#i might make a drink. i have an ulcer but also maybe wine | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marlahey · 4 years

Text

(and I'm feeling like) it was only ever you

a little voice fic pairings/characters: bess/samuel, general ensemble, ella the pupper being loved the most warnings: language, excessive sexual tension episode tags: fills in some of many gaps between 1.08 sea change and 1.09 sing what I can’t say cause I got wine drunk instead of finishing this before the finale as planned. +post-finale rating/warnings: explicit. read: resolved sexual tension aka les sexy times. lyrical title courtesy of: part of me – by the coast (watch their fanvid set to this song and prepare to cry) notes: so @brilligbraelig told me there was no fluffy fic in the tag, which– sorry. we’ve been in sad time hours for WEEKS and I blame the writers for never giving bess a moment’s peace. I’ve never really been one for cavity-inducing sweetness, not because I don’t love some pure joy, but as a writer I’m always a little more interested in the messier moments that just enough longing brings. if the question is ‘how many times do bess and samuel need to share a bed?’ the answer is yes. this is for the samuel and bess protection squad on twitter (join us!) for being the coolest group of people ever throughout this wild ride, and also for @missgoalie75 and her love of colton’s bedroom eyes. p.s: sometimes I ignore capitalization rules at will because of the vibe.

bess is tired.

saint c’s is quiet tonight; al shoos her away from the bar with a stern, surprisingly fatherly firmness and hands her a tray of shots. she blinks at him. there aren’t any parties of four left. he points at samuel, prisha, and benny loitering at the back of the club until she finishes. bess doesn’t follow. al sighs. “go have one with your friends on me, okay kid? i swear, watching you stress out sometimes is gonna give me an ulcer before my next birthday.” bess stammers a thank you and walks off with the alcohol before he can change his mind. she should apologize, she thinks. he’s been nothing but kind to her despite all the ways in which bess is hardly employee of the month right now. she should start an apology tour at the table, where prisha’s head is thrown back with laughter at something benny is saying, his hands outspread. these people are too good to her and she doesn’t deserve it, sometimes. samuel notices her first (like always it seems), tracking her progress across the room. he tilts his head, a silent okay? and she moves her mouth in an approximation of a smile. his own lips quirk, like he’s trying to smother a laugh. she should be annoyed; she’s just grateful they aren’t fighting anymore— or worse yet, that it’s weird. they still haven’t talked about that night. samuel seems perfectly content to pretend it never happened, except for the way he touches her with so much more ease than before— like he no longer has to hesitate before he’s pulling her in, taking her hand, squeezing her shoulder or the bend of her elbow in a way that’s more reassuring than bess can really describe. maybe there’s a song in there somewhere. “special delivery,” she announces at the approach. “drink fast, before al regrets giving us these.” “my man, my man,” benny croons. “we love you boss!” he calls, twisting to find al rolling his eyes from behind the register. the shots clink on the tabletop. bess hesitates, just a second, before leaning in to toast prisha. samuel’s eyes meet hers again over the rim of his glass. she tosses her head back before she can overthink any of it. “anyone want another?” benny and prisha grin; samuel shakes his head. bess does the mental math back to her last meal. one more certainly wouldn’t tip her over, but she’d be a fool not to recognize her own unsettledness. she springs for second shelf tequila; al smacks her hand away from the limes she’d cut herself not two hours ago. “no reaching over, you know that.” the closing porter pours and dishes lime and salt with disinterested, immaculate practice. bess presses an extra five into his hand and gets a silent tap on the inside of her wrist in thanks. she’s not normally into the whole process of tequila, but benny enjoys it. something silly in bess hopes that the bursting sting of lime will just wash all her chaos away. by the time she’s tilted her head back down a second time, samuel’s eyes are sliding away. her throat is curiously warmer than liquor normally manages. it feels like she’s caught him at something. “earth to bess!” “hmm?” prisha looks amused, damn her. “you up for it?” “up for what?” benny’s smile is equally conspiratory. “dancing?” her first instinct is god, no. she and prisha haven’t gone dancing in what feels like years— bess still has a fake ID from the one and only time they snuck into a club at 19 years old, skipping the bar entirely for the pulsing beat of the dance floor. but she deserves this, doesn’t she? after everything? everyone’s looking at her now, probably expecting her to say no (samuel’s definitely expecting her to say no), and maybe bess needs another shot after all because, “sure.” tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop it. prisha and benny high five. samuel’s muted surprise is oddly delightful; bess wants to keep pulling it out of him, suddenly. “you coming too?” she asks. it’s not supposed to be a challenge but he raises one eyebrow as though bess had just asked him to duel. “well i’d be lame if I said no now, wouldn’t i?” that settled, bess excuses herself to grab her things from the back room. when she returns, benny is chatting with their night porter as he divides tips. she has to swallow an anxious lump before she can walk over. “hey.” “hey.” he returns her tentative smile and she hates herself. “ready to go?” “i’m sorry,” bess blurts. “about the other night. i was so awful to you and you were just—” “bess, hey.” benny’s hands land on her shoulders. “don’t worry about it, okay? i know you have a lot going on right now.” “that’s not an excuse,” she insists. “you’re just being a good friend and a great manager and i shouldn’t have bit your head off for...” for not letting me give up. shame locks the words in her throat. how is it that she was the first person to let go of her own dream? bess has to take a deep breath. “i’m just really sorry.” he just looks at her for a long moment. “if i forgive you,” benny begins gently, “will you forgive yourself?” the question feels like a sucker punch. “cause i do, bess.” she can’t remember the last time one of her dearest friends was so serious. “i forgive you, and you gotta forgive yourself now cause we got work to do, yeah?” good god, do not cry. “okay.” “okay.” benny pulls her into a hug, squeezing tight. “we got you girl, alright? i told you, we’re in this together.” those are familiar words. bess lets them wash over her. how had she forgotten? where had she let herself fall that her friends couldn’t pull her back into the light? “c’mon.” bess accepts her saint c’s envelope with a grateful smile and benny steers her out of the club, his arm around her shoulders. “there’s fun to be had tonight.” “let’s go, bess!” she lets prisha drag her forward, laughing despite herself and looping her arm through her best friend’s as they head out into the warm night air. “where the heck are those boys?” prisha asks at the next corner. benny and samuel of course, are following at a more sedated pace to her one track mind. bess catches samuel’s eye and he smiles in that crooked, amused sort of way she hasn’t seen in ages— not since they shot more love, it feels like. relief is such a strange feeling for the moment, but there it is. * bess isn’t tired anymore. she has no idea when she became such a homebody (though louie’s social worker may thoughts) but her exhaustion from the day seems to disappear the moment the bass finds a home behind her ribs. prisha presses a tiny glass into her hand and bess doesn’t think. the vodka sears on the way down. it makes her gasp a little, like a livewire shock to the system. bess can only look up to see samuel wave from the bar before benny’s dragging her onto the floor; she loses sight of him in the crush of bodies and the pulse of the music carries her away. samuel’s still there, some two or three songs later. just before they lock eyes, bess notices something very serious in his expression, something she can’t put into words fast enough, that draws a strange shiver from the base of her spine. then he smiles, familiar laugh lines and narrowed eyes, and it’s gone. bess remembers the way he’d so easily coaxed her into a silly dance set to their own music. have things gotten so strange between them that they could never go back there? not if she has anything to say about it. “I’m not drunk enough yet,” he objects, but his fingers close around hers even as he says it and she knows she’s won. samuel follows her so easily back to benny and prisha– like he’d follow her anywhere maybe, if she asked, and then suddenly bess is the one not quite drunk enough— and then the beat pulls them in again. it’s silly at first, just like before. at one point samuel and benny do the chicken dance to a hip-hop song and bess thinks she might die with laughter. she presses against prisha, hips and shoulders. her best friend spins her out; bess nearly stumbles but samuel is there, catching her by the elbows, drawing her in with that same teasing smile that had eased her nerves on that warm summer afternoon. she can see the memory of it reflected in his eyes. bess wants to fall into it headfirst. she steps closer just as samuel pulls her in; her hand lands on the back of his neck; his fingertips slip under the hem of her top and brush the shy skin of her hip. samuel pauses, like a silent question, until bess coaxes his body back into the swaying rhythm with her own. her head feels heady, her body overwarm almost, but bess doesn’t want to stop because there it is again, that serious look— bess wants— “dance, dance, dance is my lung—” “fuck no!” the moment—or whatever that was—grinds to a halt. samuel laughs so hard that she can feel his shoulders shaking. for several seconds they just look at each other, then over at benny who’s having the time of his life, and then bess is doubling over too. samuel leans close to be heard over the din. “drink?” his breath brushes her ear and bess tries not to shiver, nodding enthusiastically in a vain attempt to cover for herself. they’ve lost prisha and benny to the worst song ever, so samuel keeps a firm grip on her hand as they snake their way back to the bar. there must be some kind of special on shots tonight. bess can only stare at a bartender pouring no less than twelve in a perfect row for a huge group of women. one is wearing a tiara and white sash. that trying not to laugh smile tilts samuel’s mouth while they wait their turn. the sardine pack of people presses them together from hip to shoulder but he doesn’t seem to mind. the bar curves around in a skinny oval, drinks being served on either side. as servers slide back and forth, bess notices a guy looking at her from across the way. staring, more like it. the glint in his eyes makes her stomach turn. before bess can glare, turn away, or even shudder, samuel’s arm slides around her. his fingertips trace the curves of her rings on the bartop— affectionate, possessive almost. bess turns her head and samuel winks before leaning forward to touch their foreheads together. “pretend i just told you something hilarious.” his mouth hovering over hers is almost too distracting— his free hand pinches her side to help her along and giggles jump out. bess doesn’t resist when samuel tightens his grip and pulls her closer against him. he presses his mouth to her temple just above her ear. “he’s gone.” bess does shudder now, though for a different reason altogether. “thanks.” samuel just squeezes her once before releasing her. their shots arrive finally, amber liquid glowing strangely in the light. “still good?” he asks, and bess nods firmly. “still good.” she meets his eyes as she brings the shot to her mouth. samuel is still looking at her when she puts the glass back down. inside her, it seems. “c’mon.” he says. samuel looks almost fond now. bess blinks; a trick of the light? is she that tipsy already? “we’d better go find those two.” she just takes his hand and follows. * bess is... well. she’s not sober. benny had waved goodbye from an uber outside the club. they’d made it three quarters of the way to the subway station before ananya had called, quickly devolving into an impassioned conversation and prish too, vanished into a cab and promising to call when she got to her— girlfriend’s? house. “have fun you two!” and now: “i’m fine, sam.” his mouth twitches. “don’t think so, b.” yikes, she hates that. bess rolls her eyes, pointing at her station stairway. “you’re literally going in the opposite direction. it’s like...” she has to look at their cross streets and do the math. “eight stops. at the most.” samuel nods. “all about figure eights. love an even number. let’s go.” bess knows she should just let this go and stop being so stubborn. but something in her just can’t be stopped. samuel sighs, dragging her by the elbow across the sidewalk, out of the way of a clearly aggrieved businessman who disappears down the steps. “bess. just tell me something.” it’s hard to meet his eyes, intent as they are. “would you let prisha take the train home by herself tonight? if you were going... I dunno, home with me?” her stomach flips, surprising, terrifying, thrillingly pleasant. it’s all the shots. samuel’s ears go pink under the glow of the streetlight. “you know what i mean.” she’s stubbornly quiet; he ducks his head, refusing to be deterred. “bess.” “ugh, no. of course not!” “because you think she can’t take care of herself?” bess rolls her eyes. “she’s my best friend, you know that. it’s just what you do.” “right.” she hates the way samuel’s looking at her now, the way he had when he’d laid all her fears out bare in the close space of his apartment: so certain and so kind. “so why do you think i’d let you take the train home alone?” for a moment, she can only stare. maybe it’s the alcohol, but samuel has never quite looked so vulnerable. bess doesn’t have the right words (maybe there aren’t any) so she just drags him forward by the shoulders. samuel exhales sharply, a faint laugh in her ear, but he wraps both his arms tight around her— an embrace that somehow feels more intimate than their pretence from hours before. bess endeavours not to think about it too much. “c’mon bestie,” she says when she pulls back. samuel does laugh fully this time, wide enough to show his teeth. bess thinks back to the night of their first gig, the sound of his valerie chasing hers in echoes. it’s a wonder anyone’s more stubborn that she is. samuel ushers her down the stairs with a sweep of his arm and bess laughs too. * bess loves her dog. she’d convinced samuel he should probably come in for water, or tea, maybe an advil. ella had poked her head out from bess’ room and when she turns around from her perusal of the fridge, bess finds samuel fully sitting on the floor, ella laying between his legs, stroking her head. “who’s my sweetest girl?” he coos. her heart something funny inside her chest. samuel looks up, his obvious joy so bright in the dim light of the kitchen and bess is nearly choked with the possibility that she’d nearly pushed him too far away to ever see it again. “bess,” he says, his cheeks dimpling, “her ears are so soft. like, they’re the softest thing i’ve maybe ever felt in my life?” wonder of wonders. she can only nod in emphatic agreement. how many shots have they had? “you’re lucky,” samuel continues, still making ella’s night by never stopping in his affection. bess’ eyes get stuck on his hands, the motion of his fingertips and the turns of his wrists. “my parents never let us have pets and my building doesn’t allow them either.” “you know ella would love if you came over and pet her all the time.” she gets that muted surprise again, which melts into something bess isn’t sure how to name. “would you like that, el? hmm?” he leans down to kiss the top of the dog’s head. “wanna spend more time with uncle samuel?” how is it that her most loyal companion is somehow more intimate with samuel than bess is? and why on earth would she ever have a thought like that? “so,” she says, maybe a bit too high-pitched for her own liking (ella looks up at her and bess wants to glare), “we have water, tea, popsicles, half a bottle of jack.” samuel laughs and shakes his head. “i thought we were sobering up?” bess shrugs. “so, popsicle?” he laughs again and it warms her inexplicably all the way to her toes. they have water, following ella into bess’ room, toeing out of their shoes when she jumps onto the bed. the dog puts her head on samuel’s lap and stares balefully up at him until he resumes his gentle stroking. bess leans back against her wall. she’s looking at ella and pretending she can’t feel the heat of samuel’s gaze on her face. if she thinks too hard about it, bess remembers wishing she could share a moment like this with someone else. she doesn’t regret anything that lead her here, but something in her is too afraid to meet samuel’s eye, like he’d be able to read the truth of that in her face and that she’d have somehow ruined tonight, this quiet moment of warmth and contentment. she leans her head on his shoulder and he turns his cheek into her hair. when bess finally looks up, samuel’s face is vey close. is he looking at her mouth? is she leaning? “are you drunk, bess?” he asks softly. she stops. considers. “yes. you?” samuel’s smile is a little rueful. he nods. “i should go.” bess understands. it’s late. they’re tired and inebriated. he has to go all the way back to his. they almost... and yet she says, “stay.” he blinks. “what?” this might be a terrible idea. “stay.” “but—” she rolls her eyes. “what makes you think i’d let you go home alone either?” the surprise is plain now. he looks that almost-vulnerable again. bess is oddly satisfied. “are you sure?” it’s strangely hard to keep his eye even as she points out, “we’re fine, right?” he nods again, a little slower. “and it’s not like we’ve never shared a bed.” when bess finally manages it, samuel’s gaze is very soft. “true.” and just when she thinks he’s going to refuse her still, he says, “okay. thanks.” how do you tell someone out that you just don’t want to be alone out loud? thankfully samuel doesn’t make her voice it. he just smiles as bess gathers something approximating pyjamas and crosses the room. “sorry i don’t have anything that would fit you,” (he snorts and she’s warmed) “but you know, make yourself comfortable however. come get a toothbrush from under the sink.” and so that’s how they end up side-by-side in the cramped bathroom of her and prisha’s apartment, brushing their teeth. samuel makes faces at her in the mirror and it should be strange, to be t-shirt and shorts/boxers open with him. but he’s seen down into the root of who she is, so isn’t all this less? he’s humming something familiar as she washes her face, catching her surprised reflection. “it’s yours.” bess casts her mind back. “from–” “that first night, yeah.” she nearly drops her face towel. bess has never shown him that song. samuel shakes his head with a chuckle, a familiar you’re a weirdo. “it would be just like you to play something that gets eight bars stuck in my head for months and never sing it again.” “i...” bess can’t pinpoint a reason besides her own fear, like a karmic penance for one of the most humiliating nights of her life. “i can’t believe you remember.” there’s a truth in his eyes that neither of them are willing to admit they can see. “wanna work on it?” she asks impulsively, determined now to redraw a better memory, “maybe tomorrow?” samuel’s grin is so wide it’s almost hard to take in all at once. “this mean you’re gonna actually do that open mic?” bess shrugs. she needs to escape this tiny room all of a sudden. “maybe.” he doesn’t push her further and she’s grateful. samuel hesitates at the edge of her bed as bess pulls up the cover. “oh my god, just get in the bed samuel.” and he does. their knees touch. bess turns out the light but there’s still just enough to see him looking at her. drunkenness has made her warm and sleepy. “what?” “for the record,” he says, “i know what i think of you.” it feels like they’re teetering on an edge. “cool grandpa?” they laugh so hard that ella jumps from the foot of the bed. samuel looks so fond that bess doesn’t know what to do with herself. “yeah. that’s it.” “night samuel,” she whispers. “night bess.” * (she wakes up before the sun, tangled up in him. for once, rather than overthink it, bess just closes her eyes and goes back to sleep.) * bess can’t stop smiling. before she could even look at samuel after getting offstage, benny had lifted her off her feet and proceeded to all but bulldoze everyone in the club to get her in front of jeremy’s record label contact. could he tell that she’d just been kissed within an inch of her life? it feels like it’s written all over her face. bess can barely remember what she said, but his personal contact card is currently burning a whole though her purse. al buys them a round. (she finds ethan lingering in the back. what he says to her is somehow a surprise and not both at once. what she says to him, in the end, feels long overdue.) prisha insists everyone come back to their place to celebrate, and they pile into ubers. louie exalts her as a true artist the entire ride and even phil seems impressed. true to form though, he’s a roledex of weather facts as bess and prisha frantically pull out every candle or flashlight in the apartment; their lights flicker ominiously every so often as the storm beats down their windows. benny puts a playlist together and tries to order pizza. by some miracle, it actually arrives; everyone pools together for a 150% tip. so it feels like ages before bess looks up to find samuel leaning against the alcove of her living room, watching as louie begins a spirited debate on the best numbers in hamilton. bess nods her head toward the door of her bedroom. she’s expecting him to make a silly face with his eyebrows or hesitate, but samuel’s mouth just curves up on one side, like that’s all he’s allowing himself, and follows. “for the record,” he says as the sounds of the party fade a little behind them, “the answer will always be satisfied. no contest.” god, how had she never seen him before? her bedside lamp is still working. bess fishes out a pale white whale from childhood, one that changes colour as you tap. she grins at samuel, who’s leaning against her closed door and smiling like he’s not even sure what to make of her. “you’re incredible, you know that?” her face heats, pride and embarrassment both at once. “so are you. i can’t believe we got through that song.” “all you, bess.” she wants to roll her eyes, but refrains. “the electric was a great idea.” samuel’s eyes drop when he smiles; the familiar humility in it reminds bess of the reason she wanted to talk to him in the first place. “i know what you did tonight. before you showed up.” he looks up then, a little sharply. samuel’s always had a good poker face but bess can see it still, that guarded look. “what did i do, bess?” saying it out loud makes her feel like she’s in a movie. bess steps forward. “you told ethan to come. for me.” “are you upset?” “no. i just want to understand why.” samuel’s gaze is as steady as it’s ever been. “i just want you to be happy.” she feels unraveled, somehow. “then why did you...” even in the poor light, he flushes. “why did you kiss me?” samuel looks at the floor, then back at bess. her heart beats in double time. “he didn’t show, or so I thought. and I didn’t want to...” he laughs lightly, almost at himself. “throw away my shot. I guess I wasn’t really expecting you to—” try to press him into the wall? “to kiss me back, or even what that might mean, but I wanted to show you, or tell you that—” she’s close enough to touch him now. samuel’s hands cup her elbows, very gently, like he needs to ground himself. but he looks bess right in the eye. “even if you didn’t want me, i’d choose you first. every time.” her heart free-falls. “bess.” he squeezes a little, catching her eyes. how long have they been standing in this moment of after? “please say something.” “i told him we couldn’t work,” she says in a rush. “and i don’t even know if it was really because you and I—” bess stumbles but samuel hangs on, his grip on her unwavering, “but i think part of me always knew it was just...like, a fantasy? we barely even knew each other and i always hated myself a little for being that girl trying to steal someone else’s partner and i wasn’t dealing with any of my shit until—” samuel just waits. the realization feels too big, but there’s no going back now. “until i met you.” he looks almost stricken. bess lets out a strange, wondrous kind of laugh. she puts her hand on samuel’s chest. she’s the one who needs steadying, now. he draws her closer without looking away from her face, like he’s helpless to it. bess can’t remember the last time she felt so sure of anything. all those those expressions that always felt hidden in his eyes seem so plain, now: surprise, fear, hope. “i choose you, samuel. though i probably don’t even deserve to.” she can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. samuel’s hand brushes her hair back away from her face, tracking the curve of her ear. just before she’s about to freak out, he asks, “are you drunk, bess?” she nearly laughs. “no. are you drunk, samuel?” he shakes his head. she understands that serious look, now. it’s wanting. he wants her. samuel goes to pull her the rest of the way in— “bess!” louie’s voice and a loud knock on the door springs them apart. the lights go out. “bess, we’re going now. and the lights are out. do you have a source of light in there? are you coming to say goodbye?” samuel lets out a long, low “fuck.” she has to clap her hand over her mouth. his nearly silent laugh ghosts over her skin as he presses his face into the curve of her neck. (samuel kisses her there, just once, but it’s enough that her knees tremble a little and she can feel the shape of his smile too.) “i’ll be right out!” bess calls to her brother. his shadow moves away from the door. hysterical giggles shake her shoulders. samuel’s hands slide up to hold her face. “do you wanna—” “come home with me.” she can barely make out his features in the dark (except for the want) but bess’ stomach drops anyway. the irony of no electricity is funny when she feels like sparks might burst from beneath her skin. “okay.” * bess is deliriously happy. samuel puts down his guitar and barely lets the door close before he’s pressing bess against it with both hands. his palms are heavy and warm on her hipbones; bess wants to rock up against him but there’s a certain thrill in it, how strong he seems. she has no idea the last time she was kissed like this. despite how fierce it feels, samuel lets her lead. he doesn’t open his mouth until she does, touches his tongue tentatively against hers at first pass, tugs so gently on her lip with his teeth until she makes a noise like a whimper. she should tell him maybe, that samuel made her completely forget herself, back in the alcove at saint c’s. but then bess just lets her hands find their way back into his now slightly damp hair. she’ll just relive it instead. she scrapes her nails over his scalp and samuel’s breath comes up short; it returns in something that sounds like a groan, or a snarl, and oh. bess has to take deep breaths of her own when he pulls back, a wide-eyed glance to her face to make sure she’s alright. she can only nod. samuel’s fingertips squeeze her waist as some of that urgency seems to fade from his eyes. he trails his mouth slowly from her lips to her jaw; she tilts her head instinctively to give him room and samuel finds that same spot on her neck from her own bedroom. his teeth and tongue press a little harder than before; he gets a gasp for his efforts. her legs feel unsteady again. bess grabs at the open sides of his button-down until samuel shrugs out of it. it drops to their feet. he doesn’t protest when bess pushes him gently, walking backwards across the apartment with his arm tight around her. he doesn’t let go when his legs meet the edge of his bed. bess would fall into him if not for samuel keeping them upright. he drops to sit, pulling them apart, and finally bess has to take stock of herself. samuel’s face is so open, his smile so wide in a way she’s never seen before. “still good?” he asks. bess nods. “still good?” samuel laughs lightly. “i’m great, bess.” he reaches for her hand, his thumb brushing each of her rings in turn. “we can stop whenever you want.” she’s the one standing but bess feels smaller, strangely. instead of replying, bess steps out of her shoes. samuel’s eyes seem to darken as she slides her jacket from her shoulders and lets it pool on the floor. bess leans down and brings one knee to the bed, by his hip, balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder. samuel’s inhale is impossibly loud as he instinctively supports her with a sliding grip up the back of her thigh. bess’ skirt isn’t that short but she’s glad she didn’t trade it for jeans before she left. samuel’s face betrays how pleased he seems by her choice. once she’s finished effectively straddling him, bess looks down from her perch. “hi.” samuel’s knuckles stroke up and down her leg. goosebumps ripple and he smiles. “hi.” bess takes his face in both her hands and leans down as samuel tilts his chin up to meet her. she’ll never tire of kissing him. it feels like she can’t get close enough; he must have the same idea because his arms wrap around her back until bess is sitting firmly in his lap, their hips slotted together. “can i touch you?” samuel asks against her mouth. bess nods, maybe too quickly, but she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed. guitar callused fingers slide beneath her top. samuel reaches the slim band of her lacy bralette. he pauses, but bess leans into his hand and then he’s tracing the curve of her breast. his thumb brushes a little roughly over her nipple; bess feels an abrupt ache between her legs. “that seems pretty,” samuel murmurs in her ear, like a casual observation. “it’s a matching set,” she replies, trying not to sound too breathless. “for luck.” he pulls back with wide eyes. bess wants to laugh but she’s too busy dealing with this rush of blood to her face. she sits up carefully so they don’t knock heads and reaches for the edges of samuel’s t shirt first; he drags it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. shit, he’s hot. he’s staring as bess unfolds herself to stand back on the floor (her legs are still unsteady but he doesn’t need to know that) and goes to pull off her own shirt. samuel’s eyes don’t leave her face until the fabric coming over her head pulls her from view. when bess blinks him back into focus, he’s gone a little slack-jawed. she nods at his jeans and the speed at which samuel divests himself of them has her biting back a giggle. bess’ face feels hot but there’s a frisson of pride that straightens her spine. she’s not even half an arm’s length away from him. samuel touches her stomach, just above the waistband of her skirt. “can I?” bess has to swallow before she can nod. just like before, samuel stares at her face until the last half of her outfit joins the rest of their clothes in a heap. samuel’s eyes trail from her eyes to her feet and back. it takes everything in bess not to fidget. she expects to see heat in his expression but there’s only wonderment and tenderness. “fuck, you’re so beautiful.” she has no idea what to do with that. samuel tugs her into his lap this time, intent. his kiss is searing. bess rocks into him, just once, just a little. that grip on her thighs returns, tighter. bess can only gasp a laugh into his mouth when samuel stands, holding her up against him, and turns to lower her with a kind of breathtakingly slow care onto his bed. bess lands on her back, samuel now the one leaning over her. desire coils low in her stomach. he gently shifts her hips so they’re both actually parallel with the long edges of the comforter. she feels inexplicably, unbearably, fond of him. then samuel looks away. he exhales, like he’s embarrassed. bess frowns in concern. “what is it?” samuel shakes his head. “when you look at me like that, I can’t catch my breath.” oh. it feels so strange to be the steadier one. bess reaches for his cheek, drawing samuel’s eyes back to her. “guess you’ll just have to distract me, then.” he laughs, but then as he leans down, samuel’s smile fades and bess remembers. he wants her. she can feel it. his hand slides, pleasantly rough, over her skin, sliding beneath the band of her bralette. bess seizes samuel’s lip in her teeth as he strokes back over her breast. he teases her nipple and the moment bess manages to wriggle out of the garment and tosses it away, samuel’s swapped his hand with his tongue, her other breast now teased by his clever fingers. she gasps again and she can feel him smirking. samuel diverts his mouth’s attention to her other side. bess focuses on her breathing. the storm still lashes against the windows but it feels like nothing compared to the roaring in her blood. bess slides her fingers up the nape of samuel’s neck and a few things happen at once: samuel’s free hand finds the damp junction between her legs; bess pulls his hair a tiny bit harder than intended; his teeth catch her nipple with just enough firmness that bess’ back nearly arches off the bed, along with a keening noise she didn’t even realize she could make. samuel freezes immediately. he looks up and bess has no idea what her face looks like, but all she can say is, “do that again.” he leans back down, his teeth scraping over her other breast; when he tugs, bess does too, so hard that samuel hisses. “sorry,” she pants, “sorry.” he shakes his head, a firm denial. it might be the dark, the lightning, or the fact that bess is so fucking turned on, but samuel’s expression has veered far past wanting— into hunger. he practically leaps back up to her mouth, a kiss so fierce that their teeth nearly clack together. “your hands,” he says, like it enrages him almost, “in my hair, holy fuck.” oh was right. “you’re one to talk about hands,” bess retorts. “can you please just–” samuel leans back. “can i please just what?” he looks smug the bastard. it would be like them to bicker in the middle of sex, wouldn’t it? but his tone is so serious when he says, “tell me what you want, bess.” that she has to squeeze her thighs together. “please touch me.” “where?” bess is going to kill him. samuel touches her cheek with surprising gentleness, and kisses her there. “here?” he does the same to her neck. “here?” her shoulder. he marks the valley of her breasts, the slope of her navel, the jut of her pelvic bone. “samuel,” bess says. it sounds like a plea but she doesn’t care. she can only reach his shoulder now, the back of his neck. he may have shivered but she can’t tell because she’s too busy trying to keep it together. he finally finds the elastic of her underwear. “okay, bess?” this question isn’t a joke. bess makes sure to meet samuel’s eye; the mixture of that desire and care makes her dizzy. “yes. please.” when his fingers have finally slid inside her, bess says “samuel,” at a level of breathlessness she only ever gets when she sings. he touches her with the same care and confidence as he does any of their instruments, until her legs tremble; samuel finds a beat with his tongue against her clit that’s so good bess has to cover her mouth when she comes. samuel crawls back up the bed towards her. he leaves a kiss on the inside of her knee, and her shoulder, just an inch or two from where he had the first night she’d stayed here. bess feels very safe, suddenly. “still good?” samuel asks again, a more raw edge to the question this time. bess can only affirm silently as she leans up a little to kiss him. she can taste herself in his mouth, can feel the weight of his arousal against her. bess presses up and samuel groans. heat pulses again between her legs. “do you want,” bess starts, putting her hands on him, straining against his boxers. samuel’s whole body seems to twitch. he pulls her wrists away though with a bruising kiss. “i’m just dying to be inside you, if that’s cool.” her stomach flips. “very cool.” samuel smiles and goes willingly when bess rolls them over. he reaches blindly into a bedside drawer. bess catches sight of a pair of glasses and makes a mental note to ask about them when her mind’s not currently so occupied. “shit, are these even in date?” samuel squints at the packet in his hand. “god, have i not had sex in this long?” bess can’t help but laugh. they giggle their way through confirming the expiry date, getting rid of samuel’s boxers, and rolling on the condom in the dark. for a moment they just look at each other. bess hasn’t ached like this for anyone in a long time. “tell me what you want, samuel.” his adam’s apple bobs as he sits up. “c’mere.” samuel pulls her forward and bess lifts her hips to line them up. he swallows her tiny gasp as she sinks down onto him; it’s been a while for her, too. samuel anchors her with one hand splayed across her back, waiting silently until bess has adjusted to the stretch. bess rocks down experimentally and he makes an almost strangled noise in the back of his throat. a soft kiss lands on her forehead, a starkly tender inverse to nearly everything that’s happened so far, and maybe even to what they’re about to do. it settles bess and breaks her open both at once. “okay?” he asks carefully. she nods, wrapping both her arms around his neck. “you’re amazing, you know that?” samuel murmurs over her lips. his own hips swing up towards hers and wow. “bess.” she was right, before. he’s strong. they get a rhythm going quickly enough, like another harmony that comes so easy. the angle has bess’ clit pressing with beautiful pressure against samuel’s pelvis; she clenches down just as he thrusts up. he curses and it just stokes that flame hotter inside of her. after a certain point bess can’t even speak anymore. she has both her hands in samuel’s hair and he’s latched back onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, teeth and tongue and words like, fuck and tight and good and bess— “samuel i—” he looks up at her face like he wants to commit it to memory. “bess.” and she’s gone again. * when they’ve caught their breath and tidied up, bess and samuel find themselves side by side in his bathroom, a sweet reflection of that night from weeks ago. she’s glad she thought to bring her toothbrush. samuel keeps staring at her in the mirror. “what?” does she have toothpaste on her face? he just shakes his head, the way he does when he laughs to himself. “nothing. you just look better in my t-shirts than i do.” bess rolls her eyes but her face feels hot anyway. “weirdo.” it feels good not to have to wonder as they head back to his bed. samuel drags her immediately towards him beneath the covers, his cool hands greedy beneath her borrowed sleepwear as her back curves against his chest. he plants a minty kiss above her shoulder-blade where his shirt’s slipped down. bess shivers and he leaves another on the back of her neck. “sorry,” he murmurs, and bess flips around to look at him. “for what?” the storm broke finally, and amber light of the street through his windows feels just as safe and warm as it had before. but samuel is the one who seems afraid, now. “i don’t want to freak you out.” “you’re not freaking me out,” bess insists. “tell me.” samuel hesitates. bess reaches out to touch his face. “hey. i don’t scare that easy either, you know.” he exhales a faint laugh. it’s so rare to see samuel seem unsure, or fragile. it makes bess feel thrillingly off-centre. “i don’t think i’ll ever be able to stop wanting you.” she’s falling. “and not just—” samuel nods vaguely at their general closeness. “this. i mean all of it. the music, your family, everything. i know it’s probably a bad idea to start things with bandmates or whatever but i just—” bess doesn’t let him finish. she can only pour all her affection for him into a kiss, taking samuel’s huff of surprise in her mouth even as he reaches for her waist to pull her closer, then on top of him. when she pulls away he seems a little dazed. “you make the bad days okay,” bess says firmly and samuel smiles with such near-adoration that she understands it now, that loss of air. “so we’ll figure it out, okay? one day at a time.” samuel nods. “okay.” and he pulls her back down. * bess wakes up with words in her mind. samuel’s grip is so tight that at first she doesn’t think he’ll let her go. but bess manages to slide away, picking up his hand gently and lifting his arm. she looks at his sleeping face and kisses his knuckles. samuel’s lips curve a little and if she looks too hard she could be in love with him already. she knows where he keeps blank sheet paper in his production area. bess finds a pen and a coffee table book about new york parks; she sits on the edge of the bed to scrawl, humming to herself. she doesn’t realize he’s up until a familiar press of lips lands on her neck. bess will never stop shivering and samuel will apparently never stop smiling about it. “hi,” he mumbles. his voice is low and gravely with sleep. bess files that away under the list of things that does something to her. samuel hooks his chin over her shoulder and bess lifts her work to accommodate his arms sliding around her waist. “new idea?” bess nods. “thinking about what you said to me.” she’s circled can’t catch my breath at the top of the page. samuel goes very still. it feels like it could crush them, the weight of this kind of intimacy. but at least bess doesn’t have to carry it alone. “wanna write with me?” she turns her head to look at him; samuel’s surprise will never not be thrilling. “will you let me add a back beat?” he’s already reaching for his guitar. bess laughs. “i could maybe be persuaded.” the way his eyebrow lifts makes her stomach jump. “duly noted.” (they do finish the song, eventually. the morning just gets away from them first.)

#little voice #littlevoiceedit #brittany o'grady #colton ryan #bess king #mine: fic #this really got away from me like woah #but i just them so fucking much

102 notes · View notes

themostexpensiveboningknife · 3 years

Text

In A Superficial World Should We Be Dean Blunt?

It seems easy as a musician, plus visual artist in Dean Blunt’s case, to fall prey to the charms of success, to dilute artistic vision in pursuit of, of what? More fame and money, probably, both are pretty addictive after all. To make music that is both technically and conceptually forward thinking (don’t ask me what “forward thinking” really means), while also being incisive and revelatory of dominant social trends, now that’s rarely done, and to find unique sonic palettes across various disparate aliases and to remain, not aloof, but distant from the intrusive confusion and folly of clout chasing aspects of the worlds of contemporary music and art, these make Dean Blunt or Babyfather or DJ Escrow or Blue Iverson or Hype Williams a creator worthy of esteem. At least, they might do.

“I couldn’t tell who was real and who wasn’t. When it came down to it I realised the only person I could depend on 100% in beef, was me.” Pagans (feat. Arca)

Babyfather, a Romantic poet whose sensitive and vulnerable ruminations on UK street life best reveal themselves on the mixtape UK2UK. Ostensibly hosted by DJ Escrow, another DB creative moniker—DB’s ability to be able to morph into aliases at will and to transmit the individual sensibilities and musical qualities of each reminds me of Madlib (Quasimoto, DJ Rels, Yesterday’s New Quintet, et al.)—we get flecks of grime, trap, ambient, acoustic interludes, vocal skits, and straight white noise. These are funny times, vulnerable and sad, insular and introverted, the streets of London are dark, they’re real, and a cloak of bravado is a must, but behind it all, always, are human emotions. DB pulls back the peeling plaster to show the perpetually healing wounds; whether you think DJ Escrow is an endearing figure, deep and poetic, or spouting not much at all, the human shines through, and it does in a way that is rarely allowed to within Black British street music. DB’s experiments across the sonic allow for a probing of the psyche of the real London streets, its protagonists, rules, customs and traditions.

Enigmatic. It’s a quality we should value in music. When so much is on show and everything needs to be seen and understood, remaining under it all deserves plaudits. It seems to espouse a sense of authenticity, let the art do the talking, trust in the sound. DB sending up a body double imposter to collect an award at the NME awards for most promising newcomer, “I’ve finally made it!” shouted out on arrival to the stage, is almost perfect. NME, the white-focused black-shunning music mag, gives awards to artists it can’t even pick out of a crowd. DB’s intervention strikes as the best kind of performance art, the kind that says much more than the bodily act alone.

DB’s no stranger to contemporary art (a nebulous term, he’d probably disown). His is a practice so tongue in cheek as to form an ulcer. A biting assessment of everything and nothing. Writing about an artist like this is quite long because you can’t help but feel that this is exactly the kind of faux analysis that he situates himself against. But anyway, there was the show that consisted of a single stock photo and a single high pitch ringing. Come and stand around, have a drink, if looking at art is about changing something inside of you, then it was a success. I remember seeing a DB exhibition photo with a fridge full of the drink KA; so much for the holy trinity it’s all built on: white walls, white people, white wine. It would be great to dismantle all three but let’s start at the bottom of the pyramid—anyway, that an exhibition opening needs copious alcohol is a truism—and maybe the rest will begin to falter.

"Girl come with me, I will proceed to lay you down” Caught Feelings

When we do get DB its raw. Or is it? Fading, foggy instrumentals barely punctuated by DB’s mellow, out of tune, piss-taking crooning. But it does do something, inside, I mean. Well there’s undoubtedly an atmosphere, it could even be sadness, genuine emotion, but then the lyrics to these not quite sensical ballads suggest otherwise. The Narcissist then, is the music itself, not the singers or composers, but the actual music. DB can’t even do real personal emotions without getting an ulcer again.

It’s an art in itself you know, choosing the right collaborators. Putting aside the infamous and delicious and profligate Hype Williams drama (how to say it in one sentence: the many purported iterations/passing on of the baton could have once been DB or might always have been), these are some fucking nice collabs man: Inga Copeland, Mica Levi, I just discovered the James Ferraro link up while writing this shit, Delroy Edwards—it’s all some crème de la crème stuff. I guess it’s real recognise real?

“Nredup 82 10 months ago:

sampled from? just wonder about orginal sounds of guitar.

repliesvaguelyhuman 10 months ago:

wtf you mean sampled, dean blunt plays guitar like a mfer.” (Somalia Park, (Youtube Comment)

Someone’s recognising anyway; this is a term that might be thrown around a bit too much, but this is all Cult Status stuff. A cult following, obsessively passionate fans, like myself. “Only bored people with loads of money buy my music.” Wah Wah Wah, make me cry, is that me? For much of the reasons that I’ve vaguely scratched the surface of, and what were they again? Musical quality, innovation, enigmatic, art world connect, collaborations, plus more besides.

He does radio, he does some promotion, DB is not in some vacuum of nothingness, I even saw him on a panel talk once. Which leads me to the question: What does he want out of all of this? Sometimes being enigmatic, coy and withholding, can strike as one big act, playing for the cameras, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t got that feeling from DB once or twice. But the point of it all? Well it seems to lie within nothing really. The whole package, everything that forms DB, from music, to (no)-shows at award ceremonies, to his art, to his kind of Fluxus-esque persona where you’re never sure where reality starts or ends, to expect it all to lead towards some greater singular meaning is to fall for the fallacy that DB relentlessly mocks. Nihilistic crap. Remember that famous Modernist calling, art for art’s sake? It’s pompous and barely anyone ever does it, even though many try, but I’d like to say DB is a reasonably good candidate for this mantle. No wonder its always so depressing.

Anyway, all I’ve been trying to say is I like his style, a true smooth musical operator.

1 note · View note

joeybelle · 5 years

Text

The Mistletoe Curse - Part 2

Clyde Logan x Reader

Rating: Mature (rating will go up as the story progresses)

Warning: Explicit Language, Accidental Nudity, Drinking, Minor Car Accidents, Minor Accidents, Drunken Confessions, Eventual Smut, First Person POV

Setting: Sometimes in the Logan Lucky universe

Other: Romance, Humour, Christmas tropes, Mistletoe Kiss, Drunken Confessions, Fluff

Wordcount: 3400

Summary: I’d never heard of mistletoe faeries before Earl mentioned them, and to be fair, I had a feeling he was kidding me. However, even I knew that if you accidentally find yourself under the mistletoe with someone - Clyde in this case - you must kiss. But a kiss on the cheek would be enough, right? Right?

Wrong.

Lovely art by @void.dust (on Instagram) and @formerly-anonhamster

It was peaceful for the next few days, so I had a feeling the offerings might have done the trick. Clyde had insisted that I take a couple of days off so I had time to heal properly before coming back to work. Christmas was getting closer and he said he would really need my help the week leading to it, so I didn’t argue. I had some things I needed to do for myself, so I was really thankful, if a little guilty, for the time off.

Also, there was the annual Christmas party. Clyde always kept the bar closed a few days for Christmas, letting all his employees spend time with their loved ones, but on Christmas Eve he would hold a party for friends and family. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a nice, cozy gathering. He would be providing the drinks and everyone else would bring something to eat, and they’d share. I’d never been invited to one before, so I was very excited. Everyone was talking about it and now that I was working at the Duck Tape I was considered family and automatically invited.

I had volunteered to help Clyde clean the place and set everything up before the party, since I had no other plans that day, but right now I was starting to doubt that it was a good idea. First of all, we’d be alone, and I was sure it would become awkward. Before the mistletoe incident I would have had absolutely no problem spending time alone with him. I really loved his company and he seemed a lot more relaxed when there were less people around. But our relationship had changed a little in the past month. I kept feeling he was avoiding me and I was afraid it would be awkward with just the two of us alone. I had been looking forward to that day close to a month now, but now I was starting to have second thoughts.

I wasn’t even sure he’d want me helping anymore, since whenever he found himself alone with me in the same room he’d bolt out the door before I’d have time to say anything—unless he was actually saving me from whatever disaster I’d caused that day. But it would also be a great opportunity to actually talk and clear everything up, because I really didn’t like this. It was one thing to not return my feelings, but avoiding me really hurt. No matter how he felt about me romantically I knew we could still be friends, and I wanted him to know that too. Or it was all in my head and he wasn’t avoiding me and I was worrying for nothing. Either way, some things needed to be cleared up before I’d get an ulcer.

But there were still a few days left until Christmas, and I still had the faerie problem to deal with before I could deal with the Clyde problem. Because surprise, surprise! It wasn’t over yet.

I was mistaken when I thought that it was over just because nothing happened while I was at home. It seemed the faeries were concentrated around the Duck Tape, because once I was back, it started again. It was a little better, I wasn’t as clumsy as a few days back, so I knew I was doing something right with the offerings. That, or I wasn't as tired anymore and I could actually focus. But I was still blaming the faeries just to be sure.

I figured I would place the same offerings around the bar too. So I did that, sneakily at first, prompting everyone to think I’d gone crazy over the break, because why else would I have been carrying bird feed and crystals in all of my pockets? Earl was laughing his ass off, and Clyde looked a bit confused, but sympathetic. Especially one day, when I was attacked by a bunch of pigeons on the porch as I was placing the bird seeds in the makeshift shrine.

“What are you doing?” asked Earl, when he finally managed to stop laughing long enough to speak.

“Offerings, for the faeries,” I said, thanking Clyde for the shot of whiskey he poured me. “The internet says they like these things: organic chocolate,” I said, counting on my fingers, “Champagne, but I don’t have that, organic berries, mushrooms, crystals… birdseed… What else?”

“Not these faeries.”

“Your faeries don’t exist, Earl. I googled.”

“Then who’s messing with you?” I didn’t have anything to say so I just kept my mouth shut. “I told you, you just have to give them what they want and they'll leave you alone,” he said with a wink, heading for the exit. “You’re smart, you’ve got to figure it out.”

“Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?” I asked Clyde, who was leaning over the counter.

“Uh…” he muttered, looking anywhere but at me. “No, I have no idea,” he said, and something in his tone made me think he was lying, which was strange, because I could swear he’d never lie to me. He turned around and he was gone before I could actually study his face, leaving me incredibly confused.

The rest of the week was pretty eventful, with the highlight being on the last day when I nearly flambéed Clyde. Luckily, he got out of it mostly alright, with only a tiny bit of his beard missing. He didn’t seem very upset about it, but I was already planning to leave the state in a haste, never to be seen again.

Fortunately for everyone involved it was the last day before the Christmas break. After we closed, the staff stayed for one more glass of something, the ones that wouldn’t come to the party the next day wished each other Happy Holidays, before heading out into the snow storm outside. We had decided to not exchange gifts this year, since it usually added extra pressure on everyone, but most of them still exchanged Christmas cards. I had a present for Clyde, wrapped nicely at home, but I didn’t have the courage to give it to him. Maybe I’d save it for his birthday.

After closing and locking the door, I collapsed onto a bar stool.

“I quit,” I said in my most pathetic voice.

“What? Why?” he asked, taken completely by surprise. He sat on the stool next to me. “Did anything happen?”

“I’m gonna set your bar on fire. Or worse,” I whined, resting my forehead on the counter. “I’m just a disaster, you’d be better off without me.”

“That’s now true and you know it,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I grumbled and he pulled me into an one armed hug. “I don’t wanna hear anything about it. I want you to come to the party tomorrow, have fun, then rest a few days and come back after the holidays.”

“What if the faeries will still be here when I come back?” I mumbled.

“Then we’ll have to do something about them.”

I lifted my head from the counter and turned around to look at him. He had this really determined frown on his face and I couldn’t help but smile. “And what do you propose we do about it? Because I am all out of ideas, and I’m not calling an exorcist.”

He also smiled for a moment, then got up the stool and became really flustered, nervously passing a hand through his hair. “Umm… we could try with Champagne?” he shrugged.

I burst into laughter. “You know just as little about faeries as I do.”

“Yeah. But it’s worth a try,” he said and went behind the bar, looking on the shelves for a bottle.

“Hey!” I said, pointing a finger at the bottle he took out. “Put that back. That’s worth more than my monthly salary.”

“So?” he asked, staring at the bottle with the most unimpressed look on his face. “It’s worth a try,” he said, placing it under his arm to open.

“You can hire another waitress with that money.”

“I don’t want another waitress.” My heart jumped, and it wasn’t from the sudden pop of the bottle opening. He got out a couple of glasses and placed them in front of us.

“Shall we taste it first?” he asked, pouring a little bit of champagne in the glasses.

“Sure, why not?” I said, taking my glass and looking at the bubbles. It was probably the most expensive sparkling wine I’d ever drank. “Gotta make sure it’s the best quality.”

He smiled and it was like this whole nightmare had vanished and we were once again just as close as we’d always been, no awkwardness between us, no tension. We toasted and savoured our drinks in comfortable silence and then we left a glass for the faeries near the Christmas tree. The rest of the bottle I placed in the fridge.

“I’m gonna make mimosas tomorrow,” I said, feeling really giddy. “We’re gonna be drunk before the party even starts.”

“That sounds good.”

“Do you still want me to come tomorrow to help out?”

“Yeah! Yeah, of course. Did you change your mind about that?” he asked, and although he had his back turned on me I sensed the disappointment in his voice.

“Nope. But I might burn your bar down, so be prepared with an extinguisher,” I said with a smile.

“Well, it needs renovations anyway,” he said, looking around. “But hopefully the Champagne will work.”

“I hope so,” I said, hopping off the barstool. “I’m sorry for setting you on fire today.”

“It’s alright,” he said, scratching his beard.

I took a few steps towards him, studying the damage I’d done. He didn’t shy away from my touch when I passed my fingers over the spot where hairs had been burned off.

“It needed a trim anyway,” he said in a soft voice, and I let my hand travel up, cupping his cheek. He looked me in the eyes, for the first time in a while and I felt weak under his gaze, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone.

There was a whirring sound followed by a loud thud that reverberated through the empty bar, making us both jump. I followed Clyde to the front door, waiting in the doorway as he went outside to check.

“It’s just the snow falling off the roof,” he said, coming back in with snowflakes caught in his hair. “It’s been snowing pretty heavily the past few hours, I think you better hurry home before the roads get blocked.

“Okay,” I said, a little weary. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yeah, I just have to close first. You go ahead, and we’ll meet tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

I grabbed my stuff and ploughed through the snow to my car. It took a few minutes of digging to find it under the white blanket, but eventually I managed to get out of the parking lot.

The road had been cleaned, so I breathed a sigh of relief as I drove away, but even so there was still enough left on the streets to make it look like I was trapped in a white hell. It was a little scary, I thought, watching the big snowflakes that kept falling on my windshield, before being dragged to the side by the wipers.

As I drove, the moment I had with Clyde before the snow interrupted us—I felt like that was on the faeries as well—kept coming to mind and my heart jumped. It was one of the most intimate moments we had shared until then, because he didn’t really like physical contact that much and I knew to keep my distance. I was surprised that he didn’t brush my hand away, and instead leaned into my touch. It was so strange that he had seemed to enjoy it, after days and days of outright avoiding me. Maybe it was time to talk. It was definitely time to talk.

I actually knew the exact moment my car hit an icy strip on the road. I could feel how my hands on the steering wheel did absolutely nothing to maintain the direction, so I took my foot off the gas pedal and let it slide. I wasn’t going fast so the car glided for a while, then stopped in one of the snowdrifts gathered on the side of the road.

I let out a long breath, and got out of the car to check the damage. Everything seemed okay, the snow absorbing most of the shock, so I got back in and put the car in reverse to try and get it back on the road.

Unfortunately, it didn’t want to. It seemed like my car was pretty well embedded in the snow, the wheels were skidding and the car wasn’t moving and inch. I huffed, cursed myself, the snow and the motherfucking faeries and got out of the car. I fished a shovel out of the trunk and started shoveling. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I had to do something, I couldn’t just sit in my car and freeze to death.

Clyde found me fifteen minutes later, sitting in the snow, completely resigned to the thought that I would die frozen and miserable.

“What happened?” he asked, and I don’t think I’d ever seen him that scared. “Are you alright?” He took my hand and lifted me from the snow, looking at me like he was trying to convince himself I was still in one piece.

“I’m fine. Seriously, I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I just lost control and got off the road, but I’m not hurt, and my car seems fine. But now I can’t get it out.”

After he made sure I was actually okay, he got behind the wheel and tried getting it out, but wasn’t any more successful than I was. The wheels kept spinning, but the car didn’t move.

“I’ll call Jimmy to bring the truck and pull it out,” he said, fishing the phone out of his pocket.

“No, Clyde, don’t! It’s late, let him sleep. I’ll have someone drag it out tomorrow, don’t worry. It’s on the side of the road anyway, nothing will happen.”

He looked at me, then at the car, and eventually he sighed. “Okay. Give me the keys and we’ll come and pick it up tomorrow.” The determined look on his face made it very clear that he didn't want me to argue, so I handed him my keys and got into his car.

We were mostly silent after that. I was defrosting, ashamed and a little scared that the faeries had followed me home and they seemed to be getting more aggressive. But I was also tired and stressed and a little distracted, so that could also be a reason.

I glanced at Clyde and remembered once again the moment we had that evening. He was looking ahead, his strong profile outlined in the dim light. He was so beautiful, and I was so in love with him that I had to shove my hands deep into my coat pockets so I could resist the urge to just tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. I wanted him to know how thankful I was for him always taking care of me and that he was the only reason I didn’t lose my mind the past week, but unfortunately I just couldn’t find my words.

We were getting pretty close to where I lived when the car made a strangled noise before coming to a halt and my heart almost did the same. I looked over to Clyde and he returned my panicked gaze.

“This ain’t good,” I said matter of factly, as Clyde turned the keys in the ignition and the car just refused to start.

“Don’t worry, it’s gonna work,” he said, but I could see he wasn’t that convinced either.

I was oddly at peace. If I was going to die in the snow, dying alongside Clyde would probably be the best way to go. But I was feeling really guilty. He was too young to die trapped inside a car, the night before Christmas. And it was my fault. The faeries or the curse, or just my bad luck, they were all affecting him by proxy, so if it weren’t for me he’d already be home, snug in bed, ready to sleep.

I looked at Clyde. He had moved on to talking to the car stage of desperation, whispering pleas while gently stroking the steering wheel. I felt a pang of jealousy the moment he called her ‘baby’, and I made an effort not to laugh at how stupid that was.

“My place is really close, like 20 minutes walk. We could leave it on the side of the road, and make the rest of the way on foot,” I offered, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be pleasant. But we couldn’t wait in the snow either. “I have a couch.” He looked at me, but I couldn’t read his expression. “We can figure out tomorrow morning how we’ll get our cars back.”

He looked outside for a moment and nodded. “I wanna try pushing it first,” he said, getting out of the car. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll walk. Can you come behind the wheel for a second?”

It was still snowing outside, but at least the wind had stopped. It was almost pleasant, with big, fluffy snowflakes falling out of the sky, and if I hadn’t been that tired I would have enjoyed walking home with Clyde, especially if at some point he’d decide to hold my hand. But I got into the car as Clyde started pushing. I turned the key in the ignition, but the car only whined pathetically.

“Come on you bitch,” I whispered as lovingly as I could between gritted teeth, while turning the key in the ignition once again. The engine started with a whirr and I jumped with excitement, smashing my fingers on the car’s ceiling. “Who knew you liked dirty talk,” I said, a huge grin on my face, just as Clyde was getting in the passenger seat.

“What?” he asked, eyes wide, cheeks flushed from the effort.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said quickly, hoping he didn’t think I was talking to him. “Do you wanna switch places?”

“No, it’s okay, you drive.”

Nothing else happened on the way home, so I pulled in my driveway, leaving the engine running, just in case it wouldn’t want to start again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night? I wouldn’t want you to get stuck in the snow on your way home.” I asked, dragging my feet through the snow. I smiled, and hoped the worry wouldn’t show through, “My couch is pretty comfortable,” I added quickly, so he didn’t misunderstand. It was just a friendly offer, after all. There was no ulterior motive.

He looked at me, then at the car, and seemed like he couldn’t make up his mind. “I don’t think I should…” he said, taking a few steps towards me. The headlights were illuminating him from behind, making him look even more massive. I felt safe in his shadow. “It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow,” he continued, rubbing his neck. “You need to rest.”

“Okay,” I said, not wanting to press him. “But please text me when you get home, so I know you’re safe. Otherwise I’ll come looking for you armed with a snow shovel.”

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll text you. Don’t worry about me.”

“And thank you. I owe you one for saving me once again.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, heading to his car. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Clyde. See you tomorrow.”

I waited for him to get into his car, but he seemed to change his mind and in two huge steps he covered the distance between us and I found myself engulfed in his warm embrace. I was a bit surprised, but welcomed it wholeheartedly, hugging him back. “Goodnight,” he whispered. “Stay safe.”

He hurried back to his car and I waved him goodbye, still frozen in place. Once he’d pulled out of my driveway, I skipped to my house, giggling like an idiot. Two moments of intimacy in one day? And none of us was drunk? That was new. Suddenly I had forgotten all about the faeries, as I got rid of all my clothes and got into the shower.

The message saying that he’d arrived home safely came about ten minutes later. I texted him back goodnight and crawled into bed, falling asleep almost instantly, phone still clutched in my hand.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Masterlist

(link might not work, you can find the masterlist in my profile description)

#clyde logan #clyde logan x reader #clyde logan x oc #logan lucky #clyde logan fanfiction #mistletoe kiss #tmc

16 notes · View notes

denise-major-dodge · 6 years

Text

Heartburn (GERD)

Thanksgiving is tomorrow and so I thought I’d talk about heartburn; something many of you will be expecting and bracing to suffer through so you can enjoy your favorite foods. Everyone stocks up on Tums and other antacid type medications just incase they have a heartburn flare up. I wanted to share what I learned in regards to steps you can take to avoid it before it even starts, and healthy but EFFECTIVE ways to keep it at bay.

Antacids will help relieve symptoms right when they are happening… USUALLY (not always) and people lean on them for giant meals like thanksgiving. Persistent heartburn is hard on the body and if not taken care of will cause permanent damage to multiple organs in the body including your teeth.

SIXTY percent of Americans on average suffer from heartburn on a WEEKLY basis! This seems to be one of those things we take an antacid right when it happens and then move on. What you will discover, if you haven’t already, is that eventually these medications will fail you and quit doing the job you’re begging them to do.

How do you know you have heartburn; what are the symptoms?

Heartburn will cause some to all of the below:

Burning Pain/Sensation that moves from upper stomach to throat

Sour & unpleasant taste in the mouth

Bloating

Difficulty swallowing and keeping food down

Burping and gas

Choking

Coughing

Chest pain

Hoarse voice

Headache

Uncomfortably full causing stomach aches

Nausea

The 30 Day Heartburn Solution: A 3-Step Nutrition Program to Stop Acid Reflux Without Drugs, by Craig Fear NTP “Nexium, Zantac, Rolaids, Tums…have you tried all the drugs only to be on higher and higher doses and still experiencing heartburn? Have you heard the common nutrition advice—eat less fat, stop overeating, eliminate triggers (like delicious chocolate and wine)—and heeded it, only to be let down by your results? Maybe your symptoms, in fact, are getting worse. And this is exactly the problem with conventional treatments. They can free you of acid refluxing into your esophagus, but they often do so at the expense of your long-term health.”

What are some things that can happen to a person after suffering from heartburn long term?

Painful lesions will develop on the esophagus

Asthma

Laryngitis

& other issues including cancer in worst case scenarios

Can it send someone to the hospital or emergency services?

If the person suffering from heartburn is vomiting black or bloody looking material, experiencing chest pain that radiates into the back, difficulty swallowing, short of breath, or passing tar-like stools they must see a physician or seek the advice of emergency services IMMEDIATELY. These can be signs of an obstruction in the esophagus, ulcers, or a heart attack.

What causes heartburn to happen?

When there happens to be too much pressure on the stomach or the hiatal sphincter muscle it doesn’t completely close causing stomach acids and other material to rise up the esophagus.

The most common cause for this action is fatty, spicy, rich, fried, or acidic foods, excessive use of aspirin or ibuprofen, obesity, caffeine, smoking, pregnancy, heart problems, and various prescription drugs can cause heartburn to persist.

If you suffer from both chronic constipation and chronic heartburn they are typically related. The pressure and pushing on the abdominal muscles when trying to use the restroom can cause stomach material to rise up causing heartburn.

There is another possible reason called esophagitis; when a portion of the esophagus doesn’t completely close off from the stomach contents.

For some people laying down or sitting in particular positions will cause heartburn because of the way the stomach and esophagus are positioned in the body.

What’s wrong with taking over the counter medications?

There’s nothing wrong with it if you rarely consume these products and remember that the majority of these medications treat the symptoms not the cause of heartburn. Constant use of antacids, calcium carbonate products, milk of magnesia, and H2 blockers can also contribute to long term physical damage. Many of these products contain aluminum and magnesium salts which can cause irreparable issues. People often times take medications like Pepcid AC, Zantac, and Tagamet HB 200 after the symptoms are present, not realizing that these medications are completely useless unless you take the medicine BEFORE eating your meal.

What foods should someone with chronic heartburn avoid?

Milk – people have been treating heartburn for a long time with milk not realizing that milk creates a long term rise in acid secretion. It might calm some of the pain immediately, but it will cause you experience heart burn more often if you keep using milk to treat it.

Culprit Foods – these are foods that every person with chronic heart burn knows are going to bring pain like; spicy foods, fatty foods, fried foods, high acid foods, citrus, carbonated beverages, and so on… If you know that you can’t help yourself and you WILL be eating these foods (for example; maybe someone slaved over a fried turkey and risked their life for thanksgiving dinner. I understand, not eating it would not only be a shame, but might also be considered rude by some people. 🙂 Take steps to prepare by taking heartburn medications like Zantac and Pepcid AC BEFORE you eat your meal. Minimize the consumption of the above food completely if you can, but if you can’t, take steps to prevent the pain!

When you are eating remind yourself to slow down. Eating isn’t a contest and shoving it quickly down your throats is not helpful to your body and heartburn symptoms. Slowing down will help your body determine more accurately when your full so you don’t overeat. Slowing down will also give your digestive track a chance to work smoothly without being pressured by a tightly packed stomach to move quicker than it can.

Once you’ve eaten the no-no foods, don’t lay down or lean back into that recliner! Walk around, stretch, and take some deep breaths; this will help your body digest the food a little bit quicker and ward off that painful piercing chest pain. (Don’t do anything too physically demanding either.) Instead of ending your meal with a rich dessert, consume some fresh papaya or a banana to also boost your digestion.

What are supplements someone with chronic heartburn can take to help fight off the long term effects?

DIGESTIVE ENZYMES – The enzymes help the digestive process along making it more efficient and effective. Suggested Dosage: take as directed on container 30 minutes BEFORE consuming your meal.

ALGINATE – Also goes by Algin. This product works by floating on the top of your stomach contents creating an all natural and digestible barrier between acidic foods and your esophagus. Suggested Dosage: 1,000 mg taken immediately AFTER your meal.

GINGER or GINGER ROOT – This herb helps heartburn by absorbing excess of stomach acid. It’s an effective way to fight off stomach ulcers even when taken with aspirin. You can find ginger in both capsule or tablet form for this purpose. Suggested Dosage: take as directed on the supplement bottle

PAPAYA & BROMELAIN – When combined together it compliments one another in fighting stomach and digestive disorders. Suggested Dosage: take as directed on the supplement bottle

FENNEL & CATNIP – This combination is useful as an anti-inflammatory. It can also help control the symptoms of gas and bloating. Suggested Dosage: take as directed on the supplement bottle

SLIPPERY ELM – This herb help sby protecting and soothing mucus membrains in the stomach and gastrointestinal tract. Suggested Dosage: take as directed on the supplement bottle

MARSHMALLOW – Not the fluffy candy that goes on smores. This herbal supplement contains mucilages, which helps soothe mucus membranes in the stomach and gastrointestinal tract like the Slippery Elm. Suggested Dosage: 400 mg AFTER your meal

GENTIAN ROOT – This is a popular European bitter that is commonly used to treat digestive disorders including heartburn, indigestion, vomiting, dyspepsia, or low bile and saliva secretion. This herbal use in medicine is recognized in Germany, Belgium, France, and the U.K.

Are there alternative remedies that can be used to help with heartburn?

Reflexology & Aromatherapy – have been proven to aide and relieve the symptoms associated with heartburn and indigestion. Contact your local aromatherapist or massage therapy to ask what services might be best for your specific symptoms.

Homeopathy – Arsenicum alb 6c & Argentum nit 6c will help reduce the pain caused by heartburn and excess gas.

What are things a person can do to help avoid heartburn besides supplements and medicines?

Drink a lot of water to keep your stomach contents smoothly moving through your digestive tract.

Don’t wear constricting clothes when you eat; if you’re uncomfortable at all you should change your clothes. Stress can also have an effect on the hormones in your body as well as how the stomach digests it; long story short, stress is likely to lead to constipation or diarrhea depending on your body chemistry.

Learn to eat slower, thoroughly chew your food to mush, and relax while you eat. Keep stress low and allow your body the time to do its job correctly without having to rush.

At the very first sign of heartburn drink a glass of water and slowly stand up straight. If you’re in bed, consume water and make sure your head is elevated well above the heart. Being elevated will help keep stomach acids out of your esophagus. On topic with being bed; stay away from food when its almost bedtime.

While its good to consume water with your meal, you will want to stay away from drinking more liquids than solids. An excess in any direction can increase the chance of suffering from heartburn symptoms.

Buy a chewy fiber supplement you can take every day. They taste like gummy bears and help your stomach keep foods and liquids moving efficiently and properly.

If you are constipated avoid excessive pushing. Take turns taking a couple slow deep breaths while watching your stomach rise and fall and breathing normally. Excessive pushing will increase the bodies stress hormones and put pressure on your stomach causing heartburn. A few sessions switching between deep breaths and normal breaths should encourage a bowel movement.

Cleanse your solar plexus chakra. A blocked solar plexus chakra will contribute to heartburn, IBS, indigestion, aid reflux, pain, and nausea.

There isn’t a prescription medication or over the counter medication that will help and CURE your heartburn the way the above listed herbal supplements will.

Thanksgiving DOESN’T have to come with Heartburn Heartburn (GERD) Thanksgiving is tomorrow and so I thought I'd talk about heartburn; something many of you will be expecting and bracing to suffer through so you can enjoy your favorite foods.

1 note · View note

scientia-rex · 7 years

Text

“Functional Disorders”: aka “we don’t really understand what you have, but we kind of believe you”

If you are not a medical person and there is one thing you take away from my posts about med school, please let it be this: doctors are people who like answers. It’s definitional. Different fields approach it differently--family medicine doctors have pressures that shape their diagnosis and prescription habits that are very unlike the pressures on hospitalists. (Family doctors will therefore rag on internists for being indecisive, and internists will rag on family doctors for not being thorough enough.)

But people go into medicine because they want to help, among many other reasons. (Anybody going into it for the money and prestige now is likely to be very disappointed. Just ask the people who’ve been in the field since the 80s--they have LOTS of thoughts on HMOs and the way reimbursement has changed.) And the way we’re taught emphasizes clean, orderly, logical patterns. There should be a physiological correlate to a symptom. A physiological change should cause a symptom. If someone has back pain and a bulging disc, the disc should be the cause of the back pain.

So when we run into something we can’t point to a clear physiological correlate of, we get frustrated. Often it limits what we can do, and we like action. It limits how well we can understand what’s happening. Doctors are, on the whole, uncomfortable with ambiguity. Which is unfortunate, because there are a lot of conditions we just don’t have a great understanding of.

Diabetes is the kind of condition doctors love, especially Type 1. There’s a clear understanding of at least the majority of the steps in the disease development. Your immune system attacks your pancreas, your pancreas stops making insulin, there’s a whole host of changes that follow in the biochemical cascade with predictable physiological changes as a result.

You know what doctors don’t love? Irritable bowel syndrome. Not to be confused with IBD--inflammatory bowel disease--because IBD consists of two syndromes, Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis, which are both pretty well mapped out and understood. IBD is immune-mediated. Going on an immunosuppressant medication, like Humira, should and often does provide a significant degree of relief.

IBS, on the other hand, is what’s called a functional disorder. Functional, in this context, means that it doesn’t seem to have obvious physiological correlate. People with Crohn’s disease get ulcers everywhere along the GI tract. You can’t deny, when someone develops a fistula around their anus, that they’ve got a real physical condition. But in IBS, you can put a scope all the way through someone’s colon and see no changes. In ulcerative colitis, you’d see continuous inflammation. You could biopsy and see cellular changes. But in IBS, you don’t see anything. And the response of doctors has been, very often, to pretend that that means the symptoms aren’t real. That patients are making it up. Hypochondriacs looking for an excuse to see the doctor.

This is, of course, ludicrous to anyone with IBS. I’ve never had in my life had what would medically be considered a normal GI history. I structured my early life around it--in my teenaged years my ability to do normal things, like go to parties, was severely hampered by the uncertainty around whether, at any given time, I would suddenly be struck by terrible abdominal pain, with the humiliating sequelae of ruining the nearest bathroom and being the laughingstock of the social group. My mother and sister had the same problem. My mother’s father had the same problem. It was always transparently obvious to us that this was something with a genetic link. There were some foods that made it worse, but nothing we could avoid that made it go away. The three of us have tried every restricted diet in the book to try to minimize our symptoms. We’ve tried fiber, peppermint oil, apple cider vinegar, loperamide, you name it, we’ve given it a shot. One of the problems in treating IBS is that it seems to have a component of increased sensitivity to pressure as pain. Everything that will regulate bowel movement frequency will also increase gas. Gas pressure means gas pain. And no, simethicone doesn’t help.

I don’t even tell most doctors about the IBS because they get this scrunched-up look on their face. They want to tell me to try Miralax and simethicone. They want me to eat more fiber. I have done those things. They don’t work. If I tell the doctor that, they get almost personally offended. They blame me for having a problem they can’t fix.

A number of years ago, I suddenly started having bladder pain. It was very sudden, and very weird. I’d never had anything like it. I had a family history of recurrent kidney stones, so I figured that was the problem. But long after a lithotripsy, the problem continued. Finally my urologist, grudgingly, conceded that I might have something called interstitial cystisis. I’d never heard of it. Looked it up. It’s... intermittent bladder pain without any known physiological correlate. Wheeeeeeee.

People with one functional disorder are at higher risk for other functional disorders. Which means we’re at higher risk for being perceived as crazy. We’re also more likely to be mentally ill, which means doctors are less likely to take our physical symptoms seriously.

But the idea that I somehow imagined my bladder pain into being is beyond preposterous. It wasn’t there, and then it was. I’m a highly educated, medically savvy, reliable reporter of symptoms. I know when I’m in pain.

Whatever the underlying pathology is, my guess is that it’s a transmission disorder: nerves are talking wrong. They’re reporting problems where there aren’t really any. Or, given that I have various atopic conditions (eczema! now renamed atopic dermatitis!), maybe it’s got a component of epithelial/endothelial dysregulation. Whatever it is, it’s real, but we don’t understand what it is yet. So doctors are in denial, very often.

And they hate to admit when their only tools have failed. With functional disorders, since there aren’t good medical interventions, it often comes down to behavioral changes: I have to drink a ridiculous amount of water if I want to not get random bladder pain. Why does it work? We don’t know. Maybe it dilutes whatever substances in the urine are irritating the bladder. But that’s a big maybe. I just find that it helps, so I do it. I have to avoid milk, grease, wine, beer, caffeine, and a lot of other foods if I want to maximally control my IBS symptoms. Why? Who the fuck knows? But watching my symptoms and changing my eating accordingly is the only thing that’s provided any relief, and even then, not much.

So I don’t talk to doctors about it. Because I’m tired of hearing their three pet tools. (”Stress can make it worse, have you tried yoga?”) Specialists are sometimes better, sometimes even worse. “Functional disorder” is a diagnosis class that means “enough people have described this, consistently, that we believe it’s a thing, we guess”, but there are still plenty of doctors who don’t even believe that endometriosis, which has clear surgical correlates, exists. So you’ll run into doctors who think you’re just a whiny whiner who doesn’t like occasional irregularity, instead of understanding and believing that this is something with a major impact on your quality of life. It’s not killing you, so they won’t take it seriously.

The moral of the story isn’t to never tell your doctors about symptoms. By all means, do. But don’t expect them to have good answers if they can’t find a physical correlate of whatever the functional problem is. And do expect them to get frustrated if you don’t get better.

#med school dead school #feces tw #urine tw

104 notes · View notes

alaa4dental · 4 years

Link

When you think of cosmetic dentistry, chances are you immediately think of a famous and/or wealthy person. It makes sense that someone who lives in the public eye undergoes cosmetic dental procedures. After all, he or she must always look their best.

But then there's you.

While you think that it would be nice to rejuvenate, resurrect and restore your once beautiful smile, you think cosmetic dentistry is too extreme a measure. Cosmetic dentistry isn't for you.

Or is it?

What was once a novelty service offered by a few select dentists to their wealthier clients, is now a cheaper, routine procedure that is offered by many dentists and available to many patients.

Everyone, not just the rich and famous, can benefit from a whitened smile.

If you're embarrassed by your smile because of deep, stubborn stains in which you've tried nearly everything else, in-office, professional teeth whitening might be the best cosmetic dental procedure for you.

What about other cosmetic dental procedures?

The following are other cosmetic dental procedures available:

Inlays

Onlays

Porcelain crowns

Veneers

Bonding

Orthodontics

Implants

Orthodontics

Teeth reshaping

Gum lift

Gum grafts

Gingivectomy

Gum depigmentation

Invisalign

Bite reclamation

Bridges

Enamelplasty

As you can see, there are many cosmetic dental procedures available. Cosmetic dentistry not only makes your smile look flawless, but it can fix speech impediments, chewing and biting difficulties, and increase self-confidence and self-esteem.

Signs You Need Cosmetic Dentistry

If you think that cosmetic dentistry is only about whitening teeth and smoothing minor smile imperfections, think again. The advancements in cosmetic dental technology have enabled dentists to perform additional cosmetic dental procedures that can dramatically change and improve the lives of their patients.

Here are some signs you may need a cosmetic dental procedure:

Difficulty chewing. Do you experience pain, discomfort, or pressure when you chew? Maybe you don't have any discomfort, but you're physically not able to chew food as well as you should. Difficulty chewing can have a variety of causes, most notably a misaligned bite caused by crooked, missing, or misshapen teeth.

Cosmetic dentistry can fill-in gaps between teeth, replace lost teeth, reshape teeth and straighten teeth so that your proper bite can be restored.

Embarrassing smile. If you're unhappy with your smile, join the crowd. Many patients can find one thing wrong about their smiles. For many people, it's the unpleasant yellowing of their teeth due to poor oral hygiene, smoking, and drinking of coffee, tea, wine, and soda.

While some patients may have the time to have their teeth whitened via at-home whitening kits, others may have deep stains that they'd like to have removed quickly.

If you have teeth staining that won't come out with at-home whitening kits or products and it's causing you to hide your smile, cosmetic dentistry may be the best option for you.

Maybe it's not teeth staining you're most embarrassed about. Maybe you have chipped, cracked, or misshapen teeth. Cosmetic dental procedures such as veneers, inlays, inlays, and bonding can help with these dental issues.

Jaw pain, pressure, and discomfort. Dental issues such as bruxism and TMJ (temporomandibular joint disorder) can leave your jaw sore and can lead to excessive pressure on your teeth and gums.

Crowns can help protect teeth from further wear due to the grinding and clenching common in bruxism and Botox can help ease the pain and pressure associated with TMJ.

Chronic headaches. Dental conditions such as TMJ and abscessed teeth can also produce constant headaches which can be severe enough to negatively impact your life. Your oral and nasal cavity are interconnected so a severe issue in one can also affect the other. A problem in the mouth can, therefore, not only cause jaw pain, but it can impact the nasal cavity and produce headaches. Cosmetic dental procedures such as dermal fillers and Botox can help lessen the severity and frequency of your headaches.

Heartburn and ulcers. Patients who suffer from chronic acid reflux and heartburn can not only be staining their teeth but also put their teeth at a heightened risk of decay. The stomach acid that comes up from the stomach can erode the lining of the esophagus and the enamel of teeth.

Cosmetic dentistry can help protect your teeth from further stomach acid damage.

Cosmetic dentistry not only makes your smile look great, but it also offers restoration and prevention treatments to give you a healthy and strong smile.

Cosmetic dentistry isn't anything to be afraid of or intimidated by. Contact your local cosmetic dentist to learn how cosmetic dentistry can help improve your smile and life.

#dien dan rao vat #nha khoa #cay ghep implant #rang su

0 notes

fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

Text

Here's what's causing your indigestion, and how you can get rid of it

http://fashion-trendin.com/heres-whats-causing-your-indigestion-and-how-you-can-get-rid-of-it/

Here's what's causing your indigestion, and how you can get rid of it

No one is immune to indigestion. Characterised by that bloated, gassy, uncomfortable feeling that often hits after a big meal, indigestion doesn’t discriminate and can strike your stomach for a number of reasons. “Indigestion is a very common umbrella term for an upset tummy,” Niket Sonpal, a board-certified gastroenterologist in New York City, tells Allure. “The underlying reasons for it can be a number of conditions — starting with conditions such as peptic ulcer disease or gastritis, or behavioral triggers like acute alcohol drinking or eating too much too quickly.” We spoke with experts about what might be behind your stomach discomfort, how to treat it, and when it’s time to seek medical attention.

What are the symptoms of indigestion?

According to Mayo Clinic, common symptoms of indigestion include:

uncomfortable fullness

pain in your upper abdomen

a burning sensation in the chest (heartburn)

bloating

nausea

Symptoms of indigestion aren’t one-size-fits-all, Sonpal adds: When you and bae go out for a luxurious dinner, you might go home gassy, while they might be battling heartburn.

What’s behind these painful physical feelings?

One of the most common culprits of indigestion is the food you eat. “Fatty or greasy foods; coffee and carbonated beverages; spicy or acidic foods, such as tomato sauces or salsas; alcohol, particularly red wine; and taking non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs) can be huge culprits,” Sophie Balzora, a board-certified gastroenterologist and assistant professor of medicine at NYU Langone Health, tells Allure.

Your mealtime behaviors can also cause indigestion. “It could be that you’re eating too fast, too much, drinking from a straw, or talking too much while you’re eating,” explains Keri Gans, a nutritionist in New York City. “All of these eating habits can lead you to take in a lot of air as you’re eating, which causes gas to build up in your stomach.” Mindlessly munching — for example, spending your mealtime more focused on Twitter or the TV than your plate — and eating too close to bedtime also make the list.

37 of the best foods to beat the belly bloat

Indigestion can also be caused by underlying medical conditions such as ulcers, celiac disease, gallstones, intestinal blockage, or stomach cancer, according to Mayo Clinic. There are also some cases of indigestion that have no obvious cause at all. This may be called functional or nonulcer dyspepsia, while “some doctors call this a ‘depressed gut,'” explains Sonpal. “It can actually be anxiety-related.”

In fact, diagnosis of anxiety-induced upset stomach “is actually becoming more common as doctors develop a greater understanding of the huge impact mental health has on the body,” Sonpal says.

So, how can I prevent indigestion before it strikes?

One of the simplest ways to handle indigestion is the same solution to just about any problem: Prevent it from happening in the first place. A few little life adjustments can go a long way, especially the following expert-recommended fixes.

Pay attention when foods provoke your body: “The first thing is to know your triggers and try to avoid them to begin with,” Gans advises. In other words, if you know wolfing down a cheeseburger makes you feel physical pain, maybe go for something a little lighter: “The first line of defense is not to worry about the remedy but figure out how to avoid it altogether.”

What is the Gut Health diet?

Start logging what you eat and drink, and how these items make you feel: A food journal can help you keep track of what items or behaviors seem to give your body the most grief. “When people claim that there’s something going on and they think it’s food-related, I always say start writing down what you’re eating and what you’re feeling,” Gans says. Be detailed about how you feel after every meal — “Nothing that you jot down is too silly,” Gans adds — and then, after a week or so, start looking for patterns. “It might become obvious, like, ‘Oh, every time I went out and had too many glasses of wine or spent the whole meal talking with friends, I felt [bad],'” Gans notes. Sonpal points out that alcohol, in particular, can cause the lining of the stomach to become inflamed.

Eat slowly and chew your food carefully: Slow and steady wins the race — or, at the very least, helps minimise the air you take in while eating, says Sonpal, thereby reduces bloating. And if you’re susceptible to indigestion, Gans also recommends eating smaller, more frequent meals throughout the day rather than focusing on a few big ones.

Take care of your body and mind: Finally, while research on the mind-gut connection is still emerging, we do know that “when we get anxious, we get stomachaches,” says Sonpal. If indigestion is caused by a case of functional dyspepsia, anxiety treatments like “yoga, mindfulness, and exercise have been shown to help.”

How can I relieve indigestion once it hits?

Fortunately, there are a few easy things you can do to ease symptoms.

Brew a cup of peppermint or ginger tea: “What peppermint does is it breaks up the gas bubbles and relaxes the small intestine,” Sonpal explains. Ginger, meanwhile, can help to reduce bloating, pain, and nausea. While there haven’t been a lot of studies done on this yet, Sonpal observes that turmeric also seems to have potential as a stomach soother. “I’ve had a lot of patients take turmeric for other issues and find that their indigestion also resolves,” he says.

Surprising beauty hacks using a tea bag

Moving your body can help: After a meal, avoid the allure of the nap and refrain from lying down, as this can cause or worsen indigestion. Instead, remain upright and consider some gentle movement: “You might even take a walk,” says Gans. (A run, on the other hand, might make you feel worse.)

Medications can also ease the symptoms of indigestion: Aside from antacids such Pepto-Bismol and Tums, there are two main types of medicine that doctors use to settle the stomach: histamine (H2) blockers and proton pump inhibitors, which decrease the amount of acid in your stomach, Balzora explains. These aren’t a long-term fix, however. “Even with OTC medications, it’s important to not take them for extended periods of time without consulting with your physician,” she says. For when you’re looking for some quick relief, here are a few OTC medications to check out.

1. Pepto-Bismol Chewable Tablets Cherry

Each of these flavored, chewable tablets contains the active ingredient bismuth subsalicylate, which can alleviate stomach and gastrointestinal distress. Shop now

2. Tums Chewy Delights Very Cherry

This formula contains calcium carbonate, which can neutralise stomach acid. (Note that too much calcium has been linked to constipation and even increased kidney stone risk, according to the National Institutes of Health, so keep an eye on your daily intake.) Shop now

3. Pepcid AC Acid Reducer Tablets Maximum Strength

As an H2 blocker with the active ingredient famotidine, this medication can ease heartburn by reducing stomach acid, as well as help prevent heartburn when taken before a meal. Shop now

When should I see a doctor about my symptoms?

Let’s say you’re avoiding trigger foods and eating more slowly, but you still find yourself relying on over-the-counter indigestion remedies. If your indigestion becomes a chronic issue no matter what you do — if, for example, it’s gone on for two weeks or you notice it happening after every meal — “that’s when we need to take a closer look,” says Sonpal. “It could be anything from an ulcer to an infection.”

“You want to rule out that it’s the way that you’re eating and not something more serious going on,” Gans adds. “If everything is fine, that’s when you can talk to a registered dietician to figure out the dietary components.” To get to the bottom of things, your doc might do a routine endoscopy (a non-surgical procedure used to peek inside the body) or run a blood test.

Other warning signs something could be seriously wrong include severe pain, unintentional weight loss, vomiting or bloody or black stool, Balzora says. “Any family history of chronic digestive conditions or digestive cancers should also be brought up to your physician,” she notes. The bottom line: If you have an idea that you’re experiencing something more serious than a simple case of too many garlic French fries, it’s never a bad idea to chat with a doctor.

We trialled 13 healthy meal delivery services and this is what we found

0 notes

shotgunhouse-blog · 7 years

Text

“Snake Head” by Lynda Leidiger

The whole snake head business began, of course, on Halloween.

I had seen it in the window, weeks before, on the shelf with a gorilla, Richard Nixon and an old man with one bloody eyeball hanging down over his cheek. The snake was a king cobra, emerald green, a proud hood splayed behind its head. Its small red eyes stared arrogantly above me. I loved its milky fangs.

The night before the party, my husband took me to buy the mask. “What do you want that for?” he said when he saw it. He was trying on a Jimmy Carter mask and chuckling at himself. The clerk told him they had just sold the last Menachem Begin.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s me.”

I slipped it on. It was very dark and I could hardly see out. My eyes were focused through two small holes in the roof of the cobra’s rubber mouth. It was like tunnel vision, the clerk’s face looming toward me as through a fisheye lens.

“It’s very unique, dear,” she said, squinting at me. “I only had half a dozen of these, and I had to order them back in January. This is the last one.”

Some other customers started to gather around me, pointing and snickering. I made hideous faces at them, testing the mask. They didn’t see.

“I’ll take it,” I said. My voice bellowed in my ears behind the thick rubber walls.

“Isn’t it awfully hot?” my husband said. He peered in at me without meeting my eyes and nodded in satisfaction, as though he had paused at the entrance of a haunted cave and found it empty.

I wore the head all the way home in the car. I could see only straight ahead; palm trees waved like giant feelers at the edge of my vision. I had the odd sensation of being brought home from the hospital. Instead of taking the freeway, my husband drove slowly down Ventura Boulevard all the way from Tarzana to Studio City. Although it was early afternoon and the car window was rolled down, nobody seemed to notice my head. I could tell he was disappointed.

“And they say people in New York are blasé,” he muttered.

For the party, I put on a strapless gown of purple velvet, swarming with seed pearls and rhinestones. I also had black-velvet gloves to my elbows, a rhinestone bracelet and black-patent-leather shoes with straps around my ankles. Finally, I draped a fawn-colored rabbit-fur jacket around me. The jacket felt odd; my husband had given it to me and I had never worn it. The thought of the dead rabbits was still faintly sickening.

My cobra eyes stared at me from the mirror. A golden reptile throat rose from my shoulders. I was magnificent. “It’s a shame you don’t have some green body paint,” my husband said. He was angry because he wanted to go as a gypsy and I wouldn’t let him take my violin. He thought he had a right to it because I hadn’t played in two years. He grumbled as a cut a hole in my throat so I could drink through a straw without taking off the head.

It turned out to be one of those Hollywood parties. I’m not sure how we were invited, but we went because my husband thought he might make some connections. Someone told him Ralph Bakshi might be there. A Doberman in a feather boa lunged for me at the door, barking and frothing. Fidel Castro slapped the dog’s snout until it was quiet, and handed me a joint.

“Charmed, Fidel, I’m Joan Crawford,” I said, holding out my velvet hand to him. He looked pleased to be recognized. Nearly everyone laughed. My husband beamed; he hadn’t been so proud of me in years. I held the joint to my throat and watched in the mirror as the smoke slid out over my black tongue.

We went out onto the patio and stood, smoking, under the cardboard skeletons hanging from the eucalyptus trees. Their feet scraped loudly against my head. I could tell that Ralph Bakshi wasn’t going to show up there. I got myself a glass of wine punch.

“Hey, what do you look like under that mask?” some guy asked. He wore a tweed cap and there were several pipes in his pockets. I tried to decide whether or not the pinkish-purple blotches had been painted on his cheeks. “I bet under that mask you got blonde hair. Am I right? The coat’s the tip-off; if you had dark hair, you wouldn’t wear a coat that color.”

“If she had, like, black hair, the contrast would be too much,” someone else agreed. He was an actor from Phoenix. He told us several times that he had just arrived in L.A. yesterday with two dollars and eight cents in his pocket. His shoes didn’t match and his eyebrows were drawn so that one went up and the other down.

“I bet she’s got blue eyes, or maybe hazel, and high cheekbones. And very soft skin,” the guy with the pipes said suggestively. His acne glowed eerily under the patio floodlights.

My husband smirked, pleased.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” I said, and had another hit.

A girl with pigtails and white knee socks came bouncing out of the house. Under one arm she carried a cloth doll in a bonnet. “I heard there was something to smoke out here. I haven’t moved so fast all night.” She giggled.

“It’s harsh,” the actor said, passing her the joint.

“Harsh. It’s nice to hear harsh. I mean, people say raspy. Raspy and dusted!” She tossed her pigtails and took the joint in long, noisy gasps. “It’s flippy. Hey, you’re a soldier,” she said to Fidel.

He took the cigar out of his mouth disgustedly. “Exactly what are you supposed to be?” he said.

“I’m four years old,” she said, cradling the doll.

“I’m twenty-one, going on a thousand.” The guy with the pipes kept trying to look in at me, but he was having a hard time standing up. I was having a hard time trying to figure out why no one seemed to have come in costume.

“God, aren’t there any potato chips? Raw vegetables give me ulcers,” the actor said and wandered off.

The guy with the pipes poked the girl’s doll. “That Raggedy Ann?”

The four-year-old scowled, crinkling her painted freckles. “This is Holly Hobbie. Her friends call her Hobbie; I mean, Holly.” She dissolved in giggles.

I found that I could push pretzel sticks through my throat.

“I want to show you something,” Fidel whispered. He led me up to his room. Over his bed was a huge oil painting of a Venetian canal. He told me had painted it himself in 20 hours. It wasn’t badly done at all. Somehow, he had put a small light behind it so there was a sun in the sky, which he could make brighter or dimmer. The sky was a kind of faded amber color and the crumbling buildings were dried caramel. He turned the sun low for me. “I knew you’d like Venice,” he said, fingering my purple velvet.

Just then, the four-year-old came in. “Wow. What color is it?” she said.

Fidel let go of my dress and put the cigar back in his mouth. He looked as though it didn’t taste particularly good. “There are twenty-two colors in it,” he said. “I have them written underneath.”

The four-year-old bent over him to get closer to the painting. It was getting hot inside the head; I felt like going out again. As I left, I heard her telling Fidel that she could see a little blue. I met the Doberman on the stairs. He quietly showed me his teeth but didn’t bark.

My husband scarcely took his eyes off me all night. He devotedly brought me carrot sticks and slivers of zucchini to push through my throat. Once or twice he pressed against me behind the punch bowl.

Two more people came to the party, a cop and his girlfriend. They came as each other. The guy who thought I was a blonde had taken over the stereo and was playing two lines of a Dylan song over and over again.

“Oh, Momma, can this really be the end?” he sang mournfully, waving one of his pipes.

“Oh, let’s go,” my husband said. “Everybody here is trying to break into commercials.”

As we left, the guy stopped singing Dylan to whisper to me, “I’ve voted you beauty queen of the night.”

I turned to glare at him, but the snake head stared straight ahead, haughty and indifferent, as we swept past.

At home, I took off the purple dress and touched the emerald scales of my face.

“Leave your shoes on,” my husband said hoarsely.

He pushed me onto the bed, grabbing my breasts and pulling himself into me, a climber gaining a momentary hold on an impossible cliff. I dug my nails into the meat of his broad back and spurred him on with my shiny heels. He came within seconds, as always.

“That was wonderful,” I said, as always. I touched the cobra head gratefully and cried until my tears welded the rubber to my skin.

I wore the snake head to work on Monday, with a new dress in a soft, wine-colored material that clung to me. I felt sleek and shapely, but it was the cobra head that made me feel beautiful.

“What are you supposed to be?” Rosemary said. She was a stupid, unhappy woman, just smart enough to be perpetually suspicious that people were making fun of her. She had been a secretary with the company for 28 years.

“Happy Halloween,” I said, sitting at my desk and uncovering my typewriter.

Rosemary frowned at me. “You watch it,” she said. “Mr. March said just the other day he thought you had some kind of rebellious streak. But I stuck up for you, I said you were maturing. You’re going to ruin me,” she hissed.

There was a stack of work in my basket. I crumpled the vinyl cover of my IBM and shoved it into a drawer. “I’m getting a cup of coffee,” I said.

Going down the hall to the coffee machine, I saw my lover. He was lean, forest-eyed, wheat-haired. Seeing him always took my breath away, made me weak in the knees. I was a fool, an embarrassment to myself.

He smiled at me. His eyes slid up the forked tongue and found me right away. He shook his head. He thought I was beautiful.

Safe within my rubber fortress, my slack idiot’s face melted for him. I have known you 100,000 years; we were dinosaurs together, I told him soundlessly.

Mr. March saw us in the hall. He bent toward me, trying to look down my dress. “Don’t we look yummy today?” he leered, looking to my lover for agreement, but he was gone.

“Do we?” Fuck yourself in the ass, I mouthed gloriously.

His lean brown vulture’s head bent farther toward me. “Who are you supposed to be?” he said. His wrinkled tie dangled obscenely outside his vest.

“I’m supposed to be a secretary,” I said.

Still bent over, he said, “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” I hate you, I said.

His face constricted with pretended concern. “Why don’t you open up to me?” he said, very low. “You mustn’t be afraid. You won’t get the reaction you expect. Think about that.” He wagged a finger at me, brushing my breast.

“I’ll think about it.” You asshole, I said.

When I got back to my desk with my coffee and my straw, Rosemary was typing furiously. “You’re cute” was all she would say.

My lover came by to take me to lunch. We went to his apartment. He is a writer; his four unpublished novels, neatly bound, stand next to his bed. They are all about a woman he loved in Paris eight years ago. He does not expect to love again.

The early afternoon sun, filtering weakly through the vines, dappled us like lepers. He stroked my proud hood with one hand as he undid my dress. I writhed beneath him, then over him, my hidden face contorted into molten curves of longing. I felt my lips curl past my teeth; sweat drizzled down my cheeks. There was a downpour in my head, dim memories of an ancient sea.

Afterward, he gave me some Perrier to sip through a straw. He put on an old record and sang to me, his voice flat and husky as the November wind. He was wishing he was in Paris.

I cut tiny slits between the scales to make the head more comfortable and stopped wearing make-up. I took off the snake head for a few minutes every night and washed my face in the dark bathroom. Once I turned on all the light and nearly screamed. The head in the mirror was pale, grotesquely small. The face quivered stupidly, a weak, pitiable, unsafe face. A face that I had tolerated despite nearly 30 years of consistent betrayals. Of its own will, it would blush and snarl and yawn and weep and look alternately sad and foolish. It had no interest in protecting me. I had given it many chances, I thought, as I put the snake head back on. It felt so good.

After I had worn the head for a week, Mr. March called me into his office. He liked to sail and there were models all over his desk and credenza. “Don’t you think you’re carrying this thing too far?” he said, staring in at where he thought I was.

I said nothing. A cobra says nothing.

“You’re not in college anymore. This kind of prank won’t go over here. You’ve got to think of your career,” he said. “You’re a bright girl, but you’ve got to start watching your step. We can’t have this. Besides, it must get terribly hot in that thing,” he added hopefully.

I reminded him that I was always on time, that i was the best typist in the office, that my work was always in compliance with company standards. I casually mentioned discrimination and the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, which was already handling several suits against the company.

He blanched under his Sunday-sailor’s tan, then tried to look hurt. “I don’t know why you're afraid of me.”

I left him jabbing his pen into the rigging of an old whaler.

Drinking all my meals through a straw was beginning to make me thin. For the first time in years, I liked the way I looked. My lover ran his tongue along the clean blades of my hipbones and pressed his face against my flat belly. He murmured that he thought his French was beginning to come back.

He pureed oysters for me in the blender and made me duckling à l’orange, frogs’ legs provençale, poached salmon with chestnuts. He sauteed tiny carrots and crumbled dillweed into the melted butter. He tenderly fed his creations into the blender and I drank them with a straw.

My husband complained, “Your tits are too small.” He said it was like screwing on box springs without a mattress. He had lost his hold. He bruised the span of his chest against my knees night after night. He never wanted me to take off the snake head.

Sometimes, after he was asleep, I’d sneak into the kitchen and put something in the blender for myself, a taco or a bowl of Cheerios, and drink it through my cold sleek snake throat. Once I stole a page of my lover’s latest manuscript and tried to drink it, but Paris was a pulpy gray paste that stuck in the straw and had to be scraped out of the blender.

I began playing the violin again. I crouched in the closet and played while my husband slept. I began memorizing arias from Bach’s Passion According to Saint Matthew and singing along quietly in melancholy German. I cried happily in the dark, under the coats.

After a while, Mr. March wouldn’t even look at me, no matter what kind of dress I wore. I licked my lips at him invisibly as she shrank against the wall, clutching his attaché case, his bald brown head smooth with revulsion.

Rosemary no longer confided what she and Mr. March said about me. They went to long lunches together; she’d come back flushed and self-righteous.

She rarely spoke to me. One day she said fiercely, “Why don’t you just go home and have some kids? Or are you afraid they’ll hatch?” Her sneer was so ignorant that it needed no reply.

My husband bought me an imitation-leather bra and garter belt. He went to Frederick’s of Hollywood, I suppose. He also bought me some absurdly pointed imitation-snakeskin boots. Luckily, I never had to walk in them. It must be like making love to a La-Z-Boy recliner, I thought, smiling while he grunted and battered himself against my Naugahyde thighs.

One night, when he was through, he told me about a bad dream he’d had.

“You burned the house down,” he said. “You meant to do it. You said we could only take a few things, to make it look like an accident. Then you sprinkled gasoline around the house and we lit it. I helped you.” He shook his head slowly and he said again, “I helped you.”

“Why did I do it?” I said.

He looked at me, his eyes searching the cobra cavern. He looked puzzled, then annoyed and sullen, like someone trying to scrape mayonnaise out of an empty jar that he could have sworn was full. “I don’t know,” he said. “It wasn’t in the dream.” Moments later, he was asleep.

A few nights after that, he got up for a glass of water and heard me in the closet. I was playing Come, Sweet Death, sobbing blissfully. He grabbed my arm and yanked me out into the light. He was shaking. Slowly he reached for me and, with both hands, tore off my head and ripped it up the back. He looked at it for a moment, lying in his hands. Then he threw it into the bathtub and started lighting matches. The scales began to smoke and melt, oozing across the pink porcelain. The smell was nauseating.

He carefully turned over the head so that I could see the emerald hood darken and fall away. The small red cobra eyes rolled upward in despair, the soft fangs flowed like marshmallow cream over the forked hot tar tongue. I pressed my violin into my chest until the strings groaned.

The room was filled with fetid black smoke. My husband was crying, too, tears cutting grimy ditches through the soot on his face. For a long time, he watched the feeble, smoldering thing that had been the snake head; he couldn’t stand to look at me. Finally, he got himself a glass of water and went back to bed.

0 notes