#infantile spasms

[munaeem]

Infantile Spasms: Symptoms, Diagnosis, and Treatment Explained

1. Introduction to Infantile Spasms and Amy Brin Miller: The podcast episode features Amy Brin Miller. She is the Executive Director of the Child Neurology Foundation. She discusses infantile spasms, a rare and severe form of epilepsy. Miller explains that the name sounds innocuous. However, the condition is catastrophic. It often starts with subtle signs like head bobs. These signs are easily…

[soumyafwr]

Infantile Spasms Therapeutics Market Size, Share and Forecast 2031

[amalainse]

"born under a bad sign"

— sukuna ryomen

tags ට yan sukuna, zombie apocalypse au, sukuna typical violence, slight gore (also typical), dubious consent, fingering, petting, dirty talk (are we even surprised), caretaker kink, minor infantilization, wildest backshots known to man, virgin reader

a/n ට baby's first ever fic <3 i've seen a lot of yan sukuna on my dash (1 & 2) and these ficlets/drabbles acted as my main source of inspiration. this wasn't at all how i imagined this to go, but i don't mind doing a second part at all. sukuna's probably occ but to me he's so sickingly sweet to you, and so violent to everyone else.

───⠀౨ৎ you puzzle around the reasons why sukuna would help you, of all people. why he didn't leave you to die. why he goes through the trouble. and then. and then he shows you. (3.6k wc)

the circumstances in which he stumbles upon you are purely accidental. sukuna swings down the hammer, relishes in the sick squelch of bone and sinew giving away and the feel of blood spattering back onto his face in wide arcs and the sight of you going very, very, still underneath him.

you had been so loud, before. screaming and whining and pleading for mercy. you're silent now. he wonders if you even dare to breathe. and that is how he finds it in himself to stop. to pull away. sukuna hasn't seen you yet, and he's curious to know what he's found.

slowly, with trembling, dainty little fingers, one of your hands reaches up to touch the dead mans shoulder. the tiniest of whimpers escapes you, hand spasming but managing enough of your strength to lift up and push the body away.

sukuna lets the hammer clatter noisily to the floor, smirk widening across his face at how you jump, shoulders raised and body tense with obvious fear. he crouches down, blood covered hand wrapping around your ankle and pulling you in to him with one sudden move. you allow yourself to look at his hands, his clothes spattered in blood, and nothing else.

you tremble, head hanging low. sukuna's tongue traces his sharp teeth, content no longer with silence.

"won't you look at me, sweetheart?" he croons, hand smearing blood from your cheek. you tremble and shake some more, ready to burst out of your skin at the juxtaposition of his touch.

but you lift your head. you obey. you must be fighting against every wired instinct right now. the ones that tell you to run. to hide. he doesn't bother hiding the shuddering low moan when he sees you.

"oh, look at you, gorgeous, prettiest little thing i've ever seen" he says, pulling in closer. the blood coating your face does little to hide your shining wide bambi eyes, your full lips, the gentle swoop of your nose. he reaches out behind him, patting around for something to clean your face. "good girl, stay still. just like that"

sukuna's big hand is like a brand against your skin. he cups your chin, turns your head to the side. you make a loud strangled whimper, no doubt having seen what was left of your attacker. sukuna tuts, pulls you back to him, pets at your shoulders and the back of your head until you calm down.

when he turns your head again, you keep your eyes shut.

"wh-what's your. your name?" you say, shakily, eyes darting across his face, pretty brown hands curling and uncurling with anxiety. its clear that you're just looking for something to distract you. it's endearing. you're endearing. sukuna wants to carve out a hole inside his chest and shove you in it.

"sukuna." he says simply, eyes catching on a reflecting light. his thumb trails from the side of your neck now, down to your chest. and the small golden pin pressed into your bloodstained shirt. whistles in surprise. "waseda?"

you nod slowly, reaching for your pin again. sukuna lets you get close enough to grab it and then at the last second, holds it above your head.

his presses the pin back into your palm, and pets at your hair. "bet you would've fetched a pretty penny before all of this huh? sweet little girl like you. what'd you study in waseda, pretty girl?"

"law" you mumble, mouth struggling to form around the word. he barks out a loud laugh at that, petting at your face like one would a nervous kitten. your hands curl into your lap. "do—are you in...are you in school sukuna?"

another loud laugh. he manages to sound mocking and sweet all at once and his voice stuffs your head with cotton. "no, sweet girl. not in school"

"oh." you swallow around nothing again, voice quiet. you don't want to know what he did, before. you aren't sure you'll be able to stomach the answer. silence stretches between the two of you once more, and you know he's waiting for something. "do you have any water?"

sukuna smirks, teeth glinting in the low light. doesn't say anything at all. your mind puzzles over your words, searching for an error. you frown, peering over at him question dancing on your tongue.

he says nothing still. and his hand encloses around yours, pulls it into his lap. he traces over your fingers and up to your wrist, up some more—to your forearm. his other hand reaches for the hammer, still bloody, still wet, as he stands to his feet and pulls you up with him.

you have no choice, but to follow him. you're weak, physically, emotionally, mentally—you never would have been able to survive on your own.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

you wrack your brain, searching for a reason.

before, your family had money. sukuna would have been compensated heavily for his time, for his odd stroke of generosity—no matter the violent steps taken in between. but your family is in america, and you are here, in japan. tears bead at your waterline and you're quick to brush them away but they won't stop falling. they fall faster than your hands can move and you curl into yourself.

sukuna raps his knuckles against the door loudly. waits a moment and then pushes both of you inside. its a bit nicer than what you would assume a man like sukuna—the type of bash a mans head in with you still underneath him—would enjoy. but then it breaches your mind in a moment of painstakingly clarity. you don't know him at all.

"are you going to kill me?" you ask through your tears, shuddering and shaking. maybe sukuna's the sick sort of man you've studied in your textbooks. the kind that like's to draw the violence out, so that it'll hurt more. there's a word for that kind of man.

it's been. it's been days, you think. a week, at most. together, you've encountered a dozen zombies. each time is the same. he pushes you behind him, kills them all quickly and the first time, you threw up. sukuna petted at your hair, crooning softly at you—tells you he'll take care of you. he'll make them go away.

"do you want me to kill you?" sukuna asks instead, smirking. he gestures for you to follow, beckoning you forwards with two fingers.

you shake your head, and then when you realize he can't exactly see, garble out a shaky, "no, b—but why would you help me if i can't. i can't give you anything"

a bathroom is where he's led you to. sukuna drags a small stool over using his foot, plants himself down on it. your mouth parts in surprise when the water turns on, sloshing loudly against the tub.

sukuna hums, tugs you forward—dragging you into his lap. he doesn't answer you, not yet, hands reaching up to tug your shoes off, then your socks. massages his bloodstained hands into your calves, skirting up to your knobby knees and higher still to unbutton your long skirt.

you make a small sound of objection, pushing your legs closed as your breath quickens. "sukuna? what are you, stop please?"

the hand that had been bracing you in his lap reaches down to push your legs apart, easily too easily, and when you try to squirm the hand unbuttoning your skirt hooks around your waist. pulls you back in. one swat against your thigh, underneath the fabric pooling around your waist has you stilling against him.

"just gettin' you clean, pretty girl" he says, petting your sides and your stomach. "gotta take a bath"

"s-sukuna" you hate the way your voice tapers off into a whimper, pushing at his arm again. "i can. i can bathe myself"

there's a snorting sound in your ear, rumbling deep from his chest. one of his hands reaches into your skirt, cups your ass, massages you through your plain cotton panties. and his other hand dances up to your hip, reaches up to hook thick fingers around the bands of your skirt and panties—tugging them down to your knees and then dropping them on the floor.

he makes another amused sound when your hands jump to cover your exposed mound. "you can't do anything by yourself. not if i don't help you"

your mouth pulls into a frown, anger swirling inside you. he says it like he knows you. like its the absolute truth. "that's not true. i can"

sukuna ignores you. like you're a child. reaches up under your shirt to unhook your bra, massaging your small breasts. then again at your spine. pulls your blazer off, then takes special care in buttoning each and every button on your shirt. reaches a hand over to turn the water off, to sprinkle in salts. he's methodical, sure in his movements.

the room fills with the smell of flowers, of almonds and honey. your naked, shivering in his lap from the cold and from the fear strumming along your nerves.

he could break you, but he handles you so gently. you find that your body is as taught as a wire. you wonder how long it'll take for that gentleness to go away. for him to hurt you. to kill you, even though he hasn't said he will.

"isn't that better?" he asks, kneeling beside the tub, washcloth running over your skin. the dirt and sweat and grime washes away from your skin, water turning a murky brown. "i know what you need, sweetheart. i'll take care of you. soft little thing like you, bet you spend your entire life being taken care of."

and then—and then he pulls away. you go to wrap your arms around your middle, thankful that it's over. that that's all he wanted. that your still alive.

your stomach lurches for an entire different reason when you hear the tell-tale sound of a zipper, loud in the quiet room. you hang your head, breathe loudly through your nose and wait. a handful of minutes pass by and then sukuna's hands grab at your waist, lifting you up enough for him to join you.

you turn around, facing his chest. a part of you is surprised that he let you. its becoming apparent to you now that you're going to be doing a lot less of what you want, now. the other part, bigger, pressing, is upset. angry. shameful. why are you giving up so easily? why aren't you fighting back?

the answer hurts more than you'd like to admit. you've never fought back. always gave up so easily. you do what your parents want, act how they think you should. make friends with the people your advisors approve of. sukuna had been so shamefully close to the truth—without anyone calling the shots for you, you're afraid of how little you know yourself.

"i can help" you say softly, grabbing the small washcloth from his hands. really, in all honestly, you just want this to be over faster. don't want him to draw it out anymore. "i can do some things"

sukuna hums, hand reaching out to play with your hair.

he's got a lot of tattoos. and he's big, with huge muscles, hard planes that seem to stretch on for miles. there's nicks, tiny scrapes and cuts and littering of scars everywhere.

"you can do some things," agrees sukuna, once you've finished and the water drains from the tub. he's naked still, and now there water isn't there to hide anything. but he's so large, everywhere, the scent of him filling up your head. "would you like to do something for me, sweet girl?"

you have an inkling of what he wants, and your twist your hands in your lap. you have no choice, even if he phrases it like you do. he could toss you back out there, with the dead roaming the streets, bloodshot and thirsty and eager. so you nod, and climb into his lap, tucking your face into his neck—legs spreading out on either side of his hips when he pushes a hand onto your lower back.

"if you'll be good, i can be good." sukuna says, tracing the knobs on your spine.

you swallow, afraid to ask, but knowing that you must. "you wwon't—you won't let. others?"

"smart girl. good girl, it'll be just me. no other man could take care of you like i could." sukuna's fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, spreads your legs apart to look down at your cunt. you've got ugly hips, like a boy. and you don't shave, and you hope the sparse layer of hair isn't enough to turn him off. you want him to like what he sees. so he. so he can take care of you. your stomach clenches painfully when he presses the flat of his palm on your hipbone.

"you got a boyfriend, pretty girl?"

you shake your head, still tucked into his neck as he continues his caressing and petting. his fingers inch closer to your cunt, rubbing at the outer lips.

sukuna smirks. you can feel it rather than see it. "of course you don't, good girl like you. probably focused on your studies. my little lawyer girl. fuck, sweetheart, you've got such a pretty little cunt. you touch yourself? use your words"

"y-yes—sometimes" you reply, hips jerking as his fingers pet around your clit. you can hear yourself breathing heavier now, and its so shameful, you're dirty—nasty. your parents would be so ashamed of you.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head. it's so so gentle, you think you could cry. "with your fingers, sweet girl?"

you nod against his skin again, but remember that he wants you to talk. to use words. you swallow around a soft sound, trying to close your legs. "yes. but—b-but not my fingers...i tried, and it didn't—it didn't feel, it was okay but..."

god. you hate the way your voice cracks and breaks. how you fumble and trip over words. he must think you stupid now, inept, and your scared you're turning him off, that he might go soft. you clamp your mouth shut, screwing your eyes closed with a tapering whimper as he continues to pet around your pussy.

you're getting wetter, slicking up nicely. sukuna drags your slick to your hole, pets around it. returns back to your clit and rubs faster—at an intensity you would've shied away from if it was just you. a sound escapes you, and you're desperate to choke it down, hips bucking up into his touch.

sukuna swats at your ass, not hard enough to hurt. but a warning. the next sound you make, you don't bother trying to cover it up. his fingers flick at your clit in reward, and then his middle finger begins to press inside.

"there we go, good girl, relax for me, fuck, you're so tight" he sounds like he's putting his cock in your...in your cunt. and not, not his fingers. you whimper, nails pricking into his skin when his thumb returns to your clit. he pulls out, presses back in, other hand guiding your hips down into a slow rhythm. "that feel good?"

"yyeah" you sigh, making another high noise when a second finger presses in next to the first. he's speeding up now, and the sound of slick spurting out of your cunt, his fingers slamming up into your hole, stretching you out and its so—its so dirty but he isn't stopping, and had your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders. he's reminded of a cat sticking its nails into its owner, and thats you, you're his little kitten, gushing slick all over his hands, making little uhuhuh noises, endless whimpers and gasps of his name. "su-su'kuna, 'kuna! ohhh, uh, uh—'kuna"

sukuna throws his head back, cock so hard its throbbing. like he could cum. like he could cum and all he's got is two fingers inside your weeping cunny. if you sound like this now, if you're arching like this now, hips bucking up and legs kicking like this now—

"fuck baby, thereee you go" he goads, thumb reaching up to massage at your clit. the coil in your lower belly tightens up, faster and faster and sweat burns down your neck and you can tell you're about to come and you try to—you try to get the words out, hand that was previously clawing at his skin reaching down to try and push his hand away. but sukuna's stronger than you, not stopping, grunting out in your ear "can't wait to get inside this cunt. gonna fuck her so good, gonna give my sweet girl what she needs, shit, baby, listen to you, sound so pretty—you're such a good girl. gonna cream around me so good. go ahead and cum pretty, let go, i'll take care of it"

that feeling draws up, tighter and tighter and to fight back a scream, you bite down on his neck, panting wetly against his skin. your legs kick out, squirming wildly in his lap and your orgasms crashes into you like a freight train.

sukuna—he. he keeps his promise. takes care of it, talks you through it, fingers still pumping inside and stretching you out. presses sweet kisses to the side of your face, doesn't even seem to feel your teeth digging in, free hand running up and down your spine. laughs, whenever you seem to come back to it.

his hand reaches up, pats your ass softly. "on your stomach baby, good girl"

it would have been harder, you think, if you hadn't already cum. but you're pliant, going easily to your stomach. you can feel his hands, hot like firey brands, pulling you up to your knees, gripping tightly onto your hips. he cants his cock up against your pussy, swipes it through your slick before reaching down to guide it inside.

your mouth parts on a loud moan, eyes rolling into the back of your head. he's so much bigger than his fingers, wide and girthy—filling you up so well. he pulls out, pushes in a little more, repeats the process until his balls push up against your ass with a soft smack that has you both groaning out.

his hands fall back to your hips, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. you let out a loud yelp, almost pained, sensitive from just cumming and he's thrusting into you with short, hard jerks of his hips, cock hitting your sweet spot so well, breaths coming out of you in aborted little gasps. you fall forwards into the pillows, moaning louder now and sukuna doesn't slow down—but he speeds up, goes harder, grunting softly underneath your whiny and wet noises.

"ffffuck, fuck, baby, yeah. good fucking girl. knew this'd be the tightest little cunt. squeezin me so tight, pretty girl" pours the dirty words from his mouth as his balls smack loudly against your ass. your cunt squelches, so wet from your orgasm and getting wetter still. your hands fly to his arms, whining, pushing blindly at him. its too much, too fast—you can't take it, and you whine again, hands clawing at the sheets trying to—"no, no, fuck. don't run from it baby. c'mon you can take it, i know my good girl can take it"

you can't speak, so you shake your head wildly, jerking forwards hard enough that his cock slips out and that makes you moan like... like a whore, turning on your side to catch your breath. but its only for a second, before sukuna's back, guiding you onto your front with a soft cooing noise—slipping back inside.

its a different angle now, with his arm around your waist, keeping your ass nice and pert against his cock as he drills into your weepy cunt. dirty talk spews from his mouth, telling you to take it, telling you how good you are, how tight your cunny is clamping around his cock. calls you a whore, a slut, and you whine loudly at that, hands spasming in the sheets as you shake your head wildly.

"i-i'm not," you protest, pushing your ass back, "not a slut, 'kuna, not—i'm not, please, pleasepleasepleaseples—"

sukuna laughs, sounding dark and sarcastic. "no, baby, i'm sorry—fuck, you're not a slut, just fffuck, you're just so good for me aren't you? sweet girl, taking it so well, pussy's so good baby, i'll keep you forever. keep you right here on my cock, mm. wanted to be gentle for my sweet girl, i'll treat her right next time—"

his thrusts send you up the bed, headboard knocking against the wall, and you can feel his face shove into the sheets next to your head as he speeds up. he's close to cumming, he tells you as his fingers intertwine with yours. he squeezes your hand tight, grunting lowly in your ear before pulling out so fast your body crumples to the bed like dead weight. he jerks his cock quickly, spurting cum over your ass and lower thighs.

you cough, swallow around your slightly hoarse throat. "they...su-'kuna, what if they...heard? and they come?"

sukuna's hands caresses your flank, every inch of bare skin he can reach. "didn't i tell you i'd take care of it sweetheart?"

you think you manage to nod, fighting against your eyes slipping shut. and you think, you think sukuna laughs again, promises again that he's not letting you go. and your heart clenches when you realize what it had been, the reason he had helped you in the first place.

and it makes you feel gross, makes you feel used. like a whore. and you fall into sleep. and the last thought on your mind is, he'll take care of it.

[arcanepactguile-scribes]

@tastefulfinery ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ [ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇ ] ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛᴇɴᴛᴀᴄʟᴇᴛᴏʙᴇʀ

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 — Tentacletober

𝐖𝐂: 1.6k

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋. Alastor, Tentacle Monster, Alastor's Shadow, Rosie mention.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒: Non-Con Corporal Punishment (spanking)

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄: Debt to Nature.

𝑨𝑶3 𝑴𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓

A challenge submitted by @tastefulfinery , I was given: surprise tentacles, from the Tentacletober Prompts.

After a day discreetly engaged with anal training, following the not-so-subtle interest Lady Rosie had shown, the unsuspecting Radio Demon had found himself learning a very harsh lesson behind the (unlocked) door of the bathroom.

Seeking to end the day's training with the glass butt plug, Alastor's Shadow and Tentacles had other ideas...

𝐂𝐖 / 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Tentacles, Marking, Non-Consensual Groping, Wash With Soap, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Anal Play, Butt Plugs, Impact Play, Bondage and Discipline, Domestic Discipline, Overstimulation, Sounds Correction, Soap Gags, Forced Infantilism, Mommy Kink, pegging implications

Rapidly blinking away the tears that blurred his vision, was fruitless. As soon as they cleared, a fresh surge replaced them. Stinging hot, the bitter tang of soap filled his flared nostrils — whatever misstep throughout the journey to this predicament, Alastor had reached a flimsy conclusion: the answer wasn't so convoluted as originally suspected. 

Suspended in mid-air in the middle of Lady Rosie's luxurious en suite, which shamed ordinary master bathrooms — Alastor had found himself suffering a prolonged hiding.

All because he had thought dabbling in anal training for his excited Mistress was going to be a walk in the park.

Evidently, his Shadow and the Shadow Realm’s tentacles hadn't agreed. The Radio Demon had surmised they were convinced their Master was cheating on Rosie.

The tears trickling still, Alastor was presently arranged in a most embarrassing position, half-naked and with no end in sight. Half an hour had already passed, the hot water faucets in the free-standing claw-foot ceramic bathtub next to him on full blast. The streaming water’s jets echoed loudly in the room, not at all helping in covering up the startled shriek when in the midst of preparing his evening bath, a mass of tentacles had manifested without permission.

The en suite's door shut, the reverberated yelp probably should have been noticed by Rosie — who knew not to disturb her lover when he wanted some personal, quiet time — although she should have suspected something was amiss, judging by the assortment of pathetic and degrading noises the Radio Demon was making, combined by the constant stream of hot water splashing down the drain when it should have been turned off a long time ago.

What Alastor desperately wanted Rosie NOT to do was now come to his rescue. The door had not been locked. For emergencies, or a simple change of mind regarding solo-play… Alastor's Shadow, after the initial shove in the back to stumble his Master off balance, thrown forward over the tub, the mischievous Shadow had only escalated the ensuing drama by handing the tentacle Rosie's favourite wooden hairbrush.

Two large tentacles were secured tightly wrapped around Alastor’s middle, pinning his arms straight to his sides, hands splayed open to spasm systematically as the Overseer tentacle walloped the poor Radio Demon’s red-hot backside with the flat hairbrush. The wet hairbrush.

Rewind the scene.

The three tentacles’ black silken flesh shining under the lights overhead, steam from the running bathwater broken by their bulk supported through the magick portal shimmering directly above the unmatched pair. Likewise, the deer demon's hair and fur was plastered to his scalp, ears dripping wet as they bounced with every savage spank bruising his raised ass. 

Still mostly dressed, upon stumbling forward and catching himself winded on the edge of the tub’s cold rim, the two tentacles had abruptly hoisted him high up to relieve his legs to dangle helplessly — the position took away from him the relief dealt by the impacts of the rough spanks absorbed through the floor via his hooves. Suspended, weightless, the tentacles had guaranteed he would feel every iota of smacked flesh. The tails of his coat were flung over his shoulders, his slacks pulled down just enough to expose the line separating his sit-spots from his thighs.

Thoughts fragmented, the miserable Overlord had surrendered at long last, hanging limply in the tentacle’ squeezing embrace. Face flushed pink in absolute shame, sniffling forlornly, Alastor had to wait out his punishment to the bitter end. Fighting back had only made this predicament worse.

After the tentacles had strung up the surprised deer, arms locked snug and bent forward head-down-ass-up, he had sensed the pair of hands (of course belonging to his treasonous Shadow) reach around his front to hastily unbuckle and slip the straps of his belt, before undoing the fly and dragging his slacks and underwear down to above the knee. Once that job was complete, Alastor hadn't seen any sign of his trenchant mirror — most likely keeping Rosie busy, the fiend.

Now alone, the Overseer Tentacle had set to work. No warm up. No prep. Punishment fit for an absurdly naughty boy, Alastor refused to accept this was a natural state of affairs, a justified overreaction.

At first, the tentacle had calmly examined him — taking it's time, the slick tip winding it's way up and around the slopes of Alastor's exposed rear, experimentally squeezing his unshaven furry sac; prompting another strangled shriek from the struggling demon. It had swiftly put an end to it's prisoner signalling Rosie for assistance — grabbing a washcloth resting on the tub’s rack, it had shoved the soapy rag into Alastor's resistant jaws, forcing the disgusting cloth in to stifle his cries.

Gagging on the suds, acutely aware of the marvelous familiar domestic design of his impending punishment, modeled after Rosie's penchant for the traditional ways, Alastor froze the instant he had felt the Overseer resume it's ministrations.

The tentacle had discovered the source of this evening’s problem.

The glass butt plug Alastor had been wearing all day, as part of the training for Rosie's pegging playtime.

Heart racing, the petrified Overlord senselessly bucked in a vain effort displaying his indignation, clearly unable of going anywhere. Ears rigid and turned back, eager to detect any audible warning to aid his dissolving self-control, there was nothing to suggest the Overseer's movements. Cycling his legs needlessly aloft, the wild kicking at best emphasized to the Overseer that he knew he was in deep trouble, Alastor's hopeless tactic to curl his bent body in the fetal position offered the excruciating implement a better aim.

Nudging the base of the plug elicited a panic-stricken whimper. Attempts to lift it in any direction drew muffled squeals, the deer trying to kick out, arching his back — quickly stiffening once the Overseer had grabbed the base deftly, pulling it back to almost pop the buried knot past his two inner stretched rings, before releasing the plug to slide it back inside, filling him up again. Groaning wretchedly, the Overlord fought to stay still, unflinching, to present a boring demonstration of the toy's effect. Unsuccessful, for the deer's stressed hole fluttered around the walls of the plug's neck, the stimulation stirring a knot of unwanted arousal in the pit of his belly.

Taking aim, the wooden hairbrush whisked through the air to land squarely on the butt plug.

The Radio Demon's shrill scream cut through the expanse of Rosie's bedroom and antechamber.

Muffled by the soapy washcloth, the scream was impressive.

The Overseer continued without a care, uncompromising and indifferent to the boundaries of safety and sanity.

The tentacle rhythmically spanked Alastor over the butt plug, each heavy blow sending a jolt of overstimulated pleasure rippling through his stretched hole. Each smack was fierce, swung perfectly and unyielding, no pauses to allow a brief respite, until soon enough it had determined the Radio Demon required crueler punishment. Alastor's cheeks had turned a lovely shade of bright red — circular domes patching his exposed skin like a piebald, the skin burning hot and tingling with electricity. Persistent, the stalwart smacks had worked up Alastor's seat and sweet spot to the brink of abrasion.

Swollen and glossy, the first lull in the vigorous, scandalously loud whacks without pause had lured Alastor into a false sense of safety. The tentacle had pulled the cloth gently from his strained jaws, and dipped the cloth into the hot bathwater.

Gasping for breath, wheezing, legs jerking spasmodically, Alastor hadn't the time to scrutinize his supposed preconceived lesson (had the Shadow and tentacles been waiting all day?) when out of the blue that Overseer had rinsed the washcloth in the hot water, soaking it well before it began soaping up his trembling backside.

Pushing the drenched fabric up between his twitching cheeks, roughly nudging the embedded plug deeper to tease, the tentacle methodically wiped his throbbing rump up and down, ignoring it's prisoner's injured bleats of pain — that was the point. Finding all the crevices and valleys, soaping up his previously fluffy tail to stick up like it was made of paper-mâché, sweeping in under his sac to moisten the fur in front into ruffled spikes as well, encircling the bulge inside his pants in a parting caress, the soap bubbles dotting his swollen cheeks — finally satisfied, it then shoved the offending cloth back between Alastor's clenched jaws, and resumed the spanking ten-fold.

The smacks rained down faster and heavier than he had known, the hot water bringing a brand new element of intensified pain to the volleys of smacks. Whenever it had sensed his inflamed skin was drying out, the Overseer had kept up the strict routine — Alastor obediently relaxing his jaw for the tentacle to remove the washcloth, rinse-and-soak it in the basin, rub a new coat of the soapy lubricant all over his pulsating ass, then reinsert the cloth back inside his waiting mouth.

Rejecting the insulting prop only yielded a stern warning — the tentacle paused it's swings, tapping the middle of the glass plug to tease out another dejected yelp from his hitched throat, before picking up the slack wasted in that momentary lapse of concentration.

This continued for how long, Alastor hadn't given it any thought after he had lost count past the half-hour mark. Dazed, hanging dejectedly, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the subdued Overlord submitted to the seemingly never-ending punishment. Pitiful sobs choked out on every merciless smack, his tongue around the bunched cloth pushing back to gain relief, saliva drooled out as sticky webs.

The persistent wet smacks didn't slow down, nor ease their rhythm. Caught in the middle, pain and pleasure, the Radio Demon's awareness had been dulled to an inattentive recognition how his buttocks was continuously pounded by the wooden brush despite his compliance, persuaded that yes... he was in the wrong for deceiving Rosie without a transparent talk first — his flesh reddened to a purplish hue.

Surprise tentacles were the worst.

[claudehenrion]

Je vous souhaite une très joyeuse mort, en pleine fraternité macronienne…

Je n'ai jamais pu trouver d'explication à cette aberration : les mauvaises idées semblent être plus souvent prises en compte et mises en œuvre que les bonnes. Et je crois remarquer une accélération dans le processus actuellement en cours qui veut que de plus en plus d'idées de plus en plus mauvaises fleurissent (?) de plus en plus vite et de plus en plus souvent ! A la veille du Vendredi Saint, quel beau sujet que le dévoiement de notre mort, qui se met en place, dans une débauche de fausses informations, partielles ici, et partisanes, là, mais mensongères, toutes.

Mais pour une fois que les “bouffe-curés” et les “tue-dieu” admettent enfin que la mort peut être vaincue, comme les chrétiens le leur répètent depuis 20 siècles… on ne va pas mégoter notre plaisir, en cette Semaine Sainte où s'ouvre la phase finale de la mise en œuvre de ce caprice macronien, qui sera lancé sans qu'aient été évaluées –même un tout petit peu– les suites à long terme de cette initiative qui a toutes les chances de produire, au mieux, quelques avantages… et au pire des séries de drames dont l'humanité aurait préféré faire l'économie. Décidément, depuis le faux “vaccin” du covid, prendre des décisions mortifères est devenu un “marqueur” du progressisme, cette maladie infantile du modernisme !

Prenons la triple anti-idée terrifiante, qui a pourtant le vent en poupe, de l'invention d'un “droit à l'assassinat légal, au suicide aidé et à la mort par délégation’’. Ces trois modalités d'une même chose, la mort, ont inspiré des raz-de-marée de lavage de cerveau, de viol des consciences, de réinvention du sens des mots, et de détournement de l'attention de tous les vrais problèmes, à la macronie moribonde (NB : méfiez-vous des ultimes spasmes d'un animal blessé : ils peuvent être dangereux et faire beaucoup de dégâts !). Manque de bol, une fois encore, ça a marché, et bien des gens se sont laissés abuser, adoptant les expressions –toutes mensongères– qui ébranle,t l'intelligence.

Le nombre de paraboles, hyperboles, métaphores, fables, mensonges, bobards, et barbarismes qui ont été déversés sur nous par la Presse et la Gauche est très au delà de tout ce qui se pratique normalement. C'est simple : on ne sait plus du tout de quoi ils parlent ni ce à quoi ils pensent (car des milieux “généralement bien informés” m'assurent qu'il en resterait quelques uns qui pensent… Je ne les ai pas trouvés). Et s'il est toujours vrai que “les mots tuent”, c'est le moment où jamais : après, il sera trop tard ! Car depuis que le monde est monde, tuer, directement ou par délégation, un vieillard, un grand malade ou un embryon pas encore né mais parfaitement viable, ça avait un nom : un assassinat.

Mais dans un grand souffle libérateur, la hollando-macronie a tripoté les lettres et les syllabes, jusqu'à inventer les concepts affreux de “mort dans la dignité”, de “preuve de fraternité” (il y a des coups de pied… “occultes”, qui se perdent !), de “liberté de mourir” (et puis quoi, encore !), et de tant d'autres insanités. Nos irresponsables ont été jusqu'à inventer une soi-disant “aide à mourir”… pour le seul moment où aucune aide n'est possible ! Dieu, pour les uns, un “grand ordonnateur” pour d'autres, le “destin” pour d'autres encore, et… “rien” pour les plus pauvres d'esprit… fixe ou fixent le moment où la machine s'arrête, et personne ne peut avoir le moindre effet sur cette décision… si tant est qu'il y en ait une : on a beau bricoler l'horloge du temps, avancer l'échéance de quelques pouillèmes d'éternité, prétendre que “Moâ, ce petit dieu raté, je suis maître de mon corps” ou, comme d'aucuns, se proclamer (tout seul) “le maître des horloges”... c'est baratin & Co.

Car la seule chose qui ne fait pas de doute, c'est que nulle “force de l'ordre”, nul “agent de l'Etat”, nul GIGN, nulle “CRS 8”, nul dossier et nulle procédure “CERFA” ne pourra dire que la date de péremption est dépassée, qu'on a triché en respirant 3 fois de plus qu'indiqué sur la notice d'emploi, ou qu'un tel n'est plus qu'un nom à “zapper”, un sac noir à jeter au tri sélectif–(poubelle jaune) : la vision de la mort que peut avoir un élu macronien (je veux dire : “nul mais élu !”) est rien moins que désespérante… C'est à se demander avec quelle partie de leur corps ces trucs-là pensent ! Pour ces normateurs de l'innormable, “mourir dans la dignité” se résume à passer l'arme à gauche (NDLR : cette expression ancienne est une preuve éclatante que les mots ont un sens !) en se conformant scrupuleusement à un des 2 ou 3 protocoles prévus par une loi qui parle d'autre chose que du sujet de son titre ! Leur mort dans la dignité n'est qu'une mort dans les normes administratives.

Soulagez la souffrance, comme vous devriez apprendre à le faire, bande de Jocrisses, mais arrêtez de prétendre que vous pourriez avoir la plus petite influence sur un changement de nature de la mort : c'est la seule cérémonie à laquelle nous ne pourrons pas nous soustraire, et dans laquelle nous sommes certains de “ne pas avoir la main’‘ ! A l'opposé de leurs fatras fumeux, ’'mourir dans la dignité”, ce n'est pas “raccourcir ce qui ne doit pas l'être”, mais c'est –et ce n'est, ce ne peut être que– donner à chacun de pouvoir s'architecturer intérieurement, de résister aux sirènes trompeuses de l'époque, de trouver des contre-poids à la sous-culture du superficiel, de l'instant, de la trouille permanente, et de l'infantilisation, qui nous maintient dans une ignorance doucereuse et qui tue en nous tout sens moral, toute force spirituelle, toute résistance intellectuelle, la colonne vertébrale et le courage.

Bon ! Je sais bien que ces tentatives désespérées de rater son but affiché doivent tout à une pression morbide qui est dite “sociétale”, comme on dit dans le jargon gauchiste pour désigner l'amnésie volontaire… ce qui met la trop changeante “opinion publique” du côté des promoteurs de la vraie misère humaine : la plupart de nos contemporains ont, avec l'inévitable, un rapport fuyant, de déni et de rejet. C'est une triste évidence qui explique bien des malheurs que notre monde se fabrique en croyant résoudre l'insoluble… et qui n'existaient pas, lorsque le “métier d'homme” impliquait force, âme, courage et (j'ose !), la vie… jusqu'à en mourir.

Car mourir et vivre ne sont pas 2 choses séparées comme on nous le fait croire dans notre univers en voie de putréfaction en inutiles marches blanches, mais une seule et même chose, une seule et même aventure, un seul et même achèvement. Un éventuel “droit à mourir dans la dignité”, ce bobard fou pour politicards trop jeunes pour savoir de quoi ils parlent, ne saurait être ramené à un étalage de sensiblerie étalée complaisamment, comme sur les réseaux sociaux ! Partis comme nous le sommes… nous serons bientôt projetés dans un univers du type “Soleil vert”, ce Soylent Green, livre ou film sur la mort assistée, de Harry Harrison (1966)…  Encore un effort, Monsieur le bourreau…

Je veux bien, à la rigueur, qu'on me parle de modifier la définition de la mort : je suis poli, et j'écouterai… en pensant à autre chose. Mais alors, s'il vous plaît, messieurs les irresponsables, que ce soit avec Montaigne, avec Bossuet, voire avec Platon, Epicure, et même Spinoza… ou –comme le faisait Mitterrand– avec un Jean Guiton. Mais je vous en supplie, qu'on m'épargne le cornet acoustique miniaturisé pour pensée-clonée de ces fausses vedettes du petit écran qui sont les nouveaux “maîtres-à-ne-pas-penser” érigés au rang d'oracles par notre époque qui ne peut que devenir lamentable à leur contact (et sur ça, on est bien parti !).

Une authentique “dignité” consisterait à être de vrais humains et à le rester jusqu'au bout, souffrance ou pas. Si vous saviez dans quelle harmonie sont morts tous les êtres chers qui m'ont quitté… J'aime me souvenir d'eux, être fier d'eux jusqu'au bout, les admirer, et ne pas avoir le remords de leur avoir volé, au nom de la sensiblerie fadasse et pleurnicheuse qui a envahi nos jours et obscurci notre jugement, LEUR MOMENT absolu, le seul… le ''bilan'' de leur vie.

En lisant toutes les insanités, tous les mensonges et toutes contre-vérités qui encombrent, polluent et salissent ce débat, il m'est venu une idée que j'aimerais partager, amis-lecteurs, “pour ce quelle est’' : sans doute fausse, mais méritant peut-être qu'on y pense deux secondes : après bientôt deux quinquennats ratés, un Macron-superman, ivre de ce qu'il croit qu'il est, trouve génial de transformer notre société et tous ses membres, en clones de ce qu'il imagine être (sous-entendu : un être supérieur, au niveau des dieux, et (osons le dire, avec modestie) Dieu lui-même). Pour ce faire, il déforme les mots, les idées, l'histoire, la culture, les systèmes de pensée et de référence… et crée un univers où plus rien ne peut exister, hors de son propre (?) néant : en chamboulant tout, n'importe comment pourvu que ça soit vite, et en mettant tout ’'cul par dessus-tête”, il fait de nous des zombies incapables de résister à toutes ses folies prétendues “sociétales”.

Nous découvrons peu à peu que nous devenons non pas ce qu'il s'imagine être, mais ce qu'il est : un grand vide, un cyborg en creux, superficiel, insignifiant, sans colonne vertébrale, changeant, flou, sans bon sens autre qu'insensé, fuyant le réel, inconsistant, sans passé –donc sans présent et sans futur, et hésitant, dans un désert sidéral, entre une non-pensée et une anti-pensée. Le seul ennui, c'est que le train est lancé et que nous avons laissé faire, sans rien dire –au contraire, pour certains– ce grand pas vers notre destruction, en tant qu'humanité et que civilisation. Dis, Monsieur, comment ça s'arrête, une catastrophe en marche ?

H-Cl.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Hi everyone,

I was looking into the possibility of autism being connected to epilepsy since I have both. And it turns out that there is a connection. According to one article:

Comorbidity of epilepsy and autism is frequent; approximately 30% of children with autism have epilepsy and vice versa. The high rate of comorbidity is thought to be caused by genetic and microstructural brain differences. Both conditions predispose individuals to abnormalities in neural connectivity, although the exact pathophysiology of both conditions remains unknown. There is evidence for epigenetic factors playing a role in some situations. For example, children who have infantile spasms during critical windows of social and language development (6-18 months) are more likely to later develop autism. There are also syndromes in which a known single gene mutation confers a high risk for both epilepsy and autism (ie, fragile X syndrome).

I found this very interesting. I’ll leave the article below so anyone can read.

Epilepsy

Autism

[chachaheels]

decided to try to condition myself to believe i am abusing my poor pure never hurt anyone ever "WHY AM I THE BAD GUY AGAIN?!?!"-screaming abusive mother because otherwise i only try to validate her narrative of "never hurt my son" during an active trauma response and if i finally give up on her ever treating me like a human being with any actual consistency i can't keep taking her money and i don't care about anything more than being able eat (except i love starving myself)

if she just actually believed we both struggle with conflict and communication together and didn't want to point blame so she had a new target for her rage problems, maybe it would be easier. but she doesn't treat me a way that is safe. idk i am always scared of her by varying degrees and regardless she only starts doing the hurtful stuff when i let the autism slip out. now that i am working on unmasking i regret everything cause it means she can't handle me being. just being.

like why can't she stop picking fights? it makes me too afraid of her not to have it show sometimes. and it means when i slip up i get punished or whatever. like i know bodily and rationally i should have a middle ground but when you don't want her to do the Rager Things at you it involves walking on eggshells anyway why does she treat me so fucking bad exclusively for autistic things tm

i'm so tired of my relationship with her i am so tired all i want is to know why i keep having these spasm and nerve pain attacks worse and more frequently and i made the mistake of involving her in my medical needs even tangentially and now i am her pet project clinical social work baby son who she uwu gave birth to and protects ssoooooo vigilantly

like please please please please i can't handle how she treats me anymore i don't want to go to al-anon meetings again to find new ways to coddle her she doesn't fuckinf why am i trying to love her when my body says you have stop enabling her but my instinct is to train myself to ignore reality and let her parentify me while i fear and placate her to survive it's the same fucking thing like jeez i wonder why i don't feel like a real adult when i am infantilized and made her brother father lover rabbi patient client burden and challenge to be the best at fixing anyone/everyone but herself

silver lining is i come up with a banger book title to rival jennette mccurdy i guess

[soumyafwr]

Infantile Spasms Therapeutics Market Size, Share and Forecast 2031

[themintchipmama]

Infantile Spasms Awareness Week: Spot The Signs And Move Quickly!

Infantile Spasms Awareness Week (ISAW) teaches parents/caregivers the signs of Infantile Spasms so they can react quickly if noticed. #SpotTheSigns #InfantileSpasmsAwareness #IS #ISAW2024 #December #Moms #MomsHelpingMoms #Babies #HealthAdvocate #Seizures

Infantile Spasms Awareness Week December 1st-7th, 2024 is Infantile Spasms Awareness Week (ISAW): “Spot the Signs”, “Time is Brain”, MOVE FAST! Quick Action Can Prevent Brain Damage! *Giveaway Below* I’m thrilled to partner with TSC Alliance again and provide awareness and education on Infantile Spasms (a medical emergency in a baby’s brain).  Infantile Spasms Awareness Week (ISAW) ISAW is a…

[malusrecord]

~"Hedwyn, what can I do?" She'd heard of this, she knew it was a fate that befell all exiles to the Downside, but to see it happening to him was unacceptable. "I'm here for you Hedwyn, I'm here!" She's gingerly cradling his head in her hands, afraid she'll hurt him more. (because I love that hc you posted earlier about his horns aaaaa)

All he can feel is heat. Heat. Heat. Heat. An unbearable heat that DRIVES HEDWYN TO HIS KNEES as it surges through him, with the maddening core of it boiling at the very center of his head as Hedwyn's already exhausted body spasms underneath the pain. He can feel his mouth dropping open in a silent scream---and stars, oh stars, he wants to scream but they would be jagged, pitiable howls that require more AIR THAN HIS LUNGS COULD EVER HOPE TO HOLD---and so all he can manage is gasps that get weaker by the breath.

"I...I..I..'m...ha......!" Hedwyn's words snag sharply in his throat as the heat radiating through him suddenly surges as it THRUSTS ITS WAY OUTWARDS and actually intensifies as it goes rather than relenting. Now he does scream; one hard wail as he can feel something---horns, the curse born by all who were cast to the Downside---sprouting out of his head with a rush of blood that mixes into his hair before freely running down his face. He's clawing at his head and face now; frantic and feverish, heedless of the blood, heedless of the new and sudden pain as his grasping, scrabbling fingers are PRICKED BY THE TIPS OF THE STILL INFANTILE HORNS that would only get longer and larger as the years ticked by. If he could just rip them out and have done with it then, then, then----!

A voice then---equally frantic but not his own---spears through Hedwyn's screaming, red soaked senses. Someone was calling to him, someone was trying to grab hold of him....someone....!

"...Gh...!" The exile sways and his hands drop suddenly; blood soaked fingers now being caught by someone else's' but he couldn't bear to open his eyes, couldn't bear anything more, and yet his body SHUDDERS WITH A KIND OF GRATEFULNESS as he dimly, dimly, dimly, oh so dimly, feels far softer hands than his own cradling his sweat and blood-soaked face. Someone was....someone... "R...Rh...." He can't say it---Friend, Ligaratus, Miche...!---but he tries, oh how he tries. "Mi.....ch...e..." Now the hands catch and hold him tightly as Hedwyn drops fully, pressing his shivering, dead weight against his fellow exile's kneeling form as her words---partially audible and pulling him towards an end to the suffering he was currently experiencing---grasp at him in their own way. I'm here for you. I'm here for you. I'm here for you. I'M HERE FOR YOU, NOW AND ALWAYS.

[theblogs2024]

How To Use Vigabatrin Powder: A Move-by-Move Guidebook

Vigabatrin powder is a medication applied to treat epilepsy and infantile spasms. Proper utilization of the medication is very important to make certain its efficiency and to minimize opportunity Unwanted effects. This article presents an in depth, step-by-phase guide on how to use vigabatrin powder effectively.

What is Vigabatrin Powder? Vigabatrin powder is definitely an antiepileptic drug designed to regulate seizures by growing the amounts of gamma-aminobutyric acid (GABA) while in the Mind. This neurotransmitter helps you to tranquil nerve action, therefore minimizing the occurrence of seizures.

Step-by-Phase Guidebook on Utilizing Vigabatrin Powder 1. Speak to your Health care Service provider Before beginning vigabatrin powder, it is vital to consult with your healthcare service provider. They are going to establish the suitable dosage depending on your age, bodyweight, and health care condition. Frequent follow-up appointments are vital to watch your response on the medication and adjust the dosage if required.

2. Getting ready the Dose Vigabatrin powder ought to be well prepared in accordance with the Directions supplied by your healthcare supplier or even the medication guideline. Below’s a standard process:

Evaluate the Powder: Make use of the measuring gadget provided With all the medication to ensure the proper dose. Do not use residence spoons because they might not be accurate. Mix with Drinking water: Dissolve the measured powder in a selected degree of drinking water as instructed. Stir the mixture right until the powder is completely dissolved. 3. Administration Oral Ingestion: The mixture must be taken orally. You usually takes it with or with no food items, nevertheless it is important for being consistent within your strategy. Timing: Go ahead and take medication simultaneously each day to keep up an excellent stage in the bloodstream. This regularity aids maximize the effectiveness from the medication. four. Storage Place Temperature: Retail store the powder and also the organized mixture at space temperature, faraway from direct gentle and dampness. Keep Outside of Attain: Make sure the medication is out of reach of kids and Animals to stop accidental ingestion. Crucial Guidelines for Utilizing Vigabatrin Powder Adhere to Dosage Guidance Under no circumstances change your dosage without the need of consulting your Health care company. Overdosing or underdosing can decrease the efficiency on the treatment method and raise the chance of Unwanted side effects.

Keep an eye on for Side Effects Typical side effects involve exhaustion, fat get, and possible vision adjustments. In case you see any intense Unwanted effects or strange signs, Get hold of your Health care company straight away.

Regular Eye Exams Vigabatrin can cause eyesight challenges, together with peripheral vision decline. It is actually important to acquire common eye examinations right before and during procedure to observe any alterations in eyesight.

Drug Interactions Advise your healthcare service provider about all other drugs you happen to be using, such as in excess of-the-counter medicine and supplements. Vigabatrin can communicate with other drugs, which can impact its efficacy or enhance the possibility of Uncomfortable side effects.

Pregnancy and Breastfeeding When you are pregnant, intending to develop into pregnant, or breastfeeding, talk about together with your Health care provider before starting vigabatrin. The medication could possibly have hazards for the fetus or toddler.

Conclusion Applying vigabatrin powder effectively is vital for taking care of epilepsy and infantile spasms efficiently. By following your healthcare supplier’s Guidance, getting ready and administering the medication properly, and adhering to security safety measures, you'll be able to enhance the advantages of vigabatrin and lessen likely threats. Typical consultations using your healthcare service provider and monitoring for Negative effects will help be certain the absolute best end result from a cure.

Learn more info. check out here: vigabatrin powder

[medicinehealth360]

Infantile Fever, Spasms, & Seizures  Emergency