#plaster hand casting kits

[babymadeaustralia]

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[scealaiscoite]

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅ a month’s worth of whump prompts ]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

¹⁾ blood swirling down a shower drain

²⁾ stitches on a cheekbone

³⁾ fingertips numb from cold

⁴⁾ painkillers and a cup of tea left on a nightstand

⁵⁾ a thick plaster cast

⁶⁾ canine teeth tipped with blood

⁷⁾ a bruise in the shape of a boot print

⁸⁾ dried tear tracks

⁹⁾ an inescapable migraine

¹⁰⁾ sunglasses over a bruised eye

¹¹⁾ scars littering the expanse of a back

¹²⁾ bloodied teeth

¹³⁾ skinned knees

¹⁴⁾ a torn-apart first aid kit

¹⁵⁾ frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise

¹⁶⁾ brambles and twigs knotted into hair

¹⁷⁾ lipstick and a split lip

¹⁸⁾ an especially improvised tourniquet

¹⁹⁾ blood seeping through clothes

²⁰⁾ a heart monitor

²¹⁾ unbearable nausea

²²⁾ a hoarse throat

²³⁾ blood under fingernails

²⁴⁾ a thermometer between bitten lips

²⁵⁾ hands soothing over a shaking frame

²⁶⁾ a twisted ankle on the side of a mountain

²⁷⁾ cuddling for warmth

²⁸⁾ thin hospital blankets

²⁹⁾ broken glass

³⁰⁾ a knife pressed against a throat

³¹⁾ night terrors

[theonottsbxtch]

MADE IT OUT ALIVE | FC43

an: okay so this is so late but this is the thing i asked if you guys wanted to read which is a blow by blow of my situationship but make it franco colapinto lol. had it actually been him ong it would hve lasted longer i swear.

wc: 2.4k

SHE FIRST MET HIM in the humid chaos of Singapore. The paddock buzzed under the relentless sun, and the air was thick with the sounds of engines screaming and the staccato click of cameras. It was just another race, just another weekend. She was there with her usual kit—a clipboard tucked under one arm, a microphone in hand, and that practiced, effortless smile plastered on her face.

But then he walked up.

Franco was late, sauntering into the media pen like he owned the world. A half-zipped race suit hung loose around his waist, his hair a mess of sweat and confidence. The kind of man who seemed to know exactly how magnetic he was.

When she spoke to him, it wasn’t just her voice that carried the questions. It was the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she leaned forward just a little too far. She hated herself for it, but it was instinctive—like gravity. And when he answered, smirking at her with eyes that lingered a second too long, she knew she was already in trouble.

For a month after, she said nothing. She told herself it was better that way. Just another fleeting crush; it would fade. But the silence was deafening, and one night, sitting alone in her hotel room with the glow of her laptop casting shadows on the walls, she finally sent the text.

Nothing complicated, nothing vulnerable. Just a joke about his race start and a winking emoji.

It took him eight minutes to reply. Eight minutes that stretched into eternity, her phone burning a hole in her hand. When the screen lit up, her heart raced. And so, it began.

The first texts were harmless. Banter about his pit stops, teasing remarks about his qualifying performance. It didn’t mean anything. Not then. But soon, her phone became a lifeline, each ping a jolt of adrenaline. He wasn’t always quick to respond, but when he did, his charm oozed through every word. And when he called her “trouble” for a particularly sharp comment, she swore she felt her stomach flip.

But Franco didn’t text first. Not once.

It was her who built the bridge. Her who asked how he was doing after a rough weekend, her who sent a meme about the top three at 1 a.m., her who tried to hold on when he drifted too far. And when he answered, when his words carried the flirtatious edge she’d started to crave, it felt like winning. A small victory in a war only she knew she was fighting.

It took weeks of careful persistence before he started calling her a friend. He even said it once, casually, in passing: “You’re fun. I like hanging out with you. You’re a good friend.” She had smiled so hard her cheeks hurt, ignoring the way her chest ached at the word “friend.”

The next time Franco offered to drive her back to her hotel, she tried not to read into it. The streets of Monaco were deserted, the night wrapped in a blanket of stars. He turned the music low, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming a beat on his thigh. She stole glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

At the hotel, she reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped her.

“You ever wonder how you ended up here? Like, in all of this?” He gestured vaguely toward the brightly lit paddock in the distance, his expression softer than usual.

“All the time,” she replied, her words quiet, like a confession. “And you?”

He just shrugged. “Sometimes.”

The silence stretched thin between them, his gaze fixed on the steering wheel. She thought he might say more, but he didn’t. He never did.

The nights like that came sporadically, each one a thread that bound her closer to him, though he didn’t seem to notice. She would stay awake until 3 a.m., talking to him about everything and nothing, feeling like she’d finally cracked through his armour. But then morning came, and he would pull back, as if they were strangers again.

It broke her in ways she couldn’t describe, the whiplash of his attention. One day, he’d invite her to meet his parents—his parents, for God’s sake—and charm them so completely she’d feel like she belonged in his world. The next day, he’d brush past her in the paddock without a glance, as if she were invisible.

She called him out once, in the heat of an argument after a particularly long day. “Why do you do this?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended. “Why do you act like you care, and then…then act like I don’t exist?”

Franco looked at her, genuinely confused, like she was speaking a language he didn’t understand. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know.

Now, sitting in her apartment far from the glamour of the paddock, she looked at her phone. His name still sat at the top of her blocked contacts list. She had stopped unblocking him just to read old messages. She had stopped pretending his words still had the power to hurt her.

She scrolled through her gallery, past blurry selfies with drivers and candid shots of pit lane chaos. Then she saw it—a photo of him. Taken on some idle afternoon in Abu Dhabi, sunlight catching the curve of his smirk. Once, she would have stared at it for hours, dissecting every detail.

Now, it was just a picture.

The flirty texts that used to make her heart race were nothing more than hollow echoes. She had given him everything—her time, her patience, her heart—and he had taken it all without a second thought. But she wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t sad. She was free.

For the first time in years, she closed her eyes and didn’t see him.

Freedom wasn’t the grand epiphany she thought it would be though. It didn’t come with fireworks or triumphant music. It crept in slowly, like the way morning light slips through the cracks of blackout curtains—soft and almost unnoticed at first. But once it was there, she couldn’t unsee it.

The texts stopped hurting long before she blocked him. She realised, one day, as she was reading through an old conversation for the hundredth time, that his words didn’t have the same weight anymore. The “miss you” he had sent after a particularly bad fight felt hollow, like an echo of a voice she used to love. The nicknames that once made her cheeks flush now sounded mechanical, calculated. She read them as if they were addressed to someone else entirely.

And maybe they always were.

She thought of the girl she’d been two years ago, standing in the Singapore paddock, heart racing just from the sound of his voice. That girl wouldn’t recognise her now. The woman she had become was sharper, tougher, less willing to bend herself into unrecognisable shapes just to fit into someone else’s life. She wasn’t bitter—bitterness was too much like holding on. She was just…done.

The next time she saw him, it was on her television, a post-race interview in Austin. He was standing next to another interviewer, flashing that same practiced smile he’d once aimed at her. She noticed the way his hand brushed against the microphone, the way he leaned in just slightly, like he was sharing a secret only they were worthy of hearing.

She laughed, quietly to herself. She had memorised every one of his tricks, his arsenal of charm, his arsenal of lies. The thought used to hurt. Now, it just felt like watching an actor on a stage, performing a role he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

The interviewer asked him a question about the race—a tough one, about a strategic error that had cost him a podium. His smile faltered for a second, and she caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes. He recovered quickly, answering with a mix of deflection and humour. But she saw it. She knew him well enough to spot the cracks in his armour.

Once, she would have texted him after something like this. She would have reached out, offered some ridiculous joke to make him laugh. Once, she would have stayed up until dawn listening to him vent about how the team screwed him over.

Now, she just changed the channel.

Months passed, and Formula One kept moving. New races, new faces. She kept moving, too. She started saying yes to invitations she used to decline, let her friends pull her into adventures that didn’t end with her glued to her phone, waiting for a reply that might never come.

At a café in Paris, during a rare off-weekend, she caught herself laughing—really laughing, the kind that left her cheeks sore and her chest light. Her friend across the table raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked, still grinning.

“You just seem…different,” they said, stirring their coffee. “Like you’re finally letting yourself breathe.”

She thought about that for a moment, about the weight she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying until it was gone. “Yeah,” she said, her smile softening. “I think I am.”

The season wrapped in Abu Dhabi, as it always did, the desert sun blazing down on the circuit. She stood in the paddock, microphone in hand, interviewing a rookie who had just secured his first career points. The excitement in his voice was infectious, his grin wide enough to split the sky.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find Franco standing there. The flirt. He looked the same—effortlessly handsome, his hair slightly tousled, his race suit tied around his waist. But something was different.

Or maybe it was just her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” she said, her tone polite but detached. “It’s been a while.”

He hesitated, as if expecting her to fill the silence with something else. When she didn’t, he gestured to her microphone. “Still asking the tough questions?”

“Always,” she replied, flashing him the same professional smile she gave every driver.

For a moment, he just looked at her, like he was trying to read something in her expression. But whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” he said, offering her that same practiced smirk.

She watched him walk away, his swagger as unshakable as ever. But for the first time, it didn’t make her heart skip a beat. It didn’t make her feel anything at all.

That night, as she packed up her things and prepared for the long flight home, she caught herself humming a tune. The melody was bright, unburdened. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this light.

She wasn’t thinking about him anymore. And that was the best gift she could have given herself.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, the wheels of her suitcase clattering softly as she pulled it down the quiet hallway of the hotel. The race weekend was over, the desert sun outside already setting, casting long shadows through the thin gaps in the curtains. Her flight was in a few hours, and she was looking forward to the silence of the plane—a reprieve from the buzz of engines and voices that had filled her days for months.

As she turned the corner, she heard it. Muffled at first, but unmistakable: raised voices behind one of the doors.

She paused, her steps faltering despite herself. She wasn’t the type to linger, wasn’t the type to pry. But something about the tone—sharp, exasperated, and yet heartbreakingly familiar—made her stop.

It was Franco’s voice.

Even muffled, she could recognise the rhythm of his words. And then she heard hers, the other voice. The journalist from the interview, the one who had been laughing with him so effortlessly, so naturally, in the paddock earlier that day.

She didn’t mean to listen, but the words cut through the barrier of the door like they were meant for her to hear.

“I’m not ready for something serious,” he was saying, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Then why do you act like you are?” the journalist shot back, her voice trembling. “Why do you text me every night? Why do you call me at 2 a.m. and tell me things you won’t tell anyone else? Why do you—why do you make me feel like there’s something here?”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was there again—standing in front of him in the parking lot of a Belgian hotel, her heart in her throat, her voice cracking as she asked the same questions.

“Why do you stay up till 3 a.m. with me?” she had said, her words sharp with frustration and hurt. “Why do you only reply to my messages after a bad race? Why do you treat me like everything I want, but never follow through?”

His answer had been maddeningly simple. “I don’t know.”

Listening now, she realised it wasn’t a unique script. He hadn’t given her anything special, anything real. It was the same dance, the same empty promises, the same threadbare excuses. The realisation hit her like a punch to the gut—not because she missed him, but because she had once thought she could fix him. She had believed she was different.

And now, another woman was standing where she had been. Another woman was asking the same questions and feeling the same ache.

She didn’t linger. She started walking again, her pace quicker now, as if trying to outrun the flood of memories. But as she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, she felt a pang of something she hadn’t expected: pity.

Not for herself. For the journalist. For every person who would stand in that hallway, in that argument, hoping for answers he would never be able to give.

By the time she reached the lobby, the pity had faded into something lighter. Acceptance, maybe. Relief. She wasn’t the one standing there anymore. She wasn’t trapped in that endless loop of hope and heartbreak.

For the first time, she realised how far she had come. How much lighter her chest felt now that she wasn’t carrying the weight of him.

the end.

[servicpop]

CURRENTLY VIEWING : slightly obsessive deliquent oc x good student male!reader

「ㅤSFWㅤ」ㅤbandaging up your (almost) bf adrien after a bad fight!

✙ warnings — mention of violence / blood / slight homophobia / slight suggestions of stalking or obsession

notes ,, first actual writing post... hope you guys like it "

Adrien and you lived two worlds. You were a model student, perfect in every way, whereas Adrien was nothing but a deliquent who skipped all his classes and failed all of his subjects (except for sports). If you two were so different, how did you end up together?

It started with an exchange of glances when you both started your first year of being a senior, somehow your presence was never known by Adrien until that one glance turned into never ending eye-contact, briefly smiling at eachother as you two met eyes from across the courtyard. His heart felt like it was about to crumble whenever you smiled at him. Your lips, your perfectly imperfect teeth shining at him. He had definitely fallen for you.

But how would his friends feel if they knew he was crushing on another guy?

As much as he wanted to hide it he couldn't. Everytime he went home and sat down in his chair, he would be welcomed with your face in the form of printed pictures stored in his top drawer. He knew it was wrong but he couldn't help it, you were so attractive you reeled him in like a fish. But somehow. Somehow. You and him talked more and more, exchanged numbers, hung out a few times and even brushed hands once! Adrien for sure didn't wash his hand after that. You weren't confirmed to be dating but it sure seemed like it.

And that was the start of Adrien's fall for you.

It was around 5:00pm, the sun still shining brightly but casted a slight orange hue into the empty council room, indicating that sunset would near. You were currently in said room, sorting the books, cleaning the tables, finishing off the work your teachers assigned you because you were such a good student. Yeah it was nice for them to rely on you but to be honest, all you wanted to do was go home but alas you couldn't.

Almost as if the universe pitied your unbearable boredom, the door to the council room clicked opened. At first you thought it was a teacher, but turning around you met the deep eyes of Adrien. His soulless eyes bore into yours, his knuckles dripping with blood as he stumbled into the room, almost collapsing on the couch.

"Got into another fight," He grumbled, his deep sultry voice reverberated in the room. Shit, his voice was hot. Snapping out of your thoughts, you quickly rushed over to him, viewing his bloody and bruised knuckles. It looked bad. Probably from beating the shit out of someone but you wouldn't question it. After some rummaging around you finally found the first aid kit, clicking the white box open before kneeling down infront of Adrien, a small smirk plastered his face.

"You don't have to you know? I just wanted—" Adrien's voice was cut out by a sharp hiss as you applied the alcohol to his wounds.

"Let me be a good friend to you."

Ooh... friend? That hit Adrien straight to the gut

"I just wanted company."

"Then your not allowed to hold my hand with those bloody knuckles."

"..."

"please bandage my fingers."

A wholehearted chuckle left your throat as you fished out the puppy patterned bandages around his knuckles, making sure you kissed each and every knuckles after. Just to make sure that there was no lingering pain of course, not because you two were had something for eachother or anything. You looked up at Adrien to see a small smile on his face, he was always so serious looking and whenever he smiled it was usually the shit eating grin type of smile. You had only really grown closer with him for a few weeks now so... why were you already hooked on him?

"You lost in thought?" He asked, snapping you out of your little trance. You shook your head, and he brought your chin up to meet his in a light kiss, his calloused fingertips gripping your chin lightly while his other hand found solace in your own. It was something straight out of a romance movie, his warm fingers against yours, his lips against your soft ones in such a gentle kiss. You never knew deliquents could be this gentle. Pulling away you wiped your lips and tugged your hands from Adrien's. You weren't dating him. You can't do this. You turned your head a pout adorned your lips, "Don't just casually kiss me," you huffed.

"But I know you liked it." Adrien hummed.

extra notes ,, I didn't have a full goal for what relationship reader and Adrien would have but i really liked the enemies to lovers sort of denial trope. I also experimented with the colour coding of the text, I find it easier to identify when they're speaking but let me know your preferences! I'm a bit nervous posting this since its my first time ever posting on tumblr but yeah! Also no smut yet, still getting warmed up you know

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wrap My Teeth Around the World

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as tentacle sex, monster fucking, cosmic horror element, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As you work on your latest novel, the line between reality and horror are skewed.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: I hope you all enjoy this. Hoping to have another scary story on the way.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The moonlight gleams like moisture on the unfurling tentacles. Horror shines in her eyes as she watches the beast emerge from his mortal shell. The man is not what he seems. He is creature, he is beast. His svelte silhouette contorts and convulses. 

He real form bursts into the night. An otherwordly coil of limbs and scales and things she cannot name or make sense of. The cosmic being lets out a deep rumbling declaration, a voice she doesn’t hear but rather thrums into her from the earth. 

‘It is I. The doom. The end. The consumer of all.’ 

You take a breath as your fingers hover over the keyboard. You tend to hold it in when you’re focused. You’re a bit woozy from not only the pressure in your chest but the scene you’ve painted into words. Slowly, it fades away from your imagination and you’re alone in that room. 

Your apartment is far from the vast seascape of your story. There is so vibrant horizon, no storming waters, nothing but a window peering out into the grey city. The walls are no less dull. The plaster is a lifeless white, the floors a worn hardwood with scratches and scuffs, and the furniture is a motley collection of what does the job. 

You sigh and rub your eyes. Your dead line is more horrific than the fictional beasts. You’re so close yet it feels so far away. You can do this. You can get something done. 

You get up and take your empty mug to the kitchen. You rinse away the dregs of tea leaves from your last refill. You flip the switch on the kettle and peruse the sampler kit your grandmother sent you for a new flavour. Maple Black. Mm. It’ll do. 

That’s all that life is. What will do. But writing, that’s a doorway to what you wish could. It’s a pathway to possibility. A portal to potential. In your mind, on paper, you can be anything, and the world can be everything. 

Existence is futile. Brutal. There’s always that most basic truth of being. There is no control. There is no change. The world is exactly what you see. It’s four walls and roof; a stained mug and prepackaged tea. Reality is inescapable. It wraps its tendrils around you until you can’t breathe and all at once, as quickly as it bloomed, it’s gone and you’re dragged back into the ether. 

You might be spending too much time in the lore. Your eyes come back into focus as a shadow shifts against the wall. You flinch and blink. You look around, searching for the source. How strange. The window can’t possibly cast into the kitchen and the only light on is the stove light and the lamp at your desk. You must be seeing things. Sleep deprivation at its finest. 

You fill the mug with steaming water and return to your perch. The chair squeaks under your weight and the wheels barely roll as the plastic warps with use. You set your cup down and yawn. 

Finish the chapter, then you can nap. 

🦑

Your timer beeps, tearing you from a skull-pulsing slumber. You push the heels of your hands into your eyes and groan. Your intended three hours was maybe two at best. The anxiety of writing kept you tossing and turning as you found yourself weaving narrative in your mind as your body ached for rest. 

You silence your phone and sit up dizzily. The rectangle of light shining through the window ripples on the wall, as if sheer fabric were dragged across the glass. You turn, catching yourself on the arm of the couch as you narrow your eyes.  

It’s only the window. Streetlights blare through in a yellow glaze that makes your eyes hurt. You shake your head, rattling the stone behind your brow, and make yourself get up. 

Tea, a few biscuits, and then you begin. Your keyboard stays silent as you stare at the blinking cursor. You know what happens next but that’s not the problem. 

You rest your thumbs on the plastic and blink. Your eyes stick shut and your fingers tingle. Suddenly, a tight pressure cords around your digits, squeezing at your knuckles. Your fingertips slam into the keys and your eyes snap open. 

You look down at your hands and the inky black tendrils around them. You shriek and they disappear like black mist. You raise your hands shakily and pull up the sleeves of your shirt. Great. You know you need more sleep but you can’t afford it. If you don’t meet this dead line, you don’t meet rent. 

You wiggle your finger push your hands over your hair. This is real horror. The torture of keeping yourself alive. Scraping just to subsist. Not to thrive, just to be. 

You sniff and take a sip of tea. It burns your tongue. Shit. 

You look down at the keyboard and splay your fingers, holding your hands just above. You brush your palms over it and sigh. Get your shit together. 

The iron sky is still and unblemished. No cloud, no sun or moon, it is no sky at all but the vastness of nothing... 

You let yourself sink into the atmosphere of that other world. The one that very much mirrors your but with those distorted nuances. Those little terrors and tremors that make your blood flow cold. 

It trickles out of you. Letter by letter, word by word, paragraph by painful paragraph. Half a chapter down. 

You sit back and the monitor blurs to a white fuzz. You cover your eyes with your hands and slowly exhale. Your drop your arms and lean back, letting your eyelids close, just for a moment. A moment becomes more than that. The soft glow against your eyelids dims to a dark void. 

Like tentacles, the blackness curls around you. You drift down into the lull of your subconscious and wade into the waters of exhaustion. The tides are thick like mud and the current pulls you under until you’re drowning. 

You give a start at the noise of the error. Ding. Ding. Ding. 

You sit up and grunt. You touch the imprint of the keyboard against your cheek. Shit! 

Your doc is a mess. Thank god for the cloud and version history. Still, the time it’ll take you to sift through the gibberish is enough to put off your entire plan. Of course. You always fuck something up. 

You lean your face in your hand and scroll through the pages. Up and up and up. Your fingers flick back and forth as you drag the pages by. 

Wait no. No. Page 50; you wrote more than that. 49, 48, 47... 20... 19... they’re all just filled with clusters of nonsensical symbols. 

Page ten stops your scrolling. The font changes. Bolder, bigger, icons you’ve never seen before. Geometric spirals and clusters of dots and sticks. You frown and go up to the language bar. 

Language undetected. 

You scroll up and down. You go into the version history. You pick the autosave from an hour ago. The whole doc transforms. The symbols are spaced out deliberately. You don’t understand. You zoom out on the doc. It’s an image? 

You zoom out, further and further. You change the settings so that you can view two pages side by side and keep hitting the minus. When at last you can see all the first ten pages, the image is clear. 

It’s a man. His eyes are spirals and his square jaw is set menacingly. His necktie is like a snake, slithering down his chest. And his jacket is a series of tentacles woven around his arms and torso to mimic fabric. You shudder. What the hell is this? 

The screen goes black. Everything does. The streetlights, the other buildings, the sky. You sit the silky darkness, paralysed, confused. You must be dreaming. It’s a nightmare of your own making. 

You’re shaking. No, the room is shaking. The floors, the walls, you can feel it. The chair wobbles on its wheels and you put your toes to the ground to try to still it. Then you hear, no, you feel laughter rumbling through you. 

The rocky snicker is like an avalanche. It crashes down on you, crushing you so you’re crushed against the chair. You grip the armrests and blink but cannot see through the dense darkness. You can’t move as a dripping surrounds you. It isn’t wet but cold and dry. How... 

It starts at your toes. As if you’re being submerged in a thick substance. It creeps up your body, encases it, slithering, coiling, up to your knees and thighs, hips, torso, arms. All of your right up to your chin. Your head is forced up by the tight constriction around your neck. 

You’re lifted by the otherworldly force. You feel the shift, you hear the chair roll and crash. You are brought flat parallel to the floor. You wheeze in terror. 

“Fear what you long for, for you cannot comprehend the perils of desire unknown,” that voice with no noise flows through you. 

You cannot answer. Your arms are pulled straight, stretched out from your sides. Your legs snap open, ankles wide, and back arches as an icy sheath spreads over your skin. You feel your clothing dissolve beneath the grip of that unseen force. 

There’s a tickle up your cheek. Flicking and slimy. You shudder and search the darkness instinctively. Your heart hammers in your chest. You cannot discern what’s happening to you. 

As you’re enshrined in a coldness so raw it hurts, your insides boil to a flame. You moan and squirm as your veins flood with fire, coursing into your blazing core. You quiver as the battle of hot and cold drenches you in sweat. 

You let out a choked squeak as the pressure around your thighs tightens. The tickle between your legs strikes the heat in you to paramount. You rasp as your whine is muted by the thrall on your throat. The sensation along your cunt intensives, centering on your tender bud. 

The sucking pinpoints on your clit, drawing the weight in your core down on your cunt. Your toes curl within the shell of your entrapment and your eyes wet in confusion and overstimulation. 

“It is I.” The horse thunderous voice says. “The doom.” You feel something else along your ass, it creeps towards your cunt. You tense as it prods along your entrance. “The end.” The voice declares, “The consumer of all.” 

As your impaled, you whimper out. Your vision lights with a ghastly bluish glare. The tint illuminates a face you know. The one you imagined when you wrote, the same etched in those mysterious icons, yet it is distorted in some way you cannot place. 

His eyes are blue and green at once, stirring like currents in the ocean, and his features are sharp and exaggerated, yet enthralling. He is beautiful unlike anyone or anything you’ve ever witnessed. He is beauty wrought of malice and malcontent. He is the evil of desire. The consequence of longing. 

“Let yourself be consumed,” he purrs. 

Your eyes travel down his thick neck, a muscular chest limned in the blue light, veins black beneath his flesh. His torso is corded with muscle and his pelvis angular and defined. Yet below is something horrifying.  

A long tentacle unfurls from him where a man’s cock would be. You follow the length down to your own body. It is inside you, sliding in deeper and deeper, filling you to the point of intolerance. You watch helpless as he invades your body. 

From behind him, his shadow proves to be more. From his back extends dozens of tendrils, all of which coil around your body, holding you at the mercy of his intrusion.  

The tentacle delves deeper and deeper until you see your stomach distend beneath the winding shell around you. The blue light illuminates your body and his as he pulls you closer. You groan at the pressure inside you roils with that on your clit. The suction of another tender latched and unmoving. 

Your eyes roll back as you surrender the maelstrom of the creature’s thrall. You are bursting at the seams as your climax tears through you. You flesh tautens, your muscles split, and your bones snap. You spasm and cum, gushing out around the tentacle, gagging and choking on your mindless cries. 

Your wails follow you into the darkness. The blue light fades and the rumbling voice recedes. You sink down into the ether, back to whence you emerged. You melt into the sludge of life and death. You are not you. You are nothing. 

You are them and they are you. All is all, and one is nothing. The end, the doom, the consumed. 

[the-four-terrapins]

The Pain

Trying to get back into things, had to get this out.

The pain is excruciating, each movement nearly sending him to his knees, but he continues.  Giving up wasn’t an option, not anymore. A mutant like him didn’t plan for a long life, not in his line of work anyways, as death greeted him every day with each outing into the night.

His brothers and he were the only thing between chaos and peace in this city. To keep the foot and their plans at bay, that was why they kept breathing, why they lived the life they did. Unsung heroes, without the gratitude of the residents of this great city, that was until you. Nothing until you.

He stumbled through the shadows, just a little longer, almost to you. The large mutant turtle grasped at weeping wounds, hoping to reach his destination in time. He should be heading to the lair, to his brothers and father but he didn’t know if he would make it this time and like hell you wouldn’t be the last thing he saw if this was in fact this was his last night on earth.

Bloody hands gripped at rusted metal pulling down the fire escape, one foot after the other hoisting up his massive weight. His knees almost buckle from the stress of it but his hand grabs at the railing just in time to catch himself. The terrapin stops for a moment to catch his breath and look up to see the light of your apartment shining like a beacon of hope. You were home, thank the gods, just a little more, he could make it.  

Thankfully the terrace door was open so his hands pushed through tumbling into your living room with an ungraceful grunt. On his shell he barely hears you scream out as you run to him. Your hands instinctively move to his wounds assessing before running to the bathroom for your first aid kit. The kit they had given you for emergencies, emergencies just like this.

It’s getting cold and his fingers start to lose feeling, at least he got to see you one last time. You burst from the bathroom phone to your ear screaming into the device before dropping it haphazardly dropping to your knees beside him.  Even like this you were breathtaking, he had been so lucky.

As you race to stabilize him his large green hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away the streaming tears. He can hear you still screaming not to give up, to hold on. He doesn’t want to give up; he doesn’t want to leave you like this but the pain was fading which wasn’t a good sign. A sign his massive body was failing, the body that loved you, saved this city more time he could count, the body that would give anything to feel you one last time.

Eye lids grow heavy, taking everything in him to keep them up. Shadows cast around your face seeping into his vision blurring all that he could see. Limps grow heavy slipping from your face and he hears you scream one last time as the darkness wins. He sinks into it nothing with your name on his lips.

The dark is peaceful, making him weightless for the first time. Silence and a feeling of warmth with his weightlessness, is this what death felt like? Calm, warm and some pain…..and the slowly growing sounds of his brothers. Wait?

As the weightlessness decreased the pain increased, then he felt his hands and feet move. Next the light filtered through and his eye lids opened to the lab. He was alive and at home. Looking around his whole body was nearly covered in bandages and by the grace of the gods you were there next to him facing his brothers. His hand reached out gripping your wrist with what little strength he had.

Your head wiped around so fast he could have sworn he heard your neck crack. A solemn face burst forth into pure happiness as you cupped his face plastering what open green skin was to see with your lips.

He was alive, alive to fight another day and make sure you knew just how important you were to him.

[imaginebetterfutures]

I am officially a cited expert on the history of vaginal anatomy studies! Look mom! I did it!

Okay so here's the story. Way back in ye olde 2014 I was commissioned by The Sweethome (now Wirecutter) to review tampons. As part of my research for that review, I stumbled across some really fascinating old research on vaginal shapes. I wrote about that research for a group blog I used to be a part of, and about the weird little obsession I developed with some long lost research.

All I could really dig up was a set of studies done in the late 1990’s and early 2000’s by a woman named Paula Pendergrass. Pendergrass published a handful of studies about the shape of the vagina, which she measured by doing plaster casts of willing women. And what she described in her work was actually a set of different vagina shapes: the conical, the parallel sides, the heart, the pumpkin seed, and the least fortunately named slug.

But the thing that surprised me most was that after this one small set of studies by Pendergrass, that's it. There was nothing more. And it's not like Pendergrass had answered the question definitively, her work is full of ideas for how to better measure these shapes, and suggestions to collect more data. Why wasn't there anything else here? Why hadn't she continued this work? Why hadn't anybody asked more questions? I needed to know! So I managed to track her down and cold call her house in Arkansas (because journalists like me have no shame) to ask her why she stopped measuring vagina shapes.

Here's what I learned:

There’s no market for this data. Companies that manufacture vaginal products are looking only to confirm that things like tampons fit inside. They don’t care much about the specifics beyond that. But the big reason she highlighted was the one that made me both sad and angry. When she was doing the work, people were grossed out by it. “It’s off-putting to a lot of people, and I’ve had trouble with it since I started,” she said. “People who were embarrassed I was doing this, They said I was a a dirty old woman doing this.” A dirty old woman. For wanting to know the shape and size of the human vagina.

I wanted to chase this story further, but I could never sell it. In part because it's unclear if it matters clinically what the shape of someone's vaginal canal is. And yet... it's just so... INTERESTING!

But I let it go, after that blog post. (Well, that's not entirely true, I actually ordered a dental casting kit and had plans to cast my own vaginal canal using her study's instructions. But I never got around to it.)

FLASH FORWARD TO TODAY. And I get an email from a friend named Perrin Ireland who is apparently helping someone with a book about vaginas. Did I know that my blog was cited in a scientific journal, she asked? No! I DID NOT!!!

But here it is! Gender Bias in the Study of Genital Evolution: Females Continue to Receive Less Attention than Males, Integrative and Comparative Biology, Volume 62, Issue 3, September 2022, Pages 533–541. The author, Dara Orbach, writes:

When Pendergrass et al. (1996) demonstrated that human females have differently shaped vaginas, their findings were “offputting”, Pendergrass reported being called “a dirty old woman”, and gynecologists did not recognize the value of the research (Evelith, 2016). While a national research center exists in theUnited States ofAmerica for most major organ systems (e.g., National Eye Institute), female reproductive anatomy is categorized under the umbrella of the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development. The research environment and social taboos have historically and still continue to hinder scientific inquiry in the field of female genital evolution.

Is my name spelled incorrectly? Yes! Do I care? No!

But truly it's nice to know that even though I couldn't chase this story and really report it out fully, it seems to have made some dent on at least one person who is asking questions about why we don't know more about the internal anatomy of people with vaginas.

If you like this, you'll also enjoy reading the one about how I spent weeks trying to build a replica vaginal canal in my kitchen to test menstrual cups on.

[hes-striker]

Striker Gives Birth

Written by @bunny-is-cute

Blitzø's energy surged as he lunged forward, confronting the remaining shark demons with ferocity that struck fear into their ranks. His fists flew wildly, landing punches that sent one creature crashing to the gravel. The demons stumbled back, and Blitzø seized the chance to deliver a powerful kick that sent another sprawling into the shadows.

“You think you can threaten us? You picked the wrong fight!” he exclaimed, breathless but fierce.

Meanwhile, Striker struggled against labor pains and the anxiety of potential loss. Heart pounding, he crawled backward to the sanctuary of Blitzø’s van, using it as refuge while his friend dispatched the last threats.

With one final blow, Blitzø sent the last demon retreating. He turned back to find Striker finally catching his breath in the van.

“We’re clear for now! Did you see that? I was like a whirlwind!” he panted, a grin plastered on his face.

Striker couldn't muster a smile, his focus drawn to the intense waves of pain crashing over him. “Great job, but I need you here now. It’s coming!” he gasped.

Blitzø immediately rushed to the back of the van, eyes wide with urgency. “I’m here! Just breathe, Striker! Focus on me.”

With a grunt, Striker’s body surged, and Blitzø watched in awe as Striker's face contorted with concentration. He laid back on the cold metal floor, taking deep breaths.

As pressure built within him, Striker felt it—the unmistakable urge to push. With one final effort, he laid an unhatched egg, a faint moan escaping his lips as he noticed bruises forming around its shell.

“It’s here! But… something’s not right with this one,” he stated, his voice strained.

“What do you mean? Is it alive?” Blitzø urged, alarmed.

Striker nodded, feeling the egg’s faint vibrations against his skin. “I think so… but I don’t have much time! Another one is on its way!”

“You’ve got this! You’re tougher than any shark out there. Just keep pushing!” Blitzø encouraged, placing a steadying hand on Striker's shoulder.

With a deep breath, Striker surrendered to the contractions. Another surge overtook him, and he locked eyes with Blitzø as he gritted his teeth.

“I can feel it coming!” Striker groaned, the physical pain met by Blitzø’s protective presence, igniting a spark of hope within him.

With one last, powerful push, Striker laid down a second egg. The shell was vibrant yet marred by bruises, reflecting the tumultuous journey they had faced. Striker slumped back, panting but filled with a sense of accomplishment.

“You did it!” Blitzø exclaimed, eyes wide. “You brought them into the world!”

Striker breathed heavily and smiled weakly at the two eggs nestled in the dim light of the van. The first began to tremble, a sign of life eager to break free.

“But they look hurt… How will we take care of them?” Striker fretted, concern etched on his brow.

“We’ll figure it out,” Blitzø assured, pulling out a small medical kit. “I’ve got some supplies. We need to keep them safe until they hatch.”

With Blitzø’s help, they carefully tended to the eggs, preparing for their arrival despite the risks outside. An unwavering bond formed between them—a shared determination to protect what they had created together.

As they headed toward St. An's Hospital in Sloth Ring, tension filled the night air. Blitzø gripped the wheel, casting worried glances back at Striker, who clasped the two bruised eggs tightly to his chest.

“You need to rest, Striker,” Blitzø urged. “We’ve got time.”

“The eggs need me! I won’t let anything happen to them!” Striker insisted defiantly.

“They’ll be fine,” Blitzø countered. “You’re the one who needs to be looked after right now.”

Striker winced at a contraction and shook his head, adrenaline coursing through him. “I can’t sleep, not yet.”

Hours passed quietly as they drew closer to the hospital. As they arrived, Blitzø spotted an urgent-looking staff member rushing past.

“Hey! We need help!” he called out, waving frantically.

The staff member turned, quickly assessing the situation. “What’s going on?”

“My friend just gave birth to these!” Blitzø gestured at the eggs. “He needs help! And we need to ensure the eggs are okay!”

The staff member radioed for assistance, and soon, a second staff member arrived with a gurney. Seeing Striker’s pale face, Blitzø felt a surge of urgency.

“Sir, we need to get you onto this so we can check your condition,” the nurse urged.

Striker shook his head, cradling the eggs protectively. “I’m fine! I can walk!”

“Striker, stop! You just gave birth! You need to be checked, and those eggs need experts!” Blitzø exclaimed, desperate.

Striker hesitated, fear etched on his face. He looked down at the eggs and then back at Blitzø. “But they need me…”

The nursing staff moved closer, ready to help as Striker continued to resist. Blitzø stepped forward, gripping Striker’s shoulders. “You need to be okay for them. Please let them help you.”

Striker locked eyes with Blitzø, and after a tense moment, he nodded reluctantly.

The staff approached once more, ready to administer a sedative, ensuring Striker was calm. Blitzø spoke softly, encouraging him. “You’re doing great, Striker. Focus on the eggs.”

As the sedative took effect, Striker felt the tension begin to ease, exhaustion washing over him. The nurses carefully guided him onto the gurney, and Blitzø stood close, reassuring him.

“You did the right thing, Striker. Just let them take care of you. You’re okay now,” Blitzø promised.

The nursing staff sprang into action, placing monitoring devices around Striker’s arms while another prepared an incubator for the eggs.

“We’ll monitor them closely. They’ll be just fine,” a nurse assured him.

As Striker's physical tension faded, he turned to the incubator, feeling a flicker of determination. “Promise me they’ll be okay…”

“I promise,” Blitzø replied earnestly. “Just focus on your health now.”

Once they got Striker settled, a doctor arrived to assess the situation, and Striker nodded, yielding under the weight of exhaustion.

“We’re going to keep you here for observation,” the doctor stated. “Your health is crucial. Once we know you’re stable, we’ll get you both set up for recovery.”

Striker finally allowed himself to relax as the sedatives worked their magic. Blitzø held his hand, providing unwavering support.

“Just rest, Striker. You’ve done enough for today,” he said.

Striker nodded slowly, his eyelids growing heavy as he finally surrendered to the embrace of sleep, comforted by Blitzø’s steady grip. As the world faded away, he felt a sense of safety, knowing he was not alone in facing the uncertain journey ahead.

[sculptlifecasting]

 Capturing Love: Couple Hand Casting Ideas and Techniques

Capturing the essence of love through a couple hand casting is a heartfelt and intimate project that allows you to create a unique keepsake. If you're looking for inspiration and guidance on how to embark on this creative endeavor, this article offers a variety of ideas and techniques to help you capture the beauty of your bond.

Choosing a Theme:

Before you begin the hand casting process, consider choosing a theme that reflects your relationship. Whether it's a romantic pose, a playful gesture, or a symbolic hand placement, selecting a theme can add a personal touch to your casting.

Exploring Hand Positions:

Experiment with different hand positions to convey various emotions and connections. From intertwined fingers to gentle touches, the way you position your hands can evoke different feelings and meanings in the final casting.

Adding Personalization:

Incorporate elements that hold significance to your relationship into the casting. Consider embedding meaningful objects, such as rings or charms, in the plaster to symbolize your bond. Personalizing the casting can make it even more special and unique.

Playing with Colors and Finishes:

Explore different color schemes and finishes to enhance the visual appeal of your hand casting. Whether you opt for a classic white finish or choose to paint the casting in vibrant hues, experimenting with colors can add a dynamic element to your creation.

Utilizing Hand Casting Kits:

To simplify the hand casting process, consider using a hand casting kit that includes all the necessary materials and instructions. These kits can help streamline the casting process and ensure successful results.

Preserving the Casting:

After completing the hand casting, consider displaying it in a shadow box or frame to protect and showcase your creation. Adding a personal touch to the display can make it a meaningful addition to your home decor.

Conclusion:

Capturing the love shared between two individuals through a couple hand casting is a creative and touching way to commemorate your bond. By exploring different ideas and techniques, you can create a unique and personalized keepsake that celebrates your relationship in a tangible form.

[msbarrows]

Nov 11 - Long-ass day. Had two different appointments at the diabetes clinic in town. Started the morning off with the dietitian, which went quicker than the allotted time since it turns out I was already doing almost everything right and had decent ideas, based on what he covered, on what changes I could try making to improve things further (mostly more veggies, some additional things I could keep on hand for snacking purposes, and being more consistent about always having proteins/fats with any fruit or starches). The legacy of having a father, brother, and BIL who are (or were) all Type II diabetic.

Then I had a couple hours to kill, which I spent crocheting in the waiting room; got several inches more of the scarf done, and my yarn spinner admired by one of the desk staff who has a friend who knits (and who now has an Xmas present idea). Will definitely finish off the current skein of yarn tomorrow, but thankfully tracking says the second cake of it will probably also be delivered tomorrow.

Afternoon appointment was with the chiropodist, to get casts made of my feet for orthotics to be made, so my bad right foot will be properly supported. That was fun, I spent it lying on my stomach and gossiping while she did things with plaster that my surface neuropathy meant I couldn't really feel, and the position meant I couldn't see either. Only have any idea of what she was actually doing because there was a handy chart on the wall nearby explaining how to apply the casting kit (and also in my attempt at art college back in prehistoric times, I took mouldmaking & foundry as an elective, so I already knew the general process of making moulds of an object - and yes, I have some small bronzes I cast).

Once I was finally home again in late afternoon, I had yesterday's vat of spaghetti sauce to divide up and freeze, plus a couple bulk packs of ground beef to do ditto with. Also the load of laundry from yesterday to put away, since I didn't do it right away. Argh. Must stop that particular procrastination. That way lies bad habits. Like living out of the laundry basket. Or floor closets.

Supper was pasta with meat sauce and a salad.

[babymadeaustralia]

Preserve Precious Family Moments with Our Creative Hand Casting Kits

Capture the fleeting moments of growth with Baby Made's plaster hand-casting kits. Create timeless sculptures of your baby's hands and feet with ease. This kit includes all you need to cast four sculptures, complete with easy instructions and photo examples. It's the perfect keepsake for your family or as a heartfelt gift for loved ones.

Includes moulding and plaster powders

It comes with a keepsake box and a certificate

Step-by-step instructions with photos

Don't wait—contact us now to secure your kit and cherish these moments forever!

[artmolds]

Boobies to Art

Hey there, art lovers and soon-to-be breast casting enthusiasts! If you've ever wondered how to create a beautiful, lifelike cast of your breasts (or someone else's), you're in the right place. Breast casting is not only a fantastic way to create a unique piece of art, but it's also an incredible way to celebrate and preserve a moment in time. So, grab your casting kit, and let's dive into this step-by-step guide to breast casting!

Why Breast Casting?

First things first, why would you want to cast your breasts? Well, there are plenty of reasons! Maybe you're a mom-to-be wanting to remember your pregnancy. Maybe you're an artist looking for a new medium. Or perhaps you just want to celebrate your body and create a beautiful keepsake. Whatever your reason, breast casting is a fun and rewarding experience.

What You'll Need

Before we get started, make sure you have all your supplies ready. Here’s what you’ll typically need:

Alginate (the magical molding material)

Plaster bandages

Mixing bowl and spoon

Vaseline or a similar release agent

Plastic sheet or old towels (to protect your workspace)

A willing participant (could be yourself!)

Warm water

Patience and a sense of humor

Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Prep Your Space

First, lay down a plastic sheet or some old towels to protect your workspace. Things are about to get messy, but in the best way possible.

Step 2: Apply the Release Agent

Next, apply a thin layer of Vaseline to the breasts and any surrounding skin that might come in contact with the alginate. This will help the mold release easily once it's set.

Step 3: Mix the Alginate

Now, mix the alginate with warm water in a bowl according to the instructions on the package. You’ll want to do this quickly, as alginate sets fast. Aim for a smooth, yogurt-like consistency.

Step 4: Apply the Alginate

Here comes the fun part! Using your hands or a spatula, apply the alginate to the breasts. Work quickly and make sure you cover every nook and cranny. The alginate will start to set in about 2-3 minutes, turning from a gooey mess to a firm, rubbery material.

Step 5: Apply Plaster Bandages

While the alginate is setting, start preparing your plaster bandages. Dip them in warm water and gently apply them over the alginate mold. This will give your cast structure and support. Apply 2-3 layers of plaster bandages, making sure each layer is smooth and even.

Step 6: Wait and Remove

Now, the hard part—waiting. Give the plaster about 15-20 minutes to fully set. Once it’s hard, gently wiggle the mold and slowly pull it away from the skin. Ta-da! You’ve got yourself a breast mold!

Step 7: Reinforce and Refine

To make your cast more durable, you can add more plaster bandages to the inside. This will also help to smooth out any rough edges. Let everything dry completely—usually a few hours or overnight.

Step 8: Decorate and Display

Once your cast is fully dry, you can paint it, decorate it, or leave it as is. It’s your masterpiece, so let your creativity run wild. Display it proudly in your home, give it as a gift, or keep it as a personal memento.

Tips and Tricks

Stay Calm: The alginate sets quickly, so it’s important to stay calm and work efficiently.

Get Help: Having a friend or partner assist you can make the process a lot smoother (and more fun!).

Practice: If you’re nervous, practice on a smaller body part like a hand to get the hang of it.

Be Gentle: When removing the mold, go slowly to avoid damaging it or causing discomfort.

Final Thoughts

Breast casting is a beautiful way to capture a moment in time and create a unique piece of art. It might seem a bit daunting at first, but with a little practice and patience, you’ll be casting like a pro. So, why not give it a try? Embrace the mess, enjoy the process, and most importantly, have fun!

Happy casting!

[kxkarot]

Rugged breaths escape the golden yellow saiyan, aura pulsing weakly around him as he shifts now and again on his feet. He gazes over the other, remaining standing even as the ship begins to ascend, the course punched in as he moves forward. The hiss of pain from the prince makes him frown, casting his gaze off the side as he pulls one of the aid kits from the compartment, putting aside what wasn't needed as he stands besides the other. Abruptly shifting one of his arms to begin wrapping it and tending to it. "I'll rest easier knowing you won't be suffering as much while I'm recovering." He states, duty burning at the forefront of his mind. He's delicate but firm with applying the wrappings and such. Intent on making sure if the prince wasn't going to be resting in one of the pods he'd at least be somewhat tended to.

He stops, close to completing his task. He's finally noticed his reflection barely in the reflective surface of the dashboard screen. Doing a double take at the sight, he leaves the kit in the prince's lap before stepping forward, it's hard to see his exact reflection but the glass of the ship's window helps him. A shaky hand reaching up towards bangs plastered against his head, how his hair has spiked upwards, golden yellow with intense turquoise eyes. He almost doesn't recognize himself if it wasn't for the armor and the scars that decorated his body. It's startling. To him at least.

The legend pops into his mind, eyes widening at the aspect as he gazes down to his hands, tail whipping into view he grabs the limb to observe how the fur has changed, despite the rugged and spiky appearance his fur and hair are still soft, drifting with the wind like it's mere silk. Albeit he's a very bloody mess and he needs to get to one of the pods, soon considering the blur in his vision.

"...Why not you?" He murmurs aloud, frowning as he then gazes over to the prince, grimacing before he speaks. "I'll...figure it out. You deserve it more." He mumbles, clearly a bit of a mental crisis ebbing at the warriors mind. Reasonable, he can't believe ever surpassing the prince's natural born talent, he couldn't possibly become the legend before the prince. It would look horrible for the royal family unless they twisted his loyalty into it somehow. He runs a hand through his hair as he makes his way to the pods. "I hope this fades before we get home." Is his last muttered comment before the warrior disappears to head to the healing pods.

He sighs as he crawls into one of the pods, setting it to auto before grimacing as he places the mask on. It takes a matter of moments before he's unconscious, the super saiyan state persisting even while unconscious.

He waits with baited breath, this was going to be a risk for them all and many might die. The size of the wave of enemies ahead of them but he knew for many it be a way they'd want to go, in the heat of battle. He can't imagine a more fitting way to die but for many reasons he couldn't allow himself to perish here. Not today. Not until the prince could make it on his own against the universe and whatever next it decided to throw at them beyond this war. He charges from the spot, leading warriors forward, a perfectly executed ambush upon the waiting enemies. Catching them off guard, many fall in the beginning, they've turned the odds of the battle and he can see some saiyan's sneak through the chaos towards the ship. Some buy time for their comrades and offer up their lives to do so. It doesn't take much to line up with three other saiyans, pouring all reserve energy into focusing a blast to obliterate a large chunk of them- "AMMUNITION!" There's a loud scream from one of the saiyans, but it's far too late, he notices the pile of ammunition, the oil leak far too late and all but grabs the prince by the shoulder and throws him with as much force as possible towards where the others are. The explosion burns, white hot pain lancing over his body, the entire area goes up in a blazing explosion of smoke, debris and ash. He can hear agonized screams from both sides as he blacks out. Body crashing into the ground. His fingers twitch, he awakens to yelling, lifting his head slowly. Soot and ash cover the area, he's laying on his side, something is sticking into his ribs, what looks like a spear. Each breath pulls at straining muscles that complain. He can hear the sounds of fighting, explosions ringing out that cause the ground to shake and rumble. His gaze stops short when he feels a pressure on top of him. Realizing now that one of the elite's bodies was draped over him, the spear that was digging into his side was run through them, no doubt they'd...shit. A hand raising to try and find a pulse, it's faint. They're still here despite the wounds, refusing to fade. Unconscious clearly. Probably the only reason they're still aliv-Vegeta. He moves, careful in rolling the saiyan off him, quickly gazing into the direction of the ship. Vegeta is holding the line, there's dead on both sides, numerous on the enemies side and in the distance he can see the corpse of an oozaru. Clearly one of them had transformed, an attempt to help hold the line longer. He must have been assumed dead given most dead warriors around him are stabbed through. Fuck. His body aches, but he refuses...he can't fail. He can only watch as Vegeta continues to defy the odds, how everyone is still fighting. Weak. He's failing again. The ground rumbles, rage burns deep in his heart, the screams of his comrades ringing out. The desperation he could practically taste on his tongue. His scouter is blaring a warning, there's only an hour left. He has to move, he has to- he watches as a saiyan pushes the prince out the way. Blood spraying out of their mouth as the blast makes direct contact with them, the world slows down as he watches them collapse. Still clinging to life despite the wounds, still defiant and trying to fight. They're going to die- they're going to die it's his fault- he can't- no. No he's not. He's not loosing. Aching muscles slowly respond, pushing himself to his feet before staggering forward. Adrenaline burning in his body kick starting it, he's got numerous wounds, he's light headed from blood loss but a startling clarity is settling in his mind as more fall down. Vegeta is the only one left standing, still conscious.

No more! no more dead. no more!

"YOU AREN'T KILLING ANYMORE SAIYANS!!!"

He bursts into a run, power coursing through his veins as his fangs are bared, unaware of the change in appearance. He dashes forward, taking off from the earth and he's flying right towards them. Drawing a fist back as he notices the delayed reactions, shock, horror and despair. The scream rips out of his throat, rage, his vision is blurring as fragile flesh rips under the impact of his fist to one's face, the sickening crunch of their skull as they fall limp. He's not done, lifting his leg quickly to kick another away before snarling as blasts are aimed towards him. A ki blast deflected with his hand and sent right to another. He's blacking out at points, body on complete autopilot. His hands grip onto one, rag dolling them around before his tail curls tightly around another's neck until they choke to death. His wounds burn, yet something keeps him going. A drive. The mission. His duty. His desire. A promise. An oath. Despite the numerous wounds he refuses to fall and this overwhelming burst of power is letting him wipe the floor with these bastards now. Hands drawing back, something clicks in his mind before unleashing the blast of a wave of ki, spanning outwards to eradicate the enemy, the landscape is devastated in the wake of it. He's glad the planet had been a barren wasteland to begin with. he turns, taking advantage of the power still coursing through his veins to gather the wounded, hauling as many as he can inside before dashing back out. On the second run he grabs the prince, hauling him up into his arms to get him to the control room. "We need to take off. Now." Is all he says before getting what remains of the wounded. It's only then that he crushes the scouter and finds the transmitter beacon on the ship, to prevent them from being followed by Cooler. By any of the remaining Frieza Force. When it's all said and done, getting the wounded into the healing pods on the ship. The adrenaline is fading from his body, his vision blurring, he's bleeding heavily still. But he needs- he needs to make sure the Prince is alright. Turning into the control room, leaning far too heavily against the door frame, the prince is alive. That's all that matters at the end of the day.

"They can't...track us." He forces the words out, he feels like he's swallowing blood in his mouth. He probably is, he's sure he's overdue a visit into one of the healing pods. He could only imagine the meeting this would cause as he rasps. "It was a trap from the beginning, my squad abandoned me, we might have a mole or a spy in our midst and the king needs to be warned."

[sweet-villain]

In This Moment~ B.H

Summary : Billy refuses your help and tells you he doesn't love you, and you walk out and end up at Scoops Ahoy

" I don't need you're god damn help Y/N! Just leave me alone!" Billy shouted standing the corner, starting at the dresser with his fist to his side. Some of his curls plastered to his forehead, covering those blue iris you love so much to look at. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were red, dried tears streaming down his cheeks.

He had come to you in comfort telling you how Neil got angry for Max running out the window when he was suppose to watch her. He told Neil had a date with you but Neil has called you just one of Billy Hargrove's whores.

You hated his father and wished you could take Billy away but he was stubborn.

" Please" you took a step towards him. His body shook and in the corner of his eyes, he saw you take a step towards him. He had shut down as soon as he crawled through your window and refused you to touch him.

He refused your help.

" Billy, I love you. Please let me help you, let me get the first aid kit and we can just lay in bed after. Do you want me to hold you?"

Billy gritted his teeth, " No!" he shook his head. " I don't love you,I never did. You were just a good lay and comfort, time to time"

Your eyes brim with tears as you step back from him. Billy watched the hurt in your eyes, he saw the tears. All he wanted was to tell you he was lying to you. He does love you. Besides his mom, you were the only person that ever loved him and now he was going to lose you.

He already did as he watched you grab the hoodie that was on your bed and watched as your feet carried you out the door, down the steps and he winced hearing the front door slam shut.

Billy collapsed on his knees on the ground of your floor, sob escape his body as he grips the rug of the carpet in his hands.

=

You slam the door shut off your car and wiping the tears with the back of your hand as you started the car. You stared at the window of your house knowing that Billy was still there. Why? You didn't want to care as you sped off towards Start Court mall.

Ice cream had it's way of helping the pain.

You parked the car in one of the parking spaces, hearing the laughter from kids, giggle from the girls as they talked to their boyfriends. You had noticed Carol with Tommy on the side of the entrance of the mall. You hadn't noticed them casting a look at you seeing you run past them. You didn't care.

Steve was serving a customer some ice cream and Robin is in the back when you came walking through the doors with your hands in the hoodie of your pockets looking down at the ground.

" Welcome to Scoops-" Steve didn't even finish his sentence when he paused to see who was in front of him. You. His gaze soften as he asks, " Are you okay, Y/N?" you raise your head to meet his caring eyes. He gasps seeing the red tears in your eyes, the trembling lip and you only wore the red hoodie you were wearing when you were feeling upset or angry.

How does Steve knows this? Because he has seen you lash out at people when you wear it or cry more times than he can count on his whole hand.

" No" you mumbled. He sighs fully knowing it's either Billy, the shit head who did something or your parents. He knows how your family treats you, it's why one of the reasons why you and Billy got along. He understood.

" Here" Steve pushes your favorite ice cream towards your way. He gave you more scoops than he usually charges a customer. You were his friend and he cared. Robing peeks from the back and sees it's you.

" Alright, dingus what did you do this time?" Steve looks back at her, and shakes his head. " It's not him, Robin" you tell her. She looks back at you and frowns seeing the redness in your eyes, the puffy eyes, the red hoodie, the trembling lip and hears the sniffles.

" Who did it? Who do we have to beat up?" a chuckle escapes from you and you shake your head. " It's not worth it, at least ice cream will mend a broken heart for a bit" you took the ice cream, thanking Steve and dropping the cash on the counter. He pushes the money back to you, " Not today."

You put it back in your pocket, sending a small smile to Steve as you find a table to silently eat your ice cream. The door opens a few minutes later and it's like all the air has sucked in when Billy steps into Scoops Ahoy.

" You're not wanted here, Hargrove" you freeze hearing Steve call out Billy letting you know that he was here. You sent one look to Steve telling him to get Billy out of here.

" I didn't ask you, Harrington" Robin scoffs and adds, " Idiot, you need to leave." Billy doesn't listen as his eyes roam around the room until they find the familiar hoodie and the familiar set of hair, yours with head down eating some ice cream.

He knows you pretty well where you go if your upset even though he and Steve aren't on good terms, he tolerates Steve because your friends with him. He does it for you.

Billy slides in the opposite side of you watching as you eating some ice cream off the spoon not bothering to make any eye contact with him. He deserves it and hates himself for acting like asshole.

" I lied" he says finally, he had to otherwise he would burst in tears right there and that's not something he wants to do in front of Steve Harrington. He wouldn't hear the end of it.

You stopped eating the ice cream and lock eyes with him as if telling him you were listening but you were still pissed at him.

" I lied to you when I told you I didn't love you"

" You were a real ass about it" He nods. " I'm sorry, doll. The anger got the best of me and my mind kept telling me that you'd leave me"

You sighed dropping the spoon not caring if it fell or not.

" I told you many times before Billy that I will never leave you, but this time you did it yourself. You made me leave. You hurt me. Words hurt, you know? I'm not someone you just have sex with Billy, I listen to you, I hold you, I help you look for Max when she runs away or stays with her friends, I go to parties with you, we do almost everything together. Yet, you don't see that I love you with all my heart. Hell, even Steve over there wanted to jump you knowing right away that you were the reason I am here"

" Harrington's got nothing on me" he shakes his head, he reaches out placing his hand with his palm up waiting for your hand. But when it never comes, he feels tears prickling his eyes.

" Doll, please forgive me.." you stood up from your seat and faced him.

" Not right now Billy, I appreciate you come looking for me and trying to fix this. But, I can't do this right now. I need time and I need to be away from you"

He looks up at you with his tears streaming down his cheeks. You move a piece of his curl out of his eye, placing a kiss on his cheek and as you walk away, he grabs your hand.

" Please" he begs you. Not caring if anyone was watching. He needed you.

" Billy" you say, watching him shake again but with sobs. You sit down next to him and wrap your arms around him as he leans into you. The only thing you can do right now is hold him and try to calm him down.

[onyxbird]

Parker impulsively brings home one of those kits for making a plaster cast of your hands, insisting they should try it. The photos on the packaging are full of couple's hands clasped in different poses.

Hardison is a little surprised by the suggestion, but perfectly willing to participate. Eliot seems a bit distainful of the whole idea, but insists he'll stick around and help to reduce the chances of them slopping mold-making compound and plaster all over his kitchen.

All the prep goes fine until the point of immersing Parker and Hardison's hands in the goop to let it set into a mold.

Parker is wired and fidgety and can't make a decision on how she wants to position her hand. Hardison gently points out that anything she chooses will be fine but she has to pick something quick. Eliot is blunter about "Parker, just pick something and keep your hand still or you're gonna mess it up!"

The mold goop is still liquid when Parker decides she wants a small prop and starts to pull her hand out.

"Babe..." protests Hardison, hand still wrist-deep in the bucket.

"Parker, no!" says Eliot, grabbing her wrist to keep it in place. "You're gonna get that goo everywhere! I'll grab the stupid pick!"

He swiftly grabs the desired item and shoves his own hand into the bucket to press it into Parker's hand. Before he can extract himself, Hardison says "Oh, this works!" and entangles his fingers with Eliot's.

"Oh, yeah! This is perfect!" says Parker, wrapping her hand around Eliot's from the other side, the previously vital prop forgotten and left to drop into the rest of the mold mixture.

"What are you--? Guys, you don't have time for this! It's going to start hardening up!"

"Yeah," said Parker, strong fingers still firmly entangled with his. "Stop moving your hand around. You're gonna mess up the mold."