#lung physiology

[er-cryptid]

[nemfrog]

Internal organs. Library of health. 1921.

Internet Archive

[darlingkairos]

You can do it Wheezy!

[walking-loather]

.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Elite women wore whalebone corsets that were tightly laced, pulled in by an assistant dresser to achieve a 22-inch waist (10 inches smaller than today's average female waist). The ribs were deformed and the spine permanently curved.

Ladies reported shortness of breath as their lungs were compressed, constipation and painful indigestion. Over time, the corsets could cause more series injury: 'bent or fractured ribs, displacement of the liver, and uterine prolapse (in some cases the uterus would be gradually forced, by the pressure of the corset, out through the vagina)'.

"Normal Women: 900 Years of Making History" - Philippa Gregory

[unidentifiedfuckingthing]

choir for 10 years gave me crazy lung capacity but less than normal oxygen transfer efficiency. or that might be an unrelated effect of the stupid everything wrong with my body. but its like the lamest possible skill i could make a really loud noise unbroken for like 2 minutes probably, physically, except id pass out and die

[charlietheepicwriter7]

H̵̩͋o̸̹͒l̶̢̑ď̸͕ ̵͔͛T̴̲̄h̶͙͋e̶̤͘m̵͍̋ ̷͓̈D̵̯͛o̶̡̅w̵̖̃n̵͝ͅ

Get in the Water AU: Original Post Ruthlessness

Ghosts were physiologically different from humans.

It was something Tucker and Sam didn't understand. They saw Phantom as "Danny with superpowers," not as a fundamentally different being.

Sometimes, Danny didn't understand either.

But his parents did. Utter disregard for the scientific method aside, the Fentons were the ones who learned how inhuman ghosts were: "Just emotions and electricity imprinted on ectoplasm, Danno, nothing to be scared of!" Snapshots of people at the moments of their deaths. The past and the present, incapable of contemplating the future.

And with his duality, Danny struggled to understand either of his halves.

As a human, Danny could move past his nightmare of a childhood, compartmentalize and think to the future, when he was fully healed and his past couldn't hurt him anymore. So when Dora, first elected Queen of the Infinite Realms - long may she reign - asked him to collect all the resurrected humans for a health check and assessment... when he'd noticed Damian Al Ghul-Wanye on the list... He'd thought up a little prank to pull on his long-lost brother. A cruel one, perhaps, but nothing harmful.

As a ghost, Danny couldn't move on. He could never forget that Sam led him to his death, that his parents negligence allowed for the stage to be set, that the lab they loved so much held both his home and his grave. Just as Danny would always be that fourteen year old, caught in that moments, he was still the 7-year-old Danyal Al Ghul who trusted his brother not to hurt him... and ended up poisoned.

Phantom wanted his murderer to suffer.

And Danny, much to his shame, had allowed it.

For a few weeks, Danny managed to ignore it. He'd gone after Damian first, so there were tons of resurrected on his list. He started with the more extreme cases first, like Constantine, but soon enough the next on his list was Ra's Al Ghul.

He'd asked Queen Dora to send someone else, anyone else. That he wouldn't be able to control himself if he saw his grandfather again. Instead of relieving him, she'd given him a knowing look and told him to follow his core's desire.

She never mentions it, but Queen Dora had been a murder victim too.

There was no showmanship, no dramatic reveal. Just Danyal, his grandfather, and the Pit.

Despite all Ra's Al Ghul's power, he was no match for a spirit hellbent on drowning him.

That's what Danny did to his grandfather. He'd thrown up afterwards, once he was human before. But the ghost in him relished the act; he could still feel Grandfather's throat under his hands, pulse fluttering against his palm as Danyal held him down. He struggled and shook as the Lazarus waters filled his lungs, burning away healthy tissue. Fingernails morphed into claws that sliced through the tender skin, blood leaking into the water, and water leaking into the blood.

It took a long time for Grandfather to die. Deep within Danny, next to his core, he knew it was what was deserved. That the murdered finally had justice. He was content with never speaking of it again, a secret between him and the waters.

And now it was going to happen again as Phantom's impulsive mind overtook Fenton's tactical one.

He'd known Damian was looking into him. Knew another confrontation was inevitable, what with two more of his siblings needing their health checks. But as Danny was stalking their mother, searching for the best way to abduct her (she was still his mother after all, he didn't want her dead... yet), Damian and his family confronted her.

Relief washed over him as only a normal amount of rage bubbled up at the sight of Damian, instead of the overwhelming, all-consuming fury he'd felt. Danny laughed at their arguments, at Constantine thinking he could put a living ghost to rest, at his siblings-unmet and his father-unknown, until...

Damian confessed.

His murderer confessed, yet as he continued to speak, to explain, the fury rose in him again. Because it wasn't a betrayal. He'd always thought Damian betrayed him, but no.

Through his own ruthlessness, Damian gave him the only mercy he could manage. And there was only one thing Danyal wanted now.

""̸̲̈́T̶͘͜ä̵̢li̸a̶̬̓ ̴̬̐A̵̛̪l̸̲̚ G̸̛̫h̶̺̏u̸̢̚l!̴̳̈́ D̷̩̕o̸͛ͅ ̶̝̍y̴͙͘o̵̙͐u̵̬̓ ̴̤͂k̸̡̑n̵͓̈́o̷͈͝w̷͖͂ ̷͓͑w̴̧̄h̵̲͌o̴̮̔ ̵̼́Ị̷̂ ̷̣̽a̵̳̓m̷̩̓?̷̝͒"̷̧͠"

It was her fault. She was the reason why he was dead, nothing more than a coward who couldn't go against her father for the sake of her children. She abused them, she struck his brother, it was her fault-

"Danyal," she answered. And Danyal grinned, fanged and sharp.

He approached, the waters of his birthplace lovingly brushing against his legs, consoling him the only way they knew how. They whispered revenge into his ears, madness into his heart, just as they had when he'd confronted Damian, when he murdered Grandfather. "You have much to answer for, daughter of the Demon Head," he said, voice echoing around the room.

Unrestrained greed filled her gaze. "You've returned to me, my son."

Danyal laughed, brutal and rough. "I've returned for you, Mother," he corrected. "Don't think this reunion will end well for you."

"You mean to hurt me, Danyal?" she crooned, all false hurt and fake love.

"I mean to kill you."

Genuine anger flashed across her face. "My son would never-"

"Y̵̺̆o̴̩͂u̸͉̕r̷̰͝ ̴͔͝s̵̡̉o̶̡̎ň̵̞ ̶̗̈i̴̘̍s ̸̦̐d̴̯̚ê̶͚á̶̩d̷̻̈́," he snarled, and Damian flinched. He was too close to Talia. "You wanted me dead... for being weak. For having mercy." He stared up at his mother's shocked form. "I killed Grandfather. Tell me, is that ruthless enough for you, Umi?" Talia flinched with just her eyes. He hadn't been allowed to call her Umi since he was three.

Their father stepped forward, the naked distress on his face contrasting with his battle armor. "Danyal," he plead. "You don't have to do this-"

"Stay out of this, Baba." The man's breathing hitched. "This doesn't involve you."

Constantine tried to talk him down next. "It does, kid. A Siren on your level can't stay around for long. It's time for you to rest."

Danyal threw back his head and laughed. "As if you could stop me, exorcist." No more delays. It's time for action. "I will drown you all before you can."

Danyal lunged. And despite his mother's decades as an assassin, she couldn't kill what was already dead.

He held her down by the throat, the attacks from Damian's family bouncing off him. "This is mercy," he cooed as she desperately clawed at his hands. "For me. For Damian. For everyone you will try to hurt in the future. Ruthlessness is the only mercy I can give you now." Her face turned red as she gaped for air and Danyal-

Was thrown back into the water.

Reorienting himself, he found John Constantine standing over his mother, protecting her from him. "̷̪͂E̷̺͐x̷̝̑ŏ̶̺ȑ̴͉c̷̟͘i̸͔̋s̶̮̀t̶̯͝."

And the Pit's water began to rise.

[screambirdscreaming]

So a fun little update on this is that it was actually an unresolved asthma attack. No thanks to my brain for the clear and helpful signals to figure THAT out.

Man. For reasons I don't know I've been riding the edge of frustrated and overstimulated for like... over a week now and it's making me feel like a kid in the worst way. Like everyone is interacting with me Wrong and it's making me petty and spiteful in ways that I hate but struggle to tamp down and I can't express what the problem is and if I try I sound incredibly whiny and demanding of other people's behavior. And I don't know *why* so I can't find the root cause and undo it. I'm just stuck feeling incredibly sick of everyone's shit but ESPECIALLY mine.

[iceskatingmobsters]

I have learned a lot of. weird shit. in the process of researching for this fic. for instance, before normal saline, the fucking fluid of choice to rehydrate someone who lost a dickload of blood was milk, fuck you if you were lactose intolerant. also sockeye salmon have eight different blood types and cows have at least fucking ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY

[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 1 - Innocence

My weekly helping of hurt with no comfort. Enjoy. CW: dead dove don't eat, torture, suicidal thoughts. poly 141 x reader who is accused of being a traitor... you know the drill.

Previous parts - masterlist - next

It hurts. There’s two types of pain.

The physical pain, the sting of your lungs as a cloth is placed over your mouth and water is poured over your face. 

The burn as your lungs beg for a beak in the relentless cycle. If you could speak you would beg them to stop. 

They won't listen, you know that. Maybe that makes it worse. 

Maybe that makes it harder to understand why they would do this to you. 

‘What’s your connection to Makarov?’ It's John. He always asks the questions. Gesturing at Simon to give you a break so you can answer. 

That's the second type of pain. You’re innocent, they don't know that. Right now you’re guilty in their eyes. The mental torture-your friends, your lovers, whatever you want to call them- they’re hurting you. And they’re not going to stop until they’re satisfied. 

That's never going to happen because they don't know yet.

They don't know you’re innocent. 

‘I have no connection to Makarov,’ you say between breaths. 

They don't know you’re innocent.

You can't blame them, they’re doing their job. For queen and country.

The rag is pressed back over your nose and mouth and more water is poured over it. 

You can't breathe, they won’t let you. 

Simon… 

Simon who has held you in his arms letting you pour your heart out to him is there, his hands around your face making sure you suffer.

Making sure you live.

Suffering is not enough, you need to live. 

They need you to live…

Kyle watches from the window. He refused to participate. He got a bollocking from Price. This is messy work. 

They keep you updated on Johnny's condition. Almost like that's supposed to change your mind. 

‘He’s in a coma, fighting for his life because of you!’ John snaps. 

Nothing you say can change their mind. No amount of begging or pleading. 

You tried to keep it together. You didn't last long. John and Simon know what they’re doing. 

The rag is removed from your face again.

‘How did Makarov know about the raid?’ John's voice is harsh, angry, loud and commanding. 

‘I don't know.’ you say. It's the truth, it's not you. You would never hurt them. 

They don't believe you.

Why should they believe you? 

You don’t know what evidence they have against you. Not that they would tell you, they’re keeping that information close to their chest.

They want to break you first.

You don’t stand a chance.

You don’t know how many days it’s been. Maybe that’s the worst. Physiological torture, is sometimes more effective then physical torture. They keep going for what feels like hours, until you’re vomiting back up the water that escaped down your throat. 

That’s when they stop, leaving the room in silence, your stomach raw, your body shivering. At least you’re alone now. That’s when you cry, pray, whatever you want. You get a few hours of loneliness before they start again. 

How could they do this, the people you love? 

Then you remember the shot ripping through Johnny’s chest. The screaming, the blood. The crack of his ribs under your hands as you pumped on his chest trying to keep him alive. 

Then the confusion. The data, the plans, Makarov knew everything, and according to all the evidence that was your fault. 

No, you know how they could do this. Because in their eyes you’re a traitor. In their eyes you might as well have shot Johnny yourself. 

Maybe that would have been better, then at least they would have given you a quick death.

next Hey, I kind of hate this trope but I do love writing it! IMO 141 would never just jump straight to torture of someone they loved without irrefutable evidence... Its fantasy though and that's what I love about fanfics! Banners by firefly-graphics

[whispering-about-the-tmnt]

Some headcanons regarding TMNT physiology

Over the years, I have come up with some headcanons regarding how I believe the Ninja Turtles' bodies work. I thought that perhaps it might be nice to finally share them with all of you.

These don't apply to all the iterations, of course, but they are pretty well universal in my mind, and I tend to incorporate most of them into my fanfics.

The Turtles (like leatherback sea turtles, echidnas, and some dinosaurs) are mesotherms, meaning they are neither warm nor cold blooded. They are, instead, in a middle-ground: they internally generate heat, but not to a constant temperature. In the Turtles' case, they will shiver when cold, and their bodies will not shut down right away when the temperature dips too low, though they may lose some energy and find it hard to concentrate.

Unlike many other modern reptiles and amphibians, who have a three-chambered heart, the Turtles have four-chambered hearts (like mammals and dinosaurs) that are larger and stronger than average human hearts and located at the center of their chests.

While the average human blood capacity is around five liters, the Turtles have about seven. Much of the blood flows under the shell -- a remnant of their lives as ordinary turtles, whose own blood does so in order to warm them when they bask. This means that the Turtles could lose close to three liters of blood before dying, while a human would only be able to lose two.

Their blood is also highly efficient at clotting, but that also means that storing blood for transfusions is difficult, and so must be directly transfused from one turtle to another in emergency situations.

Owing to their extensive circulatory system, they also have a larger lung capacity than humans and more oxygen-rich blood, and so are able to hold their breath for extended periods of time without adverse effects. Other than this, the Turtles' respiratory system is very much like humans', utilizing a diaphragm to inflate and deflate their lungs.

Like regular turtles, they do not have ribs, but rather their carapaces and plastrons serve that purpose, and they have muscles under their shells that keep their internal organs right where they belong.

Also like regular turtles, their spines curve along the insides of their shells. A direct hit on the center of their shells, then, could cause damage to their spinal column and nervous system, but fortunately their vertebral shields offer a fair amount of protection, so it would take quite an impact.

The Turtles are highly resistant to most infections and diseases, which increases their immunological responses. They do not get sick easily, and they recover quickly.

While their scales are not apparent, they are integrated into their skin, making it tougher than human skin. It takes a very hard hit to raise a bruise, and it is difficult to cut through without a very sharp or pointed blade.

Their bones are similar to humans, but are more resistant to breaking. They also heal quicker and stronger if they are broken.

Their muscles are also very close to human-like, but they are stronger than an average human due to compensating for the extra weight they carry in their shells. Because of this, their ligaments and tendons are also tougher, and it is difficult for them to have a joint dislocated.

Their sense of smell is more acute than humans, but not to an extreme degree. They are also not as bothered by foul smells (though this has more to do with living in a sewer than their physiology).

Their eyes are a bit tougher and more resistant to damage than human eyes due to a protective membrane that covers them. They see a bit better than humans in dark places and underwater.

Their hearing is somewhat more attuned to lower frequencies than human hearing, and is not dependent on external ears but rather an internal auditory system (making direct damage to their hearing unlikely).

They are capable of being knocked unconscious, but it takes a significant impact. Permanent or lingering damage to their brains is unlikely due to their structure, and so they also do not tend to suffer the same side-effects that humans would in the same circumstances (nausea, memory loss, etc.).

Although their nutritional needs are similar to humans, they do not need to eat every day, and in fact can get by quite well without food for a week if necessary (though they won't enjoy it). When food is readily available, however, they will eat as much as possible to store up energy. Their metabolism does not slow down when they do not eat, so overexerting themselves when they haven't had any food for a while can burn them out suddenly.

Their sleep schedules are much like most diurnal animals, though they are able to stay awake for extended periods of time and can get by on little sleep, if necessary. There have been times when they have been awake for days on end, getting by on short one hour naps here and there. In general, though, they like to have a regular sleep/wake cycle.

Like other reptiles, the Turtles never stop growing throughout their lifetimes; however their growth is slow, topping off at about 1-2 inches every five years.

Does anyone have anything they would like to add to the list? I actually had fun compiling it!

[medicosis]

Can you answer today’s question 🙋‍♀️?! Q: If a patient aspired something into his lungs while lying down on his back, to which pulmonary segment will it go?! 🤔 …#anatomy #physiology #pathology #biology #lung #medical #surgery #medicine #usmle #nclex #neet https://www.instagram.com/p/CnM9LhVvKN-/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[nemfrog]

"The vital system." Hints toward physical perfection. 1859.

Internet Archive

[spectator-moon]

HEADCANONS ABOUT THE BAD KIDS

Kristen has Asthma. No doctors can figure out where it came from, because it's not genetic, but she remembers a dark forest, a temple, and a horn spearing through her lungs, and she just knows. She asks Cassandra to fix it, and Cassandra tells her that it cannot be done. She keeps an inhaler on her at all times, and when she breathes too deeply, she can still feel the horn piercing her.

Fig, through a combination of tiefling blood and her own decisions, sounds like somebody who's been smoking all their life. When she was younger, it just sounded like a raspy throat, but now that she's older, it's that sultry, sort-of attractive rasp. Ayda says that she sounds sick, and it takes a few minutes of explaining before Ayda understands. Fig always teases Ayda with her most sultry, raspy voice, and laughs when Ayda's hair poofs upwards.

Adaine tried pancakes for the first time when Kristen made them and now they're her favourite breakfast food. Her favourite toppings are whipped cream, fruit, and syrup. She doesn't say that every time she eats them, they trigger sensations of eating at a cold table with cruel people. She doesn't say that she sees a time where she will eat pancakes alone, and cry with the wish to eat them with Kristen again. She does not say a great many things.

Gorgug, through no fault of his parents, in almost unhealthily skinny. It's incredibly hard to find books on Orcish physiology, and Thelma and Digby tried their best to keep up, but it wasn't meeting the required amount of calories. Now that they know (Gorgug's bio dad gave them a book), they feed him much more, but he's always hungry. He feels bad for it, and sometimes even flat out refuses the food, feeling like it's a waste.

Fabian has dissociative episodes where he falls back into the fear that nobody remembers him. He sometimes can't even remember himself. He pretends to be fine, and then you're calling his name loud enough for the Hangvan to hear it outside and he doesn't respond. He sometimes slips into old habits of not being able to move from his bed, and when he does, all the Bad Kids visit him until he can get out. They never rush him, and sometimes it turns into a slumber party.

Riz has night terrors. When he does sleep, which is rare in and of itself, he wakes up. When it's a good night, without screaming. He'll wake up in a cold sweat, unable to move for minutes or hours, but he won't scream. When it's a bad night, he will wake up screaming loud enough to reach the lowest floor of Strongtower luxury apartments, and he won't know where he is. He has hurt his mom, and his friends, and when he comes out of the haze of pure fear with sobbing noises that sound like his heart is being ripped from his chest.

Anyways, what are y'alls headcanons?

[samodivaa]

You Are Art

Request : College!Bucky x Artist!Reader where Bucky is a nude model partner for life drawing.

Warnings - smut, soft sex Words - 2.3k AN - Me personally, would draw Soldat. ;o

All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique—because one eye sees, the other feels. And the human form that you need to draw will include a physiological precondition that is indispensable—intoxication, lust. If you can say your feelings for him in words, there would be no reason to paint him—you wouldn't have asked him to be your model.

Bucky grows pale as death, he gazes into your eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful look as his lips tremble and vainly endeavors to form some words, then his mouth twisted into an incongruous smile. “Should I…undress now?” His face gave evidence of suffering. You are considerably amazed. “Yeah if you are comfortable? Does something worry you?” “I have scars” Bucky says all this perfectly seriously, and without the slightest appearance of joking, indeed, he seems strangely gloomy.

“There is no need to-”you say, seriously and with deference. 

Never judge a work of art by its defects―Washington Allston “I want to, I promised you”

He interrupts suddenly, with a look of weariness, focusing on his lungs, on his ability to take a deep breath, to soothe with oxygen as the word rolls off his tongue. He is a handsome man, rather stout, with a very polite and dignified manner. He is always well dressed, and his clothes are always exquisite. Your conscience very soon informs you that is the proper narrative to tell. You met in the first semester, he is a business major looking to commission an artist for his project. You admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of your life, the memory of that encounter comes prominently forward and reminds you that it lay long like a stone on your heart—ever since that, you stayed friends—it makes sense, doesn't it? For him to return the favor. There are a few seconds of dead silence before he goes to your small coach to undress. You eyes are flashing in a most unmistakable way, lips were all quiver as you observe his back muscles flexing. You try to speak, to reassure him, but can’t form words, a great weight seems to lie upon your breast, suffocating you. He’s quite tall with broad shoulders and an athletic physique that even his leather jacket cannot hide. You lick your lips, trying to quench the mental thirst for him—his belt clattering noisily as he unbuckles it, popping the buttons of his jeans open, followed by the low purr of his zipper coming undone, he drifts his hands down his sides and hooks both thumbs into his jeans, sliding them and the boxers down his legs. There is a frightened feeling, which makes him scowl and feel ashamed while removing his jacket and shirt until he is fully naked.

As you sit, your eyes turn to the blank canvas, squinting at it in the dwindling light, trying to concentrate. Then you gaze out the window, study the way snow clings to the spruce beside the building, and wonder how you will manage on your own once you have received your degree. With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he finally turns to face you. “So you just want me to sit here?” he whispers at last, drawing his breath with an effort, his nerves are terribly overstrained by now. He is sober, but the excitement of this chaotic situation—the strangest day of his life—has affected him so much that he was in a dazed, wild condition, which almost resembles drunkenness “Okay I will just sit here”

Bucky sits on the bar stool that is next to your canvas and his eyes fall upon yours, stop short, grow white as a sheet, and stares motionless, it is clear that his heart was beating painfully. He is gazing intently, but timidly, for a few seconds. Suddenly, as though bereft of his senses, he moves a bit, putting his hands on his tights. He knows that he won’t get hard—worry empties any dirty thoughts he might have. You are mesmerized by the tiny flecks of indigo in his blue eyes—you can drown in those eyes and it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. His beautiful features offer themselves to your gaze as you trail through them, annoyed at how attractive he looks—putting your mind into a darker cloud of irritation. In spite of this scornful reflection of his current mental state, he is looking cheerful as though he is suddenly set free from the terrible burden of worry and he gazes round. “Just don’t move I need to start with the sketch” You crack your fingers nervously before picking up the piece of charcoal—you stare at him, mentally measuring the propositions which helps you with the composition and scale. As an artist, you dip your brush in your own soul, you paint him with love—but you love him beyond words, beyond paint. And you hope Bucky will feel that once he sees the finished art. “Just tell me when you need a break” “Yeah, okay” he answers firmly, after a brief pause. Your voice is positively reflecting a sort of radiance on his face. You think, staring at him deliberately, that it is just another life painting, simply that's his body, his face, that are his eyes, his nose, and yet at the same time, It's a miracle, it's an ecstasy. And your only concern is to capture his beauty. “It is turning out amazing” you continue, pursuing the whirling ideas that chases each other in your brain “You are art, Bucky” He feels a hammering in his head and a faint smile shows on his face. His eyes are riveted upon yours, at first reluctantly and, as it is, resentfully, and then more and more intently.

Why isn't he saying anything? Did you need to say that out loud? The one time you try to implement that you like him and… So you torture yourself, fretting with questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions are not new, but suddenly confronting you, they are old familiar aches—it grips and rends your heart—maybe he just sees you as a friend.

It tortures your heart and mind, clamoring insistently for an answer, but you don’t dare turn your eyes to him for several moments. Bucky’s heart is beating violently, and his brain is in turmoil. At that moment something seems to sting him; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling comes over him. He suffers passively, realizing that his cock is getting hard, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. 

“Can we take a break now?”

“Of course” you are bewildered, and stare at him open-eyed. You spot it, you can’t miss such a big dick. He gets up and goes to sit on the couch, covering his private parts with his jacket. His thoughts stray aimlessly…he finds it hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longs to forget himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew.

“Things like that happen all the time, no need to be embarrassed. It is nature” Bucky ponders and rubs his forehead, strange to say, after long musing, a spontaneous and by chance, a fantastic idea comes to his mind—to be honest with you. “It is not because of nature” he says all at once, calmly, he has reached a final determination. That answer agitates you, but you keep uneasily seeking for some sinister significance. You get up, slowly moving closer to him, standing in front of his sitting form. Bucky looks at you, your yellow dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, full of colorful stains, close to the waist. You stare straight at him. For one instant, the look on your face, in your eyes, has him puzzled— then he recognizes it. Curiosity—you are shocked, stunned, or thrown into a maidenly fluster. You are curious, you want to hear more, searching his eyes, but couldn't read his thoughts beyond the fact that he is considering you, considering what to tell you. “It is because of you” He stills, but his confident smile doesn't waver.

There is no going back as he removes his jacket, inviting you to madness, to sit on his legs. The sight literally steals your breath. His defined body, his creaminess of his forehead and cheeks, and the determined line of his jaw, the soft vulnerability of his lips, slightly parted. You see the scars on his legs, but your gaze is more drawn to the long block stranding out from his pelvis.

The gorgeous curves of your body somehow delineated beneath taut fabric, his eyes wonder shamelessly to your pink lips simply begging to be kissed. Their shape is etched in his mind, he wants the taste to be imprinted on his senses. "Here? You want me to sit here, on your lap?" The word, weak though it is, accurately reflects your disbelief. Your legs feels suddenly heavy, drowsiness comes upon them.

"Right here. Right now.” 

At this time, the setting, his words and the whole picture are so truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly—it leaves a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system. You straddle him, knees dug into the couch beneath you, the solid columns of his thighs hard against your soft limbs. Bucky adjusts his hold as his hands slide about your waist, beneath your dress. You gasp desperately, clenching your hands on his shoulders, fingers sinking deep.

Then he lifts one hand, sliding one finger beneath your chin. 

Your sensitive skin comes alive to his touch. He tips your face up so that your eyes lock on his with heavy lids, watching flaring passion light your eyes. Sparks of pure innocence and want flashes in the depths as he gently kneads, then sends his fingers of his other hand to glide over your silken back. Desire heightens, needs escalates—and he is in no rush, you are too important to rush—conquering your senses and body is not all that he wants. He wants you forever and even though he doesn’t have the talent of art, he has the one of love.

He takes possession of your lips, your mouth. His hard lips move on your, and you soften, not just your lips, but every muscle. Slow heat washes through your body. When he pulls back, you swallow, and drag in a desperately needed breath. It is all pleasure, simple love—you become softer—he becomes harder, needy. The touch of his eyes, the touch of his hands. Art. As he is savoring you again, the softness of your mouth is his to enjoy, you feel his desire, the hard, throbbing length pressing against your panties. The softness of your thighs pressing firmly on both sides of his legs as you slowly grind against his cock and you can feel him attempting to buck his hips up to meet yours. The tension, pouring off him in waves, eases, just a little. He sighs, and rests his forehead on yours. Your innocence is addictive, entrancing.

Bucky shivers, eyes shut tight―he lets a low, wickedly teasing laugh. “I love you”

His lips brushes your in an inexpressibly tender caress. You kiss him, sliding your hands up, framing his face, so you can let him know―let him feel―your response to his words.

“Are you okay with doing it like this?”he murmurs, his tone deep. You gaze at his eyes, slowly nodding. "Good" The word is a feral purr then his hand slid lower, to lightly caress, with just the barest touch, the sensitive skin, moving the panties aside and rubbing his fingers along your folds, stroking and sliding slowly into you. Sweet pleasure washes through you, making you moan softly. His thumb presses your clit, moving in slow circles as two fingers slide deeper, finding the spot that makes you tremble. There it is.

“I want you inside me, please” The smile on his face, curving those fascinating lips―you are flushed yet so bold with words. He withdraws his fingers. You lift your hips as he tugs and shifts them until he is aligned, but you don’t wait as you sink on his cock to the hilt. A muffled groan escapes your lips as his length stretches your walls and you move your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, rocking slowly onto his cock, the head of it hitting your deepest places. Bucky’s hands travel to massage your breast, eliciting unexpected loud moans from you. His eyes locked on your face. “Don’t slow don’t, keep on riding me”

He states, his voice very low, it sends a most peculiar thrill through you, he grabs at your hips, impatiently thrusts up hard into your core, urging you to continue. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around the small studio as you keep the moderate pace.

“I will come, Bucky” You keep on hitting your cervix as your trusts become harder, your nubile breasts swing with the force of your body rocking. An impossible pleasure goes through you, cumming violently, your throbbing walls milking his cock as he keeps on trusting through your orgasm, moaning before filling you up with his cum. 

“I think that sex is a form of art” You kiss him long and soft, and when you pull yourself away, you touch his mouth with your fingers. “I suggest you not to think more, Bucky”

[hayatheauthor]

Caught in the Throat: A Writer’s Handbook on Choking (Non-Violent)

The act of choking is so over-sexualised I genuinely could not find any more 'normal' pictures to use so ignore the banner lol

Choking is one of those scenarios that can instantly elevate tension and drama in your writing. It’s a visceral experience, both for the character facing the threat and for the reader witnessing the struggle. In this guide, we'll explore the mechanics of choking, the physiological responses involved, how to write believable choking scenes, and common misconceptions to avoid. 

1. Understanding Choking: The Basics

Choking occurs when an object obstructs the airway, preventing air from reaching the lungs. This can happen with food, small objects, or even vomit. Here are the two main types of choking:

Partial Obstruction: The airway is not completely blocked, and the person can still breathe, albeit with difficulty. They might cough, wheeze, or make high-pitched sounds.

Complete Obstruction: The airway is entirely blocked, leading to the inability to breathe, speak, or cough. This situation is life-threatening and requires immediate intervention.

2. The Physiology of Choking

To write a compelling choking scene, understanding the physiological response is crucial. Here’s what happens in the body during choking:

Immediate Reactions

Panic Response: When choking occurs, the body's immediate response is panic. The character may instinctively grasp at their throat, eyes wide with fear, or try to cough to clear the obstruction.

Increased Heart Rate: The heart races as adrenaline floods the system. This physiological reaction prepares the body for a fight-or-flight response.

Physical Symptoms

Coughing: A natural reaction to a partial obstruction, this can be loud and desperate. The character may attempt to clear their throat while making frantic gestures.

Color Changes: A person choking may turn red in the face as they struggle for air and may eventually turn blue (cyanosis) due to lack of oxygen.

Loss of Consciousness: In cases of complete obstruction, unconsciousness can occur within minutes due to lack of oxygen to the brain.

3. Writing Choking Scenes: Key Elements

When writing about choking, consider these elements to create a vivid and believable scene:

Setting the Scene

Build Up Tension: Introduce elements that lead to choking, such as a hurried meal or a character talking while eating. This sets the stage for the choking incident.

Sensory Details: Engage your reader’s senses. Describe the sound of a sudden gasp, the character's frantic movements, and the panic in their eyes.

Character Reactions

Realistic Responses: Show the character's physical and emotional turmoil. Are they flailing for help? Are they frozen in fear? Their reaction will depend on their personality and previous experiences.

Dialogue: If the choking occurs in a dialogue-heavy scene, consider how communication breaks down. Words become garbled, and panic sets in, leading to frantic pleas for help or confused shouts from bystanders.

4. The Rescue: Interventions and Techniques

In many stories, the choking scene will lead to a rescue. It's important to depict this accurately.

Heimlich Maneuver

Description: The Heimlich maneuver involves standing behind the choking person, placing your arms around their waist, and performing thrusts inward and upward to expel the obstruction.

Effectiveness: Explain that this is often a last-ditch effort. The character must be calm and composed to perform this correctly. A panicked rescuer can make the situation worse.

Call for Help

Emergency Response: If the choking person loses consciousness, it becomes crucial to call for emergency services. Highlight the urgency of the situation, as every second counts.

Character Dynamics: Explore the relationships between characters during this crisis. A close friend or family member may react differently than a stranger would.

5. Aftermath: Consequences of Choking

After a choking incident, there will likely be physical and emotional consequences:

Physical Recovery

Injury to the Airway: Choking can cause bruising or damage to the throat and airways, which may result in difficulty swallowing or talking in the days following the incident.

Potential for PTSD: Depending on the severity of the experience, a character may develop anxiety around eating or a fear of choking again.

Character Development

Bonding Experience: Surviving a choking incident can bring characters closer together, creating a moment of shared trauma that deepens their relationships.

Change in Perspective: A near-death experience may lead a character to reevaluate their priorities or behavior, adding depth to their arc.

6. Common Misconceptions About Choking

When writing about choking, it's essential to avoid common misconceptions that can undermine realism:

Myth 1: Choking Always Looks Dramatic

In fiction, choking scenes can often be exaggerated for effect. In reality, choking can be subtle, especially if the obstruction is partial. Characters may appear slightly distressed before panic fully sets in.

Myth 2: People Can Talk or Scream While Choking

While they might make gasping sounds or attempt to communicate, a person experiencing a complete airway obstruction cannot speak or yell.

Myth 3: The Heimlich is Always Effective

While the Heimlich maneuver can be life-saving, it's not always effective, especially in certain medical conditions. It’s crucial to depict choking with a realistic understanding of its complexities.

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