.

Kissing your cheek, you saw him look into the mirror, watching your twitching and heaving body closely as he hugged you closer to his own. 

“Thank you for the show, ace…”

“No,” you met his eyes in the reflection, “thank you.”

next chapter

© 2022 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[kazewhara]

so long to pinky...

# — pairing: kazuha x gn!reader

# — characters: gender neutral med student!reader, barista!kazuha

# — warnings: n/a

# — tags: takes place in the spidey!kazuha au i promise, fluff, first kiss (bc zuzu is a weakling), reader is a simp, medical terminology (carpal bones)

# — notes: don't mind the title much, it's just the beginning of an acronym. but y'all, it's 1:30 am, i am a filthy fucking simp, and it's showing. i fucking folded. writer's block be damned. as always, reblogs and reactions are greatly appreciated, and i hope you enjoy!

wanna join the tag list?

✧ — 🍁 + ☕ — ✧

"is there something on my face?"

"what? oh, n-no, no," you stammer, your face practically catching fire as you turn your eyes elsewhere. "i'm sorry. can you repeat the question again?"

kazuha's eyes don't leave your face and you suppress a whimper of embarrassment. you're supposed to be studying right now; he was gracious enough to offer his help even if he had no idea what the hell he was looking at (his words, not yours), and yet here you sat, completely ignoring him as he tried to quiz you on the material.

well, perhaps "ignoring" isn't the right word. it's not like you want to tune him out. if anything, you wish you could drown in the sound of his voice; the smooth timbre, the slight lilt in his tone, the embarrassed chuckles whenever he messes up a medical term. it's just hard to focus on his voice when you're also enchanted by the rest of him: his eyes, his hair, the little beauty marks that litter his skin here and there...

you flinch when kazuha hums, seemingly oblivious to your mental breakdown. "it's asking you to list the carpal bones of the hand," he says. you spare a glance at him and see the sheepish grin on his face. "i know there was an acronym that you spoke about last time, but i don't remember it."

the answer comes to you automatically, but you falter as you struggle to re-center your thoughts. does that mean he tried to remember this stuff in order to help you study? he wasn't even in the sciences; is he really that dedicated to helping you study? your brain lags at the thought. "um..." you answer as you sift through your memory. but the more you try to recover information, you find it being blocked by thoughts of kazuha's generosity.

kazuha slides your textbook towards him and flips it open until he finds the correct page. "ah, here it is. do you need help?" he offers.

again with the kindness. your heart skips a beat. god, can't you just be normal for like, five seconds? he's doing the bare minimum and you're two seconds from passing out. "uh, no, hold on..." you mutter. you press your fingers to your lips in thought. "dammit, i know this, i swear."

"'so long to pinky, here comes the thumb'." kazuha murmurs. you peek at him and see him raising his eyebrows at you encouragingly.

suddenly, your mind clears. how could you forget? "oh!" you exclaim. "scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, hamate, capitate, trapezoid, trapezium! right?"

kazuha rewards you with a smile. "correct. you're amazing."

"you're too kind." you wave off his praise to give yourself peace of mind.

he does this often, you note; he speaks so highly of you for doing such little things, almost like he's as enamored by you as you are by him. it should be expected, seeing as you've been on six dates already — it'd be strange if he didn't reciprocate your feelings by at least a little. but the very idea of your feelings being mutual still feels foreign to you even though he's admitted it to your face before.

"i'm just stating the truth." kazuha reaches out and rests his hand over yours. his hands are warm and calloused; a feeling you've come to love. he slips his fingers between yours and you allow them to tangle together. kazuha calls your name softly. "you really are incredible."

your fingers twitch and again, you avert your eyes to the world outside. you desperately look for something else to focus on in fear of seeing the expression kazuha is wearing. "that's too much, really..." you brush his praise off a second time.

after a brief pause, you suddenly feel something warm and soft pressing against the back of your hand. you jump slightly, not expecting the contact. kazuha's always been forward, but this is new. you look over at him in a panic only to see mirth twinkling in the amber undertones of his eyes. "you're finally looking at me," he says. your hand is still close to his lips and you can't help but look at them. "hello."

"...hi.." you reply. "what are you..?"

"consider it a reward for getting the answer right." kazuha lowers your hand, but doesn't let it go. he flips through the textbook again. "shall we continue?" he asks.

you blink owlishly at him. "uh, yeah." your head feels unnaturally vacant, but you agree anyhow. as kazuha flips to find something else, you see the tips of his ears growing redder as he smooths his thumb over the back of your hand.

your study session goes a little like this:

kazuha asks a question. if you get it right, he rewards you by kissing your hand. if you get it wrong, he pinches you.

it's childish, sure, but somehow, it's working; you're retaining and recalling information with more ease than before. reward is more than worth it, you think, especially since kazuha makes eye contact with you over your fingers. it's gentlemanly and alluring, you just have to see it more often.

but at some point, kazuha raises the stakes.

he keeps your hand in his grip as he speaks. "since my break ends soon, how about we make the last one count?" a smirk starts to form on his face. "what do you think about changing the reward?"

"oh?" you tilt your head curiously. "what do you have in mind?"

"if you answer this last one," kazuha lifts your hand and rests it against his face, "i'll kiss you."

suddenly, you're back to square one. your heart damn near stops. "you've been kissing me for a while," you reply. "that's not much of a change."

"you're misunderstanding me." kazuha reaches across the table and swipes his thumb gently over your bottom lip. his eyes zero in on your mouth. "i'll kiss you. do you understand?"

you've never understood something clearer in your life. you nod and swallow thickly. "what... what happens if i get it wrong?"

"there are no wrong answers for this one. it's a yes or no question." kazuha lowers his hand. "then, the question..." he goes quiet for a second. kazuha's cheeks become pinker by the second, and you feel yourself getting antsy. why is he hesitating?

"the question is," he finally murmurs, "do i have permission to kiss you?"

it's a no-brainer. (funny, considering how you literally feel like your brain has up and abandoned you in this moment.)

you nod, but kazuha shakes his head. "i need a verbal answer, petal." his hand comes back up to cup your cheek. "may i kiss you?" he asks again.

"yes," you croak. you clear your throat, not liking how small your voice sounds. you want to sound as sure about this as you feel. leaning into his touch, you try again. "yes, i... please."

kazuha doesn't need any more confirmation than that. he leans in and so do you. your nerves get the better of you and you close your eyes. you can feel kazuha's breathy chuckle against your lips. "you're cute." he whispers.

before you can protest, kazuha closes the distance between you and presses his mouth to yours, causing flowers to bloom in your chest. distantly, in the back of your mind, you think that he tastes of jasmine.

your first kiss is chaste and slow, and kazuha breaks the kiss before either of you can get carried away. he keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he whispers. "i would stay here forever with you if i could."

you can still feel his lips against yours. greedily and impulsively, you peck his lips once more and giggle at the noise of surprise that he makes. "you have to get back to work," you sigh.

"as do you." kazuha pulls away, but his hand stays on your face, his calloused thumb rubbing small circles against your skin. he's blushing; roses bloom on his cheeks and there's a content smile brightening his face. "will you wait for me?"

you hum. you feel sated. "i'll be here," you tell him. "go."

kazuha takes a few more seconds to admire you before he's standing. "i won't be long," he promises. "i'll see you later."

as you watch him return to his job, the bell chimes from above the café entrance, signaling a customer's arrival. with rosy cheeks and smile that melts you from the inside out, kazuha greets the customer.

"hello." his voice is like a symphony. you return to your own work and focus on his voice, the sound of it keeping you afloat. "welcome to..."

✦ *bangs head on wall*

✦ i know, i know, this is technically just barista!kazuha but we're jumping around this au, okay? don't mind the disorganization <3

[tomtenadia]

Rowaelin month - A helping hand

Rowaelin month day 6: university

A Helping hand ( @rowaelinscourt)

The title is horrible sorry. No warning, just a lot of fluff!!

----

Spring was in the air and the students at University of Terrasen had started to feel and enjoy the warmer climate after the usual harsh winters. 

The green in front of the main building was crowded with students deciding to study on the grass instead of in the library. 

An exception to this was Aelin. She found the green too noisy and distracting and, as a first year undergrad med student, that was not something she could not afford. The materials to revise were piling up and at times she felt as if  24 hrs in a day were not enough and the world did not have enough caffeine.

The science floor of the library was quiet and Aelin enjoyed the long table all to herself. It was rare but she assumed everyone was outside. That was fine by her.

She was revising anatomy and was now staring at a picture of a skeleton and tried hard to memorise the bones in an efficient way. Now she was dealing with the hand and the names just would not stick in her head. The carpal bones were the worst. Why bones had to have such weird names?

Aelin had her hand open and was saying the names out loud when a familiar voice stopped her.

“You forgot Pisiform and Triquetrum.”

She looked up and saw a head of silver sat opposite from her.

Rowan Whitethorn.

He was a third year med student and her big crush. They had friends in common and they had met during a night out. He had beautiful long silver hair and the most stunning pine green eyes. And if that was not enough, he was nicely built and his arse was a dream.

Aelin sighed and her head landed on the open book with a thud “anatomy is going to kill me.”

Rowan chuckled “I can help.”

Slowly Aelin raised her head and looked at him in disbelief “surely you have better thing to do than help a poor first year med student.”

He leaned back against the chair and smiled smugly “I can help, if you let me.”

“Sure, I have nothing to lose, I might even learn something.”

Rowan pushed his pile of books aside and grabbed her hand.

At the contact Aelin’s heart fluttered. She could feel calluses on his palm and wondered how he got them.

“I have a very nice mnemonic for you,” his finger traced a motion on her carpal bones “So long to pinky, here comes the thumb.”

Aelin wanted to laugh but she was too busy staring at his hand still holding hers.

“Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrum, Pisiform, Hamate, Capitate, Trapezoid and Trapezium.” His fingers did the circle one more time while he recited the names and pointed them on her hand.

“See? It starts with the proximal carpal bone nearest the thumb and ending with the distal carpal bone nearest the thumb,” his finger touched a point “this is the trapezium and it’s nearest the thumb. Trapezoid and Trapezium have a T and they are close the the thumb,” his finger moved again “Pinky stands for Pisiform and your proximal carpal bone nearest the pinky. Loads of P’s to remind you were it stands.”

Aelin stared at him in fascination. It was perfect. 

“That makes perfect sense,”

Rowan smiled widely “Fenrys has a much naughtier version but I think it’s more like a third date kind of confession.”

Aelin’s eyes bulged in surprise. Date? Did he just say date? “Now you have piqued my interest and I don’t think I can wait that long.”

The man in front of her laughed “Fine, but it stays between us.”

Aelin nodded solemnly.

Rowan sighed “Some lovers try positions that can’t handle.” And as her uttered the words the tip of his ears turned pink in embarrassment “Which I am not a fan of because it’s just lists them. Mine has an order to it.”

Aelin was laughing so hard that she snorted and was glad the library was empty at their end because  she was being far too loud. He was still looking ashamed of what he said and in that instant he seemed a lot cuter. Rowan was always shy and distant but in that instant she saw a side of him that she might learn to love very quickly.

“Fen has a collection of them,” his voice still quiet, while his hand never moved away from hers, fingers gently brushing her palm.

Aelin chuckled “I met Fenrys, I can only imagine.”

Rowan looked down at his hand and when he saw he was still touching hers he moved away slowly and a look resembling sadness passed on her features.

Maybe he could try. He had a crush on her since they met. Some seniors students had been asked to coach and help the first years. He had run his first session and Aelin had been in his group. She had been brilliant and Rowan knew that she was one of the best students in her class. She had struck him stupid, she was funny and had never ending sass.

He hesitated. Why would someone like her ever bother with him? The weirdo from third year?

“Aelin…”

“Go out with me,” she blurted out before he could say anything.

Rowan froze as he stared into her blue eyes twinkling with joy.

“I am sorry…” in a swift move she stood and made to close her books and walked away but Rowan grabbed her wrist oh so gently and she was startled by the contact.

“Aelin… I…” he breathed, too scared to admit his feelings “I like you, a lot,” the words finally left his mouth and a burst of confidence hit him “I had a crush on you for a while now. You are stunning and funny and fierce,” his gaze softened as he looked up at her “I love your sass and the way you scrunch up your nose when you are deep in concentration,” he fully grabbed her hand now “I love the freckles on your nose and the little tick up of your lips when you realise you know the answer to a question.”

Aelin stood in front of him in silence while he listed all the things he liked about her. She had no idea. Rowan Whitethorn, a third year student had noticed her and liked her. Her heart raced in her chest “You like me?” Incredulity seeped from her words surely she had heard wrong, blaming the stress.

“I do. I wanted to ask you out but you beat me to it.”

She chuckled hard “I will go out with you.”

He smiled deeply. A wide grin blossomed on his face and reached his green eyes now shining with deep happiness. Mala save her, he was stunning.

“But you need to tell me all of Fenrys’ naughty mnemonics. I might even manage to ace anatomy.”

He pulled her hand “It’s a gorgeous day. There’s a lovely cafe in the city centre with outside tables. We can go study there.”

“As long as you buy me pastries.”

Rowan squeezed her hand. He’d but her anything to see her smile.

[bethiniancorpuscle]

Carpal bones mnemonic

So Long Till Pinky, Here Comes The Thumb

Scaphoid

Lunate

Triquetrum

Pisiform

Hamate

Capitate

Trapezoid

Trapezium

(going anti-clockwise in this diagram)

[artomedics]

Hand bones. Slide for more. The skeleton of the hand has #carpus #metacarpus and #phalanges. The carpus has 8 bones: #scaphoid #lunate #triquetrum #pisiform #hamate #trapezium #capitate #trapezoid The metacarpals are five bones, numbered from radio-ulnar order the heads of these bones are seen as the #knuckles which articulate with each #phalanx which are 14 total, 3 in each finger , each corpus (shaft) caput (head) and basis (base). The #wrist is where the #radiusbone meets the carpal bones. #wristbones #artanatomy #anatomyart #anatomyisart #bones #skeleton #bonesanatomy #handanatomy #medicalart #medicalillustration #anatomyillustration #photoshopart #artomedics https://www.instagram.com/p/B8rfIeZBpat/?igshid=ja1ykqnvqi55

[deadboyfriendd]

A wee game I thought would be fun: choose an excerpt from one of your posted fics, 600 words or less, that will make people curious for more. Share it with the title of your fic and little to no context.

I thought this would be a way to let people have a "taste" of one of your longer fics or series, and hopefully they will want to investigate further.

I'm catching up on my tumblr notifs! Thanks for the tag @bettyfrommars

This is an excerpt from my upcoming, unannounced passion project based off of The Salt Grows Heavy by Cassandra Khaw:

+

The study felt more like yours than his own now, though he had inhabited it for years before your existence. You were merely a vessel for his findings. A piece plucked and carved from this rib of his essence. A slave to the bezoar behind a glass cloche. 

It still pulsated its erratic song in a fleshy waltz. You looked for the hum of his voice beneath it, not quite able to remember its exact pitch. You listen to it again and again, the mellow drone of it a backing that fills your studies. Sometimes you listened for a whisper, sometimes you listened for permission to continue. 

There were more pieces of you covering this place than there were pieces of him, it felt like. You could no longer differentiate your books interwoven with his on the shelves– the lines between your handwriting and his becoming one blurred entity, the line where your being ended and the pieced-together formations of where his new being began intertwined as one desolate, threadbare creature. 

The human hands can be differentiated by the presence of an opposable thumb, made different from the other phalanges marked by the absence of the middle phalanx… the metacarpal is the connecting factor to the smaller subset of carpals within the wrist. 

This you knew was his writing, and you were thankful in the beginning for how thorough he had been in his studies. You allowed yourself the pleasure of feeling the ridges of his writing:

Trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, hamate, scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform. 

You try to feel them in your own wrists, try to feel the sutures in bone and the roll of ligament over them. You tried to feel the feeling of being alive once more, differentiating it from what– you weren’t quite certain. You tried to remember a time in which he had been alive.

+

And that all I'm gonna share with you before I go off on my merry way okay byyyyyeeeee.

[sugarandspace]

My friend @whatanexcitingfewdaysithasbeen requested this prompt:

comparing hand sizes and intertwining fingers because you’re adorable and we’re pretty perfect for each other

For Hen and Karen!

-.-.-

“Are you coming to bed soon?”

The question breaks Hen from her concentration where she’s sitting at their dinner table, the anatomy book and her notes on the table in front of her. She takes a look at the clock on the corner of her laptop and is surprised to see that it’s nearing midnight.

“In a minute,” she says.

“You’ve spent the whole evening studying,” Karen points out. Her tone is kind, but it still sends a spark of guilt down Hen’s spine. Karen must notice since she continues with, “I just mean that you need some rest too.”

Hen smiles at her wife. Karen knows that Hen occasionally feels guilty for the amount of time the studying takes away from their family time, but she’s never been anything other than encouraging. She knows how much it all means to Hen and she loves her all the more for it.

“I really need to ace this test,” Hen says and motions to her notes. “The teacher was bragging about how very few students score a hundred percent on this test.”

Karen shakes her head fondly.

“I swear nothing motivates you more than someone telling you that you can’t do something.”

“I just like proving people wrong,” Hen says and smiles.

“So what are you studying?” Karen asks and sits on the chair next to Hen’s, taking a look at the notes. On top of the pile is a paper with a skeletal hand in it, red arrows pointing at the bones and naming them.

“Anatomy,” Hen says. “Bones, to be precise.”

“Hmm,” Karen hums and picks up the paper, turning it so Hen can no longer see the picture. Then she raises her right hand so the palm is facing Hen. “Name the bones in my hand. If you can name them all you come to bed.”

“And if I can’t?” Hen asks.

“Then I’ll help you study,” Karen says.

Taking a deep breath and focusing, Hen places the tip of her first finger on the bottom of Karen’s palm, pressing down gently. “Scaphoid.”

She presses her middle finger down next to the first finger, “Lunate.”

The first finger slides up towards the thumb before stopping, “Trapezium.”

“Triquetrum, pisiform, hamate, trapezoid, capitate…” her fingers map out the small bones at the bottom of Karen’s hand. It’s impossible to see the exact locations, but she remembers their locations in relation to each other, and it must be enough since Karen keeps humming in agreement after every bone, her eyes on the sheet that has the answers.

The bones at the bottom of the palm mapped out, Hen slides all her fingers up until they’re at the bottom of Karen’s fingers, “Metacarpals. First, second, third, fourth and fifth, “ she clarifies and pressed down underneath each finger, starting from the thumb.

“Proximal phalanges,” she says and slides her fingers until they stop at one-third of Karen’s, her thumb stopping halfway Karen's thumb.

“Middle phalanges.” Her thumb stays still while the other fingers slide another third up towards the tip of Karen’s fingers. “And distal phalanges.”

All bones mapped out, Hen presses her hand against Karen’s fully, so they are palm to palm, finger to finger.

“A hundred percent, baby,” Karen says and intertwines their fingers, squeezing gently. “You’re so smart.”

“You do realise that the test will feature more than just the bones of the hand, right?” Hen says, but returns the squeeze.

“I do,” Karen says. “And I know that a smart woman like you knows that rest is an important part of the learning process.”

Karen stands up then, never letting go of Hen’s hand. Hen allows her to pull her up as well.

“You really think complimenting me will get me to stop studying?” Hen asks.

“Well, you are following me,” Karen says, and she has a point. They are already halfway into their bedroom and Hen’s not sure when that happened.

“You are sneaky,” Hen says but she knows her voice comes out as fond.

“I love you,” Karen says and leans closer to leave a peck on Hen’s lips. “And I’ll help you study more tomorrow. But I’m serious about you needing rest.”

“Fine,” Hen says and gives a peck of her own. “And I love you too.”

Send me a prompt from this list and I’ll write something short!

[radioactiveradley]

and the distal phalages connect to the

intermediate phalanges

and the intermediate phalanges connect to the

proximal phalanges

and the proximal phalanges connect to the

metacarpal bones

and the metacarpal bones connect to the

scaphoid, lunate, hamate, triquetrum, trapezoid, trapezium, capitate and pisiform bones

hear the word of the lord

[mcatmemoranda]

This is a mnemonic one of the professors gave us. Also, there's "Scared lovers try positions that they can't handle;" going from pinky to thum, proximal to distal: Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform (on the anterior side, on top of triquetrum), trapezium (I just think of trapeze artists, who can do what they do because of our thumbs, so trapezius is near thumb), trapezoid, capitate, hamate (hamate has a hook). The scaphoid and lunate are the only bones that articulate with the radius to make the wrist joint. Ulna is not involded in this. Radius is thicker at the wrist and thinner at the humerus, whereas ulna is thicker at the humerus and thinner at the wrist. Count fingers from the thumb toward the pinky.