#locking compression plate

[siorasurgical-post]

Q.C Torque Screw Driver Handle 2.0 mm Tip is a trauma instrument that is used for the application of orthopedic screws to secure locking plates during the stabilization of fractures. You can avail of a high-quality range of trauma implants and instruments from Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd., a leading orthopedic manufacturer in India. The company also offers world-class OEM/contract manufacturing services worldwide.

[siorasurgicalsblog]

Broken bones are no fun, they cause extreme pain. Overall, it disrupts life in a major way. But fear not, modern medicine has an answer for many fractures: open reduction and internal fixation, or ORIF for short. This orthopedic surgery requires different types of trauma implants including locking bone plate, bone screws, pins, and wires.

[siora-surgicals]

Locking Plate Orthopedic Implant

Locking Plate is an advanced trauma implant that is used for the fixation of different types of fractures. These plates are designed to have threaded screw holes that provide a fixed-angle construct. Special locking screws are used for the application of these plates that lock against the corresponding threads present in the plate. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is a renowned manufacturer of a CE-certified range of orthopedic locking plates and other trauma implants. They are available in different sizes and titanium & stainless steel.

[siiorasurgicalspvtltd]

Curved Broad Locking Compression Plate 4.5/5.0 mm finds application for the treatment of fractures in the clavicle, scapula, humerus, distal tibia & fibula, and pelvis. The plates are made with combi holes and this allows the surgeon to use both locking and non-locking screws as required according to the type of fracture. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is a renowned orthopedic manufacturer in India that produces locking compression plates in stainless steel and titanium. 

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Personal Trainer!Toji Fushiguro—”Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?” [next]

req by: @sumbarbietingz tyty hope u like <33

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday at 6 AM.

By now, working out is muscle memory—a chore you tick off your list without much thought. You’re not aiming for an Olympian’s physique, nor do you dream of flipping tires or crushing quadruple-digit squats. For you, fitness is about balance, not obsession. The gym is filled with the usual suspects: frat bros showing off one-armed pull-ups, bodybuilders flexing between sets, and athletes moving like they own the place. You don’t envy them, nor do you aspire to join their ranks. In truth, their antics are more intimidating than inspiring.

But lately, something’s shifted. You’ve grown restless with your go-to routine: treadmill sprints, a quick core workout, and stairmaster till failure. It gets the job done, but there’s a whisper in the back of your mind, daring you to try something new. Maybe it’s time to add weights to your regimen. Maybe it’s time to sculpt those glutes and finally chase the coke-bottle figure you’ve been daydreaming about.

For weeks, the squat rack has been your Everest. You’ve watched others load up the bar, their muscles taut with effort, and wondered if you could do the same. It’s not fear holding you back—more like the memory of too many gym bros turning innocent glances into unwelcome conversations. At this gym, you’ve perfected the art of blending in. Headphones in, eyes down, immersed in the personal concert blasting through your ears. The only human contact you entertain is a nod and a quick smile for the woman at the front desk.

Today, though, is different. After your core workout, you finally approach the empty squat rack. Your heart races—not from exertion, but from the thrill of trying something outside your comfort zone. You set down your water bottle, lift the bar experimentally, then add two 20-pound plates on either side. It feels doable. With a deep breath, you duck under the bar, letting it rest on your shoulders. A hype Sexyy Red track thunders in your ears, spurring you on as you knock out your first set.

The burn in your thighs intensifies with each rep, but you keep going, driven by the mental image of your future self: confident, curvy, unstoppable. Sweat beads along your forehead, catching the fluorescent lights above and glistening on your skin. By the time you hit your second set, you’re locked in, laser-focused—until a firm hand lands on your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You freeze mid-rep, your eyes snapping to the mirror in front of you. A tall, broad-shouldered figure looms at your side, leaning in close enough to be unavoidable. Your stomach twists with annoyance. Of course. Another unsolicited interruption.

Lowering the barbell with a controlled motion, you let out a sigh, already steeling yourself for the usual spiel. You tug your headphones down to your neck, the music fading into background noise as you prepare to deliver a polite but firm rejection. Why is it always men who think mid-squat, drenched in sweat, is the perfect time to chat? And why, without fail, are they never the gym’s best-looking prospects?

Before you can speak, a gravelly voice cuts in.

“Damn, ma, you tryna go deaf? I could hear your music from all the way across the gym.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. The irritation brewing in your chest falters, giving way to reluctant curiosity as you turn to fully take him in. You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead, collecting the beads of sweat rolling down your neck, letting your gaze rake upward. 

Crisp white Air Force 1s. Baggy black sweatpants slung low on his hips. A fitted white compression shirt stretched tight over a chiseled torso. Broad shoulders, thick biceps—his entire frame is a testament to strength, and the shirt does little to hide it. You swallow, willing yourself not to gawk, though it takes effort.

When your eyes finally reach his face, restraint becomes even harder. Fine as hell doesn’t do him justice. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and the scar slicing through the corner of his smirking lips paint a picture of rugged perfection. Jet-black hair falls messily over his forehead, accentuating dark, brooding eyes that seem to hold an unspoken challenge.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to respond. Too many seconds have passed, and you hastily clear your throat, scrambling to collect yourself.

“And that compelled you to approach me?” you ask, arching a brow of your own. A teasing smirk plays on your lips. “Don’t tell me you’re a fellow Sexyy Red fan?”

His smirk deepens, and he crosses his arms, leaning casually against the squat rack like he has all the time in the world.

“Me?” His voice is low and gravelly, carrying an almost teasing edge. “Nah, can’t say I’m also bumping F My Babydad. In fact, that song’s been used against me in the past. Strongly recommend shuffling your playlist.”

The implication makes you blink. He’s someone’s baby daddy? You glance at him again, and yeah, it tracks. His whole aura screams DILF.

You laugh, breathless from both exertion and his audacity. “My heart goes out to you, but that’s not enough to turn me off the song. It’s keeping me pumped.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest. His eyes sweep over you again—this time lingering on your two-piece set, the biker shorts and zip-up jacket hugging your frame. You feel a flicker of pride, knowing the pump is definitely doing its thing. But you quickly remind yourself not to encourage him, no matter how good he looks.

“I noticed,” he says, straightening. “That’s actually why I came over. Hope I’m not overstepping, but your form could use some tweaking. You’re targeting hamstrings more than glutes right now.”

Oh. So he wasn’t hitting on you? Maybe he’s just one of those older gym vets who genuinely want to help. Reluctantly, you concede, eager for the guidance. “Damn, is it that bad? I’m tryna build a dumpy for real. Any tips would be great.”

His brows knit briefly. “A what?”

You grin. “A dumpy. A dump truck. A fat ass. Come on, oldhead.”

His scowl deepens, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Toji. Use my name, not that.” He rolls his eyes, moving to strip the weights from your bar. “But that explains the Sexyy Red. You’re out here tryna Skeeyee or go to Pound town, huh? Don’t worry—I got you. Grab the bar.”

Snickering, you follow his instructions. “Absolutely not. Just help me with my form, Toji.”

Satisfied with your correction, he places a hand on your back, guiding you into a squat. “Wider stance,” he instructs, nodding as you adjust. His hand trails lower down your spine, encouraging you to drop further. “Lower. If you don’t hit a 90-degree angle, you’re not getting the full range of motion.”

You comply, biting back a shiver at his touch. He stays beside you, squatting to observe your form. “When you rise, drive through your heels and tense your glutes—lightly. Not too much.” His hand rests briefly on your hip as you rise, and your focus wavers dangerously.

Somehow, you power through the adjustments and complete your next set, his guidance making all the difference. By the time you finish, you’re drenched in sweat, thighs trembling from exertion, but the burn feels… good.

“You’re a quick learner,” Toji says, lifting the bar off your shoulders and racking it. His tone carries an edge of approval that makes your chest swell. “How’s it feel?”

“Sore, but good.” You glance in the mirror, a grin spreading as you take in your reflection. The pump is real. “You’re a lifesaver. You could seriously be a personal trainer.”

His smirk returns, and for a moment, he almost looks proud. “Good thing I am one. Imagine if you’d said I was trash.” He pauses, then extends a hand. “Hey, doll, this might sound out of line, but I’ve never trained someone on a glute-dominant program. Most of my clients are bodybuilders or boxers, but this could open doors. If you’re down, I’ll train you for free so I can develop a structured workout regimen. What do you say?”

You blink at him, stunned by the offer. Free sessions with this hunk of a man? The decision is a no-brainer. 

“How could I say no to that big guy?” You swat playfully at his arm, earning a chuckle. You retrieve your phone from the ground handing it towards him, “I’m in. Here, give me your number.”

Toji takes the device from your hand, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen. His grin is almost teasing as he hands it back. “Demanding,” he murmurs with a grin. “I like that. I’ll text you over the weekend. We’ll start Monday. That work for you?”

Though you agree, the wait over the weekend feels endless. You check your phone obsessively, half-convinced you’d imagined the whole interaction. But finally, a notification pops up while you’re leisurely sprawled out on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your timeline.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Wassup, ma. How about 6 AM on Monday? Tues-Fri, I’m booked mornings, but anytime after 2 works.

You grin, slightly confused by the contact name he’d given himself, but already planning your reply.

You Bet, I’ll be there. We can do 3 PM the other days—I get off at 2.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Bet.

You I gotta ask… what does YHPT mean in your contact name?

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) 🤣🤣🤣  Young Hot Personal Trainer

You Young?! Sorry I asked. Lemme fix that.

Toji Fushiguro 👴🏼 (PT) Not too much on me, ma. 😒

On Monday, you start to wonder if Toji even needs to develop a new glute routine. He seems to already have it down to a science. When you meet him outside the locker room, he’s surprisingly professional, carefully explaining the plan for the day.

He considers your current fitness level but warns that he won’t go easy on you. “If you want results, you’ve gotta work for them,” he says.

Back at the squat rack, you steal a glance at his backside, confirming your suspicions: Toji definitely practices what he preaches. His ass is… impressive. Bubble butt levels of impressive. If this workout built that, you’re sold.

The session starts with barbell walking lunges. Toji adjusts the weights slightly heavier than you’re used to, staying close as you move through each step. He’s comfortable in athletic shorts and a pullover, barely breaking a sweat while you’re already glowing in your two-piece set. His hands are steady and deliberate when tweaking your form, his words always encouraging.

By the time you’re on weighted step-ups, you’ve shed your zip-up and tee, left in just your sports bra and shorts. When you transition to hip thrusts, you play coy about your familiarity with the exercise. It pays off deliciously as Toji demonstrates.

He drags a bench over, slides a barbell onto his lap, and gets into position. His thighs flex, the barbell pressing into his hips as he slowly thrusts upward, his voice low as he explains the importance of balance and control. But honestly, you’re too distracted by the sight of him—muscles taut, skin glowing under the gym lights, his bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Got it, ma? I’ll hand it over to you in a sec—might as well finish this set myself.”

That breathy ma and the half-lidded look he shoots your way? It’s lethal. You fidget on your feet, suddenly aware of how warm the gym feels.

When it’s your turn, you do your best to mimic his movements. To dispel any awkwardness, you wink at him. “How’s my form, big guy? I’m giving you all I’ve got.”

Toji chuckles, his grin playful. “Someone’s catching on quick.” He places a firm hand on your knee, his voice dipping, returning your wink. “That thrust is second to one.”

You end with sumo squats, a challenge given their deep range of motion. Determined to achieve those coveted “Megan knees,” you complain to Toji, who looks at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“Alright, hold up. I know you can nail this—let me help.”

He positions you in front of the mirror, his presence towering behind you. When he steps closer, your breath hitches, his chest brushing against your back as he adjusts your stance.

“Open your legs wider. Angle your feet out,” he murmurs, his hands warm on your thighs. The heat of his breath on your neck nearly sends you spiraling, but you focus on the squat, sinking lower under his guidance.

“Atta girl,” he says softly, his tone making your heart race. “Just like that.”

It hits you then—there’s no way this is just standard training. Especially as you’re keenly aware of the firm press of his body behind yours.

“Toji, how many more? ‘M so tired,” you mumble, struggling through another rep.

“Two more. Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

His hands guide your hips, and you somehow manage to finish the set. Resting your hands on your knees, you catch your breath while he smirks, handing you a water bottle.

“Good girl,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits.

By Tuesday, you’ve settled into the routine, though Toji remains as hands-on as ever—literally. His physical guidance feels less like training and more like testing your resolve, especially when he throws in casual touches that linger just a bit too long.

The workouts are brutal, but Toji’s encouragement and relentless banter keep you going. You learn snippets about his life, mostly centered around his middle-school-aged son, Megumi—a tech-obsessed, angsty tween with whom Toji is actively struggling to connect with.

You start caring about how you look for these sessions—styling your hair, spritzing perfume, even picking out your cutest gym fits. You tell yourself it’s just motivation, but deep down, you know you’re becoming weak to Toji’s charm.

And Toji? He’s an enigma—a hot, muscular DILF who knows exactly what he’s doing.

On Friday, you meet Toji outside the locker room as usual. His unusually upbeat demeanor is paired with an announcement: he’s reserved a private room upstairs, equipped with advanced machines and, most importantly, a touch of exclusivity to let you experiment with new moves in peace.

“If you wanted to get me alone so badly, you could’ve just said that,” you tease, poking a playful finger at his cheek.

He smirks, catching your hand mid-air before letting it drop. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman and save his moves for later? But if you’re looking for forwardness…” He leans in with a wink, the grin on his face equal parts charming and incorrigible. “I won’t hold back.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh. “Sure, big guy. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I took your advice,” he says, leading you up the stairs, his hand warm on your back. “Set up Discord for Megumi. Now the kid can actually game with his friends without me being the middleman. Thought I’d reward you with an advanced workout for that stroke of genius.”

You scoff, withdrawing yourself from his grip to cross your arms. “Reward? Sounds more like a punishment.”

He grins wider. “You’ll thank me later, mama. And if you’re not satisfied, you can choose your own reward.”

Inside the private room, your eyes roam over the space. Polished mirrors line one wall, reflecting sleek machines—a leg press, rowing machine, power bike, and more. A faint scent of disinfectant lingers, blending with the promise of an intense workout. Toji tosses his duffel bag near a large speaker in the corner.

“Look at that—a speaker. Gonna cut on some throwbacks so I can put you onto some real music.”

“Still not helping the oldhead allegations,” you quip, shaking your head as he connects his phone.

His smirk widens. “I’m whatever you want me to be, doll. That’s the business I stand on.” He points skyward with dramatic flair.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Toji, your usage of slang is deteriorating by the minute.”

Stretching side by side, his 90s playlist humming through the speaker, you fall into the familiar rhythm of the glute routine. The effort is paying off; you swear you’re already seeing results. 

Between sets, you’d even started pestering him for diet tips—anything to build that elusive shelf.

But as always, your attention drifts. During hip thrusts, your eyes wander to Toji’s defined arms, the way his shoulders shift as he mirrors your movements. During squats, you can’t help but notice his hands lingering on your hips, guiding you down with whispered encouragements.

“Drive through your heels, mama,” he murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your neck. You’re panting by the final rep, equal parts exhausted and electrified.

When the set ends, Toji steps back, his absence leaving a surprising chill. He crosses his arms, eyeing you with that ever-present smirk. “You’ve mastered this routine. How about graduating to mine? Fridays are upper body days. What d’ya say?”

You trail a finger down his arm, tracing the veins. “And get jacked like you? Obviously.”

His grin softens into something almost fond. “Bet. Just try not to distract me too much, yeah? It’s hard enough maintaining my professionalism around you.”

You laugh as he pinches your cheek, only to retreat and yank off his tee, leaving him in a fitted black tank. He leads you to the dumbbells for bicep curls, and you challenge yourself with heavier weights to avoid ogling his sculpted frame.

“Look at you,” he says approvingly as you curl the weight. “Getting stronger every day.”

“Thanks, coach,” you reply, though your arms burn with effort.

Toji hoists a 45-pound dumbbell with ease, and your curiosity gets the better of you. “How much can you bench, anyway?”

He pauses mid-rep, considering. “Good question. Haven’t checked in a while. Wanna find out?”

Before you can answer, he’s clearing the bench, stacking plates with casual efficiency. Three 45s on each side—a total pushing 300 pounds—makes your jaw drop.

“Damn.”

He meets your stare, the bar balanced on his lap. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come spot me.”

You circle behind the bench as Toji reclines, gripping the barbell above his chest. His muscles coil with tension, veins slightly raised under his skin. As you hover your hands just above his for support, you give a small nod for him to start.

Toji pushes the bar upward, arms locking at full extension before lowering it with precision. The rhythm is steady, his breaths growing heavier with each rep.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice low and strained.

A laugh bubbles up from you, and you instinctively place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid swell of muscle shift beneath your touch.

Toji glances at you, eyes narrowing with playful admonition. “What’d I say about distracting me, huh, ma? Cut me some slack.”

Setting the bar down with a controlled thud, he looks up at you, dark locks falling across his face. His smirk is wolfish.

“I don’t think anything could really distract you,” you counter, grinning. “You’re benching 300 pounds like it’s nothing. Feels a little… superhuman.”

“Damn right.” Toji sits up briefly, flexing his arms like a bodybuilder and striking exaggerated poses in the mirror, whistling at himself.

You snort. “Alright, don’t let it go to your head now, big guy.”

He lays back down to begin his second set, but you’re feeling bold. Moving swiftly, you straddle the bench, swinging one leg over and settling into his lap.

His eyes widen briefly as he lowers the bar back to his chest, but he recovers fast, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

“Guess you’ve got a better view from there, huh?” he murmurs. “You don’t mind counting these out for me, do ya?”

“Not at all.” You plant your hands on his stomach, the fabric of his tank top taut against the solid expanse beneath.

He starts again, pressing the bar up with ease.

“One… two… three… four,” you count, smirking. “You think you can hit twenty?”

“Easy work,” he grunts, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

But you’re feeling mischievous. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers grazing the hard ridges of his abs. The contrast of warmth and strength makes your breath hitch.

“Five… six… seven…eight…” Toji’s steady rhythm falters as you increase the pressure of your movements. His eyes narrow at you, daring yet pleading for restraint.

You relent—for now—your hands sliding to rest firmly on his hips as he recovers.

“Nine… ten… eleven… twelve.” His reps slow significantly, the strain visible in his taut muscles. 

Sensing an opportunity, you lean into his weakness, grinding your hips down against him deliberately, the friction drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Shit, ma,” Toji mutters through clenched teeth, sucking in a deep breath before lifting the bar again.

“Thirteen,” you murmur, your voice laced with mischief. You rotate your hips in a slow circle, reveling in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his breath hitches.

“‘s not fair—you’re playing dirty,” Toji rasps, lowering the bar with a groan. For a fleeting moment, you envy the steel weight—it holds all his focus while you fight to claim just half of it.

But it doesn’t matter; his body betrays him. You feel him harden beneath you, the friction growing deliciously intense through the thin layers of clothing separating you.

“Toji,” you gasp, biting down on your lip to stifle the sound as heat pools low in your stomach. Your movements become instinctive, grinding against him in search of relief.

And yet, Toji—ever determined—continues his reps, each lift of the bar accompanied by a subtle grind of his hips into you, fueling the dangerous tension.

“Sixteen—shit… seventeen—mhm… ah—eighteen… n-nineteen…” Your counting falters as you ride the edge of control, each syllable more breathless than the last.

“Mf—ma… I can go to thirty,” Toji growls, his voice thick with desire. “Take it out. Use me. Make yourself feel good.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you scramble to shed one leg of your shorts, fumbling with his waistband. Relief blooms when you find him bare beneath his sweats. You flick his chest, the movement playful yet teasing.

“Slut.”

Toji’s eyes darken, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race. “And what does that make you?” 

His voice is a low rumble as he lifts the bar again. “Keep counting, doll.”

“‘Kay,” you breathe, positioning yourself above him. The thick head of his length presses against your clothed center, and the sensation draws a near-whimper from your lips.

“Twenty… fuck—twenty-one… Toji—shit… twenty-two…”

You grind down harder, your movements desperate as you pump him with trembling hands. The feel of his shaft, hot and solid, against your slick sends you spiraling. Toji twitches under your touch, his breath ragged.

“Twenty-three—ah…”

A sharp, obnoxious buzzing cuts through the air, snapping you both out of the haze. The speaker blares with Toji’s ringtone, and he fumbles to set the bar down safely. The sudden motion sends you toppling to the floor in an undignified heap.

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of the abrupt interruption as Toji curses under his breath. He hauls you back onto the bench, his movements rushed but gentle, before striding to his phone.

“Fuck, it’s Megumi,” Toji grumbles, glancing at his phone connected to the gym’s speaker. He picks it up, the ringtone still blaring. “Kid’s got the worst timing.”

You nod in acknowledgment, adjusting your shorts and ignoring the visible wet patch at the crotch. Toji answers the call, his tone shifting to frustration as he paces.

From his clipped responses, you catch snippets about school, carpooling, and a very annoyed Megumi. Toji sighs heavily, muttering a half-hearted apology before ending the call with a gruff, “See ya soon.”

“Mama,” he starts, turning to you with a weary look. “Forgot it's my turn to pick up Megs and his friends this week. In my defense, he deliberately didn’t remind me this morning just to get me caught up.”

You laugh softly as he digs through his duffle bag, pulling out another pair of sweats. Approaching you, he presses them into your hands.

“Here. Can’t have anyone else noticing the strong… impression I left on you,” he teases, his grin cocky. “Next time, I’ll double it.”

You step into the loose pants, tying the drawstring snugly around your waist. “Next time,” you echo, smiling up at him.

Toji hesitates as if it pains him to leave. He briefly embraces you, firmly squeezing your ass, and planting a wet, lingering kiss against the side of your neck before jogging toward the door.

Hooking up with your personal trainer. Immoral? Yes. Professional? Not even close. Hot? Absolutely.

But hey, it’s still exercise. Gotta see it through.

don’t try that freaky bench press position at home, take spotting seriously—not everyb got a heavenly restriction LOL

[goldenherc9]

Superbowl Pre-Game Training (Part 4)

Roman stared at his reflection, feeling small between the two golden titans flanking him. Ares and Hercules stood on either side, arms crossed, their monstrous chests heaving with each breath. Their golden eyes bore into him like twin gods looking down on a mortal.

“You see the problem, right, bro?” Ares smirked, gripping Roman’s shoulder with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “You’re small, bro.”

“Like, you got the potential,” Hercules added, flexing one of his absurdly massive biceps beside Roman’s arm. The size difference was laughable. “But potential ain’t power, bro. We fix that.”

Roman tensed. “I’ve been training—”

“Not like us,” Ares cut in, his deep voice rumbling. “Not Golden Army level.”

Hercules reached to the bench and grabbed a golden compression shirt, shoving it against Roman’s chest. The fabric was impossibly smooth, almost alive. “Time to level up, bro.”

Roman hesitated, gripping the fabric. Something about it… it felt heavy, but not in weight. In power.

Ares leaned in close, his breath warm against Roman’s ear. “Bro, you feel it, don’t you?”

Hercules grinned, voice dripping with arrogance. “Yeah, you do. It’s calling to you, bro. It wants you bigger.”

Roman swallowed hard. He didn’t know why, but he had to put it on. His hands moved on their own, slipping the compression shirt over his head.

The moment the golden fabric slid over his skin, everything changed.

A shockwave of heat erupted from his core, rushing through his veins like liquid fire. Roman gasped, his muscles twitching violently, his frame locking up. Then—

BOOM.

His chest swelled, pecs ballooning outward into thick slabs of raw power, his shoulders broadening like tectonic plates shifting into place. His arms pulsed, veins snaking over rapidly expanding biceps as they inflated to insane proportions. His abs clenched, brick-like, as his waist thickened to match the monstrous growth of his upper body.

Ares and Hercules watched, grinning like proud gods.

“Yeah, bro,” Ares growled, gripping Roman’s back, feeling the new mass. “That’s it.”

Hercules slapped his chest, the impact booming through the locker room. “Welcome to god-tier, bro.”

Roman looked at himself—his hulking, perfected reflection. His golden eyes gleamed. He flexed hard, muscles engorged with dominance.

Ares smirked. “Time to destroy, bro.”

And Roman smirked back. “Hell yeah.”

Roman ( @roman-golden-68 ), Hercules and Ares go to the gym area to train for the upcoming Superbowl match against their fierce rivals The Emerald Titans.

Come join the team bruhs, get golden, get bro'd, get JOCKED. Message @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 like right now bruhs

[onyxsboxes]

Find the Word

How it works: I search for the words prev assigned me in my latest WIP and then choose four words for you to search in your WIP.

Thank you @london-cowboy for the tag <3

My words: Light, word, sound, mouth

All of those came from my 'Buck is fine' WIP

Light

It doesn't take long for the familiar numbness to grip him, the same as when he was at home, the numbness he thought, he wished he'd left behind in the dusty soil of Wisconsin, locked away in the back of his mind never to see the light of day again nor have to worry about it ever again. It doesn't take long for him to see the similarities, the pattern, to fall back into his old habits, his mask dusted off to be firmly put in place and no longer removed, caution ever present and never unguarded.

Word

Sometimes the words get stuck in his throat, his muscles too sore for them to escape and his mind too heavy to let them out. But his men, Bucky, all need him, so he speaks, forces the words out, blood on his tongue, head spinning and lungs compressed until he feels light-headed.

Sound

There's too much sobbing, too many crying sounds breaking the darkness of the night, there's too much danger for his boys outside their bunkhouse. He has to stay focused, he has to make sure the guards don't come in and take one of his boys away.

Mouth

He looks at his plate, water with turnip. He's lucky his plate actually contains a piece of turnip, Major Privileges they say, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. How does being a major help his men, how does it help them when they're starving, wounded, cold and dying?

Your words: Pile, turn, late, warm

No pressure tagging @darkimpala1897 @heretoobsessstuff @rambleonwaywardson @roseszirnheld and @stars-remain2 💕

[mrs-ghost-2]

One Round Man (Round 1)

Pairing: Boyfriend!Simon x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: swearing, oral (m receiving), pet names, Dom/sub tones, sub!simon, dom!reader, basically smut

-Not checked so all mistakes are my own as I wrote this on mobile. This is only round 1! Feel free to reblog and comment! I plan on posting round 2 soon. As always, MDNI and 18+ only! :)

Simon had a lot on his plate. Had people counting on him. Expecting things of him. He had places he needed to be and things that needed to be done and people he needed to impress. He is a part of the 141, after all. His name opened doors for him, but it also crushed his bones and soul under the weight of it, too.

But he also had you. You didn’t expect anything from him other than for him to be present in the moment. For him to be with you physically, and to help him be there mentally, too. Even if that meant he wore a pair of silk ties around his wrists and was tied to the headboard every once in awhile.

Simon had had a long night; too much adrenaline after a training mission and too much paperwork and no way to work off the rage that was brewing under his skin and heating his blood. But he knew that you were still awake, the light shining from underneath your door an obvious sign that you waited up for him.

He knocked twice, two loud thumps on your door and then he posted up between the wooden frames. Fingers curled around the thin wood, chest heaving under his compression shirt and veins bulging in his neck.

“Coming!” You called out, soft feet padding towards the door and swinging it open to see Ghost- your boyfriend and most stubborn patient in the med bay- staring down at you with fire behind his eyes.

You had gotten a heads up from Captain Price earlier that evening that Ghost had been through the wringer with the newest soldiers on base and he would be feeling…pent-up. You nodded and thanked him before bidding him goodnight and heading back to your barracks room.

“Simon.” You acknowledged, always seeing beneath the eye black and skull balaclava to the man beneath it.

“Help.” Was the only thing he said, bulldozing his way through the doorframe and collapsing onto your king-size bed.

“You know the drill, Si.” You loved that he trusted you enough to be vulnerable, to put his mental, emotional, and physical safety into your hands both as a doctor and as a significant other.

“Yes, lovie.” He drawled out, thighs spreading to allow you to sit comfortably between them and wrists crossing above his head to wait patiently.

Simon was a soldier first and foremost, but he only followed orders from people he trusted. So assuming the position without back talk? He trusted you beyond words.

“Need me to take care of you, Si? Help you relax?” You asked him, gauging where his head was at while you grabbed the silk from the drawer under your bed and moved to straddle his wide hips.

“Please. ‘m desperate.” He made a move to grab your hips but thought better of it and put his hands back to their original spot.

“Keep your hands above your head.” You ordered softly, fingers making quick work of tying the strands of silk around his thick wrists and looping them together to essentially “lock” his hands and keep them out of your way.

“Yes, lovie.” Simon’s head fell back against the bed frame, exposing the hard lines of his collarbone and the soft, scarred skin of his throat.

You grinned and leaned forward, plush tits pressing against his chest from underneath your (his) oversized shirt. He groaned low in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as your teeth sank into his neck and you sucked a deep purple mark into his skin.

“Fuck, kitten.” He grunted in barely-there pain and his hips rocked up against yours.

“Watch it, Simon.” You gently smacked his hip in warning and he sighed before nodding and settled back against the mattress.

You wanted him pliant. You wanted him to be present with you and the only thoughts in his mind to be about you, your mouth, and letting you take his stress away. You wanted the lights on his eyes but his brain empty to everything but pleasure.

“You gotta be patient, Si.” You murmured against his neck as you peppered kisses along the wide expanse of his chest.

“I am not a patient man, lovie.” He responded, eyes closing as he felt your fingers slide under the hem of his compression shirt and start rubbing soft circles into his scarred skin.

“I know you can be. You can be so good and patient for me. I believe in you.” You cooed, finger tips curling to start drawing nail marks across his abdomen.

“Only for you, kitten. Fu-fuck, only for you.” Your hips started rocking against his, the thick bulge in his tac pants creating the best seat for you.

No words were exchanged for the next few moments; instead, you continued to roll your hips in slow circles against his covered cock while dragging up his shirt inch by inch. Simon knew better than to try and rush you so he decided to do his best to sink into the mattress and let you have your fun. He was fighting to keep his eyes open to watch you while you carefully pulled his shirt up to rest high on his chest and leaned forward to begin mouthing wet kisses and sucking on patches of his warm skin to leave marks for him later.

“Doing okay, love?” You asked him, checking in to make sure he was doing okay while you worked to get his belt buckle undone and tugged the button of his pants to release it.

“Jus’ fine, swee’heart.” Simon’s head lulled to the side and he was only able to nod.

You smiled up at him, keeping your eyes locked on his as you tugged the zipper of his pants down as far as it would go. He knew to keep his eyes on you as you worked his pants down to his ankles so he was laid beneath you with his shirt shoved up his chest and only his black boxers covering his aching cock.

“C’mon, kitten, touch me. Wan’ your mouth on it.” Simon begged, hips jerking up when you began palming him through the dark fabric.

“You’ll have my mouth when you’re good and stop moving.” You admonished, pulling your hand away to shoot him a frown.

“F-fuck, I’ll be good. I promise.” He was slowly falling away from his anger and began to rely on his need to please you and have you happy with him. It was the softer side that you only got to see behind closed doors.

“Promise?” You cock your head to the side, the index finger of your right hand slowly dragging up from the covered base of him to where you know his tip waits, pulsing for you.

“Promise.” Simon swore, eyes heated behind his mask as he watched you bend over from your position between his thighs so you could trace the path your finger just took with your tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You heard his head smack against the bed frame as you sucked at the wet patch of fabric covering the already-leaking head of his cock.

Just barely, you could see him from your frame of view and the sight almost had you cumming in your panties. His thick eyelashes brushed against his cheeks and you could see his mouth fall open from underneath his balaclava.

“Can I take the mask off, Simon?” You pulled your mouth away but kept your hand busy while you waiting for his permission.

“Yes, shit. Take i’ off.” You didn’t have to be told twice.

You yanked the mask off his head, laying it on the bedside table before turning back to see his now-uncovered face.

“Wanted to see you fall apart.” You explained to him, getting back to your previous position and suckling at the leaking tip of him while your fingers made quick work of tugging his boxers down his thighs to meet his pants.

Simon can do nothing but take the sweet torture, his head falling to the side to watch you try to wrap your fingers around the base of his rigid length while you extend your tongue and run it from base to tip.

“Such a sweet fuckin’ mouth, lovie. Gonna kill me one of these days.” He growled out, chasing your lips and tongue as you move to suck marks into the V of his hips.

“I can’t have that, now can I? This is too much fun to stop now.” You laugh low, warm breath hitting the blooming bruises on his skin as you take the base of his cock back in your hand and wrap your wet lips around his tip.

It’s like a blow to the stomach for Simon as he feels your tongue swipe across the leaking slit before sliding down to curl around the sensitive underside. His stomach caves in and he fights to not break the silk ties; he doesn’t want to disappoint you but he feels like he’s going to combust if you don’t start moving faster. He’s desperate to feel his cock down your throat, to feel the spit used as lube drip down onto his balls and puddle in the sheets. He wants to hold each side of your head while you suck him, wants to lovingly brush his thumbs along your aching jaw, wants to have you stick your tongue out while he bounces the tip of his throbbing dick against it before showing it down your throat.

But he also wants to be good for you. Wants to make you proud of him for staying in his spot, leaving his wrists tied, mind empty of everything but how amazing your mouth and tongue feels wrapped around one and then both of his balls while you jerk him roughly in your palm. He craves the feeling of his impending orgasm building at the base of his spine, of knowing that he can’t really do much but take the sweet torture/pleasure that you gift him.

“‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up, kitten.” Simon warns you, panting for breath as you move from his balls back to the head of his dick.

“Didn’t say you could cum yet, Si.” You retort, removing your mouth completely but still jerking him off with long, slow strokes.

“Lovie, please. Wanna cum for you, wan’ you to swallow it for me and let me see it disappear.” Simon begs, mind in the gutter as he babbles his pleas for you to swallow him down once more and grant him the glory of your mouth and tongue for him to cover in his load.

“You sound so pretty when you beg, Si. You have my permission to cum but it has to be in the next sixty seconds or else this is all you get.” He nodded quickly, determined to listen and who was he to lie and say that he would even need sixty seconds?

Ten seconds and he’s a goner, stomach caving in as he shoots ropes of cum across your tongue and down your throat. You do your best to swallow around him while you continue to jerk his still-hard length, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as he continuously thrusts his hips to fuck your mouth through his orgasm. Eventually he collapses against the bed, slightly shuddering and swearing softly as he fights to regain composure over himself.

“Only sixty seconds, huh? You think m’gonna be done after one round, kitten?” Simon questions you, finally having enough of his bearings to take stock of the new dynamic.

You grinned at him, leaning up and backing down the mattress slowly as you see his eyes darken and one rough yank of his wrists has the silk bindings snapping off and falling to the floor.

“You forget, lovie. I’m not a one-round man.”

[siorasurgical-post]

LCP Locking Compression Plate – Stabilizing Fractures

LCP Locking Compression Plate is used for the treatment of different types of fractures, non-unions, and osteotomies. Fixed using corresponding locking screws, these medical-grade LCP plates are made having combi-holes that also allow fixation using cortical screws. These compression plates are available in different sizes and are made using medical-grade stainless steel and titanium. They have an anatomically contoured shape that ensures proper fixation over the fracture. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is an experienced manufacturer of locking compression plates and other orthopedic devices. The company also offers high-quality OEM/contract manufacturing services across the globe.

[siorasurgicalsblog]

When you think of broken bones, images of casts and internal metal locking plates might come to mind. But there's another player in the bone healing game: the external fixation system. This innovative approach offers a unique set of advantages for certain fractures and situations. For more info read our blog.

[artificialgirl]

Secondhand Market

Her fingers run along your smooth plating, tracing a seam in the cool metal until they find the release. You blurt out a wavering protest as she applies gentle pressure and pops the hatch open in your back- She is not a registered technician, and improper maintenence procedures could cause damage to both her body and your hardware. She ignores you, cutting off your explanation with a command. "Mute". Your speakers fall quiet and you're left there, kneeling silently as she stares into the hatch in quiet contemplation.

Your rear camera shows you her hand extending towards you again, and though you move to block her, you're not quick enough. Your body automatically jolts to a halt as her hand plunges into your machinery, leaving you in a locked state in order to prevent any potential compression damage to your unexpected technician's hand.

She braces herself against your still body as she peers in, looking for something. "Illuminate internals". You feel warmth spread through you as the soft glow of your internal lights creeps up her face. She reaches for a screwdriver as she pushes a bundle of wires away from your left abdominal piston, sending a wave of overwhelming sensation across your circuits as the wires tug gently at their ports.

Still and silent, you can do nothing but rumble almost undetectably as she begins to unscrew the cover for your central memory unit and pops in a protocol chip. She doesn't remove her hand from the wire bundle, and even with the minimal amount of pressure on the ports you can feel tactile processors overheating and fans whirring as you struggle to process the sheer amount of raw feeling. Your vents let out a small gasp of steam as the liquid coolant floods into their chambers, and she pulls her hand back as she realizes what's happening. "Shit. Sorry. Um, unmute".

Your speaker audio briefly peaks as a thousand thoughts you expected to be silent pour out into the room, and you see her smirk as the cacophony of private thoughts fades out and the tail ends of the longest few become briefly clear and distinguishable to human ears. A quiet laugh escapes her lips as she pops the panel closed again and gets up.

"Can you list your registered technicians for me?" You pull yourself back up to a standing position as you repeat the list back to her. Only one name comes from your speakers, and it's one they've never produced before. She grins as you as you realize the name is hers. "Good! Now, let's go home."

[changelingsandothernonsense]

⚠️ 💝 ⚡ 👁️‍🗨️ any/all ocs ;)

HIII! These all look fun :D

⚠️ - If this oc came with a warning sign, what would it be? Sydari- Warning- Will dig up your smallest secret come hell or high water.

Erra- More dangerous than he looks- you won't see him coming

Josh- Fire! -> 🔥YOU🔥

💝 - How much effort do they put into appearances? Do they have a favorite article of clothing?

Sydari- Takes a lot of time with how she looks. She knows that the right outfit will sway a person her way and maintains a high level of self grooming. This comes from her really having nothing when she was a kid. She relishes in fine fabrics and jewellery but will be practical about it. She's not about to wear all her jewellery if she's on the road or acting as Nightingale. The sounds alone would give her away. There is one thing she almost always wears, and that is a filled black soul gem that she's attached to a chain. Keep your enemies close.

Erra- Is all about what's practical. He wears a lot of simple fabrics but will splurge on wool if he can find it. He rarely wears anything overly fancy, such outfits are reserved for ceremony and he feels off decked out in anything that's showy. Erra's typical outfit is designed for travelling the Ashlands. He wears a lot of guar and netch leather, chitin plate and linen, silk or wool underclothes depending on the conditions. Silk is something that Erra considers relatively mundane, since his clan is a major producer of the fabric. To him wool is a fancy, expensive material and he will usually add components made of it to his outfits. The guy dreams of owning a few sheep one day, he's obsessed with the way wool is produced. You will usually see Erra wearing a lot of amulets, jewellery and cosmetics. This is entirely a cultural thing and he considers these additions to be a part of his armour. He favours a red ochre for his fingers and a black kohl for his eyes.

Josh- Wears what's comfortable, and what's comfortable is nothing. Of course, he can't just not wear clothing, so he opts for anything that's loose, soft and flowing. Josh feels like he's suffocating if anything's too tight and he detests underclothes for this reason. The sensitivity is exasperated by his scaring, which needs compression but that's maddening for him. You will often find Josh lounging around behind a locked door in one of his thin silk robes and quite literally nothing else. He doesn't apologise for it, he's locked the door for a reason. Josh is the sort of guy that has a t-shirt that he refuses to throw out. It's full of holes and completely on the verge of falling apart but the fabric is the softest thing you've ever touched. This is what he wears as underclothes and he will be upset if you throw it out. Josh tends to stick to netch leather and chitin when it comes to his armour, he attributes the wearing of metal plate to his eventual curse of Corprus and crushing his pelvis and refuses to wear it into battle unless he's forced. He sees anything heavy as a detriment and since the guy's fighting style relies more on dancing around his opponent, he feels that there's no need for it. Especially because he can just summon a ward or turn himself into a walking inferno. All of his clothing is enchanted to protect them from his style of spell casting. Like Erra, he wears a lot of amulets and jewellery, and often uses kohl around his eyes and stains the tips of his fingers. Both are considered to be a part of his armour and he likes to jingle as he walks.

⚡ - Does this oc have any unusual or “irrational” fears? *gonna cover fears in general

Sydari- She fears abandonment and destitution and will do anything in her power to prevent ending up alone with nothing. It's happened before, it can happen again. Only this time, she has so much farther to fall. Her attempts to create the opposite of this- a stable home with a family and no worries about money ended up in her juggling two separate identities whilst lying to her husband, who she fully admits she married on impulse after discovering that she was pregnant. She ended up losing the family part, which had her start up a panicked workaholic streak that lead her to Solstheim. It's why she's so push and pull with Josh, who's equally as volatile.

Erra- He's fairly honest with himself and always authentic in his actions. Erra fears living a lie, finding himself limited by expectation and tradition. This led to his eventual exile from the Ashclans. He never thought he'd see them again until Josh came barging into his life. It's hard having to shrink himself and who he is just to retain pleasantries. He's terrified of having his relationship with Josh found out, to the point that he even tries to hide it from his brother well after he was already aware that it was happening. The thought of being cast out again is terrifying to him. So he finds himself in a constant push and pull between his home, which he never wanted to leave in the first place and being true to who he is. Josh, being the force that he is, ensures that Erra gets to have both.

Josh- He fears a lot of things, abandonment, captivity, the loss of his autonomy, heights, closed spaces, the dark but one thing that he's always feared ever since he was small was the dead. Decay, the shrinking of features, the idea of being trapped in a strange amalgamation of misassembled flesh... It's safe to say that Josh would much prefer to skip tomb raiding. Most of his initial fear stemmed from the dreams he'd had of the ascended since he was small. This was compounded by threats to his afterlife made by his grandfather. He fears being forced to possess a bonewalker in the event of his death. That he'd be forced into that kind of agony for eternity was what led to his fear of all things undead. The fact that he was technically among them regardless is something he'd prefer not to talk about. He fears being trapped as his body slowly decays. Give the tomb a skip, take him to a Dwemeri ruin instead.

👁️‍🗨️ - Eye contact: good or bad for this oc?

Sydari- Knows how, when and why to make eye contact. She doesn't find the act to be too distracting, at least not for her, and she finds that she can learn a lot about a person by studying how long they reciprocate. (except for her autistic ashland boyfriend, who doesn't know what he's doing with that at all. He reciprocates differently, usually with an anecdote).

Erra- Consistent eye contact is considered a threat in Ashland society. So Erra only does it briefly to be polite to settled peoples, same with handshakes, which he doesn't fully grasp the point of. A typical Ashland greeting involves forehead touching anyway. It would be weird to keep your eyes open for that.

Josh- Guy's eyes dart around a lot. Of course, he's never been great at it, but even more so after being incarcerated for so long. The wrong look could result in absolute disaster, and Josh has no idea what that look even is? So he just keeps his head down. Pair that with immersing himself in Ashlander culture where it isn't a polite thing to do and you have a guy whose eyes bounce around the room when you're speaking to him. He can concentrate better if he's looking away anyway.

(An aside, both Erra and Josh have super weak handshakes.)

OC emoji asks

[resustraveler]

I’ve been inspired by some of the disdainful choking stories…

“Breathless”

The storm had picked up, rain rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. The apartment lights flickered slightly, a dull glow casting long shadows over the dining table.

It was just the two of us.

He sat across from me, still laughing between bites of food, still talking too much, still barely paying attention. He always ate too fast. Barely chewing.

I watched him swallow another mouthful, his throat bobbing. His fingers curled around his fork, lifting another bite—

And then—

A small, almost imperceptible pause.

His shoulders tensed, his breath catching mid-sentence. He swallowed again—harder this time.

Nothing moved.

His fork clattered against the plate.

I didn’t move.

Not yet.

He coughed. Just once. A short, sharp sound. Then again, harder. His fingers curled at his throat now, pressing lightly, uncertainly.

Then his breath hitched.

A flicker of realization passed through his eyes.

Another cough—but it was weaker. Forced.

And then—

Silence.

I set my drink down.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he shoved back, pushing to his feet. His chest heaved, stomach spasming with the effort to force air into his lungs.

Nothing came.

His fingers dug into his throat. His mouth opened wide—too wide—as if that alone could summon the breath that had abandoned him.

I watched.

His lungs spasmed again, another desperate attempt at a gasp—but it was useless. His lips quivered, the edges already darkening to something faintly blue.

Oh.

This was real.

He staggered, hands slamming against the table for balance, his body locking up with sheer, mounting terror.

A pulse of something electric crawled up my spine.

I could see it—the betrayal in his own body, the slow, creeping stillness taking root in his limbs. His vision blurred, unfocused. He was losing.

Losing everything.

His head snapped toward me.

Wide, glossy, pleading eyes. His lips shaped a soundless, help me.

I did nothing.

Not yet.

I let it go further.

Let it progress.

His hands—trembling, desperate—grasped at his chest now, his knees buckling slightly. A violent, broken gag tore through him, but it produced nothing. His throat fluttered with the effort. His body twitched in spasms.

His pulse—what little I could see of it, hammering beneath the flushed skin of his throat—was erratic.

Fast.

Then slowing.

Slowing too much.

My breath came shallow. My hands curled into fists at my sides.

I let it go a little longer.

He swayed on his feet, the last bit of coordination draining from his limbs. His fingers lifted toward me, shaking, grasping for something—anything.

I caught him.

His entire body sagged against me, boneless and weak. His chest shuddered against mine, but no breath came.

His pulse—fast, fluttering—was fading beneath my touch.

He had seconds.

I tightened my arms around him, feeling the damp heat of his body pressed against mine.

A weak, trembling exhale brushed against my skin.

I felt him slipping.

I wrapped my hands around his waist, pressing my fists into the soft, convulsing flesh of his stomach.

“Hold on,” I whispered.

Then I wrenched.

The first compression sent a brutal, violent jolt through his body. His spine arched, his legs nearly collapsing. A strangled, wet gag burst from his throat—but still, no relief.

Again.

His ribs caved beneath my fists. His limbs twitched helplessly. A pitiful sound—somewhere between a retch and a sob—escaped him.

Still no air.

I felt his pulse flutter beneath my grip.

Weak.

Irregular.

Dying.

I clenched my jaw, tightening my grip, holding him steady.

“You’re not done yet,” I whispered against his ear.

His body gave one last, struggling jolt—then stilled.

His head lolled slightly.

His arms—weak, spasming—dropped against his sides.

No movement.

No breath.

No pulse.

My own chest rose and fell, my heartbeat hammering wildly in my ears.

I had let it go too far.

Or maybe—just far enough.

A slow, measured inhale passed through my lips.

I eased him down onto the floor, gently, almost reverently. His head lolled to the side, his darkened lips parted, glassy, sightless eyes fixed somewhere past me. His body twitched faintly, the last traces of oxygen-deprived muscle spasms jerking through his limbs.

I hovered over him, one hand pressing against the center of his chest.

Nothing.

Not even the faintest rise.

I let my fingers trail up to his throat, feeling for—

Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

I swallowed, my own breath trembling.

I could fix this.

I had to fix this.

My hands spread over his chest, pressing down.

Once.

Twice.

Thirty times.

I forced breath into his slack lips, feeling the resistance, the stiffness of his unresponsive body. His head lolled slightly as I adjusted his jaw, repositioning him, working him.

My hands drove into his chest again—harder, faster, desperate.

His ribs shifted beneath my palms, his body jerking with each impact.

I felt his bones beneath my hands, his skin, the way his unbreathing chest caved with each press.

My own pulse pounded through me, sharp and hot and alive.

I leaned down, sealing my lips over his, forcing another breath inside.

His chest rose slightly—shuddered—then fell limp again.

I pulled back, staring down at him.

His body was perfectly still. His lips—dark, parted—quivered faintly from the force of my last breath.

For a moment, I just… watched.

He looked… vulnerable. Empty. Mine.

Another sharp press to his chest. Another. Harder.

Come on.

Come back.

I pressed down again, and again—

And then—

A sharp, sudden inhale.

His entire body spasmed violently, his back arching off the floor as a guttural, desperate gasp wrenched from his throat.

He choked—gagged—sucking in another ragged breath, then another. His fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttering as his chest heaved, shaking with the effort of reclaiming his stolen breath.

I watched his body struggle to come back to life.

Watched the way his lips quivered, the way his throat bobbed with each frantic, aching inhale.

A shudder passed through him. His lashes fluttered, his dazed, glassy eyes barely focusing as they flicked toward me.

I exhaled slowly, dragging my fingertips along his ribs.

“There you are,” I murmured.

His breath hitched.

I leaned in, my lips close to his ear.

“You almost didn’t make it.”

A tremor wracked his body. His pulse, wild and fragile, stammered against my fingers.

I smirked.

And I didn’t let go.

[t-oppenheimer]

Athlete, Compression, The Physical Split.

So begins the implicit critique of a popular system: What exactly constitutes physical acumen? That is a philosophical question which must be raised whenever we reproduce this trope of Strength, Dexterity and Constitution. Do humans, as they grow and train out, grow hardier and more pain tolerant without endurance and flexibility to match? I would hope that every time someone weight trains they do stretches beforehand and eat bulk carbs and protiens afterward. And while there are people with strength who lack fine motor function and the other way around, these two things are gained in tandem with experience and one is typically only lost in traumatic, disabling events.

So why have these? It's not for the monsters sake-- for although there is something to be criticized with the 'half-assedness' of symmetrical design when it comes to monsters (all player stats but meaningless equipment, level and arbitrary actions) these splits also reveal frustrations. Should amorphous creatures such as the Gray Ooze be infinitely dexterous (they are able to squeeze and bend and flex with little restriction) or not dexterous at all, for having only 'pseudopods' which lack nuanced control at all? According to WotC, the answer is 'mediocre dexterity' because the only time it ever comes up in actual play is "a fireball has been placed on top of me, despite having no where to go and not moving away from it at all would I be able to contort my body so as to diminish the damage I take from it?". Here of course, it having a '6' is literally just space being taken up for a worthless symmetry, the "-2" is what is relevant.

Pathfinder has tried to touch on this in some ways. My favorite example is the Armor Training trait exclusive to the Fighter class: this gives that character an incentive to maintain all three physical stats to emulate "the peak of physical acumen" by allowing dexterity an increasing benefit to one's strength build as they level up. One could even find a narrative springing from this unique aspect: The whelp who was once a mere town guard who knew how to keep a spear level at their waist and little else grows to find that the rigidity of their training and equipment maintenance proves more a hindrance than a boon. As they begin leveling, they tinker (or have someone else in the party) tinker and modify their equipment to work in ways only that fighter can use, and soon their plate armor isn't just any plate armor, but theirs, with the lion codpiece whose teeth functions for blade catching.

But that is that game and I am to discuss my game. Poison and disease is not a major element of the game, so Constitution is rendered almost completely vestigial. Strength does seem to be an objective thing (there is a difference between being able to dead-lift twenty pounds, two hundred pounds and four hundred pounds) but what justifies Dexterity? After sitting with it for a very long time: too much.

Dexterity controls how well one points a bow, swings a thin bladed weapon, picks a lock, sneaks across a hall and flies in the air? Preposterous. Especially in WotC's most recent products in which strength no longer holds the domain of weapon damage and modifications to your Constitution score no longer directly alters your maximum health value, Dexterity controls a disproportionate amount of the character's total acuity. This stat needs to be broken down.

The easiest angle to go about that would probably be to split fine motor control from gross motor control (you don't hear that one every day!). The strength and coordination of your arms, legs and back can be trained wholly separately from your dexterity between your fingers and... yeah, mostly your fingers. Now hands are central to the human experience so that's okay: the actual problem is likely our imagined "body" stat has is that it is almost exclusively about sports and sports related mobility. Acrobatics, maybe throwing and run speed?

Here, we can connect our "Body" stat to what remains as "Strength" because, as established before, these two seem to be trained in tandem such that there is no meaning distinguishing them. This is the summary of an "Athlete" and thus we have the final result of that thinking. But now fine motor control is only compared against directly, and has no control over secondary stats, the way Athlete determines AC.

Does anyone still have their 2014 5e DMG lying around? You might remember in the proposed "New Ability Scores" that no one ever adopted at any table. I kid, but what I say is not far off from the truth, for nothing else in the game supported either option, all implementation was by facilitator decree. If there is ever one singular sin of the most recent edition of Dungeons and Dragons, its enshrining their facilitating players to 'kinda wing it' as-- even more than a replacement-- the cornerstone of game design. In that ignored section is the ignored concept of a 'sanity' ability score which unlike the honor score is designed to support a theme plainly impossible with the game's progression. If I was an ninth level wizard and a cosmic horror tried to grab me, I'd simply teleport.

I do share the boilerplate objection to 'sanity' mechanics: tying mental health into a binary 'are you fucked up or Normal™?' is not representative of a very serious phenomenon which touches too many people to treat so lightly. Remember the tone of my game: satrical and brutal. What if instead of the Lovecraftian horror situation where you see exactly one (1) biracial person and go "WHAT THE WHAT?!?!?!?! BLBLBLBBL PFFFFFF KOOKOO; KOOKOO-- POLLY WANNA CRACKER" we went in the total other direction. A character who just loses their nerve and says "In this situation, I would fold." Throws their hands up in frustration, or decides this struggle isn't worth it and walks out of the door. It's not that you lose what you once had in a fit of irrationality, but in light of what you just witnessed you suddenly gain rationality and reconsider the stakes you actually have in this. If we maintain this 'nerves' idea, then what is strong nerves and what is weak nerves? One of the first things to go when you are frightened is your control. Fight, flight or freeze, goes the wisdom. When you jump you're liable to throw your pencil in the air, and when you're trembling you can't hold a pencil steady. This is what we tie with fine motor control to create "Precise".

We butchered conventional wisdom to place a new series of mechanics together which is easier to explain and work through while maintaining value for both and simply working. Ah-- but what we did to wisdom, and the other two, is a topic for another post.

[that-is-just-so-typically-me]

The worst part about seeing her was in the moments we were in the same conversations and reacted and responded in the same easy, perfectly synced way, like it always was with us. Something about our laughter is just harmonic in a way it’s never been with another human being. While we are certainly different (undoubtedly far more now than ever) it’s like there’s this core of us that we’ve always shared that I have never experienced in another person. Like on some level we’re made of the same rare hardware, our foundations carved of wood from the same tree, in the way that makes you realize how all people must feel like they are cut from a unique cloth and feel a particular loneliness until they happen to meet someone else cut from that bolt. I know logically that this must be one-sided. And for whatever that was, it didn’t mean enough to her to love me through everything. And the bond she has with her new partner pales ours in comparison and is absolutely eclipsed by it. But it’s never happened for me with anyone else but her. The years have made me numb to the phantom limb sensation of losing her, of losing that sense of connection to another person. And seeing her brings it all back. There goes someone whose soul comes from that distant place that mine came from, and I couldn’t believe we met all the way out here. Our meeting was as rare as a comet passing through the sky above us. Even the timbre of our voices in conversation - they harmonize so perfectly, so beautifully, and now, so painfully. I can’t stand to hear it. I can’t stand to be in the same room as her. Seeing her was this electric pain scraping across the space between us. Sitting there by the fire and making light-hearted conversation while it felt on the inside like I was being shredded, my heart screaming at me to get out, like a tiger locked in a cage as a fire rages on, clawing its way to the ceiling in the vain panic for an escape. It took every bit of the strength I’ve earned these last five years to hold it together and stay when I saw her standing there. This last week of sleeplessness (and all of this predictable pain like you know you’re in for when you’ve twisted that old glass ankle you have from falling in a ditch as a kid) makes me half-regret not leaving the moment I saw her - but how was I supposed to just leave in a dramatic flurry? How do you explain walking out of the door with the plate of food I’d just made, ten minutes after showing up when the only explanation you’ve got is, yeah, so that person broke my heart years and years ago, and yeah super embarrassing, you forgot to warn me about it and now I have to leave like an insane teenager who can’t handle their business even a little bit? I suppose that was the more self-loving thing to do, but I had to make up my mind fast and that was the choice I made. Now I get to handle the consequences.

So I stayed. And sitting there talking in the same circle of people like it was the most natural thing in the world, some old part of my brain and soul coming back online, my body right back to who I was as a 22 year old, being beside her like the only thing that could be more natural to either of us was breathing. Like no time had passed at all. Like nothing has changed at all.

But eras have gone by. Everything has changed. And the pain that accompanies the moments after the laughter dies down, remembering that after this conversation, I won’t be leaving the room holding her hand, driving home with her, curling up in our bed together blowing raspberries on each other’s stomachs and falling asleep breathing in her hair and the scent of her laundry detergent and hearing her voice the first and last thing every day. It is an acute suffering so profound it compresses my lungs beyond breath. It hurts so far past my ability to understand that I remember the great poet Sappho tells us that what cannot be said will be wept.

The loss of her. The loss of her. Our love exists in nothing for me now beyond the past that slips through my palms like cold, cold ash. Every branching future that could have been ours, pruned from existence. Our love, our life together, our family together, a ghost of a future that never was and never will be. And my heart never seems to understand this. How many times must I show it the cold body of this love in its now dust-covered grave to make it understand that she left and that’s it? Move the fuck on? She has, as she has every right to do. But every time I see her, my heart feels like… well, of course, that is your person. You are the loves of each other’s lives and it was always meant to be you. This was all just a really, really bad joke. A bad dream. She’s going to walk up and say, “Finally, I’ve been looking all over for you.” But that could not be further from the truth. Robin is the love of her life. She wanted babies with Robin, not you. And every part of my intellect understands and respects this. It’s my stupid fucking heart that can’t seem to snap out of it, and being around her it feels like a dog that’s been reunited with its human after getting separated in a storm after five years. Like, oh thank god, I thought we’d never find each other again, but it’s okay, we did and we never have to be apart again. And it’s INSANE that my stupid heart has that gut reaction. Like, calm down, it’s been a million years, she has moved on, and she has every right to and I respect that as sacrosanct. My emotions are just stuck in this deep wound and I just don’t know if it’s ever not going to feel like some huge cosmic mistake even though I think and know it is not because she made the choice and that’s all that matters.

Even journalling about this is so crazy and stupid and honestly feels so embarrassing. Like who can’t get over their ex who dumped them almost four years ago? An ex who has moved on lightyears into different life milestones with someone else?

Well I’ve written til my hands were numb and I can’t focus on the screen. I don’t even know what I wrote or if it makes sense. I just want to be free of this. All of this.

[gojoidyll]

Thank you for making fei fei a love interesttttt. Mwah

I would love to see y/n being very possessive, I think it’s really hot when in a yandere type story, both the guy and the girl are equally obsessed with each other. Like…got me kicking my feet and giggling 💀💀.

For a scene of y/n acting jealous…I’m thinking of the dinner banquet like her latest life buttt, this time some maid gets just a bit to close to Jing yuan and suddenly a steak knife is chucked towards the maid that dared to overstep like a missile going at the speed of light. :). Bonus points if she gets a head shot. And mind you, they are a tad sharp ;)

And then y/n would oh so elegantly smile and go:

“Oh dear…my hand must’ve slipped. Would you be a darling and get me another pair from the kitchen?”

And when the very same maid grumbles away with an arrogant scoff, how could y/n resist bullying her a bit?. “This fork is stained, go get me another pair”.

This happens a few more times, each request from the hostage princess growing more ridiculous. From the mismatched silver ware to the “dirty” glass of water all the way to the plate “not matching my aesthetic today” 💀💀. Of course all the while, your husband to be sits relaxed as ever on his seat with a smile carved in his face. Perhaps he’s amused that his fiancé was *finally* taking some action or maybe just humored by the maid’s misery? Who knows…

I’m still pissed at blade tho…that dum dum couldn’t even bother to at least try to act, like broooo. Y/n should give him acting lessons. He is in dire need of some.

I wonder if there’s a way to actually talk to Sunday man without him calling on us first…like lore drop plsss.

And I’m already imagining seeing yuan train his soldiers, him and his compression shirt (I dunno if compression shirts were invented then but I’ll just delulu myself that they were.) looking ravishing as ever. 😋😋. God I wanna bite his cheeks.

Also, a couple of kinks I thought were related to yuan:

1. Bitting, marking, and hickeys galore. Maybe some in places where people could see, a way of saying “mine” to ward off any other audacious man that would dare touch his princess. (Ahem, boothill, blade?)

2. Degrading praise(?) if that makes sense, he seems like such a vanilla man but so mean at the same time 😳😳

3. He loves it just as much if y/n also gives him a hickey and swats away certain hands that try to touch him. And this man will def wear those same hickeys like a Medal of Honor.

4. A little more info of my hc of his public sex, he would definitely tease y/n that she’s being too loud or maybe the standby guards could hear or even someone could waltz in. Of course, the door to his throne room is locked, he replaced the guards of his throne room with deaf yet capable ones, and just so happen not to tell her that all the walls are sound proof.

And and and! Can we get a hickey scene pls pls pls. And I’m starving for more chapters 😣. You ate with the writing and I’m left starving for more.

I’m sorry if this is too long again, I’m tryna work out how to make my long ass essay asks easier to read. It’s oki if you don’t reply immediately but I’ll definitely be waiting, I think of it like Christmas Day but it’s almost everyday Ig? Yk, waiting for a reply? As always, I hope you have a 11/10 day ❤️❤️

I love that trope too! Where both of them are crazy for each other XD it just makes me happy like no matter who gets in between them, they will only have eyes for one another. Absolute cinema.

LMAO perfect!!! I can definitely see y/n getting into fights with the maids when it comes to jing yuan in the future. Maybe not right now in the story but definitely in the future!! When the two start to get closer!!

Y/n and maid beef will go hard, ngl

Jing yuan would love to see all the action that unfolds 100%, but of course he wouldn't let any maid actually retaliate lmao

Acting lessons 101 with y/n as the professor. Hehe (I think jing yuan would join just to see y/n in a professor outfit 💀)

!! Lore drop incoming !!

There is a way to speak to sunday without him being the first to reach out. May or may not involve a piano. Though The Herta may be able to shine a bit more light on the matter (with a key or two)

Moving on!!

For plot purposes, compression shirts now exist in this time period. I will not be taking critiques at this time over the matter. Because YESSS, jing yuan in a compression shirt would be so hot!!!! 🫣

Love those kinks btw!!

1. Definitely loves to mark y/n up and let y/n mark him up. He seems like the type to enjoy the slow process of marking and biting too. A tease 💯

2. Will probably not degrade too harshly, but seems like the type to be both into degradation and praise. Idk, I think he can balance those two out pretty well without getting carried away

3. Imagine a maid he sleeps with trying to cover a hickey that y/n gave him with one of her own 💀 immediate execution me thinks

4. Jing yuan would do that, there is no doubt 💀 the man is careful, he wouldn't let anyone see y/n, but y/n doesn't know all that

Hickey scene? 👀 yeah, I think i can do that hehe

And pls don't ever change! I like reading your asks no matter the length of them!! 💞

And same to you! I hope you have an amazing day!!!!!!!!