#Needle Therapy Gains

[healinggateacup]

Acupuncture is a Chinese medicine approach to healing by inserting fine needles into the skin or muscle on specific body parts. A practitioner uses acupuncture to stimulate over 2,000 acupuncture points, restoring essential life energy to alleviate symptoms of several conditions, including inflammation from arthritis. Some of the issues it targets are neck pain, knee pain, lower back pain, dental pain, headache, pain following surgery, etc.

[yeyinde]

baby blues

John Price + the panic of fatherhood x reader

pregnancy. babies. soft. sappy. angsty. slight allusions to rough sex. John being possessive and smitten. allusions to childhood trauma. the fear of children is somehow more potent than the fear of god. girl dad John. mentions of Price's divorce lmao

Most assume he'd take to fatherhood like he'd been born for the role; handcrafted to cradle a swaddled babe in his arms. The perfect father figure. But as he hovers over your sleeping form, the little bundle nestled in the sleepy bracket of your arms, he's overcome with a sense of dread that punches hard enough to shatter bone.

The reality is this: Price doesn't understand kids. He wants them. Covets them with a viciousness that almost immediately sets alarm bells off in the heads of those who were opposed to the idea of children, parenthood. Giving birth. But when it comes to being a dad, a role model, an effigy to siphon wisdom and knowledge off of, he flounders. Hesitates.

All he has as an idea of fatherhood is bruises laughed off by the neighbours as him being a clumsy boy. A man who drank in the living room, silent in his fury, his belligerence, until something—anything, really—set him off. He always seemed like he was itching for a reason to punish.

And god, was he ever fucking good at it.

If anger issues are hereditary, then Price picked up the generational slack of his seething ancestors. 

It's this, and the plethora of scars and burns that decorate his skin (well hidden, tucked away like a dirty secret because if Old Man Price was anything, it certainly wasn't stupid; he knows how to hide the ugliness of himself away, and how to turn a boy into a punching bag without causing too much damage, too much alarm) that make him ache something fierce when he sees his chubby little child for the first time. 

Price doesn't know how to be gentle. All he has are worn, rough hands and a constant stench of smoke. A voice that makes grown men tremble. An ire unmatched thus far in his life. 

Until you. Little spitfire. His hellion. You stood on the tips of your toes just to tell him off for being a stubborn pig! and then taught him how to hold you. How to be tender. But even now, he can see the wear on your skin from his bites. His propensity for violence that he morphs into desire. Into lust. 

How is he supposed to be a dad when he's this caustic? This mean? 

The answer doesn't come. All he gets is the rhythmic sigh of your breath as you sleep, well and truly exhausted after giving birth to their child. All alone. A constant in your lives, it seems. Aloneness. His work takes him away, throws him into dangerous situations. And you carry the brunt of it. 

It caused the rupture of his first marriage and is a needling fear he carried with him when you started pursuing him some odd years ago. To think that he'd be standing here now, gazing down at you with your heavy eyes and your soft cheeks, rounded with the additional weight you gained during your early trimesters. A plushness he's trying to keep on you for good—all softened edges, flesh that gives when he touches you, marshmallows out between his fingers when he squeezes.

You look good like this. Motherhood, despite your misgivings (it took three years of him hinting and hounding you before you'd relented with a sure, what's the worst that could happen? We're terrible parents and raise a terrible kid? Or we end up the catalyst for a list of psychological issues and get reamed out during their therapy sessions later on in life?), suits you. Fits you like a glove.

A fact you'd been quietly overwhelmed by in the first few months, grieving the loss of something he couldn't ever understand, or experience. A piece of yourself morphing into the mother that raised you. A kaleidoscope of feelings that you choke on when he asks, unable to render them into coherent words. 

But you're good at that, aren't you? Good at culling expectations, at superseding the limits others place on you. Even him. 

Especially him. 

When he'd said, don't know what you're gettin’ yourself into, love, you took it to the chin like he challenged you to a brawl, and set out to show him why you knew what this was, what he was, and why it didn't matter much. 

Even now—

Giving birth all alone. Overcoming the isolation of being shackled to a man who married his post first. Sisterwife to his career. Second in all things. 

Even this. 

He was in Iceland when he got the call. Laswell, of all people, was on the other line telling him his own wife was in the delivery room. Water broke. Baby is on the way. 

And you—

Don't worry, old man. Just do what needs to be done and we'll be waiting. Always. 

—well. You certainly are. Alone in a hospital room with the curtains drawn to blot out the sun as you sleep, cradling this thing he made with his fingers shoved deep into your mouth, uttering foul under his breath as he crushed you to the bed, rutting you like an animal—the most tender he could ever be—and he's suddenly all too aware of his own inadequacies. His shortcomings. Failures. 

He's not a dad. He's not the sort of man people think about when they think healthy father figure. He likes cigars and whiskey, and sometimes aches for a mission that will let him cut his knuckles on teeth—bloodletting; exorcising his demons out on the people he's sanctioned to kill. How is he supposed to guide a child when he threw a man over a railing without a second thought—

The bundle stirs. Wrinkled, red face scrunching up tight. Little thing is just like you, huh? All softness and give. All—

They cry, and it's shrill. Loud. It jars him.

Not the sound, but the anguish he feels piercing through his chest as they bellow out their confusion to the world, this lost little thing. Strapped with a father who was beaten black and blue and told to be a man when he cried. 

But right now—anger is the furthest thing on his mind. He can't fathom that emotion when his child is whimpering in your arms, chubby little fingers grasping at the air. Seeking comfort. 

Waking you feels cruel when you've spent the better part of two days awake. Four, really. You couldn't sleep when the contractions hit, wide-eyed and worried about everything. What if something went wrong? If they hated you? What if you hurt them—

Worries he tried to assuage, but couldn't deny he felt them, too. 

All he knows how to do is hurt. But as he reaches down for this little thing squirming in your arms, he tells himself to be tender. To be the man his dad never was. 

And they're soft. So fuckin’ soft. Tiny, too. His hands dwarf them, engulfing them completely. He tries to blame the way he trembles on the denial of nicotine for so long, but the mist in his eyes, and the burn in his throat, call him a liar. He doesn't know what to do. Even with all the hours spent thumbing through manuals and books and scoffing under his breath at the parenting courses you dragged him to (but paid rigid attention to every word the heavily bangled woman said to him), he feels lost. Unsure. The ground is shaky. Control slips. And that's maybe the crux of it all—

Babies can't be controlled. And it's the loss of this, what makes him whole, keeps him steady, that has him feeling rubber-limbed and fawn-like. 

“Quiet, now,” he murmurs, and then winces at the rough drag of his voice in the silence of the room. Too firm, too forceful. All the gentleness he has in his bones was devoured by your greedy mouth when you cracked him open like the legs of a snow crab, marrow slurped up until he was hollow. Empty. His tenderness rests inside your belly. What else does he have to give—

But the warm bundle in his awkward, clumsy hold stops their shrill cries. A girl, he remembers you saying. Crying. Sobbing into the phone when he called, all ugly and gross. He heard you sniffle, snot undoubtedly dribbling from your nose as you wept to him about how fucking cute their baby was. Their little girl. 

She's soft. Smells of a newborn, too—something powdery. Sweet. Warmed milk, fresh bread. The clinical books that made you squeamish, the ones that outlined every anatomical and chemical change to your body, mentioned that newborns smelled distinct to each parent. A phenomenon meant to encourage protection and bonding. 

It made you shiver, muttering my little parasite under your breath, even as your hand curved possessively over your bulging belly. 

He knows that's what this is. Chemical. His mind is evolving, shifting. Changing. And it's then that he feels something hot thicken in his throat. Something ugly, and bitter. The scars on his knuckles, the cigarette burns on his fingers are a sharp reminder of what his father felt and ignored. 

He scoffs, then, irritated at himself. He's a grown man and still—

Still thinks of him. 

“Won't be like that,” he says, still rough. Still firm. She blinks up at him, eyes rheumy and wide. “Not with you.” 

Never. Never. He pins the word to his pericardium, letting it rot his tissue. He'd rather die, he thinks, than ever hurt this little girl. But despite that, he knows he will. Inevitably. Just like he does everything good—or bad—in his life. Leaching from the goodness of others, sucking them dry and letting them moulder. A disappointment everywhere except the battlefield where he screams himself hollow and rents the air with his ire. Incorrigible. Immovable. An object of cruelty. Unforgiving in all aspects. A curse that follows him home, into his marital bed when he pins you down, and makes you profess your love for the beast inside of him. Never satiated, never quelled, until you're shackled at his side. Tucked away from the world he knows is too cruel to people like you who end up a corpse he has to step over on his way for empty retribution. 

He thinks, too, about all the ways he's going to ruin this chubby little thing in his arms, and wishes, suddenly, he was a better man. 

“Gonna hate my fuckin' guts when you're sixteen, aren't you?” In response, this little thing just opens its red maw and blows bubbles. He huffs. “You're gonna be nothin’ but trouble, mm? Steal my car. Crash it because your mum's gonna teach you how to drive and she backed into the garage six times already. Gonna gang up on me. Both of you. Little nightmares.” 

He's not sure what else to say, and thinks, already, that he said too much. Bared his belly to her too soon. She'll have this memory, buried down in the deep recesses of her psyche of her father falling to pieces while he held her. An impossibility, he knows, but can't shake the feeling that this, in itself, is an epoch. A marker for what's to come. All the ugly, the hate. The screaming matches that make him curl his hand into fists as she levels his failures at him. Not to hit. Never to hit. But to stop the tremble that won't stop. That has already started. The shake in his joints that tell him to run before he hurts. Before he ruins this precious mass of his blood and your tissue in his arms. 

“Gonna—” he isn't crying. Isn't. But there's a thickness in his throat as he thinks about how quickly she'll grow up. Age marked in the crows feet that gather around your eyes. The laugh lines. “Gonna be a fuckin' menace, and I'll—” he chokes, then, when she reaches up with a pudgy, red fist and snags the strap of his vest he didn't even bother taking off before he fled here. Fat, tiny fingers curling into the spot he grabs to ground himself from lashing out. “Fuck.”

He'd burn the world for her, he knows. Sacrifice everyone and everything just to keep her warm. Both of you. It begins and ends with this little thing that has your eyes and his nose. 

But he doesn't know how to translate that into love. Into affection. 

It comes out caustic. Abrasive. Possessive. 

And he is. 

Now that he has her in his hands he knows that nothing else will ever compare. That they'll never be empty because she'll always fit in his palms no matter how big she gets. There's only ever been enough space in his heart for you. Chiselled into with a fuckin’ pickaxe because you wouldn't wait for it to grow on its own. 

But there's give, he realises. This domicile you carved yourself has a room attached. A place for her. And she fits like a glove. Sliding inside. Cocooned against his pulse. 

He loves her. Endlessly. Forever. She deserves better. More. 

But when he tells her this, she makes a noise and it sounds like a giggle. 

“Laughin’ at me already, mm?”

She giggles again, and he likes that her laugh is a little ugly. A little mean. 

“Scarin’ the wits outta me,” he confesses, shifting her weight as she occupies herself with the clasp of his vest, disinterested in the man that breaks into pieces around her now. “I don't know—fuck, I don't—”

You come to in a panic. It starts as a slow roll to the side before your eyes flash open, wide and furious even as sleep congeals in the corners, pawing at the empty spot where the lingering warmth of your child presses into your chest. Anger, fury, darkens over your brow, and the apoplectic rage that simmers in the gaps of your dread, your fostering panic, softens him. Makes him melt. The burn of your ire, your fear, liquifying his bones. 

He falls in love with you a little bit more at that moment. When the snarl rucks your upper lip up, up, teeth bared to the world as you whip your head around in frantic, desperate dismay, searching for the little girl he knows you, too, will burn the world for. 

“I've got her,” he says, whisper-soft and low. Cadence even, clear. Tries to quell the howl he can see hammering its fists against your throat before it rips from your lips and scorches the world around you in a hail of horrifying anguish. “She's safe.”

It says something when you immediately go still at the sound of his voice, muscles going lax, slack, as you slowly turn your head toward him, blinking against the fog clotting your vision. Something that cuts him to the core. Rents his chest in halves. One side for you, and the other for her. Nothing left to spare. 

This feeling brimming in his chest sweetens when you startle at the sight of him, them, lashes shuttering like an old camera as if you were trying to sear the image in your head forever. Branded on the back of your eyelids. (A sentiment he knows all too well considering the stream of photos added to his camera roll of you and her nuzzled together.)

“You—” your voice catches, breaks from sleep. Fatigue. You swallow, slowly licking your lips. “When did you get in?”

Your eyes are glued to them. Unblinking. Widened with pure affection, the intensity of which makes him want to touch you, hold you.

“A few hours ago,” he murmurs, glancing down at his—

It cuts a jagged line through his chest. Knicks his bone with how deep it goes. False starts pressed tight to his heart. 

—his daughter. Fuck’s sake. 

He's choked. Strangled. Rendered mute, immobilised. It guts him, this. Daughter. The ring of it echoes in his head, filling the recesses of his mind. Embedding itself within his head. Congealed over. Fixed in place. 

“I have a fuckin’ daughter,” he breathes at length, the air knocked from his lungs. He's not sure why this is what breaks him, but it does. And it's you, then, holding the fracturing pieces together, hands reaching out—in a startling mimicry of his daughter, and fuck, doesn't that just eviscerate him—and curling against the heaving brackets of his ribs, boxing him in. 

“John,” you say, but your voice wobbles. Wavers. When he peels his eyes away from the sleepy yawn she lets out long enough to look at you, there's tears flooding your lashline. Threatening to break. “Fuck,” you say, crass and beautiful, and he's overcome with the urge to tuck you into his other arm, keep you both cradled in his hands. “Don't make me cry or my stitches will tug.” 

“We've got a daughter,” he says again, just to hear it uttered aloud. We. Yours. His. It messes with him. Bludgeons into his core. “We've—”

“She's beautiful, isn't she?” 

Your words shatter him, but the pinch of your hands on his waist keeps him from buckling. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice thick. Ugly. It's mangled in his throat. All fractured and raw. “Just like her mother.”

He shows his affection in the burn of his embrace. In the way he holds you tight, refusing to let go. Keeps his words callous and firm. Soft utterances, declarations of love, tucked away in the sure, greedy way he clings to you in his sleep. Yields to you like no one else. Lets you in. 

And he supposes he ought to say it more often if the way your face crinkles up just like his daughter when she cried, tears spilling over your rounded cheeks. 

“Don't,” you heave, ugly and brittle, and he thinks you're the prettiest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “Don't or I'll rip my stitches—”

He huffs. Nods only once, and then steps toward you. “Do you want—?”

“Keep her for a little while,” you mutter, leaning back into the bed, eyes lidded by fond. So in love with him, the picture they paint, it's almost sickening. “She likes you.”

He snorts. “She's only three hours old. Give her time.” 

You're quiet for a beat. Pensive. Mulling something over. It's never a good thing when you're silent, and the unease that grows in his belly is justified when you heave out a long, tired exhale through your nose. 

The way you look at him is raw. “You're not your father, John.” 

And isn't that just the worst lie he'd ever heard.

He scoffs, then. Shifts his weight, still cradling his daughter tight to his chest. “Mm, 'dunno about that.”

“I do.”

“Jus’—” leave it. Keep going. Keep feeding him lies as he stands here and pretends that he wasn't a horrible bastard for wanting this from you. From taking it. Strapping you with a man who's always, always, one foot out the door—

“No.” You say, soft and sure. “You're not him. I know you're not because you're still here.”

“So was he.” 

You don't acknowledge the interruption. Content, it seems, to rattle off lies and half-truths into the stifling air. Your eyes close, the curve of your lashes leonine. Breathtaking.

“Do you want me to take her?” You ask instead of the multitude of things he can see piling behind your eyes. Some of the ugly. Jagged glass. Others powder soft. 

He shakes his head. “You need your rest,” it's a half-truth. Fatigue clings to you still, swathed in the purpling of your skin. The slow, heavy blinks you take to try and fight the tug of an artificial sleep. 

But the real reason is this:

He's just not ready to let her go. 

Thinks, viciously, suddenly, that if he does, this moment built between them in budding, liquid blue will cease forever. Severed too soon. She'll carry the same resentment in her heart he feels for his own father, and he'll die in a shallow pit thinking about how badly he wanted just a second longer. 

Generational, right? Trickle down hatred. Ancestral rage. It's what your grandma talks about sometimes over tea and fried bread, half disbelieving you brought a white man into her home, and making a show, a facade, of wisdom even though he spotted the how to raise a child notebook she hastily shoved into the kitchen drawer when you arrived. Taking over in place of your own mother, stepping up. And yet—

She just doesn't get it, you said, rubbing your hands over your belly when she steps away after another long-winded conversation about traditions, spirits, and dead languages. Raising a child like yours in a world like this. She's just. I don't know. Ignore her. 

(He doesn't. But you don't have to know that.)

So. He clings to her a little tighter. Holds her a little firmer. Brings her close to his chest and hopes she can hear the echo of his heartbeat and know that this tired, old song is just for her. 

(The heart itself for you—)

And maybe—

Maybe he's not quite ready to see you be a mother. Some perverse part of him is already trembling at the promise of watching you nurture and feed her, the tantalising whisper is enough to make the air in his lungs turn humid, sticky. Tar, you remind him sometimes, having seen the ugly spatter of black in the grainy photos the doctor in Hereford likes to shove at him. Never too late to reverse the damage, John. 

Or maybe he wants you for himself just a moment longer. An hour. A day. When you're still you, shackled and bound to a man who reeks of stale tobacco, and started sneaking cigarettes in the dead of night like some pimply, awkward teenager when you first came to him, cheeks wet and eyes wild, and said:

“John, I'm—”

Pregnant. 

He did it, of course. Put that baby in you. Made it with his teeth buried into your throat and your hips canting up to meet him, taking everything he had to offer. Animal aggression. Nothing tender in the way he chewed you up, made you beg him for it. But still—

Wanting and having are worlds apart, aren't they? 

Faced with it, the consequences of his actions, he's at a standstill. 

You hum, and when your eyes slide open, he feels the mallet against his head. Cracked open. You fossick about until you find what you're looking for. Cheeky fuckin’ thing—

“Fine. Just pull up a chair before you keel over, old man.” 

“M’fine,” he grouses in that voice that serves as a dice roll between making you feel hot or homicidal depending on the mood he catches you in. Muttering something under your breath that sounds like a whispered plea for guidance (“tss, gimme strength.”)

But even with the waspish denial, he's inching closer to the spare chair left in the corner, looping his ankle around the leg to slide it closer. The squeal of rubber on aluminium makes him grimace, eyes darting down to his sleeping girl, nestled in his arms. Her brow pinches in the same way your grandma’s do when she's annoyed by the news. Her bingomates. The way he refuses her offering of burning tobacco and lemongrass whenever he goes away for a while, unable to really commit to this little, broken family that feels more like home than his own ever did. 

(“aint my place,” he says, and she scoffs. 

“fuck, s'matter wit’cha?” is her counter, the harsh line between her brows now perfectly superimposed on his daughter’s face. “tss. ain't yer place, eh. are you tryna piss me off? fuck, you make me mad—”)

He sees that spitting anger in you. Generational, he knows. The same inherited attitude his daughter will inevitably have. The one that singles him out as an outlier. Outnumbered. Three, now, to one—

There's got to be a reason why his chest bubbles, innervated by the thought of a Sunday dinner when she's old enough to watch her grandma make intricate bracelets, necklaces, earrings, and pins with thread and glass beads as you, her mother, cuss at the stove that doesn't burn as hot as it used to, flipping over golden dough in a sizzling pan. 

Orange juice in old cups your grandma kept since the nineties. Something soft playing on the radio. The peeling, waterlogged wallpaper flakes off the wall when you slam the pan down too hard. The way the spill of the sun through the rusting window rents the room in half. Pale yellow and oak. Little orange blossoms in soft pink above the speckled granite countertops. Everything awash in a gossamer of sleepy-eyed affection. 

Just like it is now. But—

He looks down at her, head full of lead. Cotton. 

Complete, maybe. 

“Don't know how to be a dad,” he confesses to you, and thinks of how much easier it is to slam a sledgehammer into a metal door than it is to peel back the veneer sometimes. “Don't want to mess up.” 

“You'll be fine.” 

The crinkle of the plastic mattress, the scratch of the sheets sliding across the bed is louder now than it was before. He cuts the gentle sounds with an abrading hum that clicks off his teeth. 

“Get some sleep,” he says again instead of the awful truth that buoys in his throat. Things like you don't know and I tricked you this whole time into thinking I'm a good man and look what you’ve let me do to you. “You need it.” 

Another noise. In his periphery, he watches you lean back against the upright pillows, lips parted on a soft sigh. He feels—

Small, then. An oxymoron considering he has to duck his head to get in and out of the room, towering over most he meets daily. But the inadequacies gut him. Vivisect him. He should be more comforting to you, he knows. This whole thing has been difficult. Tiresome. Cut into and having the life you grew inside of you cut out—

“Did good,” he rasps, still staring down at her even as he pulls the chair as close to your bed as he can get. “With her.” 

You snort. It's inelegant. Ugly. Brittle, like you're holding back tears. 

When he glances up, he finds that you are. “You're strong,” he adds, and knows he should have started with this first. “Doin’ this all on your own.” 

“I had help.”

It's awkward trying to adjust himself in the seat with his daughter perched in his arms, but he finds a way. Settled, then, with her still sleeping away, he lifts his hand from her back, keeping her cradled in his arm with the other, and reaches for you. 

The starchy sheets catch on the bramble of hair on his knuckles, the back of his hand, and the static jolts tickle against the rough scar tissue thickened over his knuckles, some still fresh, scabbed from the latest mission he'd been deployed to. You watch him, misty-eyed and tremulous, as he draws nearer, eyes flickering like a pendulum between the bundle nestled on the thick of his arm, to him, watching you back. Greedily taking in every spasm, every blink. 

Something inside of him cracks. Softens. He thinks, breathless, that you've never been as beautiful to him as you are right now. Bubbles of snot in your nose. Eyes reddened, dropping from exhaustion. A dizzying mess. The sort that speaks of tireless work, of physicality. Muted pain brimming in the backs of your eyes when you pull on your stitches. 

“Got a pretty wife,” he says, and it's not enough. He knows it isn't. Looks away before the fracture lilt to his tone breaks him in two. “And—” it's hard to say. He forces himself to. “And a beautiful daughter.” 

The tears stream down your face at this quiet, clumsy admission. 

“Don't—” you sniffle, hoarse. “Or I'll tear my stitches.”

“M’not doin' anythin’, love.” 

“Fuck you, John—”

He leans back in his chair with a hum, eyes slipping shut. A brief respite amid the panic still clinging tight to his ribcage. “Love you too.” 

It's quiet. Nothing but the soft drag of each breath his daughter takes, the tremulous sniffle you give as you try to dam the tears sliding down your cheeks. His heart hammering in his ears. He commits it all to memory. Glueing it to the fibrils of mind where it'll stay, embedded in tissue, for as long as he is of sound mind. 

Much like the grainy, black-and-white ultrasounds stuffed in his breast pocket. Tucked inside the drawer of his desk where he keeps the pictures of you. Keepsakes he's unnecessarily possessive over, elbowing the rowdier men who try to needle him for sparse information on the little wife he hides at home and the baby they'll never meet. Something just for him. Unshareable to the rest of the world because they don't deserve you. 

The feathered snores tell him you're finally asleep, and he thinks about resting for a moment as well—the bone-deep exhaustion he feels jetting from Iceland to home, to the hospital catches up to him with a vicious kick to temples—but the weight in his arm keeps him awake. Hyperviligent. 

There's this urge clawing at him, making ruins of his chest, and he answers its worried insistence by opening his eyes just a sliver to stare down at the little bundle in his arms only to find she's staring back at him. Eyes wide. Comically too big for her chubby face. 

She has your complexion, but his dark curls. Her eyes, though, are the perfect equilibrium between pools of sapphire, burnt blue, marbled with the dark gleam, that vibrant shade of yours that he's so fond of, the one that's often accompanied by a smart-ass remark. Seeing it gaze up at him with such incipient adoration knocks the air from his lungs. Has his heart shuddering in the brackets of his chest. 

It's love, he thinks first. Instantaneous. Apodictic. And then, cold, callous—

Chemical. 

Just to hurt himself, maybe. Just to let it cut deep. Scar. Because as he stares down at her, he knows it doesn't matter. No amount of hatred, of anger, will ever rip her away from him. His daughter. His family. His.

Like her mother. The root of it all. The catalyst. The start. 

Shackled to this gaping chasm that devours endlessly, never satiated. Always starving. 

Needy. Full of greed. 

Because even now he covets. Craves. Muses to himself about how he can convince you to have another the moment the opportunity arises and you're healed. Whole. Aching for it. 

He wasn't joking when he said he wanted a football team. 

But for now—

The soft sighs you make in your sleep, ones that almost sound like his name, and the comforting weight of his daughter in his arms are enough to make the beast inside purr. Preening under its own conquest, its own victory of successfully turning your body into a home he can rest his weary head on. Sacrosanct. 

He looks at her, then, and feels the dread ease into pride. Into elation. An emotion he knows should have come first, but it's here now, and that's all that really matters.

“Gonna be trouble,” he grouses, watching her pink mouth gape wide, blood-red maw grinning up at him in delirious glee only babies can imbue. Unhindered by the ruination of the world around them. Unfettered. 

Something he couldn't protect you from, but knows you're both on the same wavelength when it comes to her. At all costs, you'd said, hand against the burgeoning swell. And he kissed you until he couldn't feel his lips anymore. Until all he tasted, all he knew, was the taste of you.

“Of the best kind, though, mm?” 

In response, she coos. And he hews the sound into his chest where it sits beside the brand of when you first said, i love you, too, John. 

So, he relaxes. Whispers soft, conspiratorily. "Think you might need'a brother, mm? What'd you say about that?"

And she giggles.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Dawn Chorus - Masterlist

Dracopia x Fallen Angel!Reader

When you question the Almighty for a third time, you find yourself on the run and escaping a horde of wrathful angels ready to punish you for your insolence. Whose garden should you fall into than Cardinal Copia’s? And he has more nefarious plans for you.

Masterlist ⛧ Ao3

Commissioned by anonymous.

As this fic is quite dark, I'm choosing to rate it 21+. Please respect my decision. Thank you.

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Commissions are closed.

Words: 67.7k.

Reading Time: 4 hours and 48 minutes.

Warnings: asshole!Copia,attempted execution, blood, blood drinking, blood extraction, blood syphoning/collecting,biting, body control, body horror,brief mentions of the past trauma the angel went through, including the harrassment and torture - but other than that chapter V is pretty chill, caging a living being,Catholic guilt, corruption kink,cum swap, cunnilingus, detailed aftermath of war, detailed deaths of children, detailed grief, detailed pain, divine voyeurism?, drunk!Copia,dry humping, face sitting, falling from heights, feelings of abandonment,fellatio, finger sucking, forced sexual activity,free use fantasy, frottage, gaslighting, graphic depictions of thanatophobia, graphic (yet brief) descent into madness, graphic injuries,irrelevant character death,masturbation, mentions of conversion therapy, mentions of death, mentions of death by sun exposure,mentions of experimentation on living things,mentions of fellatio, mentions of femicide, mentions of homophobia, mentions of sexual abuse within the church, mentions of stoning, mentions of rape, mild degradation, mild sexism, mild sexual harassment?? (there’s nothing inherently sexual about what he’s doing, but it is uncomfortable and I wanted to tag it just to be safe), near-death experiences, needles, nipple play, non-consensual rituals, non-consensual sexual activity, objectification, pillow humping, praise kink, protected sex, references to non-con, references to rape kink, references to somnophilia, religious disillusionment, religious trauma,restrained with ropes, rituals, self slut shaming, semi-public masturbation, sexual harassment,slut shaming, soul modification, spit as lube, suggestion of sexual assault (but nothing happens), taking advantage of innocence,this may be the horniest thing I’ve ever written, tied with ropes, torture, use of needles, use of the word “bitch” unkindly, vaginal sex, violence.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

Copyright © 2024 by her-satanic-wiles

No bound copies, translations, or other derivative works of this publication may be created or distributed without express permission from the author, for monetary gain or public use.

[letitbehurt]

Fav injury and why? Eg, broken bones, stab wound, burns, cauterization, gun shot wounds, torn ligaments or tendons

I do love a good stab wound, but my favorite type are the injuries that last. The ones that require Whumpee to change the way they live their daily life. For example:

Impaired vision or hearing. Whumpee needing glasses, contacts, eye/ear surgery or a hearing aid.

Scars, left anywhere that isn’t easy for Whumpee to hide—their face, their hands, their neck, their arms—so Whumpee either has to get used to strangers staring or to wearing sweaters during summer (maybe they can get tattoos to cover it, if they don’t hate needles, but inking scar tissue hurts).

Bodily aches; migraines, or a bad knee that gets worse when it’s cold. Whumpee needing medication or a cane for days when the pain is unbearable.

Nerve damage, specifically in Whumpee’s hands. They can’t write as well as they used to (if they can write at all), and their hands shake too badly when they try to do anything that requires dexterity or precision. There may be a permanent numbness to nearly everything they touch. At times, this can frustrate them to the point of a breakdown.

Speech impediments. Whumpee might have gained a stutter or a lisp (maybe even a permanent rasp) as a result of their trauma/injury. Even if they can afford speech therapy, it frustrates them to need it when speaking used to come naturally.

Phobias or PTSD. Whumpee may likely develop an aversion to objects/situations related to their initial trauma—avoiding certain foods, certain places, certain sounds, certain smells—and can have an intense reaction to triggers.

These sorts of injuries are favorites of mine because they have a lasting effect on Whumpee’s life. They’re a personal battle Whumpee often faces long after their initial trauma occurred. When these injuries are written with sensitivity, respect, and necessary research, they’re my favorite sort to read about. Hands down.

[bedtimescenarios]

"I know"

CW: non-con touch (not sexual), gun, needles (minor warning), sedative, use of pet names, and I think that's it? let me know if i need to add anything else

As the elevator doors opened, Whumpee started walking through the familiar hallway until they reached their apartment, a wide, genuine smile spread across their face. They hadn't spent a night out in a long while, but, as the therapy sessions were going better and they were finally healing, Whumpee decided it was finally time to start going into the world again.

They grabbed the keys from their pocket, turned them in the lock and gently pushed the door open. Still smiling, happily relieving the memories of that night, they closed the door, locked it, and threw the keys on a shelf. They reached to their right to turn on the lights.

The lights turned on before their fingers got to touch the switch.

As they turned around, Whumpee's heart skipped a beat. On their couch, Whumper sat comfortably, her lips forming a smug grin. In her hand, a gun, which she held lightly, as if she wouldn't even need it. Whumpee stepped back, their eyes wide, their smile completely fading. Their back brushed against the door. The one they had just locked.

No, no. This couldn't be happening.

Not again. Not when they were finally getting better.

"Welcome, Whumpee." She said, eyeing them up and down. "You look beautiful."

They frantically looked around, calculating an escape route. Going back through the front door wasn't an option. Even if Whumper wouldn't use her gun, she would reach them before they got to unlock the door. But maybe, just maybe, they could reach the balcony in their bedroom, on the other side of the apartment. Lock the bedroom door, gain time to call the cops. Jump, if it was necessary. Anything would be better than going back with her.

It was a long shot, but they tried anyway.

They took off running, fast, toward their bedroom. They knew something was wrong when they heard Whumper's steps. Her pace was slow, she wasn't running after them. But still, they brushed it off as her arrogance and slammed the door shut.

They only noticed the missing chunk of the door when they tried to lock it. The lock had been sawed out along with the doorknob.

"What the-"

Before they got to finish, the door flung open and they fell hard onto the floor. They scrambled backwards and propped themselves up on their forearms, looking up at the doorway in horror. They knew it was no use trying to get up, as they would only get pinned down.

Whumper tsked, but the corners of her lips were still turned upward. This was amusing for her.

She put the gun on a high shelf, approached Whumpee and crouched down to their level. "Now, now. I know you, Whumpee. I knew you'd try this ever since I saw your apartment's layout for the first time."

She'd been in their apartment before?

Breathing heavily, Whumpee tried sliding away from her more, but was stopped by a hand on their back. Smirking, Whumper sat on top of them. Whumpee's eyes filled with tears as they realized there was no way out at that point. They were going to be taken back there.

She started brushing her fingertips across their back, causing them to shiver. The grin on her face grew. She was loving this.

"I told you you looked beautiful. Don't you know it's impolite to ignore a compliment, Love?"

"Fuck you", they spat.

Her smile dropped a little, her blue eyes turning a cold gray. Her hand moved up their back, to the back of their neck... and, before Whumpee managed to pull away, to their hair. Tilting her head, she grabbed a chunk of it. Whumpee couldn't help a whimper escape their lips as Whumper pulled hard on it, tugging their whole head backward.

She leaned over. Her lips lightly touching their ear, she whispered "We'll see about that attitude of yours when we get home."

home

"I'm not going back there. I'd rather die." Whumpee protested before they could stop themselves. But it was true. They would rather die.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe.

"...I know."

Whumpee froze.

Struggling under her was useless as she easily poked their neck, releasing the liquid that was in the syringe.

The last thing they felt before passing out were arms wrapping around them, carrying them out of the apartment.

[diamondintherioux]

9/5/24

6 months post op

Well ladies and gentlemen, we made it. Six. Months. Post. Op. Wow. What a journey it has been. I feel like I’ve lived 3 different lives.

This new body has given me what I always knew I had, shape. Real feminine shape that makes clothes actually fit my body. It’s crazy to think how diet and exercise truly couldn’t give me this body. I feel like I’m a butterfly floating through life. My jean size is smaller than what I wore in high school (granted I do think sizes are “bigger” nowadays.)

It’s peak* week for me because next week I’m leaving for vacation but I’m already thinking about what I’m going to do when I come home. For the past decade, every winter no matter how hard I try I always gain 10 lbs lol then I spend the spring and summer trying to lose it. Rinse and repeat. This year will obviously be different. I have a plan. When I come back I’ll be wearing my faja 12 hrs a day (basically to curb my appetite from the compression.) I will up my personal training 2x a week. I want to do private Pilates classes 2x a week. I bought a walking pad so no excuses to not get 10k steps but in the winter I want to aim for 20k steps a day. Half inside half outside. After that is my meal plan. Prioritizing protein and water intake. I’ve been slacking as per usual lol my lack of protein amps up my sugar addiction to supplement for my hunger lol I know it’s not funny and actually fucked up. I blame my mother for not cooking when I was younger and subsequently not teaching me.

In addition to fitness and nutrition I need to unclutter my mind. I have wayyyy too much stuff. Clothes, shoes, bags. I’m going to do a fall cleaning and donate everything. Even the designer stuff. I have to make a promise to myself; no more secondhand shopping. I get it, trust me, more than anyone how “good” it is for the environment. But I do believe there is a spiritual aspect to it that is negative. Bringing someone’s thrown away trash (essentially) into your scared space, onto your body. It’s bad. I’ve been thrifting / vintage shopping since 2011 and let me tell you I’ve accumulated so much shit lol it’s just not fun. Yeah you’re saving a buck but who gives a fuck? lol in the grand scheme of things when you get older you won’t want another person’s trash. Trust me. There’s a reason why rich people always remodel the homes they buy.

Beauty maintenance also starts in the winter. Stringent morning and nighttime routines. Red light therapy. Facials. Chemical peels. Micro-needling. Lasers. Lymphatic massages. I really want an eyebrow lift. I was thinking about getting an eyebrow transplant but I think an eyebrow lift is the way to go. Investing in your body > clothes/bags. Trust me

To circle back, this new body has changed my life. My job is to now maintain it and make sure it only gets better. You work out in the winter to show off in the summer. Next summer I want to be on a super yacht off the coast of Italy in the tiniest Brazilian bikini known to man. I want to take a photo 1 year post op and see how much I’ve changed. I want to lose 10lbs and then I truly think I’ll be happy (I swear I’m not crazy)

It’s so wild going from a size 6/8 to a 2/4 lol plastic surgery is so worth it if you do it slow, go to the best, and make tweaks

*peak week entails

Mani + pedi

Hair Botox

Brazilian wax (will get laser when I get back)

Eyelash extensions

Facial

Due to the location I going to I’m not getting a spray tan but that would usually be on the list.

[acorpsecalledcorva]

Issue I'm dealing with right now is a great example of why I hate people who push the "DID isn't a disorder it's an uwu quirky super power" idea. (Obviously no shade to those who view their own system hood as a net gain but I see people treat 'disorder' or 'maladaptive' as dirty words in general and I find it really demeaning to those who do struggle, myself included obviously, as though it's just a matter of perspective and I just need to turn that frown upside down 🙃)

TW for needle stuff under the cut

So being trans and chronically ill, I have to get blood tests, like, a lot of blood tests. I also use estradiol injections as my primary HRT method. So needless to say, needles are a huge part of my life and healthcare. A couple years ago this was completely fine, I just stare off into space for a 20-30 seconds and it's over before I know it. I dissociate. Very useful skill, been great all my life yay no fear of needles I'm a big girl with my big girl sticker (bandaid).

The last couple years however, things started to go a bit wonky, I've started to pass out during blood tests. I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine and then suddenly the lights go out and I come to with a very apologetic and worried nurse. This led to one hospital visit where I needed to get several tests and so they put a cannula in my arm. Oh boy my brain did not like that solution, my wolf alter fronted and needed to be actively prevented from ripping it out with her teeth.

With my estradiol injections however, something different started happening. I do them weekly on the same day, Thursday, and first I would keep "forgetting" to do them. No Biggie, though, would just do it the first opportunity I remembered to. Then, I started drinking. Every Thursday, without fail, I would remember to do my shot and realise I've been drinking alcohol without even thinking of it. I was getting sabotaged.

Then last week, things got stepped up a gear. After administering my shot it hurt much more than usual. The next day, my jeans waistband was pressing on the bruise(?) and rather than just feeling ow, I started panicking. Every time I would move in a way that hurt it I would instantly be filled with dread. Dread that I had been stabbed and was going to pop my stitches.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, I've been having nightmares about needles getting stuck in my veins and needing to squeeze them out like zits.

So why is all this happening? Because of the dissociation. My brain relied so heavily and readily on dissociation as a coping mechanism for all this needle business, that it became a trauma. All those repeated chronic minor routine events, by not being integrated due to such an inherent tendency to dissociate are bouncing around in my subconscious and upsetting the system.

As such, protectors and persecutors are getting royally pissed off, because it keeps happening, and I keep doing it to myself. They're screaming out at me to stop doing this absolutely horrendous horrible life threatening thing because being mostly locked inside they don't actually understand why I need to do it. They don't care about the outside world, they just care that I'm repeatedly triggering parts of the system and want it to not happen anymore.

This is so endlessly frustrating for me, because I had no issue with needles whatsoever. Everyone else I know who has issues with needles gets exposure therapied into being fine, but for me? I get new trauma from things that shouldn't and wouldn't have been traumatic if it wasn't for my brain operating on automatic responses.

So yeah, fuck dissociation, all my brain homies hate dissociation and I'll bite the next person I see saying that it's inherently a positive force for good in everyone's lives that does it.

[thediktatortot]

I have this HC that after Billy is out of recovery/therapy, he starts smoking weed basically every day, becoming a bit of a coping mechanism for him.

Have this Billy pov sad whumpy thing I typed out while you guessed it, high.

~~~~~Billy Narrator~~~~~

It helps with pain, it helps with anxiety and depression, it helps with social situations and can help with appetite. All things he's now dealing with after his brush with the upside down.

Pain from losing parts of himself, literally, to a monster who used him like a walking meat puppet, sending him into his own personal hell he couldn't escape from and had no way of expressing his experience to anyone else.

With every person he encountered, he had hoped somehow, someone would see what was happening, that somehow someone might have gotten to know him well enough in this hick fucking town to have given a shit about how weird he was acting.

No one did.

It wasn't until El with her mind powers and his stupid fucking sister deciding to peep on him. It was pure luck they had even found out, he had basically avoided everyone in the house as much as he could leaving no real opportunities for the rest of his household to notice.

Max fucked off with her friends, Susan avoided the house just as much as he did and if Niel wasn't working, then he was watching TV or out with his new buddies from work.

No one was ever home if they couldn't help it, and when they were everyone stuck to their own rooms more often than not. No one *wanted* to see each other and Billy had liked it that way.

Now Billy can't stand being alone in rooms, but he also can't handle going out around too many people at the same time.

Then there's the pain, the soreness, the twinges and the burning nerve pain that feels like needles stabbing his skin. The accidental skin tugs as he doesn't move cautiously enough are enough to stop Billy from playing sports or even to work out, already lowering his completely decimated self esteem.

He hates himself and he hates everyone else. He hates Niel who's dropped out of his life about as thoroughly as he tried to keep Billy in his.

He hates Max for being just as stubborn as he was, he hates Susan for never sticking up for him, he hates how his life has been one big series of battles, thinking he would win eventually and end up on his own where he could choose his own life from that moment on and now he's fucking stuck in a 8x8 trailer bedroom.

He used to live near the beach.

It was gorgeous, it was fun, he had friends and even though he never really got along with Niel, things had been okay. But even that wasn't great, looking back now he can see the things he didn't see before; his mom's sad smiles, the occasional dinner that felt tense for no reason, the times when his mother would turn up the volume of her music to drown out the arguments they were having.

Billy's never really had a good life by normal standards and now it feels like he won't get it ever.

He's reliant. He's in pain all the time, he can't be around people and the thought of being naked in public has him shaking with anxiety.

The weed helps a little, loosens him up socially, dulls some of the more sharper pain and helps him to forget about his past for a little while.

Helps him eat too, not having had enough of an appetite to stomach more than water and maybe a fruit or two. There's a lot of things he can't eat now and it's all the monsters fault.

He hates himself because everything's different and a large portion of his life is now inaccessible to him, he *has* to change if he's going to live through this life, there's either only moving forward or...nothing, he couldn't imagine himself hiding for the rest of his life.

He hates the idea of that, the engrained need to have something important about himself, some skill he could show off or talent to use as a social weapon to gain social points.

Can't even give himself time to grieve the loss of his old way of life. He just, doesn't want to think about it.

The weed helps that too. Billy doesn't do much thinking anymore, not the deep kind, opting to fill his entire day with some form of stimulus, TV, music, walking, reading, cooking, cleaning, the list goes on.

The dull in pain helps him keep active but he always regrets it when he eventually comes down, feeling the ache in his body hit him like a ton of bricks all over again because he pushed himself too hard.

So yea, he's high a lot, he doesn't want to deal with his issues sober. Munson had tried to bring it up once, made a joke about selling most of his stuff to Billy but he didn't give him an answer, changing the subject.

He knew people could see something was up but no one knew how he'd react if they asked. He'd probably get upset at them and he knows it, he knows that if someone tries to get him to talk about it now that he won't be ready to explain it.

He's tired, and the freshness of it all is too much to handle just yet all at once, he needs time and he'll deal with it bit by bit.

[king-minyard]

Testosterone's Effects on Me (as of ~1yr)

I'm using gel instead of injected testosterone because I hate needles. My starting dose was 25mg (2.5g) of 1% gel daily, but it increased to 50mg (5g) daily after 3 months.

Effects I noticed immediately (w/in the first month):

Horny as hell. For the first week and a half, it hit like a truck, but after that, my hormone levels stabilized and I don't get exceedingly horny like that anymore unless I forget a dose or take it later in the day than usual.

Oily as fuck. For several months (and still, but to a lesser extent), I was incredibly oily and had much worse acne. Puberty 2.0 is an apt descriptor for this time; my face was similar to how it was during puberty, if a little oilier. Remember to exfoliate, but don't shell out for a bunch of new facial products until after about a year or so.

Effects I noticed later (that are done developing):

Voice drop. After I upped my dose, my voice started cracking something awful until I began doing vocal exercises every day. I really recommend that other transmascs do this. It'll help you stay in tune with your body and lessen cracking (by a lot), but be careful to stay within your comfort zone! My voice fully settled w/in a few months after I started having voice cracks. I'm in an a cappella group now!

No more periods! They were still happening more than 9 months after I first started testosterone and 6 months after I raised my dose (although they were lighter), but they stopped a month or two after that. I've been consistent with my dosage, and I haven't experienced any sort of bleeding since then.

Sleepy tears? I don't cry as much anymore, but when I'm sleepy, my eyes turn into miniature waterfalls. I don't know when this started, but they didn't used to do that.

More muscular. It's easier for me to develop and keep defined muscles now. I don't work out in the traditional sense, but I do physical therapy for my back, and I've gained weight in muscle, which is cool.

Effects I noticed later (that are still developing):

Facial hair. After my dosage was upped, I started seeing slightly darker hairs pop up around my upper lip. I have little whiskers now, but still no full stache or anything close to resembling a beard.

More body hair. Again, after I got my dosage upped, the hair on my thighs got thicker and there was more of it. I also started developing a happy trail around the same time! That fully grew in within a few months, but I'm starting to see hair in weird places, like the backs of my feet, so I assume I'm not done growing all that.

Bottom growth (clitoral enlargement)! The little guy got bigger! I'm not sure by how much because I didn't exactly measure, and I've been told that it's supposed to grow more in the coming months.

Increase in red blood cells. My blood tests from last time showed that my red blood cell count was higher than it should be, and I discussed changing my dose with my endo because of it. Pay attention to your body!

Pussy dry syndrome (vaginal atrophy). After starting testosterone, I'm more dry down there even when I'm aroused. I just use a lot more lube now, but if you're starting testosterone and begin experiencing pain or discomfort because of it, get that checked out.

More confidence in myself and my presentation. I'm growing into a body I love with the help of modern medicine, and it's fucking awesome.

[finagled]

life updates:

-house is listed

-got a job at bojangles today!!!

-my health is sooooo much better. im not throwing up anymore. my stomach feels fine. im sleeping great. the anti depressant is working. im gaining weight which is amazing

-wrt the last point, im pretty close to the weight i was at my heaviest in high school, and my point of view on it is completely different, which feels good. im okay with my growing tummy because i know im not malnourished now lmao and i have energy to do things. after being food insecure/too sick to retain nutrients for like 10 years, it feels good to like. be eating hahahah and to be chill w my body

-the testosterone is so much better for me in gel form. the injections always squeaked me out, even though i was doing sub q instead of intramuscular. im glad to not have to deal with needles anymore and its exciting to put on my dose every day. my period threatened to come this month but then it didnt, which i am so relieved about

-remy, our dog, is no longer having recurrent throwing up issues, which is such a relief!! he just turned 2 ^_^ he's been feeling so much better and hes been such a good boy!

-willow (our old bulldog) has been so good too! we used to have to separate the two because shes not used to other dogs (and in hindsight, i think bulldogs just interact differently....) but gates are down and theyre getting along just fine!

-idk what else!!! im happyish! therapy was a bust but the meds are helping

anyway ive been having a mikes hard and smokin a vape and just trying to relax this weekend before things really pick up!!!

looking forward to working finally so we have more money + im getting out of the house

:0) ty to whoever reads all of thissssssss you rock youre probably super awesome yeah

[ranger-rai]

Service 'mon question. Venonat and it's distant cousin the Paras line.

You'd be surprised how helpful a lot of bug types can be.

Many of them can produce silk and webbing, so some people use that for making clothes, but bug type silk is also very helpful in physical therapy.

They can be thick and stretchy enough to be used like resistance bands for people gaining use of their muscles again, and since they are natural fibers, they can decompose easily.

Venonat is pretty awesome for medicine and physical therapy because their fur can produce toxins, and they can be fastened into needles for acupuncture.

If you adjust a Venonat's diet, including more natural healing herbs, the toxins and their effects can change.

They are also very helpful at finding things with their unique eye structure.

They basically have a built-in radar, so military, police and especially search and rescue can make use of these guys. However, the use in violent activities has been universally deemed unethical for some time now.

Paras and it's evolution are widely known for their wide range of medical uses.

Their spores are incredibly powerful, but I won't waste time on that. If you wanna know more about that, check out my video right here!

On top of their medicinal use, these guys are excellent at decomposing, and a lot of people are happy when they appear in their gardens.

The rate they can decompose a compost heap is pretty impressive, so having one or two can really help your garden, and a lot of gardeners with arthritis find them super helpful for this and the medicine they can make to help.

[cnsmedspa]

Ageless Glow: Unveiling the Secrets of Medical Spa Advancements in 2023

The realm of medical spas has always been synonymous with innovation, blending the art of relaxation with cutting-edge medical procedures. As we step into 2023, the secrets behind the latest advancements in medical spa treatments are being unveiled, offering a glimpse into the transformative technologies and techniques that are shaping the future of wellness and aesthetics.

Advanced Technology for Skin Rejuvenation

At the heart of medical spa advancements lie the remarkable technologies that are redefining skin rejuvenation. In 2023, treatments like fractional laser resurfacing and micro-needling with radiofrequency are gaining prominence. These techniques stimulate collagen production and promote skin cell turnover, resulting in smoother texture, reduced pigmentation, and diminished fine lines. The magic lies in the precision of these technologies, which target specific areas with minimal downtime and discomfort.

Nanotechnology: Beauty on a Microscopic Scale

One of the best-kept secrets of 2023's medical spa advancements is the integration of nanotechnology into skincare and treatments. Nanoparticles, smaller than skin cells, are being utilized to enhance the delivery of active ingredients deep into the skin. From rejuvenating serums to targeted treatments for acne and scars, nanotechnology allows for more efficient absorption and more pronounced results, unveiling smoother, clearer, and more radiant skin.

Thread Lifts: A Non-Surgical Facelift Solution

The pursuit of a youthful appearance has taken a fascinating turn with the rise of thread lifts. This minimally invasive procedure involves inserting dissolvable threads under the skin to lift and tighten sagging areas, providing a natural-looking lift without the need for surgery. In 2023, thread lifts have gained popularity due to their ability to deliver subtle yet significant results, making them a well-kept secret among those seeking non-surgical facelift solutions.

Virtual Consultations and Telemedicine

The digital age has left its mark on medical spa advancements, revealing a secret that is reshaping the way individuals access consultations and advice. Virtual consultations and telemedicine have become integral parts of the medical spa experience in 2023. Clients can now connect with skincare experts and medical professionals remotely, receiving personalized recommendations and treatment plans without having to step foot into the spa. This not only enhances convenience but also expands access to expert advice.

Integrative Wellness Programs

Wellness has transcended the boundaries of physical health, encompassing mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. Medical spas in 2023 are embracing this holistic approach by offering integrative wellness programs. These curated experiences combine advanced treatments with mindfulness practices, meditation, and nutrition guidance. The secret lies in the harmonious balance these programs offer, addressing the interconnected nature of well-being.

Regenerative Hair Therapies

Hair restoration has taken a leap forward with the introduction of regenerative therapies in medical spas. Platelet-rich plasma (PRP) treatments, combined with micro-needling or injections, stimulate hair follicles and promote growth. The secret behind the success of these therapies lies in harnessing the body's natural healing mechanisms to address hair loss and thinning, offering a discreet solution that boosts confidence.

Sustainable Beauty and Ethical Practices

In 2023, the secrets of medical spa advancements extend beyond treatments to encompass ethical practices and sustainability. Medical spas are increasingly adopting eco-friendly approaches, from using cruelty-free products to implementing waste reduction strategies. Clients are now privy to the secret of aligning their wellness journeys with their values, supporting establishments that prioritize both personal transformation and environmental well-being.

Mindful Aging: Embracing Graceful Transitions

A noteworthy secret within the medical spa landscape of 2023 is the shift toward embracing mindful aging. Clients are seeking treatments that enhance their natural beauty and allow them to age gracefully. Rather than attempting to reverse the passage of time, medical spas are offering treatments that highlight individual features and promote self-confidence at any age. The secret here is not to erase lines but to enhance the stories they tell.

In conclusion, the secrets of medical spa advancements in 2023 reveal a fascinating fusion of technology, wellness, and personalized care. From the utilization of nanotechnology to the integration of regenerative therapies and the embrace of sustainable practices, these secrets underscore the industry's commitment to holistic well-being and transformative experiences. As individuals seek the perfect blend of relaxation, rejuvenation, and innovation, medical spas stand as gateways to unveiling their most radiant and revitalized selves.

[rivertalesien]

Crappy Political Prediction:

I don't think Trump will be president again. I don't know if he'll end up in prison before the election or after, or at all, but I don't think a second term is in his future. I think the GOP is going to pivot to maintain power *and* calm some of the extremist shit around them (while not actually doing anything). Business is business and it's not hard to see with the number of strikes going on, that there's a massive mood shift away from far-right politics in this country. In spite all of their gerrymandering propaganda BS, the fascist views of the GOP are not popular nor widely-held and they know it. They'll switch tactics as necessary. If they can't force the country to accept their neo-nazism, they'll just keep the downward slide going.

DeSantis isn't a viable candidate: he's off the rails, but he's a useful tool. They'll let him carve Florida out and use it as their lesson to the rest of the country. RFK jr is an ego-driven distraction. That really leaves one guy out there and the grooming has already begun.

The media is already depicting Mike Pence as this moral guy who stood up to Trump. It's pure bullshit, but it's the narrative they're going with. Set between the two extremes of Trump and DeSantis, Pence seems like a calm elder statesmen, a "principled conservative" and another Reagan in the offing.

Biden has dug himself into too many holes: his stand on migrants, the massive failures over Covid (putting the economy before people's lives and insisting we all return to in-person jobs that can be done from home is ableist af and disrespectful to the million-plus who have died in this country alone or the millions now suffering with long Covid), the blind support for Israel as some of the worst of its apartheid policies are widely condemned; the country is under massive labor strikes on his watch as he refuses to support raising the federal minimum wage during an economic depression where gas and grocery prices are overwhelming people, especially families, and assistance is even harder to get. He's barely visible to the public and doesn't speak to the country much at all. This just fuels rumors of his competence (also ageist and ableist, but we're talking perceptions here and how the media will use them against him. Tends to work).

Oh, and he still hasn't declared a climate emergency during one of the worst years of extreme weather we've seen so far.

Yes, he's put more progressive judges on the bench, but he's failed to expand the Supreme Court to counter their deep corruption. This is nonsensical. As the invasion of Ukraine continues, the cost of sending military aid balloons and that creates mistrust the GOP will happily exploit (and Putin will applaud).

Biden is in his 80s during a time when elder politicians like Mitch McConnell and Dianne Feinstein are being clearly abused for political gain. The GOP continues to rub his son Hunter's runaway capitalism in his face, even as they can't make anything else stick.

Pence is 64 and gets around.

He's also notorious for his evangelical beliefs that led to some of the worst anti-LGBT legislation in Indiana's history. He supports the end of public schooling, tried pushing "creationism" against science in public school curricula and has promoted conversion therapy.

Pence supports the coal industry and has shown no interest in the climate crisis or offering any solutions for it. While governor of Indiana, he worked against any plans to curb carbon emissions.

His tenure in Indiana saw a return to HIV outbreaks thanks to Pence's stand on needle exchange programs. His views couldn't be more anti-LGBT.

He's pro-gun, anti-public health, anti-abortion. But he's also fairly soft-spoken about it all and easily flipflops his positions when its convenient.

A quiet fascist, in other words.

He enabled Trump's worst behaviors and actions, including the assassination of an Iranian general, lied to and misled the people throughout the remainder of Trump's presidency over Covid and its effects, and still got called a "decent guy" by Joe Biden.

It will be fairly easy for the press to spin Pence as a victim of Trump and even heroic for "standing up to" the orange menace (but only when politically expedient), whose followers called for Pence's execution following the events of January 6, 2020. He'll be touted as a moderate, an antidote to Maga-extremism and the worst of his own beliefs and actions will be suppressed and conveniently shoved under a rug.

Since at least 2022, Pence has been positioning himself as this moderate voice, assailing the GOP's stance on Putin, while doubling down on his stance for "parents rights" -- the anti-trans dog whistle. He's old-school GOP, playing nice with Dems, while subverting democracy the way they used to do it: in the dark.

He and Biden are almost weird mirrors of the other, but Pence is the younger version.

Dems might be hopeful that Pence will be so divisive a candidate for the GOP that Biden will prevail over that alone. Liberal political analysts love suggesting the GOP will follow Trump right into the ground. I don't think so.

I think Pence could very well be their not-so-surprise candidate.

Half this country is perfectly fine with the far-right's turn to explicit fascism. The GOP will want to put a polite face on it.

Biden and the perpetually unseen Harris will have nothing to offer against it. He coasted into the Dem nomination without doing a thing and they'll try to coast again, thinking the country is sick of the GOP and Trump. Maybe they'll be right, who knows.

But they're not inspiring people to rush out and vote for them, is the point. Dems and their lack of energy and momentum toward dealing with the climate crisis and burgeoning fascism is a real problem. It is *the* problem. It makes them look more like enablers.

People showed up in unprecedented numbers to vote Trump out; they didn't have any choice over the Democratic candidate, but I don't know anyone who was truly enthusiastic for Biden. There's the odd blue maga out there who tries to spin it, but it's hard when the man himself reneges then futzes on his campaign promises, like student debt. Hard to spin him as a good president when he offers gas and oil contracts while the world's science community is screaming over tipping points and globally we are experiencing the last step toward the wet bulb moment.

Pence could mop the floor with him.

And that's when fascism becomes "respectable" and not an "extremist" position.

Because demoralized Dems might stay home next year (listen to Black folks on this one). But the GOP won't.

Organizing against this system is the only way forward. Dems won't get us there.

You want change? Support unions, support strikes and vote in every local election to put progressives on school boards and energy boards and every other community organization, including libraries.

This is where the big differences are made: a progressive community can stand against its would-be oppressors. There are more of us. We need to act like it.

[bibookmerm]

getting my shit together

Ok, first of all: there are several skills I lack that it is becoming apparent I need to learn/improve.

One is driving. My wife and I are looking to get our first car. She needs it for work. She drives. Our roommate drives. But I dont. And I was just talking to my friend about how we can never get our friends together bc most of us dont drive/dont have cars. We need more gays that can drive, so I have to step up, lol.

Two. I need to feel confident hand sewing. It's not that I "cant". I know how to thread a needle and do a backstitch, running stitch, whip stitch. But I am very slow bc I havent had much practice, so it annoys me, so I avoid it. I have a dozen little fixes I could do and I should do those. People who sew regularly can do these things in like 10 seconds. I wanna be them.

Three. I need to learn to swallow pills BEFORE my top surgery in March so I dont have to be like "do u have liquid painkiller 🥺" because what if they're like "no". And also, needing an alternative is pricey. (this is something where I believe my disability comes in. Coordinating my muscles in new ways OR more quickly than usual is difficult for me. Like of course I swallow food every day, but normally I take my time chewing first, so to place something in my mouth and quickly swallow it feels daunting. That's the best way I can explain it. Just feels like a different ball game lol. My pcp gave me a trick to try, so I will try it.)

.

The other thing is, I am at a level of stress I personally find untenable. I am not wading through any major personal tragedy at this moment, so honestly I feel kinda like. Damn. Why is ~everything so hard~? Am I being dramatic? What happens when shit truly hits the fan if I am already unstable now? Well, I clearly need to put some measures in place now so I can tread water.

Such as:

Establishing a baseline level of cleanliness/clutter for the apartment. Aim for everything to be above that baseline most of the time, but understand sometimes it will sink to that level when something else must be prioritized above household chores for a minute. In its current state, I'm embarrassed to invite anyone over here. I want the baseline to be just, what I could deal with someone seeing. If I don't feel comfy having someone sit at my kitchen table or couch for an afternoon, it's too messy. I need to specifically write down the "acceptable level", get it up to that, and keep it there/above. This could also be a conversation with my wife and roommate to be clear on what everyone defines as acceptable and all work to keep it at whoever's ideal is highest.

Buying some wardrobe staples. My clothes not fitting is uncomfortable. I expect to gain more weight as I stay on T, sooo I should get some stuff that's a little loose now?

I've noticed I need more gender validation. I get misgendered constantly, working two public facing jobs, and I've started thinking some self depreciating thoughts. Maybe I need to work harder to counter these things within myself and not seek it from others, but yeah, this is one reason I need therapy. I had such a positive self image like a year ago and I'm losing it :/

Challenge my social anxiety. Another thing it's a good idea to have a therapist's guidance in. I feel so overwhelmed that I forget quality time with friends helps me recharge! I need to balance draining peopleing with healthy peopleing.

There's more, but if I can do this much, the stressors I cannot change should be easier to bear. Now to actually go set all the things in motion.

[duskwoodgirl4life]

Resquesting something to make me feel some type of comfort. Jake x f!reader where she just starts coughing and then her whole body shakes and she can’t moves her legs, fingers or cheeks cause it hurts a lot? It happened to me today I had to get carried to the urgency’s and they did some stuff on me so I got better and I can move again but the reason it happens was a mix of allergic reactions because of some meds I was taking because I was coughing a lot and I had a anxiety attack and couldn’t breath correctly. If you could come up with Jake being by her side or something trough it I would love to read it! (I’m horrible at any medic terms) but they used a needle on my forearm so I would connect to a liquid with medication and it was going to my body. After 20 minutes I started to feel my hand getting better. When it was all in my gains I could fully move again. They removed it, I got called by the doctor again and they said to not take those meds again and go back to therapy which I was skipping for 3 weeks now 😭 anyways I know this is a LOTTTTTTTT but I just need some comfort after all this happened (by the way I got orange bracelet which means I could get attended quicker cause I was full on not moving and breathing really weirdly because of the attack)

Hi annon,

I am so sorry you had to go through all that I hope you are feeling better, it must of been a scary time for you. I wish you a speedy recovery and hope that you are doing well my inbox is always open if you ever need to talk.

I've come up with something that I hope you love.

Please Help Me…..

Jake's POV

Today I was going to see MC for our 5th date. She invited me to her apartment for dinner. I love her cooking. The amazing smells that come from the kitchen when I enter her apartment are out of this world. We have slowly been seeing more of each other. I love spending all my free time with her. As I get closer to her apartment I can smell the different flavors coming from the kitchen. A small smile breaks out on my face and a warm feeling spreads throughout my body. I softly knock on the door and wait for MC to open the door. After a few moments of waiting I start to get concerned so I take the key she gave me out of my pocket for emergencies and open the door.

I start to shout MCs name but she doesn't answer me back, I walk towards the kitchen and see her laying on the floor. I rush over to her and check her pulse. It's so weak I can barely feel it. I quickly take my phone out and dial 999. I stay on the phone with the operator and they tell me what to do while I wait for the ambulance to arrive. I started CPR. It felt like a lifetime waiting for an ambulance to arrive but I kept on doing CPR. Finally MC starts to breathe and coughs badly. "It's okay MC I'm here the ambulance will be here soon" MC looks at me full of concern and worry. "Jake I-i can't move please help me" a tear fell from MCs eye as she lay on the floor.

Moments later the ambulance arrived. I stood back while they worked on MC, they placed her onto a stretcher and took her to the waiting ambulance outside. Once in the ambulance I sat next to her and held her hand the whole way there. Her breathing was shallow but she was hanging in she was always a fighter. We arrived at the hospital and a team of nurses and doctors were waiting. They took MC into the hospital and started to work on her. They put an IV into her and gave her fluids and other medications I wasn't allowed to go in but I could see everything.

My heart felt like it had been ripped apart seeing her like this broke my heart, i wanted to rush over to her and hold her hand kiss her on her soft lips. I was forced to stand and watch while the doctors and nurses worked on her. After half an hour of waiting one of the doctors came over to me and said I could go in and see her. "She's woken up and is doing well" the doctor could see the worry and concern in my eyes. "What happened to her? Will she be okay?" "I've sent her blood work off and we will know in the next hour" the doctor gave me a reassuring smile and I walked over to MCs bedside.

"MC, I'm here baby everything is going to be okay I promise I won't leave your side" I take hold of MCs hand and hold it in mine. "Jake? I'm so scared, please help me" tears began to flow once again from MCs eyes. "Everything is going to be okay baby I won't let anything happen to you" I give MCs hand a squeeze as I sit down next to her not leaving her side for a single second. An hour had passed and the doctor came back with the blood work results "Hi MC how are you doing? I've got the blood work back and it's showed you have had an allergic reaction to one of your meds what we will do is take you off then right away and give you something to help counteract the other meds" I looked up at the doctor and I knew which meds he was talking about. "Will she be okay? When can I take her home?" "She will make a full recovery, I want to keep her here for a few more hours and then of everything is good she can go home" the doctor left as I looked at MC for the first time today I could see hope in her eyes.

"Everything is going to be okay MC, I can take you home in a few hours okay" MC looked up at me and gave me the most beautiful smile it warmed my heart" "Jake, thank you for everything you did I love you so much" MC took my hand and placed a soft kiss on it I couldn't help but smile. "I love you to MC and I would do it all over again if I had to. I won't let anything or anyone ever hurt you" "Jake, lay next to me" I couldn't resist that smile so I carefully and slowly climbed onto the bed and put my arm around MC.

A few hours had passed and everything was looking really good. MC was starting to get back to her old self again. "Right MC I've checked your charts and everything is looking excellent I think we can discharge you now" my face lit up at hearing the doctor's words I was so happy I could take MC home again.

I helped MC get dressed and made our way towards the waiting taxi, I helped her get in. I ran round the other side of the taxi and got in next to her. 20 minutes later we had arrived back at her apartment and we slowly made our way back into the building. I was so thankful for the lift I don't think MC could handle going up stairs. We entered her apartment. I helped MC into her bedroom and sat her down on the bed. "Jake, can you stay with me I don't want to be alone not ever" a tear fell from her eye it broke my heart to see her like this. "Of course MC, I told you I won't leave your side. I will stay with you for as long as you need" MC put her hand in mine and looked me in the eyes. "Jake, I was going to ask you this over dinner but then everything happened so I will ask you now, will you move in with me?" I couldn't help the smile on my face. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. "I'd love nothing more than to move in with you MC, I love you" "I love you to Jake"

A few weeks had passed and I had moved in with MC, she was now back to herself and was doing amazing. We had been living together for a few weeks and I loved every second of it. She is my everything. I don't know what I would do if anything happened to her. MC must have seen the concerned look on my face and came over to me and sat down next to me. "Hey, I'm okay I promise having you by my side means so much to me Jake I couldn't have gotten through to him without you" look up at MC with tears in my eyes I love this woman so much. She wrapped her arms around me and placed a soft kiss on my lips. "I'm not going anywhere Jake" "weather am I MC" we both shared a kiss and cuddled up on the bed together holding each other in our arms.

[infoblogify]

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