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[shotmrmiller]

size difference where the one afraid to fuck you is simon. he thinks you soft. which is what you are. soft. fragile. small.

you're not like him. nothing like the guys. battle-scarred. muscles carved by relentless missions, scars that speak of duty.

your skin divots under his fingers, yielding to his weathered touch and if he squeezes hard enough, you'll have marks by morning. (he needs to be careful, he can't hurt you, won't—)

and so simon watches you touch yourself in the beginning, clever fingers swirling over your slippery clit with practiced movements even though his cock is straining against his trousers painfully. he can hear you mewl his name through bitten lips and it takes all of his self control to not tug his jeans off, slot himself between your spread, inviting thighs and push— stretch open your fluttering walls, so hot and slick, until he meets resistance, until he can push no more but—

he can't. you'd hurt. and he'd hurt because he hurt you. he won't.

after, when your eyes are heavy lidded, mouth slightly parted in exertion, you remind him that you aren't made of glass. that you won't break. you'll shatter— in the way you do when his tongue replaces your fingers— but not break.

"not a virgin either, for christ's sake," you groan.

maybe he's thinking too hard about it. he knows your teeth have edges, knows your bite is swift when deserved. but all he's truly good at is making things give. biology made it so with his bulky frame and raw mass.

his eyes trace the contour of your collarbone. delicate. then it darts to the pulse on your wrist. vital. his hands, the size of dinner plates don't coax. they demand. he'd snap you like a twig, leaving nothing but splintered remains in his wake.

you don't seem to mind, however. it slightly alarms him. where's your self-preservation? do you enjoy pain? is this some masochistic thing?

he looks at you, all glassy eyed and dewy skinned (ethereal; you're practically glowing under the soft light of the full moon that paints the room silver) and he thinks of how it's going to take work to make it work. his cock is large (he's seen the guys' eyes pop out of their heads in the showers once they caught a glimpse of what's between his legs) but you're persistent in the end. one too many nights of having him without having him.

he understands. simon knows better than most what it's like to yearn. to want and not have. he'd cause you pain by not giving in, and cause pain by giving in. damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

so he caves. promises to go slow. careful.

"i can take it," you bravely say but he's barely pressing himself to your entrance and you're already making noises that tug at his pathetic little heart. the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip-- you look so pretty, how'd a twisted creature like him get someone like you to come home to-- as his cock fills you has him feeling lightheaded. it takes every ounce of self control to not sink into your heat, to hook your legs around his thick waist and let gravity do the rest.

an unsteady hand weaves its way down to your stuffed cunt, fingers splitting into a vee, feeling how he splits your puffy lips, and the view makes him buck his hips involuntarily.

his hands tighten around your calves when you keen, a high pitched noise that swells the lust he feels burning white hot at the base of his spine, tips of his fingers, deep within his loins. he feels ready to burst.

and he's only halfway in.

your voice cuts through the ringing in his ears. "m-more, simon, c'mon," the n is low and drawn out.

his fingers bite into your flesh as he pushes slow, oh so slowly, until your vise-like cunt envelops him completely. the sibilant hiss you let out makes his hair stand on end. (shame pricks at his nerves like a thousand tiny needles when his cock twitches at the sound of your slightly pained moans)

simon doesn't move, feeling your swollen walls around his cock ripple, tighten and slacken, like it's got a pulse of its own. he could be here, in you, cock deep in paradise for the rest of time.

"fuck me," you warble out, hand rubbing your swollen clit to well up the pleasure that's being smothered by the searing pang of discomfort.

when simon cants his hips back, he watches his cock come out of you, glistening with slick. his jaw aches from how hard he's clenching it. control. got to keep it slow, gentle. slow, simon, slow, slow--

"harder."

he feels the sudden sharp sting of your nails and jerks forward in surprise, filling you completely in one fast movement.

your moan this time is needy, thick with want, arousal dripping from your voice as it does your pussy, coating him in creamy white, a frothy ring at the root.

simon can see the barest of bumps below your navel, or maybe he's seeing things, your hot cunt putting him in a state of delirium but the way you take all of his cock and continue to beg for more, beg him to fuck you like he means it even though he's twice if not thrice your size well...

you'll just have to forgive him on the finger-shaped bruises they're going to be on your body after.

(you'd looked so cheeky before he flipped you onto your knees, grabbing onto your delicate neck like a lifeline as he pulled your hips to meet his. you'd taken him easier here, cunt sodden with slick but the angle had him reaching a devastating depth no one else could ever dream of reaching and even though it'd sprung tears to the corners of your eyes at the pinch, "mama ain't raise no bitch.")

[allrevvedup]

(Ibuprofen, NS, and Aspirin are all NSAIDs)

I am both curious and trying to figure out if what I use is typically most effective.

[mokutone]

your art makes me wanna start testosterone

i can't read tone well, so this is either an incredibly touching ask, or an extremely funny one, and in the absence of confirmation: both!

i'm in a chatty mood, so i'll share some thoughts about testosterone and my art.

i liked being on testosterone a lot. i had an IM injection every two weeks (on tuesdays!) and because that's a sizeable dose every 14 days that slowly disperses, it can cause some mood fluctuations (every other friday i would have a crisis about not feeling like the world had a place for me in it) but even those were far more manageable than the ones that would come with my previous and current monthly hormone cycle (every month i spend a solid week thinking the world will never have a place for me in it)

It gave me a patchy little bit of scruff on my chin and a whispy mustache under my nose that still struggles on, despite adversity!

It redistributed my fat a little bit, but that's long since gone back to pre-T shape.

it lowered my voice! that hasn't changed :^)! even if i never go back on t, that won't change. it was the thing i most wanted, and its the one i'm most grateful for. Pre-T, I didn't speak much. I'm getting better and better at talking and getting more and more comfortable communicating with people because of it.

having been off t now for 3 years, i don't pass anymore—not as a cis man, or a cis woman, certainly not as anything approximating straight. if people look at me and see anything, i'd hazard a guess that they see me as A Queer (the noun—for all it's complicated connotations).

i'm not surprised that my art might make somebody want to start testosterone! a lot of my art was made out of the aching grief that came with being kicked off of testosterone, and how neatly that loss of autonomy over my own body knits in with yamato's loss of autonomy over his own.

how my body started doing things i disliked, how i didn't have the support necessary to access the healthcare i needed—how my inability to give myself what i needed made me feel as though i were trapped inside of myself and abandoned (by both myself and the world at large)

when i write comics about yamato as a trans man, i don't take away his testosterone, because that hits a little too close to home for me. for Ninja War Town Reasons, he has plenty of access to all the HRT he could ever need and nobody questions his need for it—instead, i project my own horrors onto the way Danzō defined his identity for him as a child, the way that Kabuto and Obito dehumanize him as an adult in their war efforts, and reduce him to the thing his body holds (the Mokuton). I give him a kneejerk compulsion to dehumanize himself (out of a feeling that he has a duty to his community to do so) and I give him a slow-growing resistance to that impulse (which comes out of a feeling that the people he loves would frown upon seeing him reduce himself like that)

it's dysphoria! it's not gender dysphoria, but it's a loss of self, and a need to reclaim it. it's a war between the hollow shell of a thing he thinks he has to be, and the vibrant and messy person beneath it that he is. it's a desperate need to say "this is who i am—only i can say it"

I enjoyed HRT a lot. it was a really useful tool in helping me feel like my body was my own, that i didn't have to fight it, that we were the same entity. It's not the only tool, but it was a really good one, and one day I hope to use it again.

(as for the being off of it—it's unpleasant, but i'm enduring! being somebody who now doesn't really pass as anything has put me in a weird and interesting position, where I'm constantly having to declare myself to people, because nobody knows what to make of me on any front. they don't know if i'm a man, a woman, nonbinary, nor even what age i am (Augh!!!!) it forces me to be brave and vulnerable more than I'm comfortable with—if I tell somebody I'm a man, there's no way that they will believe I'm cis, but I'm not about to recloset myself—and I don't think I could at this point anyway.)

(there's something fascinating about the position i find myself in, and while i'd leap back on t the moment that an opportunity presented itself to do so, i do feel like i'm experiencing something interesting and important in this weird zone i find myself in)

[deva-arts]

Holy hell it's finally done

I underestimated the herculean efforts that animators put into making things because this thirty second clip took so much out of my feeble illustrator hands. Anyway here you go! I added a few details that might make things fun I think

[hamdosana]

May Allah cure all those who are sick and those who are battling through an illness they find no cure to, for He is As-Shafi, the creator and provider of Shifa.

Ameen.

[werewolf-kat]

Going to keep an eye on things while on a newly prescribed medicine for my heart, but occasionally I've been feeling like crying from joy/relief. I didn't know it was possible to live with little to zero chest pain and other issues on a daily basis.

I started feeling its improvements on day 2, and then all day yesterday has been like a literal weight off my chest. Slept a bit for the night, woke up around 4am and I'm just... Breathing so comfortably. I feel relaxed. That feeling of pressure in my chest is hardly there anymore.

This cardiologist said I'd notice changes after just a day or two if it helps. And it's happening!!

Guess it's very much confirming I've had pericarditis for who-knows-how-long. Could've been overlooked since having my cardiac ablation in 2019. Been so freaking rough living with this stuff. All my symptoms were assumed to be part of my WPW Syndrome ('cause the ablation didn't get all of the accessory pathways.) This sort of inflammation can be caused by heart procedures though. -sigh- Why didn't anyone watch out for that or suspect it earlier?

I'll be having a new echo done in a month or two (forgot which appointment date it is among other tests coming up). Crossing my fingers I don't have the pericardia effusion there anymore too if the pericarditis is getting tackled by this new med! 🤞

[vintagepromotions]

'Nothing gives you more relief than Bayer. Nothing.'

Advertisement for Bayer aspirin (1981).

[justinjrbnad]

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[robinsnest2111]

despair cancelled (for now), the ointment I picked up at the drug store is helping with the most annoying pain immensely 🙏

[struggling-to-find-home]

Here's a little secret about me: despite recieving a medical education, I hate being a patient. There are a lot of reasons: medical trauma, the general assholery of the medical system, the fact that noone explains you shit, the fact that doctors mean time, and effort, and sometimes money, and every single time I feel like I shouldn't be taking their attention from patients that are more "worth it".

When I was seventeen, it took me throwing up 14 times, nearly blacking out and falling into an almost-crisis state before I agreed to be hospitalised. And, as I was lying in bed, a litre of saline solution being deposited into me asap because the dehydration was that bad and two ambulance personnel holding me down, I still tried to get up to pack my things to get to the hospital.

I spent five days there.

I don't remember much of the first two ones, constantly blacking in and out of consciousness.

This year, I had to face something even more uncomfortable than being the asap hospitalisation person - and it was... Planned medical care. A planned surgery, to be exact.

I wasn't nervous about the procedure itself - when you spent like, a year constantly talking about pre-op and post-op and assist in surgery during practicals and see people cut open and cut open some stuff by yourself, the idea of someone rummaging around inside of you with tiny knives looses the typical "oomph" it has. I mean, I was being put in a special facility that's specifically for situations like mine, with a team of surgeons who spent years honing their craft. I knew what was going to happen. There would be anaesthesia, for god's sake.

But everything around the whole thing was just... Ugh. Doctors, nurses, tests, more tests, even more tests, the lack of communication leading to a nervous breakdown happening due to me not knowing when to come in... And, to top it all off, the damn tumour, like it knew it's days were numbered, was causing more and more pain by the day. Life lost it's colours. I spent day after day stopping, freezing up when another pain wave hit, coming home exhausted after having to mask it, slowly slipping away from socialising.

I have to leave, I've got an appointment.

Sorry I skipped your class, I had to get some tests done.

I'd love to go with you, but I need to clean my apartment; I doubt it's gonna be on my mind when I get back with a cast.

The only thing that kept me going was a deep, grim understanding: this is miserable, but continuing to live with that... thing growing inside me is worse.

... It's all over now, of course: nearly a week of school missed, a hazy experience, - god, they really overdid it with the drugs, - stitches, and a cast on my hand.

And it doesn't hurt anymore.

...No, I mean, it does, but compared to before? Piece of cake.

Nearly a year of constant worry and pain, gone.

Soon, all I'll have to show for it is a neat little scar on my hand that'll show that one day in the past, little old me was scared enough - and brave enough - to take the first step.

And as time slowly marches on, the colours that bled from my life, taken over by increasing pain, slowly turn bright again.

I'm just.

I feel like the joy came back into my life.

Like things have purpose again.

Like I can live.

I can live.

I don't have to feel pain anymore.

[alaa1969]

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[jacqcrisis]

its funny how, as a child of two chiropractors, my first thought upon throwing out my back is not to go pay someone for an adjustment that wouldn't actually help anything but line a chiro's pockets, but to do meaningful exercises and stretches to soothe whatever lumbar muscles got pissy yesterday. I could barely stand yesterday, but after doing what you should, I'm already 60% better today.

[placeinthisworld]

i’ve had this headache off and on for the last two days now. it’s on rn. this is the bad place

[vintagepromotions]

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