#Formulation Development Services

[cdmoservices]

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[renejix58]

Pharmaceutical Formulation and Development Services.

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[frontropharma]

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At FrontroPharma, our contract research organization (CRO) services specialize in advanced product development, including Nano formulations and liposomes. We excel in optimizing drug delivery systems for complex generics, AYUSH products, nutraceuticals, and cosmetics. Our rigorous scientific approach ensures precision and efficacy in every formulation, transforming your concepts into groundbreaking products. Trust us to elevate your product development process with unparalleled expertise and innovation.

[foodresearchlab]

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[aurizondatatech1]

Navigating the Road of Data: International Traffic Survey and Data Collection Companies in India

[super-ultra-mega-deluxe]

Simply believing in ML, or joining an ML org, will not help when the lights go out or food runs out. How can we contend with that?

Marxism-Leninism isn't an arbitrary set of beliefs for one to adopt on a whim, it is a political theory and specifically action, part of which is in fact to "help when the lights go out" or even better, to make sure they don't! communist politics- and really any politic- are what those politics do. Marx explicitly frames it as such, as an ideological formulation that is a tool for practical application. taken outside of its context and application, Marxism is an absurd nothing, as again are all politics. i could provide examples of how communists facilitate the production and distribution of goods, or otherwise manage economics at variable scale and locale, which is rather what i assume you mean to be getting at with your question. your framing is rather nonspecific however: in what economic and political context is there a communist party contending with failures in energy infrastructure and food production and distribution?

the "help when the lights go out" strikes a particular chord, as somewhat recently the socialist nation of Cuba has been forced to contend with fuel shortages; their domestic oil production can't meet the needs of the general populace, and oil imports are inconsistent due to the US embargo. the people of Cuba are, thankfully, not becoming grossly immiserated or dying en masse despite such being the intention of the embargo. they have instituted fuel rationing and rolling blackouts to further conserve fuel and maintain essential services, such as their healthcare system. this of itself is obviously only a reactive policy; the state has also been rebuilding and expanding its oil storage facilities to better handle fluctuations in supply, and more recently they have agreed to a bilateral development agreement with China to substantially expand Cuba's nascent solar power generation. paired with their newfound partnership with BRICS- a move which undermines the aforementioned embargo in a much more material way than a UN vote- Cuba is on a path to fully meet the energy needs of its people and even expand access over the next decade.

that all said, i doubt you specifically care much for Marxist-Leninist experiments as they exist, and are more concerned with the prefiguration of politics before anything like achieving state power, and more specifically within the imperial core, where denying the possibility of effecting revolutionary politics is the most prominent. there are not presently many Marxist-Leninist parties of note in the US, the imperial core, but even less principled communist parties nonetheless consider the economic realities of the workers they represent first and foremost. the old Black Panthers were perhaps the closest to a truly revolutionary socialist movement in the US, and one of the policies they are most famous for is the free breakfast program and the broader Survival Programs they ran. these programs provided food and medical care and education and transportation for many who were subject to economic insecurity; the failure of these programs was a failure of militancy and counterintelligence and scope. the modernly popular if unfortunately less coherent and less principled PSL also runs health and wellness programs, such as kitchens and exercise classes and vocational programs and so on, which is their attempt at replicating such formulations.

it is rather specifically a concern of communists to organize the proletariat to provide for their own needs outside the purview of a capitalist state, and every revolutionary of note before, during, and after seizing power emphasizes such. the ability to do so pending a revolutionary moment is necessarily limited however; you cannot build an administration of economy parallel to an extant state without coming into conflict with that state. even non-communist organizations attempt to build up community programs, but they are either dissolved or incorporated into the state apparatus or otherwise operate under its purview. the ultimate goal is then as always the destruction of the bourgeois state machine and the building of a proletarian state machine, the armies of people organized in enforcing the will of the proletariat as a class, which allows for the more concrete and pointed organization of the economy broadly.

[feminismisstillahatemovement]

In 2017 I interviewed Bernadette Wren, then head of psychology at the Tavistock Gids clinic, and asked what effect puberty blocking drugs have on the adolescent brain. Looking highly uncomfortable, she replied that the evidence so far was only anecdotal but that the clinic would study its patients “well into their adult lives so that we can see”.

Even back then, before whistleblowers had exposed the rush to medically transition children, it was alarming to hear that heavy-duty GnRH agonists such as triptorelin — used to treat advanced prostate cancer and “chemically castrate” sex offenders — were being prescribed to arrest puberty in hundreds of children as young as 11.

Moreover, they were being used “off-label” before any clinical trials. And the long-term study Wren promised never materialised: Gids (the Gender Identity Development Service) routinely lost touch with patients, and the 44 it did follow reported little long-term mental health improvement.

This shocking chapter in medical history, where the ideological objectives of trans rights campaigners trumped the welfare of disturbed children, is coming to an end worldwide. The decision by NHS England effectively to ban the prescription of puberty blockers comes after the Cass review noted these drugs could “permanently disrupt” brain development, reduce bone density and lock children into a regime of cross-sex hormones requiring life-long patienthood.

NHS England unites with other national health services including those in Finland, France, Sweden and, most notably, the Netherlands — where the “Dutch protocol”, a regime of early blockers then hormones, was devised in 1998 — in pulling back from prescribing them.

Even in the United States, where a toxic combination of extreme activism and medical capitalism has pushed child gender medicine to grotesque extremes, with double mastectomies performed on 14-year-old girls, there is some retrenchment.

Leaks from the World Professional Association for Transgender Health, the body which formulates guidance on “trans healthcare”, reveal doctors perplexed at how they should explain to an 11-year-old child that drugs will render them infertile. Crucially, liberal media such as The New York Times are now reporting grave medical misgivings about child transition, once dismissed as a culture-war issue for the Republican right.

Yet the question remains: how was this ever allowed to happen? For years, puberty blockers were cheerily billed as a mere “pause button”. In 2014, Dr Polly Carmichael, the last head of Gids before the Cass review ordered its closure, went on CBBC in a show called I Am Leo, saying of blockers: “The good thing is, if you stop the injections, it’s like pressing ‘start’ and the body carries on developing as it would if you hadn’t started.”

The BBC permitted her to make this unevidenced claim to an impressionable audience of six to 12-year-olds. Imagine hearing this as a developing girl, freaked out by your new breasts and periods. No wonder Gids referrals subsequently rocketed.

Carmichael failed to mention that she did not know if pressing “restart” on puberty is always medically possible — it is not — and in fact, almost every child Gids put on blockers went on to irreversible cross-sex hormones.

After years in a Peter Pan state while their peers developed, they understandably felt there was no way back and forged on with treatment. Yet if allowed to experience natural puberty, almost 85 per cent of gender dysphoria cases resolve themselves.

Nor did Carmichael tell CBBC kids that the blockers-hormones combination, if taken early enough, not only results in sterility but kills the libido so that a young person will never experience an orgasm.

At the 2020 judicial review brought by a former Tavistock clinician and Keira Bell, the brave young detransitioner rushed onto hormones by Gids, judges expressed astonishment at Gids’s lack of an evidence base.

Reporting on this issue for seven years, I too have been struck by a complete clinical incuriosity. Not only was data not collected, but those who queried treatments or pressed for evidence faced angry condemnation. Perhaps activists knew what research might find because one long-term Finnish study, recently reported in the BMJ, destroyed the myth used to justify blockers: that a child will commit suicide if denied them.

The Finns found that “gender-affirming care” does not make a dysphoric child less suicidal. Rather, such children had the same suicide risk as others with severe psychiatric issues. In other words, changing bodies does not fix troubled minds.

Yet even after NHS England’s announcement, activists refuse to heed the now-overwhelming evidence. In its response, Stonewall persists with the myth that puberty blockers “give a young person extra time to evaluate their next steps”.

Many questions remain unanswered: will private clinics still be permitted to prescribe puberty blockers; and is Scotland’s Sandyford child gender clinic still determined to close its ears to all evidence? Plus, we have few details on how the NHS’s new “holistic” treatment for gender-questioning children will operate when it opens next month.

This repellent experiment — in which girls who like trucks or little boys who dress as princesses, and who invariably grow up to be gay, are corralled inexorably down a road towards life-changing treatments — belongs in the book of medical disgraces. As do the cheerleaders who raised money for Mermaids and those who persecuted whistleblowers or damned journalists asking questions as transphobic.

In 50 years, chemically freezing the puberty of healthy children with troubled minds will be regarded with the same horrified fascination as lobotomies — which, never forget, won the Portuguese neurologist Antonio Egas Moniz the 1949 Nobel prize.

--------------------

{Article source (behind paywall)}

[genderkoolaid]

That doesn’t mean we all have to forge one common self-definition. It means we support the right of each person to define themselves and we don’t put down anyone else’s identity. Sometimes individuals may not even realize they are putting someone else down. For example, a young transman told me recently, “I’m not like you drag kings. My identity is about more than just what clothes I wear.” Reducing the identities of drag queens and drag kings to the clothing we wear is insulting. We are transgendered people. We are in danger wherever we go because of our gender expression. And we have a long, proud history of fighting back. Confusing our gender expression with our sexuality denies the reality of our battles as transgender people. For instance, the dismissal of butch females as “just lesbians” does injury to a very oppressed segment of our trans population. To start with, the “just” in that formulation is anti-lesbian. And what does the statement mean? Are all lesbians masculine? Do all lesbians face arrest or violence if they use women’s restrooms? Is masculinity in women who desire other women just a sexual advertisement? I prefer using the term masculine female instead of butch, because butch is assumed to mean lesbian. But what about masculine females who are bisexual? What about those who are heterosexual, some married to men who were attracted to them [because] of their masculinity, not in spite of it? Aren’t transmen similarly insulted by those who try to dismiss their manhood by arguing that they are “just lesbians” who couldn’t deal with the oppression? Don’t we all have a stake in refusing to let our sex or our gender expression be confused with our sexual desire? The accusation that masculine females are not “real men” is also a familiar attack. But it’s never succeeded in pushing us out of sight. We have always faced the charge that we are trying to be men and that we have failed miserably. But the muscles and sweat of masculine females helped accelerate the gains of the U.S. trade union movement-in heavy and light industry-particularly from the start of World War II to the end of the war against Vietnam. Today, with the shift to non-union, service industry jobs, we are fighting a battle to survive economically and socially. We are not trying to be “real men.” We are fighting to survive as masculine females. We face experiences that are differently complicated than those of women or men who are not transgendered. Those experiences develop our lives and our consciousness. And together with transgender males of all sexualities, we are a numerically huge segment of the trans population.

— "Living Our True Spirit" by Leslie Feinberg, in Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue

[dailyanarchistposts]

Re-enchanting Humanity

Beyond any shadow of doubt, we direly need an ecological sensibility — one that is marked by a sense of wonder for natural evolution and the splendor of the biosphere in its many varied forms. But nature is not a scenic window that overlooks the Pacific coastal mountains or the New England marshlands. Nature is above all a process — a wondrous process that can admired on its own terms, not by invoking deities that are simply crude anthropomorphic projections of ourselves — male or female — in a mystified, often irrational, and sometimes a highly hierarchical form — a procedure that has served hierarchical interests for many millenia by lulling the oppressed into a paralyzing quietism and sense of resignation.

A remarkable product of natural evolution are the human beings who people the planet — beings that are no less products of nature than grizzly bears and whales. And like bears and whales, the human species — for it is no less a species when seen from a biological standpoint than it is social from the standpoint of social ecology — has acquired a remarkable capacity called conceptual thought. In this respect, natural evolution has endowed this species with powers that are unmatched by other species: powers to form highly institutionalized communities called societies that, unlike the genetically programmed “social insects,” are capable of an evolutionary development of their own, however rooted they may be in nature.

The crucial question we face today — not only for ourselves as human beings but for the entire biosphere — is how social evolution will proceed and in what direction it will go. To deal with this question primarily as a matter of spiritual renewal, desirable as that may be. is not only evasive but socially disarming. Social evolution took a wrong turn ages ago when it shifted from egalitarian institutions and relations to hierarchical ones. It took an even worse turn a few centuries ago when it shifted from a relatively cooperative society to a highly competitive one. If we are to bring society and nature into accord with each other, we must develop a movement that fulfills the evolutionary potential of humanity and society, that is to say, turn the human world into a self-conscious agent of the natural world and enhance the evolutionary process — natural and social. All the eco-babble of Devall, Sessions, Naess, and their acolytes aside, if we do not intervene to act creatively on nature (indeed, to rescue it from itself at times), we will betray everything of a positive character that natural evolution itself endowed us with — our potentially unprecedented richness of mind, sympathy, and conscious capacity to care for nonhuman species. Given an ecological society, our technology can be placed as much in the service of natural evolution as it can be placed in the service of a rational social evolution.

To call for a “return to the Pleistocene,” as “Earth First!” has done, to degrade humanity as so many misanthropic “antihumanists” and “biocentrists” have done is not only atavistic but crudely reactionary. A degraded humanity will only yield a degraded nature as our capitalistic society and our hierarchical history have amply demonstrated. We are direly in need not only of “re-enchanting the world” and “nature” but also or re-enchanting humanity — of giving itself a sense of wonder over its own capacity as natural beings and a caring product of natural evolution. A Supernature, peopled by “earth-based” deities, must be replaced by a healthy naturalism in which, as a movement, we will re-establish our severed ties with nature by naturalistic means and heal our terribly wounded society by social means. For Greens, in particular, this means that we must formulate a new, independent, revolutionary politics, using this word in its broadest possible sense, not recycle old, shopworn, sedating deities — be they Eastern or Western, pagan or Christian, “earth-bound” or “heaven-bound”. We must learn to look reality directly in the face, not obscure it with irrational thinking and a fog of dense, obscurantist myths.

The Left Network of the Vermont Greens has already taken the all-important step of trying to formulate a truly radical program — “Toward a New Politics” — that sketches out the basic concepts of a Left Green ecological movement. It openly describes itself as an “ecological humanism” (to use this term in its best sense, not the perverted meaning given to the word “humanism” by “deep ecology.’” And it advances the basic principles of social ecology as they apply to American political life. Either ecology movements and the Greens will free themselves of subtly hierarchical “centricities” — “bio” or “anthropo” — and develop a clearly defined and coherent body of social principles based on ecological concepts or they will become a marginalized collection of privileged encounter groups — one that may learn to “think like a mountain,” as Devall recommends but one that will be justly ignored as another fad, a target of derision at worst or healthy ridicule at best.

[scotianostra]

On September 23rd 1880, John Boyd Orr, Nobel Peace prize winner, was born in Kilmaurs, Ayrshire.

John Boyd Orr's pioneering research led to millions of children across the UK being given free school milk from 1946 to 1971 when Margaret Thatcher, then education secretary, cut provision giving her the mick name Thatcher, "Thatcher, Thatcher, milk snatcher”

Boyd Orr was born in Ayrshire into a religious and highly literate family, and it was perhaps inevitable that he should be destined for a career in teaching after studying theology. However, his studies at Glasgow University also opened up new avenues for him. He became interested in the theories of Darwin, and this led to a fascination with zoology.

When he graduated with his MA in 1902, he was assigned to a teaching position in the Glasgow slums to fulfil the obligations required by his scholarship. He lasted only a few days before resigning and going back home to Ayrshire where he was reassigned to a school in Saltcoats. There he completed his teaching but left as soon as he could, saying: "though I liked the children, I hated teaching them”.

Boyd Orr returned to university to study biology and medicine, and he graduated with a BSc in 1910 and MB ChB two years later. He only practised for one month before returning to university to undertake nutritional research. His MD thesis in 1914 was awarded the Bellahouston Gold Medal for the most distinguished thesis of the year.

On the recommendation of his supervisor, he was asked to be the first director of a new research institute in Aberdeen, which would later become the world renowned Rowett Institute. At the time of his appointment, it did not exist, but he would spend the next twenty-five years raising both funds and the profile of nutritional research to make it a reality.

The initial work to build the institute was, however, interrupted by the outbreak of war. Boyd Orr enlisted in the RAMC and saw active service on the Western Front where he was awarded both the Military Cross and the Distinguished Service Order. Later he would never wear the medals saying that the truly brave men had all died.

In the interwar years, he travelled widely and published extensively, emerging as one of the country’s leading experts in nutrition. He first came to national attention in 1936 with the publication of Food, Health and Income, a report of a dietary survey by income group, which revealed that the cost of a diet meeting basic nutritional needs was beyond the means of half the British population.

This led to similar studies being conducted in nineteen other countries and prompted the creation of a Commission of the League of Nations, which tried to formulate a global food policy. It became the forerunner of the United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). Boyd Orr would become the Director General of the FAO from 1945-48. These were important years because the predicted European post-war famine was averted in part by policies put forward by the organisation.

Boyd Orr was no stranger to the challenges of developing and implementing food policies, many of which are still with us today. He spent his later career trying to persuade governments and presidents, organisations and companies to rethink the way they did things. However, he would often bemoan the fact that while he could persuade farmers of the importance of the nutrition of their animals, he could not stir their interest “in the food of their ain bairns, far less in the bairns of ither folks”.

His was a life filled with honours and awards, from Gold medals at University to military decorations to honorary degrees and more. He was elected Rector of Glasgow University and subsequently became its Chancellor. He was briefly a British Member of Parliament, and in 1935 he was knighted for his services to agriculture. In 1949, after he was awarded the Nobel Prize, Prime Minister Clement Attlee ennobled him as Baron Boyd Orr of Brechin Mearns.

Reading of Boyd Orr’s long career it seems he had a series of false starts and perhaps even failures. But he was no dilettante. He combined a powerful intellect with an admirable work ethic to achieve a mastery in everything he tried. That he chose to move from a career in teaching to medical practice, to research, to politics and then to governance and policy making was not evidence of mere restlessness but of a constant desire to do meaningful work.

Boyd Orr was at heart a man with an ambitious vision for the world, and he firmly believed that real peace and prosperity would only ever be achieved when no one was hungry.

The citation for the 1949 Nobel Peace Prize read: “for his lifelong effort to conquer hunger and want, thereby helping to remove a major cause of military conflict and war”.

[cdmoservices]

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[renejix58]

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[frontropharma]

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[ant1quarian]

*bap* if I drag a chair in here will you tell me a story? (Feed me information on the AU most beloved to yourself currently)

Cracks fingers /silly

Hell yeah I can.

Currently? It's Collectortale!

( Beware: Big rant )

Also! CW: Horror does have an eating disorder

Collectortale is more of a utmv at this point, as it's beginning to include all of the Sanses I can think of lmao.

It originated from a thought way back when- likely a solid year ago now, which I'm beginning to develop further currently.

The "Main Sans" of the Universe is named Dev, short for "The Devil"- a stage name that was given to him. He runs a well-known casino in a horrible debt-filled society where those that are desperate enough crawl over to bet what little they own in order for a big reward.

But as life seems to work: Big rewards also have big costs.

Collectortale Dust is a well-known gambler himself, working with but not under Dev. He's most commonly found in the corner of the room, keeping an eye out for any people who think they're slick enough to get away with cheating. The cost of being caught is, almost always, your life.

He's also available to gamble with- but committing to a game with him is tossing your SOUL on the table.

All around, he's actually quite a chill guy. Pretty aloof and closer to nonverbal, but pretty alright to just hang out with- assuming he allows you to be around him without just leaving, and you're not in Dev's Casino.

Dev and Dust have a... sort of like cat-and-owner-coded relationship? Dust is the cat- aloof, quiet, mischievous, prone to getting LV highs suddenly and randomly which causes bouts of extreme violence- and Dev is the owner- laid-back, amused, and willing to deal with Dust's shenanigans for the moments of peace where they vibe together in Dev's library.

Collectortale Killer is a gremlin by almost every sense of the word. He's a little shit, incredibly mischievous, but also insanely loyal and devoted to those he cares about. Similar to a Husky in a way, considering just how stubborn he can get as well. His role in the Casino is, quite literally, Dev's underling. Right-hand-man, some would refer to him as.

He met Dev by not being able to meet demand and- like so many before- placed on his target list. When Dev attacked Killer, however, he froze at the sound of Killer weakly chuckling and asking Dev to take care of his cats when he was gone. Dev slowly blinked at the feline winding around his legs before sighing, deciding to essentially enter Killer into a SOUL-contract. So Killer is obligated, by his SOUL, to do whatever Dev asks him to.

... Not that he usually asks much.

Despite all of his amusing qualities, Killer also struggles with hypervigilance. This often causes bouts of extreme exhaustion where Dev finds him half-slumped over the counter, eyelight blurry and flickering in his visible socket. It's also common for Killer to get too distracted by the thrill of the chase, despite being highly intelligent and strategic.

They have a retriever-and-owner partnership, where Killer is thoughtlessly loyal, and Dev forces the shit to take time off and rest, as well as "taking him for walks" (on killing sprees) when he sees fit.

Collectortale Horror is the casino bouncer... and funnily enough, runs a volunteer service to the side which feeds those that can't afford to feed themselves, as well as helping to get them back on their feet in this money-run society. It's also common for him to take in pets- which Dev finds in his room more often than not.

Horror struggles with formulating his speech (though is still incredibly quick-minded and intelligent)- as well as having issues with certain tasks and also has an eating disorder called "Bulimia nervosa" (which, in its incredibly and slightly-not-accurate simplified version, is "Binge Eating and ridding yourself of the discomfort afterwards."). Dev is... surprisingly attentive to Horror's needs, helping where he can- even though he has to read up on a lot of these things in order to be able to.

Their relationship is... actually pretty cozy. Sure it has a lot of mishaps and both struggling to learn about each other, but it works out eventually. They've got a pretty strong bond, now.

Thank you for listening to this rant lmao! 'Tis very muchly appreciated- and also thank you for giving me the opportunity.

If you want to know about any other Sans, feel free to ask! :D

[queserasora]

TOJI X FEM READER | NSFW | NO PRONOUNS BUT AFAB WORD COUNT: 4.6k wc CONTENT WARNING: profanity, murder, blood, torture, body dismemberment, stalking?, toji is a creep, he is mannerless and acts like he was raised in the wild, he plays more little games, oral male receiving female giving, blood, biting, violence in general, penetration, groping A BADLY WRITTEN SUMMARY: Chapter 2 of What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger // Toji isn't used to not having the upper hand. He finds it in his charitable heart to "watch over" y/n and help her with her "tasks", he is youthful and likes to play games

Previous

You’re not sure how long you had been lying there, inside Toji’s warm but sticky embrace. The truth was, you wanted to leave as soon as your legs could stand to hold your weight. You had formulated a plan in between sloppy kisses. You had never pictured Toji Zenin to be the cuddling type but the other truth was that you didn’t know anything about him outside of his work skills. Toji Zenin, the man, was a stranger to you.

One night of fucking wouldn’t change that.

Having drawn that conclusion made it easier for you to slip out quietly. You gathered your clothes, expertly, amazed that your panties were still in one piece. Without giving yourself time to second guess yourself, you fist the stiff panties in your hand and leave them on the nightstand; a payment for his services. It was the least you could do, after all, he had been a little bit of fun.

When he wakes, you’re not in his arms. When he wakes, he’s pissed. It wasn’t that he had developed some kind of sick attachment. After all, he had just met you, officially, the night prior. It merely irritated him that you had the nerve to leave before he could have the pleasure of throwing you out on your ass, wearing nothing but your soiled panties.

At the thought of them, being neatly chewed up by your voluminous ass cheeks, Toji grins. It was to his surprise that he saw them on the nightstand, crumpled up into a ball. A large hand snatches them from the nightstand, on his way to the shower. His lips split into a large grin. You could run all you wanted. Toji knew exactly where to find you.

Life went by as usual, with you sleeping until noon, waking up only to shower, work out, eat in that order. You’d check your various checking accounts obsessively, compulsively, counting every penny trying to add them up. The idea was to save enough to buy an island, and live by yourself, maybe some monkeys; something inane and ridiculous like that just to have an interesting story to tell in hell that didn’t involve blood and guts. 

You were so busy living from ordinary day to ordinary day, checking the app to see if anyone had posted a request worth the money that you had almost forgotten about him; almost.

It was hard to erase him entirely from your mind when you could feel him trailing you wherever you went. You stood in line at your favorite coffee shop, tapping your foot rapidly. Your patience was wearing thin. There was no way Toji Zenin would make his presence so obvious if he was trying to secretly spy on you. You had reached the conclusion on the first day you noticed–a whole week ago–that he was doing it on purpose. He wanted you to know he was there. He wanted you to feel his presence, be unnerved by it enough to react. He wanted to see you snap.

You had told yourself, time and time again, to not give in; to not give him the satisfaction, but the sight of your pointy boot was filling your head with ideas. What if you crammed your foot so far up his ass that you punctured his spleen? Wouldn’t that be joyful? You’re so distracted at the image of him penetrated up to your ankle by your thigh high boot, screaming in pain that you don’t realize it’s your turn next up at the register.

“Double shot of espresso over ice with a splash of half and half,” you mumble, slipping your hand into a pocket of your tawny double breasted trench coat. You pull out your phone, tapping it on the register. “Thank you,” you add, since unlike some members of your circles, you had manners. You can’t help it. You cast a furious look to the corner of the coffee shop. He sits there, casually drinking a cup of who knows what, legs crossed acting as if he wasn’t there for you. The sunlight casts his tan skin in a white glow, a stark contrast to his messy raven hair.

The sight was offensive, insulting. You aggressively shove a ten dollar bill in the tip jar without looking at it, nearly spilling its contents. Your coffee tastes more bitter that day, and you swallow it down with your anger, hoping that you’d never see him again.

Hoping had been foolish. Two days later, he is back in your orbit as you browse the aisles of the small liquor store. The store owner had called you to let you know a new shipment had come in for your favorite bourbon. You grab the fat bottomed bottle, and shoulder Toji as you pass him. He drops the bottle of whiskey, and it shatters, caramel liquid spilling everywhere. You don’t stop,  even as you smile at the register paying for your purchase, the scent of liquor in your nostrils. 

You don’t stop to think how easy that had been. You don’t stop to think about the reason his guard was down. You don’t stop to think at all, until you’re in your bed later that night, body sore and scrubbed clean of blood. You stop, and you think, and you hate him all over again.

You hate him especially, as you feel him jogging behind you a day later at the local park. You roll your eyes as you pick up your pace and run. He must be part animal, part predatory feline, you think because you barely feel his presence. You don’t hear his feet thudding on the ground but you hear his breathing; at least you think you do. You think you feel his breath, hot on your neck, think you hear him panting, moaning, laughing. Your heart freezes and you pivot on your left foot, swinging your right for a hook. 

Your fist lands on nothing but air. There is no one behind you but confused pigeons on the ground. They piss you off with their soulless eyes so you yell at them, and watch them scatter, flying off into the distance.

“Fuck you, Toji Zenin,” you mutter under your breath. You peer at the nearby bushes, try to spot him under a distant tree but can’t find him. Your eyes are unable to capture the sight of his smirk, the wide build of his strong shoulders. Still, you know it was him, you know he’s near. Steadying your breathing, you clench your fists and order yourself to run.

You’d be damned if Toji Zenin got the best of you. He could fuck off straight to hell.

* * *

You always kept your clothes simple and minimal while working. Black on black on black, with enough fabric to keep your anonymity, and to minimize the cost. It was easier to discard the clothes in a burning furnace than it was to attempt to wash the blood off. The knife is slippery in your hand, so you wipe the blood off on the fabric of your skirt. You feel your phone buzz, for the third time since you last checked it, and you ignore it.

You had gotten a bunch of texts from an unsaved number; awful attempts at flirting, inappropriate requests. At first, you figured they must have the wrong number, a prank from someone who didn’t want their attention. As the texts continued, you knew exactly who it was. But how did he get your number?

He’s mumbling, groaning and yelling against the cloth in his mouth. You look up from where you were counting the torn fingernails on the ground, bloody sinew still attached. Perhaps you should have been a little more gentle. Your phone buzzes again.

“You’re making a lot of noise,” you tell him in a flat tone, bringing your boot up to his crotch. He dodged your foot just in time by widening his knees. You scoff, a smirk pulling at a corner of your plush lips. His blood is splattered on the floor, dripping over the arms of the chair. You wear it on your temple, some on your brown cheek.  “And you’re wasting my time. I told you, I have to be out by ten.”

There was no particular reason. You just liked your beauty sleep. As you give him time to think his pathetic life over, you pull out your phone with your clean hand. Three new notifications from an unsaved number. You frown at the latest one.

‘You’ll be sorry if you ignore me.’

You were impressed he knew how to text full sentences. It wasn’t enough to bring you to text him back. Instead, you pocket the phone once more, and get back to work.

“Now, no screaming or any of that bullshit from earlier,” you grumble as you pull his gag down. “You gave me a headache.” He breathes in gulps, desperate pleas dropping out of his mouth. You tilt your head, take in his hollowed cheeks, the purple swollen eye. “Shut up. I hate repeating myself.” You smack the knife against his cheek, relishing every time he flinched. “I don’t care about rapists, and pedophiles. So tell me where to find your piece of shit distributor before I chop off the little baby octopus in your pants into little pieces.”

You drag the knife from his cheek, to his jaw. You follow the pathetic excuse of a jawline to his earlobe, and you press the tip enough to draw blood. He whimpers, wiggling in the chair trying to get away from you. So you dig in deeper.

“You suck at negotiating you know,” says a voice that was all too familiar. You groan, and since you can’t very well throw your knife in between his eyebrows, you slice octopus man’s earlobe right off instead. A piece stuck to your knife, you flick it off in the direction of the green eyed idiot invading your space. 

The man’s scream is shrill. It echoes in the empty warehouse, bouncing against the concrete walls. Toji crams a pinky finger into his ear and wiggles it, head tilted, face scrunched up. 

“Put the fucking gag back on,” he tells you having dodged the piece of flesh flying at him. Surprisingly, you obey his orders. It was peculiar how you could cooperate like this but can’t bother to reply to any of his texts; and by peculiar he means fucking obnoxious.

“You’re interrupting,” you tell him, standing up straight, tapping the knife against your exposed thigh. “Could you just stand there and look pretty?”

Toji tilts his head, one finger scratching an itch on his scalp. In all honesty, he didn’t give a fuck if he was interrupting. The way he saw it, you had it coming. He had tried to make you come to him on your own accord; made his presence known on multiple occasions. Toji had even gone out of his way, to take the time to type fully thought out messages on one of his burner phones; messages you chose to ignore.

“I don’t give a shit,” he rebuffs, enunciating his frustration with dramatic pauses. 

Frankly, Toji Zenin was not only annoying her, but he was starting to become embarrassing. You fix him with a pointed stare over one shoulder, returning to teasing and torturing your capture with your knife. “Just relax. Let me finish.”

He reminded you of a petulant child, acting out since he wasn’t getting the attention he craved. You purse your lips, back turned to him. There was an odd sense of satisfaction, pooling and circling below your navel. In your time of knowing of Toji’s existence you had not once even imagined him being so inadvertently captivated by a person to the point of idiocy.

He was an idiot, and you quite liked it.

His idiocy continued for several minutes, as he insisted on giving you advice over your shoulder, breaking your concentration. You had been busy digging the tip of your knife into the fleshy parts between Octopus Dick’s toes, when Zenin decided you were simply not working efficiently enough. Pride was a terrible beast to tame but it could not be denied that Toji Zenin’s reputation preceded him. If you thought about him as superior you could consider this a valuable lesson. For this reason, you stand back and watch him work, making easy pickings of the man tied to the chair.

He had begged for his life, pitifully, and found no mercy behind Toji’s eyes.

His green eyes were on you now, a sheen on them so bright it reminded you of ornate chandeliers, and treasures; the thrill of a heist. You swallow a lump in your throat, unwilling to discover that feeling further.

It was just as well, there was cleanup to be done. Working with another professional has been easier than you thought. Not that you would ever admit this out loud, especially to the man next to you, wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

It feels like you owe him. It’s your excuse as you accept his invitation back to his place–to the place you had escaped from just two weeks prior. It’s your excuse as you abandon your vehicle, trusting him when he said ‘i'll get it taken care of’. It’s still your excuse as you get in his car, and it’s the excuse you remind yourself when he slithers a heavy hand, calloused and warm, between your thighs on the road there.

You exited the vehicle too quickly, eager to get away from Toji’s burning touch. Memories had come flooding, a flash flood with no warning; and you cussed at yourself inwardly. When did you become so weak? So soft? Over a man’s rough hands at that. The shame was enough to heat up your face. Your blood drummed loudly against your eardrums, in an attempt perhaps to inspire your primal instincts. If you became feral enough, you’d fight for survival at all costs. You’re lost in thought, and realize belatedly that Toji had been speaking to you.

He is in your space, invasive as always–a viney carnivorous species of a plant, poisonous and unforgiving. His  hands find the small of your back all too easily. Despite yourself, you sway in his embrace.

“Are you still curious about my cursed weapons,” he asks you, looking down at you with narrowed eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was threatening you. “I have an idea. And since you technically owe me,” he drawled, tucking his tongue behind one molar. You observe the gesture, the swell of his cheek, with a small scowl. 

You loathed his persistence, but you loathed the way you wanted to suck on his tongue right there and then more.

“Is this gonna be another one of your little games?” you ask him, trying to keep your face expressionless. You measure your words, take notice of your tone. You sprinkle a bit of disinterest in your inflection, hoping he’d fall for your trick. 

He doesn’t. He never does. His smile becomes crooked, salacious intentions pulling on invisible strings. You feel riveted to your spot, eyes taking in the shape of the scar on his mouth; jagged, a remembrance of violence. 

“I’ll show you whatever you want to see,” his words are measured, heavy, full of barely restrained lust. His fingers dig into your lower back as he pulls you closer, chests flushed against each other. His face dips towards you, angling so his lips almost brush yours; phantom kisses haunting your senses. You smell his breath heady with whiskey, and mint. “But you have to make me cum.” He pauses to lick his lips, eyes searing your skin wherever he looks.  “6 minutes.” His nose brushes against yours and you are beside yourself. Annoyance sits heavy on your shoulders, as your mouth follows his–not touching, parched, seeking. “Think you can do it?”

His tone is mocking, and you are as impetuous as always. 

You don’t let him finish, or name his terms. You are not interested. The only thing holding your interest was the shape of his mouth, you trace it with the tip of your tongue, heated fingers grasping the front of his shirt. You hear a grunt, a mumbled question from him but ignore it. 

You feel smooth around his lip line, soft and enticing against his scar. He pulls away slightly, unsure of why that unsettled him. His fingers grip your hair, he holds you steady as he looks down at you. “Leave the scar alone,” he tells you in a breathy voice.  You seem to regard him questioningly. He readies an argument, prepares to kick you out on your ass if you don’t listen but it appears you were as smart as you were attractive.

He grabs your ass with both hands, grabbing ample amounts of flesh and muscle. He loves the way his fingers dig, as if there were endless amounts of you; a bounty on top of a bounty. He wanted it all, all his greedy hands could get a hold of. Your mouth is demanding as it claims his tongue. He pretends to resist as he walks back towards his platform bed. When you come up for air, face flushed, eyes dark and ravenous he takes a seat at the edge of the mattress. 

Eye contact seemed imperative, the goal of the mission. You hold it even when your heart runs for its life, trying to tear its claws into the flesh of your chest, squeeze past the bones of your ribcage.  You hold it, as you lower yourself to your knees in front of him. Kneeling shouldn’t be this easy. Kneeling should have taken some thought, some consideration, some goddamn bribery; something more than the possible sight of his cursed weapons, more than the hungry need to slide your hands up his thighs.

You obey your needs, a starved animal with no restraints. It was if you never had spent a day in civilization. The zipper of his jeans comes down easily, he watches you and you swear the room temperature skyrockets. You can taste the humidity in the air. Your tongue darts out, nervously licking the corners of your mouth. 

“The clock started ticking the moment your knees touched the carpet,” he tells you with an air of importance. He looked down at you as if he was benevolent; the most saintly. You scoff when he meets your eyes. There was nothing saintly about Toji Zenin, you think as you finally release his hardened cock from his jeans. You admire the length and girth of him, knowing full well this was not his full potential. Intent on goading it out of him, your hands wrap around his shaft, stroking slowly at first to gauge his reaction.

He bites his lower lip, watches you as he clutches the bed sheets. His hands had ideas of their own, but he willed them to stay still; willed them to ignore the animalistic desire to pull you by the hair and fuck your mouth stupid. 

Your  hands become eager, picking up the pace. You’re aware of the time limit, somewhere in the back of your mind. You’re aware that this was a stupid game, one that made no sense, and only served to satisfy Toji and his obsession with control. Yet, you play along, yet you bring your tongue to curl around his tip, taking in the slick precum on his pink tip.

There’s a moan in the back of your mouth that you try to push down with the tip of his cock. You hollow your cheeks, fight your gag reflex as you try to take all of him in. If you pushed past your limits, sucked him with force and the violence of your will, there was no way he wouldn’t break. You wanted to see him fall apart, feel him crack and erode away under your touch.

Hands should not betray their master. They should heed command, bide their time. Toji thought this with some amount of bitterness as he grasped bundles of your curly hair. He pushed his hips up once, a low groan falling out of his moistened lips. He should hold back, resist, make you work for it but your mouth felt excruciatingly hot tonight. If you kept this up, he would become a loser in his own home.

That was simply unacceptable.

He jerks your head back, your hair tangled in his thick fingers. “You can’t possibly think it would be that easy,” he tells you, looking down at your flushed face. His heart threatens to throttle him at the sight of you; the small trail of glistening drool oozing down your chin, the way your eyes reflected no fear only desire and desire alone. “Fuck,” he mutters as he pulls you up by the hair, forcing you on the bed. You flip over as soon as you bounce on the mattress, unwilling to give up the upper hand. You knew he was close, you just needed a few more minutes.  Arms reach for him, and he fights to push you back. You become a tangle of limbs, mouths like car wrecks, teeth nipping and pulling at skin. 

“You’re wasting my fucking time,” you spit as he pins you to your stomach to his bed. He is on top of you, grinding his hardened cock against your ass. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, biting and kissing. He holds you down by the nape of your neck, one hand pressing you down. His breath is hot against your ear.

“That’s the point, sweetheart,” his whisper against the shell of your ear is almost too much to bear. His hands slip underneath your body, squeezing in between you and the mattress. They find their home on your breasts. He grips them possessively. “You should have figured that out by now.”

You throw your head back, aiming for his nose but despite his blood pooling in his crotch, he is still in control of his senses enough to avoid you. Using surprise to your advantage you push him over, climbing over his body to straddle him. You trap his hands, gripping his wrists above his head before he can push you off. You’re not an idiot, you realize as you grind down on his cock, that he could push you off easily if wanted to.

This little nugget of knowledge pissed you off and it was made worse that you couldn’t explain why, not even to yourself.

“Are you going easy on me?” you ask him, teeth gritted, voice taut. Your efforts to push him off the cliff of ecstasy only bring you closer to it. Dammit, was he made of steel? He smiles up at you, relaxes his fingers. There’s an odd serene look on his face, as if he was perfectly content to lay there underneath you while you pretend to be in control. “You’re such an ass.”

He laughs at you, turns his face slightly as if he could see all the sides of you, every angle you thought you hid from view. 

“Is that what you really think?” he asks you. He knows what he was. He knows you’re aware. What was the use of name calling but stating the obvious? He took pleasure in watching your discomfort, as if giving in and admitting defeat was as bad or worse than losing a limb. “Give it up. You’re already out of time.”

You yell softly, restrained as you bite down on his lip, tugging until you feel the taste of iron. He groans, and captures your bottom lip as soon as you let him go, sucking hotly. He runs his tongue on your bottom lip, then the top. “Come on, let me fuck you.” You resist, let go of his wrists to push aside your panties.

“Get this through your head, Toji Zenin,” you tell him, breathless, as you kneel over him, adjusting his tip at your entrance. “I’m the one fucking you.” You kneel back down, slowly, mouth dropping open as you slide down his cock. You feel him stretch you, fill you, centimeter by centimeter. You press your lips tightly, trying to forbid the whimper from being audible but it’s useless. Your head lolls at the pleasure, eyes fluttering close. You hear his soft laughter, feel his fingers grip your thighs.

“Then fuck me already,” he says raising a hand to slap your ass. The crack is loud in the room, and your back arches at the feel. He groans low, feeling you clench around him. “You’re taking your sweet time.” He pulls you close, stops just before devouring your mouth. “I thought you said you weren’t a patient person.”

You despised the easy way he got under your skin. You despised how you don’t hate the way he remembers the words you say. You despised the way our hips move on their own accord, eager to please, eager to find the glowing bead of pleasure at the end of the abyss. Your hands wrap around his throat, and squeeze.

“Remember,” you breathed out, thoughts scatter and run as a moan interrupts your drive. You feel him flattened his feet on the bed, grip your hips. You feel him as he starts, pounding into you. You cry out, falling over at his speed and strength. His mouth finds yours, you taste the blood on his lip, bury your fingers in his hair as you moan.

“Remember what?” he asks against your cheek, diggings his fingers into your ass now, angling his hips. You close your eyes tightly, feeling him hit that special spot that makes you lose control every time. Your legs feel shaky, your toes curl. 

“What I said….” you say weakly, aware that it didn’t matter anymore; your false bravado or your stubborn tenacity. The truth was in the pudding–or in the slick cum making your thighs slippery, the wetness sliding down his cock. You had no chance in hell of fucking Toji Zenin. Toji Zenin always fucked you.

He laughs against your ear, moves his face slightly to kiss your temple. He keeps his mouth there, lips pressed tightly against your skin, one hand on your head to keep you in place. His other hand grips one of your hips, holding you in place as he continues to thrust up into you. You cry out, hands splayed out on the mattress on the sides of his head. He laughs at you again, a little softer, letting you ride out your high. His thrusts only slow slightly.

“Come on,” he says, rolling you over. You watch him breathless as he takes off his shirt and you realize how ass backwards everything was when Toji was involved; down to the way  you were both still mainly clothed. “We have all night. You’re not giving up on me yet, are you?”

There’s a cold finger sliding up your spine, leaving fear behind on its wake. You had barely made it out last in one piece. You weren’t sure you could survive this time. 

“Fuck you, Toji Zenin,” you tell him, fully prepared for them to be your dying words. He leans down, encapsulates you in his arms.

“With pleasure.” His smirk is dangerous, fire in the staircase, no exits found. He was impending doom, and endless possibilities. Death, life, and all its contradictions. You swallow, and accept your fate.

If you died, you died.