#hand partialism

[hardcoreprocess]

Does anyone know how to make a digital canvas taller? Mine only gets wider.

[hardcoreprocess]

The age old concept. P•kémon's Nurse Joy archetype, as a veteran of her field.

Heavyset, hair in low-effort waves rather than spritely curls, a dozen laugh-lines now aging her face. She's forgone the expectations, the dolling up, the aggressively cheerful demeanor for a no-nonsense arch of over-tweezed brows.

Calloused hands, from nursing a thousand monsters back to good health. Nicks and scars left behind by patients refusing to use their Pokéball for quicker heals. Liver spots on her weather-warm arms, eyes crinkled at the corners for repeat visitors.

She's been shocked, bit, poisoned, and confused by so many patients now that names escape her. But all that knowledge is well worth her time, her patronage, her closeness. Many a young trainer has melted into her arms after a hard route, a rough battle, a sour defeat.

At times, a different kind of comfort is necessary. Behind closed doors, with experienced lips leaving nude kissmarks on throats or cheeks. Moans for Miss Joy brings a quiet thrill to her old bones, a flutter to her heart, a passion to her... healing efforts.

[hardcoreprocess]

Goddamn you. Damn you and your sexy writing. GUESS IM A FREAK ABOUT HANDS NOW.

Fascinating. What sparked the seed of appreciation, I wonder.

Could be the soft intrigue of palm against planes of a lover's back. Perhaps the way knuckles might shift, in furtive desperation, every time they're kissed. Or even the elegant way fingers pluck through pages of a freshly-printed book, pages carefully peeled apart one by one.

Ever a mystery.

[hardcoreprocess]

[KO-FI REWARD] BATCH 1 // SLOT 3: Bro and Mom had an unhappy attempt at marriage, but some time apart might have done them and their libidos some good.

There is comfort in a full stomach. Meals are good for clarity, for decluttering the mind of hunger. Not all types of hunger, but— most. Some. Other types are fulfilled by the hand spread across her soft thighs, slipping to her belly, and higher still. Handsome touches— Can fingers be handsome? —distract from intentional kisses just below the curve of her earlobe. It's her turn to touch, to turn in place until his hands rest on the small of her back and hers curl behind his neck to stroke down the nape. Held, like something gracious; there's no choice to make besides gifts of more kisses smeared lower and lower.

Lips to pulse, to clavicle, parting around wet exhales to warm skin. Everything is put on hold by that beautiful face, tipping up to meet eyes. Touches sweep fringe back from a brow full of lines, age she hasn't been present for, and it leads to wonderings.

Why did they come apart? Were the seams too loose, the words too bitter, the love too stale? It doesn't feel that way, not when every splay of his fingers feels all-consuming, encompassing, eager to hold where once they let go. Their closeness is magnetic, drawn to each other despite impossible opposites. His temper, her temptation. His raised hand, her raised glass. Never speaking, always babbling.

Doubt pours out in wet exhales, leaves her bones hollow and cold, only to be immediately soothed by a firm grip to her hips. Missing-you aches bloom between her thighs like flowers. He used to plant seeds in that garden, delve his tongue and fingers until she arched, long ago.

They're older, they're wiser, they're sprawling together as though time away hasn't mattered. She's missed the way his kisses sear to her breasts, the way everything actually feels right for once, the way his eyes fall shut when bedsheets and comforters are mussed impossibly. Once upon a time he loved her, and oh how she loved him. Cherished their sunrises. Admired the stars hung in the sky for her. All torn it into pieces with grasping, greedy, ungrateful words and cruelty.

Legs fall apart around the pair, welcoming home and begging and a reminder that they had fun before. Off-black jeans hit the floor, kicked free of his body, eager to meet her at the middle. A celebration, wet and tacky, kissing below as scarred knuckles tear at the bedsheets. Hips writhe in tandem, catching the heat of his dick, grinding it into her swollen folds. Airy groans escape him, as though he's never had anyone but her.

"Never," he whispers, sincere, meaningful, honest in reply to her whispered question, "Just you."

And she believes him, with each piece of her old broken heart. The way their hips slot together again and again and again until her chest hitches with trembling cries is proof enough. Trading the taste of expensive cigarettes, his cheap cologne, her drugstore lipgloss. Her gut goes hot, tight, an orgasm creeping up just as his gruff sob of her name filters through the haze.

Their limbs tangle together in afterglow, cores warm with sore thighs. Slick seeps into the mattress topper, mixed like a slurred prayer. In five— ten years, will she be allowed to have it this way forever? To spend her mornings in his arms? She has to ask. Gently, quietly, against the curve of his unshaven jaw, "Do you think we could ever do it over?"

"What." Nervous. Felt in the thud of his heart, pounding under her hand between post-orgasmic tremors.

"This," she clarifies, meaning so much more. Every way their bodies touch, all the times their minds connect. They mull it over, slightly undignified. Weighing a hundred sins against the feathers of hope unfurling in empty birdcage chests. His heartrate jumps; a conclusion reached at last.

He inhales to reply.

[hardcoreprocess]

favorite type of partialism? i thnk thats right

For the uninitiated: Partialism is a sexual interest with a focus on a specific part of the body. This can be any part of the body, such as the hair, breasts, or buttocks. The most common form of partialism is podophilia, in which a person becomes sexually aroused by feet.

My favorite type will always be hands. Hand partialism, the focus of fingers or palms or knuckles. It's intimate. These things that humans use to hold a friend, please a lover, manage their own affairs. Such versatile, sensitive, unique things.

[hardcoreprocess]

so weve seen nefarious retcon hands from the receiving end of the attention but what is it like for john to feel all those sensations at once without seeing whats up??

Warm, wet, cool, dry, textures silky and rough. There are hands wrapping around his wrist, pulling his touch in until he's choking on moans. Sensitive. Everything feels like electric pulses, a myriad of stimulations. John heaves for air. Multiple iterations of his hand flex in different ways. Snapshots into different worlds.

A breast weighs heavily in his palm, he can feel the nipple slipped between his first and second finger. Flesh trembles. Are they gasping?

Cool, slick, rows of teeth. He felt one prick his thumb seconds ago but the wet swallow around his four digits feels like a dream. A tongue, long and thin, flicks over his finger webbing.

There's no mistaking the warm shaft he's curled loosely around. A hand holds him steady, another wraps around his fingers to undulate pressure. He can feel pre spill down the line and make his touch tacky-smooth.

Massaging. Working knots and aches and kinks out of his tired appendage. Pulling on his fingers until they crack, a kiss pressed to each knuckle. The tenderness feels so good. He feels safe.

A thousand iterations. A hundred possibilities. John bows his head and ruts against nothing as his body gleams with transferring power.

[hardcoreprocess]

SRRY IF THIS IS ALREADY TOO DETAILED BUT dirk peeling an orange with his hands and dave bein totally unsubtly fixated on them and dirk catches on and hand feeds him orange slices

He's completely forgotten about his peanut butter and honey sandwich. How could he not? Dave's had his attention reclaimed for greater endeavors than the slow drip of honey-saturated peanut mash onto his plate and lax fingers.

Yes, he's entirely absorbed by the way Dirk's thumbnail cuts into the skin of a fucking huge orange, tearing away a strip of the peel to fit his calloused thumb beneath it. As surely as if he were taking a knife to the rind, Dirk unspools the orange peel from the juicy flesh below, turning it rhythmically to keep the strip unbroken.

Dave's breath has long since gone short, fluttering in his chest like a bird without a perch. Dexterous hands flex and turn for his delighted pleasure, his happenstance arousal. There's a moment where the hands pause, prompting him to look up, freeze.

While his lips pull into a smirk, Dirk's eyes are visible over the straight line of his shades. They scrunch at the corners, a secret caught you expression. Now, when he moves to open the orange's meat, the elder Strider ensures that Dave can watch his thumb sink into the natural seams between slices. It's a fully yonic display, moreso when Dirk pulls the orange in half, and juice wells up from a punctured membrane.

He clenches on nothing. He doesn't have to check to know that his briefs are a mess of a slick. Dirk even presses a forefinger into one orange half, aiming to quarter the slice portions, turns the whole thing over so they can both witness him patiently stroking the sectioned fruit slices apart from one another. Dirk hasn't stopped watching his face, and Dave hasn't stopped watching his hands.

That's why the quiet question catches him off guard. "Want any?" has him jerking in place as though electrocuted. His underwear squelches audibly. Dirk's already breaking an orange slice in half, squeezing it so the pulp pulses with juice and runs over his fingers. It's unnecessary. But it means that when Dave's lips are smeared with tacky juice from a thumb firmly pushing the fruit past his teeth, Dirk is obligated to lean forward and kiss him clean for the next piece.

[hardcoreprocess]

dirk sucking on someones fingers?

The possibilities are endless but the DirkJane of it all. I'm always particularly interested in Mister Strider's oral fixation, and his texture issues after growing up on a concrete island with very limited meal supplies.

Dirk, she's found, is a bit of an odd duck about bread. He can't stand the stuff, practically turns green at the way it sticks to the inside of his mouth and the strange, fluffy texture. In confidence, she learned that his sole experience with bread was the sparingly found "loaf in a can" his guardian left behind, several decades expired.

Cake, however, is another story. Dirk loves cake, though he's shakier on heavier specimens. She suspects that he enjoys the process of watching her bake the darn things than he is in eating them, though he'll clear any plate she sets before him. Out of the corner of her eye, she notes that he bites his thumb watching her clear a spatula of frosting.

In her distraction, her fingers are a mess of buttercream and anise. He moves before she can register anything, long fingers locked around her wrist to draw her digits to his tongue. Everything in Jane tingles, down to her core and up to the rush of blood in her head. She feels dizzy for a second, hypersensitive to the way his cheeks press to her skin as he sucks.

"Let go," she says with soft, absolute command. Dirk's eyes widen in shock, embarrassment, hand retreating. Before he can spit her fingers out and apologize for overstepping, misreading, Jane pushes her fingers deeper into his mouth. The way his brows draw inwards, upwards, is addictive.

Jane exhales slowly. She pushes her frosting to the side and turns. "Get on your knees, Dirk. Make yourself comfortable." He's going to be lathing on her fingers for a while, after all.