#its a disease why not make different strands of it

[bubu-pharmacy-doctor]

Pantalone stood infront of Baizhu, clearing his throat.

“Ah.. its so awkward.. Hmm.. Could you tell me something about DNA mutation, brother?” – Pantalone (-@themoneywasflowing)

[Despite his apprehension, upon being asked a topic of his interest, Baizhu quickly lit up, talking with his hands as he explained the topic, though not too in depth as to not confuse Pantalone too quickly.]

It's very common for people to think that all mutations happen in the DNA, are rare, and will always be noticed, but that's far from the truth.

Because DNA is degenerative and most mutations are substitutions, you undergo so many mutations without knowing.

Most of them occur during RNA synthesis, though because it's more likely a substitution it's unlikely there will be a frame shift, so only that codon will be affected.

Largely, it will not change the amino acid the codon codes for, so it will have absolutely no affect on the protein. Even if it does, there's still a chance it won't change the folding. If you change an amino acid with sulpher to a different amino acid with sulpher, you will still form a disulphide bridge, likely between the same two amino acids.

Even if it does cause a major change, that change will likely not have an affect on your body.

If one of your mRNA strands has a major mutation that changes the entire shape of the enzyme, that strand is only used once, it only makes on version of that broken enzyme, with the other strands taken from that same area of DNA not mutating and producing the functional enzyme, meaning there is such a little affect on the rate of reaction, that it causes no issue to your body because it's one singular cell that had that issue.

For the same reason, a lot of deletion and addition mutations won't have an affect.

It's realistically only an issue if it's a mutation in the DNA, which is much less common, because that is permanent in that strand of DNA, which again is likely to not cause a major issue because it will jsut be that one cell which means the only time it is definitively an issue is in meiosis because that will be the first strand of DNA in the embryo and every single one will replicate form that strand, which is how you get genetic diseases like cystic fibrosis.

...

Why are you asking about this?

[pikolswonderland]

GoBB: As Above So Below - How Givanium Works!

Hello everyone, in my next part in explaining my GoBB rewrite, I figured I should explain how Givanium and Genomes work here! So let’s jump on in!

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Givanium, also known as GV, is a mysterious extraterrestrial substance discovered on a meteorite sometime in the mid to late 60’s. It was discovered by a pair of university students, known as Uthman Adams and (NAME REDACTED). Shortly after discovering the strange substance, the two men decided to dedicate themselves to researching GV, keeping it a secret between them and a few fellow students and purchasing an old storage facility after graduating to perform their experiments on a much larger scale. These experiments being titled as “The Genesis Project”. The original focus of these experiments was to create humans with biological enhancements from animals, though these goals have changed over time. Givanium was named after the Latin phrase Gratiae Veritas Naturae, a phrase that (NAME REDACTED) held very dear to himself.

GV, in its purest form, appears as a iridescent black goo with a consistency and texture similar to slime or ink. Though it can change colours when exposed to certain conditions. Though what made GV notable and special was its affects on DNA. GV can, to put it simply, deconstruct strands of DNA without outright destroying them, then can reconstruct the DNA strands by combining them with other ones. Essentially, GV can basically simplify the process of DNA splicing, cleanly combining different pieces of DNA from entirely different genomes. When GV is used in this process, the GV does not become “contaminated” with the DNA it was exposed to, allowing the same batch of GV to be used over and over again without issue.

When an organism is created using GV, they have two main types of genomes, Primary Genomes and Secondary Genomes. Primary Genomes are the sets of DNA that make up the main structure and biology of the organism, while the Secondary Genomes are bits of DNA left to fill in the gaps and cause certain traits within the organism. An organism created using GV can only carry a maximum of three primary genomes and five secondary genomes, if any more than that is used then the organism will become too unstable and just die instantly. Also, just to clarify, the GV used to create the spliced organism is NOT considered a genome in the organism (neither Primary or Secondary), it’s just the binding agent for the genomes.

Unfortunately the process of DNA splicing using GV still comes with its consequences. The survivability of any organisms created with this process is very low, and even if a stable organism is successfully created, they often end up with many deformities and health issues. The most common of these side affects being chronic pain, tumours and other abnormal growths, low immunity to diseases, neurological disorders, difficulty with sight and/or hearing, and fertility issues. These side affects often become more pronounced when the genomes used in an organism originate from wildly different sources (Such as combining a mammal with a reptile). 

Due to these aforementioned issues, the focus of The Genesis Project changed from “Making biologically advanced humans using the DNA of certain animals” to basically “Throwing together wildly different genomes to see what the fuck happens”. Interestingly enough, this change of focus only happened shortly after the unfortunate untimely demise of (NAME REDACTED) in the early to mid 80’s, so this change of plans seemed to be initiated by Uthman Adams, alongside the idea of making a kindergarten to help fund The Genesis Project. Though this did spark a question within the other scientists, why a kindergarten? Well, in Dr. Adams words, nobody would suspect a kindergarten of all things would be secretly an illegal science facility, it’s the perfect coverup! 

Little did the other scientists know, Uthman was already making plans for his own secret project, a special plan for the future he called Operation Armageddon Friendship Day!

******************************************************

ɨʍ ɛȶɨǟʍ ɦɨƈ, ʊȶɦʍǟռ. քʊȶǟֆȶɨ ʍɛ ǟɮֆȶʊʟɨֆֆɛ, ֆɛɖ ɛʀʀǟֆȶɨ.

ɨʍ ʋɛռȶʊʀʊʍ ȶɛ ɨռʋɛռɨǟȶ, ɛȶ ʀɛɖɖǟʍ ȶɨɮɨ քʀօ ɛօ զʊօɖ ʄɛƈɨֆȶɨ ɨʟʟɨֆ. ʝʊֆȶɨ ɛʀǟռȶ ʟɨɮɛʀɨ, ʄɨʟɨɨ ʍɛɨ. ռɨɦɨʟ ɛֆ ռɨֆɨ ǟɛɢɛʀ ʍօռֆȶʀʊʍ ȶօʀȶʊօֆʊʍ.

ɨʍ ȶɛ ɨʍքɛȶʀǟȶʊʀʊʍ, ɛȶ ֆɨ ռօռ քօֆֆʊʍ, ֆƈɨօ ɨʟʟǟʍ ʄʊȶʊʀǟʍ…

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[guiltology]

GUILT: An Analysis and Treatment Guide

Gangliated means having ganglia, which are little densely-packed bundles of nerve cells. Utrophin is a gene. It's a component of the cytoskeleton, which is like a regular skeleton but for your cells. A cell-aton if you will. Immuno is easy, it just means dealing with the immune system. Latency is the stage where the virus is dormant. Toxins, as you probably know, are chemicals that disrupt the body’s functions.

Therefore, a Gangliated Utrophin Immuno-Latency Toxin (GUILT) is a set of dormant toxin-like artificial diseases that attack the immune system.

GUILT is unique among other organisms because it appears to be designed to almost target victims and then the people operating on them, ignoring its own self-preservation to harm as many people as possible before perishing.

Each strain most likely triggers a cytokine storm [1] which essentially makes the body attack itself, it's why the healthiest patients die the fastest due to their immune systems being strong enough to tear the body to shreds. Essentially what that does is makes the body's immune system attack itself, which would explain why GUILT hits hardest on people who are in the best health. The stronger your immune system is the more damage it can do to itself.

It comes in multiple different strains: Deftera, Triti, Tetarti, Pempti, Paraskevi, Savato, Kyriaki, and Bliss. [2] These strains, although sharing the same similar cytokine-activating effects, also have their own unique behaviors and infection patterns.

A common misconception about the Defera strain among doctors is its organism classification. Deftera, although appearing to be a virus that spreads through cells like several other types of GUILT, is in fact a fast-growing tumor. [3]

The Triti strain's calcification is caused by the buildup of calcium salts and is mainly caused by vitamin deficiency, or more likely, a disruption of the body's calcium homeostasis, leading to the buildup of calcified plaques.[4]

Tetarti infections cause a build-up of poisonous materials in the infected organ and require a steady hand and practiced memory to remove, as each tumor type only responds to a specific variant of antiserum [5] and reckless injections cannot be given.

Pempti manifests as a gelatinous mass on the affected organ. It is by far one of the hardest strains to cure with an incredibly high fatality rate, and surgery should only be attempted by a skilled doctor equipped with the Healing Touch [6] if possible. The scalar laser [7] should be used during treatment as a normal surgical laser will have no effect.

The Paraskevi strain is highly dangerous due to its infection pattern [8] and rapid movement. It burrows through organs until reaching the heart, and an infestation of the patient’s heart is almost always fatal. Therefore, removal should be attempted as soon as possible to avoid any casualties.

Savato causes a web of strands around the heart that need to be carefully cut with the scalpel. Use caution when releasing the heart from the webs, as any mistakes that lead to a puncture of the heart will most likely result in a fatality, and a skilled doctor should be chosen to perform this procedure to avoid unnecessary casualties.

Kyriaki creates serrations on the patient’s heart that if not treated lead to cardiac arrest. Quick treatment is crucial as treating the wounds created by Kyriaki causes the main virus body to emerge.

There are also four enhanced strains of GUILT known as Neo-GUILT that are used as illegal enhancement drugs. However, they are just as deadly as normal GUILT strains and should not be used as medicine. They include Nous, Sige, Aleithia, and Bythos.

It is believed that Nous enhances learning abilities; this would explain why its original host became brain dead. It causes severe cancerous tumors.

Bythos enhances bodily functions and motor skills. Bythos attacks with lacerations and creating internal hemorrhages. If Bythos's shell is shattered, it releases spores that protect the Bythos core until it can regenerate.

Sige enhances the speed and accuracy of the host's thought processes, allowing them to quickly learn. It also enables the host to use an artificial Healing Touch. When agitated, it causes internal hemorrhaging, along with a gas that is a harmless thick fog. While on the organ surface, Sige races and bounces across it, producing pus that causes inflammation. When it gets desperate, Sige also starts creating clones that, when attacked, create pus.

Aletheia halts the host's aging process, but when activated it spawns Aletheia-GUILT and Aletheia-Neo-GUILT to attack the host. Aletheia can regenerate itself via blood vessels.

The Twisted Rosalia superinfection, found in only one patient, is a superinfection resulting from a combination of post-GUILT syndrome and the Rosalia virus. Curing the Rosalia infection will remove PGS from the body.

The Rosalia virus is a Group V RNA virus of the Filoviridae family, and superinfections of Rosalia and GUILT are known to be highly deadly. Only one superinfection has ever been found and operated on by Doctor Erhard Muller with the help of his assistant Maria Torres.

FINAL NOTE: All strains of GUILT and or GUILT outbreaks should be reported to Caduceus immediately so further action can be taken. [9]

In the event of a suspected GUILT outbreak, run a Chiron test for chiral reactions. A result of G-1 to G-7 confirms infection.

Symptoms vary but can include: - Tumors - High fever - Lethargy - Mood swings - Internal bleeding - Lacerations - Polyps and diverticulosis - Fluid buildup in organs - Tissue buildup around the heart - Pus clouds - Inflammation - Suicidal ideation - Loss of inhibition - Brain death (in severe cases) -

[1] Cytokine storm and cytokine release syndrome are life-threatening systemic inflammatory syndromes involving elevated levels of circulating cytokines and immune-cell hyperactivation that can be triggered by various therapies, pathogens, cancers, autoimmune conditions, and monogenic disorders.

[2] Bliss is named differently due to being essentially an “origin point” for the other seven strains, and whose classification as a eighth strain of GUILT is hotly debated among scientists researching the pathogen.

[3] Treatment notes: Due to its nature as a tumor and not a typical virus, new doctors should be advised that extraction of Deftera GUILT is incredibly difficult as even a small piece of Deftera can reform into a new tumor colony. Intense care should be taken to avoid leaving any trace of GUILT in the patient, and the surgical laser should be used as needed to burn off any remaining pieces. Antibiotic gel can be used to "direct" Deftera colonies into clumps for easier removal.

[4] Treatment Notes: Calcium plaques created by Triti are most likely a result of GUILT-induced Vitamin K deficiency, and supplements should be administered to the patient after a successful removal to decrease risk of relapse.

[5] The color of the tumor should match the label of the antiserum used during treatment.

[6] The Healing Touch is a mystical power that is believed to have originated from the Greek god of medicine, Asclepius, and all users of this skill are believed to descend from him. It allows the user to perform superhuman feats while doing surgery, as well as giving the user medical knowledge.

[7] The scalar laser should be used with intense care as prolonged usage can cause irreparable damage to the patient’s tissue.

[8] Treatment Notes: Paraskevi cells are immune to scalpels at first and can only be cut and removed after treatment with the laser. Using scalpels before this point will only cause unneeded damage to the patient. Focus the laser on the infected cell’s tail for best results.

[9] Many cured GUILT hosts start to show symptoms years after infection, which have common characteristics such as toxicosis on the attacked organ and buildup of tumors. This was named Post-GUILT Syndrome or PGS for short. Keep a close eye on recovering GUILT patients to find and treat PGS before it becomes lethal.

[galaxygrv]

one of our best friends (online) is convinced we r chronically ill and disabled which. certainly makes sense. but its very awkward to imagine. we see posts being aggressive towards physically abled people all the time and we always considered ourselves abled (despite.. many different things saying otherwise) so its just. awkward. to imagine ourselves on the other side of the argument. feels like we're lying but we r most certainly not. (the same thing happened when we realized we were trans)

under the read more is talking about our symptoms and experiences w being (potentially) physically disabled i guess ?? :P

some days we are okay and with only minor incidents. the others, however, are SHIT. we can go from walking around the house and jumping around just fine to laying on the floor unable to get up properly within seconds. we get pretty severe joint pain at times + maybe mild POTS and also likely to get ddd (degenerative disk disease) at a point (if we dont already have it).

our back? constant pain. if we havent strained it and its been a few weeks then its just mild and Okay to deal with unless we move it wrong, otherwise we can barely get out of bed. and we strain it pretty damn often.

our knees/legs get the worst of the joint pain. it actually makes us unable to strand or even move them, plus its enough pain to cause a headache. it usually keeps up from walking, moving, thinking clearly, etc. and it happens most often at night/late afternoon. it sets in VERY fast (within about 10-20 minutes its at the max amount of pain) and doesnt leave for a while (around 12 hours). this isnt too often (around 1-2 times a month at its worst severity, the less severe times is just when we stand too long (more than 10 minutes at a time)) but its often enough to bother us significantly.

our headaches are pretty frequent, usually 3-4 times a week now. fucking sucks but 3-4 ibuprofen and an aleve if its really bad gets rid of it (most of the time. sometimes it doesnt go away until the next day, sometimes the pain meds dont even do anything !!!! wtf)

and oh fuck dont even get me STARTED on the dizziness, almost blacking out every single time we stand, our knees giving out when we stand a few times a day if we sit/lay down for too long (more than 30 minutes). this shit is daily and constant. and no, its not iron deficiency. we dont have any types of anemia and all our vitamins/vitals are good.

i think i get the "your tests came back all fine, nothing is wrong!" thing now. good god yeah i get it. we believed it for SO LONG but now it's just.... yeah bro theres something thats wrong can u just NOT ignore our obvious problems.

we have weird blood pressure shit (reminiscent of POTS !!!!!!) and same w our heartrate (its mostly at 110-120 at rest) but our doctors look at it and say we're perfectly fine and that its healthy.

anyways. yeah. we r losing our minds. whyyyyy us. WHY

[universalhairclinic]

How to Prevent Early Hair Loss in Men: Effective Treatments and Lifestyle Changes

Hair loss is a common concern among men and can significantly impact self-esteem and overall well-being. Male pattern baldness is the most prevalent form of hair loss in men. It affects approximately 50% of men over 50 and can occur as early as the late teens or early twenties.

However, with early prevention and the adoption of appropriate treatments and lifestyle changes, it is possible to slow down or even prevent premature hair loss in men. In this comprehensive guide, we will explore effective treatments and lifestyle modifications that can help men in Dublin, who have a higher risk of male pattern baldness, maintain healthy hair and prevent early hair loss.

A Closer Look at Male Hair Loss

What Causes Hair Loss in Men?

As mentioned earlier, male pattern baldness is the most common cause of hair loss in men. Also called androgenetic alopecia, it has a specific pattern of hair loss that follows a predictable progression. It typically starts with a receding hairline at the temples and/or thinning at the crown of the head.

The primary cause of male pattern baldness is a combination of genetic and hormonal factors. Genes inherited from either the mother or father can make hair follicles more sensitive to dihydrotestosterone (DHT), a hormone derived from testosterone. When DHT binds to the hair follicles, it can cause them to shrink over time, leading to progressively finer and shorter hair until they no longer produce visible hair shafts.

Other Factors Contributing to Hair Loss in Men

While genetics and hormones play a significant role in male pattern baldness, there are additional factors that can contribute to male alopecia. Hormonal imbalances, such as fluctuations in testosterone levels, can accelerate hair loss. Some health or medical conditions can also cause balding, such as alopecia areata, an autoimmune disease, and trichotillomania, an impulse control disorder.

Furthermore, certain lifestyle choices can also impact hair health. Smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, and poor nutrition can weaken hair follicles and contribute to hair thinning and loss. Additionally, some medications, such as those used for chemotherapy or treating high blood pressure, can have hair loss as a side effect.

Identifying Early Signs of Hair Loss

The Difference Between Normal Shedding and Excessive Hair Loss

Seeing strands of hair on your pillow or shower drain can be alarming. But experiencing hair fall doesn’t automatically mean you have male pattern baldness or other hair loss condition. This is why understanding the difference between normal shedding and excessive hair loss is crucial in identifying potential hair loss issues.

It is normal to lose around 50 to 100 strands per day as part of the natural hair growth cycle. However, if you notice an increase in hair fall or significant thinning, it could be a sign of excessive hair loss.

Pay attention to changes in the thickness of your hair, the widening of the parting line, or the visibility of the scalp. If you observe such signs, it is imperative to seek professional advice to determine the underlying cause and take appropriate preventive measures.

Common Indicators of Male Pattern Baldness

Male pattern baldness typically follows a specific pattern that can help identify its early signs. The most common indicators include a receding hairline and thinning hair on the crown of the head.

Initially, the hairline may recede from the temples, creating an “M” shape. Over time, the hairline may continue to move back, leading to a more pronounced forehead. At the same time, hair on the crown of the head may become thinner, resulting in a bald spot or partial baldness.

Self-Assessment Techniques for Detecting Hair Thinning and Receding Hairlines

Regular self-assessment of your hair can help you uncover early signs of hair thinning and receding hairlines. Additionally, using self-assessment techniques can help you monitor the progression of hair loss and take timely action.

So, what can you do to detect hair loss issues? Take a closer look at your hairline and compare it to old photographs to identify any changes. Look for signs of thinning, such as a more prominent forehead, a widening part, or a visible scalp through the hair. You can also gently run your fingers through your hair to check for excessive hair fall or notice if the texture feels finer than before.

Importance of Regular Scalp Examinations and Professional Consultations

In addition to self-assessment, scheduling regular scalp examinations with a hair loss specialist is essential, especially if you have a family history of male pattern baldness. These professionals have the expertise to evaluate your hair and scalp health, identify early signs of hair loss, and provide accurate diagnoses.

Moreover, they can determine the underlying causes of your hair loss and recommend appropriate hair growth treatments or lifestyle changes tailored to your specific needs. Remember, early detection and professional guidance play vital roles in effectively preventing and managing hair loss.

Lifestyle Changes for Hair Loss Prevention in Men

Hair loss can be a frustrating and emotional experience. But do not despair, as solutions are available to help you manage your alopecia.

While there is no cure for most types of alopecia – including male pattern baldness, several lifestyle changes can help prevent or slow the progression of hair loss.

Some of the most common lifestyle changes that can help prevent hair loss include:

Balanced Diet and Nutrition

A balanced diet that includes essential nutrients is crucial for maintaining healthy hair. Nutrients like vitamin A, B vitamins, zinc, and omega-3 fatty acids are particularly beneficial for hair health.

Vitamin A helps produce sebum, a natural hair conditioner. It can be found in carrots, sweet potatoes, and spinach. B vitamins, such as biotin (vitamin B7), support healthy hair growth and can be obtained from sources like eggs, whole grains, and leafy greens.

Meanwhile, zinc is essential for hair tissue growth and repair and can be found in oysters, beef, and pumpkin seeds. Omega-3 fatty acids nourish the hair follicles and scalp and can be obtained from fatty fish like salmon and mackerel, walnuts, and flaxseeds.

Ensuring you get enough of these nutrients into your diet can lead to healthy hair growth and prevent early hair loss.

Stress Management

Chronic stress can significantly impact hair health and contribute to hair loss. When you are under stress, the body produces cortisol, a hormone that can disrupt the natural hair growth cycle. Hence, managing stress effectively is essential for maintaining healthy hair.

So, consider incorporating stress-reduction techniques into your daily routine, such as meditation or mindfulness exercises. These practices can help calm the mind, reduce stress levels, and promote overall well-being.

Regular exercise is also an excellent way to manage stress, as it releases endorphins, known as “feel-good” hormones. Engaging in activities like walking, jogging, or yoga for at least 30 minutes daily can help reduce stress and support healthy hair growth.

Additionally, prioritising adequate sleep is crucial. During sleep, the body repairs and rejuvenates itself, including the hair follicles. Aim for 7-8 hours of quality sleep each night to ensure optimal hair health.

Hair Care Practices

Proper hair care practices can significantly impact the health and strength of your hair. Adopting a gentle approach to hair handling can help minimise damage and prevent traction alopecia and other forms of hair loss.

Avoid aggressive brushing, combing, or towel-drying, as these can lead to hair breakage. Instead, use a wide-toothed comb or a brush with soft bristles to detangle your hair, starting from the ends and working your way up.

Limit the use of heat-styling tools like hairdryers, curling irons, and straighteners, as excessive heat can damage the hair shaft. Allow your hair to air dry whenever possible, and if you must use heat, use a heat protectant spray and set the tool to a lower temperature. Similarly, reduce the frequency of chemical treatments like perming, relaxing, or colouring, as these can weaken the hair and make it more prone to breakage.

Choose hair products, including shampoos, conditioners, and styling gels, that are mild and free from harsh chemicals. Look for products specifically formulated to promote hair health and prevent hair loss. Taking these hair care practices into consideration can contribute to maintaining healthy hair and reducing the risk of early hair loss.

Effective Treatments for Hair Loss in Men

Apart from the lifestyle changes mentioned above, treatments for male alopecia are available in Ireland. These medications and procedures effectively slow down hair loss and/or promote hair growth.

Hair Loss Medications and Topical Treatments

Several medications and topical products have been approved for treating pattern baldness and other hair loss conditions in men. One commonly used treatment is a drug that works by widening the hair follicles, stimulating hair growth, and prolonging the hair growth phase. Widely available over the counter as a topical solution, this male hair loss treatment delivers noticeable results in six months.

Another medication used for treating hair loss works by inhibiting the production of DHT, the hormone responsible for shrinking hair follicles in male pattern baldness. This prescription drug is available in tablet form and should be taken as prescribed by a healthcare professional. It’s important to note that this medicine may have potential side effects, and it is recommended to discuss them with your healthcare provider before starting the treatment.

Other topical treatments, such as shampoos or serums containing ingredients like ketoconazole or saw palmetto, may also be recommended by your hair and scalp specialist to help promote hair growth and prevent further hair loss.

Hair Transplantation

Hair transplantation is a surgical procedure that involves transferring hair follicles from areas of the scalp that are resistant to hair loss (typically the back or sides of the head) to the thinning or balding spots. It is an effective and long-lasting solution for restoring hair density and improving hair appearance. The procedure is performed under local anaesthesia, and the transplanted hair follicles grow naturally in their new location.

Hair transplantation requires careful evaluation and planning by a qualified hair transplant surgeon. They will assess factors such as the availability of donor hair, the extent of hair loss, and the desired outcome to create a personalised treatment plan.

Laser Hair Growth Therapy for Male Alopecia

Non-invasive treatments such as low-level laser therapy (LLLT) can effectively stimulate hair follicles and promote hair growth. LLLT uses red light wavelengths to increase blood flow to the scalp, improve cellular metabolism, and promote hair growth. This treatment is typically delivered through specialised devices or combs that emit low-level laser light.

Laser hair growth therapy is a non-invasive procedure, which is why it has grown in popularity over the years. It is also more affordable than hair transplantation.

Seeking Professional Advice – A Must for Male Alopecia Sufferers

One of the biggest mistakes that hair loss sufferers make is diagnosing and treating their condition by themselves. Don’t make the same mistake!

Hair loss has many causes, and identifying the exact reason for the alopecia is key to successful treatment. Determining the cause of hair loss requires knowledge, experience, and tools. This is where qualified alopecia specialists come in.

Importance of Consulting a Hair Loss Specialist

If you are experiencing significant hair loss or want to explore treatment options, seeking professional advice from a specialist like a trichologist or a dermatologist is crucial. These professionals have the expertise and knowledge to evaluate your condition, provide an accurate diagnosis, and recommend the most suitable treatments based on your unique circumstances. They will consider factors such as the extent of hair loss, your overall health, and any underlying medical conditions to create a personalised treatment plan.

Available Treatment Options and Personalised Recommendations

During your consultation, the hair loss specialist will discuss the available treatment options and provide recommendations based on your specific needs. They may recommend a combination of treatments, such as medications, topical treatments, laser therapy, or hair transplantation, depending on the severity of your hair loss and your individual goals. They will guide you through the potential benefits and risks of each treatment option, helping you make an informed decision.

Researching Reputable Hair Loss Clinics in Dublin

When seeking professional advice for hair loss, it is essential to research reputable clinics in Dublin. Look for professionals with expertise in hair loss and a proven track record of successful alopecia treatments in men.

Reading reviews and seeking recommendations from trusted sources can help you make an informed decision. Additionally, consider scheduling consultations with multiple specialists to compare their recommendations and determine which aligns best with your goals and preferences.

In conclusion, preventing early hair loss in men requires a comprehensive approach that combines effective treatments and lifestyle modifications. By understanding the causes of hair loss, identifying early signs, and adopting healthy habits, men in Dublin can take proactive steps to maintain healthy hair and prevent premature baldness.

Remember, seeking professional advice is crucial for accurate diagnosis and tailored treatment plans. So, work with a trusted trichologist and embrace the opportunity to take control of your hair health and restore your confidence. With the right treatments and lifestyle changes, you can safeguard your hair and enjoy a fuller, healthier head of hair for years to come.

Do you have a family history of hair loss? Worried you may be suffering from male pattern baldness? Our trusted trichologist is experienced in preventing early hair loss in men! Call us now on +353 (0)1 679 3618 or click here to book your first consultation!

[wordsdrippinginink]

For a prompt maybe Marco/Ace? Featuring Ace having Hanahaki Disease towards Marco? 🙈💖

"You look exhausted," Marco says slowly, raising an eyebrow at the stack of papers that Ace slams down on his desk. "Did someone get sick?"

"I," Ace says tiredly. "Am coughing up flowers. Please remove them from my lungs. I've spent the last six hours trying to burn them out and failing horribly. Then, I did that," he gestures at the paperwork as he falls back into a chair. "I hate paperwork."

Marco hums, skimming the top page. There's a handful of flower petals taped to the sample square, but nothing to identify them, which meant that Ace hadn't recognized them. Which actually knocked a number of them out of the running, since Ace could identify anything with medical or nutritional value.

"If I missed something, I will throw myself into the ocean."

"Don't. Namur might just let you drown," Marco states, turning to the next page and skimming it curiously. "I thought you would have told me if you had fallen in love."

"Yeah, apparently magical flowers get to know I've fallen in love before I do. I didn't even get a chance to confess, not that it would change the fact you have to remove the flowers."

"There's still time, I don't have time to do this surgery for at least a few more days," Marco taps his pen against the date written almost too neatly as the start date. "You got this in faster than I expected."

"Flowers are not fun to cough up, Marco."

"Petals, you're not going to be too advanced by Wednesday. Think you can hold out until then?"

Ace frowns, eyes narrowing for a moment before he nods, "Unless I start coughing up whole flowers, I should be fine? It's just uncomfortable."

"I'll start running tests to see what strand you've picked up, but it's probably the same kind that I had to remove from Izou last month. When you figure out who it is, let them know. It's awkward enough having to watch those two dance around each other again because Izou had to bring home the kind that doesn't go away after confession and reciprocation."

"Yeah, it'll be fun," Ace rolls his eyes, standing up slowly to crack his back. "Hope you can convince me to fall in love with you all over again when Kotatsu still hates you."

Marco groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I am going to take your cat back to the island you got it from and have Thatch tell you it died."

"No you won't, you're going to try and trick him into helping you win me over a second time. And just think, now that I've had this strand, at least I won't be able to catch it again."

"Would have preferred that you never caught it to begin with," Marco yawns, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll make sure there's ice cream after the surgery."

Ace leans close, brushing a kiss to his temple, "At least we won't take as long to work things out as Shanks and Benn did. Poor Benn, catching a strand that actually erases the memories instead of just the feelings."

"Helps that you spit out an invitation for a date two days after officially joining the crew," Marco adds, tugging Ace down into a proper kiss. "Go arrange things. I'll be here."

"If you figure out what flower that is, let me know. I know it's not roses, but it's been bothering me."

"I'll let you know as soon as the results are back."

[snowdice]

Creased Hoodies (Chapter 1: Interrupted Summer Plans) [Folds in Time Universe]

Fandom: Sander Sides

Relationships: Logan/Virgil, Janus/Patton (background), Remus & Roman  (background)

Characters:

Main: Logan, Virgil

Appear: Patton, Roman

Mentioned: Janus, Remus

Summary: Virgil just wanted to go on his planned summer research trip to do an anthropological study in 2005 America. However, when he is taken off course by an unknown enemy, he ends up stranded in the summer of 2018 with no way to get back the the 44rd century. Luckily, 2018 happens to be where a certain illegal time agency is based, and he might have an in with one of its agents.

This is the intermission for the story Folds in Paper. It takes place between Folds in Paper Book 1 and Book 2. It also takes place after the first 5 chapter of “Messages for a Hacker” which are side stories in the universe. Check all of this and more out on my Folds in Time Master Post.

Chapter Summary: Patton meets someone at the farmers market.

Patton goes to the farmers market.

Notes: Time travel AU

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

Patton was a fan of the summer months which was why he was a little unhappy that he’d be missing a good chunk of them. Though, he guessed, he didn’t so much miss them as misplace them. He had stopped by to tell Roman and Logan what had happened with getting trapped in pre-history with Janus and why he’d be missing for a good chunk of time over the next few months to make up for it. He was staying with his now technically younger roommates for a week or two to recuperate before hopping forward a bit. He’d duck in for his mom’s birthday and his grandpa’s yearly fishing trip (Though Patton was of the opinion that he did not really want to eat fresh fish for a least a little while yet.) but would mostly be skipping forward a whole two months.

He’d land in early August which was still summer, but he’d miss most of June and July, and that was sad, but at least apples would be fresh around that time. Plus, fall was his second favorite season anyway.

Yet, for now, he got to relax a little bit back in late May. Logan had finished poking and prodding him to make sure he wasn’t sick with any really bad ancient disease yesterday, so he was officially allowed to leave the apartment. Since it was Saturday, he and Roman had decided to go grab some stuff from the recently opened Farmers Market.

Roman had gotten bored with the vegetable shopping and had split off to go look at the arts and crafts (and, knowing him, probably pastries) that the market had to offer, leaving Patton to finish up getting fresh ingredients for the week. He may have also been grabbing a little bit extra so he could make frozen meals at some point this week. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Roman and Logan to feed themselves in his absence, (Okay, well, he did not trust Logan and Roman often got distracted.) but he did want to leave something nice for them while he was away. He knew he’d missed them while he’d been gone.

He wandered down the main path through the market. Most days this was a side street off Main, but on Saturdays in the summer, it was blocked off to cars and hosted a large number of stands selling different things, mostly produce. In a small park off to one side, there was a live band set up and down the way a bit there were food trucks selling prepared food to people who got peckish while wandering the stands. He mostly tried to stay away from those because they almost exclusively sold unhealthy and overpriced food.

But gosh was it good food.

And Logan wasn’t here to stop him…

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to go have a look at what they had this morning. He turned away from the vegetable stands he was supposed to be shopping at and walked towards the parking lot lined with food trucks. It was, as predicted, mostly food that was horribly bad for you. Most of the things there were sweets, though some had actual meal food such as walking tacos and grilled cheeses. One was even serving pancakes with fresh berries with a sign telling you where you could buy the same berries elsewhere in the market. Patton’s eyes though, went straight past anything most people would consider actual food and landed on small stand with the words “Fresh Donuts and Fried Oreos for Sale.”

Now, he knew for a fact that he could only eat one, maybe two if he stretched it, fried Oreos at a time before he got sick to his stomach. They were just so sweet and greasy, but they sold them in packs of three. Hmm…

He looked around. “Would you like one?” he asked an older man with hair just starting to grey who’d been walking between the stands.

The man stopped, seemingly surprised at being addressed. He blinked at him in surprise. “What?” he asked.

“A fried Oreo,” Patton explained. “I love them but eating more than two makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Just… don’t eat the last one,” the man suggested. He was shifting back and forth on his feet.

“You obviously don’t know me,” Patton said. “Anyway. Free fried Oreo?”

“I…uh… yeah, sure whatever.”

“Great!” Patton said, turning back to the employee waiting. “3 please!” They had already been dunked in hot oil while the employee had been waiting for Patton, so they were out within seconds, hot and fresh. Patton thanked her and turned towards the man. He grabbed a napkin to pick one of the Oreos out of the packet and handed it to him. “Here you go!”

“Thanks,” he said with an awkward half smile.

“No problem!” Patton replied.

“Well anyway, I’m really in the middle of something, so I ought to be going now.”

“Oh, okay, bye!” Patton said, but he was already gone. Patton shrugged and reached into his bag of fried Oreos as he started walking in the opposite direction from the one the man took towards the park and the live music there. He’d go take a quick walk around the little park listening to the music to maybe work off the Oreos he was eating and then go back to his shopping.

He was about halfway between the food trucks and the makeshift stage when there was a loud screeching sound which he at first attributed to mic feedback, until he felt a kind of swoopy feeling in his gut like after eating two corndogs before going on a rollercoaster even though Logan had told him not to. Someone was time traveling and not your gentle popping here or there safe time travel. No, something was wrong.

There were popping sounds like those little mini popping firecrackers that kids threw at each other’s feet on the Fourth of July. People near the stage jerked away with little startled shrieks, attributing the sounds to something going wrong with the equipment, but it wasn’t actually coming from the stage, not exactly.

It was coming from somewhere behind the stage. Patton made note of the fact that it was so close to the musical equipment almost as though whatever was happening was intentionally set up to make people think it was an electrical problem. He picked up his pace a bit, but not too much as he didn’t want anyone to notice him doing so.

By the time he made it there, the noises had stopped, and the feeling of wrong time travel had settled into an annoying hum. The people around and on the stage were starting to settle, though clearly the musicians were confused.

Patton was confused too. What was that? Was it over? Why did something still feel off? He couldn’t scan the area to check what was wrong. He hadn’t brought the timepiece to walk to the local farmer’s market. He usually didn’t wear it about his own time for fear carrying it around frivolously may lead to disaster. Pickpockets snatching time travel devices off of the unaware had caused enough undue trauma, thank you very much.

So, he had only his own eyes and ears to work with. Yet, despite his experience, he didn’t see anything particularly amiss. He kept his eyes out for an object that might have caused the disturbance or clothing that didn’t quite match the times, but he saw nothing.

After a few minutes of slipping his way through the crowds, he finally decided to give up for now. He’d go back to the apartment and tell Logan something had happened. He should be able to figure out something. He weaved his way out of the crowd of people and back onto the sidewalk that surrounded the little concert area. Yet, as he was about to turn away, he heard an unfamiliar voice call out to him.

“Pat!” it called, and Patton turned to look at a man speed walking towards him in an inconspicuous black hoody and blue jeans. “You’re Pat,” he said when he was closer, his tone somewhere between a statement and a question.

Patton tilted his head at the stranger with a frown. “Do you know me?”  he asked.

“Not really,” he replied, “but I remembered your face.”

“What?” Patton asked.

He raised an arm and let the hoody sleeve slip down just a touch. Patton could detect a bit of panic in his eyes, and he figured out why when a timepiece much like Janus’s but not quite as fancy was revealed. “It’s broken. Please help.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 2

Folds in Time Universe Master Post

My Main Masterpost

[rose7420]

Art Games

Request from @laurenandloki

When Y/n is an admirer of Loki's and falls ill. It's up to him to save her.

Y/n was dying. She was used to it.

Living with an incurable disease and standing at two and a half inches tall meant that you were practically screwed in healthcare. Her life wasn’t miserable though as you might think. Her momma was her best friend and took care of her to the best of her ability. She was there on the good days where they could scavenge the walls and explore to their heart’s content. But she was also there for the bad days where her heart couldn’t pump enough blood leaving her weak and stranded in her bed.

Today was a good day for Y/n as she crept through the pathways of her walls to reach a hole. She climbed out of the wall and walked silently onto the desk. Sitting there was none other than Loki. His black hair hung down from his face, blue-green eyes scrunched in focus as he stared down at the game he played.

Y/n had found the activity odd as she had watched him time and time again. Now, she was intrigued. Each little piece connected to the others to form a masterpiece of art. Each time he finished one of these ‘art games’ he would hang them on his wall using magic. Her eyes had bugged out of her head the first time she’d watched him. Green enveloped the finished piece of art and kept itself together as it plastered itself to the wall. She always loved to see the accomplished look on Loki’s face, like he was proud of himself.

He tucked a strand of dark hair behind his ear as he fiddled with a piece of the art game between his fingertips. Y/n sat quietly down behind the cup of pencils, effectively blocking herself from Loki’s view. She squinted to see what piece Loki held and then tried to figure out where it went on his board. Her eyes roamed the already set pieces before finding the correct spot. She had to stop herself from standing and going to help Loki out.

Momma forbid her from ever revealing herself to him. She knew of her whereabouts when she ventured off these nights; only allowing her to go as long as she promised to keep hidden. And Y/n did just that. Loki rubbed his eyes wearily before she watched him rise to his great, intimidating height. Just the sight of him standing so tall reminded Y/n of why borrowers kept to themselves and never approached humans.

After stretching his long arms and legs he walked away and settled himself into his bed. A click turned the lights out and left Y/n in darkness. Y/n stood and made to climb back into her hole but a sudden urge stopped her. A burst of courage surged through her and she turned and sprinted to the piece Loki had given up on. She gathered the unique shape in her arms and walked to the spot she knew it went. Kneeling, she set the place to the right spot and relished the satisfying feeling as it slid into place. Her heart was bursting with accomplishment and happiness as she walked away.

However, when she got home and pulled back the curtain they used as a door her body began to feel weak. Her heart felt fast and slow all at the same time. Her lungs demanded more oxygen that she couldn't supply and blood that her heart couldn't deliver. She didn’t make it another step as she crumpled to her knees.

“Honey?” She faintly heard Momma call. Footsteps rushed towards her and her vision blurred as she tried to peer up at Momma's knelt figure and worried face. The last thing she felt was the shaking hand upon her clammy forehead.

Loki looked down at his puzzle in confusion. He swore that piece wasn’t there yesterday. He could only chuckle as he realized his little admirer had helped him out. He plucked another piece up and set to work. Minutes later his sensitive hearing picked up on hurried footsteps and rapid breathing. One set of footsteps and two sets of breathing. One fast and the other slow. His eyes slid to the hole he knew was in his wall and stared in confusion and awe as a positively tiny lady emerged breathless carrying an even smaller unmoving girl.

He squinted to see them better. He didn’t recognize the woman but the girl…

It was his little friend.

The mother; he presumed, took tired and cautious steps towards him. He straightened in his seat, unintentionally making his shadow swallow both little forms whole.

“Please… you must help me. She’s sick… and dying.” The woman sobbed.

Loki nodded and held out a hand. The mom approached and laid her daughter down on the row of fingers. Before the mother could step on he raised the tiny girl to his eyes.

Her complexion was pale with sickness, and he felt the clamminess of her skin upon his own. And her breathing… it was so shallow and infrequent that he prayed the little one wasn’t too far gone.

“W-wait! What are you doing to my baby girl?” The mother cried from below. Loki broke from his trance to offer her a comforting look, he lowered his face so that it was somewhat level to the mother. He could see the dark circles of her eyes, and the paleness of her own face.

“I assure you, miss, that I only want to help. Can you tell me what’s wrong with her?” She did, making sure that Loki knew she had a heart condition.

“She will die? Even if I can save her now?” He said with a shaky voice looking down at her in his palm. How small and fragile she looked there. `

Her mother nodded.

“She admires you, you know?” The mother says.

Loki looks up confused. “Why on earth would she admire someone like me?” He asks.

“She’s interested in those puzzles you do… see’s that you’re smart. Her dad left us when she was only a babe. I’m glad she has a male figure to look up to in her life.”

Loki couldn't accept that this little one had just barely started her life and soon it was about to end. He thought hard, back to the spells his mother had taught him as a child. She was an achieved healer and knew much about the properties of mending wounds and fixing illnesses. Perhaps he could do the same for the dying life in his palm. His mother’s magic had always been a buttery yellow, kind and generous to anyone who needed it.

Loki’s was cunning and sharp. Meant to inflict harm rather than stop it. He gathered all those lessons in healing he could remember and set to fixing her heart.

Y/n awoke slowly. Her eyes blinked open trying to clear the blurriness away. And when they did she screamed.

She found two blue-green eyes staring right down at her.

“Momma!” She cried frantically looking for her mother. She had been caught by Loki, a giant. The gigantic fingers around her curled in effectively trapping her. Her heart was rapid and she feared she’d pass out from the exertion. But before she started freaking out too much the giant had laid his hand down onto the table and flattened his palm.

Without thinking she scrambled off, tripping from the height. She fell into a pair of sturdy, soft arms.

“Momma!” She said relieved.

Momma wrapped her arms around her and kissed the top of her head, then her cheeks. She hugged her so tightly that Y/n couldn't breathe anymore.

A gust of air tossed her hair.

Y/n turned around to face the giant...Loki again. His chin rested on the desk, closer than ever before. She buried herself into Momma’s side.

“It’s okay...He’s a nice giant. He helped you feel better. He saved you.”

Y/n looked at the giant man again, questioning.

“You saved me?” She asked.

He nodded and offered a warm smile.

“Tell him thank you Y/n,” Momma said firmly and gently at the same time. A tone only mothers could master. Since Momma trusted Loki, it made Y/n a little less nervous.

“Thank you, mister.” She said shyly and walked to his face watching him go cross-eyed to see her better. She giggled and hugged his nose.

“It was my pleasure Little Miss,” Loki said softly.

Loki grinned from the sudden embrace. He kept his voice low, afraid of hurting these tiny people’s ears. After learning that Y/n admired him and didn’t have a father he had unwittingly adapted to being sort of a father figure to her. Perhaps he could show her there was good in this world. He watched as Y/n retreated and latched herself to her mother’s side again.

“You can come out you know,” Loki said with a grin on his face. He had spied Y/n lurking in her usual spot behind the pencil container. He had always kept it filled for her, making sure she felt comfortable enough even if she didn’t want to reveal herself.

He watched as she stepped out and looked up at him, a red tinge on her cheeks.

“I’m having trouble figuring out where this piece goes… I need your help.” He held out the tiny puzzle piece to her. She hesitantly approached his fingers and he nodded to encourage her. She took it in both arms, heaving it up. In a matter of seconds, she had ambled over to where the piece belonged and set to place it properly.

“It seems having a different perspective helps.” Loki admired it out loud. He imagined that up here, the puzzle was just well… a puzzle. But to her, it must’ve been an entire landscape, a world of its own. No wonder why she was so skilled.

“So you like puzzles?” Loki asked.

She looked up at him confused.

“Whats a puzzle?”

Loki quirked an eyebrow and leaned in closer.

“What we’re doing… what do you call it?”

“An art game.” She said crossing her small arms.

He laughed and threw his hands in the air, surrendering before they could get into an argument.

“So you like art-games?” He corrected.

She smiled and nodded.

“Good. Because I have plenty more. Perhaps you would like to help me?”

And he swore that in his many years, he had never seen the sun shine brighter than that giddy, joyful smile he received.

[occult-castiel]

The Same Page

This is my @destielsecretsanta2020 gift for @eclypseaf!!! The request was open, but bonus points for Miracle being present. So I wrote some post empty rescue fic!

This one honestly gave me a really hard time and I have no idea why. I hope you like it and have has an awesome christmas!

[Ao3 Link]

The portal spits them out in the dungeon.

Dean stumbles out first, a half step ahead of Cas. Human, malleable, and very much alive with one of the little dude's arms draped over Dean's shoulder.

Cas stumbles forward. Dean shoots an arm out in front of him, places a hand firmly against his chest. He maneuvers his other arms under his trenchcoat, grips his side firm.

His skins almost cool to the touch — much too cold to be safe. Not for a human, especially a brand new one.

And what if he's sick? Or gets sick and can't get better? Without his grace, there's a whole new set of worries. A bad flu that gets worse until he's gone, a hunt going wrong, fucking cancer. Heart disease kills pretty much everyone, doesn't it?

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the gentle thud of Cas' heart against his palm.

The last eight months haven't been easy. Not between the alcohol Sam eventually cut him off from, and the hunts getting sparse, and Jack being terrifying and gone until he wasn't.

Cas lulls his head to the side. His inky heart sticks to his forehead, and his blueberry-sweet eyes are unfocused but still manage to catch Dean's.

It's achingly familiar, and he smiles easy. "Hey there, sunshine."

Cas pinches his brows together as his head swims to stay upright. He slurs through some half-baked, nonsense question about coral reef bleaching, and Dean's so relieved he laughs.

Cas smiles at the sound, dazed and feather-light, but the joy is unmistakable.

It's the best thing Dean's ever seen. Fuck, he missed him. Missed him so much he didn't know what to do with himself.

Cas winces — what little help he was giving Dean in holding him up falls. He makes up the difference quick. Weak fingers curl around Dean's wrist.

"Sorry —"

"S'okay. Gonna —" he swallows hard. Tries to shove away the distinct pin-prick in his tear ducts that always means he needs to man the hell up. "Gonna get you to a bed, okay?"

Cas grunts, a pitiful noise that's mostly air and entirely feeble. "Tired."

"Rest then. It ain't far. I gotcha, buddy."

When he nods, his hair brushes Dean's neck.

It's not well thought out. The lack of work and overload of carbs haven't done Dean's muscles any favors. His joints creak and protest every step, but his room isn't far, and he'd be damned before he let's Cas feel like he has to do anything alone this time.

Miracle hops off the bed the moment the door opens.

Dean lays Cas on top of the bunched up blanket. Once he's down, Dean slowly works the trencoast and suit jacket off, his hands careful as they trail across the thin cotton of his shirt.

Cas shivers, and Dean wrestles to tug the blanket out from under him, Miracle nuzzling the side of his leg the whole time.

She's probably hungry. Or just wants attention. He hasn't exactly been available the last couple weeks, too busy with his nose in piles of research. But it all payed off.

Cas grimaces in his sleep, and it twists the cords in Dean's chest. He reaches his hand out and ghosts his fingers across the sweat-stained hair stuck to his skin, gently pushing it to the side.

He'd said it once, not more than a month ago, in the darkness of his room, Miracle tucked as close as he could get her.

He said he loved me, and I — I didn't say it back. But I do. God I do.

Dean trails his hand from his forehead to the flushed pillow of his cheeks. The other knuckles roughly at his eyes and comes back wet.

He has no god damn idea what he wouldve done without Miracle to talk to. Cause he could never get it out to Sam. Not those last moments. Not what Cas really means to him. Always too close to an edge of something larger than any apocalypse they've ever dealt with.

He traces down low enough to brush across Cas' wrist, the pained look still on his face.

Dean swallows, his heart hammers hard in his throat. Timid even though the guy is unconscious, Dean grabs his hand.

His mind blanks. Turns to complete static — a jumble of half-formed thoughts about every reason he ever told himself not to.

He's an angel. The worlds ending. Always ending. He doesn't feel that way. Can't, the equipment for it's not there. It's why he leaves, isn't it? And what the fuck could ever hope to start when it's all always falling apart? When they could fall apart.

Everyone leaves.

A flash of cold prickles down his back, and he tries to takes a deep breath. It goes down ragged. There was something he read once, about picking out a sense.

Cas' breath, slow and steady. The clink of Mircale's claws on the floor. A muted buzz from the florescent lights in the hall.

He breaths again, a little easier. His fingers curls into Cas' palm, and his finger twitch against Dean in response. The dent in his brows relax, his jaw goes slack.

"S'okay Cas." He squeezes. "Just... be okay."

When his phone rings, dumped and forgotten on the other side of the room, he isn't quite sure how to let go. Like the ligaments in his hand have cemented in place, forgotten the muscle memory to make the movements happen.

When the second call comes through, Cas mumbles something. Dean's shoulder slack, and he pulls his hands back, clammy and with a slight tremor.

It's Sam. There's a small tug of guilt — he should've called him the moment he put Cas down. He knows he would've been worried sick if Sam was the one that had to go.

Sam's relieved too, promises to buy stuff for dinner on his way back from where Dean went in the Empty about fifty miles out. And he must hear something in his voice, because he stresses to go watch a movie or something and let Cas sleep it off.

Of course he's right. They knew Cas would be out cold. But leaving the room is still hard, and he lingers in the doorway until he gets a good look at Miracle's mess of tangled fur.

He hasn't brushed her hair, since that's practically what the fur is, in weeks.

"C'mon girl."

He grabs the brush from the bedside table, casts on last look at Cas, and takes Miracle to the TV room.

She hops on the couch next to him, tail thumping with excitement.

"You wanna get pretty to meet Cas later?"

She nuzzles his hand, sticks her nose against the brush, and a little bit of the stress from today lightens up.

He flips on some netflix show about baking food, and talks to Miracle as he starts in on her snout.

It's ritualistic to touch on whatevers going on with her, at this point.

As her fur smooths, he tells her about the Empty. Its piss-poor lighting, the mind boggling way directions work, how it has this awful burnt-licorice and gasoline stench clung to the nothingness of its everything.

It kinda makes his head hurt.

Almost two full episodes in, he has all her fur neat and tidy, and his little monologue has circled back to Cas. She'd know a lot about him if she could talk.

"It's hard to believe he's really back. And — and maybe it'll be good. We could, I dunno, get you a yard?" He nods, smiles. "Yeah, I bet your spoiled ass would like that. The bunker ain't a place for pets."

Miracle leaps from the couch, and someone clears their throat from the door.

Cas stands in the doorway, hunched in on himself. Dark strands of hair twist up in random directions, and the casual clothes Dean left him fit snugly.

He looks... comfortable. Like he slipped into humanity ages ago, not this afternoon.

"Cas."

He tilts his lips up, tight and sheepish. "I see you have a dog now."

"Yeah. Miracle. She uh — she helped me." He motions vaguely to his head. "Might not be batting a hundred up here if not for her."

Cas glances down at her, and the tense smile softens. "I'm very grateful then."

Almost reverent, he scratches the side of her ear.

Dean shakes his head. Blinks. Two things he never thought he'd see side by side mixed with the insanity of the day make none of this seem real.

Deep breath.

"She can — she can be there for you too," Dean says. "If you need it. Dogs are great listeners. Even the Madonna types like this one."

Cas gives a contemplative hum. "They are both blonde."

He puffs a breath of air. It's easy to forget Cas actually knows what he's talking about now, sometimes. Even if he does still miss the point by a mile.

"It was your turn."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"To, uh, pick a movie." He motions to the seat next to him. "If you want."

Cas runs his bottom lip between his teeth and doesn't look at Dean. Doesn't say anything either. Just nods, walks over, and sinks into the couch.

It's a respectable distance. Close enough Dean would be able to sense him, far enough away they won't touch.

Miracle curls up on the other side of Cas, head flopped on his lap, right next to his balled up hands.

"Is it over?" His voice is small.

Dean doesn't have to ask. "Chuck isn't aproblem anymore." Cas sighs, slinks down bonelessly into the cushions. "We figured it out, took his powers. Jack's fixing up Heaven with it. Says he's gunna do that, find a way to put Amara back together, and then come home."

"Good. I don't think I'm up to fighting standards." He rolls his head to the side. They're close enough Dean can make out each muscle in his neck when he swallows. "You didn't have to save me, Dean. I'd — made peace with that fate."

It's bullshit. It's bullshit and Cas has to know it. He almost tells him a much, but if he can't have that talk now, then he never will.

He licks his lips. It doesn't help the dryness.

"Did you mean it?"

It's a dumb question, but one he needs answered.

Cas doesn't miss a beat. "That and more." The serenity in his words is endearing as it is cutting when he adds, "But we don't have to address it. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

It's Dean's turn to melt with relief. "Good — that's good."

Cas winces. "I understand if you'd like some space —"

He starts to stand up, and panic seizes Dean's chest like a vice grip. He grabs his wrist and Cas freezes.

"No! God no. Cas, it — it wasn't supposed to happen like that."

He looks confused, before some amount of understanding smoothes out some of the worried lines in his face. His eyes flick down to Dean's mouth for an instant. "How was it supposed to happen, then?"

"I thought, maybe on a hunt? Or — I don't know. Just... " some place I could say it back.

Its not good enough, saying it without saying it. Cas gave a speech. He saved Dean's life, saved the god damn world. All without knowing.

He shakes his head. Starts again. He had enough practice between thoughts he couldn't shove away and late night pet-therapy. "I thought you knew. Hell, I've been scared everyone knows. And if they did, you did too, right?"

"Subtly isn't always my strongest suit."

He laughs, and it's almost on the wrong side of sane. "Don't I know it."

He can do direct.

Slow enough that Cas has time to pull back, he runs his hand up his arm, cradles it against the back of Cas' neck. He leans across the small distance and kisses him.

It's clumsy and unsure, and Cas places a skittish hand on Dean's side like he's not sure what he's allowed to have even now, but their lips mesh together in a way that feels better than anything he can remember.

When they part, he's not sure either one of them are breathing. And he can't look at Cas, not when he says it. Not yet. So he presses their foreheads together, keeps his eyes fully lidded.

"I don't know how you could think you aren't worth saving. You — you're it for me."

"Dean —"

He shakes his head, and the tips of their noses brush. "I love you more than I know what to do with. You know that right?"

Bewildered, Cas says, "I didn't."

"Yean, well. Now you do."

He scoots back in place, flushed firm against the cushion. Their hands tangle together, and their knees are touching, and it's too much and not enough. But mostly not enough. Dean dares a glance over. Cas is staring at their hands, a pleased smile on his face.

And they're on the same page.

"I think you said something about a yard when I walked in?"

Instead of answering he says, "We should retire. I'm too old for this shit."

"Entirely?"

Dean shrugs. "A hunt here and there wouldn't hurt I guess."

"We'll talk about it later." He reaches over him, grabs the remote. "I think you said it was my turn?"

Dean grins, full and toothy. "Yeah, just no more romcoms, dude. I can only take so many."

Cas nods, curt and serious. "Of course."

He does anyway, and it's the best shitty movie Dean's ever seen.

[romanticchemacademic]

Dear future health professionals and stem professors,

We need a revolution of thought. Only through a renaissance of pure and genuine passion towards medicine and other sciences will we have competent doctors, nurses, other healthcare workers, and teachers. We live in a world where people pursue noble professions for the sake of social and economic advancement. However, we lack individuals who love the process of learning and their career.

I recollect quite a marvelous excerpt written by one of the world’s greatest scientific minds, Albert Einstein. In his book, The World As I see It he writes:

ACADEMIC CHAIRS ARE MANY, but wise and noble teachers are few; lecture rooms are numerous and large, but the number of young people who genuinely thirst for truth and justice is small. Nature scatters her common wares with a lavish hand, but the choice sort she produces but seldom.

We all know that, so why complain? Was it not ever thus and will it not ever thus remain? Certainly, and one must take what nature gives as one finds it. But there is also such a thing as a spirit of the times, an attitude of mind characteristic of a particular generation, which is passed on from individual to individual and gives a society its particular tone. Each of us has to do his little bit towards transforming this spirit of the times.

Compare the spirit which animated the youth in our universities a hundred years ago with that prevailing today. They had faith in the amelioration of human society, respect for every honest opinion, the tolerance for which our classics had lived and fought. 

  I believe that one of the faults lies within education institutions. Educators rely on testing, textbooks, and detached memorized lectures. Lectures lack passion and another essential factor: the real practice. The theory is important but the practice is necessary to understand the theory. But without passion, nobody will learn to love the material being taught. Ibn Sina is known for being one of the greatest physicians and teachers of Islamic medicine. I am not completely sure whether what I am about to mention is true. But I read that when he lectured theory to the medical students at the Madrassa (University) he would show them how it worked. Besides medical history and theory. He also taught physics, astronomy, philosophy, and mathematics. However, he is also famed for being an excellent teacher duly because he would take his students to test out the theories and practice what they have been taught. If they were learning medical theory, they were taken to the hospital to observe patients and their cases. If they were learning astronomy, they would all gather in the evening to look up at the heavens to look at the constellations. Lastly, his passion for his vocation was the final touch. Educators without the drive cannot teach. Learning is about understanding oneself, others, and the world. Learning evolves our minds and our spirits by making us get in harmony with the universe. I believe this ties in with Aristotle’s famous saying, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. Though my interpretation may be a wee bit off, I translate it as thus; we can gather all textbook knowledge as possible but if we do not put into practice the knowledge learned, what is the point? I yearn and I pine to experience all that I have learned. I want to see why the theory makes sense in reality. I want to conduct experiments. So much potential is being wasted. Biology is the study of life. However, when I took the course, it was so cold to a point that it did not even feel like I was studying the human body but something alien instead. There is also such a rush to memorize material within a couple of weeks because of exams that the material ceases to be interesting and becomes more of an arduous chore instead. Our sense of time-shifted completely after the industrial revolution. Perhaps this is a reason why we feel the need to rush through everything and not take our time to study profoundly. 

We need another Scientific Revolution, curious minds thirsting for the acquisition of knowledge and unanswered questions. However, I believe that the leading force behind this is a necessity. I would like to mention an example to illustrate what I mean from a novel I read a while ago called, The Physician by Noah Gordon. A boy from Medieval Europe lost his mother from an unknown disease leaving him orphaned. He then grew up with the necessity to learn what the disease was and how to prevent other similar deaths, so that others do not suffer what he has suffered. He then worked with Barbers (people who performed medical procedures in Medieval Europe). But the medical knowledge these professionals had was not enough to answer his question. Thus, he traveled to Persia where there was a quite renowned and exclusive medical school. He did not have the economic means or previous schooling to attend but he impressed the headmaster with his passion and knowledge. Thus, the headmaster admitted him into the Madrassa. The European boy then invested all his time doing research, dissections and treating patients until he finally found out what ailment caused his mother’s death, side sickness (appendicitis). He figured out a way to treat this illness, removal of the appendix. From his initial necessity which was the driving force for him to pursue a medical career, he became a famous physician and felt that all his suffering and odyssey were worthwhile. The sense of necessity leads to the feeling of passion. It was his love for his mother that made him follow such a journey full of obstacles. I am beginning to apply that to my own life. I want to figure out my necessity which will be the driving force to power through university and medical school without ever feeling burnt out. I want to feel fulfilled. I believe this is what all pre-medical students and teachers should think about. What is your necessity? We are going to be dealing with human life, someone’s mother, father, friend, sister, uncle, lover, husband, or child...It is not something to be taken lightly. I know so many doctors lacking empathy because they went into the medical field with just the intention of being acknowledged as “Doctors” and getting rich. But I feel that even the most apathetic healthcare workers can become great empathetic professionals the moment they realize that something was triggered deep inside them, perhaps a loved one having an unknown disease. This would lead the apathetic doctor to do mass amounts of research to try to find a cure. This feeling becomes a necessity. A necessity to not lose the loved one. A necessity to save lives. Thus, finding passion, purpose, and becoming a better person. Though each person is different, we all share a selfish feeling. Most of the time we do not truly care about other peoples’ suffering until it happens to us. Once we are affected by something, we drive all our time and attention to find a solution or a way to deal with a problem. We become consumed and completely obsessed by it. I regard this as passion. I do not think passion subsides, it lingers on inside us. It is a fire that never burns out. I remember my high school teacher writing in my yearbook:

Remember a few things, BE PATIENT. You are eager and you will accomplish so much. But take your time, you are always rushing. Life is a journey, it is not about the destination. Be picky. You love everything with enthusiasm but enthusiasm can burn out. Find a fire inside yourself that burns for a long time.

-V

We cannot rush our personal legend. I believe it comes to us. It is Maktub (it’s written). But we also have to do something. Imagine you are on a stranded island but you have a machete, a fishing rod, coconuts, a cave for shelter, wood for a fire, an ocean full of fish. Everything required for survival is there, but you simply have to cut open the coconut with the machete, go fishing for food, fire to cook, and warmth. The fish isn’t going to swim right into your hands and the fire will not light itself. We must use our resources and do our bit. The Universe has a lot going on, we must help out a bit.

If you ever think about quitting, try to remember what made you start your odyssey in the first place. I do not know what my necessity is yet but that is okay. I believe it will come to me eventually. So for now, I simply love to romanticize academia. I like to imagine the: earthy tones of the universities archways, cobblestone paths, laboratories with clean Erlenmeyer flasks, beakers, pristine white lab coats, bunsen burner flames changing colors as different salts are added, Bromothymol Blue pen stains, elegant calculations inside a worn leather-bound notebook, formulas scrawled over the blackboard, forgotten cold Irish breakfast tea on the desk, academics discussing theories, applause from a successful experiment, gray rainy days spent inside the lab, Whitman, Hemingway, et Sir Arthur Conon Doyle being read during break, intellectual conversations with professors, chemistry reports being written, molecular models built, volumes of ancient words, fire slowly burning in the stone fireplace, trying to understand, looking at the constellations on a clear night in the astronomy tower, reciting poetry, Tchaikovsky playing whilst completing a long lab report on Lê Chatelier’s theory of Equilibrium, curious minds, sleepless evenings in the library, beautiful anatomical illustrations...Just imagining these things motivate and inspire me to continue my path. Though it may seem superficial, it awakens something inside me. I yearn and I pine to become a Chemistry Romantic. 

I want to conclude this letter by saying that pupils and educators keep ideals alive and can change them accordingly as well. We have the power to become excellent professionals or simply exist and do nothing for the human race. But if you plan on becoming a physician or educator, you must find the trigger which brings your passion to life, your necessity. Once you find that, you are guaranteed greatness and fulfillment. However, do not rush. Perfection takes time. A couple of obstacles should not hinder you from persevering. Many will tell you to give up but do not. That is the Universe testing you. Do your best until you master the topic. Once you know better, you are then able to do better. 

Regards,

Confessions from a Chemistry Academic

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Extra 5

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Novel Updates

Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths (2)

And so, Cheng Yixie returned to Cheng Qianli's side.

After leaving his first door, Cheng Qianli came down with a fever. He was sent to the ICU that night. Their parents both thought Cheng Qianli wouldn't make it, but only Cheng Yixie knew that Cheng Qianli was welcoming his rebirth.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli left the ICU, his body slowly healing. The first sight that greeted him upon his waking was his brother Cheng Yixie.

Cheng Yixie was sitting on a chair beside his bed, leaning back with his eyes lightly closed, apparently asleep. Cheng Qianli saw the sunlight spill over Cheng Yixie's black hair, making the inky strands seem slightly translucent. Speckled light dripped through tree branches and upon his back, and for a moment, it looked like he had wings. In Cheng Qianli's eyes, Cheng Yixie seemed as holy as an angel fallen from the heavens.

The angel's lashes trembled, and his eyes opened. Sleepiness clouded his dark pupils, and it was only in moments like this when a childlike tenderness could still be seen in his gaze.

"Ge," Cheng Qianli called to him.

The instant he heard this, the child in Cheng Yixie's eyes faded. His gaze returned to their deep, lake-like calmness as he looked at Cheng Yixie.

"Awake? Does it hurt anywhere?"

Cheng Qianli shook his head. "I think I'm pretty okay."

Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought that the bout of sickness this time actually made his body more healthy; the places that were always quietly hurting didn't feel like anything right now.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Leave with me tomorrow then."

Cheng Qianli was stunned. "Leave? For where?"

Cheng Yixie, "a place that can save your life."

Cheng Qianli stared at Cheng Yixie in a daze. Cheng Yixie thought he'd at least ask some questions, but the fool nodded right then and there, concerned just enough to ask, "have you told mom and dad? They won't stop us, right?"

"No," Cheng Yixie said. "I've already talked to them."

Upon his return this time, he'd gotten a check-up at the hospital. The doctors had been shocked to find his body completely recovered from terminal disease. By all reason, this kind of congenital cardiovascular malformation had no treatment at all given the state of modern medicine, but there hadn't been a single symptom to be found on Cheng Yixie's body.

"Let him come with me. If he stays here he'll die," Cheng Yixie had told his parents. "Only I can save him. I'm the best example."

Faced with Cheng Yixie's somewhat absurd request, their parents had at first been a little hesitant. But after Cheng Yixie used his own healthy body as proof, they'd agreed to it in the end. Because even if they got to keep Cheng Qianli, the doctors didn't have any solutions. Since that was the case, why not let Cheng Yixie have a gamble?

After that, Cheng Yixie successfully took Cheng Qianli with him out of the hospital, and the two returned to Obsidian.

Obsidian was a warm place. Cheng Yixie rejoiced that he had been able to meet such a group of people. But Cheng Qianli was only a kid who practically grew up in the hospital—he was scared of the dark and a wimp. Though his body was growing gradually healthier after entering the doors, he still couldn't manage to extricate himself from that terrifying world.

He couldn't sleep because of the nightmares; every night he came to Cheng Yixie crying, barefoot, hugging a pillow and saying, "Ge, I had a nightmare again…"

Cheng Yixie was at his computer looking up information. He turned his head back and shot Cheng Qianli a look, before gesturing with his chin for Cheng Qianli to get on the bed.

Cheng Qianli obediently crawled into the large bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling in a daze.

"Ge, aren't you scared?"

Cheng Yixie, "scared of what?"

"Of ghosts," Cheng Qianli answered.

"What's so scary about ghosts," Cheng Yixie said. "I'm not scared of ghosts."

"Then what are you scared of?" Cheng Qianli's voice asked from behind him.

This question, Cheng Yixie did not answer for Cheng Qianli. Cool light spilled from the computer screen onto his impassive face. He didn't want to say what he feared out loud, because it felt like if he said it it would come true.

Cheng Qianli didn't pursue the question, either. His even breathing came from behind—he was just a kid, after all. Once he wasn't scared anymore, he fell quickly asleep.

A few days later, Cheng Qianli saw Cheng Yixie come into the house with a furry lump in his arms. Before Cheng Qianli could react, Cheng Yixie was tossing that lump into his arms. The lump perked up its furry little butt and lapped like crazy at Cheng Qianli's cheek with its tongue. It licked Cheng Qianli into giggles, and Cheng Qianli registered then that the lump was an adorable little corgi—he exclaimed in a moment of pure delight, "it's a corgi! Ge!! I love you!!"

Cheng Yixie nodded at Cheng Qianli, turned around, and left.

What kid didn't like animals? It was just that their physical conditions before hadn't allowed them such hobbies. Now that Cheng Qianli was getting healthy, he'd given Cheng Qianli a long-coveted present.

Of course Cheng Qianli was happy beyond words, gobbling up extra bites of dinner that night. He even went around excitedly collecting everybody's opinion on what to name the dog, before finally making a decision—Toast.

Toast was the little corgi's name.

With Toast around, Cheng Qianli's mental state got a lot better. He no longer sought Cheng Yixie out at night because he couldn't sleep.

Cheng Yixie would sometimes go to his room and check on him in the middle of the night. He'd see the kid sprawled out with limbs akimbo, bent in all sorts of strange ways on the bed. And Toast would be lying right next to him, sleeping with its belly up—the two of them, one large and one small, made a particularly harmonious scene.

And Cheng Yixie would look away. When he closed the door behind him that night, he saw Ruan Nanzhu standing and smoking in the hallway.

"You're up so late?" Ruan Nanzhu asked him.

"Mh," Cheng Yixie said. "Couldn't sleep."

"It's his second door in two days. Nervous?" Ruan Nanzhu said.

Cheng Yixie was silent for a while, before nodding and admitting to the anxiety deep in his heart.

"It's never easy." Ruan Nanzhu stubbed out his cigarette. "And you're still so young…I'll go in with you."

Cheng Yixie thanked Ruan Nanzhu in response.

Ruan Nanzhu said nothing, just started back to his room. But when he pushed his door open, his footsteps halted, and he looked back at Cheng Yixie.

"But he'll have to grow up sooner or later."

Cheng Yixie met Ruan Nanzhu's eyes. He knew what Ruan Nanzhu meant.

"You can't protect him forever," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Do you think he can do it?" Cheng Yixie asked. "Do you think, he can come as far as I have?"

Ruan Nanzhu sighed, and said nothing more.

Some things could be achieved with hard work, but other things could only be gotten through talent. Though it wasn't fair, this was the case for the world of the doors.

Some people were naturally suited to enter the doors. They were calm and clever; even in the most dangerous moments, they could think of ways to escape.

But some people couldn't.

Cheng Yixie was a person suited to the doors, but his brother Cheng Qianli was just a regular dumb kid.

Cheng Yixie didn't know how many times he'd fantasized about this—what a fortunate thing it would be if they had healthy bodies.

Cheng Qianli would grow up normally. Perhaps he'd be a bit stupid, and his grades would mean headaches for their parents, but that was fine. He would have a clever older brother. His brother could watch over him.

But all these fantasies were simply wishful thinking.

Cheng Yixie returned to his room. Nobody knew better than he did that Cheng Qianli was not suited to the doors. If things progressed down their regular tracks, Cheng Qianli would most likely very quickly die in the following doors.

But how could Cheng Yixie let all that happen? He'd already decided the path that he would walk.

Three days later, Ruan Nanzhu and the Cheng twins entered Cheng Qianli's second door together.

This door was not particularly difficult, but to Cheng Qianli, it was still horribly thrilling; he was screaming of fright the whole time.

Cheng Yixie asked him, "how the hell did you even survive your first door?"

"I don't know," Cheng Qianli said. "I just went quietly to bed every night, and then one day I saw an open door. It was all bright inside, and after I walked in, I was out…"

Both Cheng Yixie and Ruan Nanzhu sank into a peculiar silence at this. It looked like fortune favors fools really was a wise saying.

After exiting his second door, Cheng Qianli got sick again for over a week. The doctor said it was caused by an excess amount of right.

Cheng Yixie watched over him as he got his IV drip, and Cheng Qianli was all wilted and sticky with sickness. He asked Cheng Yixie, "gege, how do I get better at this?"

Cheng Yixie patted his forehead, saying nothing.

"Will I get better if I stop being scared of ghosts," Cheng Qianli said. "I've decided, I'm going to watch a scary movie every day once we're back…"

Cheng Yixie wanted to sigh, but in the end, couldn't do it. He only spoke lightly, "focus on getting better first. Everything else, there's no rush. Ge's here."

Cheng Qianli nodded obediently.

Cheng Yixie thought Cheng Qianli had only been saying so, but after he got better, he actually did start watching scary movies. And one per day. Every single day he would be curled up in the living room with a blanket wrapped around his entire body, still scaring as badly as a quail each time.

Cheng Yixie was exasperated, but didn't try to talk him out of it. It pretty much looked like Cheng Qianli's courage wasn't something that could be built up.

Though Cheng Qianli wasn't particularly strong, he injected a different kind of life into Obsidian.

When the group grew numb from the torment of the terrifying doors, the upbeat Cheng Qianli was just like an oil pastel, swiping rich colors back onto Obsidian and filling the place with the breath of life.

If only the days could continue on like this, how nice would that be? Cheng Yixie wouldn't think this just the once. Some things, however, couldn't be avoided just by hiding.

Everything changed in Cheng Yixie's seventh door.

That door was vicious beyond measure, and Cheng Yixie was the only survivor. Just as he was stumbling out the door, he got his hands on a hint slip different from all others.

A detailed hint for the next door was written on the slip of paper.

In that moment, Cheng Yixie didn't comprehend just how this hint slip would change the tracks out under his life. He was still rejoicing, rejoicing that he'd once again escaped disaster, rejoicing that he'd gotten a hint to the eighth door, rejoicing that he'd be able to see Cheng Qianli again.

But a long, long time later, when he remembered this moment, he would realize that the Cheng Yixie back then had been standing at the crossroads of fate.

On one side of fate was hell. And on the other, was also hell.

[Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(1)] | [Extra: Twin Lives, Twin Deaths(3)]

[sansbun]

KINKTOBER POST #2

Genre: suggestive

Pairing: San x neutral reader

Word count: haha pls spit on me

Warnings: a bit fluffy beginning, spit kink, pet names, dry humping, praise?, mentions of choking, Woo being annoying what’s new

Halloween is coming up and you brought home tons of candy for trick or treaters that will soon come knocking on your door. But due to "safety" reasons your dork of a boyfriend and his friend had to try some of it out beforehand, just to be “100% sure.”

Your eyes were stuck on a particular brand of candy which happened to be your favorite, the blue raspberry flavor in particular.

You watched your boyfriend’s pouty lips closely as he sucked around the colorful candy before pushing it into his mouth slowly, his lips glistening with his now candy flavored saliva.

Nothing new here, just another day of you being a needy, bothered mess as San unknowingly woke up one of your hidden kinks, once again. You haven't told him about your fantasies in fear of him teasing you about it. Not that you’d mind, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

"You want some?" He spoke with his mouth still full of candy, and all you could do is shyly nod trying to get your mind out the gutter. "Mhmm, I want blue!"

"You want some?" He spoke with his mouth still full of candy, and all you could do is shyly nod trying to get your mind out the gutter. "Mhmm, I want blue!"

"You want some?" He spoke with his mouth still full of candy, and all you could do is shyly nod trying to get your mind out the gutter. "Mhmm, I want blue!"

"Oh no, this was the last blue one!" He pouted slightly, sticking his tongue out to show you the piece of candy still sitting on top of it. You laughed nervously, nodding as you reached out for the bag.

"No silly, come here!" His hand made its way under your chin, tilting his head as he slowly leaned in to close the gap between you, sliding the hard candy past his tongue into your mouth.

Your eyes widened as you felt the usually dry candy coated in his saliva, whimpering at the feeling making him pull away, confusion and curiosity painted on his face. In a situation like this normal people would mind their own business.

Except for one of them, of course. But then again, he might not be the most normal person you've met. "Eww Choi San, don't choke them with your tongue!" Woooung complained, acting disgusted from the scene he just witnessed even though his face was already tinted a soft shade of pink.

"Jealousy is a disease, get well soon! Besides that's not the only thing y/n chokes on." He smiled innocently as wooyoung's eyes widened as much as yours did, his cheeks now red as he turned his head in the opposite direction. His attention no longer on the two of you as he stormed off to his room to do god knows what.

He turnt his head to see you, raising his brow as he watched your expression in amusement. "Are you enjoying the candy that much, or is there some other reason you're this excited to have it in your mouth?" He leaned in to whisper into your ear, making you nearly choke on the candy making you bite into it in panic, eating it as quick as you could.

He chuckled pulling you into his lap, thumb sliding across your bottom lip slowly. "Now, will you tell me what got you so needy?" He grinned pulling on your bottom lip gently, pleased when your lips naturally parted without him asking.

"U-Uh what are you talking about? I was just eating the candy you gave me." You gulped looking into his eyes softly, cheeks flushed a bright pink color.

"Come on angel, I know it must be very..very hard for you, am I right?" He hinted at your burning body, sliding one hand down your hip, guiding you to slowly grind down on him.

"Why don't you let master help you?" He whispered in your ear, brushing strands of stray hair out of your face before wrapping his hand around your throat, squeezing gently.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, a tiny whimper leaving your lips. "San, P-Please.." your hips started moving on their own, desperately rutting against his clothed cock.

"Please what, sweetheart?" He bit his lip at the sight of you getting so worked up for him, getting harder under you, his own hips bucking up to meet yours.

"S.." You mumbled embarrassed, words stuck in your throat which only made him choke you a little harder. "Come on baby, tell master what you want."

"I want you to spit in my mouth, p-please." You purred, eyes fluttering open as you looked at him through your eyelashes seeing him flash you a grin.

"Oh is that right, is that why you were nearly moaning from my spit in your mouth?" You nodded almost too desperately, feeling beyond embarrassed but you could care less at this point, the growing heat in your lower region being more then enough to distract your and cloud your brain.

"Open up then, little one." He gritted his teeth as you obeyed his request, parting your lips just slightly.

"Aww are you so fucked out already that you can't open your mouth properly? It doesn’t seem like you want it that bad then." You shook your head a bit too quickly, sticking your tongue out for him as he gripped your jaw, making you part your lips more. He gathered up his spit as he slowly spit in your mouth, which you gladly accepted.

"Such a dirty little baby.. swallow it all for master." He groaned watching your eyes close in pleasure, his eyes a darker shade of brown as he watched you swallow his spit that you desperately begged him for.

<PREVIOUS NEXT>

A/N: guys, so umm... this came out A LOT softer then I originally intended. I’m not too proud of this as I had different imagination of how this would turn out.. but I hope you still enjoyed it (at least a little) hope I didn’t disappoint anyone! 🥺

[daddy-chiluc]

To Suffer for You | Chiluc Week Day 4

Organized crime au/Hanahaki/roommates+bandaging wounds

Chiluc Angst

Tw: Mentions/Depictions of toxic relationships, injuries, mentions of blood, Hanahaki

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

“So let me get this straight…,” he sighed, tone heavy and thick with irritation as his aggravation dripped with every word, “You mean to tell me that you tripped and fell.” He emphasized every word as his pinched the bridge of his nose between tight fingers. He simply refused to believe that. There was no way. Yes, Ajax was reckless, but he wasn’t clumsy. He grinned, cheesy and wide as he laughed.

“Get your ass inside before I drag you by your neck.”

“So sweet to me, Diluc, dear.” The pet name and sweet pitch of his voice was like honeysuckle. He wanted to strip it of it’s petals and ring the pistil of its sweetness. It vexed him. He knew of the lies it held. Of the impurities it harbored behind a beautiful and placid front. Surely not a front for him?

A sharp wince echoed through the hallway as Diluc started ahead of him. He’d never admit such childish fairytales but he’d dream of the day he’d get to lace his fingers with his. He’d imagine the scarred tissue to he oddly smooth, not a single callous tainting his fingers. Yes, Ajax had realized he was in love. Desperately in love. So in love in fact that it hurt. It made his heart twinge with pain and left his lungs without air. He could never breathe. Never feel…never feel right.

Being in love was a problem. A horrible and terrifying problem. It made the butterflies in his stomach flutter with anxiety batted wings, he could feel them crystalize in his chest. Feel the caterpillars climbing down his throat. A horrid and disgusting description and awareness he would never become accustomed to. The flower he was sure had wilted in his gut began to bloom once more. This time, instead of dark stems of black and icy roses, a single red rose, large and vibrant much like his hair began to bloom. The thorns far too delicate to prick at his insides. If they had they’d retracted, shied away from him.

He realized that love was a delicate thing. He wasn’t quiet sure of what it had meant anymore. The roses had bloomed in so many colors. First a golden yellow, an amber orange and then an icy blue. The golden yellow flowers never lasted long. They’d bloom and wilt over and over. They were beautiful yes but they never stayed. They were delicate, lacking the thorns he had came to know to this day. The amber orange roses had small thorns. They’d come to stay shortly before wilting away a month after they’d grown.

The icy roses however, were vicious. They lacked compassion. They’d stab him any chance they got. Thorns heavy and thick. They’d find their way to his heart, the stems curling around it, making him feel safe. The safety was brief before they’d pierce his heart over and over time and time again. One evening, he found whiteflies clinging to the petals and the stems of the roses, and they too feasted away at him. The thorns had scared him, traumatized him so badly sleep became hard to find in fear of the thorns returning, even if it was just a faint memory. The first chance he got to rid himself of the roses he took it. He took it and clipped the rose bush that had grown wildly in the pit of his stomach, killing the butterflies with it.

The pit of his stomach became dark and empty. His body was far colder than the howling winds of Snezhnaya. Despite the chills and ice that had covered him, a small flame had found its way to him, warming him once more and melting that ice. Sprouting curiously in his stomach, covering the dead, crumbling roots of the previous rose bush.

“Ajax? Are you okay?” The voice had called to him, it was kind and alluring, the soft rose petals of the lone flower brushing against his ribs. It was quiet the flower. No other had bloomed like it. Just the single one, with a long, green stem with leaves that had tickled at his insides. The butterflies had disappeared, or so he thought. He was so sure of himself until he felt the slightest flutter in his chest. It was gentle and caring the way it can landed on his heart, almost fluttering away at the beat of it.

“Yes…yes I’m fine.” He lied. He wasn’t at all fine. His throat began to itch and prick. He was confused. He didn’t understand what was happening, the feeling in his lungs brand new. His breathing was labored but he did his best to hide it, earning a look from the other that had doubted him.

“Who’s blood is that?” He tapped at his cheek, latex gloves hiding the skin he so deeply longed to touch. It was his. His blood and someone elses.

“Mine.” Diluc simply hummed, pulling his scarlet strands into a taut ponytail that sat idly on the crown of his head. It had been silent as Diluc had tended to his wounds. Neither had spoken about the cuts and bruises that littered his body. Diluc simply had no interest. This wasn’t the first time he’s trudged his way to the apartment harmed like this. This wasn’t a simple trip…these were inflicted on purpose.

“Are you gonna tell me who did this to you?”

“It’s not worth the stress, I can assure you.” He was awfully timid. Too timid. It made Diluc sick, the vile taste of concern staining his tongue. Was he getting himself into fights lately? That would be the only logical explanation would it not?

“I beg to differ.”

“Then beg,” he snorted, Diluc digging his fingers into a bruise on his collarbone, “Okay, okay!” He cried out, voice shrill and pained as he glared at the hand that hand burrowed itself in his wounds, eyebrows knitted with pain.

“I just got into a fight with someone that’s all…”

“Over what?”

“Why does it matter?” He whispered, voice hushed and thin as he avoided his gaze. Truthfully, what had happened had hurt him more than he would like to admit. Another cough rasped from his throat, the pain and breathlessness worrying the other as his eyes scrunched, wincing in pain.

“We need to take you to the Emergency Room.” Diluc’s patience had worn out, cleaning the rest of his wounds before setting off to grab shoes and a decent shirt for Ajax. If anything, he had a broken rib or two and just wasn’t telling Diluc about it.

“Wait!” He cried out. The last thing he needed on his plate was the police asking him questions. He didn’t feel like explaining he was working for a group of people who were laundering money and why he got the shit beat out of him. He groaned defeated, as a cough, far worse than any he’s had so far stab at his throat. Hearing rushed footsteps come to the doorway, his eyes shot up eyebrows worried as blood and red petals filled the palms of his hands.

“Is that…” Diluc started, almost breathless as he ushered over, hands hesitant as he stared at the petals in horror, “Ajax, I swear to the sevens, this better be a joke.”

“It’s…it’s not.” His throat ached and his voice rasped the words out, chest heaving in unsteady breaths as his hands shook violently. Ajax could’ve sworn his heartbeat echoed in the bathroom. It filled his ears as tears slipped down his face. He wasn’t sure when he had started crying but it wasn’t of importance. Getting up, he braced himself against the counter as he lifted the toilet seat and flushed the petals away.

“Who is it?” Diluc asked softly. Part of him was worried he knew. And maybe he had. He knew enough about the disease to understand that the color of the petals took after the person’s most defining trait. Ajax had stayed silent as he washed his hands of the blood, deciding against looking at the other in fear that if he spared a glance it would give away that those petals were his.

“Are you going to get surgery?”

“No.”

“You know you’ll suffer if you don’t right?”

“Yeah…”

“…then why?” He didn’t want to stop loving him that’s why. Diluc was sweet and gentle but blunt and logical. Mature and elegant. Perfect in his eyes. Even his flaws were lovable. It was cute how mad he’d get if the toilet paper wasn’t facing a certain way, or if the plates weren’t stacked right. He found it cute how he’d sing to himself quietly, self conscious and nervous. Yet with his…job, and newfound sickness…it made it far more difficult to love him the way he wanted to.

“Because he’s worth the suffering.” He mumbled, turning to catch his burning eyes before leaving the bathroom, still tattered and bruised, injuries peaking past bandages.

No one should be worth that amount of suffering, Diluc said to himself. Not even he was worth that amount of suffering — Diluc wasn’t worth it.

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

Finally! It’s a little messy but that’s one less day I have to write! I hope you enjoyed!

[ill-skillsgard]

His Mistress - Series Finale

Warning: 18+ smut, mentions of cheating, coarse language, mature themes.

Author’s Note: I am terrible at ending stories because I never want them to end. The ending I initially wrote wasn’t good enough, so I started again until I felt it was right. I’ll keep it brief, but I want to thank all the readers who fueled this crazy fire and inspired me to flesh out a dark love story that I’m proud to say I wrote. I’ll miss Mr. Deaver and all the smutty, angsty, drama of his life with his mistress. Thanks for tolerating the never-ending POV shifts and filling my inbox with love and support for the story and for me. You guys are the BEST. I’m forever grateful!

I hope you enjoy the 9K series finale. It’s been a slice!

Henry X Mistress Masterpost [x]

Henry's company held an office party to bid farewell the building that had brought them growth and success over the last few years. Once again expanding, the company added a brand new customer-relations department, a slew of employees fresh out of university and interns to fill in the gaps. The celebration took place on the evening of their last workday and boasted live entertainment and enough luxurious fare for each employee and their loved ones. They rented a bouncy castle and ball pit for the kids and set up an open bar next to two seminar tables' worth of catering.

It wasn't only a farewell party for the company, but the first time Henry showed off his girlfriend in front of his colleagues and employees. Word of Henry's divorce had already made its rounds, his colleagues begging for gory details after the documents were signed and filed. Rumours fluttered in and out of ears and mouths, but never while Henry was in the room—Henry had cheated on his wife with a coworker, Henry screwed the cleaning lady and his wife caught him in the act, Henry picked up a venereal disease, and poor Mary. The speculation rose tensions, but like all rumours, faded into irrelevancy once news of the company move surfaced. People forgot all about Henry's ugly divorce for the next round of gossip. Word of his mistress died down. 

Although the tension had mostly evaporated, she felt eyes crawling on her when she showed up on Henry's arm. Of course, everyone recognized her—she was the secretary for a time, the only line to get an opening with Mr. Deaver. She had spent months parked next to his office, taking his appointments, booking his days, answering his phone. They remembered, and they leaned into the nearest ear to whisper, "I knew it all along."

If Henry noticed the curiosity, he chose to ignore it, but she couldn't. She felt every woman in the place wringing her silently, scrutinizing her moves, her hand in Henry's. People who knew Mary tended to side with the older woman, and the nattering reinstated in hushed exchanges. She was alone at the party save for Henry, but he could only guard her for so long before his colleagues whisked him into conversations littered with business jargon that lost her attention.

Still, she clung to his hand, and once in a while, Henry would break from stock discussions to turn in for a kiss. He surrounded her ears with his fingers, tilting her face up so he need not crouch just to show some affection. When he buried her mouth with his, she savoured the taste of wine, the power in becoming the first lady, the stares from Henry's subordinates.

Henry pulled back an inch, staring drunkenly, though he'd only had one glass of pinot noir, and nipped her bottom lip. "Having a good time, sweetheart?"

"Sure. I love catching all the cattiest office workers glaring."

Henry smirked as though he too tasted a dollop of satisfaction from the envy. "You know what I say to that?"

"What?"

"Fuck them," Henry whispered.

She feigned a gasp, swatted his shoulder, and he pulled her even closer. "Gosh, you look beautiful. I want to undress you later and do all the things they're thinking about me doing to you."

"My, my, Henry. You better take it easy on the vino."

"I'm not tipsy. I'm excited."

She checked his pockets for bulges, hoping Henry's intentions weren't to propose in front of all these near-strangers. The lines of his suit were smooth, and when she hugged him, she only felt his cellphone, wallet and keys, no ring box. She sighed with relief and sweltered under another one of his long kisses. He moaned against her, stroked her neck and back until she interrupted him to say, "Jesus, Henry. What's with the PDA?"

"I'm sorry. I just don't care anymore. Let 'em look."

"Easy, tiger. You're the star of the show. People want to talk to you without lipstick all over your face."

"Mm, I'd fuck you right now if I could," said Henry.

She squeezed his shoulders, holding him off for a moment before he swooped in for another peck. "Okay, okay, I'm done. For now."

"Don't make me spank you when we get home," she warned, mouth curved in jest.

"I'll behave," he assured.

With children running about, the catering service making rounds in the nearly empty office space, more employees and their significant others piling in by the minute, it was easy to get lost in the bustle. Henry's colleagues whisked him away into a conversation she had no business understanding, leaving her stranded, drink in hand, smoothing out the wrinkles in her blouse to distract herself from her friendless reality. None of Henry's employees came to talk to her. She stood alone, a flag on a pole reminding everyone that Henry had upgraded in every way. Some people went by, nodding respectfully, while others bypassed her like a piece of furniture.

Just when she felt the pressure behind her eyes saying she was tired, Frank stepped out of the elevator with his wife and two boys. The children bolted for the bounce house, leaving their bickering parents in their dust. Frank travelled through the crowd rolling his eyes and sneering at his wife, who looked upset about something, but retracted her frown as soon as a colleague's wife greeted her. The loud businessman honed in on Henry, and she watched her helpless boyfriend go limp when the man slung his meaty arm around his shoulders, thumping his back with a ham hock fist.

She mused over Henry's embarrassment as Frank launched into a story designed specifically to draw attention to him in the worst way. Frank's baritone floated above the music, and soon, others gathered to listen to the man tell the story of how Henry got too wasted on sake on a business trip to Japan because he didn't want to seem rude to the host and didn't know how to decline.

"This fuckin' guy—pardon my French—is rolling on the floor in his hotel room, has ten minutes to get dressed and downstairs for the conference, but can't even hold his head up straight. How many did you have, Henry, seven? Eight?"

Henry blanched, shaking his head. "Eight, yeah, I think that's about right."

"You've never seen a guy so drunk in your life! He did the conference, slurring the entire time, stumbling over his shoes, but the folks loved it! Didn't they, Deaver? You really got their attention when you started hiccoughing between every word."

"Different times. We were younger. We were boys."

"Ah, yeah. Young and dumb. Now, look at you! Much older now and just as dumb, eh?"

The gaggle surrounding Henry burst into laughter and carried on as Frank surrendered his grip. She tried to picture Henry staggering, too drunk to string together a sentence, but couldn't imagine him as anything less than poised. The image reminded her of the conversation she had with Mary in the parking garage. Before the divorce had been finalized, Mary told her Henry had done questionable things abroad with his colleagues. Frank's story, although comical and meant as a harmless jab, filled her with suspicion.

Henry had denied the accusation that he cheated before that night he invited her up to his hotel room. With desperation on his face, he vowed on his love for her that he was never unfaithful, barring their affair. She believed him, with reluctance, and stowed it away in her mind with the rest of Mary's dubious claims. Now that stories of shenanigans and unprofessional conduct were in circulation, she tried not to let her suspicions gain traction.

The night played on, and as more of the families left to put their hyper children to bed, the heads of business brought out the top-shelf Scotch and sat around picking at sandwich trays and hors d'oeuvres. Frank caught Henry's assistant-turned-girlfriend in his cross-hairs and approached her with a drink in hand. Red-faced and loud as ever, Frank asked her why she wasn't enjoying herself.

She cleared her throat and offered her best smile. "I am having fun. I just don't have a rich enough history with the company to offer any entertaining stories."

"Oh, come now. You were Henry's assistant for months! You don't have anything to share about banging the boss?"

Frank's announcement only fell on her ears, but it was enough to make her blush and want to escape. He apologized and sidled up to her, clinking his whiskey tumbler with her wine glass.

"Gotta get you a refill, Whaddaya say, toots?"

"I'm fine for now," she said. "I offered to drive home."

"That's right. You two live together now in that little condo."

She blinked, unsure of how anyone might think of the condo as little, then realized she was standing among wealthy men whose homes spanned acres, who owned Summer cottages bigger than the average townhouse.

"I gotta say, Deaver's got that colour back in his face since he started on with you, doll. What do I gotta do to get me a woman like that? He's a whole new man. Is that all it takes is a nice, young honey to roll back the decades? I bet the old bastard gets it up just fine. Just fine."

"Thank you, Frank. I'll try to sift through that to find a compliment," she scoffed and sipped her wine.

"Aw, I mean it with love, darlin', you know that. Ol' Franky just talks, right? I don't mean any harm. Maybe I come from a place of envy, who knows? Not every day a dry old fella gets his hands on something pretty as you. I can see you're good for him. He sure smiles a helluva lot more! Christ, can't chisel the grin off that face. Loopy as a damn circus clown since you came around."

"Really?" She tittered.

"I'm serious. Shit, when Henry was with Mary, you couldn't pay the guy to crack a joke. Now, he's nothing like the shlub I met all those years ago."

She ran her finger along the glass rim as Frank droned on, her eyes on Henry across the room. He had been having a good time, his cheeks aglow with cheeriness. She'd never seen Henry interact with his coworkers for more than a quick trip in and out of the conference room to deliver him a printout or progress report. Tonight, Henry hadn't complained about people talking his ear off. Even after Frank's unflattering account of one of his rare blunders, he hadn't whined or wished they could sneak out unseen. Henry was at ease.

"He's planning on proposing to me soon," she said.

Frank cocked his head and rose his glass. "Here's to hoping he makes the right decision, and quick, before you realize you can do better!"

She clinked glasses with Frank once more, and while he drained his whiskey, she set her glass down on a table nearby.

"I was wondering what his coworkers might say about him remarrying."

"Anything to get him away from that soul-sucking ice queen of an ex-wife."

"Frank? Can I ask you something and get a sincere answer?"

Frank read her serious tone, shifted his brows and angled in, unaware of his alcohol-laden breath fanning over her face. "Anything, love. Franky tells no lies. That's what they say. With me, it's pure honesty."

"I heard a rumour about Henry in Thailand. Somebody said he cheated on Mary. Do you know anything about this? I'd like to know what I'm getting myself into, being young and all. I don't want to end up wasting my best years with a man who might cheat on me down the road."

Frank scoffed, slapped his leg and howled. She waited for him to wipe an invisible tear from his eye, hoping nobody asked what was so funny.

"Oh, doll. You can't believe all the rumours you hear in this place. Thailand... Shit, that was so long ago. I can hardly remember what happened. It's true, we did some partying, but when in Rome, right?"

She grimaced as Frank went on, "Ol' Deaver never left his hotel room on that trip. Me 'n a couple of our work buddies cruised around, got ourselves into a little trouble, but not Henry. He spent the whole week hunched over his laptop, putting last minute touches on some PowerPoint crap—never was good with computers, myself. And don't get me wrong, there were offers made during dinners—generous offers. You know the type. They like to show their hospitality. But Henry was the professional. We call him Dad since he's always keeping us in line. Even us old guys, eh? No, no... Company is rock solid 'cause of him. We told Deaver a million times to drop the ball 'n chain, but the kid stuck it out, he really did."

"Am I stupid to marry him?"

"Doll, I think if you want someone to treat you right, it's my man, Henry Deaver. The Kid can't contain himself. And who could? He's a lucky man, really fortunate to have a dish like you."

"Oh, stop," she gestured at the opposite corner of the cleared out office space where the wives gathered. "You know, if I marry Henry, I'll have to join the wives' club and stand over there with Phyllis and Dorothy."

Frank beamed at her. She decided not to loathe the man for his praise, both for her and Henry. He was a bumbling idiot at times and unfiltered, but she had seen much worse. Before the corporate job with all the nice clothes and gadgets she used to pine for while browsing fashion websites, she worked her food service job. With every type of asshole and gentleman coming through the hotel bar, Frank was the loudmouth who'd changed her mind on Henry Deaver.

"You're a different kind, ain'tcha? I bet Deaver has his hands full with you."

Warm, wine-drunk confidence slid off her tongue, "Oh, I keep him busy."

"I'll kill him if he doesn't marry you, kid."

"I'm sure you will."

"That's Frank's Guarantee."

She tipped glasses with him once more and excused herself to use the washroom. The night was drawing to a close, and she enjoyed the quiet of the bathroom and its 3 stalls. Many times she had retreated to the washroom to text Henry while he was in his office. She couldn't risk getting caught exchanging dirty messages with the boss, so when she wanted to make him blush, she snuck off to the lady's room. Many nude photoshoots happened in the safety of the last stall on the right, and all of them fed to Henry's phone at inopportune times—mostly during meetings or video calls with clients across the world. Now, she laid her head against the cool metal and thought of marrying Henry. 

Back then, falling in love with him was forbidden, tingly, like a shot of alcohol at an inappropriate hour that she hoped nobody could smell on her breath. Now, it was pure. There were no more walls, no need to hide in the stall to talk to him. Henry was hers, and everyone knew it.

Henry waited for her by a stack of chairs. Behind him, the catering company was clearing away serving trays, stacking cups and folding tablecloths. The band had long since packed up, and anyone with children had taken them downstairs to the shuttles the company had arranged to drive them home.

"Hey," she greeted him.

"Hey, indeed. How're you doing? I thought I saw you getting along with Frank." Henry chuckled. "What was up with that? I thought you hated him."

"I don't hate him. Maybe I wasn't keen on him hitting on me back at the hotel, but I think he's smartened up. As uncouth as he may be... He has your back and cares about the company."

"He's the drunk uncle of the business."

"You'll have to teach him some manners, though. One day, you'll have a female big-wig to schmooze, and she might not take kindly to pet names."

Henry's eyes bugged as he nodded. "Frank doesn't get to talk to the women in the industry, and don't worry, I'll whip him into shape."

"Hm, is that why they call you the company dad?" She asked, tracing one finger down Henry's lapel. "You just keep everyone in line, don't you? Lay down the law. Tell all those silly men how to act."

Henry shivered as her hand travelled lower, coasted over the front of his pants while nobody was looking. He puffed his chest, a crafty look taking over his visage. He snatched her wandering hand and stepped closer, eclipsing her as he slouched over to whisper in her ear.

"Yeah, I'm the Daddy around here."

"Is Daddy ready to head home soon?" 

"Let's say our goodbyes, then we'll get out of here. Come on." 

Henry gave her directions that took them in the opposite direction of home. When she questioned him, he patted her thigh, assuring there was a surprise waiting at the end of the line. She tried to pry it from him while they cruised the highway in the dark. The radio played low while Henry tried changing the subject. 

"Where am I going?" She asked. 

Henry pointed ahead. "Get off at the next exit." 

The roads narrowed, and the street lamps spread farther apart outside of the city. She slowed the car, flipped on the high beams and guided Henry's BMW over gravel hills. There were houses along the quiet strip of country line, but they were hidden behind spruce and maple trees.

"Henry, we're so far from home. I'm tired. Please tell me what we're doing." 

He pointed at a driveway tucked behind a line of birch and a dented metal mailbox standing crookedly on the side of the road. "Down there. It's close now, don't worry." 

They curved through a loose gathering of evergreens and pulled up to a sprawling ranch house with a double garage and topiaries along the sides. The place was dark, but a motion light illuminated the paved driveway as she pulled up and parked. Henry pulled a set of keys from his pocket and exited the vehicle. He waited for her to catch up, breath turning to vapour in the crisp night air.

"Care to explain what we're doing at some random house?" She asked.

Henry took her hand and guided her toward the front door. In the dark, she sailed by the realtor's sign and stepped onto the first stone slab leading to the front door. She watched Henry fiddle with a key, shove it into the lock and turn the handle. The door opened with a whoosh, the scent of fresh paint and lacquered wood spilling out of the massive wooden door. Henry hit a switch, and fractals of light exploded from a chandelier on high in the foyer.

"Check this out. It's so open in the center, you could drive a truck through to the backyard. And the kitchen! Oh, you gotta see the kitchen. It's lovely," Henry said as he grabbed her hand and led her through the house. "All stainless steel and marble. The island is bigger than our bed! And come this way, down here."

They journeyed down an echoing hall, footsteps casting off the hardwood floors and glass light fixtures. Henry threw open a door and ushered her inside a furnished bedroom. A sleigh bed domineered the far end of the room, all dark wood, plush duvet and pillows.

"I know you're not keen on beige, which is fine. We'll paint it. But, look at this bed! And this window overlooks the backyard—Well, I wouldn't say 'yard.' It's more of a...field. Look, look, look!"

"Henry, what is this?" She asked, peering out the window at the blackness beyond the dim orange halo of the bedroom light.

When she turned back around, Henry placed his hands on her hips, excitement simmering. He smiled, wry and lustful, and bent down to kiss her.

"Isn't it obvious? This is our house."

"What are you saying?" She gasped. "You bought this place?" 

"Mhm. I've had my eye on it for a long time."

"And just how long exactly were you planning on keeping this a secret?"

"Only until I bought it."

"Henry!"

He jingled the keys in his pocket. "Well, you can't just walk into a place that's not yours."

Suddenly, she realized Henry had put this in motion weeks before, masked it under the search for a new office building. Realtors had rung Henry's phone off the hook, and she had answered them all, oblivious to his underlying motive. When it clicked, she dropped her jaw and swatted him playfully.

"I can't believe you. Right under my nose!"

"It was good timing."

"But...why? What's wrong with the condo?"

Henry guided her to the room's centre beneath the carnival glass light fixture that had to go, along with the drab paint job. "Nothing is wrong with the condo. It's just not ours. There are too many memories preventing me from letting go of the past. I want to let it all go, but I can't when I look around and remember where I was just a year and a half ago. It served me well as a place to escape, but now, I don't need to hide. I want new memories. I want to walk outside with my coffee and see you in the backyard, doing whatever you want—gardening, reading, lounging. I want to pull up after a long day at work, see this place, and know that you're inside, all of our things, our memories, our smells."

"And what if I hate it?" She asked, stifling a giggle.

"Then I'll sell it, and we'll find a new place."

"I don't hate it, Henry, but...This was such a risk."

"It paid off. I knew you'd like it. It's the perfect combination of vintage and modern. The structure is old and strong, but the renovations give it that modern class. It's like that chalet we stayed at in Sweden. Remember?"

"Of course, I remember. We didn't leave bed for two days."

Henry smiled fondly at the memory and stroked her hair back, smiling with her in his arms. She laid her cheek on his chest and breathed in a contented sigh.

"There are two offices, one for me and one for you. Two other bedrooms. One for guests and one for a kid."

She looked up at him, and all the playfulness fled from his eyes. He kissed her to avoid the inevitable questions. When will we see a doctor? What is the plan if we can't conceive? They didn't need answers, only trust that whatever battles stretched on, they would meet them hand-in-hand.

"I can't wait," she whispered. "I love you. And I love this house."

"There's one more thing," Henry cleared his throat and stepped away from her. "It's kind of important."

"What is it?"

"I'm old, babe."

"Henry, you're not that old."

"I'm an old man. I'm head of a multi-national company, y'know. I wear suits and talk to people who hemorrhage money day in and day out. I like to style myself as a professional."

She cocked her head, wondering where Henry was going with his monologue.

"It's awkward when people ask me about you, and I have to refer to you as my girlfriend. Guys like me aren't supposed to have girlfriends. It just sounds creepy. Plus, you're so much more to me than that. You're not my girlfriend; you're the love of my life. My soulmate. My queen. I want you to be my partner."

"Henry—"

He cut her off and fetched something from the table next to the bed. When he rejoined her in the middle of the room, he bent at the knee and presented her with the ring box she had already seen, yet she fluttered as though it was the first time.

"Baby... I could have flown you to a tropical island or put this in a glass of champagne. I could have done this in front of everyone at the party tonight, but all of that seemed silly. Don't get me wrong, I still want to take you to every corner of the world and give you all the nicest things, but I wanted to propose to you in our house, just you and me. So... Will you quit being my girlfriend and become my wife instead?"

Henry separated her ring finger from the rest and slid the band down to the knuckle as she blotted her sobs with the other hand, nodding and fighting joyful tears.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" She asked as he rose to his feet and clamped her in a bone-cracking hug.

"I know I'm clever! You thought I would propose to you in front of all those people? No way."

"You hate being the center of attention."

"That's right. And although I want to shout it from the rooftops, I thought you'd prefer me asking you to marry me someplace quiet."

She gazed at the stone glittering on her finger, and a fresh wash of tears wet her cheeks. "I'm marrying you... You're going to be my husband."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to skip fiance altogether and get right to the wife thing."

"You're my husband."

"You're my wife!"

"We're getting married!"

"That's right," Henry beamed. "And we move in next month."

Breathless, she ripped her eyes off the ring and looked up at the man who gave it to her. She threw her arms around his neck, pressed her face into the column of his throat and breathed in the scent of old hotels, of pastry and coffee and drying ink on newspaper. She had a vision of him seated at a table across the room, smiling in her direction, tapping his silver pen on the spine of his planner. Two eyes, one green and one brown, drinking her in like fine wine, full of secrets and passion, indulgence and guilt. Her good Christian boy who was anything but pure or chaste.

"I'll worship you until I die, you know that, right?"

"Henry, I can't. You're making me cry. There's probably mascara all over my face!"

"I don't care," he pressed the words to her temple, swaying in languid step. "You'll never be rid of me. Think about that."

"I believe you, Henry."

His eyes flooded and no amount of squeezing suffocated the tears. The streams met the cuff of his suit jacket. He questioned why he still wore the suit and slipped out of it as her hand tugged his tie. Leash in hand, she pulled his face to her level and touched the tears coasting his cheeks, brushed her thumb over the scar two inches from the lips she kissed.

"Are you sure you want to marry me?"

"Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"And I'm telling you to shut up, Henry. Don't ask those kinds of questions."

"I just can't believe you're mine."

"That's right. So stop wondering if I'll change my mind. I've had many opportunities to reconsider. I stuck it out through times I should have walked out, and now we're standing in this gigantic house, and there's a ring on my finger... And you still think I'll back out?"

"I hope not. You're everything I've wanted my whole life. I have it all. Now I can spend the rest of it happy."

"I love you," she whispered against his bottom lip.

Henry crouched, circled her hips with his arms and carried her to the bed, murmuring, "I love you, too, baby. So much."

"Are we gonna fuck right here?"

"Right here, right now," said Henry, perching her on the bed so he could work open the buttons of his dress shirt. She lifted her legs, slipped off her heels, then wrestled her blouse off. The struggle to undress ended with their tops off, Henry standing with his knees pressed into the plush mattress, between her legs. He ran his hands up and down her thighs, nylon sighing between skin as he stroked.

"I didn't think I'd make it out of the office without fucking you. Gosh, you looked so good in that outfit. All those guys were looking at you... Especially when you dropped your phone and bent over to pick it up. That fabric stretching over your ass. You should've seen 'em staring."

"You think they're jealous of you?" She asked as Henry bunched her skirt around her hips, revealing satin and lace panties pasted to her crotch with arousal. His palm traversed her thigh, paused at the edge of the panties. He sent out two fingers to stroke the stitching along her groin, satin running like water across the tips. Henry wanted to take his time, but she was restless. He subdued her with a kiss.

"Don't get ahead of yourself. I'm in control tonight, and I want to feel and lick and taste every inch of your body before I even get my pants off, understand?"

She returned his sly look and rolled onto her stomach, parting her legs so he could admire the shiny material ruched between her cheeks.

"To answer your question... Yes. Of course, they're jealous."

"Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

Henry snickered, like a bully cornering his prey. "Those old bastards can't keep their mouths shut. Even when you were my employee, they'd hound me for details... Ask if you were single, if I was tapping you, if I'd thought about it. I'm not one to boast, but they all knew. Henry Deaver doesn't kiss and tell, but then you'd come in and smile at me like just an hour before I was balls-deep in your pussy... Like my cum was still dripping down your thigh. They knew. We weren't as covert as we thought."

"It's that naughty little smile of yours that gives it away. You flashed me that same smile a few times at the hotel, and I just thought maybe you didn't realize how seductive you looked. But you know, don't you? You know what you do to me. How hard you can make me with just one look."

Henry lifted her leg over his shoulder and kissed her ankle as he squeezed the sole of her foot, admiring the coloured polish on her toenails peeking out of the semi-opaque stockings.

"I do enjoy getting you worked up, sir."

"Let's not tonight. I'm supposed to make love to you, not treat you like my office pet. I'm marrying you, for fuck's sake."

"Then make love to your future wife. That doesn't mean I can't be your slut anymore."

"Oh, my God," Henry growled.

"Look at what I'm wearing for you. I know how much you love the way my pussy looks wearing this fabric. Thigh-high stockings aren't practical, but I figured you might fuck me in your office one last time, and I wanted to torment you."

"Not so predictable now, huh?"

She simpered and ran her toe in a line down his chest and didn't stop until she grazed his belt buckle. "Yeah, and you've been thinking about filling me up all night."

Henry grasped her ankles and pulled her to the edge of the bed to meet his groin. He gathered her up in his arms, pressing his entire weight on her frame as he kissed her desperately. When her legs grew weak, he clamped them around his hips and undulated. Hardness strained against her crotch, pulsing from the heat between her legs.

"You're right. I've been aching to fuck you. How long has it been? Gosh, this week has been so busy, I've hardly had any time alone with you. And you've been occupied with your new job. It's been a while since I've come."

She made a coo of sympathy. "Aw, my poor baby. You're probably so sensitive."

"I want you to do something for me," Henry muttered, adjusting his crotch, then giving up and undoing his belt and pants altogether. "I'd love it if you sucked my cock."

"Oh, Mr. Deaver asking for a blowjob? A rare sound to my ears."

He shook his head, grabbed her hand and pulled her off the bed to kneel on the floor. With feet spread wide, his fingers tangled in her hair, Henry waited for her to make the first move. His view of her from on high was angelic. In the prismatic light, her eyes twinkled, and he thought of whiskey in a glass, poured by a dangerous woman he'd grown to admire. She always wore a smile, but for the right person, that smile turned luscious and dim. Her eyes would relax on him, soothe him, delight if he made small conversation instead of only demands.

Henry did not demand, but as her smiling lips tightened around the midway-point of his cock and sank, he couldn't help aiding the way to her throat with one firm thrust. "Oh... Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," he droned.

"You can use my mouth, sir."

"Just suck that dick like a good girl. Do your magic on me, baby."

With free reign, she slathered his shaft with her tongue, side-to-side, up and down. She met his eyes and smiled, the tip nestled between her puckered lips. Her grasp on the base sent waves of hot blood pumping through the veins, filling him out entirely.

"I can't wait to feel this big cock pumping my pussy full of cum."

"Oh, I know, baby. We'll get there. For now, I need your mouth. All over me, please. Balls too. Come on... Eat that cock, you hungry little slut."

She chased Henry up on the bed where she could kneel between his legs in comfort. Henry enjoyed the position, too—back against a mound of pillows, his long legs spread to the lower corners of the bed, her crumpled form nestled between his thighs while her lips and tongue worked in a circuit on his length. He leaned his head back, arms thrown over the pillows. In this position, Henry bucked his hips a few times to touch his tip to her tonsils. Each time she brought up a wave of saliva that coated him and made it easier for her to slide down.

"What about that ass, big boy?" She asked after popping up from a harsh series of head-bobbing. "I know how much you love it when I play with that pretty hole of yours."

Henry sucked air in through his teeth, chin dimpling and lashes fluttering. "Mmph, not tonight. I want that pussy. Yeah, I wanna taste you."

They flipped positions. Henry pulled her onto her back away and snatched one of the pillows to wedge under her tailbone. With both hands, he hooked the back of her knees and spread her thighs wide, elevating her pelvis until his breath stroked the front of her panties. Henry nipped the fabric, pulled it into a tent and let it snap back against her lips. He nuzzled it, faint stubble scratching the delicate fabric. She let out a gentle sigh, a whimper of lust. Henry kissed the satin once, twice harder, then a third time like he'd met her mouth in a fevered touch.

She watched his long fingers sneak the fabric away, how he made shapes with his mouth like he wanted to say something but lost his voice. Henry bit his lip, kissed where he knew her clit was hiding, then prodded her folds with a long lick. He repeated the motion on the right side, along her labia, and again on he left side.

For a while, he would only meet the crest of her entrance with light kisses and whispered promises.

"Do you like it when I tease your pussy? Giving you just enough to make you wet, but not as much as you need?"

"Henry, please," she begged.

"Please, what?"

"Please give me more!"

"More of this?" Henry asked, ghosting his breath over her clit.

"No more teasing."

"You sure?"

She clutched some of his hair and pouted. He chuckled, laid his cheek on her thigh and brought his hand up between her legs. "What if I'm not done teasing? What if I want to torment you a little longer?"

He spread open her lips, applying pressure on both sides. She could almost grind against his fingers if he didn't have her at his mercy, arched over a pillow, thighs splayed wide and vulnerable. Henry tapped her clit with three fingers, stippling with gooseflesh from the wet noises the pads made on her vulva. "Oh, I love that sound," he sang. "You're so wet for me."

"Please, sir. I need your mouth."

"Is that right? Well, you've been so good and helpful. I'm sure I can give you what you want... but you have to promise me something."

"Yes, yes, I will. Anything."

"Promise you'll tell me before you come?"

"Uh-huh. I promise."

"Okay, I trust you. Don't get too close. I have other plans for your pussy."

She groaned out loud, relieved when he finally licked her clit. His tongue was a warm blanket, weighted and placed perfectly on top. He undulated the muscle, coaxing out the sensitive parts for adoration. That's how she described his attention in her mind. When Henry ate her out, it was like he'd infiltrated her head and knew the precise amount of pressure, the proper motions, when to flicker his tongue and when to envelope her clit between his lips. He kissed, sucked, lapped and moaned like a symphony, only opening his eyes once in a while to catch her staring in awe between her legs.

"Mm, baby," Henry moaned against her slit. "I can feel you getting close already. Don't go over the edge."

"I'm sorry, you just look so good eating my pussy."

Henry pulled off her, smirking, letting her glimpse his full lips shining in their glory. She couldn't stop herself from lunging for him. The taste of her own fluid on his mouth set off a carnal urge to feel his cock too. She told him to fuck her hard, to spank her ass and make her squeal like a knifed animal. She wanted that deepness, the full stretch as his thighs bounced her up and down. They laid on their sides, and Henry entered her from behind, arm hooking her leg up so he could gaze over at her exposed breasts, her glistening clit forgotten for a moment too long. In his clutches, she was helpless, and Henry used his advantage to squeeze and rub her until more of her liquid soaked between their groins.

"Can you come like this?" Henry puffed next to her ear. "If I rub your clit like that and keep fucking you, can you come?"

"Yes," she peeped. "Yes, keep going."

"Yeah? Gonna come like a good girl all over this dick?"

Again, she nodded, biting down on her lip in concentration.

"'Cause I'm gonna shoot so much fucking cum inside you, but only after you get all tight around me."

She begged him not to stop, to never stop being hers. Henry rushed his movements until she bucked once, legs fighting to fold inward.

"Is that it? That spot right there?" Henry asked. "Keep rubbing you just like this?"

He didn't need an answer; it was written all over her flushed face, denting her lip where her teeth bore down. Henry exerted every inch of stamina he had in his body until her muscles seized hard enough to snap. Mewling as she came, Henry didn't stop pestering her clit with his fingertips or pull out after he emptied as deep inside as he could fit. He gathered her up in his arms, locking fingers and lips, breathing each other's air. Pieces of his hair clung to his sweat-dampened forehead while he pulsed and shivered.

"I need you to get your panties on right away. We can't leave a mess behind."

"Are you serious?"

Henry nodded his head, unperturbed by the alarm in her tone. "Well, it's not our stuff. It's staging furniture. I just convinced the realtor to let me surprise you tonight. She probably didn't think I'd be fucking you in any of the bedrooms."

"Henry! I'm not sure where you slung my underwear."

He pushed into her one last time and grunted. "Aw, honey, mm. That's where my cum belongs."

"You're such a bad man," she giggled.

"I know I'm dirty."

"Come on, husband. Help me find my clothes. We should get back before we both fall asleep and someone finds us like this."

They gathered themselves, sighing and stretching the tension from their muscles as they dressed and took one more look around the property. She saw the house in a warm light now, as a place they could fill with memories, starting in the master bedroom where Henry proposed. He held her hand as they drove to the condo and flung themselves into bed, drained from the night's givings but wrapped in each other's arms.

 The next morning, she woke to the smell of pancakes cooking on a griddle. Henry was up, two coffees deep, and buzzing from cupboard to cabinet, humming under his breath. He lit up when he caught her motion in the corner of his eye and went in for a long hug.

"Good morning, wife."

"Morning, husband," she replied, cheeks and chest prickling.

"Pancake buffet?" Henry gestured at the kitchen island.

"It's not even Christmas!"

Henry scoffed. "Who needs a special occasion to have a pancake buffet?

"I suppose I can't complain," she said.

She sat at the island, studying the foreign object around her ring finger every once in a while. When she made a fist or spread her hand, the rock sparkled and delighted her eyes. Henry caught her staring at the ring and smiling as he launched into the day's trajectory, his plan falling on deafened ears.

"Hello?" Henry waved the spatula. "Are you home?"

She sat up straight and folded her hands. "Yes. Sorry. I was distracted."

"I was saying I have to go into the office today, but only for an hour or two. Are you okay with hanging around here by yourself while I take the car? Can you believe the Beamer is still in the shop? They say take the damn thing into the dealership, we'll fix it up for free, but we'll keep it for half the week."

"Oh, well, I was supposed to pick up groceries, but I can wait."

Henry's eyebrows popped up. "Oh, no. No, no, honey. That's all right. I'll find another way there."

"Why don't I drive you to the office? Unless...You're not actually going to the office?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Henry asked.

"I don't know...You could be exacting another one of your famous covert plans and covering it up by saying you're going to the office. How do I know?'

Henry tipped his head back and laughed as he tended the food sizzling on the stovetop. "Oh, sweetheart. No. I promise, no more tricks for a while."

"Sure," she said with a sly edge on her tongue.

"You can drop me off and take the car. It's nothing secretive, I swear."

Henry piled the last pancakes onto a plate, turned off the griddle and wiped the counter clear of flour and coconut flakes. They put together an extravagant array of dressed-up breakfast food, dousing their plates in maple syrup, chocolate chips and heart-shaped strawberries as they talked and sipped coffee. Henry sat across the island holding his hand out for her to touch every once in a while. He didn't need her to hold his hand, though, subconsciously, he always reached out for her in case she wanted to feel his skin.

The morning melted seamlessly into early afternoon, and the couple ventured from the condo after a quick round of energizing couch sex. Henry thumbed the ring on her finger as they walked onto the main floor from the elevator.

"Mr. Deaver and Madame, good morning!" Johnny, the concierge, greeted them.

Henry held up their conjoined hands. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Deaver from now on, Johnny."

The tall man behind the desk made a small gasp and bowed. "Apologies, Mr. and Mrs... Might I say congratulations to the happy couple?"

"You're the first to hear, officially," Henry said.

Johnny touched his enormous hand to his chest. "What an honour, sir. This position never loses its magic."

Henry twisted his mouth. "I have some other news, Johnny. My wife and I will be moving soon. We won't be seeing you every morning."

"Ah, that's all right, Mr. Deaver. Moving up and up, I hope?"

"Yes. It's a ranch house in the country. No neighbours."

"Beautiful. Well, I wish you both the very best and look forward to helping you out until moving day comes."

"Thanks, Johnny," she said with a smile.

Johnny rose his finger as they meant to leave. "One more thing. A package arrived for you, Mr. Deaver."

The concierge ducked under the desk with a set of keys and opened the security box dedicated to the Deaver property. He pulled out a bulging manila envelope and turned it over with a dutiful grin. When her eyes glanced at the writing on the front, a knot formed in her throat. Henry's name adorned the front in practiced, sweeping hand. Henry. Not Henry Deaver or Mr. Deaver. Just his name written in black ink with flourishes on the capital H and a hand-drawn filigree beneath. She watched his shoulders stiffen as he nodded to Johnny.

"Thank you, Johnny. We'll see you later."

She followed Henry to the parking garage, staring at the envelope in his hands. Henry looked ahead, his bright demeanour trampled upon by the object he carried. When they got into the vehicle, they looked at each other, then down at the package.

"What is that?" She asked.

"I think it's from Mary. That's her handwriting."

She swallowed the knot in her throat, but it had doubled in size and refused to budge. "What now? She's not supposed to bother us anymore."

"I know," Henry breathed. "I can't... You open it."

She tore into the envelope and pulled out a letter accompanied by a DVD in a flat jewel case and photocopies of ruled paper scrawled with notes. Henry nodded at the letter, signalling her to read it aloud.

"Dear Henry... I know there's little chance of getting a private audience with you now that we're legally separated, and the company is in the process of moving. You probably have your hands full and do not wish to hear from me either way. I understand your need to stay away, hence the letter and no phone call. What needs to be said cannot be summed up in a brief call, so I will try to keep this to a few pages.

I wanted to start off by apologizing. It's too late for apologies, and you must think I'm off my rocker to have even considered coming to you with this. Still, I'm not looking for acceptance, sympathy or anything but the need to fill you in on the blank spaces that must have driven you crazy over the last couple of years. The way I scorned you was wrong. A wife should respect her husband in all forms, and answer to him when he calls. I ignored you and purposely drove a wedge between us in order to distance myself from you and our collective failure.

By now, I'm sure your new girlfriend told you what I told her. It should come as no surprise that when I say "failure," I mean our inability to have a child.

When I received the news, and you were nowhere to be found, I felt the clutches of the Devil himself reaching for me. God does not make mistakes, which is how I know we were being punished for our sins, and since the results indicated you were the weaker factor, I can only assume the punishment was meant for you, and by extension, me. I know you have berated me in the past for my strong beliefs, but I cannot compromise my relationship with God for anyone's comfort. I know in my heart, his word is law, and if we couldn't produce a child, lying together would be straying down the path of temptation.

There were things you wanted me to do that I could not, in good conscience, provide for you—sex acts no married couple should have an interest in performing. If I'd have known of your devious tastes early on in our relationship, perhaps I wouldn't have married you. You resisted His word and acted on selfish impulse, spoke of wicked things with your colleagues, and Lord knows what other things I didn't catch wind of. I had to escape your sin yet remain your wife through the bad and the worse, as I pledged before God until death.

I do not judge you, as you are no longer my husband, and I know God will assess your choices in his divine eye. I don't have to worry about the unclean thoughts that live inside of you—they have no power over me; they aren't a reflection of my heavenly worth. If anything, I hope you are happy and have all the freedom one who strays from God can expect to have in this world. I pray for your soul each night and hope you do not meet the eternal fires.

I should have told you, but I was stricken with unbearable grief. I hated you. I fell out of love. I can't describe how, but I felt if I touched you, knowing what I knew then, God would punish me. Please understand everything I did, I did in the name of the Lord and with concern for my immortal soul. Call me selfish. I was and am, to this day, a selfish woman. But you were good to me, up until a certain point.

I cannot forgive your infidelity and can only pray you to seek repentance for your sin, though I will admit I did not care to make it right at the time. My silence was meant as punishment, but only God can dole penance, and in shutting you out, I acted in his name when I shouldn't have. I will spend the rest of my days begging His forgiveness and praying for you, Henry.

This package includes the evidence I've compiled of your cheating. You should know now I no longer seek vengeance. I simply want to scrub my life of all traces of you, and figured you might want to gaze upon your transgressions. Or throw them out. It's up to you now. Sincerely, Mary."

Henry was quiet for several minutes as he digested the contents of the letter. She found a pamphlet for the Evangelist Church of God among the pages and scowled.

"Wow, religion really makes people say some crazy stuff," she muttered, hoping to get a sound out of her fiance. Henry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He motioned for the letter and gave it a half-hearted scan before crumpling it in his fist.

"Fuck that woman. Fuck that life."

"Sounds like a story."

He puffed, scoffed, burned a hole into the letter written in Mary's graceful hand.

"But you don't have to tell me."

"She's right," Henry said. "I was different back then."

"I know you were."

"How come you've never asked?"

His question nipped the skin on the back of her arms. "The same reason I don't ask other people about their religion. That's their business. You were raised a certain way, but you changed. I know you were put in a cage, Henry. You made a mistake, but it's not the eternal damnation Mary says. Your marriage was practically over. Unless... You cheated before us?"

Henry whipped a look at her, gaping and wordless. She shrugged as a platitude and coughed over a laugh. "Well? How can I not suspect? Mary says you cheated, Frank says you didn't, but I don't trust either of them as far as I can throw them, Henry!"

"Look, I know!" Henry barked, and she pressed her back to the door. "You've gotta believe me, sweetheart. I'm trying to prove to you every day that I'm not this monster she wants me to be!"

"What's on these discs? They don't have labels. Am I going to watch this and find out something you don't want me to?"

His jaw set like he was about to explode. Air escaped his nostrils, and he glared forth at the wet cement wall beyond the hood of her car. Above, the building's pressure crushed out all sound, and Henry became aware of his breath, the tension in his windpipe.

"No. I don't know. I have no idea what's on those DVDs. If she got her private investigator to film me, it's probably just you and I making out in the car. What would be incriminating about that?"

"Did you lie to me that night in Paris?"

A dissonant, heavy silence fell over the man in the driver's seat. His skin turned sallow, and her eyes eclipsed to see the sickly guilt on his face.

"That night, you told me you left her. You said you asked for the divorce, and she just gave up. Was that a lie? Did you say that just to get me to go?"

Condemned by another bout of silence, Henry hid the colour of his ears behind hunched shoulders. "Baby, I was in love. I am in love with you. It's only ever been you! I needed you with me so bad. She knew we were done. She knew it. Divorce was not a foreign word."

"Just tell me straight. Did you put it in stone that night? When you flew me ten hours to Paris to be with you?"

"No. I didn't. I went home, said goodbye to her, she gave me the cold shoulder, I cursed, and she got angry with me. I told her I was finished, and then I left. Maybe I didn't flat out say I want a divorce, but it was implied."

"I'm curious to see what's on these discs," she said.

"Sweetheart, I will watch them with you, totally confident there's no evidence of me with any other woman."

"Good," she nodded. "Because you're mine. Maybe I'm the bad one for not caring. If you're bad, I'm worse. I don't give a fuck about you cheating on her, and this is the first time I've ever admitted it out loud. You're mine, Henry. You belong to me. She knew what she had and uses faith as an excuse for hiding a horrible secret from you!"

"Good Lord, I don't want to cry about this again," said Henry.

"Fuck it, Henry, just like you said. Fuck her and fuck the life you had. Your ass is mine now," she stuck her ring finger in the air. "Like, forever."

Henry pouted and melted into her lap. She quickly ran her hands through his hair as he moaned against her knee. "But what about our family?"

"We'll figure it out, babe. I promise. Until then, just keep shooting loads inside of me, and we'll see what happens."

He burst with laughter and lifted his rosy face to kiss her. "That's such a you thing to say in a time of crisis."

"I told you last night and back at the hotel... I'm with you. I'll back you in everything you do and make sure not a day goes by you wish you were somewhere else."

"I have absolutely no doubt of that, sweetheart. Goddamn it, I love you... Wifey," he giggled.

"But how hot would it be to have sex while watching DVDs of us hooking up in the Beamer and touching on patios and shit?"

"So hot. I've been thinking about it, and I've concluded it is very fucking hot."

"All right, hubby. Let's put this shit behind us forever and get busy getting married and having babies. We have places to go!"

"Yeah," Henry grabbed her hand and nodded. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

[workofthediesel]

Post 2018 rusted brakes (because I'm diseased, but feel free to decline lol)

fic requests are open! send me an ask!

Rusty rolled through the train yard, waving at the freight as he went. They were all on break as they waited for their next scheduled departure. Rusty was on break, too, and he could have joined any one of them if he wanted, but he was looking for one car in particular.

In no time, Rusty found him. Caboose was playing with his hat as he idled by the side of the track, flipping it on and off his head and practicing fancy twirling hand tricks.

Rusty watched for a moment, mesmerized by the red blur. Caboose did all of the movements so naturally, so fluidly, it was like he wasn’t even trying.

Unfortunately, the scene wasn’t quite perfect. With Caboose’s hat off, that awful bandana he had tied over his head was on full display.

Of course, Rusty knew why he wore it: he hated his hair—soft orange locks he complained ruined his look. He made an effort to hide them whenever possible, even going so far as to sleep with his bandana on.

The fact that Rusty had ever seen his hair at all was an accident. The bandana had shifted one night while Caboose had been asleep, and when Rusty woke up in the morning, a few wispy tufts of Caboose’s hair were on display. He’d never seen Caboose’s hair before and he thought it looked nice. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and gently twirling a few strands around his finger. The touch woke Caboose up, though, and he quickly stuffed his hair back under its cover, grumbling irritably.

Since then, the same thing had happened only a handful of times. Each time it did, the first thing Caboose did upon waking up was fix it. He’d also started tying the bandana on tighter and tighter each night, as if that could prevent it from slipping off again. Rusty was surprised he hadn’t tried pinning it in place yet, but he wasn’t going to say that. He didn’t want to give Caboose any ideas.

Rusty liked Caboose’s hair. He liked its vibrancy, the light golden highlights and rich orange lowlights. He liked how soft it was on the rare occasions he managed to touch it. Sometimes he fantasized about Caboose’s bandana slipping off all the way, of waking up to a lazy morning to be spent running his fingers through his partner’s hair.

And, honestly, Rusty didn’t think Caboose’s hair ruined his look at all. He’d told him as much, too, but Caboose refused to listen.

The situation, Rusty realized, was beginning to call for drastic measures.

Stealth had never necessarily been one of Rusty’s strong suits, but he could manage well enough if he put his mind to it. So, Caboose remained completely oblivious as Rusty quietly slipped behind him. Without warning he shot his hand out, grabbing the knot at the back of Caboose’s bandana and pulling it off.

Immediately Caboose snapped to attention. He shot straight up, one hand flying to his head as if to cover it as he whipped around. “Rusty!” he snarled, eyes as cold and as sharp as steel.

There wasn’t really any point in playing innocent, but Rusty tried it anyway. He moved his hands behind his back and tried to make his eyes big and guileless. “What?”

Caboose narrowed his eyes. “Don’t ‘what’ me!” he hissed. “Give me my scarf back.”

“What do you mean? I don’t have it.” It was such an obvious lie it didn’t need to be addressed.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Caboose said flatly. “Now give it back.” He reached around Rusty, snatching the scarf out of his hands.

As soon as he had hold of it, Caboose brought it up to his head, ready to retie it over his hair. Rusty fought down a pout at the sight. This was the first time he was seeing Caboose with the bandana off completely, and he had to admit, he liked it. He was sure Caboose wouldn’t appreciate the descriptor, but he thought he looked cute. He didn’t want to give up the sight of him like this so soon.

Rusty reached up to catch Caboose’s wrists. “Leave it off,” he said. “I like your hair.”

“That’s all well and good for you,” Caboose said, somewhat peevishly, “but I don’t care. I’m wearing it.” He pulled his hands out of Rusty’s grasp.

He moved to tie the bandana over his hair again, but Rusty wasn’t going to let him. He took hold of Caboose’s wrists once more, this time gently pulling his hands down. “Please?” he said softly, giving Caboose the best pleading eyes he could manage.

Caboose stared at him for a moment, weighing his options, before he quirked an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me?”

Of course, Caboose would do anything if you named the right price. Money was the easiest way to get a deal out of him, but he’d also accept valuables or favors if you knew how to talk him into it.

Luckily, Rusty was a bit of a special case. There was something he could offer Caboose that no one else could, something guaranteed to convince him of just about anything.

He tipped his head down to gently slide his lips against Caboose’s. He slipped his hands from Caboose’s wrists to wrap them around his palms, softly rubbing his thumb across the back of his hands. He could feel the moment Caboose’s eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into the kiss.

The kiss remained chaste, and after a few seconds, Rusty pulled back, smiling softly. “Enough?”

“Not quite,” Caboose said, tugging on Rusty’s hands to pull him in closer.

Rusty came willingly, his smile growing. “I’m sure I can find some way to make up the difference,” he said before eagerly meeting Caboose’s lips again. Realizing his opportunity, he let go of Caboose’s hands, instead reaching up to card his fingers through Caboose’s hair as he deepened the kiss. It was every bit as wonderful as he had imagined.

[weaver-z]

Birthmark

A short horror story by B.E.

The women in my family have port-wine birthmarks, but none ever had any as strange as mine. 

Not even my mother, who had one that stretched across her forehead like a bloodshot eye, the pale sclera-white of her skin visible under the glaze of reddish violet. She told me, when I was very young, that my grandmother had one, too, along the back of her head--she, unlike us, had been lucky enough to have one that could be hidden under a bonnet, though her blonde hair still revealed it in the summertime.

“Can I see the ones on the legs?” Thomas asks, chewing the inside of his cheek like a cow chewing its cud. I allow it, even though I am a girl, because Thomas and I are friends, alone in the center of a field of tall summer alfalfa. I can feel his eyes boring into the marks on me in fascination, as he moves around me to see my arms, at the marks on those.

“I like the winter best,” I say, pulling my skirt up. “Pa hates it. But I like it, because I can cover all of ‘em up with my clothes, even the ones on my arms.”

“They’re not so bad,” he says. “They’re not on your face, at least.

“Guess so.”

He sits in front of me in the clear space between the eden-green strands of the grass, looking down at the marks on my legs. They are strange, wobbling lines, not blotches or patches--the lowest two are at my knees, lines that wrap around the joint like the borders of a county. 

There are two more on my upper thighs, though I don’t show Thomas those--he’s still a boy, and even though he looks at my markings with nothing but fascination, I still feel a little kernel of shame rubbing at the walls of my chest. The arms are easier to show to him--there are only two marks, just too low to be covered by my short sleeves, broad and awkward unevenly-stamped lines.

“So you’ve got more? On your back?” Thomas asks, sitting on his haunches, looking at me with intent, dust-brown eyes too large for his face.

“Yes. Almost like a corset,” I say, “like a nice corset, the kind rich ladies wear with their jewels. One on my waist, like a belt. One below my shoulders. Oh, and a line down my back, a kinda wobbly one.”

“Like the laced-up part of the corset,” he says, and I nod, happy that he understands. Most boys who live in these parts wouldn’t. He moves around me, and I sit straight, lifting my long frigid-blonde braid so that he can see the very top of the line that travels down my spine, the source of the splotchy red-and-purple river. 

“You ever wish that you could have them wiped off?” He asks. “I heard that God sometimes grants big miracles if you pray for ‘em enough.”

“Maybe,” I say, doubtful. “I’ve tried it. Pa makes me pray each night, but nothing seems to work.”

“Shame about that. Real shame. Maybe God’s busy with somethin’ else--” he says, and suddenly a gunshot rings out in the distance.

He freezes, pupils dilating like a rabbit that hears a hawk, and I scramble for my boots, forcing them on over the crumbles of mud on my feet. We can both hear Pa, coming through the brush, forcing his way through it with snaps and tears and nearly inarticulate grumbling. Thomas is off like a shot, running almost on all fours as he crouches, and by the time my father reaches me, panting and huddled in the grass, my friend is nothing but a mole-trail disturbing distant strands.

Pa is a tall man--though I inherited his height, I’m only 13, and he towers over me, so broad and heavy that I am thin as grass and summer wind below him. I stand, looking up at him with a look that must look shameful, and he lowers the rifle to point at the earth, face still and steely with malice.

“I told you I didn’t want no boys ‘round,” he says, voice thick, like smoke from a bonfire. “Told you I didn’t want you foolin’ round like a little whore.”

“He didn’t do nothin’,” I say, arms wrapped around my chest. “Honest.”

“Who was it, then? And why didn’t he come see me, an’ ask if he could talk to you?” He takes my arm--not tightly, but with such strength that I couldn’t run if I tried. 

“He and I met while I was out with the chickens. He was on the road going up to town.”

“Sure he was.” Pa shoves my arm away and laughs, the sound like metal clattering to a dirt floor. “Sure, the devil ‘e was. I heard him talkin’ bout your legs, girl. Didn’t hear much, but I heard that. You think you’re the pick of the meat at the market, don’t you?”

“Pa--”

“Don’t talk, pretty girl. Don’t talk, and don’t you ever try and do this again. You’re gonna pray as long as you can tonight. I want your damn tongue to fall out before you stop praying,” and he begins to move, and now the pain comes as I stumble half-backward with him, held in a vise by my arm. 

“Pa, I’m sorry--”

“You ain’t sorry yet, Lu,” he says. He looks back at me, from under the shadow cast beneath his brows by the white sun overhead. “You ain’t sorry, yet.”

---

He makes me pray, that night, for hours and hours, for forgiveness, for something I never did. But the praying he makes me do that night is only meager practice for the praying I do during the winter.

Our chickens die when a coyote pack rolls through in the late days of fall, snarling and barking with a sound like mocking laughter. We salvage what corpses we can, and for a while, we eat well, but not well, because while we dine on fresh meat, the knowledge that something terrible to come hangs over us like the fog of their blood. The cattle start to go soon after, the first to a weak cover over a well (it falls in, it screams for hours), the second to a river, the third to disease, the rest tumbling like the articles like a rotting shelf soon after them. 

When winter comes, we have little, so little, and my father tears into his meager dollars to buy us what we can. I am grateful to him, even as the food dries up, even as he becomes silent, frighteningly silent, staring at me above the candle that lights our dinner-table with a face like a haunting.

I am not allowed to leave the house anymore.

I only cook--clean--mend--read the scraps of old newspaper used to patch the walls of the house as best I can. I make what food he finds for dinner, if he finds any, and I give more to his portion, and he says almost nothing to me except to remind me to stay in the home, to keep house and to keep out of the snowstorms and the paths of wild things. He fixes the roof and sharpens the knives--those are the only tasks he does around the house, besides force me onto my knees beside him to beg God for something for our stomachs.

And it is in cleaning that I find the box.

It is a small box, barely as long as my forearm and as shallow as the length of my hand, and it is under his bed, dislodged from a long stay deep in the shadows beneath his cot by a storm that shook the house.

I pull it slowly from beneath--it is unpainted, made of thin wood that leaves little splinters in the flesh of my thumb-joint. I remove its lid and look inside.

My mother is there, first, as I remember her--thin, short, with a look in her eyes like the hollow of a tree, unexplainably empty. The mark is clearly visible in the photograph, as she stands next to my father, mottled and dim. Neither of them are smiling. They are younger in this photograph--it is blurry, hard to make out.

Beneath that is a scrap of newspaper that I have a hard time understanding for a moment. 

Mrs. Mary J. Letts, 68; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Letts, wife of Mr. Roger Letts and mother to Mabelle Letts, which took place last Thursday due to a tragic accident involving an injury sustained to her head while riding. She is survived by her husband and daughter. 

The paper cuts off there. I don’t recognize the name of Letts, and the paper is old; I continue reading as I find another scrap.

Mrs. Mabelle Dawson, 36; Wife and Mother

We regret to announce the death of Mrs. Dawson, who is survived by her husband, Mr. Arnold Dawson, and her young daughter, Lucy Dawson. Their family has our greatest sympathies. She was killed accidentally as she was cleaning a weapon owned by Mr. Arnold Dawson, who claims deepest regret that

I feel my mouth run dry and my pulse hammer against my skin like stone against a drum. That is my mother’s name--that is my name, too, faint against the paper. I don’t understand why these things are in the box, among other pictures and portraits of my mother, and, unmistakably, my mother’s mother, whose mark is just visible in one small portrait of her, clearly done by an amateur hand. I can imagine how it stretched across the back of her head, branching along her skull--I can see my own mother’s mark, clearly, in the center of her forehead.

I feel cold as the wooden floor under my feet as my eyes trace the border of the mark on her forehead for the first time. 

“Lu?” my father calls, from downstairs. “Lucy? Lu-cy?”

The starburst on her forehead is strangely jagged. Unsteady. The shape that a bullet hole would make, if someone were shot close in the head. An accident while cleaning a gun. A trauma to the back of the skull. I hear a footstep on the stairs, almost hesitant, its weight barely masked by the slowness with which my father places it down.

“Lucy?” he says. “I prayed to God for a miracle, and he told me what we ought to do. I need to see you, now.”

I can’t breathe. My throat is choked by a snare as I throw myself back, scrambling across the floor and away from the box. My skirt flies up--my legs are exposed, the lines on them obvious in their purpose.

Summers ago, I went to the village with Pa, and we went to a stall hung with pig carcasses. There, there was a picture of a sow, her legs and sides and ribs marked with uneven lines where the different cuts of meat came from. Here was the thigh--here was the shank--here was the cut you made along the spine and the stomach.

I hear a slow, low rumble of creaking wood as he stops outside the door.

“Lucy?” he says, his voice more paternal than I have ever heard it, and I begin to cry--begin to pray to anything, anyone that will listen, pray that something else kills me before he enters, and nothing does.

And the door opens--slowly, too slowly, as though I’ve had a nightmare and he’s coming to check on me like a good father should--and he sees me with the box, with the tears flowing down my face, with my chest heaving in great stops and starts.

He takes a step forward. In his hands, he holds a sharpened butcher’s knife.