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passivenovember · 2 years ago

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purple pink skies.

A flier for Hawkin’s High’s Spring Fever dance goes up almost immediately after Steve considers himself out of the woods.

“Should’ve used my bike pump to inflate your balls,” Robin says.

He’s been close with Billy for a few months and in love with him for longer, but Steve couldn’t stick the landing.

It eats at him all week, stomach gaining a new gouge in the lining with each bargain prom-posal he has to bear witness to over lunch and after practice and at the mall on Saturday afternoons.

On Friday, Steve grabs a coke from the vending machine to take the edge off of not having the balls to ask Billy to go with him to the Sweetheart’s Dance. The hallway’s draped in shining pink and red cellophane while the planning committee reminds everyone to pencil their vote for Sweetheart Court, and Billy’s shooting for at least a 1250 on his SATs so he’s not even thinking about it, but.

Steve dropped the ball.

Robin eventually loses interest in making fun of him and Steve wishes he could forgive himself. He spends the weekend helping Billy shoot for a 1300 on his SAT and it’s nice, all things considered.

Max shoots daggers at him from the hallway while Billy chews on statistical equations.

“Kid’s just protective of him,” Robin tells Steve on the phone that night, “She’s gotta intimidate. Besides, Billy’s a brain. And a brain like him would rather study, anyway.”

She’s probably right.

Of course she’s right, Steve doesn’t have the spiritual strength to explore what it might mean if she isn’t.

Valentine’s Saturday comes and goes and then it’s Monday.

And Steve’s looking down the barrel of Hawkins’ last leg of winter, hopeful that the layer of ice around his heart will thaw with hard oak branches in time for Spring so Billy can finally know how he feels, and then–

Tuesday, Steve’s faced with another opportunity to trip over his words.

Save the Date: Hawkins High’s Spring Fever Dance! February 28th, 1985!

Robin snaps her gum right in Steve’s ear, “Wow. Looks like the planning committee’s getting a jump-start on mating season.”

Steve wants to tear the flier from the vending machine and eat it with a side of ranch dressing.

“Didn’t have to use so many goddamn exclamation points,” Steve mutters, but he’s drowned out by all of Hawkins High emerging from fourth period to survey the royal decree.

No one else gives a shit.

The Activities hallway has become the shitty set of a romance novel. With the jab of those three flowery words and a trillion copied posters pointing toward spring, the soft, warm light from the window is burning red, again. The air smells like the wiz of Cupid’s arrow, and everyone’s a moving target.

And maybe it’s just Steve’s own cynicism acting as a sounding tower, dialing on everyone’s conversations, but love is all anyone can talk about. Groups of girls speculate who’s going stag. Guys walk a little taller, peacocking for every watchful eye.

Steve yanks his coke can from the vending machine, “I’m going to walk into traffic.”

Robin snaps her gum again, “Okay, crab apple.”

“I’m serious. Don’t you think it’s overkill?”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

“I’m not talking about the flier.”

“Neither am I,” Robin says. She props herself against the vending machine, studying the flier as if it were a specimen under a microscope, “That wasn’t there this morning, right?”

“Who cares. This is the second dance we’ve had this month, that’s not weird to you?” When Robin shakes her head, Steve wants to grab her shoulders and shake Robin hard enough to get her brain back online.

“Dude,” Steve begins heavily, “We had Homecoming in the fall, the Senior Snowball in December, we’ve got Prom just before summer break–”

“--Didn’t have a date then, either, Harrington–”

“I know, asshole, I’m just saying,” Steve cracks his cola can, swishing the fizz around in his mouth until the sugar burns the sharpness from his tongue. “It’s like all those people who are lucky in love think the change of every season requires a dance.”

Robin nods, chewing her gum so hard it’ll probably transition out of that gooey half-liquid stage and into a solid.

Her eyes scan the hallway, flitting anxiously between traveling backpacks and spring sweaters.

Robin twists a ring around one finger.

It’s almost like Steve isn’t there, as her eyes scan the hallway. It’s almost like—

“Oh, fuck you,” Steve groans.

Robin deflates. “Look, I get why you’re so angry and I sympathize but we can deal with the Billy stuff at Scoops, I’ve gotta get to Heather before–”

Steve resists the urge to cover his ears. To curl up in the fetal position and scream and scream and never stop screaming. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I want to make sure she doesn’t get pissed and ask someone else.”

“She’d do that?” Steve wonders, knowing full well that she will. She has.

Robin shrugs, “I’m whipped.”

“You’d better get going.”

“How long has the poster been up?” Robin snaps again, like. With her full chest.

Steve wants to throw his soda at her. “If I knew that do you think I’d be standing here talking to you?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck off, I’d be blowing the door to Billy’s chemistry lab off its hinges,” Steve says, even though they both know it’s not true.

“I’m dead meat,” Robin bounces a little on her feet like she’s gotta hit the bathroom. “Heather’s probably been expecting me to see the fliers all morning and it’s almost lunch and I haven’t even–”

“Go,” Steve says.

Robin freezes, all of a sudden. All at once. “You’re sure?”

That’s the thing about Buckley. She can poke fun at him all day long and make his life a living hell, but she’ll be there if Steve really needs it.

It’s only right that he returns the favor. “I’m sure, Bucks.”

“Okay,” Robin says, flinching a little toward the end of the hall, “Because I can send myself to heartbreak island and pitch a tent with you–”

“Nah,” Steve shrugs, “One of us should have a shot at getting laid this weekend.”

Robin kisses his cheek, quick as a flash, “God, you’re a lifesaver. And if anyone asks–”

“You and me, Billy and Heather, I got it,” Steve chuckles, “Go, before your cheerleader sends her beard after you.”

Robin sprints off down the hallway.

Steve sips lightly at the rest of his cola and doesn’t think that it’d be better for him if Billy got sent to sort through Robin’s mess.

Maybe then, with his sun and moon shining right there in the hallway, Steve could open his mouth and speak.

At lunch, Billy’s head is buried in his stats book.

It’s a picture Steve’s been trying to get used to for a couple of weeks now, Billy’s usual loose and easy frame settled with hunched shoulders and furrowed brows.

The SATs are just around the corner and contrary to the front that Billy puts on for the whole of Hawkins, puffing his chest and bearing his teeth like an angry bull dog at anyone who gets too close, he’s a genius when it comes to school.

Billy when he’s focused is more lethal than anything Steve’s ever experienced.

He’s quick to throw pens and wadded-up balls of paper at anyone who breaks his concentration, and Steve’s taken a highlighter to the eye more times than he cares to remember. And with the biggest test of Billy’s academic career looming in just forty-eight hours, today it’s that with teeth.

Statistics always gets Billy stuck in his own head, wandering through maze-like hedges of numbers and graphs. It’s difficult, sitting locked out of Billy’s world when Steve’s usually glued to his hip, but it’s something to behold.

Billy when he’s focused is the closest Steve will ever get to the face of God.

He was painted by all the greatest artists, Steve knows, dreamt up by angels. The curve of Billy’s lips as he reads silently to himself, his thumb resting soft on his plush lower lip, is poetry. The way he glances up every once in a while, grinning softly, to make sure Steve’s there to quiz him on whatever formula he’s been slaving over, is Heaven on Earth.

It’s perfect.

Today, though, Billy’s lost.

The cafeteria bustles around them with excitement over the Spring Fever dance and Billy hasn’t looked up a single time since Steve sat down. His lunch sits cold and untouched on the tray in front of him.

Robin and Heather are nowhere to be found, it’s just them, and Steve weighs the possibility of taking a pen to the forehead if he interrupts to remind Billy that he won’t score a 1300 on his SAT if he starves to death before Friday.

Steve picks at his french fries and wonders what would happen if he got up and left.

Would Billy notice? Would he eat Steve’s lunch?

Would he stand up and follow?

When Billy explodes, Steve opens his mouth, ready to pay the price of getting those eyes on him.

“I’m not gonna pass,” Billy determines, shoving his notebook into his SAT prep stack with a gnarled sound.

Steve manages to catch the thing before it careens over the edge of the table, “Woah,” he says, a fry pinched between his teeth, “Hey, that's–”

“I’ve been going over the same page of quantitative data for two days,” Billy snarls, blue eyes pinning Steve to the bench, “Two fucking days, Steve.”

“What can I do to help?” Steve asks automatically.

“It’s the VAR model, the m2, it’s pissing me off.”

“Okay,”

Billy doesn’t hear him, “It keeps saying the t-distribution with degrees of freedom is equal to n-2 and when testing the slope in a simple linear regression model with one parameter–”

“--Right, okay–”

“The test for the slope has df=n-1,” Billy snaps. His eyes well up, frustrated tears clinging to his lashes.

Steve never thought Billy would be a crier, but he is.

It’s Starfall.

It’s planets colliding.

Steve has the sudden, violent urge to wipe Billy’s tears away. “It’s alright,” He says, but Billy’s shaking his head.

“I can’t do this,” He gasps, “I can’t. I’ve been working on this same equation for–”

“Two days, I know. You’ve gotta eat something alright?”

Billy’s leg bounces, shaking the whole lunch table. Steve shuffles Billy’s notes in his hands, knowing he’ll eat shit for that, later, but he can’t bring himself to care about that when slowly, frightened as a coiled rattlesnake in a mudhole, Billy reaches past his own lunch tray to get at Steve’s fries. Steve hands them over, watching as Billy nibbles away.

Like a little bunny rabbit.

The cutest, most brilliant creature on earth–

Billy sniffs, “I didn’t sleep last night,” He says, almost like he’s terrified of what Steve will do to him.

Not couldn’t. Didn’t.

Intentional.

Steve holds his breath, waiting for the sky to rip open and for Billy’s frustrated tears to punch holes in Steve’s chest when they finally start to fall.

But they don’t. Billy scrubs at his cheeks, catching them before they can take root. “I’m sorry I’m going insane.”

“You’re not insane, you’re incredible.”

“And you’re an idiot if you think that.”

“Of course, I’m an idiot. We knew that already,” Steve tells him.

He counts the breaks at the lunch table. He studies Billy’s smooth, spotless hands, his fingers as they curl protectively around a purple highlighter. Steve didn’t even know they made that color, but looking down at Billy’s notes, all the others already serve a purpose.

Billy’s leg keeps bouncing. “I still owe you an apology. If not for neglecting myself, for ignoring you.”

Steve wants to say that Billy’s never ignored him.

Not once. Since the Hargrove-Mayfield’s moved to town last fall, since Billy joined the basketball team, since they met at Tina’s Halloween party and Billy dusted his hands off and put the pieces of Steve back together after Hurricane Nancy–

Steve’s had Billy’s deep blue attention on him like a searchlight. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Steve decides, “You’re Galileo. It’s alright.”

Billy doesn’t crack a smile. “It’s not, though.”

“You’re just exhausted, anyone would be. You’ve been working yourself to death over this.”

“I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here, Harrington.”

“You will,” Steve holds the stack of paper delicately in his lap, worried that if Billy spots another equation he’ll fly off the handle. “You’ve just got to balance studying with things that make you hap–”

“My SAT exam is in two days, Steve,” Billy snaps. He leans forward, lips furrowing with sudden rage, “If I don’t land a score that can get me into any college in the country–”

“I’ll take you somewhere myself,” Steve says.

He taps Billy’s notes on the table like he’s seen his father do a million times.

It’s final. It’s a promise made of dreams that hold lead in their bellies, falling like anvils in Hawkins but taking root all over the world. In Steve’s mind, it’s honest work. His promises to Billy grow and bloom where neither of them can worry over it. They wave like flags through rain and sun, until they bear fruit ripe for picking.

Someday, they’ll feed a village from the result of these small promises.

But.

Steve’s gotta say the words, first. Plant the seeds.

I love you my brilliant, brilliant boy.

He slides Billy’s packet over the table face, tucking his fingers under his elbows for safekeeping when his Brainiac snatches it up like a hungry shark.

“You’re just saying that, Harrington,” Billy determines, avoiding Steve’s eyes.

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, alright,” Billy says, reordering his notes without even thinking about it. When they’re just right, he digs through and hands the most intense one to Steve. “Quiz time, pretty boy.”

Billy’s notes are neat and orderly, the work of someone who’s too good for him in every sense of the word.

Steve tries not to think about it.

When he stumbles over the order of an equation, Billy laughs and for the first time in days, it sounds real.

And then the bell rings.

Steve’s not proud of the gut reaction he has when he sees fingers that aren’t his playing with the loose curl that hangs over Billy’s forehead.

And.

He doesn’t own the curl. He’s not liquidating real estate on the island of Billy, he doesn’t own the guy and they aren’t in love, or dating, or fucking, he just.

Doesn’t like it.

Hates it, even.

He wants to wrench those fingers off Billy’s forehead and break all five opposable knuckles before he moves like a storm over the rest of them. But Steve’s gotta wrestle with himself and shine lamp oil on the shadows of who he was with Nancy to figure out if he’s got any right to the way his stomach tries to flip itself like a burnt pancake.

He doesn’t.

Billy’s not leaning into the touch.

He’s digging through his locker. He’s late for class, probably, because the bell rings again and suddenly he’s smacking that hand away with a snippy little, “Wilson’s gonna have my balls if I’m late again,” and.

And. The owner of the hand that aims to rock Billy props himself against slate gray metal, “You never answered my question,” He mutters, grinning, and Steve knows, like. From down the hall and around the corner that his grin is eating shit.

Billy’s shit.

He’s trying to get Billy’s pants off first, though, if Steve had to put money on it. And if they weren’t in a government building, surrounded by scurrying classmates, Hands would probably be reaching for a pack of smokes right now, or a joint. Something to get Billy loose-limbed and easy to push over.

Steve sympathizes with his masterplan. Almost sends flowers, a little good on you for trying, though I wish you wouldn’t, because the gag is that Billy can’t be swayed. He’s solid and sure as Mount Everest, he’s slow-burning like a field on fire, he’s resolute and strong–

“I don’t owe you shit, not an explanation, not–”

“You could help, anyway.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re a good person,” Hands tries, and it’s only then that Steve recognizes who’s trying to rain on his parade.

Billy slams his locker door. “You wanna keep that hand, Munson?”

“You’re cute when you get angry.” Through an awful, laughing smirk, the guy says, “C’mon, you’d be doing me a real favor. I’m trying to get that Carver asshole off my back for flirting with his girlfriend.”

Steve holds his breath. Waits for Billy to serve this guy a knife to the gut, but then– “I’ll think about it,” He says.

And It’s worse than anything Steve’s ever felt.

At the doctor’s office. On the court. With Nancy. It’s papercuts and the cold, trickling fear of crashing his father’s car into the side of a building. Steve dies a thousand, million, trillion deaths. He doesn’t want Billy to put his beautiful, brilliant mind to anything that isn’t school and his future, and Steve.��

Doesn’t want him to think about Eddie Munson or anyone else.

God, it’s pathetic.

“You’ll think about it?” Eddie wonders, “That’s all.”

“Yep, that’s all.”

“Well, I need to know by Thursday if I’ve gotta borrow my uncle’s suit.”

The dance.

Steve ducks farther behind Hawkin’s least favorite vending machine and strains to hear Billy’s response. They’ll be alone, once everyone stops scrambling into the doorway of their next class, and Steve wants to determine if he should name Robin as executor of his estate before the weekend.

The warning bell sounds, a million doors slamming in succession until the hallway is silent. Cavernous and peaceful enough that Steve hears the shuffle of footsteps.

“You’re pushy for someone so desperate,” Billy snips, but.

He’s smiling.

Even if Steve was completely off his rocker he’d know the spread of Billy’s lips.

–

“Read that one again.”

Steve swallows, “According to the passage, the family’s life in the suburbs is described as–”

“Not the question.”

Steve looks up, confused. “If I’m not reading the question–”

“Read the passage again,” Billy determines, chewing on his thumbnail, “The whole thing.”

They’ve been going at it for hours. Steve’s exhausted, and his ass hurts from sitting on the floor of his bedroom since the sun was still high in the sky, and his heart hurts from–

Billy frowns at him, knocking Steve into gear. “The whole thing?” Steve asks dumbly, “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. I’m not understanding the global and command of evidence.”

Steve’s head hurts, too. Aches. He needs a goddamn thesaurus to get through this and it’s not even his SAT exam. He leans against one palm, comforted by the weight of such a thick book in his lap.

“I’m not understanding it, either.”

“You don’t have to,” Billy says, “You’re not taking the test.”

“Maybe we could have a break?”

“And do what?” Billy shoots back.

“I dunno,” Steve says, “Wanna make out a little?”

Billy’s cheeks flare bright pink. “You’re an idiot,” He grumbles, not believing it.

And why would he?

In all the months that they’ve been friends, Steve’s never said something like that and meant it. At least not in Billy’s eyes. With Steve, everything’s always one big joke. He never takes anything seriously and that’s probably why Billy’s going to the dance with Eddie fucking Munson, of all people–

Billy slaps his notebook onto the carpet, eyes disappearing so he can scrub at his cheeks and forehead.

He always does that when he’s overwhelmed.

Steve wishes for better. He imagines all the words and graphs and statistics melting into Billy’s freckles like sunscreen. He pictures peace, exhaling into the dim, warm light of the room when Billy takes a moment to himself.

Steve considers telling the truth for one crazy, desperate moment.

That he wants to kiss Billy. Has wanted to kiss Billy for months, probably a whole year but he was always too afraid–

“I’ll be so happy when this shit is over,” Billy starts lightly. Billy leans against the wall, his curls fanning out around him. Steve gets lost on the slope of his neck, hypnotized by the bob of Billy’s Adam’s Apple when he swallows, “Listen–”

“No. I’m not gonna listen to you talk mean about yourself.”

Billy watches him through thick, heavy eyelashes. “You didn’t even hear what I was gonna say, Harrington.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says lightly. He doesn’t admit that he’d do anything Billy asked, anything he wanted. “I know you. And if you’re going to tell me it’s pointless to help you study because you’re not going anywhere in life, you’re wrong. You can forget it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve determines. “I’ve heard your shitty self-deprecating pitch before and I don’t buy a word.”

Billy stares at him for a long, tense moment–

And then he smiles.

And it’s like the sun has burned a hole through the roof and tucked itself on the floor for safekeeping. It’s like fountains of gold have erupted from the floorboards, and angels have taken up their cherub song.

“Got a little fire in you today, Harrington,” Billy says.

He likes it. He’s impressed.

“Yeah well. It’s been a shitty day.”

“Oh, sure, the day you helped me study before school and at lunch and–”

“It’s not that.”

Billy smirks, “Then what’s inspired the raging war, pretty boy?”

Steve picks at the carpet, avoiding Billy’s eyes. For months he’s wondered if Billy means it. Pretty boy, rolling like salted waves from his tongue to get Steve’s emotions sticking like hair in his eyes.

He can’t help but imagine that old nickname pinned to someone else, sticking like a nametag to Munson’s suit jacket. Hello my name is…prettier than Steve Harrington.

Steve can’t even find it within himself to disagree. Eddie Munson’s a cute guy. He’s got that whole bad boy thing, chipped black nails, big brown eyes, and a wallet chain hanging from his back pocket alongside a handkerchief Robin once wrinkled her nose at. When Steve asked her to explain it to him, she said he wouldn’t get it.

That’s probably true.

Steve doesn’t understand most things. Anything, really. But he understands that on paper, Munson’s probably Billy’s type.

If Billy had a type.

If Billy was–

“You’re gonna wear a hole in the carpet,” Billy chuckles.

Big enough to crawl in, Steve thinks. Big enough to block out the sky, to hold all my thoughts, to live in forever and ever and–

“Where are you?” Billy’s foot knocks against Steve’s thigh, rocking him gently like a boat at sea.

Steve shrugs. “Lost.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Means I’m thinking.”

“You can do that?” Billy teases. When Steve doesn’t laugh, when he doesn’t smile or do anything other than sit like a bump on a log that’s planning itself a funeral, Billy leans forward. “Tell me what’s wrong, Harrington.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll laugh at me,” Steve says, you’ll hate me. Never speak to me again. You’ll run away with Eddie Munson and marry him and you’ll live a short, happy, vibrant life somewhere I can’t feel you. “You’ll think it’s a joke. Or worse, you’ll–”

“God, I hate it when you decide shit for me.”

“I’m not–”

“Y’know, back when we first started this thing you kept me out of my head,” Billy admits. “You kept me active. The leash was fuckin’ short. Still is.”

His fingers twitch against his thigh. Steve knows if it weren’t for Mrs. Harrington and the fact that she loves Billy and expects the best from him, he’d probably be smoking a cigarette even though he’s made a habit of swearing off everything that’s not good for him.

Steve wants to say Eddie isn’t good for him. That he might seem like it at first, but in time–

Billy kicks him again. Harder. “If you don’t tell me what’s wrong I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Jeez, don’t joke about that.”

“You don’t get to decide how I feel about shit, Harrington. You don’t get what i say or how I feel, or–”

“I saw you in the hallway,” Steve blurts, “With what’s his name.”

Billy doesn’t move. He doesn’t even flinch. “Eddie.”

“Eddie,” Steve says, and it tastes like soap on his tongue, bitter and present and the more he swallows the worse it gets.

He expects a lot of things to happen at once. Billy may not feel the same that Steve does, but he gets embarrassed easily. Red all over. His embarrassment falls just like his anger, sharp and aggressive, pushing and tugging until Steve’s resolve pops like a party balloon.

Now, though, he’s calm. Eerie. Poised like he’s trying to watch his step around Steve, who can sometimes be a landmine everyone thought was defective.

Somehow that’s worse.

Somehow the knowledge that Billy’s not as clueless about this whole thing as Steve thought, that he’s picked up on every laugh and hidden stare, that he knows Steve is gone on him and still–

“Why do you care about Eddie,” Billy demands. Like he’s genuinely curious. Like he’s got an inclination, too, and he’s gonna make Steve say it, so.

“You’re not going to prom with Eddie Munson.”

The world might as well stop. If they weren’t sitting on the carpet beaches in Steve’s bedroom, he’d get up and leave.

Billy blinks, chest heaving like he’s just run three hundred miles across a mountain range, but he doesn’t open his mouth. He doesn’t pull his eyes away or speak.

Steve holds onto those eyes. He stands his ground.

Billy jerks into motion, “He didn’t ask me to prom.”

“Fine,” Steve snaps, irritated by the particular nature of this AP, valedictorian, Ivy-League asshole. It’s Steve’s fault for loving a brain, “Fine, not the prom. The fucking Spring Fever–”

“Why are you so upset?”

Steve can’t believe this is happening.

Everything about this is so high school, so steeped in endings and triviality and of course he’d have to say it right now. With expectant, carefully guarded blue eyes picking him apart. Toes at the edge of the cliff, with nothing to catch him when he falls.

“I’m upset, because–” Steve tries.

Billy watches him with eyes like a raging sea, and he’s so beautiful. He’s smart and driven and kind, when he’s not wading through his own head, and Steve’s been trying to swallow it down forever.

How he feels.

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m pissed off because I wanted to ask you to the dance.”

Billy frowns. His fingers twitch against his thigh and Steve can almost hear the gears working behind Billy’s curls, clicking and rattling into place. “I don’t understand,” He says.

System failure.

Steve saw that coming, too. “Guessed you didn’t. Why would you? I never–”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Billy rubs a hand over his mouth, “You wanted to go to the dance with me?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Why would you want to go to the dance, with. With me?”

“Because I like you,” Steve snaps. “Jesus, Billy. You’re made of a million fucking things to like and I’ve spent so many months counting them, trying to figure out their weight so I can tie my feet to the heaviest one and drown myself,” He runs all ten fingers through his hair, tugging until he feels the sting of it in his toes. “You’re great. You’re the best person I’ve ever known and I just. I love you, okay?”

There, Steve thinks. Asshole.

But the realization of Steve dawns on Billy like the end of the world. He sucks in a sharp, sudden breath, and in a second Steve’s galaxy is on fire.

Billy won’t look at him.

“Billy,” Steve says. Fed up. Mean.

Billy stares at the carpet, lashes clumped with tears, and. He’s gonna cry. Steve’s ruined his last study session before the SATs and Billy’s going to cry–

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Steve slides closer, getting on his knees in front of his shaking, sputtering love, “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I just. I heard that asshole ask you to the dance and I almost lost my mind thinking about what I’d do if you said yes. I didn’t want to blow my last shot at you, Billy–”

“You’re such a dumbass.”

Steve blinks, flinching away. It hurts. He’s bleeding. “I’m sorry,” He says again, like a broken record. “I’m–”

“Munson didn’t ask me to the spring dance either. He wants me to get Heather to take him so Jason Carver stops slashing his van tires.” Billy looks at Steve with water-logged desperation, “I. You love me, Harrington?”

Steve watches a single, heavy tear fall. He nods, chases it with his thumb.

Billy’s breath is warm and sweet against his wrist. “Why’d you think that would be your last shot? You never even took a shot before that, how could it be your last?”

“Because we’ve had, like. A hundred dances this year and I never asked you,” Steve sits, knocking their knees together, “I wanted to ask. Every time, I wanted to run down the hall and kiss–”

Billy eats up whatever was coming next.

He licks into Steve’s mouth. He plants fields of hope, shining bright with the future.

When he pulls away, his eyes are serious. “I’m going to get a 1350 on this SAT,” Billy says, his fingers gentle on Steve’s jaw, “And then we’re going to the dance.”

Steve kisses him, slow and sweet, and.

It’s a deal. Written in the stars.

Harringrove for Turkey commission for the lovely, kind, and talented @keziahrainalso thanks so much for trusting me with your GORGEOUS idea, and I hope what i did with it makes you smile.

All my love,

Jaz

#harringrove #harringrove for turkey #fluff #angst and fluff

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siegelst · 3 years ago

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Anonymous asked [ it’s finally here.

Curiosity [part 5 howl Part 1 ] by Anonymous

Rated Explicit Mature 18+

clothes kink, major size kink, voice kink, cum kink, cum marking, karl has part lycan in him, scent-marking, karl's wolf tells the truth.

Anonymous: toughest chapter I ever written.

Part 5 Howl Part 1

There wasn't much difference between karl and his wolf. it just his wolf speaks the truth unfiltered, when he was more silent on personal matters. while going out on the full moon he didn't have to worry him or his wolf would have a go at the help since he locked her away in the cell at the start, later on locked her in her room. Plus the plants he had Donna get to put around the room and the cell to repel wolf away. He thought he covered all his bases.

female pov.

I was moving around in the kitchen for a late night snack when I still haven't' heard from magneto 2.0. He left a while ago for a meeting and the only reason I was able to wonder around is the living quarters is because door was locked. I couldn't make my escape even if I wanted too. but still being the optimistic person that I am, I figured hey at least I don't have a horrible job and got a roof over my head and my boss isn't' a creep.... well not much as a creep.

I found the snacks before going to the counter for some seasoning when I heard footsteps. Ah. He's back. I paid him no mind. Sometimes he returns from a meeting in a foul mood that I stay out of his way. I smelled a familiar musty scent similar to the night at the lycan dens. I felt hot cold suddenly. The scent was getting stronger, engulfing me, trapping me. Oh it smells really nice. It was when his big arms wrapped around me, followed by the feel of his beard against my right cheek is when I got captured. I was wearing my night pants shirt, my nipples start to harden. I felt weird, hotter, him holding me feels really good. He hmmed sounded like a moan. I could feel his soft stomach. brush of his beard, his mouth against my neck, sent my heart skyrocketing. F*ck. I’m sensitive but I’m capturing the microscopic of everything he’s doing. How?

"There's Mein Hase. Endlich lerne ich dich kennen." he purred in my ear. His voice sending me into a fizz. Heat pooling in my stomach, blush was threatening to burn. F*ck. calm down. Why? It doesn’t help his large hands slowly running up my sides of my body, mainly thighs, hips, stomach. Laying down might be a good idea, I thought dizzily. "You look so good in your night clothes, I could just eat you up, konjin." What? Before I could say anything, he sling me over his shoulder and was walking somewhere.

"H-hey get me down dude." I said, hit his back. He huff.

"Keine Sorge Hase, ich werde mir Zeit mit dir lassen." he purred as he patted the back of my sensitive thigh, making me gasped at the contact. Sound of a door opening before I found myself in the familiar room. His room. Huh. Something must have happen at the meeting. His large hand on my thigh was like a hot iron against the skin. I let out a embarrassing sound when I feel his thumb rubbing circles in my thigh. I could feel myself becoming wet. He inhaled and sighed before I felt the coldness of the cuff around my ankle. Sh*t. I think I’m trapped.

He dump me in the middle of the bed, his hands sliding onto my hips, rubbing circles, him leaning over me, his scent smells so good, his face near mine, I could see hint of his chest, green tank-top, peaking out of his button up shirt his necklaces hanging, before telling me to stay as he went to get something. I feel hot all over. Maybe laying down might be good. Bed looks good. Me being me went off the bed, before another cuff with chains somehow attached to my right wrist. Okay, he's serious. I saw him walking back to the bed before pushing me back down on the bed "I said SIT!"

I sat down, trying to look innocent of the crime I did. His glasses usually dark, gave a very faint yellow glow breaking through them, as he towered over me, studied me, telling me to get in the bed. I shuffled to the middle of the bed. I felt better. Yes bed looks very good. ‘There. Happy?’ I thought. He smirked.

"Who are you?" I asked, calling BS at the imposter, eyes narrowing. He looks like Heisenberg. Something was different. He looked . . . yummy. He smirk vanish for a second before he smiled a 10,000 gigawatt smile at me, dazzling me unexpectedly, his canines visible. $hit they look sharper than usual. Not that I notice anything.

"Oh you caught on quick don't you Hase?" he said. "I always been here, You been driving me wild."

Ok ... Perhaps two different personalities in 1 person - and I’m just meeting the other one? Probably from traumatic childhood or something I guess due to the scares I did noticed on him. He tilt his head seemly concern, taking in my attire, then cup my face with his right hand briefly. Ohhh that feels so good. I swayed like a drunken sailor leaned into his hand before I caught myself. Wtf? I feel a wetness down at my lower reign. jeez why I’m ... horny? He leaned over to sniff at me *Why??? Do I smell??*. Slowly shrugging off his jacket then sitting down on the bed to take off his socks, shoes, followed by his shirts then climbing into bed and pulling me into his lap. His scent overpowering. I’m getting hotter, wetter. He smells so good. what is he using? He sigh relief, while his hands feel my thighs briefly. YES PLEASE “Ohhh you love my scent.”

“Hey there’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry - you been in the meeting for a while” I started babbling, as he nudge me to rest against his front. I could feel his thighs, tummy, large pecks, and the coldness of his necklaces. Feel blush on my checks, hairs on my arm stand on end, almost made embarrassing sound after feeling his skin against what skin of mine was available. He cut me off.

“Hungry.” he said shortly then his arms trapped me as he bent to nuzzling into my left side of neck before lowering his voice in purr, the sound going straight to my lower reign. I let out a whimper moan. OhH! “Hungry for you.”

“The numerous places I wanted to just shove you to the nearest flat area and start pounding into you sobbing c*nt.. In the medical bay, on my desk, in the chair...” he muttered, his hands rubbing my sides, before one of them went dangerously near my night pants. That sounds really good for some odd reason.

"Just like you are right now." he purred, I jerked closed my thighs together. Wait how would he know that? He’s just bluffing. Just teasing me. His hands parted my thigh effortlessly, he had a good grip on my thighs. I nearly sob in relief feeling his skin on my thighs. Shiver went down my spine. Feeling heat taking me. "Let me give you a taste Buttercup."

His voice was getting to me, maybe this be a good thing. "O-okay " I said breathlessly.

"How much do you want it doll?" He muttered. "Want me to touch you? Answer me"

"Yes" I gasped. His right hand pulled down my pants before pressing his hand against my core. Oh

'Heisenberg pov.

F*ck she was dripping before I even reach her in the kitchen. Musty scent I gave off had immediate effect on her, just as I thought. For months I been making sure to not be around her during the full moon until now. Just seeing her unravel by the scent I’m giving off and seeing her react when I cupped her face was enough information that its effecting us both. I tested the water by striping her pants off - palming her before using my fingers to part her folds- slowly slide in my middle-finger. F*ck. Tight but slowly the wetness made it go in smoothly. Feel wetness clinging to it. I moved it in n out before looking at it. Horny bunny. She as all the signs, the panting, rise in temperature, nearly getting off just me brushing my skin against hers, she’s f*cken ready. As I inspect the wetness on my finger. She was huffing, panting already. Her hand meet my beard, f*ck. I let out an embarrassing groan, closing my eyes briefly, my hand briefly hold her hand against my beard as I briefly placed a kiss on the palm of her hand.

"F*ck darling, the rate we going we be f*cking through our clothes." I purred in her ear, definitely don’t mind that, as nibbling on her ear, as my hand went back in between her legs. As I grind against her. Her ass pushed against my hard on creating a delicious friction. I hissed out a breathless ‘f*ck yes’ as rutted back. There’s my shy bunny, who likes to wear layers of clothes was practically naked, shivering in my lap. My free hand went for her clothed tits, and finally encased them, feeling them pebble, erect by my touch, perking under her shirt.

It reminded me of when she ended up drench in her attempt to escape, her laying out the cell floor her f*cking tits cold, her tank top almost see through, had me undone after I left. I wanted to fuck her on the cell floor to let all lycans know she is mine, so bad.

Cock twitched. Her legs were relax, open where I wanted them. I took a hold of her night shirt. a big rip was heard, and her night shirt parted ways, leaving her delicious skin shown, her boobs jostled by the it. She didn’t noticed, groaning as I pumped my finger into her slick cave hard and fast. My left hand hungrily feeling the new landscape, mapping her body, as hearing her panting up at me. Added another finger. She let out a groan, her tight cave, clinched around fluttering around my fingers. F*ck she was close. I pinch her nipples, groping them, feeling their soft velvet texture turning pebbly. She let out a loud cry.

"You close, Buttercup? Just listen to my voice. Feel my fingers fucking you in your c*nt, feel my hand on nipples" I muttered near her ear. “How they will bounce when I f*cking rail you on my cock?"

Her chest heaved, her breast magnificent, her lungs works wonderfully. Her body arched away from mine, as I grind against her as$. My hand overloaded with glistening her nectar, as I briefly smeared it against her breasts before trying three fingers into her. fuck. I’m going to cum in my pants and that’s okay. I dragged in a breath of her scent, as I muttered into her neck. noticing her attire, skin had dots of sweat appearing, neck bend back, breast out taunt, panting, she started to try to go down on my fingers. My hand practically taking over her hip, ingraining the memory into my skull.

I hissed in her ear, my dick hard at the sight of her trying to f*ck on my fingers herself. “Ja! Fick auf meine Finger Schlampe. Vielleicht sollte ich anfangen dich zu fisten. Allein der Gedanke daran lässt mich fast abspritzen”

I grind heavily against her swell of her as$. Her hand brushing against my beard making me moan. "Naughty naughty little $luty bunny."

I picked her as$ up as my pants undid themselves, before placing her down against me. She could feel my ridged cock, as I rutted against her as$, as my fingers slide slightly in, briefly nudge her thighs further apart. My thigh manage snake around her right thigh to stretch her out also. "You want me to f*ck you into the mattress? Want to take my dick? You taking in my dam* fingers. Taking them into you wet c*nt. You’re c*nt is sobbing for me darling."

Pushed her against my chest, shes panting, as I pumped my three fingers fast into her. I pause my thrusting.

“Should I punish you for you getting off without papa’s permission?” I whispered near her ear, knowing I once interrupted her having a sweet dream. She made a cry in frustration, begging for me, tears appearing corners of her eyes. I removed my fingers, her crying, wanting them back. I lifted her as$ up letting the chains break off of her limbs, so I could put her up higher enough for my hard dick to settle against her glistening core. Rutting my dick along her folds. Move my dick so to get her dripping excesses. “You want my dick Buttercup?”

“YES” she wailed. I slide head of my cock into her channel. I huffed. F*ck. It feels wonderful, torturous and a relief at the same time. I watched at her body being impaled slowly by my cock, from tip to the base of it. She was whimpered, chest heaving. Her breathing heavily, rub her sides to make sure she’s alright, My cock twitched. I noticed a bump in her lower stomach area. I moved my left hand to feel the rise area. ohh yess. Her panting practically face looking up at me. her mouth gasping, one of her hands laid above her breast, seeing them glisten with her nectar and sweat, as to see her have a bulge of my cock in her, made me want to just slam my cock into her repeatedly. I moved slightly. She arched her back, making a good moan. I started slow before I started slamming into her. her tits bouncing, I laid my hand against her stomach feeling the bump disappear and reappear as my dick enter her. I huff and panted as I grab her hand laid it against her stomach. She groaned deliciously. She gave a shriek as she released, her juices coating my cock. Finally getting to fill her with my cum is what did it for me, as I let go. I slammed her deep on my cock as I feel my shot filling her up. She laying boneless against my stomach, head resting on my shoulder. My left hand gazing the outline of my cock bulge in her stomach, while my right run up her sides.

We didn’t move for a while but when she try move, I stop her before she could. “Oh nein Darling, wir haben gerade erst angefangen.”

translation:

*my bunny. finally i get to meet you* *Don't worry bunny, I'll take my sweet time with you.*

yes! fuck on my fingers slut. maybe I should starting fisting you. fuck just thinking of it make me almost cum.

Oh no darling, we just getting started.

#karl heisenburg x reader #resident evil village #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg #curio

39 notes · View notes

periminkle · 5 years ago

Text

Orphic | 03

After moving into your own place, it seems life is finally going your way; the path to independence leading you to a quaint suburban town where even the grass seems to grow a little greener. Although a shocking encounter leads you to believe that perhaps appearances can be quite deceiving.

pairing: hybrid!jk x reader (first person)

genre: hybrid au, angst, fluff

word count: 8.0k

rating: pg-15

warnings: swearing, people throwing up, death, mentions of harming test subjects, ANIMAL ABUSE

author’s note: hahaha no it hasn’t been almost a month since i uploaded the last chapter, what are you talking about ?? this was also supposed to be the second half of chapter two before i got carried away and added an extra 8k to it,,, anyway eNJOY

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A few days had passed since word broke of Taemin’s death. With his absence, there was a substantial lack of cells to study, thus granting loads of free time to brood over said jaguar cub.

Knowing he would eventually leave prepared me for a mild episode of dejection, but nothing could compare to the aching gap left from his passing. Despite having known the little guy for only a short month or so, he was my stress reliever, coaxing a tender smiles after a day’s worth of drudgery with his endearing behaviour. He was the spark that fuelled my growing bond with the only decent people I could find here.

Moreover, he spent the last couple months of his life caged, muzzled and treated atrociously, as if he was the beast. I pushed back tears for the umpteenth time.

My head jerked backwards as a tissue was abruptly shoved in my face. “Do you want me to get another box?” Yoongi’s rough voice permeated the sniffles I tried to hold back and I buried my face deep into my arms, closing my eyes and trying to even out my staggered breath.

In my grief I pushed everyone away, disgusted with even my own lack of ability to protect the one faultless being that was ripped out of my grasp much too soon. Bereavement blinded me, leaving me unable to distinguish friend from foe and as a result, I cast them all out.

Unknowingly, I reverted to the mindset that I had hoped to leave behind in the city, where there was no one to turn to when everything spiralled out of control. Blaming others for my own shortcomings opened my eyes to just how cowardly I was, losing myself in a labyrinth of my own self-loathing.

It was lonesome, to say the least.

But they’d never left my side, much to my initial displeasure. Either Namjoon or Yoongi constantly shadowed my inhospitable self, from the office to the lab tables, going as far as waiting outside the bathrooms for me. I angrily confronted each one about the evident stalking on numerous occasions, yet Namjoon would insist that he was worried about my well-being and Yoongi claimed he was simply headed the same way.

By the second day, I caught on to their schedule of routinely swapping babysitting duties at around the second and third hour mark. I attempted to find some respite and solace by escaping to the break room once, when I knew both assistants had already taken their respective time off for the day. Foolishly, I believed that I’d finally evaded the duo’s clingy tactics.

However, before I could bask in my newfound solitude, Jin’s lethargic form made an appearance. True to his overbearing, fatherly instincts, he placed a homemade sandwich on the coffee table in front of me and lectured me on skipping meals.

Even without acknowledging my mistreatment towards them lately, I knew the three of them were empathetic enough to chalk it up to my process of mourning. Nonetheless, the immeasurable guilt I felt had accumulated over the abundance of time I had to reflect on my actions. Enough hours had been allotted to sulking and after a full day’s worth of encouraging, internal pep talks, I mustered up the courage to put effort towards amending my wrongdoings.

The screech of wheels rolling against the smooth tiles of the floor elicited the roll of his name off my lips. “Yoongs.” Intrigued by the lack of a hostile tone present in my voice, I felt his gaze flit to my hunched frame. The fact that I didn’t even have to lift my head to feel his eyes softening at the vexing nickname stuck a fresh layer of shame to my skin. “’M sorry.”

With my face practically burrowed into the sleeve of my lab coat, the apology came out muffled and barely audible, though I was met with the thoughtful, low timbre of Yoongi’s hum. “And, I know it’s no excuse, but everything has just been a lot lately.”

Regardless of my verbal atonement, the blonde man continued on his path out of the office, evident by the creak of his weight shifting off the chair and the following footsteps that drifted farther away.

I belatedly lifted the heavy weight of my head off of my arms, vacantly staring at the doorway that Yoongi had just passed through. Before I knew it, his unusually lively form lumbered back inside, two brightly patterned tissue boxes in hand. “What a crybaby.”

The corners of my lips tugged upwards for the first time in the past few days. It was a welcome development.

One down, two more to go.

With a single reconciliation under my belt, repeating the same process with Namjoon went a lot smoother than expected. I sought him out after my healthy banter with Yoongi ceased, eager to successively rectify all the relationships I’d bruised. “Don’t stress about it; honestly we deserve a cold shoulder for the trouble we’ve caused you. Yoongi probably depleted over half your stash of beer all on his own.”

The drinking tolerance of those boys was well beyond my comprehension. Although my house was completely out of the way home for all of them, I could only assume that it was sheer obstinacy impelling them to commonly stop by my house to wind down after a typically harsh day.

Lifting my head from the microscope that held samples of Doshik’s DNA, the resident blue tang speedily running laps in the tank, I peeked over at Namjoon’s dark hair, ruffled from the strap of his goggles. “I don’t mind. All I’m saying is that if I ever run out of stock, you guys are going to have to bring your own drinks.”

“C’mon Y/N, don’t be like that. Restocking your liquor every once in a while is nothing compared to our company right?” The appearance of his endearing dimples brought me back to the times I magically woke up in my bed after drinking my problems away with them the night before, the days they sent me home early because I yawned one too many times or all the snacks I strangely picked out of my bag ever so often.

I raised one teasing brow, crossing my arms and leaning back in the incommodious, metal chair. “Once in a while? With the rate that you guys are going, I would have to go to the store every other day.”

“Like I said, mainly Yoongi’s fault.” His deft fingers switched to a higher lens before continuing, “But really, you’ve got to confide in us, alright? I think we’re past the stage of ‘I want nothing to do with you when my shift is over.’”

It seemed like another weight had been lifted off my shoulders from the unexpected, forgiving nature of both men despite having every reason to be peeved at my churlish attitude as of late. Before I could formulate a response, Namjoon added, “Are you feeling better?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to his question when I was just as clueless about my own welfare. But, I disregarded the notion of lying or concealing anything from them, as they’d relentlessly proven their loyalty and concern for me on more than one occasion.

“I’m not sure yet, Joon. I think I need some more time.” I covertly swapped out my microscope slide for the one sitting next to the unsuspecting man, intent on decreasing his workload, even if only by the slightest bit. “I’m glad that I have you guys, though. Thanks for dealing with my grumpy ass.”

I couldn’t help the curve in my lips when his impish gaze finally met mine, evidently content with my candour. “To be honest with you, Yoongi told me about your apology, so I was kind of expecting it.”

My jaw dropped in betrayal. “He told you?”

“Mhm, said that you could practically refill Doshik’s tank with the amount of tears you shed.”

“Wha—how could he, this guy!” Contrary to the clear exasperation in my tone, a wide grin revealed my true feelings. “Then he says that Jin exaggerates all his stories.”

A hearty chuckle escaped him. “Well, at least we know where Yeri got it from. Do you remember the last time she came to the lab?” I couldn’t repress my own chortle at the memory, the onslaught of laughter provoking a sudden cramp in my stomach that I uselessly pressed my palm against, attempting to quell the overactive muscles. “She swindled me out of twenty bucks by crying about Jin throwing out all of her toys!”

With a flaming red flush to my cheeks, I struggled to get a sentence past my quivering lips. “You can’t even blame the kid,” I temporarily regained my breath and continued, “you’re just too gullible.”

“Hey!” He pouted at the remark, jabbing a gloved digit into my side as a form of retaliation. The blow to my ribs induced a high-pitched squeak out of me and my hand darted to the sore spot in an attempt to block any further attacks. “Have you ever been on the end of those puppy dog eyes? You can’t just do nothing, it’s basically witchcraft.”

“Yes, yes, Jin taught her too well.” I attempted to placate the threatening fingers that hung in the air, poised for another stab if need be.

Namjoon bobbed his head in agreement, seemingly pleased with my answer as brought his attention back to the chromosomes in front of him. “Have you had time to go see him?”

“Ah, no, not yet. He’s the last one I have to pour my soul out to.”

In the comfortable silence that ensued, I found myself recalling the vile confrontation from a few days back. Truth be told, my mind regularly drifted to Hyunho’s harsh words whenever an empty lull emerged within my headspace, which was the exact reason I enjoyed keeping myself occupied as of late. The echo of the wretched man declaring Taemin’s passing was the predominant focus of my flashbacks, but a particular fragment of the rest of his spiel stuck out to me as well—the mention of a tiger cub. “Hey, Joon?”

No doubt noticing the change in my tone, Namjoon fixed his stare on my fragile countenance once more, holding my gaze. Only then did I realize that I was unconsciously craving the sincere reassurance locked away beneath those brown specks, similar to a wailing newborn falling silent at being held in its mother’s embrace.

“Did you know?” The question spilled from my lips before I could process it.

Even with the lack of context, the adept assistant instantly shook his head. “No. No, I didn’t.” My gut twisted as he redirected his stare, trapping his lower lip between his unforgiving teeth in thought. “I still don’t really know. I’ve heard bits and pieces from some gossiping researchers that talk too loud, but I haven’t gotten enough to piece everything together. Hoseok said that they recently found the test subject they’d lost a while ago.”

Sincerity undoubtedly rang within each syllable of Namjoon’s voice. After a speedy internal debate, I unloaded all the horrendous secrets that I’d uncovered, from the initial suspicion I harboured to the folder in Jin’s office, and finally to the mutated PDE6C gene. The hardly intelligible speech all raged past my lips much like word vomit and my knee began to briskly bounce up and down from the massive influx of emotions.

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Namjoon said softly, stretching one lengthy limb out to rub soothing circles onto my back. “Let’s go slow, hm?”

I concentrated on the gentle touch that now rested on my shoulder, schooling my breath before continuing, “I need to help them. I can’t stand around, watching Hyunho and Minzi do whatever they want with no repercussions. These are lives they’re ruining.” Feeling myself getting heated again, I twiddled the tips of my fingers to keep my head level and busy. “It’s not just about Taemin anymore, think about it. This can’t be the first time a lab animal has been ‘tested on’ and died of ‘natural causes’ or whatever excuses they’ve been using.”

I didn’t catch the recognition flashing in Namjoon’s eyes, but his silence drove me to release the thoughts that had been stewing around my conscience for a while now. “Hyunho said that they’re bringing in a new cub right? We can’t let the same thing happen to him. We have to protect the animals in this lab, Joon.”

“I know how you feel, but there isn’t much we can do when they take the animals away to perform their tests.” As he saw me open my mouth to butt in, he interjected, “Trust me, we’ve tried. I’m pretty sure that the only reason we’re still around is because Jin keeps vying for us despite all the ruckus we’ve made.”

“We can’t just sit around and do nothing though! Have you been in the break room lately? Have you heard their screams? Joon, there’s something in there. Even now, they’re probably torturing some poor, undeserving animal.” In my determination, I grabbed the lapels of Namjoon’s pristine, white lab coat. “We have to save it.”

“We don’t even have a key card, Y/N,” Namjoon protested, his tone of voice still low and gentle, imploring me to understand the more rational side of the nonsense I was spewing. “And even if we did, the second we barge in there the cameras will spot us and we’ll be fired immediately. No matter how persuasive Jin can be, he won’t be able to save us from that. Then there’s really going to be nothing we can do to help them.” He hung his head in resignation. “At least we can make their last days somewhat enjoyable. At least from here we can wait for an opening, a chance for us to catch them in the act when they inevitably slip up one day.”

My brows pulled upwards in my distress, bringing my head closer in an attempt for Namjoon to see my desperation. “And how long is that going to take? Weeks? Months? Years? When do we put our foot down?”

His features softened and I already knew that I wouldn’t like whatever he was going to say next. “If we don’t act logically, we won’t be able to save anything.”

My jaw clenched, but I knew he had a point.

A sigh escaped his distraught form. “Go eat something and cool your head. We’ll talk more when you get back.”

In my defence, I had made my way to the break room like Namjoon suggested, nearly settling down with one of the many homemade sandwiches Jin left in the fridge—but not even five minutes passed before torturous whimpers of pain filled my ears. The pile of carbohydrates in front of me suddenly didn’t seem quite as appetizing.

In order to restrain my impulsive self from further digging my own grave, I mercilessly gnawed away at my lip, repeating Namjoon’s warnings like a sacred mantra in my head. When the dull taste of metal hit my tongue, I quickly placed the meal back where I found it and scurried out of the agonizing space as fast as my legs would carry me.

Rather than providing relief though, I found that every step weighed heavier than the next. I felt the toll both physically and emotionally. No matter how much distance I put between myself and the tormented creature, I wasn’t able to escape the distressed cries that echoed throughout my skull, perpetually bounding from one end to another.

My plan was to drown out any nonsensical thoughts with the lengthy sequence to Doshik’s yellow tail.

However, it was foolish to believe that I would be able to concentrate on the chromosomes in the petri dish. I couldn’t focus on properly setting up the gel electrophoresis, forgetting to dig out small wells in the agarose gel and even incorrectly attaching each end of the power source, mixing up the spots for the cathode and anode. At this point, I had to restart the whole project.

My annoyance was made vocal by the groan of frustration slipping past my mouth, though there wasn’t anyone around to witness my theoretical fall into insanity. After a few beats, attributable to the pads of my gloved fingers drumming against the lab bench, I gave in to my curiosity and concern.

I wish I hadn’t.

A quick search on the computer in Namjoon and Yoongi’s office brought up the history of the animals that had been kept at this laboratory at one point in time or another. I was revolted at the sheer number of predators who had spent their last breath here.

Dread filled my gut at the upcoming arrival of the tiger cub. I knew I could no longer heed Namjoon’s words, no matter how sensible and pragmatic they were in comparison to my own faulty logic. But to tune it all out, live in ignorance and deal with countless other innocent mammals meeting the same tragic fate as Taemin—no, I would protect anything within my reach, no matter the cost.

Although I could never fight off all the monsters of this world, I hoped to have enough power to at least change one innocent being’s life.

And that would start with whatever they’d hidden away upstairs.

With this new mission in mind, my once empty days became filled to the brim with organizing a brilliant plot, often sacrificing hours of my sleep to continue planning and ensuring every aspect was foolproof. It took self-restraint that I wasn’t aware I was capable of in order to not burst in behind Minzi whenever she threw that smug smile at me before entering with her keycard; though I knew that plan wasn’t beneficial to the animal inside. Hence, I clenched my fists and dug the soles of my runners deeper into the ground whenever I thought of it’s tortured wails.

Just a little longer.

Despite familiarizing myself with the tone of the screeches that constantly resonated in my mind, I still couldn’t place the species the groans belonged to. It didn’t necessarily matter, but I was starting to run on the blind hope that they would be similar in size to Taemin, who I could easily carry in my grasp. In case, I also hid one of the carts used around the lab to transport loads of spot plates and test tubes, emptying it of all equipment and sanitizing the sides in case of any lingering, harmful chemicals.

After many long, strenuous hours of devising strategies and avoiding suspicious eyes, the day of the crime was finally upon me. Throughout the day, I used my precise notes to shift the angle of each camera slightly when I found myself alone, just so I could sneak past without showing up in frame.

I even headed upstairs to finally visit Jin, not having found the chance to properly apologize to him yet. The opportunity wasn’t wasted though, as I scoped out the cameras in the dim hall and nudged them over to the side as well. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to deal with those inside the torture chamber itself, but I would cross that hurdle when it came down to it.

Hopefully, the all-black guise I prepared would cover any distinguishable features amidst the shadows of the night.

I was nearing the end of my extensive plan, the only step remaining being the act of acquiring a key card, grimacing as I thought about resorting to the horrible decision of swiping that which belonged to Jin. Ironic, really, considering that the whole reason I was going to see him was to atone for my previous behaviour, yet I was planning to nab his keycard within the same breath.

That aspect of my plot was at a standstill, as I’d never gotten a glimpse of said object in Jin’s office or on his person. I was stumped, beginning to believe that he didn’t have access to the lab upstairs. But his position as assistant director must surely give him such privileges, right?

As I was about to enter Jin’s office, prepared to snoop around a bit with the excuse of looking for Doshik’s file for concerns about his unusual allergy to something within the tank’s water, I spotted Eunmi, the snotty receptionist, striding past my frozen form.

She plucked the notorious keycard out from an inside pocket near her chest, holding it against the reader as my eyes practically bulged out of their sockets. Unperturbed by my blatant shock, she adjusted the pile of folders squeezed within her hold and strolled in.

A huge grin split across my face as I formulated my next steps. Instead of carrying on to my original destination, I changed my route to head off to the front entrance, patiently waiting for Eunmi’s return. I could push off Jin’s apology for a little later.

After about half an hour had passed, I spotted Eunmi gracefully slide back behind the towering desk, which concealed everything but the crown of her head. The loud clicking of the keyboard filled the silence.

Typical.

“Ah, Eunmi!” I briskly walked towards her, meeting those sharp eyes for a fraction of a second before they flickered back to the monitor in front of her. “I don’t see you around very often, how have you been lately?”

“Cut the small talk newbie, I’ve got work to do,” she sneered.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to allow her words to affect my deceptive, cheery disposition as I asked, “I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink with me tonight? Y’know, since I’ve been here a couple weeks and we haven’t gotten a chance to know each other yet!”

“Sorry, too busy,” Eunmi asserted, flicking a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her shoulder. It seemed to be one of her many annoying habits that ticked me off.

Slapping my flattened palm against the shiny surface of the desk, I leaned back slightly and threw out my bait. “Ah, that’s too bad. I wanted to treat you out tonight, but I guess you’ve got too much work, huh...”

Hook.

She hummed in thought. “Time and place?”

Line.

“Bar two blocks away, eight-thirty?”

Eunmi raised a single, defined brow. “Nine. Your treat?”

I confirmed with a nod as her lips curled, displaying a pink lipstick mark on her front tooth.

Sinker.

Precisely a quarter before nine, the gentle creak of wood followed the twist of the doorknob to the assistant researchers’ lab. Jin’s drooping countenance peeked through the crack he created, fixating a mock glare on my busy hands. “That’s enough, Y/N. You can pick it up tomorrow.”

Despite the multitude of gel electrophoresis equipment scattered around me from the past few hours spent slaving away, most of that time was allocated to finalizing the nitty-gritty details for tonight. Honestly, analyzing DNA became second nature to me by now, creating space within my mind to freely cogitate due to the lack of deliberation the task required.

I swivelled around in Yoongi’s chair, facing the evidently fatigued man. “I’m almost done with this sequence though, give me ten?”

He let loose an excessive groan of frustration at being unable to retire for the day, tousling his unkempt locks before collapsing on the worn down bench in front of Namjoon’s desk. I hummed a catchy melody as I continued to scribble down the results from each experiment.

“Now that I have you all to myself,” I gingerly began, stealing a glance at Jin’s unmoving form, “I wanted to properly apologize for everything.”

He raised his arms to cushion his skull against the tough surface, which I took as a sign to continue. “Yoongi might have already told you about my poor attempts to make amends with everyone and I haven’t had the opportunity to sit down with you yet so,” I paused, taking a second to inhale and gather my thoughts, “better late than never, right?

“I shouldn’t have turned my back on you guys when all you do is look out for me,” I sincerely confessed. “I guess I took advantage of how comfortable I felt around you, but I realize that it was unacceptable to treat you as my friend when we’re at work and you’re acting as my boss. I crossed a line and I’m sorry. I’ll make sure to conduct myself accordingly at work.”

A few minutes of devastating silence trickled by. My mind was whirring with all the possibilities of Jin’s next actions; whether he would flip out and rage, simply march back out the door or if he’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard a word I said. Unsurprisingly, when I turned around I was met with the tranquil sight of Jin’s relaxed frame, soft snores circulating in the office.

I swerved over to him, the squeak of the old chair screeching horribly against the tiles of the floor. “Hey, Jin. How about you go home and I’ll make sure to lock up, hm?”

His eyes fluttered open into slits and I could see the gears whirring in his half-conscious state. To seal the deal, I threw out a cheeky smile; one that I knew he couldn’t resist. “Alright, fine. You just,” he was interrupted by a hefty yawn overtaking his speech, “you just need to lock this door and the main entrance. Everything else is already taken care of.”

My eyes lit up at the sight of his keys and I let out a hum in acknowledgement at his instructions, attempting to curb any suspicion.

Jin’s tall stature towered over me when he pushed off on the balls of his feet, standing up to his full height. “And you didn’t need to apologize, Y/N.” My jaw went slack at his confession of having heard my whole spiel and I had to strain my ears in order to pick up the quiet mumble of, “I should be the one begging for forgiveness anyway.”

Before I had the chance to process his words, much less time to compose a well-thought-out response, he brushed past me and discarded the shiny metal on top of my pad of paper. The revving of a car engine came to life, headlights beaming through the window to the left as he sped away.

Although I could have spent much too long trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind Jin’s bewildering statement, the clock was ticking. Ten minutes remained to clean everything up, change outfits, lock both the office and the front door, then book it to the bar.

Prancing through the flashy entrance with mere seconds to spare, I registered the reality that I might have missed a minute detail in my intricate scheme. Whereas the individuals loitering around appeared as though they’d just come from a fashion show, I felt severely underdressed in the tight jeans and oversized sweater I’d worn to work that morning.

The place was relatively empty, seeing as the night had yet to begin. Nevertheless, I made my way over to the bar stools where I saw Eunmi with a glass in her hand.

“Eunmi!” After a closer look, I took in the wine coloured body-con she slipped on, complimenting her dyed hair well. But from the forced smile she plastered on, I could tell she hadn’t discovered that lipstick mark from earlier.

“You didn’t go home and change?” She pointed out once I was within earshot, her awkward grin morphing into her mundane scowl. Oddly, I felt more at ease with her evident displeasure than her amiable facade.

I glanced down at my attire with a slight shrug and pretended to dust off non-existent wrinkles.

“Tonight’s on you, so let’s start off strong, hm?” If the stench wafting off from her breath was anything to go by, I presumed that she commenced her own pregame at home before arriving. She waved the bartender over, “Two shots.”

He flashed a greasy smile and a nod our way before beginning on our drinks.

“So,” I tried to initiate conversation that hopefully didn’t come off as awkward as I felt, “how’s the pro—”

“Nope, we’re not talking about work here.” Eunmi turned her chin up, rolling her eyes at my apparent nonsense. “I don’t wanna think about that shit hole more than I already have to.”

It was difficult to remain civil in the face of the obvious contempt she harboured in her voice, although I bobbed my head to convey my consent anyway. While racking my brain for any other topics to touch on, I came to the realization that I’d never properly interacted with the surly woman seated beside me; other than asking for directions on the first week and extending a greeting that was rarely reciprocated, I only knew her name and that she enjoyed clicking away on her noisy keyboard for the majority of her days.

Swooping in to the save the definite lull in the discourse, the round-eyed bartender slid over the shots. Eunmi, shockingly, downed the drink as soon as it came into her grasp. In an effort to appear as amiable as possible for the sake of the overarching strategy, I rushed to follow. The abrupt grip on my forearm halted any movement though.

“But, I will say,” Eunmi confidently boomed, puffing her chest and slapping one outstretched palm on the table. If the irked stares the other patrons were giving us right now were enough to kill, I was certain that we’d be ash by now with her outrageous volume overpowering the dull beat of the music. “I am way overworked considering what my job description actually entails. The place wouldn’t even be able to run without me!”

My brow creased as I toned down my own voice in the hopes that she would get the hint. “Oh, uh, of course! And, uh... just as a refresher, how have you been helping out lately again?” Honestly, with the lack of visitors to the lab, assistants having to prepare samples and write reports, Eunmi’s role within the lab puzzled me greatly.

“What haven’t I been doing is probably the better question to ask!” She haughtily spat out, swiping my glass and chugging the liquid down her—most likely burning—throat. Even the narrow glare courtesy of the bartender himself couldn’t stop her from slamming the empty glass on the counter. I smiled apologetically. “I mean, from delivering J3’s documents to manning all the receptionist duties, I wonder what miss Minzi is doing exactly!”

Naturally, my head tilted in curiosity at the unfamiliar name. “J3?”

“I keep telling them; ‘he’s too dangerous’, ‘if he gets out again we’re really in for it’, but who’s about to listen to the too-brilliant-for-her-own-good receptionist? This is exactly how those stupid characters in the horror movies die; they don’t listen to the smart one!” With each argument, her unstable torso swayed back and forth, threatening to completely topple off the barstool a number of times. I placed a hand at her waist in an attempt to keep her upright, although she, very dramatically, slapped it away.

Undeterred by the aggression, I leaned in closer with widened eyes. “Mhm, but I would listen to you, Eunmi. What exactly is J3 though?” I prayed to any higher power that she was too intoxicated to pick up on how desperate I came off in prodding her for information.

She scoffed, “You don’t actually think I’m that dumb, do you?” Her face reared closer to my own, merely centimetres apart at this point, eyes burning holes into my soul and the stench of tequila thick on her breath. “I know what you’re trying to do here, inviting me out to get wasted, even going as far as to pay for it all.”

Panic rose as I nervously chuckled, eyes darting. “I don’t know what you’re getting at?” To relieve some of the perspiration building in my palms, I nabbed the freezing water that remained untouched in front of Eunmi—not so subtly placed there by the bartender.

Licking her lips, she arrogantly leaned back with a cocky smirk plastered across her countenance, “You want to get in my pants.”

Any remaining liquid in my mouth grotesquely flew into the air.

“It’s okay, no need to be embarrassed that I connected the dots. I mean, a lot of people have been in your shoes.” Eunmi expressed, flicking a stray strand away from her forehead. “But I just don’t see you that way.” The look of sympathy she attempted to exude didn’t sit well with me, although I didn’t know whether it was because I could trace where her eyes were drifting to—another drunk guy who’d ripped his shirt off and began spinning the fabric around as if he was some kind of helicopter—or that anything less than hostile was strange look on her.

I was still pondering on whether it was a blessing or a curse that she misinterpreted my intentions so horridly because after downing a couple more shots and a cocktail to top it all off, Eunmi was thoroughly convinced that I was harbouring some intense feelings.

The second time she swiped her pink tongue across her lips, she gracelessly clambered off the barstool. “Don’t worry about it too much; it’s not you, it’s me,” Eunmi drawled out, pointing a well manicured finger to her chest. “It just wouldn’t be fair to you, having to stand next to me all the time when everyone knows there’s absolutely no competition.”

I didn’t realize how many people had entered the club since we’d arrived and I reached out to grab Eunmi’s wrist again, worried at the way she was stumbling away from me. Even though she was a bit of a lousy woman, I wasn’t heartless enough to have Eunmi fend for herself in a pool of sharks, especially when she was heavily intoxicated.

My attempts to restrain her were futile though, as she squirmed away while eyeing the man from before, who had scrambled onto the top of a table and sensually moved his hips to the beat.

“Ooh, I do see something worth banging toni—”

And down she fell.

As I reached over to aid the inebriated receptionist, lifting by her exposed upper arms while wondering just how much alcohol she consumed prior to her arrival. Coming in contact with the unexpectedly damp, sweaty skin impelled me to cringe away from the unpleasant sensation, but I resisted temptation to turn tail and duck out of there for the sake of my goal.

Eunmi’s whines complaining that she was fine and endeavours to wriggle out of my loose hold only served to further thin my nearly non-existent patience. At this point, I had to conserve as much energy as I could for later on, not expend it all to take care of a toddler that couldn’t seem to stand on her on two feet.

When Eunmi’s visage faded into sickly green shade, I hurriedly yanked her limp body over to the unusually vacant washrooms. Out of seemingly nowhere, another sobbing, disheveled girl wriggled out from beneath the sink, evidently having thrown up there as well. As my nose scrunched up at the fishy odor, the stranger crawled over to Eunmi’s side by the toilet, gently patting her back and cooing at the similar, dreadful state the two were in.

While her focus was on aiming her regurgitation into the toilet, all her efforts in vain with the sheer amount of vomit surrounding her, I took the opportunity to file through her shimmering purse that I held in my clutch. I rummaged around to quickly find the key card, slipping it into the back pocket of my jeans, thankful that despite the change in outfit, she brought along the same bag that she had left work with.

“Eunmi, I think we should head home now,” I suggested, mildly concerned about her ability to breathe due to her continuous retching. Without waiting for a response, I began dialling the number for a cab.

After she finished emptying all the contents of her stomach and my wallet felt noticeably lighter than when I came in, I detached the weeping girls from one another and took hold of Eunmi’s underarms, dragging her past the dancing masses and plopping her down at the entrance.

“I get that you had a rough day,” I huffed out, taking a seat on a misplaced block of cement, “but did you really have to get so wasted?”

Streaks of her dark mascara decorated her cheeks from her bawling session, swollen eyes staring off into the distance. “Might as well enjoy myself before J3 finally rips my throat out.”

My brows knitted together at the repeated mention of the name, although I wasn’t able to dwell on it for long because I was soon blinded by a pair of bright headlights beaming from a vehicle painted in a distasteful mustard shade. The cab pulled up to the curb and I somehow managed to shove Eunmi into the backseat, forking over another wad of cash as I encouraged her to mumble out an address.

The car sped away and the lingering breeze grounded me, steeling my resolve despite the wet drops spattering onto the sidewalk. It seemed as though even the weather was attempting to foil my immaculate plans and I silently cursed my past self for failing to check the forecast ahead of time.

Deep down, even the possibility of having to endure another day acting clueless to the torment transpiring within my own workplace terrified me. Not even hard-headed Namjoon could deter my unwavering will at this point.

I jogged back to the lab as quickly as my fatigued legs allowed, predictably drained from hauling another person. The adrenaline pumping through my veins was the only tangible factor keeping me going and luckily, powering through the skittish apprehension gripping my mind.

Once the spotless exterior of the lab came into view, I began scouring through the bulky tote bag I lugged around everywhere. My hand ran across a smooth length that I failed to recognize, pulling it out to identify the unknown object. A miniature fishing rod decorated in vibrant red accents emerged.

The toy I bought for Taemin.

Clenching my fist around the rod, determined to save them this time.

Driven now more than ever, I located the keys that Jin entrusted me with earlier, twisting the lock open and slinking inside. The door creaked eerily behind me as I scanned the tenebrous entrance.

Refraining from switching on the lights, I relied on my muscle memory to sneak off to the changing room and donned the black guise in my locker. I secured a cap on top of my head before creeping up the stairs.

With the staircase enshrouded in darkness, I was forced onto my hands and knees to carefully navigate myself; I tried not to think about how pathetic I looked at the moment.

My hands trembled in the face of the obstacle I had envisioned barging through countless times—and now, I was presented with that very opportunity on a golden platter. Well, with more lying, drunken antics and conniving than intended, but none of that was important in the grand scheme of things.

Taking hold of the key card and pressing it firmly against the reader, the ruby glow blinked green. Success.

I took a tenuous inhale and an even shakier exhale before heading in. Considering the lack of windows, the complete darkness that enveloped the room was expected; hence the downwards tilt of my head and slight adjustment of my cap as I begrudgingly flicked the light switch beside the doorway. Immediately, I covertly surveyed the ceiling for any cameras that could be covered or nudged out of sight.

Oddly enough, none were fixed up there nor were they scattered along the walls. I wearily stepped deeper inside, elated yet distrustful all the same. The number of cameras I passed on the way here was more than I could count on both hands, so I couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t want a single, watchful eye in here.

Just what kind of experiment were they performing here?

Relenting in my inspection, my attention wandered to the middle of the rectangular room. There, on what looked to be a decrepit operating table, laid a human body.

Well, sort of human.

The lack of movement on the other end prompted me to draw in closer, examining the man. I was bewildered at the jet black ears that stood atop the crown of his head, poking out through his dark locks. Hesitantly, I stretched a hand out and tugged on one, watching his face for any sign of cognizance. My heart rate sped up at the confirmation that they were indeed attached to his skull and were undeniably soft to boot.

Examining the rest of his body, which was clad in simply a pair of boxers, I spotted a similar pitch black coloured tail resting beside his left leg. Although I resisted the urge to check if that was real as well, since I was sure that if he was anything like his animal counterpart he wouldn’t take well to the idea of a sudden jerk on his tail.

I couldn’t help but run my digits along the length of the fur, pleased to find that it was just as fluffy as his ear. The longer I stared, the more confusion swarmed my head. The pads of my index and middle finger came up to rub at my temple, unsure of what I was observing.

Were they trying to fuse the DNA of a human and—

A sudden, horrifying connection fired off in my head, making my heart drop to my gut as I examined the rest of the room. I pleaded for my assumption to be incorrect, just a figment of my bereaved brain.

Resting on the floor in one corner of the room was a sheet, draped upon an indistinguishable object. With bated breath, I staggered over to the lump and pinched the fabric, lifting the sheet off and uncovering what lay beneath.

Taemin.

My chest tightened and I felt claustrophobic in the spacious room, as if the walls were closing in and I could no longer afford the luxury of a breath. Salty tears welled up, slipping down my cheeks as I quietly wailed, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Through the blurry haze, my gaze travelled along his tiny body that was missing patches of fur, making parts of his pale, bruised skin visible. Another sob wracked through my body as I looked to his face and met a pair of dull, emerald green eyes; they were devoid of life, staring aimlessly at the wall. They didn’t even have the decency to lower his eyelids.

Instead of shock, a sort of numbness filled me—which was a thousand times more terrifying. I longed for the rich emotion that blazed through every orifice of my body, anything other than the apathetic desolation that halted my waterworks.

With one last glance, I shut his eyes and allowed the muscles to remain in their relaxed position. My heart yearned to give him some semblance of a proper burial, although I reminded myself that his young, playful spirit no longer occupied this empty carcass. After smoothing my palm over the side of his head and giving my final goodbyes, I covered his unmoving form once again.

I used the corner of my sleeve to wipe away any evidence of my anguish and turned my attention back to the man on the table. At the very least, I would save one life tonight.

Upon further inspection, I noted the chains cuffing his limbs to the table, which made me wonder about the threat he might pose if released—something I hadn’t taken into account. A quick scan of the room gave no clues as to anything that could free him, prompting me to forage through the few lab benches scattered around.

The mess of papers, test tubes and syringes made it difficult to locate anything, I doubted if even the head researchers could rifle through this mess to uncover something of use. A common theme among all the stacks I came across was the name, J3, scrawled across each of them; the familiar name that Eunmi brought up earlier that night piqued my interest. But, I stuck to the mission at hand, stressed from being on borrowed time.

Irritation settled into my features with each tick of the clock, coming up empty at the bottom of each bench I scoured. Through pure coincidence, I made out the gentle skitter of metal bouncing across the floor after making contact with the front of my sneaker. I grinned and scooped up a key

After stumbling back over to the table, I scrutinized his distinct features, defined brows resting above his closed eyes, enhanced by thick lashes. Travelling over his high cheekbones and down the slope of his nose, I inspected his thin lips complimented by the tiny mole underneath and framed by a strong jawline. I found his countenance oddly familiar, as though I’d seen him somewhere befo—

A hollow chuckle escaped my lips.

It was the burglar.

Of course, perks of moving into a small town right? You’d get to know everyone, even the criminals!

My eyes roamed over to his side where an atrocious attempt at first aid was located, the torn skin peeking through slivers of the bandages. Bright pops of colour laid in a few different spots, courtesy of the Hello Kitty band-aids he’d stolen from my drawer back home. The sight of the white cat on the well-built man almost made me burst into a round of giggles, but the dried, crusted blood reminded me of the gravity of the situation.

Any remaining resentment I harboured fled with my next exhale, leaving pity in its exchange.

In reality, I didn’t sustain any injuries from the scuffle and all I’d lost were a couple of first aid supplies. While in this rare compassionate state, I also reluctantly forgave him for the hassle brought about from my broken lock.

Even if he probably snipped a few years off my life with the stress from the encounter—resulting in the growth of a couple white hairs, no one deserved to be screeching out their lungs in pain every day.

I deftly unlocked each lock confining his wrists and ankles and stepped back to admire my handiwork when I processed just how ripped the guy was, strength bulging out every crevice of his body. All I could think about was how the hell I was going to transport this hulking mass of pure muscle out of here.

The idea of plunking him onto the cart I prepared earlier and wheeling him all the way home was tempting, but other than all the little kinks in that plan, most of all, I didn’t think it would be too comfortable with his current state adorning his body.

Then came the crippling realization that I couldn’t handle this on my own.

Thus, I retrieved some clean bandages from one of the benches, deciding that it would be best to snatch a few tranquilizers for my own safety as well and returned to his side.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my short list of contacts before locating his name. As the device began to ring, I reached across the stranger’s lithe body to unravel the old dressing, nearly consumed in reddish-brown dye at this point, to replace them with new ones.

The chime ended, indicating that the receiver had been picked up, before he asked, “Y/N? Why’re you calling so late?”

I began to place the gauze on some of his superficial wounds. “Hey, so, um... long story?”

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook hybrid au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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The United States vs. Billie Holiday: The Federal Bureau of Narcotics Was Formed to Kill Jazz

https://ift.tt/3smcRhE

This article contains The United States vs. Billie Holiday spoilers.

Federal drug enforcement was created for the express purpose of persecuting Billie Holiday. Director Lee Daniels’ The United States vs. Billie Holiday focuses a cinematic microscope on the events, but a much larger picture is visible just outside the lens. Holiday’s best friend and one-time manager Maely Dufty told mourners at the funeral that Billie was murdered by a conspiracy orchestrated by the narcotics police, according to Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs by Johann Hari. The book also said Harry Anslinger, head of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, was a particularly virulent racist who hounded “Lady Day” throughout the 1940s and drove her to her death in the 1950s.

This is corroborated in Billie, a 2020 BBC documentary directed by James Erskine, and Alexander Cockburn’s book Whiteout: The CIA, Drugs, and the Press, which also claims Anslinger hated jazz music, which he believed brought the white race down to the level of African descendants through the corrupting influence of jungle rhythms. He also believed marijuana was the devil’s weed and transformed the post-Prohibition fight against alcohol into a war on drugs. The first line of battle was against the musicians who partook.

“Marijuana is taken by… musicians,” Anslinger testified to Congress prior to the vote on the 1937 Marijuana Tax Act. “And I’m not speaking about good musicians, but the jazz type.” The LaGuardia Committee, appointed in 1939 by one of the Act’s strongest opponents, New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia, ultimately refuted every point made in the effective drug czar’s testimony. Based on the findings, “the Treasury Department told Anslinger he was wasting his time,” according to Chasing the Scream. The opportunistic department head “scaled down his focus until it settled like a laser on one single target.”

Federal authorization of selective enforcement should come as no surprise. Just this month, HBO Max released Judas and the Black Messiah about how the FBI and local law enforcement targeted the Black Panthers and put a bullet in the back of the head of Fred Hampton after he was apparently drugged by the informant. In MLK/FBI (2020), director Sam Pollard used newly declassified files to fill in the gaps on the story of the U.S. government’s surveillance and harassment of Martin Luther King, Jr. Days ago, The Washington Post reported the daughters of assassinated civil rights leader Malcolm X requested his murder investigation be reopened in light of a deathbed letter from officer Raymond A. Wood, alleging New York police and the FBI conspired in his killing.

During the closing credits of The United States vs. Billie Holiday we read that Holiday, played passionately by Andra Day in the film, was similarly arrested on her deathbed. She was in the hospital suffering from cirrhosis of the liver when she was cuffed to her bed. They don’t mention police had been stationed outside her door barring family, fans, and well-wishers from offering the singer comfort as she lay dying. They also don’t mention that police removed gifts people brought to the room, as well as flowers, radio, record player, chocolates, and any magazines. When she died at age 44, it was found that Holiday had 15 $50 bills strapped to her leg, the remainder of her money after years of top selling records. Billie intended to give it to the nurses to thank them for looking after her.

As The United States vs. Billie Holiday points out, the feds had been watching Holiday since club owner Barney Josephson encouraged her to sing “Strange Fruit” at the integrated Cafe Society in Greenwich Village in 1939. Waiters would stop all service during the performance of the song. The room would be dark, and it would never be followed by an encore.

The lyric came from a three-stanza poem, “Bitter Fruit,” about a lynching. It was written by Lewis Allan, the pseudonym of New York schoolteacher and songwriter named Abel Meeropol, a costumer at the club. Meeropol set the words to music, and the song was first performed by singer Laura Duncan at Madison Square Garden.

Holiday and her accompanist Sonny White adapted Allan’s melody and chord structure, and released the song on Milt Gabler’s independent label Commodore Records in 1939. The legendary John Hammond, who discovered Holiday in 1933 while she was singing in a Harlem nightclub called Monette’s, refused to release it on Columbia Records, where Billie was signed.

The song “marked a watershed,” according to David Margolick’s 2000 book Strange Fruit: Billie Holiday, Cafe Society, and an Early Cry for Civil Rights. Influential jazz writer Leonard Feather called the song “the first significant protest in words and music, the first significant cry against racism.”

Holiday experienced the brutally enforced racial segregation of the Jim Crow laws during her trips south with her bands, according to Billie Holiday, the 1990 book by Bud Kliment. She was also demeaned at the Lincoln Hotel in New York City in October 1938 when management demanded she walk through the kitchen and use the service elevator to get on the stage. Holiday also caught flak for being considered too light skinned to sing with one band, and was on at least one occasion forced to wear special makeup to darken her complexion.

Holiday was 18 years old when she recorded her first commercial session with Benny Goodman’s group at Columbia Records, but knew firsthand that an integrated band would be more threatening than an all-Black group. According to most biographies, Holiday began using hard drugs in the early ’40s under the influence of her first husband, Jimmy Monroe, brother of the owner of Monroe’s Uptown House in Harlem.

Anslinger, the first commissioner for the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, was an extreme racist, even by the standards of the time, according to Chasing the Scream. He claimed narcotics made black people forget their place in the fabric of American society, and jazz musicians created “Satanic” music under pot’s influence.

The United States vs. Billie Holiday doesn’t shy away from the drug czar’s blatant racism, but Garrett Hedlund’s Harry J. Anslinger doesn’t capture the full depths of the disgust the man felt and put into practice through his selective enforcement. Hedlund is able to mouth some of the epithets his character threw at ethnic targets, but most of the actual quotes on record are so offensive there is no need to subject any audience to them today. The film barely even mentions the strange and forbidden fruit imbibed in slow-burning paper that Anslinger obsessed over almost as much as Holiday’s song.

Movies

Judas and the Black Messiah Ending Shows Horrific Legacy of COINTELPRO

By David Crow

Culture

Ma Rainey’s Life and Reign as the Mother of the Blues

By Tony Sokol

Commissioner Anslinger came to power during the “Reefer Madness” era, and shaped much of the anti-marijuana paranoia of the period, according to Alexander Cockburn’s Whiteout: The CIA, Drugs, and the Press. His first major campaign was to criminalize hemp, rebranding it as “marijuana” in an attempt “to associate it with Mexican laborers.” He claimed the drug “can arouse in blacks and Hispanics a state of menacing fury or homicidal attack.”

Anslinger promoted racist fictions and singled out groups he personally disliked as special targets. He said the lives of the jazzmen “reek of filth,” and the genre itself was proof that marijuana drives people insane. On drug raids, he advised his agents to “shoot first.” Anslinger persecuted many black musicians, including Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Duke Ellington. When Louis Armstrong was arrested for possession, Anslinger orchestrated a nationwide media smear campaign.

The Federal Bureau of Narcotics’ “race panic” tactics had a double standard. Anslinger only had a “friendly chat” with Judy Garland over her heroin addiction, suggesting she take longer vacations between films. He wrote to MGM, reporting he observed no evidence of a drug problem.

Anslinger ordered Holiday to cease performing “Strange Fruit” almost immediately after word got out about the performances. When she refused, he sent agent Jimmy Fletcher to frame the singer. Anslinger hated hiring Black agents, according to both Whiteout and Chasing the Scream, but white officers stood out on these investigations. He did insist no Black man in his Bureau could ever be a boss to white men, and pigeonholed officers like Fletcher to street agents.

Donald Clark and Julia Blackburn studied the only remaining interview with Jimmy Fletcher for their biography Billie Holiday: Wishing on The Moon. That interview has since been lost by the archives handling it. According to their book when Fletcher first saw Billie at the raid on her brother-in-law’s Philadelphia apartment in May 1947, “She was drinking enough booze to stun a horse and hoovering up vast quantities of cocaine.”

Fletcher’s partner sent for a policewoman to conduct a body search. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll strip,” Billie said before stripping and marking her territory in a provocative show of non-violent defiance by urinating on the floor (another action Daniels’ movie glosses over). Holiday was arrested and put on trial for possession of narcotics.

According to Hettie Jones’ book Big Star Fallin’ Mama: Five Women in Black Music, Holiday “Signed away her right to a lawyer and no one advised her to do otherwise.” She thought she would be sent to a hospital to kick the drugs and get well. “It was called ‘The United States of America versus Billie Holiday,’” she recalled in Lady Sings the Blues, the 1956 memoir she co-wrote with William Dufty, “and that’s just the way it felt.” Holiday was sentenced to a year and a day in a West Virginia prison. When her autobiography was published, Holiday tracked Fletcher down and sent him a signed copy.

When Holiday was released in 1948, the federal government refused to renew her cabaret performer’s license, which was mandatory for performing in any club serving alcohol. Under Anslinger’s recommended edict, Holiday was restricted “on the grounds that listening to her might harm the morals of the public,” according to the book Lady Sings the Blues.

The jazz culture had its own code. Musicians not only wouldn’t rat out other musicians, they would chip in to bail out any player who got popped. When it appeared Fletcher, who shadowed Holiday for years, became protective of Holiday, Anslinger got Holiday’s abusive husband and manager Louis McKay to snitch.

Two years after Holiday’s first conviction, Anslinger recruited Colonel George White, a former San Francisco journalist who applied to join the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. The personality test given to all applicants determined White was a sadist, and he quickly rose through the bureau’s ranks. He gained bureau acclaim as the first and only white man to infiltrate a Chinese drug gang.

White had a history of planting drugs on women and abused his powers in many ways. According to Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs, after White retired from the Bureau, he bragged, “Where else [but in the Bureau of Narcotics] could a red-blooded American boy lie, kill, cheat, steal, rape and pillage with the sanction and blessing of the All-Highest?” He “may well have been high when he busted Billie for getting high,” according to Chasing the Scream.

White arrested Holiday, without a warrant, at the Mark Twain Hotel in San Francisco in 1949. Billie insisted she had been clean for over a year, and said the dope was planted in her room by White. Bureau agents said they found her works in the room and the stash in a wastepaper basket next to a side room. They never entered the kit into evidence. According to Ken Vail’s book Lady Day’s Diary, Holiday immediately offered to go into a clinic, saying they could monitor her for withdrawal symptoms and that would prove she was being framed. Holiday checked herself into the clinic, paying $1,000 for the stay and she “didn’t so much as shiver.” She was not convicted by jury at trial.

Afterward White attended one of Holiday’s shows at the Café Society Uptown and requested his favorite songs. After the show was over, the federal cop told Billie’s manager “I did not think much of Ms. Holiday’s performance.”

In 1959, Billie collapsed while at the apartment of a young musician named Frankie Freedom. After waiting on a stretcher for an hour and a half, Manhattan’s Knickerbocker Hospital turned her away, saying she was a drug addict. Recognized by one of the ambulance drivers, Holiday was admitted in a public ward of New York City’s Metropolitan Hospital. She lit a cigarette as soon as they took her off oxygen.

In spite of being told her liver was failing and cancerous, and her heart and lungs were compromised, Holiday did not want to stay at the hospital. “They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill me in there. Don’t let them,” she told Maely Dufty.

Billie went into heroin withdrawal, alone. When Holiday responded to methadone treatment, Anslinger’s men prevented hospital staff from administering any further methadone, even though it had been officially prescribed by her doctor. Drug cops claimed to find a tinfoil envelope containing under an eighth of an ounce of heroin. It was found hanging on a nail on the wall, six feet from Billie’s bed where the frail and restrained artist could not have reached it.

The cops handcuffed her to the bed, stationed two policemen at the door and told Holiday they’d take her to prison if she didn’t drop dime on her dealer. When Maely Dufty informed the police it was against the law to arrest a patient in critical care, the cops had Holiday taken off the list.

Outside the hospital, protesters gathered on the streets holding up signs reading “Let Lady Live.” The demonstrations were led by the Rev. Eugene Callender. The Harlem pastor, who built a clinic for heroin addicts in his church, requested the singer be allowed to be treated there.

Holiday didn’t blame the cops. She said the drug war forced police to treat people like criminals when they were actually ill.

“Imagine if the government chased sick people with diabetes, put a tax on insulin and drove it into the black market, told doctors they couldn’t treat them, then sent them to jail,” she wrote in Lady Sings the Blues. “If we did that, everyone would know we were crazy. Yet we do practically the same thing every day in the week to sick people hooked on drugs.”

Holiday’s social commentary didn’t end with “Strange Fruit.” She wrote and sang about racial equality in the song “God Bless the Child,” her voice captured the pains of domestic violence. Most of Holiday’s contemporaries were too scared of being hassled by the feds to perform “Strange Fruit.” Billie Holiday refused to stop. She was killed for it. But never silenced.

The United States vs. Billie Holiday is streaming on Hulu now.

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the-easy-lay · 7 years ago

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untitled coffeeshop au

5 PM and people came rushing in as usual. To be fair, people came rushing in all the time, and every shift was a very busy shift at Stone Cold Coffee, the tiny coffee shop in a corner of Shepherd’s Bush, London. They had very good coffee, very nice seats and interior (though always densely packed with customers), and very good-looking employees. If only they treated such good-looking employees with more kindness, Roger Taylor thought woefully, as he rushed to the counter to prepare three more espressos. He had been constantly on his feet since six that morning, running back and forth between the cashier, the coffee machines and the kitchen, with only a thirty-minute break to have lunch, go to the toilet and catch his breath. They were understaffed so a barista like him couldn’t get away with the extra work, but to be honest, he would have taken all that work anyway, he badly needed the money. He handed the customers their drinks, then headed back to the cashier.

“Welcome to Stone Cold Coffee, may I have your order?”

The customer hesitated a bit. “Um, I’ll have a regular latte, please.” He had very long, dark curly hair that would normally look very funny and odd on other people, but it suited him well, Roger noticed.

“Right, and your name is…”

“Brian.”

Roger grabbed a regular-sized cup and scribbled ‘Brian’ and ‘latte’ on it, before accepting the money and giving back the change. After taking two more orders, he ran to the grinder, poured in a carefully measured amount of coffee beans and finished the drinks in under five minutes. He called Brian and the others to the counter, then hurried off to serve the next wave of customers. His hands were sore and one of the blisters had popped because of the heat from the coffee cups. He wiped his bleeding hands and mopped his sweaty forehead with a tablecloth; his shift would end in less than an hour.

The hours were long, and the management was unnecessarily harsh, but at least the pay was decent enough for him to support himself and send some to his mum every month. One of the reasons they kept him, he had been informed, was because of his appearance – fluffy short blond hair, big blue eyes, and defined muscles in his arms. Not that he ever cared about how he looked, but many times he had found that being so handsome was definitely to his advantage. It was also an inconvenience: female customers often slipped him their numbers written on the receipts and he received flirts and (often rude) comments along with drink orders every day. Roger had long learned how to politely decline, telling them that he wasn’t interested, that he didn’t have the time.

“Dominique, I’m out!” He called to his colleague at exactly 6 PM, untied his apron and went out from behind the counter. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, he had gotten used to moving on numb feet but that didn’t mean it was a pleasant sensation. Good thing he didn’t have work at the coffee shop the following day, only an eight-hour shift at the university lab. At any rate, cleaning up microscope lens and preparing tissue samples was much less physically demanding than running wild to fill the endless orders.

“Excuse me.”

Roger stopped in his tracks and turned around, his coat only half-buttoned. It was Brian, the curly-haired customer from earlier, with the coffee cup in his hand.

“Yes, was there something you needed?” He shifted his feet uncomfortably, itching to come back to his flat and sleep the exhaustion away. He prayed this wasn’t another one of those whiny, demanding customers who wanted a refund because they had ‘ordered the wrong drink’ and now they ‘didn’t like it at all’, and the coffee shop was ‘responsible’ for that.

“Well, you should take a look at this,” Brian handed him the now empty paper cup. He examined it and to his horror, found a faint blood stain on the side. The blood must have come from the blister on his thumb. This could very well earn him a report to the manager - bloody coffee cups were not aesthetically pleasing in the slightest, not to mention hygienic concerns.

Roger tried to keep a straight face. “I am terribly, terribly sorry about this. I should have checked all the cups beforehand. I hope this hasn’t affected the quality of the drink? How did you enjoy your…” He squinted at his own messy handwriting. “…latte?”

“It was very good latte, thank you.” Brian’s expression was unreadable, Roger couldn’t tell exactly how displeased he was. “May I ask where the blood came from?”

Nosy bastard, digging up details for his complaint. “I, uh, it was an accident. It was from my hands, I’ll make sure to wear gloves next time. I’m very sorry about this, I will get you another latte right away.” Roger wondered if that was enough for the customer to keep his mouth shut. It was definitely worth staying behind for an extra ten minutes if it meant he could keep his job.

“That won’t be necessary, it’s alright,” Brian said, and then all of a sudden took Roger’s hands in his. Roger held his breath as the stranger studied the raw skin and swollen fingertips. He had been practicing for hours last night on the kit, and as a result his hands greatly suffered. ““Are you okay?” Brian finally let go of his hands and asked, his voice oddly gentle.

“I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again,” he mumbled awkwardly. “I have to go, my shift is over. Please ask the remaining staff for assistance.” He quickly walked away, out of the crickety door with the ringing bell of Stone Cold Coffee, to the bus stop where he would catch a ride home.

Roger wouldn’t see Brian again for another week, but he spotted Brian’s distinct curls the moment the man entered the café. He was pouring cream onto a cappuccino as Dominique took the orders. “One latte and two black iced,” she shouted to him.

“Got it.” Roger began to make the drinks, taking extra care with Brian’s latte. He even poured more coffee than usual into the paper cup, filling it to the brim. When he handed out the cups, Brian was busy reading a book, too absorbed in it to notice him.

“Thank you very much,” the bloke said anyway, nice as he was.

Roger had wanted to be recognized for what he was good at, but there were many other things he was good at and certainly much more passionate about than handling espresso machines. Now here he was, mixing drinks five days a week. On Saturday, he worked as a lab assistant in the biology lab of the East London Polytechnic. The truth was that he was earning more as a barista than most of his friends as researchers, and besides, he was never too keen on biology, it just happened to be one of the subjects he had been good at. A college degree in biology in hand, working all week with two jobs, and yet he was still after something else. The very thing that had motivated him to leave Cornwall for the great city of London, the prospects of a career in music.

On their third encounter, Brian seemed to recognize him, because he walked straight up to the counter where Roger was brewing coffee. “Hello. I’d like to have a regular latte, please,” he said with a smile.

Roger damn near dropped the spoon. He tilted his head, “Sorry, this is not where you order. The cashier’s that way.” He gestured towards Dominique.

“Oh right. I’m sorry.” Brian hurried to join the queue. He looked exactly the same as the first time they met. Unruly, very curly curls on his head and dressed modestly in a white shirt and slim dark trousers. A short while later, Brian came to the counter for his latte. He took the cup and slipped into Roger’s hands a rolled-up bill. Roger didn’t have enough time to thank him; he had already left for his table. It was a fiver, which was worth more than the latte itself, along with a small piece of paper that said, “Meet me at the end of your shift?”

At 6 sharp, Roger wiped the counter one more time with a wet cloth and washed his hands. Brian was still sitting at a table in the corner, poring over an absurdly thick book.

“So. You wanted to see me.” Roger untied his apron and draped it on the back of the wooden chair. He had never sat in this chair before, not as a customer. He looked out the window, the street was full of busy people walking home to their families after a long day at work. It was a nice view, he could see the opposite shops and houses and lampposts and phone booths, a slice of London, basically.

Brian set down his book. “Yes, I hope you don��t have any business to attend to right now?”

“No, I don’t. I’m done for the day.”

“You must be really tired. The cafe is so busy.”

“Indeed.” Roger nodded distractedly. He had no idea why Brian wanted to talk to him. He was wary, this could be about that bloody coffee cup, which was such a pity, because Brian had seemed really nice. Dominique waved at him from behind the counter, motioning for him to move out, they were going to clean up the place and close for the day. “Um, we could talk outside? It’s about closing time here.”

Brian got his coat and scarf and they headed outside. It was so cold Roger could feel his nose going numb immediately. The sky was getting dark, the brick buildings cast shadows upon them, and the flow of people on the street thinned.

“What’s your name? I never knew, and you already know mine, don’t you?” Brian was a head taller than him. He suddenly felt so small.

“Yeah, I’m Roger Taylor. And you’re Brian, you always drink latte.”

Brian laughed. “So you do remember me. You guys have excellent latte.”

Roger laughed too and he wasn’t sure why. He saw Dominique leave, headed for her tiny house to her three children, and then the store manager, who locked the front door and nodded at him before turning the corner. “I thought you were not happy with my service. On that day, you know, when there was blood on your cup.”

“Well, I wiped it off, so no harm done. I had no problem with that, actually. I’ve never met a drummer who works as a barista.” Brian looked at him meaningfully.

“You know?” Roger was surprised. “How could you tell?”

“I saw your hands.” Once again, Brian took Roger’s hands, peeled off the gloves to reveal the pinkish new skin. Roger could feel the roughness of Brian’s fingers as they brush across his.

“And you play the guitar.” He was sure of it: the calluses on the fingertips and the trimmed nails on his left hand for fretting, the long sharp nails on his right hand for fingerpicking, the long, double-jointed fingers. “Are you in a band, like, full-time?”

“Yeah. Musicians are easy to recognize, you see. Just take a look at their hands.” Brian put the gloves back on for him. “No, I teach maths and physics at a nearby grammar school, and music is more like a dream. A passion. I am in an amateur blues band, though. Would you like to see me play sometime?”

“Sure. That sounds great.”

“When are you free? Friday, Saturday or Sunday?”

“Friday, then.” He didn’t have to think about it, every day was the same.

“I’ll drop by before six to pick you up. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. It’s late, I should get going or I’ll miss the night bus.” A random melody played in his head. He couldn’t make sense of this encounter, but it felt right. They were both musicians, although not professionally, it was one thing that they were both pursuing. He wasn’t alone.

“See you next week, Roger.” Brian said and turned to walk the other way.

#i don't know #might as well delete this blog one day

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roidespd-blog · 6 years ago

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Chapter Twenty : B IS FOR BI

“… But it ain’t no lie, Baby Bi Bi Bi (Bi Bi)” N’Sync, 2000

Prior to the redaction of this article, I asked a very close friend of mine, who happens to identify as bisexual/pansexual (more on that later) one simple question — a way for me to see if I was heading in the right direction and be sure to do justice to this part of our community. What do you think the biggest obstacle for bisexuals is in 2019 ? “Invisibility. The lack of representation of bisexuality as a legitimate identity. The more you are out there, the more everything is normalized, and there’s so much talk about the G in LGBT, Gay men, and next to nothing when it comes to Bisexuals.”

Communities tend to make the same mistakes as societies, as we are born in the same environments and are influenced by the same principles. When it comes to the Queer Community, patriarchy wins. In the L G B T Q I +, the G is omnipresent (because they represent the MAN, usually white), the L takes a little place on the side, T is the most persecuted, I is invisible. But it’s the B that keeps being so fascinating to me. B is the most under appreciated, denied and dismissed of them all.

WHAT IS AND WHAT IS DEFINITELY NOT

Bisexuality : romantic or sexual attraction to both males and females, or to put more in a 2019 kind-of-term, to more than one sex or gender. Bisexuality is part of the three main classifications of sexual orientation alongside heterosexuality and homosexuality, but we’ve already talked about this. This is bullshit and it doesn’t matter. These are just principles that the world kept cramming into our faces when they didn’t know any better. Not anymore. Just like its three other “main” terms, Bisexuality was coined in the 19th century, and its history is as old as the rest of them.

Ancient Greeks (at least 550 BC) incorporated bisexual relationships into their practices, but not exactly in a sexual way. Men with wisdom and experience would often pass along their knowledge or strength (if you were a soldier) to the younger generation through the act of sodomy. Once the young would reach maturity, the relationship became non-sexual — supposedly. It did interesting to point out that stigmas were present when the sexual relationship continued after the boy’s adulthood. A preview of things to come, in terms of bigotry.

Another interesting detail into History, it is never mentioned that women could have sex with other women as well. Sure, Sappho wrote about the female beauty, but this was just poetry. History itself only mentions the Men, as only them could dominate and be part of the wisdom. In Ancient Rome, it was acceptable for a man to have sex with other men outside of marriage, as long as they were younger, not another man’s son (so, slaves) and if the man would be the one to penetrate. Patriarchy, La-dee-da, La-dee-da.

In our modern society, what is REALLY interesting to point out though, is that when it comes to bisexuality, it is not easily owned by the person who could represent him/her/themself as bisexual. Terms like queer, polysexual, heterofexible, homoflexible, MSM or FSM are thrown around as alternatives to bisexuality. Hmm.

Bisexual activist Robyn Ochs defines bisexuality as “the POTENTIAL to be attracted — romantically and/or sexually — to people of more than one sex and/or gender, not necessarily at the same TIME, not necessarily in the same WAY and not necessarily to the same DEGREE” which is going into more detail than the human heteronormative brain might comprehend at the moment, but pretty accurate to my knowledge.

What bisexuality is not, though, is what some papers found smart to call a transitional period. A study ‘found evidence of both considerable consistency and change in LGB sexual identity over time’ (there it is again, the confusion between orientation and identity. See my article from June 9th). Apparently, youth under that study who had identified only as bisexual at earlier assessments would then assume the gay/lesbian “identity” over time by 30 to 40%. I feel the need to clarify the situation ONE. MORE. TIME. Sexual orientation and identity are two separate things. Yes, scientists substitute those terms as easily as you might replace regular mayo with non-fat mayo, and it would be correct. But it creates way too much confusion. Sexual orientation is who you are attracted to. Identity is who you are, and it includes but not limited to sexual orientation. You can’t define yourself by your sexuality only. What the study is trying to explain (I hope) in a very broad and clumsy way is that sometimes, social circumstances prevent you from assuming and owing your real sexual orientation, whether it is straight or gay or whatever your orientation is. So a nice teenage cover up is the use of the term “bisexual” as a transitional period of time. I get it. I’ve done it. I made myself believe it for a long while. But that doesn’t make us bisexuals for a while THEN something else. I was always a homosexual. My non-nurturing environment didn’t give me the tools to put my dick on the table and say “I’m gay, bitches”. But to keep going back to that stereotype of the half closeted homosexual when it comes to have a general image of bisexuality is just so fucking wrong. A cliché, my dear. And now that I’ve mentioned it.

COMMON UNREAL NOTIONS

A person can be smart. People are dumb. So when it comes to understanding someone that you are not, crowds tend to go to the silliest questions. Like :

“So… Is there a percentage of how gay you were and how straight you can be?” Nop. Maybe someone can put a number on it, but it seems quite unrealistic to say “I’m like 40/60”. Sexuality is not be quantifiable.

“Do you think you’ll ever make a choice ?” There is no choice to make. Bisexuality is a definitive (though somehow less finite exploration of the human form) sexuality and thinking it has to evolve is offensive. Like saying that a gay man will get over it and go back to women eventually.

“But if you had to choose ?” You’re dumb. Your mother definitely fucked your uncle nine months before your birth.

“So you are dating someone of the opposite gender. Are you straight now ?” Fuck no. The gender of the person that I’m dating does not tilt the needle of the fucking outdated Kinsey scale.

“You are probably confused” You are probably ready to go fuck your mother’s pussy with a rake. And that was not a question.

“I could never date a bisexual. I would never be sure if he/she’s not looking at another guy/girl” So ? Your straight/gay boyfriend/girlfriend can still look around no matter what. If he/she’s a horn-dog, you should be worried. Bisexuals do not have more sexual desires because they can be attracted to multiple genders. Still not a question, dumbass.

“You’re so lucky, you have twice the chances to find someone, right ?” You failed math and it shows. AGAIN, being bisexual does not mean that romantic and sexual feelings are constant towards all genders all the time. They have the same troubles with human connexions as everyone because people are dumb, remember ?

“But you can’t actually know for sure until you’ve tried it both, don’t you think ?” I don’t know, did you try humping your uncle/father before you realized you were incestuous and you liked it ? Sorry, I meant to say sexual orientation does not need a try run to be real. You are what you are no matter what. You may sometimes ignore it for a while but it’s mostly because society never showed you it could exist.

“Do you believe that everyone is bisexual ?” No, I’m not Freud. I’m a grown man perfectly capable of understanding that bisexuality is not an umbrella-term for ALL sexuality.

“Don’t you think Bisexuality is a myth ?” This whole conversation is a myth. Gurl, Bi.

And that’s just the tip of the crushingly big iceberg. Bisexuals are constantly under the microscope of the rest of the world for existing outside the binary system of human recognition. You are a woman or a man. You like women or men. Simple. It never was. But the public (whether LGBTQ+ or not) insist on pushing the idea of bisexuality to the side and ignoring its legitimacy.

OSTRACISM

Worst than the usual queer rejection from society, bisexuals have it both ways by being denied true existence by society AND by the Queer community. Just look at their flag. The purple is crushed between the blue and pink, ready to disappear, not taking much space. You queers who are reading this article, don’t try to cop out and say “but I have no problems with bisexual people”. Fuck the fuck off. You fall into the same trap as heterosexuals. You fear someone who isn’t exactly like you. And do you actually date a lot a bisexual people ? Because last time I checked, bisexuals weren’t really talkative about their sexuality since it’s welcomed with such cold shoulders the white walkers are asking if they put on a nice little sweater. I keep coming back to a conversation I had a few weeks ago with a lesbian woman I know who said she could never date a bisexual woman as she would never be sure if she would stay gay for her and that she liked girls who knew what they wanted. Bisexuals know what they want. It may change from Monday to Tuesday (matter of speech) but I do believe the sexual attraction does not come from a switch inside them with two modes (either gay or straight) but from the individuals, whether closer to masculine or feminine traits, they might encounter that day. Again, that’s prejudicial and it makes you kind of a bigot but whatever.

Still on the subject of rejection, it’s not just romantic or sexual. If you go on the internet, there are countless examples of bisexual men or women who, after they came out as WHO THEY FUCKING ARE, had to face a change in the way people would treat them and act around them. A straight girl who couldn’t sit too close to her bisexual female friend because she could have a crush on her. A straight man who stopped giving hugs to his close bisexual male friend in case he would get the wrong ideas. OR a gay man or woman who would just end a relationship when they found out about their partner’s sexuality. Yep, I went back to sexual. Sue me.

Let’s put this out there : bisexual people are just as capable to commit to a monogamous relationship. It’s not because you fell in love with someone with a V that you’re gonna suddenly get hungry for the P. Don’t be a child.

Now, being rejected by society is one thing. We are queer, that’s our song, we twerk to it with vigorous enthusiasm. But the treatment of bisexuals in the Queer community is plainly unacceptable.

In France, when the Mariage pour Tous (fuck, I promised myself I wouldn’t use France again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Whatever.) succeeded after months of lobbying and manifestations from all sexual orientations, this was considered a victory for the LBGTQ+ community as a whole. But really, it was a success for Gay men and Lesbian women, as Bisexuals are not viewed as a consequential orientation. They are not visually recognizable to gay, lesbian or straight people, they don’t have the same historic tragedies that the general public know about and their sexuality has been used and abused as a motor for heterosexual male fantasies in pornographic movies and myths, thus keeping it from becoming a reality in people’s minds. It then becomes a vicious circle where the moral is low and the activism is nowhere to be found, so nothing changes. Bisexuals stay in the darkness (until they make a fucking choice, right ?). By the way, the term biphobia is never uttered but it’s real and it happens constantly.

WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU PAN ?

Something I haven’t totally mentioned yet is the term Pansexual. It’s actually the part of the article I was the most apprehensive about as if uninformed, is quite difficult to distinguish with Bisexual. Bisexuality is the romantic or sexual attraction to more than one gender. Well, Pansexuality is the romantic or sexual attraction to all genders, outside of the binary scope of what gender is, I guess ? That’s when things get complicated because people are really attach to the label “Bi” would argue that it does not limit them to only boys and girls but other genders. And then those really attach to the label “Pan” could argue that their term is more inclusive to transgender people, who are men and women but also non-binary individuals who do not identify with male and female identities’ basic definitions. Then I would say that to me, bisexuality is the more known and comprehensive umbrella term for what this romantic or sexual orientation is and that pansexual is a more recent word and kinda beyond the scope of bisexuality (in a good way). And then someone would tell me I have it all wrong and then I would shut the fuck up. Definite differentiation between bisexuality and pansexuality is a mindfuck for the ages, as is the term “feminism” to some these days. By the way, “Pan” means “All” in ancient greek and a synonym to Pansexual can be Omnisexual (“omni” is latin for “All”). But I don’t want to get too much into that, I don’t feel like I have the energy.

DOUBLE JEOPARDY

As I kept my searches broad for this article, I ran into a term that was used by SOS Homophobie to talk about discrimination of bisexual people. Double Jeopardy. We talked a lot about ways that straight folks can discriminate against bisexual people and a little bit about biphobia inside the Queer community but I would like to come back to the latter. I do write these articles for everyone but I seem to keep repeating myself quite a lot at the end of each of them, only because the problem seems to always be the same : as long as we are tearing each other apart, we won’t advance as one. Live together, Die alone, that sort of thing (Damn, I really do repeat myself).

To my queer peeps, do not fear the sexual preferences of your partner as your relationship do not depend on what gay or straight orientation she/he/they is/are gonna have that day. Do not make the mistake to judge them by their supposedly easy-way-out heterosexuality as they are not straight. They don’t hold more privileges than you in this world, as they might flip flop at convenience from one side to the other. A bisexual woman who falls in love with a man is still a Queer woman. It’s not your queer experience, but it is one and you need to embrace it. Do not put them down for it because they are already being put there by straight people on a daily basis.

All of this is based only on your own insecurities which have been fed by your minority status, your heteronormative education, your own ostracism from said heteronormative society and possibly your capabilities as a lover (ndlr : your fear of being dumped).

But most of all, do not ignore them. Those are your people. They hurt just as much as you (but between us, you can’t rank genders but in the prejudice scale, I’d say it comes at a close number 2. Think about it.) and they need your support, as you needed theirs when it was time to get that Mariage Pour Tous — damn, last time, I promise. Remember that this MPT was also for them. Every action you take as a community is an action to benefit them as well. As they are the B in LGBTQ+. Say it out loud. See how weird it sounds without the B.

Mic dropped.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUDab9piv_U

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ntrending · 6 years ago

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I got my hip replaced at 39. Here’s why that might get more common.

New Post has been published on https://nexcraft.co/i-got-my-hip-replaced-at-39-heres-why-that-might-get-more-common/

I got my hip replaced at 39. Here’s why that might get more common.

A titanium-alloy spike is now part of my femur.

The five-inch-long forged hunk of metal came off the assembly line in a Memphis, Tennessee, factory in December 2017. Manufactured by a company called Smith and Nephew, the component is a model called Anthology. It’s one of four pieces that comprise my artificial hip.

That part, called a stem, joined my body in April of last year, at NYU Langone Orthopedic Hospital in Manhattan. A surgeon cut off the boney ball at the top of my femur, reamed out the socket in the part of the pelvis where the hip joint is located (anatomically, the “acetabulum”), and installed that stem, plus three other pieces. Later that same day, I left the hospital and went home with those components as new members of the body I was born with in 1978.

I’m one of hundreds of thousands of people in the U.S. who receive a total hip replacement each year. As a young person—I was 39 when it was installed—I’m an outlier, but also somewhat hip to a trend. The age of artificial hip recipients is falling: In 2000, the average age was just over 66; in 2014, it was 64.9. The fastest growing group? It isn’t retirees, but rather people ages 55 to 64, says Matt Sloan, a surgical resident at the University of Pennsylvania medical school who has researched the procedure’s demographic trends.

I wanted a new hip because I’d been in pain for years. In 2010, when I was in my early 30s, I tore my labrum, which is ring-like cartilage in the joint. A painful arthroscopic surgery in 2011 to repair it failed to make my hip better, and I needed a “revision” surgery. In 2014, a doctor did everything he could to repair the joint, and gave me a tissue graft from a cadaver to fix my re-torn labrum. Ultimately, that operation also failed. I needed a new hip. It was the weakest point in my body—an arthritic joint that had to go.

Over the decades, the materials in artificial hips have improved enough that doctors are now confident putting them in younger patients like me. “Surgeons, in the past, were unwilling to do a total hip replacement on them, because they thought they might be starting a sequence of multiple operations,” says Dr. Lawrence Dorr, a professor of clinical orthopaedic surgery at the University of Southern California Keck School of Medicine. Now, “they know they can do a hip replacement, and if it’s very well done, there isn’t any reason it can’t go 30 years.”

A series of failures, breakthroughs, and incremental improvements throughout the 20th century have led to a prosthesis so refined that bone can literally grow into it.

Here’s how it works: The four parts of a modern artificial hip replace a big ball and socket joint. During the operation, after the surgeon cuts off that ball at the top of the femur—the thigh bone, if you’re singing along—they insert a titanium stem inside the hollowed-out bone, with a portion of it still protruding. Then, a ceramic head (the new ball), attaches to the top of the stem; mine was made by German company Caramtec, and has a pinkish hue. On the acetabular side, a titanium-alloy shell shaped like a hemispheric cup press-fits into the reamed-out socket, and then a durable plastic (technically, cross-linked ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene) liner fits inside that metal cup.

So that the metal can join with my skeleton, part of the stem and shell have a coating of a substance called commercially-pure titanium. Bone can fuze with this porous layer, no cement needed, joining the natural with the artificial. “Bone looks at this surface and kinda sees itself,” Dorr, who’s replaced about 7,000 hips and 5,000 knees, explains. A few weeks post-op, immature bone will have already started growing into the metal. “I never figured out why bone is so dumb,” Dorr lightheartedly says. Grow into the titanium? Sure, why not.

A disjointed journey

Titanium and polyethylene are, of course, relatively modern developments. In the 1940s and ‘50s, both the materials and the procedure were in their infancies.

One early artificial hip came from a surgeon named Austin Moore. But his version was just a half hip: a metal replacement on the femur side, no artificial socket. “None of them were very effective,” Dorr says. Part of the problem was how doctors attached the implant to the femur. “You just kinda pounded the stems into the bone.” The implants could work loose. Plus, the prosthesis fit directly into the natural socket—metal against bone. Ouch. “It probably was only 30 to 40 percent successful,” Dorr estimates.

Moore’s material selection process was also fairly homespun. Legend has it, when deciding whether to make the implant out of cobalt chrome or stainless steel, he buried samples of both in his backyard. When he dug them back up, the steel had rust, but the cobalt chrome did not. (Moore even mounted one of his fake hips to his Chrysler as a hood ornament.) “I don’t think the FDA would pass that today,” quips Dorr.

By the 1960s, hip replacements began to take on their modern form, thanks largely to a British orthopedic surgeon named John Charnley. According to former Massachusetts General Hospital hip surgeon William Harris, Charnley had an “incredible single focus—nothing else in the world mattered except solving this problem: creating an artificial hip joint.”

Charnley’s choices weren’t all perfect, but he had the right idea about a couple key things. First, he used bone cement to glue a metal implant into the femur. “That gave pain relief and a strong leg,” Dorr, of USC, says, “people could walk on it without limping.” Second, his first hips—he did about 300 in total—had an artificial socket so that the metal prosthesis wasn’t rubbing directly against the bone.

The best choice of material for the socket, however, still needed some figuring out. Charnley first tried Teflon, or polytetrafluoroethylene (PTFE), but it wore down quickly as the metal prosthesis rubbed against it, creating little particles. The connection between bone and implant didn’t hold up. “A loose implant like that hurts more than arthritis,” Dorr says. “The particulate debris kind of acts like a poison to the bone.”

Eventually, Charnley landed on a plastic called high-density polyethylene. It didn’t wear down as rapidly as Teflon, which he confirmed by testing the materials in his own leg. “After nine months in situ, the two PTFE specimens are clearly palpable as nodules,” he wrote in a letter to the Lancet. “They are almost twice the volume of the original implant.” Polyethylene had no such problem. Though it’s unclear when Charnley did the self-experiment, he completed his in-vivo testing before he put the new plastic in patients, a practice he began in 1962.

But even though Charnley’s invention got the basic conceit right, polyethylene eventually started causing serious problems for patients. Like Teflon, it wore down—just much more slowly—setting off a chain reaction in the body. Macrophages, a part of the immune system, gobbled up the plastic bits, which in turn led another type of cell, osteoclasts, to eat up nearby bone. The result is a problem called osteolysis, in which an implant can loosen, and the bone around it can even break.

“[It] was disastrous for many thousands of people and seriously disrupted the lives of more than a million,” writes biographer Harris in Vanishing Bone: Conquering a Stealth Disease Caused by Total Hip Replacements. He goes on to describe a patient who, in 1980, less than a decade after her total hip replacement, felt her leg bone simply snap while she was walking.

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During the ‘90s, three teams, including one led by Harris, all worked separately to find a better material. Harris in particular was motivated because he’d had to reoperate on patients who had received artificial hips. “I told them to have the operation, and then the damned thing failed,” he remembers. Those complicated operations, called revision surgeries, could last as long as 12 hours.

Eventually, the groups each earned patents for cross-linked polyethylene, a plastic that’s made more durable at the molecular level. It’s now in millions of modern artificial hips. Under an electron microscopic, regular ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene looks like long strands of simple molecules of carbon and hydrogen wrapped and entangled with each other, but not firmly connected. Cross-linking causes adjacent molecules to connect with one another via strong covalent bonds in many different places, toughening the material. After cross-linking, the plastic hip liner is like “one huge polyethylene molecule,” says Harry McKellop, an orthopedic and biomechanical engineer and former VP of research at the Orthopedic Institute for Children in Los Angeles.

For today’s patients, the difference is measurable. The new stuff provides a 90-to-95 percent reduction in annual wear. In one double-blind study in New Zealand, patients who’d had old polyethylene hips for 10 years experienced an annual wear rate of 0.27 millimeters, while those with the cross-linked stuff wore at an average of just 0.03 millimeters per year. A recent paper in the Lancet found that 58 percent of the hips in its study lasted 25 years. Bear in mind, however: That number includes implants that predate the newest material, so the survival rate of modern models will likely rise; “Everything we’ve seen to date suggests that they are doing better,” says study author Jonathan Evans.

But, “the holy grail is the hundred-year poly,” says Roy Davidovitch, the surgeon at NYU Langone Orthopedic Hospital who did my hip replacement. “If you could do that, you could basically put in one hip replacement, and hopefully that will be it, and you could do it on younger and younger patients.”

Getting more hip

Today, a surgery that began with hundreds of failures is routine. In 2014—the most recent year for which data is available—370,770 people in the United States got a new hip. That number is increasing steadily: According to one recent study, by the year 2030, an estimated 635,000 people will receive a new artificial hip every year in the U.S.

It’s common, but is still major surgery. “You’re ripping out a big segment of the body, and replacing it mechanically—that is a massive assault on the human body,” Mass General’s Harris reflects. “And yet it has an extraordinary success rate.”

While decades of incremental improvement have zeroed in on the right materials and operative techniques for gifting patients with a synthetic joint, there’s still work to be done to perfect it. Today, one of the biggest problems with artificial hips is that they’re easier to dislocate than natural ones. Another is infection—a human-made hip has no blood flow, so bacteria can accumulate on it. Researchers are working on a fix, says Michael Alexiades, an orthopedic surgeon at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York. One strategy is to “coat the implant with an antibiotic that’s bonded to the metal,” he says, which then can be released locally under the right circumstances. “That’s still in very early stages.”

RELATED: We now have the power to make bones nearly invisible

Ultimately, everyone is trapped in their body until they die. But when body parts start to fail, if it’s the right part, you can get a new one: Doctors can also swap out knees, shoulders, elbows, ankles, wrists, even the discs in your spine.

My new hip was installed in me in the morning in the springtime, and I went home later that day. It’s my third hip surgery, but the first I feel actually worked. It was a more dramatic operation than an arthroscopic one, but the recovery has been much easier. I’ve been in physical therapy for about 11 months, and, while I’m not totally pain free, my joint finally feels better. I’m glad that the nature-given part of me is gone. I’m glad the metal and plastic and ceramic is there in its place. For the first time in years, I have hope for my hip.

Written By Rob Verger

#Science

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erythemanodosum · 8 years ago

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EN News: February, 2017

What erythema nodosum research was published this month?

It has been a busy year so far in erythema nodosum research. January brought us some interesting insights into EN and IgA deficiency. In February, researchers saw EN in several studies about other illnesses, found a successful treatment for EN and idiopathic mastitis, and asked some interesting questions about granulomas.

These articles were all indexed by Google Scholar in the month of February and have publication dates in January, February, or March. Most of these articles are behind a paywall, but if you are interested in one of them, I can help you find somewhere to read it.

Studies:

Coexistence of idiopathic granulomatous mastitis and erythema nodosum: successful treatment with corticosteroids Eleven patients who had both erythema nodosum and idiopathic granulomatous mastitis (IGM) were treated with methylprednisolone. The erythema nodosum was completely gone from all of the patients within two weeks of starting the medicine. Within twelve weeks, the IGM symptoms were also gone from all of the patients. The researchers kept up with all of the patient for sixty months: neither condition came back.

HTLV-1 seroprevalance in sarcoidosis. A clinical and laboratory study in northeast of Iran 125 sarcoidosis patients in northeast Iran were tested for a virus that is known to dysregulate the immune system. 76 of those patients had erythema nodosum (63.2%). If I am reading their tables correctly, only two of those patients were positive for the virus. In the end, the study did not see the virus more in sarcoidosis patients than was normal for the area.

New insights on tuberculous aortitis Tuberculosis infections in the aorta are very rare. This study compared eleven patients with tuberculosis aoritis, three of whom had erythema nodosum.

The effect of vitamin D on clinical manifestations and activity of Behçet’s disease In this study, 68 patients with Behçet’s disease had their vitamin D levels tested. The authors wanted to know if treating Behçet’s patients with vitamin D would help with their symptoms. The vitamin D didn’t seem to help. Four of the 68 patients had erythema nodosum. Their vitamin D levels were lower than in Behçet’s patients without EN, but there were not enough patients to determine anything.

Association between rheumatic diseases and cancer: results from a clinical practice cohort study 1750 patient records from an Italian rheumatology clinic were analyzed for a connection between autoimmune diseases and cancer. Erythema nodosum was not studied on its own, but instead was part of a group called “isolated immunologic manifestations.” This group was not discussed much in the article; out of the 112 patients in the “IMM” group, only 3 got cancer within two years. The article does not mention specifically how many EN cases were included.

Evaluation of asymptomatic venous disease by Doppler ultrasonography in Behçet’s disease patients 22 patients with Behçet’s disease and 22 controls were tested for vein disease. Eleven (50%) of the BD patients had EN.

Individual Cases:

A granulomatous conundrum: Concurrent necrobiosis lipoidica, cutaneous sarcoidosis and erythema nodosum in a nondiabetic patient This very interesting case from Australia describes a woman with three different skin conditions on her shins at the same time: necrobiosis lipidica, cutaneous sarcoidosis, and EN. All three appeared at different times and responded differently to treatments, but the authors wonder if they were all related since all three were granulomatous. (Granulomas are collections of immune cells; they are basically your body’s way of trying to wall off foreign substances.) There is still a lot we don’t know about the way granulomatous disorders work, and as far as the authors (or I) can tell, this is the first time all three of these conditions have happened concurrently.

Pulmonary Sarcoidosis in Behçet's Disease Treated with Adalimumab In this case, a man had Behçet’s disease that wasn’t responding to treatment. His doctors put him on adalimumab, an anti-TNF agent which suppresses the immune system, and he quickly got better. Six months later, he went back to the doctor because of night fevers, muscle pain, and joint swelling. A few days later his chest started to hurt, and he had erythema nodosum on both legs, among other symptoms. He tested positive for the Legionella pneumophila bacteria, and he was diagnosed with Legionnaire’s disease. But, after treatment for the Legionnaire’s, they discovered that he also had sarcoidosis of the lungs. Both Legionnaire’s and the sarcoidosis are potential side effects of anti-TNF drugs, and they both are associated with erythema nodosum, although sarcoidosis is much more common.

Image challenge: Painful leg lesions in a young woman This “pop quiz” style case study has a photo of an unusual presentation of hormone-related EN. The spots are around both of the patient’s knees and a large, dark red patch is around her left ankle. The skin appears to be splitting around the ankle as well, although it’s hard to tell from the photo.

Fever and arthralgia after ‘volcano boarding’ in Nicaragua A man and a woman both contracted histoplasmosis after a trip to Nicaragua; the woman developed erythema nodosum. The authors of the article blame “volcano boarding,” despite not finding the fungus that causes histoplasmosis in a sand sample.

Adverse reactions to fluoroquinolones in the Nigerian population: an audit of reports submitted to the National Pharmacovigilance Centre from 2004 to 2016 A Nigerian patient taking Levofloxacin developed erythema nodosum, likely as a drug reaction. This reminded me of a case from 2012 when a kidney transplant patient was treated for pneumonia.

A randomized, double-blind trial of abatacept (CTLA4-ig) for the treatment of takayasu's arteritis One patient in this double-blind trial of a drug for takayasu’s arteritis had erythema nodosum during a relapse of their disease. Takayasu’s arteritis is a rare disease that damages the arteries around the heart.

Books and Review Articles:

Dermatopathology 101: Part 1 – Inflammatory skin diseases Three German doctors published an article about diagnosing different inflammatory skin diseases under a microscope and included a section about erythema nodosum. The biopsy slides they included are clear, straightforward examples of the microscopic features of EN.

Misdiagnoses and Mimics:

A clinicoepidemiologicalstudy of cutaneous tuberculosis in a tertiary care teaching hospital in Andhra Pradesh, India In this article, a case of erythema induratum was originally diagnosed as erythema nodosum.

I am interested in reading this article, but I don’t have access to it:

Lee, Jonathan J. (02/01/2017). "Cutaneous Reactions to Targeted Therapy". The American journal of dermatopathology (0193-1091), 39 (2), p. 67.

This post was an experiment. Would you like to see monthly research round-ups on this blog? Let me know!

#erythema nodosum #behcet's #sarcoidosis #new research #science communication

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yesburningpoetrycollection · 5 years ago

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KALINICH: ON PLIGHT OF LOUIS CANCHARI AND ‘ABSOLUTE INSURER RULE’

Where does the ‘Absolute Insurer Rule’ extend?

Louis Canchari has owned and trained horses at Canterbury Park for 32 years. His love and passion for the sport and the horses were inherited by his two sons, Patrick and Alex, who practically grew up there and today are successful jockeys. At 62, Canchari is broke and had to sell his stable of nine horses. But, he can’t imagine returning to Canterbury Park until he gets his reputation back. In horse racing, a reputation is all you have really.

And in horse racing, that reputation can be tainted in a nanosecond by a picogram of an illegal substance no matter how it got there. The trainer has the “Absolute Insurer” responsibility. But does he or she have the absolute control?

In 2014, Canchari’s reputation took a hit when his horse, Smart Masterpiece finished second and he was approached by the steward. “He said ‘your horse got a bad test’, I said ‘bad test’, he said, ‘methamphetamine,’ ‘I don’t even know what it is, methamphetamine,’” he recalled to Fox 9 Investigators. Smart Masterpiece was disqualified. Canchari was fined $2,000 and suspended for 90 days.

Then, three years later, in 2017 another Canchari horse, Carson’s Storm, tested positive for methamphetamine with a microscopic, trace amount: 126 picograms (per mil of blood). A picogram is one trillionth of a gram. This time, the Minnesota Racing Commission dropped the hammer with a $25,000 fine and a three year suspension. On appeal, the penalty was upheld by an administrative judge but was later reduced to $10,000 and one year.

“No one comes to a track to watch horses running with meth in their system,” said Tom DiPasquale, executive director of the Minnesota Racing Commission. “It has a high potential to effect performance in a horse and has no purpose in a horse, so as a class one violation, it’s the most serious offense in racing,” DiPasquale said.

Under the Minnesota Racing Commission’s zero tolerance policy, the trainer is ultimately responsible for the welfare of the horse. The Absolute Insurer Rule. Canchari had to essentially prove his innocence. “This is not a criminal trial and fault is not required, and that’s what Mr. Canchari has misunderstood,” DiPasquale said. The commission’s view is while Canchari may not have intentionally given methamphetamine to the horses, he failed to protect them from exposure.

This is not an isolated incident. Another trainer, Shane Miller, had a horse test positive in 2017. He paid his fine and left racing. It also happened to Mac Robertson, the most successful trainer in Canterbury Park’s history. He had a horse test positive in 2015. On June 7 Purest Form won in a $7,500 claiming race in which he was the favorite. A couple of weeks later, Robertson was summoned to a meeting with the stewards. He was told Purest Form had tested positive for meth.

“I asked, ‘How much?’ And they said, ‘It’s small’ … they didn’t give me a number,” Robertson said. “Wouldn’t have meant much to me, anyway, because I didn’t know what a picogram meant with meth. I don’t know anything about meth, except we’ve had a few cases on the backside where people were found with it.” Eventually, the number came back from the split sample at 74 picograms. “What would meth do to help a horse win a race?” Robertson remarked in an interview with The Star Tribune.

Kellyn Gorder is a well-regarded thoroughbred trainer. His then three-year-old filly, Bourbon Warfare, won a maiden race at Churchill Downs on November 22, 2014, and was drug tested with split tests. Bourbon Warfare’s tests both came back with a trace of methamphetamine — the first split at 57 picograms and the second at 48 picograms.

There were also incident of the same in Australia. In 2016, Australian racehorse trainer Ben Currie came under scrutiny after his horse, Party Till Dawn, tested positive for methamphetamine. This was the second time in just more than a year that a racehorse in Queensland has tested positive for methamphetamine. In October 2015, trainer Cassandra Marsh was fined $5,000 after her horse Island Tang was found to have a trace amount of the substance in his system. She blamed the failed tests on one of Island Tang’s handlers, a regular user of methamphetamine, who she said inadvertently transferred trace elements of the drug to the horse.

Both Miller and Robertson told the FOX 9 Investigators they believe their horses were contaminated by methamphetamine users working behind the scenes at Canterbury. Drug and alcohol use is not uncommon on the backside.

“I think it is probably an incidental transfer from a human substance abuser, likely through contact with the human hands to the horse’s mucus membranes,” said Dr. Mary Scollay, executive director of the Racing Medication and Testing Consortium, based in Kentucky. That would be the mouth, nostrils, eyes. Others speculate it could happen if a methamphetamine user urinates in a stall or washes their hands in the horse’s water bucket.

At horse racing tracks around the country there are a scattering of positive methamphetamine tests every year. “It is not that common. In any given year, there may be a half dozen findings out of 10,000’s of post-race tests,” Dr. Scollay said.

There are no studies testing the effect of methamphetamine on horses because it would be unethical to conduct such research. But, like humans, the prevailing belief is methamphetamine could cause an irregular heartbeat, which could result in atrial fibrillation, the most common cause of fatalities among race horses.

Dr. Scollay says on a practical level, it is perception that matters. “I don’t know how much medication it takes to gain or lose fractions of a second, but if I am the one who runs second to a horse that has meth in its blood, I am going to say I was cheated,” she told the Fox 9 Investigators.

Thermoscientific recently wrote about this issue and steps being taken within the industry to aid in resolving these issues. The impact of drugs in the environment is an emerging problem, but not just for forensic or public health agencies. This issue has also entered the paddocks of horse racing.

Failed equine drug tests have placed blame on everything from tainted feed, to stables contaminated with human urine, to handlers who inadvertently transferred traces of methamphetamine to horses. The proliferation of environmental contamination has proven to be a challenge in the interpretation of drug test results. Increasingly sensitive equipment used in screening has led to horses testing positive for drugs reportedly not administered to them by trainers or veterinarians. Low quality data can sometimes lead to false conclusions. How can officials be aided to determine what is environmental contamination and what is actual equine doping?

What drugs or substances are in the racing environment that may contaminate the horse’s body and affect testing? Without any concrete evidence as to the levels of drugs present in the environment, it’s still just speculation.

The Kentucky Horse Racing Commission is trying to find some answers. The growing concern about environmental contamination and increasing levels of sensitivity in equine drug testing has led to an approved analytical study by the Commission. The study, announced in May of 2018, will collect samples from Kentucky racetracks using broad-based, high-sensitivity full spectrum analysis instruments designed to quantify various substances and drugs found in different areas of the racing environment.

However, until this research is completed we still have the Absolute Insurer Rule. The trainer has the ultimate responsibility for their horse. But they do not have absolute control over every human their horse comes into contact with?

Louis Canchari said after the second positive result in 2017, all of his employees took drug tests and passed. Canchari even took a voluntary polygraph. He believes his horses could have been contaminated by the starting gate crew because it’s the one part of the race a trainer has no control over. When Canterbury Park tried to randomly drug test the starting gate crew in 2017, a half dozen members quit and left a month early for a track in Arizona.

In 2014, a month after Canchari’s first horse tested positive, Shakopee Police arrested two members of the starting gate crew, Dustin Matthew Shanyfelt and Devin Lynn Stortzum, both of whom were in possession of methamphetamine. In a dorm room behind the track, police found a gram of methamphetamine, a pipe used to smoke it, a scale, and a bottle containing urine to falsify a drug test.

The Fox 9 Investigators also discovered at least five other horse handlers at Canterbury busted for drugs during this period. A stable worker, Helene Elizabeth Bowen, was caught with a ball of meth, as well as morphine and oxycodone. A jockey from Iowa, Siegmore Richard Karl Golibrzuch, has a small amount of methamphetamine in his locker, along with a device used to shock horses during a race. And exercise walker, Scott Russell Hawkins, was arrested with methamphetamine near Canterbury in 2015. He also lost his license in Oklahoma for testing positive for the drug. But the Minnesota Racing Commission granted him a license anyway, even though the stewards determined he was “unfit for licensure due to his history of methamphetamine use.”

Regardless of these findings the Commission is adamant who has the responsibility. The commission’s view is while Canchari may not have intentionally given methamphetamine to the horses, he failed to protect them from exposure. Under the Minnesota Racing Commission’s zero tolerance policy, the trainer is ultimately responsible for the welfare of the horse. Canchari had to essentially prove his innocence.

“It has been the basis of horse racing, someone has to be responsible for the horse, but we live in a more complicated world than perhaps when the rules were written,” Dr. Scollay added.

For Canchari, that means reputation, will always place second. “When I die, I’m going to die with nothing like all the jockeys and the trainers,” he said. And he said he will never go back to Canterbury. “I refuse to go. When I go, I want to run with my horses. I’ll be happy man, and my life will come back again,” Canchari said. Earlier this year, an administrative law judge upheld the racing commission’s discipline of Canchari, but he still refuses to pay his $10,000 fine.

“The only reason I’m talking to [Fox9] today is because my dignity, my honor, is more important than anything. More important than the racing commission, more important than Canterbury, because that is all you’ve got — your dignity,” Canchari said.

Contributing Authors

MB Kalinich

Maribeth Kalinich is a racing enthusiast and historian who writes about current racing events, Thoroughbred history and preservation of historic racing sites. Growing up in...

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biofunmy · 6 years ago

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If Seeing the World Helps Ruin It, Should We Stay Home?

The glaciers are melting, the coral reefs are dying, Miami Beach is slowly going under.

Quick, says a voice in your head, go see them before they disappear! You are evil, says another voice. For you are hastening their destruction.

To a lot of people who like to travel, these are morally bewildering times. Something that seemed like pure escape and adventure has become double-edged, harmful, the epitome of selfish consumption. Going someplace far away, we now know, is the biggest single action a private citizen can take to worsen climate change. One seat on a flight from New York to Los Angeles effectively adds months worth of human-generated carbon emissions to the atmosphere.

And yet we fly more and more.

The number of airline passengers worldwide has more than doubled since 2003, and unlike with some other pollution sources, there’s not a ton that can be done right now to make flying significantly greener — electrified jets are not coming to an airport near you anytime soon.

Still, we wonder: How much is that one vacation really hurting anyone, or anything?

It is hard to think about climate change in relation to our own behavior. We are small, our effects are microscopically incremental and we mean no harm. The effects of climate change are inconceivably enormous and awful — and for the most part still unrealized. You can’t see the face of the unnamed future person whose coastal village you will have helped submerge.

But it turns out there are ways to quantify your impact on the planet, at least roughly. In 2016, two climatologists published a paper in the prestigious journal Science showing a direct relationship between carbon emissions and the melting of Arctic sea ice.

Each additional metric ton of carbon dioxide or its equivalent — your share of the emissions on a cross-country flight one-way from New York to Los Angeles — shrinks the summer sea ice cover by 3 square meters, or 32 square feet, the authors, Dirk Notz and Julienne Stroeve, found.

In February, my family of three flew from New York to Miami for what seemed like a pretty modest winter vacation. An online carbon calculator tells me that our seats generated the equivalent of 2.4 metric tons of carbon dioxide.

Throw in another quarter-ton for the 600 miles of driving we squeezed in and a bit for the snorkeling trip and the heated pool at the funky trailer-park Airbnb, and the bill comes to about 90 square feet of Arctic ice, an area about the size of a pickup truck.

When I did that calculation, I pictured myself standing on a pickup-truck-sized sheet of ice as it broke apart and plunged me into frigid waters. A polar bear glared hungrily at me.

Calculating the harm

And what of my vacation’s impact on my fellow man? Actually, academics have attempted to calculate that, too. Philosophers, not climatologists. But still.

In 2005, a Dartmouth professor, Walter Sinnott-Armstrong, wrote in a journal article provocatively titled “It’s Not my Fault: Global Warming and Individual Moral Obligations” that he was under no moral obligation to refrain from taking a gas-guzzling S.U.V. for a Sunday afternoon joy ride if he felt like doing so.

“No storms or floods or droughts or heat waves can be traced to my individual act of driving,” he wrote. Conversely, “If I refrain from driving for fun on this one Sunday, there is no individual who will be helped in the least.”

Other philosophers questioned his reasoning.

Professor John Nolt of the University of Tennessee took a stab at measuring the damage done by one average American’s lifetime emissions. (The average American generates about 16 metric tons of carbon dioxide-equivalent a year, more than triple the global average.)

Noting that carbon stays in the atmosphere for centuries, at least, and that a United Nations panel found in 2007 that climate change is “likely to adversely affect hundreds of millions of people through increased coastal flooding, reductions in water supplies, increased malnutrition and increased health impacts” in the next 100 years, Professor Nolt did a lot of division and multiplication and arrived at a stark conclusion:

“The average American causes through his/her greenhouse gas emissions the serious suffering and/or deaths of two future people.”

Then Avram Hiller of Portland State University used Professor Nolt’s approach to derive the impact of Professor Sinnott-Armstrong’s hypothetical 25-mile ride.

“At a ratio of one life’s causal activities per one life’s detrimental effects, it causes the equivalent of a quarter of a day’s severe harm,” he wrote.

“In other words, going for a Sunday drive has the expected effect of ruining someone’s afternoon.”

Multiply that joy ride by a three-person Florida vacation and you’ve ruined someone’s month. Something to ponder while soaking up UV-drenched rays on a tropical beach.

Ships? Even worse

There are alternatives to flying, of course. Perhaps a cruise? After all, there’s more ocean than there’s been in thousands of years. With the Northwest Passage now mostly ice-free in the summer, new vistas have opened. One cruise company runs polar bear tours to check out “the Arctic’s ‘poster boy.’”

Perhaps not. Bryan Comer, a researcher at the International Council on Clean Transportation, a nonprofit research group, told me that even the most efficient cruise ships emit 3 to 4 times more carbon dioxide per passenger-mile than a jet.

And that’s just greenhouse gas. Last year, an assistant professor at the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health found that the air onboard cruise ships was many times dirtier than the air nearby onshore.

“Some of the particulate counts were comparable to or worse than a bad day in some of the world’s most polluted cities like Beijing and Santiago,” said Kendra Ulrich of Stand.earth, the advocacy group that commissioned the study.

While most cruise ships run on highly polluting heavy fuel oil, many have begun using “scrubbers” to remove toxic sulfur oxides from their exhaust. But the scrubbers discharge these and other pollutants into the ocean instead, and they’ve been banned by seven countries and several U.S. states.

A spokeswoman for Cruise Lines International Association, a trade group, said that the scrubbers comply with the new 2020 standards for air and water quality set by the International Maritime Organization, a U.N. agency. The spokeswoman, Megan King, added that it was not fair to compare emissions from ships and jets because a jet is just a transportation vehicle while a cruise ship is a floating resort and amusement park.

There’s always driving, which is less carbon intensive than flying, especially if there are multiple passengers. But “less” is relative, and most long trips are out of practical driving range anyway.

Considering carbon offsets

Maybe there is a justification out there somewhere: Personal decisions alone won’t stop global warming — that will take policy changes by governments on a worldwide scale. Tourism creates millions of jobs in places starved for economic development. Carbon offsets can effectively cancel out our footprint, can’t they?

Carbon offsets do seem to offer the most direct way to assuage traveler’s guilt. In theory, they magically expiate your sins. You give a broker some money (not a lot of money either — carbon offsets can be bought for $10 per metric ton). They give it to someone to plant trees, or capture the methane from a landfill or a cattle operation, or help build a wind farm, or subsidize clean cookstoves for people in the developing world who cook on open fires. All these things help cut greenhouse gas.

But nothing is that simple in practice. Carbon-offset people talk about concerns with things called additionality, leakage and permanence.

Additionality: How do you know the utility would not have built the wind farm but for the money you gave them?

Permanence: How do you know the timber company that planted those trees won’t just cut them down in a few years?

Leakage: How do you know the landowner you just paid not to cut down an acre of rain forest won’t use the money to buy a different acre and clear that?

While certifying organizations go to great lengths to verify carbon offset projects, verification has limits.

“Whether someone would have planted trees anyway, or taken some other action like building a housing development, is ultimately unknowable and something you have to construct,” said Peter Miller, a policy director for the Natural Resources Defense Council and a board member of the Climate Action Reserve, the country’s biggest carbon offset registry. “It’s an endless debate.”

Some carbon offsets are surer bets than others. “With methane capture,” Mr. Miller said, “once you capture that methane and you burn it — you’re done. It’s not in the atmosphere, it’s not going in the atmosphere. You’ve got a credit that’s achieved and you’ve avoided those emissions forever.”

Not flying at all would be better, Mr. Miller said, “but the reality is that there’s lots of folks that are going to do what they’re going to do.” For them, offsets are a lot better than nothing.

But some climate experts call offsets a cop-out.

“It’s like paying someone else to diet for you,” said Alice Larkin of the University of Manchester’s Tyndall Centre for Climate Change Research, who has not flown since 2008.

She said that while governments do need to take tough action, they derive their courage to do so from the conduct of citizens. “In my idea, people move first,” she said.

Offsets, she said, encourage a break-even mind-set when what’s needed to avert disaster is to slash fossil-fuel consumption immediately.

Her colleague Kevin Anderson says that when you buy a ticket you’re not buying just a seat on a plane. You’re telling the aviation industry to run more flights, build more jets, expand more airports.

“Offsetting, on all scales, weakens present-day drivers for change and reduces innovation towards a lower-carbon future,” Professor Anderson wrote in 2012. Lately, a grassroots anti-flying movement has been gathering momentum in Europe, particularly Scandinavia.

But the world still beckons

I’d like to be able to tell you that knowing what I’ve learned reporting this piece, I have sworn off long-distance travel.

But actually this summer, we’re going to Greece, with a stopover in Paris. Carbon footprint of plane tickets: 10.6 metric tons, enough to melt a small-apartment-sized piece of the Arctic.

We committed to going months ago, but I suspect we would make the same choice today. We’re going because last year we canceled vacation to come home and watch our dog die. We’re going because the New York City public high school application process was an ordeal.

Mostly we’re going because of things we saw last time we were there. The tiny beach at the base of the towering cliff. The playground where the little children played past midnight while their parents and grandparents sat chatting. Chubby partridges pecking around the ruined temple of Poseidon.

Before we go, we will buy enough offsets to capture the annual methane emanations of a dozen cows — that’s several times what is needed to balance out the carbon effects of our flights. May they help keep a polar bear afloat.

Andy Newman is a Metro reporter for The New York Times.

Follow NY Times Travel on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. Get weekly updates from our Travel Dispatch newsletter, with tips on traveling smarter, destination coverage and photos from all over the world.

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enzaime-blog · 7 years ago

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Slaying the Dragon of Pancreatic Cancer

New Story has been published on https://enzaime.com/slaying-dragon-pancreatic-cancer/

Slaying the Dragon of Pancreatic Cancer

Thomas Hoffman of Spearfish, South Dakota, was 56 years old, weighed 235, and had been diagnosed with prediabetes when he began to diet. As the pounds melted away, his wife became alarmed at his rapid weight loss. Then one morning, he awoke and his wife told him he was completely yellow — not from the sun streaming into the bedroom, but from jaundice. Thomas went to a local emergency room.

“The doctor comes in and gives us the news: ‘You have pancreatic cancer. You’ve got six months to live. Get your stuff together,’” Thomas says. “What do you do?”

What his doctors did was send Thomas to Mayo Clinic’s Rochester campus, where he met Mark Truty, M.D., a surgical oncologist, who is rewriting the protocol for treating stage III pancreatic cancer, with notable success. Dr. Truty started Thomas on chemotherapy right away, followed by radiation therapy and then an extensive surgery. After that came more chemo. Now, nearly three years after his diagnosis, Thomas remains cancer-free.

“I’ve gained my strength back where I can ride my Harley again,” Thomas says. “I’m never going to be 100 percent. But hey, I’ll live with whatever it takes. I just want to be as normal as I can. I can do my little hobbies. I can help my son out. I can see my grandkids. I help my wife in her business. I just do what I do.”

Thomas is one of more than 100 patients diagnosed with stage III pancreatic cancer who may not have been given a chance elsewhere but have been offered new treatment possibilities at Mayo Clinic, courtesy of a unique approach to this much-feared disease developed by Dr. Truty and his colleagues.

Changing the mentality

In 2016, about 53,000 patients in the United States were diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas, according to the National Cancer Institute. It ranks as about the 10th most common cancer, but the third most deadly. By 2020, it likely will surpass breast and colorectal cancer and be the second leading cause of cancer death in the U.S. Currently, only 7 percent of those diagnosed with pancreatic cancer live more than five years after diagnosis.

Dr. Truty has pioneered a radical new protocol for treatment of the disease, starting with treatment using new cancer drugs and radiation therapy, then followed by marathon surgeries that are rarely tried in conventional treatment.

“We’re trying to change the mentality,” Dr. Truty says. “We have new drugs, and now we’re trying to attach those new drugs to more aggressive operations that doctors have previously denied patients.”

“I want people to talk about it — ‘Yes, I have pancreas cancer. What are my options?’ They’re significantly better now than they were even five years ago.” — Dr. Mark Truty

Data on more than 100 of Dr. Truty’s patients show remarkable success, especially among those who, using conventional criteria, would have been told that surgery was not an option.

“People get that diagnosis, and they hide. They look on the Internet or they’re aware of the disease, and they don’t tell anyone, because there’s such a bad association with it,” Dr. Truty says. “I want people to talk about it — ‘Yes, I have pancreas cancer. What are my options?’ They’re significantly better now than they were even five years ago.”

Deadly spread

Pancreatic cancer is so often lethal because it spreads long before symptoms appear. And at this time, there’s no reliable way to predict who will get pancreatic cancer or who should be tested for it.

For decades, people with this disease have been offered the same treatment. In a small fraction of patients, a surgeon removed the tumor. Chemotherapy then followed surgery if the patient was able to recover from the operation well enough to tolerate it. If the tumor couldn’t be removed with surgery, the patient received chemotherapy alone.

But that approach fails in several ways. First, an operation alone for pancreatic cancer is of minimal benefit. All patients with pancreatic cancer need chemotherapy, and chemotherapy drugs have until recently been largely ineffective. Second, surgery does no good if the tumor has already spread. Or if cancer cells at the margin of the tumor remain behind and later spread.

“Basically, for the last 30 years we’ve had the same practice across the country — across the planet — and we’ve had no incremental improvement in outcome,” Dr. Truty says.

“Half of my practice is patients who have been deemed unresectable after being seen elsewhere. These are patients that have been told they have no hope.” —Dr. Mark Truty

Dr. Truty was particularly interested in the 35 percent of stage III pancreatic cancer patients who show no signs of metastasis but are not considered for surgery because the tumor involves too many veins, arteries and other tissues. They are usually given chemotherapy alone, and survival frequently is less than a year.

“I thought, boy, if we could even get half of them through our chemotherapy-radiation regimen and somehow treat them surgically, we’d be doubling the current number of patients that we could potentially treat,” Dr. Truty says.

He has a personal interest in trying to improve outcomes.

“My father had pancreas cancer,” he says. “He went through the traditional approach. He went to the operating room, had major complications, never got chemotherapy, and died in my arms six months later. I see that same thing occur 25 years later, over and over and over. We keep doing the same thing and hope for a different result.”

Because his father had pancreatic cancer, Dr. Truty himself has an elevated risk. “So I have a vested interest in this as well.”

New tactics

The first step in improving cancer treatment, Dr. Truty decided, was switching to more effective chemotherapy drugs. He settled primarily on two regimens: FOLFIRINOX and gemcitabine-nab-paclitaxel. They are multi-drug combinations shown in New England Journal of Medicine studies in 2011 and 2013 to be far more effective than older drugs.

Dr. Truty also decided to prescribe his patients chemotherapy right away, rather than as a follow-up to surgery. That way, the drugs would have a chance to shrink the tumor and hunt down cancer cells that had spread far away from the pancreas. Moreover, the four months or so of chemotherapy allowed his patients to get in better shape.

“We put them through physical therapy, meet with the nutritionist, the dietitians,” he says. “We get their symptoms under control, and then they go into the operation in significantly better shape to tolerate that procedure, both physically and psychologically.”

Dr. Truty follows chemotherapy with radiation therapy, primarily to kill cancer cells at the site of the operation. That allows him to perform much more aggressive operations than were previously possible. If there’s still no sign the cancer has spread, and the patient’s strength holds out, Dr. Truty performs surgery, including extensive procedures that few other doctors attempt.

“Half of my practice is patients who have been deemed unresectable after being seen elsewhere,” he says. “These are patients that have been told they have no hope. We’re now doing complex vascular resections, both of the veins that supply and drain the intestines and liver, as well tumors involving critical arteries.”

“People aren’t working independently. It’s a whole team approach. That’s how this institution originated.” — Dr. Mark Truty

Dr. Truty’s prep begins the night before surgery. He reviews the operation with the other surgeons who will be involved and looks at models printed from CT scans on 3D printers. The result is a nearly exact replica of the patient’s organs and tumor.

“It’s challenging because every tumor is in a different location. Each tumor involves different blood vessels,” he says. “There’s no textbook for how to do these operations.”

The surgeries are marathon sessions, lasting up to 14 hours. During the procedure, Dr. Truty sends tumor samples to a pathologist who quick-freezes the tissue, slices it and examines it for cancer — a technique developed at Mayo Clinic.

“They go through it slice by slice. They look into the microscope, and they tell us how much tumor is still alive,” Dr. Truty says. “The pathologist will stay till 2 in the morning with me. The greatest excitement for me is when the pathologist says there’s hardly any tumor left alive.”

After surgery, Dr. Truty finishes with an additional round of chemotherapy. Each component of the therapy has a specific purpose. The result is a program that appears to be providing a genuine opportunity to cure pancreatic cancer.

The goal: a cure

Nearly three-and-a-half years ago, Richard Hanson of Lakeville, Minnesota, felt what seemed like a gas bubble in his lower abdomen that wouldn’t go away. He visited his doctor, got a CT scan and MRI, and within a week received a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. His doctor called Mayo Clinic, and a day later Richard met with Dr. Truty.

Richard underwent the regimen of chemo, radiation and surgery. As he was about enter the operating room, Richard recalls Dr. Truty telling him, “Listen, I told you three to five years, but when I do surgery now, it’s for the cure.”

Dr. Truty removed part of Richard’s pancreas, 15 lymph nodes and his spleen. After that, Richard had a final round of chemo. Nearly three-and-a-half years after his diagnosis, he is showing no signs of recurrence. In fact, he has been golfing regularly for the last two years.

“I finally got out onto the golf course and started swinging a club, and that was really good therapy,” he says.

Richard is one of more than 100 patients Dr. Truty has treated over four years who make up a cohort for a study he plans to publish soon. All had stage III pancreatic cancer with large, entwined tumors that most surgeons would not consider trying to remove. All were treated with extensive chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, and more chemotherapy in certain cases.

With conventional treatment, the expected median survival for these individuals would be less than a year. But with this group, the median survival is over 50 months and counting. The majority of patients show no signs of cancer. Dr. Truty anticipates that perhaps 40 percent will be alive five years after treatment.

“They are potentially cured, which is a word that we seldom use with these patients,” he says.

The promise of research

Dr. Truty believes greater gains are possible. The first step is finding more effective chemotherapy drugs. To do that, Dr. Truty is looking for better scientific models that represent the actual patient.

In his role as a researcher, Dr. Truty is growing tumors from human pancreatic cancer tissues in lab mice with weakened immune systems. These tumors are derived from the very patients he operates on. Because the tumors are virtually indistinguishable from the tumors in the original patients, they provide ideal targets for drug testing. The mice also provide a way to identify protein biomarkers produced by the cancer tumors. The markers may someday be used to screen patients for cancer, as well as to determine which patients will response to specific chemotherapy regimens.

Growing tumors in mice can predict the recurrence of cancer in humans. Cancerous tissue taken from a particular patient — after chemo, radiation and surgery — is transplanted into a mouse to determine if the cancer cells were completely killed or if they are likely to return. If the cancer cells grow in the mouse, that’s an ominous sign.

“I don’t care what you’ve been told elsewhere. Come here and get another opinion. Because we have made significant improvements. We have data that people are living significantly longer.” — Dr. Mark Truty

But, says Dr. Truty, “This also gives us lead time to intervene when the tumor is still microscopic.”

Mayo Clinic is uniquely situated to support Dr. Truty’s brand of aggressive treatment and tumor research. First, many people diagnosed with pancreatic cancer come to Mayo Clinic. That provides an opportunity to develop and refine effective treatment. It also provides many variations of tumors for research. Second, Mayo Clinic’s structure allows easy collaboration between researchers, oncologists, surgeons and pathologists.

“People aren’t working independently,” Dr. Truty says. “It’s a whole team approach. That’s how this institution originated.”

In Dr. Truty’s office hangs a print of St. George slaying the dragon. This image is also Dr. Truty’s door card, which hangs on his patients’ hospital rooms after surgery. The writhing dragon represents cancer and looks a lot like a pancreas. Yet as much as cancer, Dr. Truty is also trying to slay pessimism. He hopes that someday soon, pancreatic cancer will be treated as a chronic disease and not a death sentence.

“I don’t care what you’ve been told elsewhere. Come here and get another opinion,” he says. “Because we have made significant improvements. We have data that people are living significantly longer.”

#cancer #chemotherapy #Dr. Mark Truty #gastroenterology #pancreatic cancer #radiation therapy #Cancer

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makingscipub · 8 years ago

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Making microbes public: A workshop report

This is a post by Carmen McLeod who participated in a workshop held at the University of Oxford on 3/4 May 2017 entitled Making Microbes Public. She wrote the original post for the blog of the Interdisciplinary Microbiome Project and it has been reposted here with permission. Carmen is a social anthropologist currently based in the Nottingham Synthetic Biology Research Centre (before that she was part of our Making Science Public programme!). She is moving to the University of Oxford in June 2017 to work on the Good Germs/Bad Germs project and the Oxford Interdisciplinary Microbiome Project (IMP). I am really looking forward to collaborating with the people involved in this project and visiting Carmen in Oxford!

***

Stories about the human microbiome are increasingly being reported in the media and many people – myself included – are fascinated by the relationship between humans and the microscopic ‘bugs’ that live on, in, and around us. I was part of a workshop last week, where a group of interdisciplinary scholars explored this relationship under the theme of ‘Making Microbes Public’.

The workshop began with an afternoon keynote presentation from microbiologist Anne Madden, who was fresh from delivering a TED talk in Vancouver on ‘bugs and bodies’. Anne gave us a frontline view of the work of scientists working with microbes and especially those who closely collaborate with industry partners. Anne describes herself as a ‘microbe wrangler’ and she focusses on how to harness the positive attributes of microbes and apply these in practical ways that will benefit humans.

The next day, we started with a session on ‘Microbes in Society’, and presentations from three anthropologists. Alex Nading began by introducing us to the bureaucratic routines that are part of the day-to-day biopolitics of food sanitation in Nicaragua. He provided a detailed and nuanced account of the interactions between bureaucrats and citizens that occurs during the food handling certification process. Food workers must undergo a blood test and provide a stool sample for analysis and this process is caught up in different layers of informal cultural practices and formal legal requirements. Alex’s narrative of the Nicaraguan public hygiene system reveals how social relations, understandings about microbes, and bureaucracy become intertwined.

Another anthropologist, Amber Benezra, took us on a fascinating journey which linked the work of scientists in North America to the daily life of poorer people living in Dhaka. This presentation revealed there is a problem when microbial science focusses on a ‘technological fix’ such as probiotics for malnutrition, when infrastructure problems such as open drains and other health sanitation issues also need to be addressed. It seems that by working closely with scientists, anthropologists can help resolve some of the disconnections between the laboratory and the realities of everyday life problems. But Amber also raised the question of who holds scientists to account especially when biological science aims to solve problems which are beyond the scope of ‘the biological’.

The third presentation, was from Eben Kirksey who introduced us to bacteria called wolbachia. This is an extremely common parasitic species that lives in insects. This species can reorganise the bodies of their hosts at the microbial level, including changing the sex of their hosts. Interestingly, the ubiquitous and sheer numbers of wolbachia in the world, challenges the notion of heteronormative sex. Eben left us to consider a potential future where polyamorous and promiscuous bacteria like wombachia could survive well beyond human life.

The second session of the day was called ‘Doing Microbiology with Citizens’. This began with Jamie Lorimer and Tim Hodgetts outlining their research on the Good Germs/Bad Germs project. They have been exploring the domestic microbiome through the development of a participatory approach to microbiology. This project involves households in Oxford, going on a ‘kitchen safari’, where participants and the researchers have worked together to design experiments on kitchen microbiomes. Findings from the research suggest it is challenging to move beyond thinking about microbes as pathogens. There has also been positive feedback from some participants who have felt empowered by their involvement in the research design and data collection.

Claire Waterton then provided an overview of her research on the impact of algae (cyanobacteria) blooms on a Lake District community. This interdisciplinary project is tracing the relationship between the microbial organisms who live in the lake and the human residents living alongside it. We heard about how it was difficult to assign blame for the cause of the algae blooms, due to the complex natural and human systems that are in the area. The project set up a collective which enabled different stakeholders�� viewpoints to be incorporated into a complex, and sometimes uncomfortable, debate about community life on the lake.

The next presentation, from social and cultural geographer Emma Roe, described her work engaging health professionals in hand hygiene practices. This research used experimental methods to map the movement of microbes in a hospital setting, including asking two nurses to put UV powder on their gloves and then carry out some routine activities in a ‘mock ward’. Under UV light, all the places that were touched could be mapped. And it turned out that in a 4 minute bed chance, there are over 200 moments of touch! Emma’s research team have produced a video which encourages health professionals to ‘keep washing, keep caring’.

The final presentation before lunch included a gastronomical experience, where we were able to taste a number of fermented yeast products. Josh Evans, who will be coming to Oxford in the fall to commence his doctoral studies, talked about the relationship we have with microbes through food. He explained how fermentation can be understood as a collaboration between humans and microbes. Josh has been working at the Nordic Food Lab in Copenhagen where some ‘convivial experiments’ relating to fermentation techniques are taking place between chefs and scientists (and microbes!) We were given two liquids to taste as well as a teaspoon of dark paste. Although some of us were a bit unsure about tasting these concoctions, they turned out to be rather interesting. (I especially liked the elder vinegar made from fermented elder berries).

After feeding ourselves (and our microbes) at lunch, we had an afternoon of presentations relating to aesthetic interactions between humans and microbes, and science and art, called ‘Microbial Sense-making’. Microbiologist Simon Park explained his interest in ‘microgeography’ which involves using a portable microscope to examine traces left behind of microbial and human interactions within urban environments. Simon has also worked with several artists, such as JoWOnder and Sarah Roberts, to produce microbial art. These artworks incorporate the activities of live bacteria into their creation.

Simon and artist Sarah Craske were then interviewed by Charlotte Sleigh to give us a window of understanding into the process behind producing a series of pieces called Metamorphoses. This intriguing project involved taking an antique (18thC) book and applying a range of scientific and artistic techniques to it. The interview revealed how exciting and truly interdisciplinary this type of project can be. It also revealed some anxieties during the creative process, such as deciding whether to move from non-destructive to destructive analysis of the book. The project also raised questions about the agency of bacteria, and also thinking about whether we can have an ‘ethical relationship’ with microbes.

The final presentation of the workshop was from Adam Bencard, who is a curator at the Copenhagen Medical Museum. Adam provided us with an overview of the preparations that went into a new exhibition called ‘Mind the Gut’ which considers the link between the gut microbiome and the mind. This exhibition has developed through an ‘experiment in co-curation’, involving a mix of artists and scientists, which involved a lengthy planning process over many months. The exhibition itself follows an untraditional format where different rooms are based around ‘action symbols’ or themes that reflect gut/brain relationships at different times. One of the aims of the exhibition is to display the body as ‘messy’ and complex, and to also demonstrate how science itself is an unfinished project. The exhibition will run for at least 3-4 years and is a must see for anyone travelling to Copenhagen!

Image: Bacteria (free download)

The post Making microbes public: A workshop report appeared first on Making Science Public.

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addictedtojohnandsherlock · 8 years ago

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Chapter 40

(The next few days pass as normally as they can. John, Sherlock, and Molly continue taking shifts with Greg. Mycroft even takes two or three. Seems the two older men have more in common than one would think and the times they spend together are some of the most comforting for Greg. The practice ends, however, after about a week when Greg informs his four friends that he is going on sabbatical for an undetermined period of time. He assures John and Sherlock that Sally, who will hold down the fort while he is gone, is under orders to bring them tricky cases and pretty much any murder. In much the same way, Mycroft informs the duo that he has arranged for someone to keep an eye on Greg during his time away.

A few days later, John and Sherlock have an unexpected visitor...)

S: John?

J: Hm?

S: What’s the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

(John looks up from the newspaper in his hands to see Sherlock bent over the dining table, looking intently into a microscope. The table is littered with slides, culture dishes, and his laptop. John furrows his brow and sips his tea.)

J: Well, that depends.

S: Depends? On what?

J: D’you mean an African or a European swallow?

(Sherlock straightens and looks at John with interest.)

S: Does it matter?

J: Wha... of course it matters.

S: (shrugging) A swallow’s a swallow.

J: (pursing his lips, glancing away and then back) No. They are different, Sherlock. (The tall man crosses his arms. John puts down his paper and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.) Look, it’s a simple question of weight ratios, yeah? If the average adult European swallow weighs...

(There is a rapping at the door.)

J: Someone’s knocking.

S: (eyes fixed) Yes, ignore it. This is far more interesting.

(John simply rises from his chair and, giving Sherlock a scolding look, walks into the hall to answer the door. Sherlock shrugs again and returns to his microscope.)

J: Sherlock, look who’s come to pay us a visit.

S: (without looking up) Inspector Donovan, charmed, I’m sure.

SD: Holmes.

J: Tea?

SD: Thanks, but no.

J: Well then, what can we do for you? Please, have a seat.

SD: I’ll stand, thanks.

S: (straightening up again and giving her a patented look of annoyance) For god sake, what do you want? Because if you are here just to...

SD: (with a sharp voice) Now, look, if you’re going to... (She stops herself and lets out a slow breath. She looks from one man to the other and continues in a calmer register.) Whether we like it or not, we need to work together until the DI returns to duty.

S: (petulantly) Oh, I don’t know. You could just not bring us cases.

J: (with a warning look) Sherlock.

SD: Yeah, right, and accept my reprimand as soon as he’s back. No thanks, fre... (She stops short as John bristles.) Holmes. My time with the DI has taught me a lot and one of those things is that your help can be invaluable. Now, I have a case. Will you work with me?

(Sherlock looks at her steadily, no doubt deducing all she has to tell. To John’s great surprise, his expression softens minutely and he clears his throat.)

S: I must admit you have become more useful over the years. I was not surprised when Lestrade told me of your promotion.

(Sally glances at John, who gives her an “as good as it’ll get” look. She shifts her eyes back to Sherlock.)

SD: Good. If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain on the way.

S: Fine, but not in a police car. We’ll follow in a cab.

SD: (rolling her eyes) Fine.

* * * * *

(Sherlock and John follow as Sally leads them through a steel and glass office building. Various uniforms stand around at guard in the main floor lobby. Sally nods to a few of them as they pass on their way to the private elevator to the penthouse office. She starts talking as soon as the doors close.)

SD: You’ve heard of Alan Piper of Crimsas Industries?

J: The American entrepreneur being investigated for smuggling, murder, various other crimes? (she nods) The supposed mastermind behind the White Mafia in London?

S: Not just supposed, John. He is the mastermind. (glancing at Sally) Or was. We’re going to his office.

(Sally and John’s eyebrows raise in unison.)

SD: We are. We’ve worked long hours to prove he’s our man. Months of work. We know it’s him and this morning, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

S: And then he was murdered.

SD: We got the call around eight. His secretary got in and noticed something was off right away. She found him in his office. Bullet through the head, close range.

S: When?

SD: (sighing as the doors open) We don’t know.

(She walks into the rather large and impressively decorated office. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he and John follow.)

(One wall in the office is nothing but glass with a view of the city - The Thames, The Eye, Big Ben and Parliament. The opposite wall is mahogany shelving covered with books, statuettes, and abstract pieces of art. The wood is only broken up by an enormous flat screen with luxurious leather couches positioned before it. Every piece of furniture is mahogany with a wide, Chippendale desk as the culmination on the far wall. A tall and thick wooden door lies on either side of it.

John glances here and there as the walk toward the desk, passed officers dusting for prints and collecting evidence. He can’t help but note that there is no body to be found.)

S: (irritably) You have examined the body in at least some rudimentary way. How can you not have a time of death?

SD: He told his secretary to go home around 6pm, so...

J: Sometime between six yesterday and eight this morning? Surely you can be more precise.

(Sally just gives them a look as she opens the large door to the left of the desk. A rush of cold air hits both men in the face. Sally motions them in and they enter slowly.)

J: A freezer?

(They see a man sitting against the wall across from where they are standing. Sherlock surges forward to examine him.)

S: (mumbling) Cold obscures the time of death.

(He sets about his work, pulling on a pair of latex gloves Sally offered as he walked by walk her.)

J: Why the hell does he have a walk-in freezer in his office?

SD: (nonchalantly) Secretary said he liked his ice cream.

(John looks from one wall to another, all covered with shelves packed full of ice cream in gallon, half gallon, and pint containers.)

J: Jesus.

S: John, what do you make of time of death?

(The compact doctor walks the twelve feet to the opposite end of the freezer and squats next to the body. He looks at the lips and then asks Sally for some gloves. He picks up each hand separately and studies the fingers. Once he is finished, John moves down to the right foot and removes the shoe and sock.)

J: (rising) Based on the frostbite, I’d say no less than twelve hours. That would make it about eleven last night at the latest, so sometime between six and eleven.

SD: (nodding slightly) That jives with what we’ve found thus far.

S: Mmm. (steepling his fingers under his chin) The secretary’s still here?

SD: Down a couple of floors in the conference room.

(They follow her to the conference room and question the secretary, a Miss Jane Marsh, but the interview yields nothing useful. As one uniform escorts her from the room, another enters and speaks quietly to Sally.)

SD: Show her in. (She looks to Sherlock and John as the uniform leaves.) The wife is here.

(The uniform enters with an impeccably dressed older woman. Sally steps forward, offering her hand, which the woman accepts with a strong grip.)

SD: Mrs. Piper?

SP: Sylvia Piper, yes.

SD: Inspector Sally Donovan. I’m in charge of your husband’s case.

SP: (with an approving nod) So nice to meet you, Inspector.

SD: You’re a difficult woman to find, Mrs. Piper.

SP: Yes, I must apologize. I was at a dress fitting and had my mobile on vibrate.

SD: (walking her to the conference table) Dress fitting?

SP: My daughter is getting married later this month.

SD: Oh, well, congratulations. (Indicating the detective and his doctor as she and Sylvia Piper approach the table.) Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They’re assisting with the case.

(They shake the woman’s hand in turn while she gives them both a scathing look. All four have a seat around one end of the long, rectangular table.)

SD: You know your husband was murdered in his office last night?

SP: Your officers told me he’d been shot, yes.

SD: You don’t seem too broken up about it.

SP: (smiling minutely) Forgive me, Inspector. I was raised in a high-ranking family in which the presentation of outward emotion was strongly discouraged. I’m afraid it has become something I can turn off and on like a switch.

(As Sherlock observes the woman, he notices slight reddening of the eyes, freshly applied eye makeup, and rouge to what were once tear-stained cheeks.)

SD: Mrs. Piper, I don’t mean to insinuate, but I need to know where you were last night, starting at six.

SP: (coolly) Of course. I was in a meeting to discuss the upcoming release of a new fashion line until 6:30 or so. Around seven was dinner with friends at Gorgio’s. It was, oh, sometime between 10:30 and 11 before I got home. Then I had a glass of wine, packed for a bit, took a sleeping pill, and went to bed.

J: Packed? Are you going somewhere?

S: You were going to run. (All eyes settle on him as he watches Sylvia Piper.) You and your husband. Were the attempts on his life getting too close? Or were the authorities?

(Sally and John’s eyes float back to Piper’s. She ignores them in favor of continuing her icy glare at Sherlock that would have easily crushed anyone else.)

SP: I’m sure you are all aware of the rumors. My husband was the head of the White Mafia and the...authorities, as Mr. Holmes calls them, were on the cusp of proving it. My husband was afraid of nothing. (raising a brow at Sherlock) Except prison. Mongolia was to be our new home.

J: Mongolia?

S: No extradition treaties with the United States or the UK.

SP: Precisely. Alan had connections everywhere. Our children were staying here. (She straightens her spine proudly.) Our son plans to make everything with the name Piper legitimate. He has never shared his father’s affinity for crime.

S: Dismantling an entire crime organization... Difficult task. And dangerous.

SP: Not dismantle, Mr. Holmes, disassociate from it. He’s already begun the work and he will succeed. I guarantee it.

S: How did you feel about giving up your own business, Mrs. Piper? You have built quite a fashion empire. Stepping down because of your husband’s indiscretions cannot have sat well. (with a condescending smile) And, not being involved, you are free to do as you like.

SP: (shrugging) I plan to leave it in my daughter’s capable hands.

SD: Plan to. You’re still stepping down?

SP: (turning her head to look at Sally) Yes. I’m ready to enjoy myself for a change. I deserve a break, Inspector. (She glances around the table.) Do you have any more questions?

SD: Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?

SP: (nearly chuckling) He led the White Mafia. Who wasn’t gunning for him, Inspector?

SD: Yes, I know, but I was hoping you might help narrow the list.

S: (experimentally) Do you think your son had any interest in seeing him dead?

(Piper’s demeanor changes on a dime. Clenching her fists on the arm rests and sneering at the detective. John shifts in his chair, physically feeling her hostility towards his lover and readying to protect him if the need arises.)

SP: My son is beyond suspicion. Alan gave everything to him willingly. He may not have liked the decision to legitimize, but he respected that it was Joel’s decision to make. (She and Sherlock stare at one another, piercing through one another.) Do not interfere with my children, Mr. Holmes. You do not need another enemy.

(Sally stands suddenly.)

SD: I think we have all we need, Mrs. Piper. I’ll contact you with any developments. I assume you’ll be staying in London now?

(Rising and smiling warmly at Sally, she shakes her hand.)

SP: I will, yes. I wouldn’t miss my daughter’s wedding for the world.

(John and Sherlock rise. John walks around the table and offers his hand to Piper, which she accepts readily.)

J: It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Piper. My condolences.

SP: Thank you, Doctor. I must say you are far better mannered than your colleague. (smiling) Bedside manner?

J: (with a chuckle) I try to balance things out.

(Something catches John’s eye just as he and Piper release from their handshake.)

J: That’s a nasty looking burn. Would you like me to look at it?

(Piper glances down at her wrist and runs her fingers over the wound.)

SP: Oh, no thank you, Doctor. I put some salve on it last night. It will be fine.

SD: (gesturing toward the door) After you, Mrs. Piper. I’ll have an officer see you out of the building.

SP: Of course. Thank you. (nodding to John) Doctor Watson. (glaring at Sherlock as she and Sally begin to head for the door) Mr. Holmes.

S: I’d keep Mrs. Piper here a while longer, Donovan. Unless you want to release Alan Piper’s killer.

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Author’s note: Obviously, I borrowed a little from a certain Britcom at the chapter’s beginning. The case is also based on/inspired by an old Murder, She Wrote episode.

#Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #john watson

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