#hair transplant wash

[hairtransplant-stories]

Remove Scabs After Hair Transplant Surgery

After a hair transplant procedure, a person can expect to see small, crusty scabs on the scalp within 24 to 48 hours. These scabs may be white or yellowish in color and cover the areas where the hair follicles were transplanted. The skin around the surgical site will be red and inflamed, with small, dark scabs covering the area where the hair follicles were implanted. Learn how to safely remove scabs after hair transplant for better healing.

These scabs may also appear on the donor area where the hair was taken. Hair transplant scabs appear as small, dark spots scattered over the forehead and scalp. Some are raised and crunchy, while others are flat and dry.

How Do You Cope With the Scabs?

There can potentially be many issues with scabs after a hair transplant.

Many itching problems can occur after hair transplant. As the scabies wound needs to heal, it can be very itchy. However, it’s important not to scratch it because you can remove the grafts (or even create recurring scabs in the same place on your scalp).

You also want to avoid infection as it is not expected after this procedure. If you have an infection, this can have harmful effects on the graft. The risk is low — one study found infection and excessive bleeding in only 1.3% of patients.

It is important to follow the care instructions after hair transplant surgery. You will be able to use a specific shampoo after a few days to gently wash your hair. If the itching does not go away after 14 days, you should consider talking to a doctor or your surgeon. However, you may not shampoo vigorously enough and may be asked to try this first.

Is It Important to Remove Transplant Scabs?

It’s important to remove transplant scabs if they don’t fall off on their own. Here’s why it’s crucial:

Reduce Itchiness: If you leave the scabs on, you might feel itchy and want to scratch them. But scratching can harm the hair growth from the transplant. So, it’s best to remove the scabs to avoid this.

Prevent Scarring: Keeping scabs on your scalp can make you more likely to scratch or pick at them. This can lead to scarring or damage to the newly transplanted hair grafts. Removing the scabs helps prevent this.

Remember, scabs will naturally fall off at different times for different people. If you’re worried about them or they’re bothering you, it’s a good idea to seek advice. It’s essential to take care of your scalp after a transplant for the best results!

How Important is Hair Transplant Aftercare?

Hair transplant aftercare is crucial for the success of your procedure. Dealing with scabs after a hair transplant is common, but taking care of them properly is essential for the best results.

Scab Care

While scabs are a normal part of the healing process, they shouldn’t impede the growth of your newly transplanted hair. It’s important to gently wash your scalp to remove the scabs or seek guidance from your doctor if they are persistent.

Seek Professional Help

If you’re experiencing challenges with your hair transplant aftercare, consider seeking assistance from a reputable clinic like Hairfree Hairgrow Clinic. The experienced doctors and advanced hair transplant techniques can help you achieve a fuller head of hair and address any hair loss concerns effectively.

[pathologicalreid]

heart to heart | s.r.

in which hotchner!reader is set to have heart surgery, and Spencer can't help but be concerned for her

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x hotchner!reader category: angst content warnings: fem!reader, chronically ill!reader, spencer is anxious, inadvertently made jack hotchner a glass child, hospitals, medications, surgery, heart transplant, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, mostly medically accurate, rejected proposals, spencer's pov, mentions death and dying and wills, howl's moving castle word count: 2.51k a/n: this might be my favorite margotober post of the week. i don't know. it's very introspective. twas a request!

Ironically, his heart was racing. Spencer made his way through the cardiac unit with nothing but his imagination to guide him. He had just left the building a few hours ago when you insisted that he sleep in a real bed, and now he was back.

Your dad hadn’t told him what was going on, he just told him to get to the hospital. It was an hour’s drive from his place in D.C. to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore—you could already be dead by now.

He didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to you. Not a real, proper goodbye. He told you he’d come back in the morning, which felt ridiculous now.

The sterile fluorescence of the intensive care unit only added to his irritability as he washed his hands upon entry, the CVICU had been your home for the past two months, and in a way, it had become Spencer’s as well. He couldn’t be shocked, you’d been in heart failure for nearly two years, and there was no way he could ignore the worried glances between your doctors and nurses.

You slept more than you were awake most days, Spencer and your dad took turns staying behind on cases, and you usually didn’t have the energy to hold a conversation.

That’s why he’s so surprised to see you sitting up in bed with a cap over your hair, talking to your cardiologist. You looked drained, dark circles gave your eyes a haunted look, but Spencer’s chest filled with relief at the fact that you were still very much alive. “Hey,” Spencer said, looking around the room for even the slightest clue as to what was going on.

Sluggishly, your head turned to look at him, “Hey,” you said back, a weak smile on your face.

He wanted to tell you to lie down, sitting up was obviously draining you of what little energy you had, but more than that, he wanted you to tell him what was going on—he couldn’t guess, he couldn’t bear to be wrong. “What is it? What happened?” His questions were frantic, your father had never called him in the middle of the night like this.

“I’m getting a heart, Spence,” you told him, your voice was gentle.

So, the sky wasn’t falling. The feeling of impending doom that he’s had for the last two years was potentially going to be lifted away, “When?” He asked, stepping further into the room and setting his bag in the chair, crossing his arms as he joined the conversation between you and your doctor.

You took a deep breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth, “Tonight.”

He needed to sit down.

“We’re just waiting on some final pre-op labs,” your doctor confirmed, nodding at the both of you. “It’s a good match,” he assured Spencer, “I’ll let you two talk.”

As soon as you were alone, Spencer guided you down to the pillows. Too weak to resist, you leaned back until your shoulders hit the pillows, “Where’s Hotch?”

You hummed in response, “Jack freaked out when we told him I was getting a new heart, dad’s with him until our aunt gets here.”

“He’s worried about you,” he observed, sometimes it was hard to put the age difference between you and your brother into perspective, but at times like this, he remembered just how young Jack really was.

Clearing your throat, you shook your head once, “He’s scared that my new heart won’t love him the same.”

Spencer nodded in understanding, “So, what did you tell him?”

You smiled softly, “I told him it was like in Howl’s Moving Castle.” Pausing for a moment to catch your breath, Spencer took your hand in his, “They’re not taking my love away, I’ll be able to love him even more with a new heart.”

“So, now he thinks your heart is on fire,” Spencer pointed out, tucking a stray hair underneath your cap.

Sighing, you shut your eyes for a moment, “Sometimes it feels like it.”

His chest tightened in sympathy while watching you try to catch your breath, vaguely aware that this was the last night that tonight would be like this, “Are you scared?” It seemed like a foolish question to ask, knowing that you’d had more procedures than most people your age, but this was a big one. This was the big one.

You nodded gently, there were so many things to be scared of, surgical complications, transplant rejection, but you looked at Spencer with pity in your eyes. You were pitying him, “My will is in the top drawer of my nightstand,” you started.

“No,” Spencer interjected, denial creeping up on him.

You sighed, it took everything in you to hold back your tears, “Spence, we have to talk about this.”

He shook his head, “No, we don’t. You’re going to be fine.”

“I need you to be rational,” you pleaded. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, you were begging him to think rationally as refusal crept over him. “You know the statistics. In fact, you probably know them better than me,” you said pointedly.

He sniffled, “You have good odds,” he insisted. “Even if you didn’t have good chances, you’ve always been good at beating the odds,” he reminded you. The two of you had said goodbye before, a nasty battle with bacterial endocarditis had put you in a coma, but you had come out of it, sending you even higher on the UNOS transplant list.

Issues with your kidneys had knocked you out of the running for some hearts, so your only hope was a direct donation. It seemed like you were getting your wish. “My heart won’t be as big,” you murmured, not having the energy to debate Spencer on probability.

“No,” he affirmed, “It’ll be a bit smaller.” Your heart muscle was thick as a result of your cardiomyopathy, and your pacemaker wasn’t able to keep up with your deteriorating health. A transplant became your only hope.

You sighed contentedly, “You always made me feel so lucky.”

“Stop trying to say goodbye,” he told you, tilting his head to the side.

Nodding, he could tell that you understood him, “You’ll never get rid of me, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

Spencer shook his head dismissively, “No dying, sweet girl. We’ve got to take care of your new heart.”

A peaceful silence blanketed the two of you, sitting and waiting for someone to tell him it was time to go. He didn’t want to go. He’d go with you to the operating room if they’d let him.

He said goodbye to you in the hallway, watching you get wheeled away before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking to the waiting room, stopping in his tracks at the sight before him.

A majority of the BAU had gathered in the waiting room, taking up all of the chairs on the right-hand side, settling in for the long haul. “Hey,” JJ was the first one to speak, giving Spencer a quick embrace before stepping back, “How was she?”

“She’s good,” he answered absentmindedly, still looking around the room, a few familiar faces nowhere to be found. “She was tired,” and a bit morbid toward the end.

Jack was curled up on one of the loveseats, a blanket tucked over him. Spencer continued looking around, confusion settling in until Emily spoke up, “He’s in the chapel. Rossi and Morgan are with him.”

Hotch was in the chapel, likely lighting a candle for Haley while Rossi and Morgan said a prayer for you. Oddly enough, it brought Spencer comfort to know that his friends were pulling for you in the ways they knew how, especially when he didn’t believe in it himself.

Spencer looked at the bracelet that you had placed in his hands, it was one of your most prized possessions, and should something happen to you, he was under strict instructions to hand it over to your father.

You were still a teenager when you were first diagnosed, and you were scared of having a big scar from open heart surgery, so your mom went out and bought you a charm bracelet. For each procedure after, you’d gotten a new charm for the bracelet with Hotch continuing the tradition after your mother had passed away.

There was no doubt in his mind that there would be a special charm for this surgery, Hotch usually had Penelope and JJ help him pick it out.

Penelope walked in, handing Spencer a cup of coffee. The average heart transplant takes six hours, but you have so much scar tissue that he wouldn’t be surprised if it took longer than that.

You were two years younger than him, and he found himself enamored with you from the moment you met. Your disease had forced you to leave college early, but your dad had set you up with a job in records at Quantico, both to give you something to do and to keep you nearby.

Until you just kept getting sicker, you were the best person they had working in records, but eventually, you had to leave that too.

The rest of the team caught on to Spencer’s crush, but you found yourself avoiding him like the plague. You turned him down eight times before you finally acquiesced, come to find out the only reason you said yes is because Hotch pushed you in that direction. Of all people, your father had just wanted you to continue living your life—he didn’t want you to become a hermit.

You would be one now though, with all of the immunosuppressants you’d be on post-transplant, you’d be spending a lot of time at home.

Rejection became a trend in your relationship when Spencer proposed to you last year. He’d done it properly, asking your father and Jack for permission, but you’d said no, rattling off some excuse about how he shouldn’t shackle himself to someone with one foot in the grave.

That night, after you had all but broken up with him, you’d collapsed and ended up in the hospital. The two of you made a promise to each other. If you ever got a new heart, you’d finally say yes.

The promise had been your idea, claiming that karma had caused you to collapse in your apartment because you turned him down. Spencer didn’t believe in karma and fate the way you did, but he did believe in you. That was enough for him.

Hotch came back up first, setting a comforting hand on Spencer’s shoulder before he walked back to where Jack was sleeping, your Aunt Jessica was back there with the two of them.

They hit the two-hour mark with no update, and Spencer convinced himself that no news had to be good news.

Derek and Rossi had made their way up to the waiting room, pulling out a deck of cards from the hospital gift shop and dealing around the table. Spencer just watched, he’d played more than enough card games in this hospital before, and he’d likely be playing many more in the future.

You’d have to stay in the hospital post-transplant for approximately a month, but it was some comfort to Spencer that instead of your health declining, you would begin feeling better. It hurt to hope, but he found himself excited at the prospect of you regaining your strength.

By the time five hours had passed, JJ and Derek had fallen asleep in their chairs, but everyone had committed themselves to waiting for you.

Spencer wanted to take you home, settle you into your shared apartment together, and let you heal, but you weren’t going to come home with him. When your month in the hospital was up, you’d go home with your dad and Jack. Your apartment didn’t have an elevator, and he worried about you having to use the stairs all the time. Your dad’s apartment had an elevator, so it became the obvious choice.

You told him you didn’t even remember what home looked like anymore. He couldn’t wait to bring you home.

He’d started to worry after six hours had passed, but just before hour seven hit, your cardiothoracic surgeon came out to the waiting room.

Careful not to wake Jack, Hotch stood up from his chair, approaching the surgeon with a wariness that Spencer had never seen from him. He waved Spencer over, silently inviting him to join the conversation.

“Everything went well, she’ll be in the CVICU still for a few days before she’s strong enough to be transferred,” the doctor explained, garnering the attention of some of the other people in the room. “Visiting hours don’t start for a few hours, but if one of you wants to stay with her until she wakes up, then I’d be willing to arrange an exception.”

You’d be waking up in a bright room with a tube in your throat, and having someone that you knew with you when you woke up would hopefully ease some of your fears. As soon as Spencer was about to offer to keep an eye on Jack so Hotch could sit with you, Hotch interrupted his train of thought, “You should go.”

Spencer frowned, glancing over your father, “Are you sure?”

Nodding, Hotch looked back at Jack, still sleeping on the loveseat. “I need to stay with him, and she wouldn’t want him to see her first thing,” he explained.

If Jack’s fear from earlier was any kind of forewarning, Hotch probably had a point when it came to wanting to stay with his youngest. Even still, Spencer protested, “I can stay with Jack.”

There were a number of people in the room who could stay with Jack, but Hotch clearly wanted to stay, “Don’t keep my daughter waiting, Reid.”

He did not have to be told twice, turning around and following the doctor to your room, scrubbing his hands before approaching the door. Faltering slightly at the doorway, Spencer found himself staring at you. There were so many wires and tubes connected to you that he’d have to take his time doing inventory of them all, there was a tube breathing for you, but your heart—your heart was beating steady.

“You can take a seat here,” a nurse said, gesturing to a chair for him to use. He sat down obediently, setting his bag on the ground next to him.

You wouldn’t come out from under the anesthesia for hours yet, but Spencer found comfort in knowing that he’d be here for you when you woke up. He could let you squeeze your hand when you felt pain, and he’d be there to wipe your tears away. At this point, he’d do anything you asked of him.

For now, all he had to do was wait. He clasped your hand in both of his and sat at your bedside, a ring box burning a hole in his messenger bag—waiting for you to be ready for it.

[wttcsms]

saying let's get married;

domestic and sweet moments during the first year of newly-wed life (f!reader) <3

KUROO — "my wife" this and "my wife" that to the point where all his friends and coworkers are groaning and saying we get it, man! you're married now! his dorky nonfiction books taking up all the space on the nightstand. helping him tame his bed hair when he wakes up and is trying to get ready for work. created a powerpoint presentation where he told you he was going to give you the most epic promotion of a lifetime (the powerpoint was themed to mimic an HR presentation describing new employee benefits and perks, along with what the new position would consist of; the final slide asked "do you accept the position of being tetsurou kuroo's wife? limited time bonus offer includes a diamond ring!")

OSAMU — doesn't know how to fold your clothes properly (it's not weaponized incompetence, he just doesn't understand why your tops have these many strings and components to them). tries out all his new recipes with you as his taste-testing guinea pigs. during your wedding reception, atsumu asked you who was cuter: him or osamu. on your off days from your job, you go to onigiri miya and help him close down the shop. blowing bubbles at him from the soap that foams up when you're washing the dishes. him knowing where you're most ticklish and using it against you every time he asks you for a minor favor.

BOKUTO — asks you about kid names before he even pops the question. wants you to quiz him on your family tree because he so badly wants to impress them when he's meeting them (he then asks for a quiz on your extended family once the wedding date is scheduled). gets excited when he sees those corny tiktoks that claim "these initials are soulmates" and he sees yours and his initials paired together; he'll send you those tiktoks and go "babe, look!!! i told u we were meant to be!!" brings you up any time he can, whether it's in regular conversation with friends, small talk with a cashier, a meet n greet with a fan, or a post-game interview. loves to do push-ups with you on his back.

OIKAWA — makes a vision board at the beginning of the year, except the main image is a horribly photoshopped picture of your head pasted on some stock photo of a bride. he was showing you something on his phone, and the notification from his jeweler announcing that your engagement ring was ready for pick up popped up and he nearly dropped his phone while trying to hurriedly swipe away the notification whilst shielding his screen from you. gets all pouty and wants to be the little spoon; will also start asking you "baaaabe, would you still love me if i was a worm?" saw you in the stands booing his opposing team, and whistled, exclaiming "that's my girl!" panics when he sees strands of his hair on the bathroom floor; proceeds to ask you if you'll still be with him even if he becomes bald. then asks if you'll pay for his hair transplant (as a joke; you never use your card when you're with him).

[realcube]

mornings with tsukishima are always interesting.

he gets weekends off, but you still have to work on saturday. meaning that on sunday mornings, he is able to get up early and rises with the sun, meanwhile you want nothing more than a nice, long sleep in.

although he would never admit it, tsukishima loves spending his day with you and gets a bit lonely and bored having to spend sunday mornings without you. he has no issue with you wanting to sleep in, in fact you deserve it more than anyone, but now it's 11AM. that is just ludicrousness! if you sleep any longer, the whole day together will be virtually gone.

that's what he tells himself as he makes his way to your shared bedroom and draws the curtains wide open, so the harsh sunlight pierces your eyes, causing you groan. instinctually you flip yourself over so you are facing away from the window.

he smirks at this and tugs at your shoulder, "rise and shine, buttercup." normally that would be sweet thing to hear as you wake up, but tsukishima says it in the most mocking tone possible.

frowning, you jerk away from his touch, "no.."

he chuckles at your complaint and prods your cheek, "yes. it's almost 12PM." he lies, looking at the clock on your bedside table that clearly says 11.13AM, "most functioning members of society have already woke up, got dressed, had breakfast and gone to work. and you're still in bed."

"i was a functioning member of society yesterday. let me be a potato today." you whimper, dearly clutching the bedsheets and using them to sheild your eyes from the bright rays of sunlight. so cute, he thinks to himself. it pained him to disturb you like this; a part of him wanted to let you stay in bed all snug and cozy, and sleep to your heart's content.

but the bigger part of him missed you greatly, and also loved to tease and annoy you. "no. get up." he yanked the blanket off you, to which you gasped as the cold air washed over your exposed figure. you pout, without the energy to try and wrestle the dvuet back, you instead curl up in an attempt to preserve body heat. "fuck off, kei!" you yell.

"to where? you're in my house." techincally 'our' house, but he called it his own for dramatic effect.

"to the cosmetics clinic for a facelift." you spat, body trembling under the nippy air, but eyelids still heavy as you try to drift back off to sleep.

"yeah. maybe while i'm there i can ask about getting you an attitude transplant." he rolls his eyes, throwing the covers back over you, to which you sigh from relief. he couldn't stand seeing you so vulnerable and shivering, even if you were just playing it up.

angry and defeated, he rushes over to the door while saying, "this is what i get for wanting to spend the morning with you."

"kei.." you whine, outstretching your arm from underneath the covers, doing a grabbing motion at him, "come here."

he exhaled out his nose and walked up to your side of the bed, crossing his arms as he stood next to you, gazing down at your sleepy face. he tried to exhibit his best scowl but seeing your half-lidded eyes and cheeks flushed with morning warmth forced a small smile to creep over his lips. "what?"

you pat the space beside you on the bed, and whisper, "cuddle."

your heavy eyes slowly fell closed, as your cheek was pressed against the silk pillowcase and strands of your hair fell into your face. he didn't move or say a word, until he gently tucked the stray stands behind your ear, subtly caressing your cheek with his thumb as he did so.

how'd he get so lucky, he wonders, getting to sleep beside the prettiest person on earth every single night. perhaps that is something he takes for granted, sometimes.

but not today. he walks over to the other side of the bed and climbs on, shuffling over so he right behind you, then he slips an arm around your waist.

with his face pressed against the back of your hair, you feel him smile against your skin when you move your hand to interlock fingers with his.

you'd apologise for telling him to fuck off, and he would say he's sorry for trying to wake you up, but neither of you really had to. with the he holds you close in his firm hold, and the way you melt into his touch, it's needless to say you love each other.

[acciotaitlynn]

How about a nurse having a crush on zayne bc his relationship with MC wasnt well known yet and then she found out by busting zayne n mc in heat moment in his office haha

Get well soon!

Hiiii ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ Sorry this took so long! I hope you're doing well! and that you like it ♡♡♡

» mild sexual content, 18+, vsex, oral꒰fem!receiving꒱

shorty; 944 wc

ـــــــــﮩ٨ـ Anya should be paying attention to the heart transplant before her, but she can’t focus on anything except the man performing it. 

Zanye’s bright, golden-green eyes assess the matter before him with his usual stoic expression, movements calm and confident as he asks her for a vascular clamp. 

Luckily, she can respond; she can barely breathe watching him work.

Her mind fills with visions of those slender, experienced fingers tracing her skin, and she trembles slightly as she passes the clamp.

Unsurprisingly, Doctor Zayne occupies the fantasies of many women and men who work alongside him.

He doesn’t notice the longing eyes that follow him like a persistent shadow. But you do.

It’s endearing, really; he has no idea how wonderful he is. 

He must have some idea that their friendliness holds another note, though, after receiving more gift baskets, cakes, and homemade meals than you can count, complete with flirty handwritten notes.

If he does notice, he never mentions it. Justs accepts their gifts with genuine gratitude before sharing them with you.ᵕ̈  

Anya’a attraction ꒰*cough* obsession꒱ is growing unbearable.

The first thing her mind latches onto upon waking and the last before bed, Zayne even lingers in between shifts when her fingers find their place deep inside her; often so worked up from his presence, she’s unable to resist seeking release. 

She’s imagining it, but she thinks the brushes of his fingers are starting to linger, and a look of desire is blooming in his eyes. 

Zayne knows her name, just as he knows most hospital staff. He’s kind and cordial to her, just as with anyone else. But that's it.

This lady has no idea that he's lost in thoughts of you if there’s anything like that in his gaze. 

Take right now, for instance. 

Zayne is washing his hands with a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, mind swimming with a never-ending replay of your bare, blissed-out form beneath him last night. 

Thoughts of things he wants to try tonight play next as he smiles gently before clearing his throat and shaking himself out of it, failing miserably with a quiet groan, seeing his cock deep inside you seconds later. 

Anya follows him down the half, chirping about how well the surgery went and how incredible Zayne was.    “As always!” 

Zayne is asking when to expect you, and upon receiving your reply of “waiting in your office,” relief courses through him, a pleased smile gracing his features as Anya misinterprets it as a response to her praises. 

She also 100% misreads the desire coursing through him at what he plans to do to you when he gets there. 

He decides he can’t wait until tonight to have you, and he’s practically rushing away with nothing but an apologetic smile while not feeling sorry at all.

How can he when his lips meet yours moments later, and he feels genuinely awake for the first time today? 

Anya is hiding in the bathroom, hand traveling under her scrubs when she has the worst idea of all ideas. 

She checks herself in the mirror, pinching her cheeks and pepping herself up. 

She’s been receiving “signals” for weeks, just too scared to move.

But she’s tired of waiting. If she keeps it up, another of Zayne’s admirers will beat her to it.

Her steps are resolute as she makes her way to his office. With a light knock on the door, her pounding heart stops as she peeks inside. 

Your legs are spread open on his desk, and Anya can see every trace his tongue makes on your clit. 

Every sound of pleasure leaving you both as your hands run tenderly through the raven hair she’s been dying to touch is a stab to the gut. 

Her breath comes quick and quiet as she watches through the crack. 

She recognizes you as Zayne's longtime friend who occasionally visits him at the hospital. She didn’t realize that it was nearly daily; she just didn’t witness it. 

Zayne doesn’t divulge his personal affairs, so your relationship is quiet. His fan club isn’t aware of you—yet.

But best believe they will be soon. 

Zayne’s heated murmur of, “This is unlike me,” before freeing his cock, playing messily before pushing into your warmth, has her thighs pressing together. 

He’s so different with you… So open. So raw and needy. 

He literally whimpers as his hips start moving, and he admits, “You haunted me mercilessly through the entire procedure. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have had to care for myself.” 

You giggle at his words and adorable flustered expression, pulling him in for a lingering kiss.

Your gazes hold far more than a newly blossoming relationship. 

A fierce wave of nausea hits her as she closes the door quietly. 

The resolute plan to tell everyone every little detail forms. But she can’t even think about getting started until her fingers fuck the image of Zayne’s cock filling you up from her mind. 

From now on, no one mistakes Zayne’s daydreamy gazes for anything else, knowing what’s on his mind. 

After a while, he notices the knowing look people give you when you take lunch in the cafeteria or walk along the gardens. And though he likes to keep such matters private, he enjoys people knowing he’s yours now. 

He’s relieved that the suggestive smiles and gifts ease up and that people know where his heart truly lies. 

He pulls you close on the bench, kissing your head with a content smile, unaware of the daggers aiming with deadly precision from a few floors above. 

♡ ya'll better watch out for that one. (¬_¬) like I'm picturing her with our voodoo doll

[sometimes-men-need-help-too]

Woman ‘dehumanised’ partner and wouldn’t let him go to the toilet

A domineering girlfriend subjected her lover to a campaign of belittlement and humiliation over his weight, hair, sex drive and his breath.

Student nurse Sarah Rigby, 41, forced NHS project manager Gareth Jones to eat salad, wear a hat and swallow tooth paste and mouth wash in the wrongful belief he was fat, bald and had bad breath.

During their abusive six month relationship, Rigby – who has six children from other partners – taunted 40-year old Mr Jones over his sexual performance and dismissed him as ‘the money source’.

She was quoted as saying: ‘If I’m not pregnant this month, I am going to find someone else to have sex with and get pregnant. I need to get pregnant this month. If I don’t, I’ll dump you.’

In other instances, Mr Jones, who moved in with Rigby was thrown out of her house in Winsford, Cheshire whilst dressed only in his underwear, was refused his own door key, and would not be allowed alone in the property whenever she went out.

She wouldn’t let Mr Jones use the toilet in her home either – only at the pub or library.

The victim would be ‘frisked’ by Rigby before leaving the house and was condemned to pound the streets or do his job from their local library, pub or supermarket cafe until she came home.

Mr Jones was also forced to forfeit his £4,000 a month wage, allow her to check his phone on demand, and he even resorted to giving his own mother a ‘duress code’ to indicate when it was safe for them to speak without Rigby listening in.

In one row he was hit in face by a glass candle holder leaving him with a scar across his nose.

When Rigby’s children became the subject of family court proceedings involving her ex-partner, she made Mr Jones pay for a £3,000 expert report and file a false witness statement supporting her plea to get custody.

During one tirade, Rigby told him: ‘I may not control social services, but I can control you and I am loving it.’

At Chester Crown Court, Mr Jones told how he was driven to the brink of suicide by the abuse as Rigby, who admitted coercive behaviour, was given 20 months jail suspended for two years and was banned from contacting the victim for five years under the terms of a restraining order.

He said he was now so haunted by his experiences he kept minimal possessions and would have a ‘grab bag’ with him containing a tooth brush, and washing products and a towel at all times.

He also accused Rigby of showing ‘contempt’ for him by turning up to court appearances flaunting a £400 Marc Jacobs shoulder bag he was ordered to buy her.

Mr Jones told the hearing: ‘After the abuse started, the effect of being constantly belittled and abused made me nervous, feel degraded and worthless.. My image of myself became distorted and I had low self esteem – I still feel like this to a degree.

‘When she used to say things like I had halitosis and forced me to drink half a bottle of Listerine or eat toothpaste, I started to believe that I had things wrong with me.

‘I was forced to wear a hat every time we went out together because she didn’t want to be seen with someone who was receding and kept on that she wanted me to have a hair transplant. l also felt degraded as Sarah used to try and intimidate me and ridicule my manhood regularly.

‘I had regular bruising on my body from when Sarah used to kick, bite, scratch or claw me. I was nervous to consult my GP for fear she would find out and beat me further. As Sarah would not allow me to eat – l was called a “fat, smelly slob” – l became paranoid about food.

‘If she kicked me out and I was able to stay with my parents, I would be afraid to eat with them in case she summonsed me back and would be able to smell food on my breath. She regularly kicked me out, making sure I had no belongings with me and as a result I started hiding a toothbrush, shower gel and a small towel in my work briefcase.’

Mr Jones also said his relationships with friends and family became strained as Rigby isolated him from everyone.

He added: ‘After leaving, I became extremely stressed. I was petrified that she would take reprisals and arrange for someone to come to my parents’ house to damage property or even that she would arrange to have me beaten up or worse.

‘I no longer feel open to having a relationship as I’m still afraid that I’ll be abused again. I do not feel l can trust another woman at present. When I am out in public and I see someone with the same hairstyle and colour of Sarah’s, I become scared. I also feel nervous about telling people what has happened to me due to the stigma behind males not being seen as victims of domestic abuse.’

The court heard the couple met in the summer of 2021 through the Plenty of Fish dating website.

Mr Jones contacted the police in early March 2022 when he went to work out of the house. Police later urged Rigby to return the victim’s possessions including his work computer and sentimental items, but she repeatedly denied she had anything to return.

In interview she falsely claimed Jones had been violent, coercive, controlling and manipulative towards her.

In mitigation defence counsel Miss Jade Tufail said Rigby had been diagnosed with PTSD due to an undisclosed ‘trauma’ she suffered in her childhood.

But the judge Mr Recorder Eric Lamb told Rigby: ‘Your conduct has led to a substantial detrimental effect upon Mr Jones, who even today when speaking of the impact of the relationship upon him was plainly close to tears and in great distress when speaking on where the relationship had left him.

‘There were multiple methods of controlling or coercive behaviour intended to humiliate and degrade him.’

[smilesession]

extremely candid, tell-all thoughts about sacrifice and familial codependency, potentially emotional incest, mentions of abuse

I have watched sacrifice become the root of all suffering, but sacrifice has become cemented as a vicious cycle with no clear path of escape as its own result.

How can I dare to place judgment or blame on my mother? A woman who gave up so much of herself in service to her disabled husband and disabled child. I watched her, when I was growing up, working up to 80 hours a week, sometimes I would stay up all night with her at the office and feel bewildered and exhilarated from exhaustion. For me it was an adventure, for her it was obligation and I can hardly imagine how she felt. Its evidence of her incredible fortitude. While she worked this hard, she was also solely responsible for taking care of the home, taking care of a significantly autistic daughter, and taking care of a negligent, drug-addicted, manipulative husband. She also hit me almost every day.

When my parents met, my father was in his early 30s (to my mother's mid-20s) and he was dying of late-stage congestive heart failure. He had 6 months to live. He lived in absolute squalor, working part-time doing something or another to do with printing signs, in spite of having a business degree, while my mom was a homeowner and worked full time in a finance position despite not having a college education. On their first meeting, my mom gave him advice on how to better maintain his long hair that he grew out to his waist but didn't wash or take care of. She was not particularly interested in him until she found out he was dying. My mom attached herself to the idea of future-widow, secretly, finding a promise of eternal validation in martyrdom. They married after 6 months and she played the role of dutiful wife; she moved him into her home, she navigated the medical system for him, she and her own mother kept him fed and comfortable, she paid for his increasingly experimental and niche treatments, and she sat at his bedside in the Mayo Clinic, both loving him and privately waiting for his death.

He didn't die. I was conceived shortly after the heart transplant. She wanted to leave him when he went back to using drugs, feeling that it was an act of disrespect to her, to her family, and to the young man who was his organ donor. She decided that leaving wasn't an option, due to the extent he depended on her. He also refused, by threats and by stubbornness, to let her leave.

The next best thing to being a widow is to be a martyr. She conceded to letting him never go back to work, and she began working longer and longer hours and striving harder. His job was to take care of me and the home. For him, this was a free ticket to eternal adolescence; for my entire childhood if he wasn't verbally abusing me he was locked behind a door, in his private room, getting high and watching either the news or Adult Swim or old concert videos on TV. He resented my natural neediness as a young child, and said to me, quantifiably more than he said anything else, "the next time you need something, I won't be there for you", and he stuck to his word. In my memory, I can't remember a single time he reacted to my needing something with anything more than complete disdain, by waving me off with his hand. He would sleep for most of the day and sometimes forget to pick me up from school. He would not sacrifice one moment of comfort for anything in the world - he is pathologically incapable of it. My mom, on top of working as much as she did, solely took care of keeping the home clean, attending to my needs, and attending to him. Again, she also hit me almost every day and openly despised me until I was an adult.

They never divorced, even though I begged her to. She would always say to me, "he wouldn't be able to survive on his own". He doesn't require around-the-clock medical care; what she meant is that he doesn't possess basic life skills. He never learned how to use the internet, does not manage his doctor's appointments, has never cleaned anything, and has never submitted a job application for himself. My mom handles all of this. When he did finally get a job, part-time at a casino, my mom delivered him lunch every day.

Once when I was really little, maybe a 2nd grader, I wrote a set of comics while at school, "My Mom is Busy!" and "My Dad is Lazy!" where I drew her going to work and him laying in bed. I wasn't trying to be mean, I was trying to depict my life. When he saw them, he insisted that I'd done it to humiliate him by lying.

For my entire life, I've watched my mom run from herself by dissolving into service to others. She dissolved her own will in service of him, by overworking, and taking on charitable volunteering on top of it. The older I get I simultaneously gain more respect for this, and more grief. I think that amount of sacrifice is a type of escape, and a type of bargaining, and a type of groveling. I think its a cycle in which she wants to do anything possible to try to prove the slightest bit of worth in herself, because she doesn't feel she has it inherently.

My entire childhood she talked horribly about herself and called herself fat and ugly even though she's always been objectively beautiful. We often dieted together and I liked it because it seemed like it made her happy in some way. I think I carry every part of her pathology, replicated into me.

Self-martyrdom is trying to outrun yourself, to displace pieces of yourself into other people, trying to force others to being your mirror, all the while making it less and less likely. It's implicitly a humiliating insult. It's implicitly dehumanizing to everyone involved. I can never dislike my mother, because you can't help but love and admire someone who faces adversity by giving more and more. I have eternal, bottomless love for her that's only made stronger by the contrast with my father, who responded to adversity by making it everyone else's problem, by being entitled and ungrateful, for feeling like heaven and earth were owed to him for absolutely nothing.

As my mother's daughter I become a martyr inherently by loving her. I want to be that perfect mirror, I want her to see the good in herself in me, instead of seeing "proof" of her perceived insufficiency. Sacrifice inherently makes you look to others to know who you are. I know firsthand that when you sacrifice yourself for a weaponized-incompetent partner, you see yourself as a subhuman, you see that nothing you can do is good enough. And it goes on permanently and you become more twisted and monstrous in your own eyes the less and less you're "appreciated". It's about the self, but it feels like overly simplistic pop-psych to call it narcissism proper. Focus on Self is displaced entirely on caretaking the Other. In this kind of sacrifice, you erase yourself and become a sacrificial object. My mom isn't a narcissist, she's completely invisible to herself. My dad is blatantly a narcissist. On top of all of this, he degrades her for her tastes and preferences and requires everything be done in accordance to his own. She is not able to watch tv shows, listen to music, etc without his open judgment, mockery, and condemnation.

But is it not narcissistic to think you can save anyone from their own decisions? Making yourself a sacrificial (thereby holy, superior, not-human) object in service is still believing you're capable of the impossible. She would have been lucky if he died. I wish he could have died even though it means I wouldn't have been born. I would sacrifice myself for her.

I struggle to break the cycle because it would be betraying her.

[shion-yu]

A Safe Place (part 1) [Day 28]

Cliff shows up at Elliot's doorstep in the middle of the night soaked to the bone. A Cliff/Elliot sickfic heavy on the angst, also ft. Theo. For @monthofsick Day 28: Chaotic body temperature. I know, not me joining in on a writing challenge right at the end but it fit so well. 3,065 words, original work, TWs for homophobia, emeto (neither strong warnings, but the sick will get much sicker in p2).

It had been a long summer. Cliff had spent it working at Theo's law firm again, except this time he wasn't an unpaid intern but a legal secretary. It was a temporary job that they had offered him when his summer break had aligned perfectly with one of the secretary's maternity leaves and Cliff had jumped at the chance to work in such a great environment again. He was happy to see many familiar faces from last year, and to his surprise they were happy to see him too. Although he was mainly working with one of the other partners this time - not Theo - he saw the lawyer nearly every day and was relieved to learn both Theo and his partner, Al, were in good health. Al had gotten a double lung transplant that last Fall, Theo told Cliff. He and his new lungs were doing great. 

"What about you?" Theo asked Cliff eagerly. "How did your first year at NYU go?" 

Cliff smiled, automatically thinking of Elliot. "It was great," he said. "My classes were interesting but not too hard."

"You look happier," Theo said, surprising Cliff with how true the observation was. "Did something cause that?" 

"Yeah," Cliff said thoughtfully. "Someone did."

Being apart from Elliot that summer was difficult. He missed hugging and kissing Elliot every single day. He wanted to talk to him on the phone for hours and hours just to hear his voice and fall asleep with his fingers in Elliot’s curls. But when he was living at home, Cliff knew he had to be the perfect, straight laced child he'd been raised as. In other words, he couldn't be himself. He wore business attire to work every day, but the soft sweaters and cute hair clips he'd amassed over the past year stayed packed away in his college stuff for next semester. He didn't think his parents would appreciate those particular fashion choices he'd been making.

It's not like his parents made it hard to hide things. They hardly ever asked questions, and if they did it was about grades or tuition. Cliff knew he was incredibly lucky that his parents paid his entire tuition, room and board as if it were a given. Elliot's parents weren't able to help much financially, meaning his boyfriend had to take out loans and work part time while in school. This summer he was working nonstop in his dad's auto mechanic shop, saving up money. Often when Cliff video called Elliot these days he was covered in sweat, streaks of black motor oil on his face. It seemed wrong to complain about his parents when it was thanks to them that he was only working this summer because he wanted to, not because he had to. And yet, silently, Cliff  thought maybe he'd be happier if he was in Elliot's shoes - without much money but with a place he could really call home. It was a selfish, privileged thought and Cliff refused to voice it, but it creeped in each time he heard Elliot's mom call in the background, "Boys, wash up, it's time for dinner!" 

Working was a blessing to Cliff, because if he'd been at home he would've been in that big, lonely house all by himself most of the summer. Being at the law firm was not only a distraction, but comfortable. Despite wearing a suit, Cliff actually felt less tense there than at his parents' house. He stayed long hours, longer than he needed to, because he preferred the sound of printers and fax machines over his parents screaming at each other downstairs. When he was in high school it seemed easier to ignore. Maybe it was because he'd had a break for so many months that returning to it seemed worse than before. Or maybe it was because Elliot never screamed at him like that, and Cliff had started to realize that this wasn't how things had to be.

Around the beginning of August, Cliff caught a cold that didn't seem to go away. At first it was just the sniffles, and then it was a cough that grew progressively deeper with each week that passed. The other employees started asking him if he was alright, and embarrassingly Theo caught him staring blankly at the water fountain one day for far too long. Cliff was so out of it that he didn't even notice Theo calling his name until the older man waved his hand in Cliff's face.

"Oh," Cliff said, rubbing his eyes to try and make his blurry vision clear up. "Sorry, I was just... Daydreaming." 

"You look pale," Theo said, and before Cliff could step back Theo had placed a hand on Cliff's forehead while ignoring Cliff's protest that he was fine. "Hmm, you feel a little feverish. Why don't you go home, kid?" 

"I'm really fine," Cliff said, wildly embarrassed. "It's just a cold."

Theo looked him up and down, clearly assessing how pushy he should be. "At least go take a nap on the couch in my office, you look exhausted."

Usually, Cliff would say no immediately. He wouldn't even consider showing weakness at the place he was supposed to be making a vitally good impression at for his career. But he felt weak and a little dizzy and found himself saying in a small voice, "...If you're sure." 

Theo was sure. He brought Cliff to his office and shut the blinds so there wasn't much light coming through the many glass windows. He even tossed a blanket to the eighteen-year-old. "I sleep here all the time," he reassured Cliff. "You can't work if you're too tired to think. Don't worry about it." 

Cliff felt guilty for taking over Theo's office, but Theo headed out for a two hour meeting and Cliff was left alone on the couch. He had half a mind to leave and get back to work at his desk now that there was no one stopping him, but just sitting there made him realize how fatigued his whole body felt. A little nap wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. A really short one. He lay down and fell asleep so quickly that he didn't even remember closing his eyes. 

He woke up to Theo gently rubbing his shoulder. Cliff was confused, then his eyes widened in embarrassment and he sat up. Shit, had it been two hours already? Wait, that clock didn't say 5pm did it? - surely he hadn't slept for four hours?! 

"Woah, it's okay Cliff," Theo said quickly, "You seemed really tired so I let you sleep. You should go home now, everybody's leaving for the day." 

"I'm so sorry," Cliff gushed, face bright red. "I didn't mean to sleep so long. You don't have to pay me for today - please don't, actually." 

"Settle down, it's really fine," Theo said in a calm voice that made Cliff remember to take a deep breath like Elliot had taught him to calm down. "We all have off days. You don't feel so warm now, so that's good. Stay home tomorrow though." 

"That's totally not necessary," Cliff said, his confident tone supplemented by a very unconvincing round of dry coughs. He waved off the tissues Theo tried to hand him. "Really, I'm fine. I've just been having some asthma since I got sick last winter, but my boy-" Cliff stopped himself, realizing he was about to out himself. "My, um, my roommate got me an inhaler so I just have to use it that's all." 

"Your boyfriend," Theo supplied gently. "It's okay to say it, Cliff. You know I have Al." 

Cliff wanted to deny the comment outright. He wanted to laugh and say Elliot really was just a friend. But Theo had such an earnest expression, and he was the only successful adult man Cliff knew of who was gay. "I know, but, it's really not, not for me," Cliff found himself saying, voice wavering. "I-I have to go. Sorry I slept in your office so long," he said as he hurried out, ignoring Theo's all too kind voice calling after him. Cliff knew in a certain world that it was okay, but it wasn't his world. Not the world where he still relied on his parents. 

Despite saying he'd be back the next day, Cliff did stay home that Friday. His fever was worse and he had chills that left him huddled under the covers. His mom didn't notice he didn't leave the house and he didn't tell her. She didn't need to know, just like she didn't need to know about Elliot. She had never supported Cliff in anything at all, so why... Why did Cliff feel such a strong urge to tell her? 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the last day of Cliff's work at the law firm, Theo told Cliff if he ever needed a reference, he'd get a glowing one from him. And if he ever needed to talk about anything, anything at all, Cliff could call him too. Cliff knew what he was getting at, and he didn't want to face it. But Theo was such a calm person that it was disarming, and Cliff asked without meaning to, "Is it worth it?" 

Theo nodded. He knew what Cliff meant without specification. "Yes, it's worth it," Theo said. "Even if there's nay-sayers and you lose people, you gain much more. It's always worth it to be exactly who you are, Cliff."

Cliff went back to his parents house with those words echoing in his brain. Theo, a successful and respected lawyer, said it was worth it. He had a career and a person who loved him by his side. Was that something Cliff could have, too? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be honest, just once?

"Mom," Cliff said over dinner, pushing his phone over to her with a picture of him and Elliot together on the screen. "I want to tell you something. This is my-"

"Don't do this to me Cliff," his mother interrupted before he could finish. "You've already caused enough trouble. He's not - just because you have a thing with another guy doesn't mean anything."

"It's not a thing mom. I love him," Cliff found himself saying angrily. And oh, why did he say that? The first time he finally said he loved Elliot and it was directed at his mom in spite. It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

"Cliff, you don't love him. You're too old to be playing this game. Now I'll forget we had this conversation. And don't tell your father."

Cliff saw red. He'd never been so angry in his life. He snatched his phone back and grabbed his wallet on the shelf by the door and went outside. She didn't follow him. 

It was pouring rain. Cliff shivered, wishing he'd had the forethought to grab a coat too, but he wasn't going to ruin his dramatic exit by going back inside. Of course his mother hadn't approved. Cliff hadn't expected her to. But he'd expected her to get angry - not to dismiss him all together like he was just a kid with a big imagination. Cliff knew then that she would never really think of him as his own person, and he couldn't do anything to change that. It broke his heart. 

Cliff walked for a very long time. He didn't quite know where he was going, only that he wanted to get as far away from that house as possible. He found himself at a park by the water where he beat up a couple of tree trunks that definitely won based on his bleeding knuckles afterwards. The rain didn't let up, and Cliff found himself getting progressively colder. His cough from earlier that month had never gone away and his breath began to catch on what felt like a dry patch in his throat. Cliff realized then that he'd left his inhaler at the house, too. The coughing grew more desperate until he pitched forward and vomited onto the grass he was standing on. He groaned and leaned against the nearest tree he could find, the contents of his stomach mixing with rushing rain water and swept away quickly. He continued to gag for several minutes until the coughing abated ever so slightly. He felt weak and pathetic. And also very, very alone.

He needed to get somewhere dry. Somewhere warm and safe. Cliff only had one place like that in mind. He boarded train after train, shivering in the corner like a wet dog as he made his way all the way to Long Island. He knew Elliot's address because he'd been sending Elliot mail all summer, little love notes and presents that made Cliff think of him. He never included a return address though, because he hadn't wanted his parents to see. Thankfully his phone had enough battery to direct him to Elliot's doorstep despite the wet four hour commute, and he found himself at the front door of a modest suburban home at 3:30 in the morning. 

The journey had felt like a daze. Cliff had never done something so erratic, so unplanned. He raised his hand to knock before remembering what time it was, and Elliot had parents and sister who probably wouldn't appreciate him knocking. He called Elliot instead, his phone barely hanging on at 5%. He thought to himself that it seemed unlikely that Elliot would answer at this time of night. But after several rings, by which time Cliff had resigned himself to waiting for dawn under a tree, a very sleepy voice picked up. 

"Cliff?"

"Elliot? Sorry to bother you," Cliff said, as if this entire situation weren't incredibly bizarre. "But I'm at your door."

There was a long pause, presumably while Elliot tried to figure out exactly what Cliff meant by 'at your door'. "Like right now? Now?" 

"Yeah," Cliff said. "Do you think I could sleep over?" 

"I'm coming down," Elliot said, and there was the rustling of sheets and then the thump of footsteps as Elliot ran downstairs. The front door opened and Elliot hung up. Cliff looked at him and thought he was the most beautiful person in the entire world. "Holy crap, you're really here," Elliot breathed. "God Cliff, what happened? No, come in first, you're soaked..."

Elliot pulled Cliff inside and helped Cliff take off his soaked trainers. There were traces of vomit on the front of his shirt and his fingers were still bloody. Elliot brought him to the bathroom, motioning for Cliff to stay quiet with one finger to his lips. He grabbed a towel from under the sink and wrapped it around the shorter boy, who was shivering violently from the marked change in temperature. In the bright light of the kitchen, suddenly his journey seemed a lot less valiant and a lot more stupid. "Sit," Elliot said, sitting Cliff on the toilet. "You're freezing... Can you take your temperature?”

Elliot handed Cliff a thermometer, which Cliff obediently used. After a few seconds it beeped and read ‘96.9.’ Elliot frowned. “Hot shower, okay?" Despite being woken up in the middle of the night, Elliot seemed fully alert. Cliff nodded and peeled off his wet and dirty clothes. He coughed roughly as he did so, a slight wheeze audible on the end of the exhale. Elliot patted his back with a concerned expression. "Do you have your inhaler?" Cliff shook his head no. Elliot grimaced and ran the hot water for Cliff. "You warm up. I'm gonna find you some clothes and I think there's an old inhaler somewhere in the medicine cabinet..."

Elliot moved to leave, but Cliff grabbed his arm before he could go. "Don't wake your family up," Cliff said hoarsely. "I'm okay." 

Elliot looked at Cliff in concern and sighed. "Cliff, you just showed up soaking wet in the middle of the night. You live all the way in Newark. I'm gonna be a little concerned. But right now you need to warm up. We can talk later."

"Okay," Cliff said. He took the hottest shower of his life then, and it felt glorious. After a few minutes he started to feel dizzy though and sat on the floor of the tub. Elliot came back and peeked around the curtain, frowning when he saw Cliff sitting there. 

"Are you awake?" Elliot asked worriedly. 

"Hmm," Cliff hummed in confirmation. "Just feels nice, and I got sleepy." 

"Finish up in there," Elliot said. "I've got sweats and a hot water bottle and bed waiting for you." 

Cliff obediently finished showering and sat on the edge of the tub as Elliot dried him off thoroughly with two big, fluffy towels. Cliff closed his eyes and remembered how many times he'd imagined being together again over the summer. "I missed you so much," Cliff said, resting his face on Elliot's abdomen. 

Elliot stilled and crouched in front of Cliff. "I missed you too," he said softly. "Now arms up." Elliot helped Cliff get into the warmest sweats that he owned and then led Cliff upstairs to his bedroom. The house was quiet, and Cliff hoped that meant he hadn't disturbed anyone else's sleep. He glanced around curiously at Elliot's childhood bedroom, which was decorated in a way that seemed so very Elliot. He smiled at the teddy bear sitting on the dresser that Cliff had bought Elliot at the baseball game they'd been to. It brought back good memories, nothing like the ones that had been swirling around in Cliff's head for the past several rainy hours. 

"Bed," Elliot whispered, tucking Cliff under the duvet and several extra blankets. Cliff was still shivering, but less so now. His temperature had blown from low numbers to high and he gazed at Elliot with glassy, feverish eyes. Elliot handed Cliff a very expired albuterol inhaler, which Cliff took a few puffs of. Despite the date stamped on the canister, it still eased the tightness in Cliff's chest a little. Elliot then climbed in next to him and wrapped his arms around Cliff. The feeling and smell of being enveloped by Elliot after all this time brought Cliff to tears and he hid his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I should have called.”

"It’s okay,” Elliot said. “Sleep, Cliff. We can talk tomorrow.” Knowing he was finally in the only place he truly felt safe, Cliff slept.

[Cont. part 2]

[sevcasejay1chicago]

Relax- Kelly Severide and Matt Casey

Summary: You’ve been pretty sick, and now Kelly is hurt. Matt and your friends at Med will take care of you.

Warning: SPOILERS (I can’t remember which season honestly), vomiting, sickness, hints/talks about drugs/addictions

~~~~~~~~~~~

You haven’t been able to relax since Kelly jumped out of the third story window and landed on the ground, completely unconscious and unresponsive. Matt had to pull you back so that Gabbi and Brett could work on him and get him in the ambo. Gabbi had to take over because you were too distraught, completely overwhelmed and terrified. Shaking too much to be able to properly tend to Kelly, no matter how hard you tried to steady your hands.

Days later, you are sat in one of the recliners in Kelly’s hospital room, waiting for him to wake up from the pain meds Clarke gave him after his transplant. You had the button for the pain meds, knowing good and well that Kelly would be afraid to use it after his fight to sobriety. Matt left you in charge of keeping up with Kelly, getting you the same shifts off as Kelly in order to be by his side, but also so that you could focus on school for a bit.

Everything has been stressing you out. School has been extra challenging with you also dealing with a sickness and still working at the firehouse as the PIC. Ironically, your own body was waging war within you and you didn’t actually catch this sickness from anyone else, but Natalie and Will have been treating you for it. The hardest part was waking up in the middle of the night to take the medication and the vomiting from the side effects.

The night before the accident, you accidentally woke Kelly and Matt up when you went running for the bathroom.

Kelly turned over to flip on the light when he was startled awake by your feet running across the floor. He shook Matt, who had been sleeping deeply and completely missed your mad dash for the toilet. “Matt. Wake up.” Kelly sighed, shoving Matt in one final attempt to wake him up before Kelly made his way to you. “Y/N’s getting sick again. Get up.” Kelly rolled his eyes and jogged after you when he heard Matt groan, but shift to get up.

Once Kelly got to you, you were already crouched in front of the toilet, one hand holding your hair back and the other helping to steady yourself. You were gasping and coughing, having already puked once, but feeling more coming on, but it felt stuck. Kelly ran the rest of the way to you, taking your hair from you. “Shhh sweetheart. It’s alright.” Kelly cooed, rubbing your back.

Matt came jogging in seconds later, coming to sit on the edge of the tub, leaning back to grab one of the wash cloths and wetting it under the faucet before placing it on your neck. “Awww baby.” Matt sighed, standing to help lower you to the ground. “Kneel down sweetheart. It’s alright. We gotcha.” Matt cooed, dropping himself back onto the edge of the tub and taking your hand in his.

You had allowed to Matt guide you down. You were exhausted. They were exhausted. You had been fighting this feeling for about an hour, but you just couldn’t hold it anymore. Kelly thumped your back, seeing as all the gasping and coughing you were doing wasn’t helping your situation.

“Breathe hunny.” Kelly whispered, patting your back again and releasing your hair to Matt so that he could reach around and rub your sternum.

“Your panicking sweetheart. You gotta relax.” Matt murmured, knowing that you probably knew this somewhere in the back of your mind, but you were so worked up that you couldn’t make yourself realize this.

Kelly felt you relaxing slightly under his hand, your chest muscles not as tense. Then you finally got it out, like your throat was clenched so tight that the vomit was blocked from coming up.

This round was harsh, like your body was urgent to reject it. Tears spilled down your face and you shook hard against Kelly, which was the only thing keeping you from falling forward. Your face was all but purple, strain causing redness and blue from lack of oxygen. It was like it was all pushed out of your body as you heaved. The vomit was practically continuous and it was starting to worry the boys.

“It’s okay. It’s alright hunny.” Matt whispered, urgent to try and get you to relax, but also trying to stay calm himself.

“We gotcha. It’s alright. It’s okay baby.” Kelly said, repeating himself three times before you finally stopped.

You leaned back, gasping and clawing at your chest. Kelly caught your body as you fell into him, clutching you to his chest. Matt caught your hands, holding them in his own and rubbing his thumbs over the backs. Kelly secured the washcloth that fell into him and wiped the vomit splatter off of your face.

“Slow down sweetheart.” Matt said firmly, catching your eyes. You locked onto him like he was the only thing that could save you. You sobbed loudly, releasing all the pent up anxiety in your cries, pressing yourself further into Kelly’s hold.

“Follow me sweetheart.” Kelly whispered in your hair, making his breathing slower but loud in order for you to be able to follow him. You leaned your head back, sobbing as your face looked up to the ceiling but you attempted to rest and relax into Kelly’s shoulder.

Matt let go of one of your hands to reach over and flush the toilet. He figured the smell wouldn’t be helping you relax and get through the worst of what you were currently feeling. He left the toilet lid up, though he was certain you were done, but he didn’t want to be wrong and you make a mess that would cause you to get even more upset.

Once you were calmed down, Matt got your tooth brush ready and then left to get you some clean clothes, seeing as you had gotten some vomit splattered onto your shirt. When Matt returned, Kelly was pressed up against you, rubbing your arms as you struggled to brush your teeth with how sensitive your gag reflex was at the moment.

“You are so strong. I love you.” Kelly whispered, kissing the spot behind your ear. You both hadn’t noticed Matt’s presence yet. You all loved each other so deeply.

Matt came up and kissed the other side, simply whispering a “me too” in your ear.

Then, after you were redressed and confident that you were okay enough to go back to sleep, you followed Matt back to bed with Kelly right behind you and settled in for some more sleep.

While Kelly had been hospitalized, Will and Nat had been floating in and out to check on you. Every now and then, they would hook you up to a saline drip and get some Zofran in you when the nausea was too much. They just billed the CFD insurance under Kelly’s name, given that he didn’t really need the Zofran, but it was plausible given the situation. You had refused to check in, so they just worked it out for you.

As it just so happened, that was your current situation since you didn’t want to disturb Kelly by vomiting in his room or making a mad dash for the bathroom and him hearing anyways. You were getting sleepy from the Zofran and placed your laptop to the side, seeing as you almost dropped it when you were nodding off.

Just as you put your school stuff away and pulled out the chair to make a makeshift bed for yourself, Matt walked in, trying to be quiet as to not wake Kelly, but loud enough to not startle you. “Hey sweetheart. Natalie called.” Matt whispered, coming to kneel next to you, brushing the hair back from your face.

“She didn’t have to do that.” You whispered back, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah she did.” Matt nodded, leaning over you to kiss your forehead. “Gotta be here for you both. I couldn’t live with myself if you were suffering to take care of Kelly and not taking care of yourself. Herrman has me covered and Boden practically pushed me out the door anyways.” Matt explained, slightly smiling at the end.

Just as you were about to reply, Kelly groaned behind Matt, shifting and grunting in pain. Matt was quick to stand, putting a hand out for you to stay where you were before running a hand over Kelly’s hair.

“Shhhhh.” Matt whispered, catching Kelly’s hand in one of his own and continuing to run a hand through the older man’s hair. “Relax Kels. We are right here. It’s alright. Just breathe.” Matt went on to coach him. Kelly fell into a fitful sleep, face pinched in pain, but slowly relaxing. Matt found you to be the culprit, having pushed the button since you couldn’t watch him be in pain anymore, but knowing Kelly was nowhere near maxed out.

“I couldn’t watch that.” You whispered, hanging your head down as you felt guilt overcome you. You and Matt knew that Kelly wouldn’t want the meds, but they gave him the stuff that wasn’t an opioid so he shouldn’t have a problem coming off of them. You knew that, but Kelly hadn’t come to terms with that before going through the procedure, so you had to make the decision for him.

Matt kissed Kelly quickly before kneeling next to you. “Hey.” Matt whispered, pulling your face up to meet his. Matt wiped at the tears coming down your face, brushing them off with the pad of his thumb. “It’s alright. He needed it and you know it’s okay for him to have it.” Matt comforted, hating to see you crying.

You nodded, closing your eyes and leaning into Matt’s touch. “Will you lay with me?” You whispered. “He won’t wake up for a while.” You said, knowing that would be one of Matt’s reservations.

“Of course sweetheart.” Matt whispered, picking you up and gingerly climbing in before laying you on top of him, careful of the tubes that were attached to you.

An hour later, Will and Nat came up with Clarke to check on you and Kelly. They found Kelly fast asleep, his hand clutched in yours. You were laid on top of Matt, all three of you were fast asleep. Nat gently unhooked your Iv from the tubing without waking any of you up and all of your friends stepped out of the room, closing the door after turning off the lights. You all deserved this sleep, even if it would be short lived.

[hairtransplant-stories]

Salman Shaikh’s Hair Transformation Ride with Hairfree And Hairgrow

Salman Shaikh, the talented actor, anchor, and dancer, has won hearts with his performances in shows like Aarambh, Maddam Sir, and Sasural Simar Ka 2, as well as films like Ramrajya and the much-anticipated Battle of Bheema Koregaon. Born and raised in Jaipur, Rajasthan, Salman’s career has always kept him in the spotlight. But like many, he faced a personal challenge — hair loss.

For someone constantly in front of the camera, hair loss can take a toll on confidence. “I won’t lie, I was worried about how it would affect my work,” Salman shared. That’s when he decided to visit Hairfree And Hairgrow, not just for a solution but for a fresh start.

Taking the First Step

“I initially went in for a PRP session,” Salman recalled. “But during the consultation, the doctors explained the real cause of my hair loss and how a combination of treatments, including a hair transplant, could give me the best results.”

Salman admitted he was hesitant at first. “The idea of a hair transplant scared me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. But the team at Hairfree And Hairgrow was incredible — they didn’t rush me. They answered every single question I had and made sure I felt completely comfortable.”

The Experience

The procedure itself was a turning point. Salman shared how pleasantly surprised he was by the process. “I was so nervous about the pain, but honestly, it was way easier than I imagined. The local anesthesia barely felt like a pinch, and the staff made the whole experience comfortable. They even kept me engaged with conversations and refreshments during the surgery!”

The first week after the transplant was a bit challenging, though. “Sleeping upright was tough for me since I’m used to moving around in my sleep. But it was all worth it,” Salman said.

The most exciting moment for Salman came during his first head wash. “Watching the transplanted hairs settle in was such a relief. I could see the first signs of my new look, and it felt amazing.”

A Word of Advice

For anyone thinking about hair restoration, Salman has a clear message: “Don’t let fear hold you back. Hairfree And Hairgrow has an incredible team that will take care of you at every step. Whether it’s PRP, a transplant, or anything else, they know what they’re doing.”

As Salman continues to captivate audiences on screen, his story is a reminder that taking care of yourself is never a bad idea. Sometimes, a little help is all you need to feel like the best version of yourself again.

If you’re ready to take the first step, Hairfree And Hairgrow is here for you — just like they were for Salman. Let’s make your transformation story unforgettable.

[gf2bellamy]

captured — bellamy blake

pairing: bellamy blake x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: bellamy rescuing you from mount weather content warnings: being kidnapped by mount weather, danger of bone marrow transplant but nothing happens, multiple mentions of a syringe

The cold, clinical corridors of Mount Weather stretched endlessly, their sterile silence broken only by the distant hum of machinery and muffled cries from other prisoners. The fluorescent lights above flickered erratically, casting distorted shadows that seemed to writhe along the walls like specters. 

Every breath was heavy with the stench of antiseptic and fear, a nauseating combination that clung to the air. Somewhere in the labyrinth of hallways, you were trapped—another victim of Mount Weather's cruel experiments. 

Inside a dark room, you lay strapped to a metal table, your wrists and ankles bound tightly with unforgiving restraints. The surgical light above burned brightly, its glare blinding and relentless. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you strained against the bonds, the cool metal biting into your skin. 

The doctor beside you moved with precision, his gloved hands organizing an array of instruments on a tray. You could hear his voice, low and clinical, discussing the procedure with an assistant as if you weren’t even there. The sound of their conversation sent shivers of dread down your spine. 

Your breath hitched as the doctor leaned over you, syringe in hand, the liquid inside glinting ominously in the harsh light. Panic surged through you. Tears pricked your eyes as you squirmed against the restraints, but they didn’t give. 

Somewhere beyond the thick walls, Bellamy Blake moved with quiet urgency. 

Clad in tactical gear and armed with nothing but his gun and  determination, he navigated the corridors.  

So far, he’d freed several captives, each one more injured and terrified than the last. But it wasn’t enough—not until he found you.  

Back in the room, the doctor moved you with the syringe. Your eyes widened, and a strangled cry escaped your lips as you turned your head away, tears streaming down your cheeks. The assistant held your arm steady as the needle hovered closer. 

The door suddenly crashed open with a deafening bang, the force sending the assistant stumbling back. 

“Step away from her!” Bellamy’s voice thundered, cutting through the tension like a blade. His rifle was raised, his finger steady on the trigger, and his eyes blazed with anger. 

The doctor froze mid-action, his face paling. For a moment, silence hung in the air, thick and crackling with tension. 

Bellamy’s gaze darted to you, strapped down and trembling. Something inside him snapped at the sight—your tear-streaked face, the fear in your eyes, the way your body shook against the cold, sterile table. 

He didn’t hesitate. 

With two quick strides, Bellamy closed the distance, his boot kicking the tray of instruments to the floor with a loud clatter. The assistant bolted for the corner, hands raised in surrender. Bellamy turned his focus back to you, his hands working frantically to undo the restraints. 

“Bellamy,” you gasped, your voice breaking on his name. Relief washed over you like a tidal wave, and for a moment, the terror receded. 

“I’m here,” he said, his voice softer now but still laced with urgency. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

His hands trembled slightly as he worked the last restraint loose. The moment your wrist was free, you surged up, throwing your arms around him in a desperate embrace. His gun clattered to the ground as he wrapped his arms tightly around you, one hand cradling the back of your head. 

“It’s over,” he murmured into your hair, his voice a soothing balm against the storm of your emotions. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” 

You clung to him like a lifeline, your fingers fisting the fabric of his jacket as you buried your face against his chest. His heartbeat, strong and steady beneath your ear, grounded you. 

“I was so scared,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I thought they were going to—” 

“They didn’t,” Bellamy interrupted firmly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was intense, full of a mixture of relief and guilt. “I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.” 

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking into your chest.  

“Can you walk?” he asked gently, his hands still braced on your shoulders. 

Your legs felt like jelly as you swung them off the table, but with Bellamy’s steadying arm around your waist, you managed to stand.  

“Yeah,” you said shakily, leaning into him for support. 

“Good,” he replied, his tone firm but reassuring. “Stay close to me.” 

With one arm wrapped protectively around you, Bellamy led you out of the room. The oppressive halls of Mount Weather seemed less daunting with him by your side. 

[resident-sean-expert]

50+ random hcs about Sean because I have too much free time :

• One day Charmaine found a strange vase while looking for something in the garage. The next day Sean woke up to see flowers in his bong

• Sean owns a boat that he renamed "the Ocean's 12"

• Sean is the kind of guy who only celebrates Halloween to traumatize children with a real chainsaw

• He has never learned to tie his shoes, and doesn't plan to

• Sean has a lot of sleep disorders (including sleep apnea, insomnia, night terrors, confusional arousals...), so that's one of the reasons he drinks, so he can 'sleep' easily

• He suffers from bipolar disorder (type I), "The Guy Pillow", "the Casino", and "A Night Out With the Guys" were manic episodes, "Pine Barrens" a depressive episode

• The first kiss he shared with Laszlo was on a mechanical bull

• Sean and Charmaine attend couple therapy with the conclusion "put yourself in each other's shoes." Sean took the advice to the letter, wore one of his mom's dress, bought a cheap wig and stole makeup from Charmaine's purse. In the morning Charmaine woke up to see her husband dressed as a woman baking cookies and listening to the Spice Girls. 20 minutes later Charmaine changed into jeans, grabbed a bottle of wine and turned on the TV

• If Sean learns that vampires are real, he'll turn into a conspiracy theorist

• He has a scar from his liver transplant

• He secretly does drag when his wife's not at home, stealing her dresses, heels and make-up

• He owns glasses but never wears them, except when driving at night without passengers

• Sean is color blind, so he always chooses clothes with neutral colours or regular patterns (leopard, military), he is also dyslexic but not diagnosed

• He killed his father when he was a teenager (premeditated)

• Sean has a tribal tattoo on his right arm, 'Charmaine' on his left pec and 'Carpe Diem' written on his lower back

• As a child he was not allowed to watch cartoons so his childhood was forged with VHS of old movies. His favourite was Ocean Eleven 1960, it became his comfort film. He exploded with joy when he learned that there would be a remake (2001) It's also because his father forbade him to watch PBS, that today he only watches sports games and cartoons in front of the TV

• He has been fascinated by the occult and the supernatural since he was a teenager, his father considered it to be bullshit so Sean has always been discreet about it

• Sean gets frequent migraines so he uses essential oils, peppermint or CBD oil. He especially can't stand the smell of nail polish (and remover)

• He and Mikey slept together in college, mainly because they couldn't get any 'chicks'

• Sean lived in Canada for few years, so he knows some French

• He still can't identify the bushes that Laszlo has cut (the vaginas)

• He would never admit it but he loves to sew and crochet, yet he always asks his wife to put the thread in the needle because he can't do it and it makes him furious real quick

• Sean would like to grow a beard but Charmaine can't stand it because it scratches her when they kiss

• While Charmaine is a fucking danger in the kitchen, Sean is excellent, and his favorite dish to cook is lasagne. He uses his cooking skills to sell (edible) cookies in front of universities (it has a great success)

• He's had a string of odd jobs, but now he's the manager of a sex shop

yes I totally based this hc on this image :

• He wears matching underwear with Charmaine (leopard or zebra pattern)

• He has a terrible sense of hygiene; he doesn't brush his teeth because it's "too long", so he only uses mouthwash. To wash his body and hair, he borrows his wife's products, but in the past but he's already used white vinegar for washing himself because it's "more economical". And he only cuts his nails with a pair of scissors

• He has a birthmark on his ass

• He can make a "W" with his tongue

• Charmaine always prepares Sean's baths and makes sure the water is hot, even scalding, because Sean is traumatized by freezing baths (for the same reasons as Gregory in House MD)

• To this day, he's convinced that being pansexual means being attracted to "pans"

• When he was little, his mother forced him to learn the piano, he hated it, so he stopped after a year

• Every time Charmaine sees her husband watching wrestling on TV, she laughs at him saying it's soft porn, her husband's response is "you're not wrong."

• Despite his love of the ocean, he suffers from seasickness

• Sean's biggest fear is having the same baldness as his father, so he buys all kinds of miraculous products he's seen on TV to try and stem the problem

• While Charmaine is a shit at geography, Sean is pretty good

• For a short period of his adolescence he was Satanic, the only trace of which is the inverted pentagram he had scarified on his arm, which is why he always wears long sleeves, to hide his numerous self-inflicted scars

• To reach Sean you have to call him, he never replies to messages, if you're lucky he read, and if you're extra lucky he put an "👍" emoji

• When Sean goes to the bathroom, you don't see him again for at least 30 mins. Charmaine often wondered what Sean did to take so much time to shit, and he simply replied that it was his only moment of peace of the day

• Since he's a "man" he's not supposed to cry, so he only cries in front of movies (his love for the Ocean's trilogy is explained by the fact that it's the only time he allows himself to sob)

• He has a naturally artistic temperament : storytelling, crochet, painting etc...

• When he eats, he always starts with dessert because "the best comes first"

• At the beginning of their relationship, he and Charmaine had a little dog (Toy Poodle) named "Biscuit". One day, Sean almost killed the dog by sitting on it while being stoned (the Sopranos ref)

• He's an energy vampire (only Colin knows about it)

• During the pandemic curfew, he drank hydroalcoholic gel out of desperation because he had run out of beer at home

• He has a stuffed animal named "Badger", It was a bear but now he looks more like a rag, Charmaine almost threw it away by accident, Sean threatened to kill her if anything happened to the first love of his life. Franky has already ended up with a black eye for insulting Badger

• He is still a fan of the occult, tarot, gems energy and astrology etc...

• Every time he goes to the movies with Charmaine, he asks her to hide beer cans under her breasts. At first she thought it was absolutely stupid, but eventually Charmaine did it a few times. She never admitted to him that she could hide a bag of weed in her vagina if need be, for obvious reasons

• He hates IQ tests because the only time he took one online, he scored 89 and Charmaine 130

• If he's rich today, it's because he won a game show when he was 30

• Sean suffers from depersonalization/derealization

• He grew his hair to look like the Joker (and subconsciously Laszlo)

• Most of Sean's savings went into expensive jewelry that he bought for his wife to make up for it

• Behind his Ocean's Twelve memorabilia there's a secret room with absolutely everything needed to organize a casino heist : A notebook with personalized costume sketches for each of his friends + 11 extremely extensive custom-made costumes protected in covers, an entire library about robbery and action books, entire handmade maps of New Jersey and more precisely Atlantic City's casinos, an impressive collection of various weapons and safes to practice opening them, twenty years of research for the perfect heist, accumulated in notebooks and plastic sleeves, a notebook with all the formulas on how to make a bomb, and of course, the homemade bomb in the corner of the room, a huge table in the center with a video projector, a cupboard with other figures and goodies from the trilogy, and posters all around the room

• Sean is a kid mentally, and annoying his wife is his favorite pastime, his favorite activity, being upstairs and shouting Charmaine's name, if she answers, he doesn't answer, until she freaks out

• If someone knocks on the toilet while he's occupying it, he shits louder

• At the beach, every time Sean passes by a sand castle, Charmaine is forced to threaten him by whispering "Don't" because she knows that her husband wants to "accidentally" destroy the castle

• If Sean dies at some point, his unfinished business as a ghost is to kiss Laszlo

• He has very long feet, when he goes bowling with Mikey and Franky. They call him "Bozo", which is the nickname he chooses on the screen to play

• Sean suffers from sleep apnea, so he snores like a pig, and for the past few years he's had a CPAP machine

• In his teen, he sympathized with the Jersey Devil, but after the brain scramblies he forgot that he had become close to the creature

• Sean already asked Charmaine to do ASMR videos just to gain money

• He is stronger than Laszlo at chess

• He wrote plenty of Ocean's 11/12 fics on ao3. Charmaine corrects his spelling mistakes, and she's annoyed to see that her husband only writes sex scenes between men, she'd also like to see between women. His excuse : "I don't have a vagina, how the fuck I'm supposed to write the sensations of having one duh-"

• During a manic episode, he bought 6 Roomba to make an army of them

• He knows the Ocean Twelve lines by heart

• If Charmaine and Sean don't judge the clothing style of their neighbors it's because they probably had a goth period in their youth

• He is a reincarnation, just like Jeff/Gregor

• Jenna is the secret love child of the Rinaldi

• Although he and Charmaine have reconciled, they no longer sleep in the same room; because Sean has insomnia and gets up often to go out on the balcony and smoke his cigarette (which awakens Charmaine)

[sunwarmed-ash]

🔥Sinful Sunday🔥

Prompt: Snow | Cold Fingers & Warm Lips

This prompt is brought to you by @thediktatortot!! Thank you for the inspo! It was just what I needed to cut through the writers block! As a thank you I continued writing on this piece :3 (tumblr prompt masterlist)

Here (In Your Arms)

Fandom: Stranger Things Ship: Mungrove Rating: 🔞 Explicit 🔞 Tags: flirting, anal sex, safe sex, cold fingers warm lips, spit kink, finger sucking, hair pulling, Preview:

It’s cold today. And yeah, it's always cold in Hawkins in the winter time, but today is like, record breaking cold, like ‘you should be worried about the effects on the planet as a whole,’ cold. It fucking sucks, but by some miracle, the camper still has electricity and heat. 

Eddie's warming his extremities in front of a modest space heater in the ‘living room’ when there's a sharp series of knocks on his front door.

He opens the door to his new (within the year new) neighbor, Californian transplant Billy Hargrove. His lips are almost as blue as his jeans and if Eddie had taken any longer to open the door there was a good chance he would have remained frozen on the spot.

“Powers out,” is all Billy says by way of explanation before using his bodily advantage to shoulder his way inside. 

Eddie blinks twice and then, 

“Oh shit,” he says, looking across the street to the Mayfield’s/Hargrove's dark trailer. “What about your fami-”

“Motel. They’re fine.” Billy says.

That at least lets Eddie's conscience rest enough to shut the front door. 

“Oh. Alright, well, not that I don’t like your company, but uh, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Do you really think I want to be stuck in a fucking motel room with them?”

“Fair point,” Eddie snorts. Red was cool, but he didn't know much about her mom. And he unfortunately knew too much about Neil. So instead of kicking the man out, he says “Make yourself at home.”

Billy beelines for the space heater and pulls his gloveless hands out of his jacket. He’s not wearing anything thicker than that faded, brown, leather jacket Eddie’s seen him rock at parties and his usual pair of acid wash jeans. No hat, no gloves, no boots, no coat. This fucking guy…

“Dude…” 

“What?” Billy snaps, rotating his blue, likely numb fingers in front of the space heater. 

“You still haven’t gotten a proper jacket?”

“Didn't think I’d still be here,” Billy replies bitterly. And again, Eddie can't blame him. He knows how much Billy misses California. And how in Billy's twisted mind he misinterprets buying a winter coat as permanent as of a move as buying a house in Hawkins. “Well, you are,” Eddie says, walking over to Billy’s side and flopping down on the ground to his right. “And, you're here, so at least let me help.”

[lastflowerofyourhouse]

tonight i bring you, a scene from a fic entitled The Saint of Awe is not Unmerciful.

i do still plan to publish it at some point, but it needs quite a bit of revising and editing. and honestly, this scene will probably be retooled a bit in the final cut. but as it stands, i already quite like it. so here it is, the scene in which harrow approaches ianthe about. ahem. sleeping together. but not like that, ew.

(to be clear, this is genuinely a safe for work fic. they are actually just sharing a bed.)

Maybe she should've kissed Harrow. But it was so hard to find an in with her. One wrong move could send the little prude running, and that might set her progress back months.

***

The electric lights were dimming on the Mithraeum, the simulated sunset turning Ianthe the First's room an odd shade of orange which glistened off the newly gilded bones of her right arm. She was practicing with it. Parry, thrust, lunge. But really, she didn't need to. It felt just like her old one, and Naberius knew what to do with it. But she liked watching it glint in the light, reveled in the easy fluidity of movement. She could've kissed Harrow. 

 But she couldn’t shake the memory of Harrow's look of intense concentration, like nothing else in the world had ever been so important to her, Harrow's bony knees poking into the tops of Ianthe's thighs and all her nerves on fire. The way Harrow's hands had moved, so gentle, so careful, like she was trying not to hurt her—or perhaps only trying not to disrupt her own progress—and yet, the brutal efficiency with which she had lobbed off the transplant arm, the absolute bloody-minded composure. The trickle of blood sweat down Harrow's temple. It had traced the curvature of Harrow's cheek and landed on her lips, red and tempting. She hadn't even paused to wipe it away. She had been too focused. Absolutely and unwaveringly focused on Ianthe.

Ianthe wasn’t even practicing what Augustine had shown her, really, she was moving just to move, slashing and stabbing like a child handling a practice sword for the first time. She could feel Naberius’s annoyance faintly tickling in the back of her skull, but she really didn’t care. There was a sheen of sweat—real sweat, not blood—building on her forehead and her arms were starting to burn. Her heart rate was picked up, it was past the point that should have been uncomfortable, but it felt clean and bright, not like a panic attack at all. Was this what Coronabeth had always been going on about? Was this what all those exalted cavaliers had signed up to die for?

There was a knock on the door. It was a familiar knock to her, short and sharp, almost perfunctory, the knocking of a girl unaccustomed to closed doors. She really could just walk in, if she wanted to. It wasn’t like Ianthe was accustomed to closed doors, either. 

She didn’t stop moving, simply shouted, “Come in,” and the door opened. 

Harrow looked better for having slept, which wasn’t to say she looked good. She still had the shifty eyes of a prey animal, and that ridiculous sword strapped to her back, which left her with a perpetual hunch. She still hadn’t washed her hair. It was such a shame. With her bone structure, her eyes, the soft ringlets that her hair was just dying to fall into, if only she would care for it properly—she could be so pretty. 

“I don’t believe that’s proper form.” 

“Oh, like you would know.” Ianthe finally came to a standstill, breathing hard, and she knew she was grinning, and she almost didn’t mind. “Harry, this is amazing. It’s—It’s mine.”

“Yes, I know it’s yours. I wish you hadn’t gone through with gilding it. It’s garish. You could’ve simply regrown the rest; it’s not like you don’t have the talent for it.”

“I didn’t want to regrow the rest of it. I wanted to gild it.” It felt so good to say. It was an exhilaration almost as good as picking up the sword for the first time. Her arm, her bones, her whims governing them. What a fucking concept. 

Harrow made no response, simply twitched an eyebrow in that way she had, as if Ianthe weren’t worth the brainpower it would take to argue with her. 

Harrow’s body language was doing something weird. She was standing in the middle of the room, looking almost aimless, as if she wasn’t certain what to say next. Quite the departure from her usual imperious self-assurance. So Ianthe prompted her, “What do you need, Harry?”

She wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “What makes you think I need something?”

“Because you’re not half so mysterious as you think you are. Out with it.”

Harrow paused, with a look on her sharp, painted face like she was swallowing bile. “I need to sleep here tonight.”

“Oh?”

“And very likely for some time after.”

“Harry, are you asking to–” “Don’t.” “–sleep with me?”

“I am begging sanctuary.” 

This caught Ianthe off-guard, almost. Harrow had straightened up a bit, jutted out her underfed little chin, and standing more than a full head shorter than Ianthe, she looked terribly young. Horrifically young. 

“You haven’t packed anything.”

“I haven’t been back to my room.”

Ianthe sighed. If Harrow would only allow herself to become a lyctor, if she would only give in, only waver for one second, this would all be over. She wasn’t going to let that fact get lost in Harrow’s big, dark, flinty eyes. No amount of poorly masked vulnerability was going to change the fact that Harrow had chosen to put herself in this position, and could get out of it just as easily. The stubborn little romantic. 

She leaned her rapier against the nightstand and crossed to the wardrobe. She didn’t own a black nightgown, and though she had been eagerly waiting to see Harrow in a color, she already knew that buttercup yellow would not be ideal. It was, however, the most modest nightdress she owned. 

She turned and tossed it to Harrow, saying, “Here, it’s got sleeves and everything. You can change in the bathroom.”

Harrow took it, only grimacing a little, and went to do so. And after the door had closed between them, Ianthe also dressed for bed. She would never get a word of thanks from Harrow, of that much she was certain, but she couldn’t say no. Or, she could, actually, but she didn’t want to.

She always felt Corona’s absence most at night. They had shared a room for their entire lives, and on nights when Coronabeth was sad or scared or simply in need of companionship, she had never gone to their parents. She had always crossed to Ianthe’s bed and snuggled in against her. Funny that Corona, in all her cavalierish muscle and bravado, had always been the one who turned to Ianthe for comfort. 

She suffered no illusions that Harrow would do the same, but still, there was an easy familiarity about this role. She knew how to provide this. And it was, maybe, close enough. 

She was finished dressing by the time Harrow emerged from the bathroom, dragging her longsword behind her in one hand and clad in a shade of yellow that absolutely did not compliment her skin tone. It made her painted face look even more ridiculous and displaced than it usually did in Ianthe’s rooms. Maybe, if this arrangement fostered any sort of closeness between them, she could convince Harrow to let her brush her hair. It was long enough now for a braid starting high on the head. And if she pushed her luck, she might be able to curl it. Not dramatically, just enough to emphasize its natural texture. Something to frame her face. 

Harrow, she noticed, was avoiding her gaze. 

“You can’t really mean to sleep in that paint, Harry, you’ll get pimples.”

“Pimples are the least of my concerns right now, Tridentarius.”

“I’ll say. But why add them to the list? I’ve already seen your bare face, anyway.”

Harrow looked startled, then confused. A drop of blood hit the carpet between her feet and she put a hand to her nose, almost absently. “Have you?”

Ianthe realized, too late, what she had said. “I visited your hospital room while you were incoherent.” It wasn’t even entirely a lie.

“Why?”

“An abiding sense of loyalty and affection.”

“Right.” Had she almost smiled?

Harrow went and climbed into bed, not laying down but sitting with her knees scrunched up and her back to the pillow, and set her sword down the middle of the mattress. Ianthe did not resent this. She had done the same thing, when they had shared the first time. 

“Well, if you’re going to insist on sleeping in greasepaint, at least let me put something down on your pillow. That’s real silk, it’ll stain.”

“Fine.” Harrow had still not looked her in the eye. 

She thought of grabbing a towel from the bathroom, but went for the wardrobe instead. She didn’t wear her clothes from home very often anymore, but there were still some decent fabrics among them. She dug around for a moment before pulling one of her old shirts from the back. It was soft enough to be comfortable, and it would cause less smearing than a towel. 

The lights were dim enough now that she would normally turn a lamp on, but Harrow seemed to be intending to sleep immediately, so Ianthe simply handed her the shirt and then lay down on the other side of their big, metallic chaperone. 

Later, in the dark, she could almost feel Harrow breathing. She wasn’t certain if Harrow was falling asleep or only, finally, relaxing. She could see her, almost. A slight up-and-down movement of the blanket, a suggestion of dark hair splayed across the white shirt. She was so small, and she slept on her back, like a corpse. 

“Ianthe.” It sounded as if she were trying not to whisper, quiet but startlingly loud in the silence. 

“What?”

“Do you ever feel like something is—missing?”

Ianthe found this question intensely interesting. She had long wondered how completely Harrow had torn out her own grief, if it had left roots. “In what respect?”

“I–Nothing. Forget I asked.” With that, she rolled over, back to Ianthe, and did not speak again. 

Soon afterwards, Ianthe fell asleep. With the sound of another person breathing evenly nearby, she slept better than she had since Canaan House. 

[royal-confessions]

“Rajwa needs to get the numbers of her mother-in-law’s hairstylists ASAP. Her current one should be fired. She looks unkempt.” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Rajwa need hair transplant” - Submitted by Anonymous

“Who is is charge of Rajwa's hair? They always look greasy,like she never washes them!!” - Submitted by Anonymous