I discovered just now that my Creepro Draculaura's left leg is sliiiiiightly shorter than her right leg. It's not enough to be really visible, but when her right leg touches the base of the stand, her left leg hovers a bit above it and is prone to swinging/wobbling as a result.
I now headcanon Draculaura as having anisomelia (leg length discrepancy).
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God, haruka is so me!!
(I hc him as having a leg-length discrepancy, and the 'tism. He canonically has communication issues, which I think I may have, and also the co-dependant relationship with muu reminds me a bit too much of how I can get if I trust someone enough.)
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Today's article aims to fully inform our readers about the advantages and appropriate application of tools like insoles for leg length discrepancies and other gear.
Regardless of the origin of the physical handicap, several forms of support equipment are created with each type of disability in mind. It's crucial to be knowledgeable about this equipment if you wish to relieve any pain your body may have.
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Newly famous are limbering shoe lift that make you look taller. Shoe carry as the name indicates, growth someone's pinnacle. It additionally allows again, knee, and other ailments. Shoe bring specific is proper right here to help!
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We often see Leg Length Discrepancy Lifts but don't understand why they happened. Let's know today why they occur and what their symptoms are. Functional discrepancies occur when the bones are not the same length, but an oral alignment issue causes symptoms and signs of a true LLD. This could be due to the following, as well as other functional problems.
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Thinking about Abby’s hands…
Minors DNI - AFAB! Reader - 700ish Words - Smut
Big warm, slightly weathered hands. You first noticed the discrepancy between your hand sizes on your first date, Abby was awkward going for a hug while you went for a handshake. Even through your T-shirt you could feel the heat coming off her palms. As the night continued, you watched her hands. You watched her long, thick fingers with their short rounded nails practically dwarfing the utensils in her hands as she ate. You noted how the veins on the back of her hand popped out a little as she gripped the stem of the wine glass, how her knuckles whitened as she wiped the little splodges of tomato sauce from her lips. As she walked you home after dinner, she kept your hand in hers from door to door.
When you invited her in, the blonde offered to take your jacket and as you shrug it off she grabs it, warm bony knuckles rubbing along the back side of your arms. As you sit on the couch, you watch as she fiddles with the buttons on her bulky navy overcoat. Her cold hands struggling, ice numbed fingers skidding off the metal.
Wide, slightly worn palms wrap around the beer bottle as she takes a sip from it, her lips puckering around the edge of the bottle. Abby’s right hand with her fingers spread fully across the fat of your thigh, her fingertips dimpling the flesh. The hand not on your thigh gently sets the empty bottle on the coffee table and once empty, it comes to rest in the gap between her legs with her wrist resting on her own thick muscled thigh.
Abby’s hands, the same ones that hugged you so awkwardly just hours before, now grip tightly to the pudge of your hips as she guides you to grind down into her own pelvis. Her breathing is heavy as you groan above her, her fingers untuck your t-shirt from your jeans and slide up your sides. The short nails on her fingers scrape slightly against your skin, raising it a little in designs as she absorbs as much heat from your skin as she can.
Heavy palms that grip the inside of your thighs as she pummels through the tiny apartment, kissing you against every surface that she can manage to find. Her knee grinding against your clit through your jeans and her cargo pants. The friction is just enough to keep you going but nowhere near enough to get off.
Long fingers that pull your shirt over your head, bra that’s unclasped hastily and with wanton need. Abby’s hands that cup each of your tits with such gentle care, even with how she twists and teases your nipples, the warmth spreading across your face and up your neck now match the heat passing from her scarred palms.
Abby’s hands that tease your slit through your underwear, making the wet patch spread. Her fingers that grip the band of your underwear, pulling the material down your legs. She leaves you exposed. Abby’s fingers make easy work of your sopping wet cunt. Her two middle fingers plunge in and out of you, her thumb rubbing up against your clit and whilst she occasionally swaps her hands for her tongue but she fucks you hard and well and long.
When she deems you orgasm-drunk enough, she stops. She whispers something you don’t quite catch. But then pulls her fingers out of you, her fingertips are pruning and dripping wet, your spends running down her hand. She offers her fingers to you, tempting you to take them into your mouth, you do. Her digits are sweet against your tongue and they reach back far with their length. As you suckle the wetness from her hands and fingers a tiredness comes over you.
As she notices you drifting off, she pulls her fingers from your mouth. Then wiping the remaining wetness from her fingers she slides up next to you in the bed, throwing the quilt over the two of you.
You wake the next morning to a warm hand gripping the curve of your stomach and the other cupping the underside of your chest. You decide at that moment that maybe - just maybe, this Abby could stay for another while. She decided the same thing the night before.
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