#Third Month Mania

[edgelite]

if sethpunk match happens at mania punk would win but if it happens at the rumble seth would win. I hope that helps

[greenwitchcrafts]

January 2025 Witch Guide

New Moon: January 29th

First Quarter: January 6th

Full moon: January 13th

Last Quarter: January 21nd

Sabbats: None

January Wolf Moon

Also known as:  Bear Moon, Center Moon, Chaste Moon, Cold Moon, Disting Moon, Freeze Up Moon, Frost Exploding Moon, Goose Moon, Great Moon, Greetings Moon, Hard Moon  Ice Moon,  Moon of the Little Winter, Quiet Moon, Severe Moon, Spirt Moon & Snow Moon

Element: Air

Zodiac: Capricorn & Aquarius

Nature spirts: Brownies & Gnomes

Deities: Chang'e, Freya, Hera, Inanna & Saraswati

Animals: Coyote & fox

Birds: Blue Jay & pheasant

Trees:  Birch & Hazel

Herbs: Cones, holy thistle& marjoram

Flowers: Crocus & snowdrop

Scents: Mimosa & musk

Stones:  Chrysoprase, garnet, hematite, moonstone, onyx, jet, red tourmaline rose quartz & ruby

Issues, intentions & powers: Beginnings, healing, money, protection & strength

Energy: Adventure, ambition, awareness, beauty, beginnings, business, career, conserving energy, energy below the surface, organization, potential, protection, recognition, reputation, reversing spells, sluggish & spiritual

January’s full Moon came to be known as the Wolf Moon because wolves were more likely to be heard howling at this time. Though it was traditionally believed that wolves howled due to hunger during winter, we know today that isn’t accurate.

Howling & other wolf vocalizations are heard in the wintertime to locate pack members, reinforce social bonds, define territory & coordinate hunting. One study recorded spontaneous howls and responses happen most often between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. .

  • According to the Wolf Conversation Center, gray wolves “inhabited most of the available land in the Northern Hemisphere.” Habitat destruction & persecution by humans have reduced their range by about a third worldwide & 90% in the lower 48 states.

Other celebrations:

• Hogmanay: December 31st- January 1st-

Christmas was not celebrated as a festival and virtually banned in Scotland for around 400 years. So it was, right up until the 1950s that many Scots worked over Christmas & celebrated their winter solstice holiday at New Year, when family & friends would gather for a party and to exchange presents which came to be known as hogmanays.  

Customs vary throughout Scotland & usually include gift-giving & visiting the homes of friends & neighbors. Another common Hogmanay tradition is to clean the house. Some believe that beginning the New Year with an unclean house may bring bad luck. Traditionally, this would include taking out the ashes from the coal fire. 

• Particular attention is given to the first-foot(is the first person to enter the home of a household on New Year's Day and is seen as a bringer of good fortune for the coming year bearing coal to ensure the house remains warm in the coming months  & should traditionally be a tall, dark-haired man.)

• Compitalia/ Feast of Lades: January 3-5-

Was an annual festival in honor of the Lares Compitales, household deities of the crossroads, to whom sacrifices were offered at the places where two or more ways met. Dionysius said that Servius Tullius founded the festival, which he describes as it was celebrated in his time. Dionysius relates that the sacrifices consisted of honey-cakes (Ancient Greek: πέλανοι) presented by the inhabitants of each house; & that the people who assisted as ministering servants at the festival were not free men, but slaves because the Lares took pleasure in the service of slaves. He further adds that the Compitalia were celebrated a few days after the Saturnalia with great splendor & that the slaves on this occasion had full liberty to do as they pleased.

During the celebration of the festival, each family placed the statue of the underworld goddess Mania at the door of their house. They also hung up at their doors figures of wool representing men & women, accompanying them with humble requests that the Lares & Mania would be contented with those figures, and spare the people of the house.

• Lunar New Year: January 29th-

The Lunar new year (Commonly referred as Chinese New Year) is one of the most important holidays in Chinese culture marking the end of winter & the beginning of the spring season, observances traditionally take place from New Year's Eve, the evening preceding the first day of the year to the Lantern Festival, held on the 15th day of the year. The new year starts on the new moon nearest the midpoint between the winter solstice & the spring equinox, sometime between January 21 and February 20.

• This holiday has ancient roots in China as an agricultural society. It was the occasion to celebrate the harvest & worship the gods & ask for good harvests in times to come

Each culture celebrates the Lunar New Year differently with various foods and traditions that symbolize prosperity, abundance & togetherness. In preparation for the Lunar New Year, houses are thoroughly cleaned to rid them of inauspicious spirits, which might have collected during the old year. Cleaning is also meant to open space for good will and good luck.

Some households hold rituals to offer food & paper icons to ancestors. Others post red paper and banners inscribed with calligraphy messages of good health and fortune in front of & inside, homes. Elders give out red envelopes containing money to children. Foods made from glutinous rice are commonly eaten, as these foods represent togetherness. Other foods symbolize prosperity, abundance & good luck.

The origins of the Lunar New Year festival are thousands of years old & are steeped in legends. One legend is that of Nian, a hideous beast believed to feast on human flesh on New Year's day. Because Nian feared the color red, loud noises & fire, red paper decorations were pasted to doors, lanterns were burned all night, and firecrackers were lit to frighten the beast away.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2025 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

https://www.edinburghfestivalcity.com/festivals/edinburghs-hogmanay

[see-arcane]

The idea of one of the Weird Sisters being a romani girl or a slovak girl that was in the wrong place at the wrong time is horrible, and a great way to showcase the kind of power (both social, and supernatural) that Dracula forces upon the humans around him.

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong state of being, social, supernatural or otherwise. Dracula could have taken anyone from any station in Transylvania. Rich or poor, friend or foe. But I think none of the Weird Sisters were noblewomen while alive. They were, like Jonathan, sniffed out among the chattel. Dracula is their superior in every regard that way; and more, the servile classes do one thing better than any aristocrat.

It is their wont to make their ruler happy.

The eldest, a young fair girl, was a drop of sunshine and laughter in a threadbare village. Someone who uplifted and charmed whoever she crossed. Dracula, after some unknown breaking point in the mad red fog as he skulked up the mountains into his broken castle to wrestle with inhuman instincts and hold to something like a man's sanity, was alone. A monster made raw with slaughtering, with his people only fearing and fleeing around him. His halls are quiet. He crawls and lopes through them, snapping at himself, knowing he is reducing night by night into a Thing more than a man, let alone a conqueror.

So he goes hunting. He finds the fair girl who makes others happy and holds their hearts. He steals her. Wrings out months of playacting from her; in turn, he has reason to force himself into behaving like a man. The castle has no visitors in that era. When she cries and calls from her window, she hears only her own echoes as a pleading choir. And then it is back to making her monster happy. So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

The next girl was taken back when ties were first forged between the Count and the early generations of Slovaks he would come to entrust with his errands. There was trust on the human side too. Yes, he was a monster, but he was their monster. Their benefactor. He speaks to them like kin and pays a dragon's ransom for their work. They are allies! He calls them friends!

So it goes until his attention falls on one of the girls. A daughter. A sister. A new wife. She knows their Count, their kind monster. 'A friend of the family.' And perhaps she is not even afraid when he asks her, cordial as a lord, to aid him with something in the castle. A small matter, my dear, but something he would not trust the coarse handling of the men to do. She goes in. The door locks.

Does she go to that same room, that same window? Does she weep and call for her family? Does anyone try to come for her, to plead with their friend-master-owner, or to--ha--raise a weapon against him?

If so, it is a small matter. Quick. Bloody.

She charms him while alive. For she must. She thought, just as her new-ancient Sister thought, that she might find a way out. A chance to flee. But she makes him so happy. So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

And the Slovaks learn a lesson that is shared through centuries. They warn all those they work with in the future of the same. The locals, the nomads, the strangers. No women. No girls.

The third girl has no warning. She is Romani, but she has run from her people too. Or else she was trying to find them. Times have always been grim, but especially when the mania over witchcraft was at its height. She lost friends and family to...what? Sham trials and tortured deaths? A scattering to the winds as they fled the self-assigned hunters? Running further, higher, steeper. God's soldiers will not bother with their mission if it means galloping up the cliffs.

Up, up, up.

There are wolves. There is cold. She has no room in her to care.

And then, a fairy tale happening:

A man appears on the moonlit mountain. His eyes are fire. Are you lost, my dear?

She is. She thinks herself already dead or dreaming when he leads her into the castle. When there is food, warmth, and sympathy from this smiling noble perched in the crags of the Carpathians. And for one month, maybe two, even after she smells something worse than death on him, even after every liberty is plucked from her like petals from a rose, even after she has her first glimpse of her grinning Sisters, even after she sees strangers--Living people! Her own people among them! Look, look, I am trapped here! Please! Please, do not go, do not leave me with him...--she clings to charm. To smiles. She makes him happy.

So happy that he loves her. She must stay.

And now there is a young man. Such a winsome thing, young and strong. He makes their monster so happy.

His waiting Sisters think their monster may just love him.

And as they hear him shout from the hand-me-down window, they laugh along with the living in their coffins.

[kdkdnfuiahuag]

imagine you see your best friend who you’re secretly in love with for the first time in six months and then he forgets your birthday and you have to third wheel him and your sister the whole day during which she assaults someone and you and him have a devastating argument (2.0) and in the closet (at rink o mania) starts playing when he’s telling you you’re just friends

[lariumbreon]

Succubus HRT - Week ???? - Borderline Aftermath

In an effort to listen to my therapist, to better help myself, and to help possibly enlighten and educate people. A lot of Succubus HRT is contextual to my own personal struggles with borderline personality disorder, ptsd, hypersexuality, and my suicidal tendencies. A very not-fun blend of mental issues. A lot of this was meant to stay in private journals. But as I started to draw more, I felt like presenting the art publicly might also help others struggling in the same or similar ways. Make no mistake, I am making progress, and I am doing better. But sometimes it gets hard. Sometimes guilt from previous episodes take hold. Sometimes PTSD takes the wheel and I relive the pains that caused the episodes all over again via emotional flashbacks. Living like this, is often an inescapable waking nightmare. One small miscommunication. One small mistake. One small misread of a mundane sentence. One unexpected minor change in the dynamics of a relationship with someone. It's enough to send me into a spiral. Of course the bigger triggers affect harder. Unkept promises, lies, being used. All these triggers often leave open wounds that don't simply heal. If not resolved, or if someone simply just doesn't care, what starts is a near bottomless decline into various degrees of mania, depression, anxiety, and so much more. It gets even worse when the person who triggers it simply tries to ignore it, or act as though it's wholly my fault for feeling hurt and the episodes I have afterwards. That doesn't happen often, and I've since found the strength to not be friends with those who have done this to me.

These episodes can last weeks, months. I get incredibly paranoid about every interaction, as if I might slip and fall onto spikes at any moment. Or that the masks might slip and the person I'm speaking with will start to scream about how they hate me and want nothing to do with me. It's a constant battle with intrusive thoughts, false memories. I often spend nights crying having fabricated arguments in my head, catastrophizing until I pass out from the pain. Abject isolation and me spending a night ghosting nigh everyone I know and love in one last self-destructive episode is a common grand finale of the spiral. An episode can take place over weeks, months. For some people they just go about their lives, while I hold on to a small hurt that collects, festers, and explodes outward seemingly out of nowhere. To them, they're doing nothing. But to me, even just being shorter than usual in their replies feels like claws on my heart. So I lash out. Causing constant and irreparable damage around me to relationships and those in them. It's as if existing with BPD gives me a constant AOE Ring of Fire that causes friendly fire damage.

"People with Borderline Personality Disorder (and those like them) are like people with third degree burns over 90% of their body. Lacking emotional skin, they feel agony at the slightest touch or movement." - Marsha Linehan

Very few quotes have ever felt or spoken as true to me about living with borderline as this one. It best encapsulates how I feel when episodes happen. Like my whole body exists as an open wound, and every small trigger causes inexplicable pain throughout my brain and my heart. Which has often led to my struggles with addictions to pain pills and the like. The worst part, is there is often no perfectly right way to engage with me. Episodes will happen over the smallest things. I cannot guarantee I won't struggle. People with borderline, we struggle often, and greatly. What we struggle with cannot just simply be fixed, or even helped. But with patient and understanding hands, we'll pull through okay in the end. Fragile, handle with care.

[starsfic]

The Week After, Chapter 2: Day 1

Summary: Short one, because it was mostly sleeping.

They woke up on a couch.

It was an old couch in what looked to be the remains of a small break room. The lights were turned off, leaving only some light to peer through the cracks of the open door, so few details could be seen, like the dust that clung here and there and the plastic chairs surrounding about two tables. What they could see was the age of the room, left to rot unlike the pristine parkour palace.

…Well, almost pristine.

They pulled out their phone and winced at the lack of response. Hopefully, they got their purse back, it had their phone charger in it. There was a clock on the wall, but as they squinted, they realized they couldn’t see.

Oh. Wait. They weren’t wearing their glasses.

Morgan had to wonder how long they had been asleep to not notice that fact first. They stood up and reached around. After a bit of fumbling in the dark, they found their glasses. The sport strap was still on. They pulled it on and realized about four things.

The clock was a Frankie clock, the position of his arms suggesting it was eight in the evening. Someone had taken off the Frankie onesie, leaving them in the gym shorts and tank they had come in, the floor freezing through their socked feet, with the shoes next to the couch. There was a McDonald’s bag sitting next to where their glasses had been, faint warmth still coming off. The third thing was that Frankie was standing in the corner of the room next to the door, staring at them.

They stared at each other. It was just like when they stumbled across him the first time. He had been staring at the cameras and then slowly turned towards them. Morgan had been too baffled and just a touch scared to think of running as he straightened up and then suddenly burst to life-

“Oh good!” he said, clapping his hands. “You’re not dead!”

Morgan stared. “Were- were you worried I was?” they asked.

“Well, to be fair, you did pass out on me very suddenly,” he said, reaching over and turning on the light. They felt a hiss come out at the sudden invasion of light, blinking colors out of their vision. “That was very rude of you, dear.”

“Sorry,” they said, unsure of what else to say. When their parents or siblings had said something similar, they had always felt a rush of anger that meant that their house was filled with yelling. Instead, shame rushed up, foreign in their body. “I think it was because I was suddenly out of a life-threatening situation.” To be fair, Morgan had been running around for hours, avoiding danger like Death had an arrest warrant for them. It had been exciting, but also exhausting. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Hm,” Frankie said.

Morgan decided to move to the next topic. “Did you buy me McDonald’s?”

“No, the staff who came by did,” Frankie sounded very pleased by this. “The movers wanted to give you a reward for surviving. They left your stuff by the entrance, by the way.” There was a pause. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“Stop it,” Morgan said, reaching into the bag. And, wow, they had gotten them a bunch of stuff. Their mouth began to water at the smell of hotcakes. They couldn’t remember the last time they splurged and bought any kind of takeout. The past few months had been full of the cursed cereal that had the texture of packing peanuts and, after a few months of eating it straight, tasted like medicinal grape.

Frankie paused as they didn’t even bother with a knife and fork, yanking shreds of the pancakes off and shoving it in. “No,” he finally said, maniac glee lining his voice. “You did me a favor by living. So you have to deal with me.”

“What do you mean?” Morgan asked around a mouthful of fries. They needed to slow down, but they were so fucking hungry.

“They were going to get rid of me,” Frankie explained and Morgan had to stop at that. “After this season, they were going to scrap me and recast the position because with the show only lasting a few minutes.” The mania suggested this was an unusual amount of trauma dumping, so they just shut their mouth. “But now I’m getting upgrades that that brat got years ago!” He laughed, gripping his fists together.

…well then.

“I’m glad for you?”

“You should be!” Frankie said, turning and opening the door. “I’m glad you’re not dead. If you need to replace your bandages, there should be a first aid kit in the cabinet. Bye!” And with that, he slammed the door behind him. There was a pause and then he opened the door. “By the way, you do have some tax paperwork to fill. Apparently, it’s very illegal to not pay you for all you’ve done.”

“Isn’t it also illegal to host death games in the first place?”

Frankie chuckled. “Yes! But the IRS doesn’t ask questions about murder.” And with that, he slammed the door shut.

Morgan blinked and then sighed.

They could worry about that later.

[ladykailitha]

A Holly, Jolly Harrington Christmas

Hello and welcome to my Christmas AUvent Calendar! Every day from now until the 24th I will be posting a ficlet that is 500-1500 from an AU I've done over the years.

All stories will be marked with the tag #12 aus of christmas so you can follow along as I will only be tagging my permanent list for this (it would get too confusing otherwise).

The next one on our list is: The Reunion verse. You can read the story here. All links will be to the first chapter, but the chapter itself will have links to the rest of the story.

Thanks to @bookworm0690 for help with the title.

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6

~

The newly blended Munson/Harrington clan was experiencing the Christmas holiday for the first time.

Edie knew to sit back and watch the chaos. Harri and Eddie did not. She braced for the sonic blast that was about to occur in three, two, one...

“What?!!” Steve squawked. “You guys didn’t do Christmas? But how? Why?”

Harri and Eddie shared a glance and then Eddie just shrugged. “Jai was Muslim and I prefer Halloween. You don’t get mocked for Santa bringing you socks instead of toys when it’s a candy free for all.”

Steve blinked at them in confusion and then tilted his head to side. Edie hid a smile behind her glass of chocolate milk. She always thought her dad looked like a puppy when he did that.

Apparently so did Eddie.

“Oh, no,” he whispered. “The puppy dog eyes.” He turned to Harri. “What have we done?”

“Buckle up, buckaroos!” Edie said cheerfully. “Dad’s going to give you two a crash course in Christmas cheer. He’s almost militant about it.”

“I am not militant,” Steve huffed, putting his hands on his hips. “Just very well organized.”

Edie turned to the Munson boys. “Santa wishes he was as organized as Dad, and the fat little elf has magic.”

~

Eddie realized all too quickly that Edie had absolutely undersold the militant aspect of the Christmas mania that overtaken their home. They had decided to move in Eddie’s place (so he wouldn’t have to rebuild his ridiculous setup regarding the identity of Harri’s surrogate mom. They had told him after the wedding to forestall any meltdowns, but Harri had taken it like a champ and understood why there was so much secrecy.

But Eddie was digressing and his spouse was decorating. It had started innocent enough when he put up the first tree in their main hallway. Then second went up in Steve’s office, in the corner of the room. Then the third one went up in the family room. And this one was the presents and for everyone to decorate. Not the other two. Those were just centerpieces.

Steve scoffed when he brought it up. “You mean like the ten foot skeleton that was there only two months ago? Or the dragon that was on top of the house? Like those decorations, my love?”

Eddie blinked at him for a moment. So, yes. The Munsons had gone all out for Halloween. “Point taken, sweetheart. I will bow to your superior knowledge in this regard.”

Steve nodded smugly. Eddie should have known what was coming next. But he was woefully unprepared.

The train set went up complete with a ceramic Christmas village and its residents. It had working lights on the houses, street lights, and even traffic lights. Eddie had asked Dustin how it all worked.

“Fuck if I know, dude,” Dustin said, “by all rights it shouldn’t. Only Steve in his bumbling way could create such a mess of wires and connections that somehow feedback on each other and still fucking work.”

Eddie looked over at his husband with new appreciation. Because yeah, only Stevie.

Then he learned that there were two Christmas parties. One for the company which was not mandatory, but Steve went all puppy dog eyes and it might as well had been. And the other was the friend and family party.

According to Jeff who had gone to these the last couple of years, was the party. Like Steve hired a Santa Claus to pass out gifts, the food was catered, full professionally tended bar, the works. If Eddie thought the charity gala was obscene, this was that on crack.

The office Christmas party was a blast. Eddie spent most of the time learning new swear words in ASL from Steve’s secretary, Vanessa until her husband Nate dragged her away to meet someone in his department.

Then he spent the rest of the time teaching Dustin the new swears.

Then the day of the Christmas party arrived. And there weren’t as many people as Eddie thought there were going to be. He thought it would be wall to wall with stars like the gala and their wedding reception. But no. It was just friends.

But make no mistake the intimacy of the party did not make it any less grand. In fact, Eddie would have gone as far as to say it made it more intimate.

Eddie slipped his arm around Steve waist and pressed a gentle kiss to his neck. “This has been fun, sweetheart. Thank you.”

Steve flushed with pride. “You’re welcome. I hope Harri is having a good first Christmas.”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie said with a grin. He pointed at his son dancing goofily with his friends. “I don’t think I’ve seen him this happy.”

And then as if called Harri came bounding up to them all smiles. “This is the best holiday ever! Thanks Steve!” He hugged Steve tight.

“You’re welcome, Harri,” Steve said warmly.

Then Harri left the way he came, practically vibrating with joy.

“Betrayal by my own flesh and blood!” Eddie gasped clutching his chest.

Steve shook his head. “As though you don’t have Edie hook, line and sinker for Halloween.”

Eddie looked at Steve for a moment. “Did our children get swapped at birth? Because that is the only explanation.”

Steve just shook his head. This year was the best Christmas he had since his divorce, because Eddie and Harri were apart of it now. And that’s what made it the best holiday ever.

~

Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

[hellfirecvnt]

You're Just Drunk

Benson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Alcoholism, drinking, angst? MILD fluff? Some secret third thing? High-key OOC Benson. Mentions of suicide and attempting. Y/N is unwell. Bad advice.

Summary: A story about hidden feelings, bad brains, and probably blossoming alcoholism.

It's nearly 2 AM when Benson wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing loudly across the room. Initially, he jumps, leaping awake and forcing himself to be as aware as possible. A symptom of his poorly medicated paranoia and mania. His heart races as he emotionlessly crosses the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Hello?" He speaks groggily, never minding to check who was calling in the first place.

"Hey, man. You gotta get down here."

"What the fuck, man? You know what time it is?" His anger is calm and quiet; covert. "I'm trying to sleep."

"You gotta come get this bitch, dude. She's losing her fuckin' mind." Benson's peer whines into the phone.

"Call the cops." He replies flatly. He's seconds away from slamming the flip-phone closed when he hears a name.

"No, man. It's Y/N!" Your name silences the line for just a few seconds.

"Alright. Give me five." He closes his phone and tosses it on the dresser, raking impatient hands through his hair as he frustratedly searches for a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Dressed and heading out the door, he opens his phone and checks the time. What could have you out so late, at the local bar, acting so wildly that they've called and outsourced your own ride home, ready or not? The last he heard from you, months and months ago, you were supposed to be doing better. So much so, in fact, that you cut everyone off, including him.

When he pulls into the parking lot, he immediately spots your car. He's expressionless as he stalks toward the entrance. The woman and security guard working the door allow him past, recognizing him as an old regular. You both were. He nods at them as he passes, stepping through a wide doorway into the bar. He carefully scans the room when a loud commotion draws his attention. It's you and a man twice your size, both belligerent, both yelling. He strains to hear what's being said from so far away.

"Don't fucking touch me!" You wave your finger in the man's face.

"For the last time, drop it and shut the fuck up, bitch!" The man yells, towering over you in an attempt to intimidate you. You meet his gaze, too drunk for your own good.

"Fuck you," you hiss, and the man can't hold back; he shoves you harshly, and you drunkenly stumble backward into a table, spilling everything on top. You're just about to return the energy, letting a lifetime of pent-up rage loose on a man who couldn't mind his own personal space, but someone cuts you off, putting themself between you and the tall, violent drunkard.

Benson starts swinging, and he doesn't stop. With each devastating blow, the sickening sound of blood squelching fills the air. It's all you can hear over the screams and prying arms. You're staring in awe, too drunk to process what's happening until you feel yourself being lifted and escorted toward the exit by your arms. "Hey, what the fuck?" You kick and thrash in protest, but you're useless in this condition.

Benson's rage is vile and deafening, and by the time sound reaches his eardrums again, he's bloodied the man unrecognizable and torn his own hand to shreds in the process. "God damn it, Benson. I just wanted you to take her back home." His friend sighs, shoving him out the door with friendly discipline. Tough love. Outside, Benson is annoyed with his own behavior. Who the fuck was he putting his ass on the line for? He flexes his sore, bloody hand and groans.

"Fuck," his attention is drawn in your direction. You're fumbling with your keys, trying to get into your car.

"Hey! Y/N," he calls to you, jogging over to stop your attempted escape. "You can't drive like this. Give me your keys."

"I'm not gonna fucking drive, I just want to sleep. Fuck!" You snap, fighting back the sharp prickle of shameful tears prodding at your eyes. You may stifle the tears, but your flushed face and pursed lips meant to hide the tremble give you away. Benson's face remains flat. Nothing. He scans your face and notes every little tell. He always could.

"Let me take you home," he says, snatching your keys from you once and for all.

"How am I supposed to get my car back?"

"I'll come back to your place and drive you in the morning. Just get in my God damn car." You stare at him. "Please." He finally adds. You silently accept defeat. The drive home starts out quiet and tense. You could slice through the air with a knife. "Long time, no see." He finally breaks the silence.

"Yeah, I... Left town for a while." You furrow your brow, unsure of how much you're willing to share with him right now. When just about a year ago, the two of you were closer than anyone in the entire group of friends you managed to make it through high school with all those years ago. Well known in your small, unimportant town for being misfits and "bad kids." It was common knowledge that Benson would do anything he put his mind to if he was mad enough, and often you wondered what that meant. You've seen him in plenty of fights before, but the way he laid into that man tonight was new. "You really fucked that guy up."

"You didn't have it-" he hesitates, searching for a word. "Under control."

"I didn't think I did."

"Eric called me. He told me to come get you. I didn't show up to play hero." He's driving, but still his refusal to look at you feels intentional.

"Yeah, I guess I was a lot tonight. I don't... I can't really remember anymore." You sigh, settling back in the seat. The smell of his car is nostalgic-feeling to you. The interior is stained with the smell of cigarettes and weed, no doubt causing trouble for him every time he's pulled over.

"You drinking like this a lot?" Benson's eyes narrow in that way that tells you he's bracing a subject that makes him uncomfortable.

"It's just- dont- Look, I'm working through some shit, okay? I don't need a lecture from-"

"From someone who knows you better than you do." He huffs. You don't respond. Instead, you lie your head back against the seat and let your eyes fall closed. You'd always tried to emulate Benson's stoic nature, but you were never as good as he was. Tears always found their way to you the way anger found its way to Benson. The car slows down as the tires crackle the loose gravel against the solid concrete of your driveway. It's silent for a while, and then he speaks again. "You need help gettin' inside?" His words startle you awake, and your reaction is shockingly similar to his when his phone rang only about an hour ago.

"No," you mumble, stumbling out of his car and up to your porch. He's pulled out of your driveway and headed to the culdesac to turn around. The same quickness he arrived with. It'd be a cold day in hell if he made you think tonight meant anything to him. That the fact that he's who Eric called meant anything. That you were in his passenger seat again. Emotionless as always, his mind races until a shining object in his cup holder grabs his eye. Your keys.

"Fuck," he curses, frustrated and ultimately unbelievably tired. He quickly whips the car back into your driveway as he emerges from the turnaround. At first, he doesn't see you, but as he steps closer, hoping to leave your keys on your porch, he spots you. You're curled up in an uncomfortably cold-looking situation, sitting on your stairs, leaning against the railing. You're out cold. "Hey," nothing. "Y/N, come on. Just get to your couch or something." He lightly shakes you, closing the awkward gap between you. "Hey..." he notices your dramatic makeup streaking down your cheeks with fresh tears, but still you remain unconscious.

Benson unlocks your door and for a moment, takes in the subtle differences of your house. The small way it's changed over the months apart. The way it's changed after you moved and came back. At least your family held off on selling the place. That totally didn't feel like a giant I-told-you-so or anything like that, by the way. He carries you to your bedroom and lays you on the bed. Annoyed, he pries your shoes off and tosses a small throw blanket over you before heading to your bathroom to wash his throbbing hand. The cool water runs over his open wounds and the soap burns like needles, but his face displays no more than the slightest twitch of his lip. With his hands clean and dry, he makes his way out of your room, reaching for the light switch when he hears your voice.

"Benson?" You question, unsure if running into your old friend was a dream or not.

"Yeah," he says after debating for a moment. He almost just leaves after that, hopeful that you'll fall asleep and he can help you figure your shit out with your car tomorrow.

"I'm sorry."

"Go to sleep," Benson speaks with a low, quiet voice, reaching again for the light switch only to be interrupted.

"Don't go." Your words sound pathetic to your own ears, but you just don't care.

"Y/N."

"Just- don't- just don't go. Stay here for a minute." You say all of this with your head still buried in your pillows, eyes closed, tears falling. Benson leans in the doorway. He tosses up a hand as if he's torn, and taps at the knit on his brow as he thinks. Already knowing he's about to give in, he sighs.

"Alright. Just... Go the fuck to sleep." He finally flips the light off and disappears down the hall, headed for the living room. You always had a large, comfortable couch, so it's not putting him out to crash here for a night. All he wants is to sleep. He didn't ask for any of this. He grabs a blanket from the recliner and flops onto the sofa, settling in with a quickness. Shoes off and cardigan tossed aside, he bundles himself in the soft covers and closes his eyes. Over and over, he tries to force himself into long-awaited sleep, but all he can see are the tears slipping from under your closed eyes, muddied with eyeliner and mascara. Benson eventually manages to sleep for at least an hour before his body wakes him up, stirring his mind with worry and paranoid thoughts.

Without giving it much consideration, Benson makes his way down the hall, just to check in on you. The little episode he'd let out at the bar has his brain running on high. When he pokes his head in, you've seemed to have gotten up and changed into pajamas at some point while he slept. He wonders if you even knew he was out there, staying like you asked. It pisses him off at himself how badly he wants you to remember he stayed because you asked. Your face is washed too, clear of the dragged markings left behind from dried tears, but still, they fall, just a little less visible. Benson can't imagine and doesn't really want to know anything about your time away from home, not unless you want to share it. All he knows is you got knocked down further than you needed. Much further. It's uncomfortable for him to see you so vulnerable. He's seen you drunkenly cry a plethora of times, but this feels different. Heavier.

After a few seconds of watching your breathing shudder as you sniffled, he left the room. He snatches the blanket from the couch and returns to you, climbing into your bed. There's a respectable gap; after all, he's not about to come cuddle you while you cry. He knows you're better than that. Yet his gesture feels intimate enough, even as he rolls over, and faces his back toward you. It's like coming home. It reminds you of when you two were teens and you kissed one time at a concert and never talked about it again, but thought about it almost every day. Benson did too. Albeit a little more strangely obsessive, hence the grudge he held when you left.

"I'm sorry," you mumble and he's unsure if you're awake at all.

"Shh, go to sleep." He closes his eyes, sleep finding him peacefully quickly compared to the distant couch.

"I wasn't trying to cause an episode tonight." You speak through a hiccup. "I just needed a drink."

"Y/N, go to sleep." He insists, already aware of the way you'll regret this vulnerable behavior in the morning. Your levels of hangxiety could be studied by scholars.

"I've always done this to you." All of this being said with your eyes sealed shut and a small semblance of drool pooling by your mouth on the pillows.

"You're just drunk," he whispers, truthfully just desperate to get some shut-eye. He gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before turning on his side. You both lie back to back, close enough to feel each other's body heat.

"I didn't come home because I couldn't make it on my own," you're suddenly very spry. You prop yourself up on an elbow and speak into the dark room, still not facing him. Benson releases another heavy sigh, knowing you're just getting started with this monologuing behavior. But he can't lie, his interest is piqued. He's been wondering about you this whole time.

"No one thought that," he responds flatly, his voice is hoarse with exhaustion. You steady yourself, still blackout drunk.

"When I left, my new life was everything I dreamed of," you start. Immediately, Benson raises an eyebrow, listening. "But I kept... I don't know how to explain it. Things would go so good, and I'd keep fucking it up." He listens silently the entire time you drone on, misusing words in your drunken confession of what all went wrong. The way an unchecked rage boiled inside you and it spilled over at the smallest inconveniences. You even venture as far as to say you came so close to hurting others physically, that it made you want to take your own life to prevent any sort of irreversible damage. You couldn't keep a job, forget any kind of relationship. It became a Hell you put yourself in. Benson stifles a scoff.

He wonders why you feel so ashamed of the emotions that other people cause. In a perfect world, there'd be no need to hurt anyone. But war exists, and death exists, and murder exists. You didn't invent it, why would you punish yourself for the way it fills your veins when someone gets in your face? He shakes the emotions and hopes from his mind and flattens his face in an eerie ritual of cracking his neck.

"After the overdose, my aunt and uncle said I could just keep living here if I came back home. C-Closer to everyone." Now all he can imagine is your unconscious body on a bathroom floor, miles and miles away from him. And he never knew a thing. All those adolescent years together, figuring out life, and he would've had to hear about your death in the obits. It enrages him to imagine. Like he's incapable of any other emotion. They all just come out as blood-simmering lividity.

"Please, get some goddamn rest, okay?" He speaks through gritted teeth and you let your elbow down, collapsing onto the mattress and falling into silence. Benson isn't tired anymore; he's wide awake, and he lies there with his brows arched, staring directly at the wall. How could he not know this about you, of all people? How had you successfully masked such an important part of yourself? And then he realizes he's been doing the exact same thing. None of your friends know Benson keeps a shotgun in the back of his car solely for the off chance that he might snap. It looms over him the way it slips out of you. Being away from home must've made it harder to keep bottled. Amateur, he thinks.

The next morning, you pry your eyes open against the harsh morning light, emitting a pitiful groan as you do. You sit up, rubbing your head and looking around your bedroom, confused. You notice a brunette head of hair facing away from you, lying peacefully on the other side of your bed. You scrunch your face, afraid of what kind of weirdo came home with you. You're about to draw back and kick him out of the bed, but then you notice your two separate blankets. You look down, and you're wearing normal sleepwear, not "fuck me" pajamas. When you glance back over to the man in your bed, you instantly recognize everything about his outline.

"Benson?"

"Morning."

"You're in my house," you say, suddenly embarrassed by the half-unpacked moving boxes scattered about your home. Though few and far between.

"Yeah. I'm in your house." He rises from the bed and sits right across from you, one leg hanging off the side, like a symbolic foot out the door. Slowly your memories return to you bit by bit, with large empty gaps in-between. But you remember why he stayed.

"I asked you to stay, I didn't think you would." You'd never be able to notice the light behind Benson's eyes as you say this, but it's there nonetheless.

"Well, you weren't having a great night." He stands from the bed, stretches, and sits back down, reaching for his shoes. "We can go get your car whenever you're ready." He's tying his laces as you stare into nothing, gathering your memories amidst the worst headache of your life.

"Yeah. Thanks." You slip into the master bathroom to get ready for the day, washing your face and staring at the dark circles below your eyes. With a sigh, you splash water in your face. After your morning ritual, you're looking a little brighter, but no less hungover. Benson's waiting in the living room when you return to your bedroom. You get dressed quickly and throw a pair of sunglasses over your darkened eyes.

In the car, more and more memories from last night resurfaced. You place a tense hand on your forehead, leaning against the window as you recall the way you cried to your estranged friend. A friend who didn't want to be there in the first place. "Um, Benson. About last night-"

"Forget about it."

"I was just drunk, and-"

"Would you just drop it, Y/N?" He chuckles, never averting his eyes from the road. "Whatever you've got going on," he pauses for a moment. "Stop crying about it."

"I wasn't gonna cry! I was gonna beat that guy's ass and sleep in my car." You argue.

"Oh, you were gonna beat his ass?" Benson asks, fully laughing now.

"Of course I wasn't! You know what I was doing. Fuck." You resign.

"Yeah, getting your face beaten in as an act of self-destruction doesn't really cut it at our age anymore." His voice is cold and factual. He's reeling in his guffawing laughter, trying to regain a sense of seriousness. "You hate how angry you are, but you don't care if it gets you killed."

"Oh, my fucking god. He wasn't going to kill me. Please don't choose now to do one of your mellow dramatic monologues." You pinch the bridge of your nose. "You're worse than me after too many shots."

"Am I wrong?" He asks, suddenly much more intense than before. His voice is rough and his eyes have widened. You narrow your eyes at him, clocking this switch right off the bat. It's familiar. "Am I wrong, Y/N?" He asks again, truly wondering if you think he's wrong about your passive death wish. He pulls the car into the other lane, driving into oncoming traffic. Luckily, the road is nearly never busy.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?" You exclaim, hoping he'll have time to swerve if someone were to appear around a corner. He's driving fast and recklessly. Your pulse begins to race. "Benson, okay! I get the point, stop the car!" You cloak your panic in anger, as always. Laying into him so hard, a stranger would think you're enemies.

As he rounds a wide turn, a semi-truck comes into view. It blows a billowing horn, begging even harder than you, for Benson to get out of the way. "Fuck," you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut and accepting what's to come. Never thinking to wonder why, only accepting an early fate the best way you can. Just as the truck's horn became unbearably loud, Benson jerks the car to the side, missing the large 18 wheeler by what felt like mere inches.

"Nothing's worse than you after too many shots." He cuts, and for some reason, it does sting a little. A reminder of your already self-perceived burdensome existence, even with your veins pumping full of adrenaline. You're shaken up, but you recall that kind of strange behavior from your youth together. Though, it was usually less horrifying from the sidelines.

"What the fuck was that, man? Fuck." You breathe heavily.

"You're not fearless. And you're not indestructible." He lights a cigarette and cracks his window about an inch. The smoke flies out into the wind as he exhales. "Get your kicks without getting your teeth knocked out." He laughs through a cloud. "Or stop holding yourself back. Either way, don't get yourself killed." There's a certain amount of weight on that "don't."

Finally, he pulls his car into the parking lot of the bar, and you confidently mask any embarrassment that might still remain after your little outburst last night. He pulls up next to your car and you step out, stopping to respond as you stand outside the passenger side door.

"Thanks, Benson. A game of chicken with a semi is a pretty crazy way to start the day." You laugh, something that always comforts him. His inability to run you off until you did, in fact, run off.

"I'm a visual teacher." He grins. "Aren't you happy to be alive?" He asks, cockily. You pause for a moment before answering.

"No," you say, flat out. "Come to my house for a drink sometime, I'm probably not allowed back here anymore." You smirk, closing the door before he can make a fake excuse about how it'll never happen, all the while knowing full well that he'll be at your place by tomorrow.

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 3, In Which Larian Introduces The Raphael Romance

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

SUMMARY: Careful which mods you install for BG3. Did you read the terms and conditions carefully?

TAGS: meta romance, psychological horror, smut, the character is the player, Raphael is after you, you wanted him, you invited him to our world, he accepted your invitation

RATING: explicit

AO3

Chapter 3

TW for the chapter: self-harm, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, masturbation, problematic mom-daughter relationship

After spending forty minutes on the tube and another twenty squeezed onto a bus with sweaty, boundary-ignorant strangers, you finally got home from your coffee date with the devil. 

In that time, you had more or less come to terms with the fact that you had truly lost it.

This left you with three options: First, you could go to a psychiatrist (how do you find a psychiatrist?) and tell the truth. Your laptop is talking to you, a devil is stalking you with the clear intention of fucking you and taking your soul, in no particular order. They'd chalk it up to psychosexual mania, Freudian theories of repressed desires and frustrations. Prescriptions for anti-psychotics and anti-hallucinogens would follow while they dug into your very much fatherless past.

The second thing a person haunted by the devil might do is go to a priest. The last time you set foot in a church was when your mother could make you go, so it would be as much a surprise for the priest to see you there as it would be for you to do so again. Also, you can't help but imagine walking into a confessional only to find Raphael smirking back at you from behind the lattice screen, which brings you back to option one.

The third option was to accept your madness and play along with it. It had already made the last week of your life more exciting than the entire preceding twenty-seven years combined.

It wasn't a difficult choice.

Since your arrival at home, you had not let your phone leave your side for a single second, not in the shower, not on the toilet. Meanwhile, you had begun your preparations for the rendezvous, and you had begun by scheduling your torture for the very next day. 

Your tormentor was a petite Vietnamese girl who promised her methods would not hurt, and the execution chamber was a rundown salon down the street that definitely condoned illegal employment practices. 

Not like you could afford anything nicer anyway.

You could barely scrape together enough cash for waxing (damn inflation), but imagining that Raphael had watched you straddle a Bad Dragon dildo all natural- unshaved legs and the rest - was way more mortifying than the idea that the devil himself was watching.

After the Vietnamese girl ripped hair from your most sensitive areas, you felt prepared for any infernal punishment. When questioned if it hurt, you lied through clenched teeth.

The rest of the Sunday was a shopping blur. The last time you went on a date was some nine months ago (prior to BG3 coming out), it lasted an hour but left enough of an impression to delete your profile from Bumble, so you were completely out of stock of anything half-way decent, not to speak decent enough for a date with Raphael.

You consulted with the Devil's Den about what to wear and what lingerie Raphael would prefer, which didn't help much as everyone had their own interpretation of his preferences, ranging from none at all to him wearing lingerie himself.

At the start of the working week, your bank balance had dropped by four hundred euros and you still hadn't received any calls on your mobile phone. 

Wasn't there a rule about waiting three days? Whoever came up with this shit should spend his afterlife as a lemure.

You went through the motions at work, barely awake during two team conference calls, only to be told you looked "exhausted". This, despite having spent the entire previous day in a facial mask. To add insult to injury, you were scheduled for a "personal development" meeting next week.

In between the conference calls, you took the time to write two essays on Tumblr. The first was about how Raphael would easily conquer the Nine Hells and anyone who doubted that was an idiot (you didn't actually write that, but you certainly meant it). 

The second was about how Tav was the real villain for robbing Raphael. Maybe these posts would flatter Raphael enough to prompt him into calling you. Both got a decent amount of likes and reblogs, but not the attention you were hoping for.

On Monday night, you spent a good two hours staring at your phone, desperately waiting for some strange email, some kind of notification, however unsettling it might be.

It's not like Raphael actually works for that bloody law firm, is it? 

Or maybe, for devils, the usual waiting time for a call is a couple of years. After all, Raphael was angry for a dozen years that one time.

when you remember you have a mother call me hope you have a nice day

Well, you asked for a disturbing notification, and now you've got one. Your mother had an uncanny ability to make you feel guilty with just one precisely aimed message. Despite being well acquainted with her tactics (which she vehemently denied having), they managed to hit their mark every time.

She wasn’t a bad person, no, far from it; God knows she had enough problems as a single mother in a small and predominantly Catholic town an hour's drive away. 

She was the first in her family to go to university, but had to drop out when she became pregnant with you. Went through several terrible relationships, which she ended for your sake. You were her walking shattered dreams. 

It hadn't been that long since you'd last spoken on the phone, maybe a week? 

OK, a week was long. 

“Hi mum," you sighed into your phone. "Sorry, I've been busy."

"With what?" her voice fizzed over the line, laced with a scepticism only a mother can muster.

A solid start.

"With adult life?" you said.

"Adult life is juggling a full-time job, a child and a house that needs constant attention, Anya. You don't have any of that."

"I have a full-time job, Mum, remember?"

"Oh yes," she said. "I know how 'busy' you IT people are. Anyway, I called to tell you something very important".

You were not IT people, you worked for an IT company, but for you mum, you were IT people and therefore by definition overpaid and underworked. 

"I was at Nadine's", she said, and made a dramatic pause.

Oh great. Nadine, the human drain on your mother's savings, which were far from abundant. How your mother reconciled her devout Catholicism with regularly going to a fortune teller (and with getting pregnant at twenty out of wedlock) was one of the things that defied your comprehension. She had an intricate system, which only she would call logic, to justify these contradictions; you gave up trying to understand it long ago.

"Don't get upset - it wasn't about you or anything”, you mum said. “Your name just came up in conversation and we ended up doing a reading - just ONE reading, but it was... enlightening."

As every single reading so far. 

"Yes?" you asked, not bothering to fake enthusiasm.

"Well..." She drew out the word. "The cards say you're going to meet someone special soon. A King of Pentacles, imagine! So, mature, financially secure, gallant…"

A gallant gentleman would not keep a lady dying for his call.

“There is more, Anja. There was also the Devil in the spread. Do you know what that means?"

You paused. "...the Devil himself is interested in me?"

Your mother let out a joyous laugh.

"Anya, sweetie, I love you, but I don't think THE Devil would be interested in you. Not this way, anyway”.

That stung a bit. After all these years of him supposedly seducing you into premarital sex and drugs, succeeding at the former and barely scratching the pot surface with the latter, and now he was suddenly not interested in you.

Well, that’s where you are wrong, mum. Hopefully.

"No, that means... Now I'm quoting Nadine here, Anya... Negative forces holding you back from reaching your full potential. NEGATIVE THINKING! That's what I've been saying all along!"

“Ah”, you said. “Right”.

You checked out and let the phone rest on the table on loudspeaker, allowing your mother to continue her monologue of small town gossip.The right-side neighbour was fooling around with someone else's wife, neighbour to the left doesn’t mow his lawn. You surfed on your laptop in the meanwhile.

queen-of-the-bored: now did you read that Raph smut I sent you

queen-of-the-bored: that one

You were hoping to get out of reading smut with Raphael and into living it. Ah, hell, maybe that would draw him out somehow. Maybe this would be about him and you, some meta stuff, a special surprise he wrote himself for you. 

You opened AO3 and began to scan the warning triggers that preceded the chapter. "Non-con", "pillory confinement", "rough anal sex", "face fucking" and "forced urination", and that was just for starters.

No.

Absolutely fucking not. 

“Holy fuck”, you said, and promptly closed the web-page.

"Anya! Watch your mouth! But yes, you are right, of course”, your mom said . “All these years acting like she is the holy and mighty and knows best… ”

you: are you ok recommending stuff like that?

queen-of-the-bored: what queen-of-the-bored: come on now queen-of-the-bored: dude this you?

She sent a screenshot of your Tumblr post with five hundred likes and forty-one reblogs:

"I don't get Hope, I personally would LOVE Raphael to lock me in chains in his basement and do whatever he wants to me <3".

That was undeniably you. Was that what attracted Raphael to you? Is that what he came for?

A sudden epiphany dawned on you: you were far more vanilla than you had let on. Especially on the first date. You didn't want it to turn into a basement horror story. Well, maybe you did, but only if it went exactly according to your script (which categorically did not involve non-consensual rough anal sex), in the kind of basement you liked (stylishly infernal rather than Josef Fritzl one) and with thorough aftercare and lavish praise. 

You weren't entirely convinced that this vision was in line with Raphael's preferences. You were not entirely sure what those preferences truly were, for that matter.

You scrubbed all traces of the fanfic from your browsing history and briefly toyed with the idea of posting something along the lines of 'GET THERAPY YOU SICK FUCK' in the comments - just to make sure Raphael knew exactly where you stood on the matter. 

What you need to do is search for fanfics tagged with phrases like "Raphael spoils Tav with gifts and sweet nothings", "gentle" and "teeth-rotting fluff".

"And then she said, Anya... guess what, she said..."

***

Tuesday was the third day without a call. 

If he did not call today, you decided, you would go to that bloody law firm to drag him out of a conference room and if he was not there, well... you might do the unspeakable.

You might rob the House of Hope for the first time in your life. A woman who has not been called by her favourite devil for three days in a row is a woman in severe mental crisis.

After spending some time day-dreaming your revenge, you finally reach for your phone while still lying in bed.

There were notifications waiting for you, not the ones you wanted. The Raphael romance petition (which you’d passionately signed thrice, using different IPs) had triumphed. The new update included a post-credits dinner and something extra.

The fandom was thrown into chaos upon hearing this announcement (though, truthfully, any news tended to do that). Fans heatedly argued about whether it was pandering, too much fan service, whether it trivialized victims of sexual assault or if it was simply bad taste.

The discord channel buzzed with chatter about that new scene - some dismissed it as too vanilla; others lamented that Larian backtracked on Raphael being a bottom; while some celebrated it as the best thing since Andrew Wincott had cooed "good girl" on a live stream.

In different circumstances, you would be overjoyed and congratulating dmgdgoods for the success of the petition. But now? It felt like cold leftovers in comparison to what you truly craved - seeing Raphael in person, feeling his touch and his breath against your skin.

Regardless, you decided to get ONE bloody dinner you had been promised.

To your dismay, your boss chose today, of all days, to make you work and make you hate your work. You had four useless conference calls during eight working hours, each one an hour apart. 

The clock on your computer seemed trapped within some diabolical time warp.

You’d bring an audience with you, you thought as you absent-mindedly typed emails. That’s right, you’d bring an audience. 

If Raphael decides to talk to you through the screen, well, there would be your solid proof you were not crazy - and a digital trace - and a message to the whole world that it was you, you, who were his special mouse among the thousands that would rush to House of Hope tonight.

If he doesn't, well… he isn’t calling you either.

You dropped everything the minute the clock struck five, and lectured the rest of your remaining team about the importance of work-life balance and the toxicity of corporate greed. 

Then you fired up Twitch.

The witnesses, a twenty-strong user mob, were summoned from across the communities you were in; some you knew, some you guessed who it might be, and a couple of random users.

The House of Hope stood ready. 

In the main hall, a table was set for two, draped in red velvet with silver candelabras and a centrepiece of blood-red roses; Larian clearly knew their audience - those who craved Raphael Romance would also enjoy a side dish of gothic horror.

This notion you would subscribe to.

"Ah, my little mouse," Raphael's voice crept into your ears the moment Tav teleported into his domain. "I've been expecting our rendezvous."

His tone was molten honey and made you forget for a moment your annoyance at his lack of calls. 

Archdevils Supreme were, after all, notorious workaholics.

Raphael was in his cambion form, which you liked, but preferred the human one. Like this, he would barely fit into your room - how tall was he? Two ten? Two twenty? Your ceilings were two twenty. One flap of those wings could destroy your bookshelf. 

The Twitch chat room was quiet; you threw out a test message that elicited a few half-hearted responses. Still there, good.

"I owe you, little mouse," Raphael continued in that rich baritone that brought back memories of the coffee shop. "I owe you your unwavering loyalty. Your commitment. Your trust."

Raphael paused for dramatic effect before adding: "I appreciate those who deal fairly with me, because I have only dealt fairly with you."

His words eerily echoed a recent essay you'd written; it brought a smile to your face as you reached out to touch him.

cross_my_heart: are you touching your screen? cross_my_heart: jeez man cross_my_heart has left the chat

Your Tav, a drow warlock (whom you imagined as Raphael's personal warlock), was wearing her most "why-am-I-here" expression, arms crossed over her chest. It drove you mad, that standard #2 emotion.

Then they ate; clunky, clearly afterthought animations rehashed from Karlach's date dinner. The food they were served (meat, meat, lots of meat) made your stomachs ache (you had been on a crash diet in the irrational hope of slimming down for the rendezvous).

"You were the one who gave me the Crown of Karsus. You gave me the power to claim worlds, my little mouse, even your own." He paused before adding, "You hung on my every word, spread my vision... Every time we played, you offered the crown. My most loyal little acolyte".

A thrill of anticipation ran through you; he must be deviating from his usual script. He was now speaking directly to you.

luxaeterna: haha cool meta stuff luxaeterna: the game is probably checking to see if you have any save games where you killed him luxaeterna: and judging by the way you just stroked the screen (lol) you don't

"Come, my little mouse," Raphael beckoned. "Come and claim your reward. What is it that your heart desires?"

Your eyes scanned the four options presented to you:

1. Wealth beyond measure.

2. Godlike power.

3. Eternal youth.

4. You, Raphael.

"Well," you said aloud with a smile as your cursor hovered over option 4 (the only logical choice), "I'm not sure about immeasurable wealth, but an extra grand wouldn't hurt.” 

You wouldn't know what to do with godlike power anyway, and you were too young to dream of eternal youth.

A message appeared in the right-hand corner of your screen: GUESTUSER43214 donated €1,000.

You gasped. 

Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes. 

He was here. Raphael was watching you play with Raphael, which was the most Raphael thing that ever happened.

And he'd just given you a damn grand for nothing, with a simple click of his fingers - virtual numbers to him, but very real to you. 

You licked your lips with excitement. Easy money. The easiest money ever, for a joke and a smile. Tax free too. Is that how the girls at OnlyFans feel? 

papa johnes: holy fuck why didn't you ask for a million papa johnes: reload and ask for a million! DEVIL CREAMPIE: WOW WOW WOW  luxaeterna: is this a prank?  DEVIL CREAMPIE: SUGAR DADDY DEVIl

Would he give you more if you asked for it? Perhaps. Perhaps more than you could possibly imagine, enough to make all the worries disappear, but all in due time; that was not what you were craving from him at the moment.

luxaeterna:@GUESTUSER43214 are you Raph are you Raph Raph is it you? luxaeterna:@GUESTUSER43214 I can also stroke the screen for a thousand where do I sign up?

The user did not reply, but Raphael in-game did as soon as you clicked on "You and only you".

He walked up to your Tav and embraced her; tenderly, carefully, his clawed hands tracing the back of her spine. She looked frightened. 

Well, she only had so many expressions.

"You've always had a knack for making wise decisions," he purred in her ear. "It's one of your many talents, my dear. And once again you've chosen wisely. Now, how may I indulge you?"

papa johnes: ASK FOR A MILLION 

1. Fulfil my every dark fantasy. 

2. Let me put you on a leash and show you what pleasure is, devil.

3. Aren't you only bedding Haarlep?

4. Thanks, I'll pass. Haarlep has told me I’d be well advised to indulge elsewhere.

luxaeterna: Fulfil my every DARK fantasy lol who wrote this stuff a horny intern on her lunch break papa johnes: ASK FOR A MILLION GODDAMNIT

You briefly contemplated if you wanted Haarlep to join and thought that’s something you would save for later, so you went for the horny intern option.

"I will make all your fantasies come true," Raphael promised, as he stood up from his seat and approached Tav. "The ones you're aware of and those yet to be discovered. But for what comes next, little mouse, I prefer us to be alone. No prying eyes."

The game gave you three options to choose from: 

1. Yes, Raphael

2. Yes, Master

3. Yes, of course

luxaeterna: I think there might be an option missing  DEVIL CREAMPIE: lol any colour you like as long as it’s black right Raph

You nodded, chose “Yes, Raphael”, and got an immediate response:

Connection to Twitch lost. You clicked around, but the servers seemed to be shut down. Huh, you thought, Raphael can control Twitch servers. He could use it as a tool of mass indoctrination.

A deep sigh slipped from your lips. 

It was just the two of you now. 

But you wouldn't leave without proof. You pressed escape and positioned your phone camera on the highest shelf, angling it to capture everything that transpired on screen.

Raphael pulled Tav in a kiss the moment you resumed the game, something clearly modelled after Ascended Astarion kiss, with him standing, her seated, looking tiny in comparison to him. His clawed hand grasped her ebony neck and gave it a light squeeze. His expression was perfect - possessive, dark, animalistic, hers was screaming “I am about to shit myself” and completely out of place.

You are a Lolth-Sworn and a Bhaalspawn, Tav! What the bloody hell are you scared about? He should be scared of you!

"You taste ambrosial, my little mouse," Raphael whispered into Tav's ear. "I've lived thousands of years and never tasted anything better."

She doesn’t, you thought bitterly, she tastes like nothing but code, but I do, I do! 

Your hand traced up your neck mimicking Raphael's touch on Tav's skin and squeezed lightly. The pain made you aware of the bitter resentment against your own avatar - Raphael invited her, dined with her, was about to fuck her, not you, and it could be you now, should be you, not some character you cooked in an hour in the character creator. 

She didn’t do shit but follow your orders. It was you who ordered her to give him the Crown.

Next, Raphael shoved the dishes and the cutlery to the floor and gently laid Tav onto the dining table, positioning himself between her thighs. At first glance, it looked like they'd used Halsin's animation from a different angle until you saw his forked tongue glide across Tav's pixel-perfect hairless pussy, sliding in and out of her.

She did one of those high-pitched, perfectly fake screams that made your blood boil and that was exactly the reason you never watched mainstream porn. 

The very next gameplay your Tav is jumping off a very high cliff.

Tav threw her head back and moaned, the hair that should have fallen down remaining perfectly in place in her braid. It made it look fake the way video game sex sequences look fake, plastic dolls smashed against each other.  Every woman in Faerun and Earth would grab his horns and hold on tight, but no, Tav was not animated to do so.

At least Raphael looked real, every second more so, so you focused on him, and his eyes, and his face glistening in candlelight and Tav’s juices.

There was no way Larian would make it so explicit, a thought that floated in the back of your mind. Can’t be right. The moans, the animations, the visceral, explicit arousal - his and hers. Can’t be right. 

No way you’d be stopping to cross-check, either.

So, you watched Tav writhing under the devil's tongue, slipping your hand under your t-shirt, pulling aside the black lacy bra you'd recently bought for him and caressing your hardening nipples. 

You couldn't help yourself.

You wanted him, his lips on your pussy, your hands around his horns, you wanted to come onto his mouth, to grind around his cock like a fish caught on a hook.

But all you could do was stare, the pulsing of your clit in perfect rhythm with your heartbeats.

Raphael was looking at you, at you specifically, just like in the cafe. He grabbed one of Tav's legs by the ankle and lifted it high into the air as she arched her back in pleasure. The other leg was slightly spread, offering a view of your avatar's glistening pussy, which you couldn't care less about, unlike the ribbed, red, engorged cock between Raphael's legs, impressive enough to both arouse and frighten. 

He must taste so good. The very thought made your mouth water.

You shoved your fingers under your jeans, feeling the zipper scrape against them till it hurt, but you couldn't care less.

Fuck her, you muttered aloud as you rubbed yourself. Or better still, call me and fuck me. 

As if he could hear you (he could he could he definitely could), Raphael hoisted Tav’s ankles onto his shoulders and rammed into her with the force that would have been painful in reality but looked mesmerising on the screen. 

Hard, sure thrusts, sliding in and out, looking at you all that time, his mouth tightening in a sardonic smile. The promise in his eyes. The promise of all he could give and the promise of a hell of a price to pay. Despite all your fear for him, and because of it, you wanted him even more.

Tav screamed her cry again, exactly the same vocal line, her symmetrical, round, cookie-cutter breasts bouncing to the rhythm dictated by Raphael.

It’s me next time, you pleaded. Make it me. I deserve it. I’ll make it worth your while. Please.

Raphael moaned, loudly, like no man you've ever been with moaned - no man you've ever been with could pull off a moan like that - wild, lustful, deep, shameless. You have to talk like him to pull that off. You have to look like him.

You have to be that silver-tongued devil.

"You are mine. I owe you, my precious little mouse" Raphael said to Tav, hovering over her, folding her in two (would you be that flexible?).  "Be my good girl and say it." 

This is exactly the kind of talk you wanted from him, exactly the kind of talk that made your pussy throb, that made you click on everything with 'maledom' in it in a split second.  Such a shame you could see so little, had to imagine so much, their parts were barely visible in this position.

"I am yours," you whispered breathlessly, pinching your nipple as you plunged your fingers deep inside you. "I am your good girl. I am your little mouse. I am!”

Tav said nothing and Raphael raised his hand over her face. Slap her, you urged, hurt her, slap her hard, but he didn't, instead running his fingers through her snow-white hair and you moaned in frustration and pleasure.

This man brings out the worst in you.

Your pussy clenched around your fingers, a little moan escaped your lips and you bored into them, pretending it was his cock ramming into you. You would get the Devil's Dick from under the bed if you could just tear yourself away from the screen for a moment. 

You were right on the edge, so close, closer. Your eyes were fixed on Raphael's face, desperately trying to catch a better glimpse of his cock as he thrust one final time before the screen slowly faded to black.

"NO!" you screamed in frustration. "COME BACK! I'M NOT DONE YET!"

The scene changed to both of them lying on a crimson bed. You closed your eyes shut and gritted your teeth.

Of course, you could have used your imagination to fill in the rest, but you were tired of pretending. You craved the real thing - flesh against flesh, hot breath, his scent, beads of sweat, and taste of saliva, his saliva. Not just porn or smut or audio recordings – the actual physical experience. Sex that you had never had because all you knew was awkward fumbling and elbows tangling in your hair and ‘ugh do you really want me to talk dirty this is so weird’.

You would do anything to fuck him now. Bring me that damn contract, I'll sell my soul for a good fuck. Give me the fucking paper, Raphael, give it to me now.

You reluctantly pulled your sticky fingers away from your aching pussy and cursed under your breath. How many times did Raphael ruin the mood already? Cruel, sadistic, cold-hearted fiend, damned hellish beast. 

You wanted a different kind of torment.

"Raphael, you better call me," you growled at the screen. "Or I swear I'll come to your house, snatch your hammer, end you and..."

Your threat was cut off by a ring of the doorbell.

"Metaphorically speaking," you hastily added as the doorbell chimed again, more insistently this time.

The memory of blood blisters on guy's lips for lesser offences was still fresh in your mind.

"You promised you'd knock on my door, not ring," you muttered to yourself, feeling a tinge of fear run through your body. "And again... metaphorically speaking!"

The doorbell rang once more, louder and angrier than before. You wiped your slick fingers on a napkin and quickly adjusted your clothing before cautiously approaching the door.

A quick glance through the peephole revealed something red outside. But you didn't dare take a second look.

Your palm found its way to the cool metal of the doorknob. This was it, wasn't it? The moment where a stupid girl opens the wrong door at the wrong time and gets clawed to death.

Behind the door stood a teenage boy, around fourteen or fifteen years old, with acne and an ill-fitted t-shirt, casually chewing gum. He looked at you as if you were the one disturbing his peace all along.

"Why the hell were you buzzing my door like a maniac?" you asked.

He thrust a bouquet of red roses towards you without much ceremony. It was heavier than you thought. 

"I have a special delivery for you, ma'am" he announced.

"Why did you buzz my door like that?" you asked again, irritated.

"I get an extra hundred if I deliver these today. I was pissed that you weren't home," he replied with casual indifference.

"You can't just do that to people, you little shit," you shot back.

"Whatever, sue me, bitch," he retorted before walking away with a shrug and one last jab: "And zip up your fly."

You flipped him off, your fly still splayed open. It was funny how not too long ago, such a comment would have mortified and flustered you.

But now, being a bit (okay, a lot) crazy has its perks.

The bouquet he gave you was exactly the type that you used to mock in high school when the popular girls would flaunt their dozens of roses on social media. Over-the-top, showy, just plain vulgar in its excessiveness. How many were there? A hundred? At least. 

You absolutely loved it.

You loved the note attached even more. 

"Apologies for my silence. Had urgent matters to attend to. I promise to make amends and cannot wait to see you again -R."

Oh, and a box of Ladurée macarons which you never tried but you couldn't take your eyes off of them through the window of the shop! 

As if on cue, an incoming call lit up your phone screen. No Caller ID. You clutched the bouquet tighter and hurriedly answered.

“Thank you so much”, you said, momentarily hating the simpering, saccharine voice you adopted. “What a coincidence, just received your flowers”.

"It's hardly a coincidence," Raphael replied calmly. "They sent me an email notification."

You let out a small laugh at the mention of the "e-mail". It seemed like Raphael was still playing the “no, no, it’s not me Raphael the cambion, I just look like him” game. Whatever the hell for?

"You've had my home address this whole time, haven't you, Raphael?" you asked. "Why did you ask then?"

There was a moment of tense silence on the other end of the line, and you could sense Raphael's anger without even seeing him. 

One wrong sentence and everything could shift between the two of you in a split second. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he responded with firmness in his tone:

"It’s one thing you didn’t ask for my name - which I found impolite, but I can forgive a beautiful woman many things. Calling me another man’s name? That's something I will not tolerate."

You blinked in confusion as you read the note in your hand: "I cannot wait to see you again. -R".

"I'm sorry," you stammered, "Your note..."

He laughed. Soft, charming laugh of a rich and successful man perfectly content with his life. 

"Raul, at your service. Raul d'Avergni, if you're interested in doing some research in your free time."

"Raul?", you asked. It was not an ugly name, but it was foreign, mundane and not diabolical enough for your taste. It made you think of a Spanish soap opera, not of Avernus.

"That's right," he replied calmly. "Italian, in case you were wondering. From west of Pozzuoli. Not exactly a place you would be familiar with."

You couldn't help but feel a little hurt by the comment, even though you indeed had no clue where Pozzuoli was.

"Oh," you replied. "I hadn't noticed an accent."

"I would hope not, considering how much my father spent sending me to Eton," Raphael (you won’t call him otherwise, no) joked, although his voice tensed up at the mention of his father. 

Great, now Mephistopheles is here too? Did you accidentally invite all of Hells?

"I will be there by eight to collect you," he said very matter—of—factly.

You checked your Apple Watch and saw that it was only an hour away.

"Tonight?" you inquired.

"Do you have any other arrangements?" 

No, of course not. I've been waiting for your call this whole time, you wanted to make a joke before you realised it was no joke and therefore not really funny.

"No... none," you admitted. "Where are we headed tonight? Should I dress up?"

Or it wouldn’t matter because I would end up in a garbage bag and a “missing” poster?

You could hear him smile on the other end of the phone.

"You definitely should dress up," he said, his tone flirtatious again. "We are heading somewhere special. It might be a little unconventional for common taste, but I assure you, you'll love it. See you very soon."

He hung up before you could ask for more details on what kind of unconventional thing he had in mind. As you tried to calculate your chances of survival for this unconventional event and what exactly was considered unconventional by infernal standards, the odds seemed to get slimmer and slimmer.

Would they even find your body?

It suddenly struck you that 'Raul' never bothered to explain how he knew where you lived, and you still didn't have his phone number to call him back. This realisation prompted you to do something you hadn't done since childhood: call your mum twice in one day.

The only person you could trust to hunt down a devil.

"Mum? I have plans tonight. I'm going out with a man named Raul de… de… oh, God, Avergni or something. Yes, write down his name and look him up on Google. If I don't call you until tomorrow..."

"What do you mean by tomorrow?" your mother interrupted sharply. "Are you planning on spending the night with him?"

You were hoping to spend the night with him!

"I'm twenty-seven, Mum."

“Anya, you know better than to sleep with a man on the first date. Men are hunters, and if you give in too easily, they will lose interest. Trust me, I've been through it all before…”

You clench your jaw as she continues to lecture you on how to catch, tame, and keep a man.

"Mum?" you interject.

"Yes?"

"Did it work with my father?”

Your mother let out an exasperated sigh and switched to her "I have the worst daughter in the world" voice.

"I hope you have a nice evening, but please remember to call me when you get home TONIGHT."

As you showered, dressed, moisturised your face and hands and tried to style your hair, you couldn't help but think of Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic. After all, she looked good dead, so you should too.

The marks of your own fingertips were still visible on your neck. You quickly covered them with concealer and briefly recalled a distant memory of cutting yourself as a teenager.

Why had you cut yourself? The reason was foggy in your mind, as was the pain, but you remembered the bitterness and loneliness. You didn't want to die, but you wanted something else - something you didn't have, or someone who could give it to you.

Being suicidal must be a package deal with being crazy. 

Your phone buzzed. The thing with your mother, she gets distracted too easily to remain offended for long. And you provided her with excellent food for distraction.

is he the managing partner of the law firm?

oh my god

ANYA, THE KING OF PENTACLES.

they write “not married” on the website, god bless

he must have so much money, Anya, so much money.

so handsome

no offence love but how on earth did you manage it

(ah that’s why you were cutting yourself)

we can live with him being Italian, I think.

at least he is Catholic.

please wear black, it suits your figure.

remember POSITIVE thinking.

(Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic)

send me a picture when you are ready. OK? love

wear a cross too 

A cross? You let out a laugh. Unlike your mother, you were consistent in your beliefs. Catholic school was the perfect environment for raising atheists. Ever since you were a teenager, you had been against that rotten, bloody institution, full of pedos, crooks and who knows what else. 

If this was God's team, then you proudly allied yourself with the devil.

As you ranted internally against the church, you suddenly remembered that you now had some freshly made solo porn on your phone that needed to be deleted immediately. 

Not before you give it a little watch.

You wish you hadn't, you thought as it started to play. A high-quality video of you choking in front of a black screen, your hands clutching your throat with a fervour you didn't even know you possessed. A reflection of your face on the laptop: possessed, sickly, rapt. Moans escaping your lips as you pant, hands roaming all over your body, little tremors of excitement... at nothing.

A black screen.

You immediately deleted the video from your phone. If it proved anything, it was that you were gone. Far gone. Off the deep end. The way you moaned, salivating at the mouth, Christ almighty (Christ had nothing to do with it)...

Knock-knock.

Well, that was Raphael. You could tell by the simple knock. It was soft and polite, modest yet assertive; but he wouldn't wait long for you to open the door, so you had to be quick.

Knock-knock.

Your gaze drifted to the ornate golden cross, the crucifix in the centre; suffering, redemption, salvation, deliverance from evil and all the shit you did not believe in. 

In fact, you didn't believe in devils either. 

Besides, a cross won't help against the devils of Baator.

Then again, it wouldn't hurt.

Next: Chapter 4, In Which You Attend A Very Special Event

[cobra-creampuff]

i don't remember what it is in canon and i haven't made it there again yet on the rewatch BUT. i always like... idk if i really had this interpretation of the text or whatever, but i like to THINK that when ian was away between s3 and s4 he didn't stay local or even nearby the whole time. i like to think he really traveled around a lot and like obviously a lot of that time was really very bad and he was in a bad place and doing dangerous things with dangerous people, but some of the time it was good! some of the time he made real friends who cared about him, some of the time he had real fun that wasn't a mania or drug high or solely for avoidance's sake, some of the time he learned new things and had new experiences and so on.

but anyway sometimes. i also like to think about a canon divergence where maybe in the middle of this, ian meets a psychiatrist or a counselor or a neurology professor or a mental health crisis responder or maybe a foreshadowy emt or some other kind of guy who would be able to correctly recognize many of ian's symptoms and who would be confident enough about his opinion and skilled enough at de-escalation to bring it up with him without scaring him off right away.

he met this guy at a bar or a party or through a friend or whatever, and he tried to seduce him, but the guy is miraculously not a fucking pervert freak shitheel unlike most of the men ian has met in his life and won't sleep with an underage kid. no, ian, not even an underage kid who is barely even underage. no, ian, not even an underage kid who's birthday could theoretically be tomorrow because actually an eighteen year old is still too young for him.

and ian has decided to take this as a challenge and has been staying with him, and the guy chose his field and profession in it for a reason, you know, he's a helper, and he really means it, so he's letting ian stay without rent or favor and he's trying to help him more on top of that too. (and at first probably ian is just convincing himself he's taken getting turned down as a challenge, though he is genuinely convinced the guy is attracted to him no matter what he says - which is maybe not totally untrue, but also he really is just a kid to this guy so it's more like a 'wow he's going to grow up hot and he's already on his way there' kind of thing - but he's really subconsciously latching onto this guy for a fucking break because he's been mattress surfing for his living space for months and honestly even while he was manic and hypersexual it was getting exhausting if only because not everyone you go home with when you go home with someone every night is going to be someone you'll actually be good in bed with and anyway maybe just maaaayyyybe he's starting to miss staying in one place for more than a week.)

ian met him at the tail end of a manic phase, when he was still way up there but it was fading off and he was getting tired. and i know in canon he had to have been gone for less than 9 months, but for this it kind of has to be longer even though he's almost certainly rapid cycle - wait nevermind i just looked it up and apparently rapid cycle is "4 or more cycles in a one year period" so that's one of each phase every three fucking months my GOD (but also rapid cycling usually isn't permanent so at least there's that, but still. goddamn). fucking shit man, in 9m ian could have cycled 3 entire times, provided he has very short maintenance phases if any while unmedicated. jesus. okay well. where was i.

oh right, okay. okay, so ian is at the tail end of his third manic phase of this period (which is about at the 9m mark, so i am still extending his period of absence beyond what it was in canon a bit) when he meets this guy. and he's done this twice now, and the first time he was half lucky half not and he'd already had someone he was welcome to stay with for a little while when this happened so he was housed and fed (inasmuch as he would eat the food he had access to) and that for at least part of the depressive phase before that person got sick of him and dumped him at a shelter like a pound puppy they changed their mind about. but the second time he wasn't lucky at all and didn't have anything lined up, and he ended up on the street and he's highkey refusing to look back on it but if he did he'd probably have to conclude that he only survived that because of other unhoused people helping him out as much as they could and the miracle of mild, dry weather the whole time.

all that to say, while he is absolutely camped out on the treacherous muddy river banks of denial about it, he does know what's coming and he knows he needs to find someone with a lot of hospitality for him to take advantage of and he needs to find them really fucking fast because he could have a whole week left or he could go down overnight. so he meets this guy, and he's hot enough that ian would like fucking him now and won't rather kill himself than let him do whatever later, and he looks like he has money, and he's familiar with the place they're at or maybe even knows the server/cashier/whatever so he probably lives around here, and he's charming and polite and kind in the few casual unglamorous ways you can see a person be when they're a stranger in a public space which really say more about a guy than grand gestures anyway. he's basically a first choice option, so because of the time constraint and because he doesn't want to have to take a downgrade, ian's approach is maybe a little bit- well. i won't say desperate because this is my precious baby i'm talking about here, but you can go ahead and think it for yourselves. quietly.

and the guy turns him down for sex, turns him down for a date, sees through all of ian's attempts to feign interest in anything he might need or want the guy's help or input on, like say attending the university he teaches at if he's the neurology professor or writing an article for a made up publication about ways to handle a crisis situation without calling 911 (and why you'd want to) if he's the mental health responder or the emt, etc. so ian is giving up, and he's having a pretty hard time not losing his temper about it, and he's having a pretty hard time not feeling genuinely rejected even though he knows they both know his ulterior motives were a higher priority than real attraction on his own part, and he's having a pretty hard time not getting really really really scared about what if the next guy says no too and the one after that and the one after that and he either has to settle for someone who will hurt him or what if he just dumps himself at the shelter but they won't take him either or he wears out his welcome there too or what if- so it's really very obvious how upset he is, and it's really very obvious it's not hurt feelings or bruised ego at being turned down. and ian is charming and polite and kind in all the ways that indicate a stranger is kind, and he's just a fucking kid, so the guy says listen. i'll buy you lunch - it's not a date! - and if you need a place to stay, i have plenty of room.

and also okay let's say. they have lunch, and over lunch they discuss the specifics. the guy does indeed have money, and he's single - not married! ian kinda wants him lol - and he also owns his own practice or for whatever other reason has a really nice private office that he's allowed to do whatever the fuck he wants with an no one else ever needs to use. so ian can stay at his house with him if he wants, where there's more space and it might be a little more comfortable physically speaking, but where the guy will be all the time and will have habits and guests and other things that might bother or be bothered by ian. or ian can stay at his office, where it's smaller and doesn't have, you know, amenities, but ian will have it all to himself for the bulk of the time, with the guy only coming and going for a few hours here or there on weekday afternoons.

and like i said. ian is getting tired. it's not just that the mania is fading, not this time. he's kind of getting a little sick of the lifestyle. it's exhausting, even when technically his energy is endless. and he's... maybe starting to feel just a little bit bad about himself, and then he feels bad for feeling bad because he's not doing anything wrong, and every now and then the drugs and the sex and the travel and the dancing and the club lights and the interesting new people that ian doesn't have to love and all the other things and even the dissociation and hysterical optimism on the upswing can't keep out a tiny but persistent little trickle of regret as some of the consequences for a few particular big decisions start to slowly, piece by piece, sink in. so even though he is, allegedly, trying to seduce this guy, he picks the office.

so he gets set up with a sheet tucked around the couch cushions, pillow, blanket. guy tells him the address, leaves a piece of mail in case ian forgets with a bunch of takeout menus ("old fashioned," ian flirts, gesturing to his smartphone and its location services and doordash app). he finishes out his last few days of mania crashing back to the office in the wee hours of morning, then spending the days really giving his all into getting this guy to sleep with him when he comes around to do whatever he does here for work. no dice, but the guy mostly just seems amused with him, and he's kept every word so far, so ian keeps himself from getting anxious about it sometimes with drugs and sometimes with giving it a rest and just genuinely getting to know the guy. and it's actually pretty nice.

then the depression hits, and ian hates himself and everything he's ever done. he would never have made it in the army anyway and he couldn't have gotten into college either and now he's an unfeeling junkie whore and he'll never be anything else. his siblings will never forgive him and mickey hates him and mandy's already forgotten about him and nobody else ever loved him because he didn't give them any reason to. they all deserve to live without him, and he deserves to die without them. and he doesn't eat and he doesn't shower and it should be easy to sleep after he can't even remember now how long he was up especially when he's so exhausted it actually physically hurts but he doesn't sleep either.

and the guy realizes maybe not exactly what's up, as in 'this kid has rapid cycle bipolar type 2', because diagnosis is complicated and takes time and shouldn't be done by anyone who isn't both trained and asked to do it. but he does realize ian wasn't the way he was because of the drugs and he's not like this now because of drugs either, and he also is informed enough about these things to know what's up beyond that more than just 'something is wrong with him'. at first all he does to help is get some immediate needs met. he sets out clean replacement bedding within ian's arms reach so if ian gets struck at some point by the inspiration to change them out he won't have to do any extra work and might be able to actually do it. he gets a bunch of nonperishable single serving finger foods, meal replacement drinks, bottled water, and leaves those within reach too. he opens and closes the curtains when he comes and goes, so that ian can get a little bit of sun but won't be bothered by the light when he can't get up and close them himself. unfortunately he can't move the bathroom closer to the couch, but when ian sometimes has to make use of one of the empty water bottles, the guy disposes of them for him without a word. he makes sure he doesn't leave anything in the office that could be easily used to seriously hurt oneself. he spends more time there just in case.

eventually it passes, and ian climbs out of it - though at a much more gradual rate than he dropped from mania. when ian gets close enough to sea level to start trying to apologize, that's when the guy makes the first attempt to talk about the situation. obviously that goes poorly, but it could have gone worse. he leaves it be there, but he does start picking strategic books off his shelf, sitting on the couch with ian (companionship is helpful, and also it forces ian to at least partly sit up), reading them a bit (he doesn't pretend; it's always good to refresh the info), and then 'forgetting' to put them away.

there's no tv in the office, you see. and there's only so fucking much you can do to entertain yourself on a smartphone (if you don't read fanfiction lmao). no mobile game or social media site can fill the hours of every single day for weeks on end. so. ian reads the books. and he learns some things from them that still definitely for sure do not apply to him, but are good to know, you know, as like general knowledge. or in case monica comes back. (it doesn't occur to him to think in case one of his siblings ends up having it; he knows it's him, and according to the stats he'll most likely be the only one. it also doesn't occur to him that he wouldn't already be back first when monica hypothetically showed up again.)

after a certain amount of books, the guy tries bringing it up again. ian still brushes him off, but not quite so firmly. he leaves it be again.

soon enough ian gets all the way back up. he knows he's "normal" again by how it feels inside his head, even though he is of course still exhausted, sad, and lonely. he goes back to flirting with the guy, but there's no intent behind it now and they both know it, which is the only reason the guy finally starts flirting back. it's just for fun. he's still hot as fuck, hotter now than when ian first met him really, but whatever attraction ian had before is pretty dead now. he doesn't think friendship would work out real well for them either, to be honest. even not accounting for age and all the other vast expansive differences they have with, as far as ian knows, having the same sex and orientation being the only thing they do have in common, there's also the part where this guy was a total stranger when he threw out ian's piss bottles for him. that's just a very strange - and, for ian personally, kind of humiliating - starting point for anything.

but speaking of things that are kind of humiliating... the more time ian spends around this guy in a stable and rational state of mind, the more he realizes he's ian's type. ian's real type that is (as opposed to his opportunistic and/or strategic type). he's got dark hair that cuts a striking contrast against his pale skin, with some silver mixed in. blue eyes. not the kind you'd describe as "baby blues". icy blue, maybe, even when they're not cold. clear and piercing. sharp nose, elegant neck, broad shoulders. plush lips for a white guy, with a kiss hidden at the corner like wendy darling. smaller than ian but he'd be in the same weight class; it shows when he takes off his blazer, when he rolls his sleeves up to the elbow. he flirts like it's a fight he's already winning, but he'll happily throw it if you can manage to get a hit on him. ian's in a similar spot this guy is about him now. it'd be like meeting your boyfriend's dad if your boyfriend's dad was hot and not a worthless evil scumbag; you're not attracted to him, but someday you'll be attracted to someone who looks just like him.

once ian finally lets himself think about mickey, he can't stop from thinking about everyone else too. he's exhausted, sad, and lonely, and he misses them so much, and he doesn't want this to be his life. he wants to go home.

the only problem is... he's in fucking. kansas city or something idk. he's in kansas city, broke, and a fucking mess. he could make his way back to chicago the same way he got here, but that would take a long time and a lot of doing things he just doesn't fucking want to do right now, or ever again. at least that's how he feels about it at the moment.

he could call fiona. he could call lip. he knows he could, and either one of them, or fucking both of them probably, they'd instantly drop fucking everything and drive all the way here in the fucking ice cream truck to come get him. but they'd know. they're going to have to know anyway, eventually, but he's still pretending he doesn't, and they wouldn't pretend shit. or if they did they'd be ass at it. they'd see him and they'd know and they would start dreading the next time he leaves, the next time he needs them to deadlift him off of rock bottom, right then and there.

he could call mandy. she probably couldn't get to him herself, not without help, but she would figure something out if he really needed her to. she wouldn't know. but she'd ask. she'd see him huddled up under a pile of stinking dirty blankets on a stranger's office couch, in equally dirty clothes, limp hair, pale with dark circles, too thin, not yet a year after he said he was obliging himself to the united states government for four. she'd ask, and he wouldn't tell her, and they'd both hate it. and besides which, she can really only get the help from strangers ian couldn't stand seeing him like this, or lip. or mickey.

he could call mickey. he doesn't know if mickey would drop everything and drive all the way here to come get him. he doesn't even know if mickey would answer the phone. he wouldn't know and he wouldn't ask, and ian doesn't know if he would let ian tell him if by a strange twist of fate ian wanted to for some reason. but he knows mickey still loves him. and he can already hear mickey's voice in his ear with his phone still face down on the table. so he calls mickey.

i'm a voyeur (lmfao. obviously.) which means i want witnesses, so we'll have mickey be at the alibi when the call comes through. kev is just off to the side a bit, pretending to listen to some other all-day bar patron say some stupid shit, but he's got some of the facts sussed out so when mickey sees the caller id and puts down his beer so fast it spills to answer it, and the answer in question is just, "Ian?" and his voice is all breathless and wet because he's too drunk and too heartbroken-hopeful to play it cool or keep it quiet, Kev is goddamn Zoned the fuck In.

"yeah, i- me- yours too," mickey says. the other bar patron tries to speak. kev does not so much as glance at them, gesturing for them to be quiet distractedly and obliviously coming close to hitting them in the face.

"couple weeks ago," mickey says. "boy. terry's thrilled." he keeps whatever insult he might have used, but the depth of hatred it would have represented is still QUITE clear. clear enough for kev to nervously check over his shoulder, relieved to find the pool table unattended. "i know that ain't what you fucking called about. if it is you can go fuck yourself."

there's a long pause. maybe ian's talking, maybe mickey's just waiting for him to.

eventually mickey asks, "are you- ...where are you?" the answer is short and mickey says, "that's not that far." then, soft and aching like no one actually in the room has ever heard him, if they've ever heard it from anyone at all, "can i come see you?"

the answer to that is very, very short. mickey's face doesn't crumble, not quite. he just closes his eyes hard, painful crease between his eyebrows, a shamed dip of his chin. "sorry," he says, "fucking stupid questio-"

"oh," he says. and then, soft again, aching still but in a different way. "yeah, i can do that. i, uh," he looks at the beer he spilled, his fuck even knows round of the day at fucking 11 am or whatever, embarrassed, "i gotta sober up first, but i- yeah. i'm... on my way."

[joachimnapoleon]

A look at three Fouché biographies

Over the past few months I've read three English-language biographies on Fouché: Joseph Fouché: Portrait of a Politician, by Stefan Zweig; Fouché: Unprincipled Patriot, by Hubert Cole; and Medusa's Head: The Rise and Survival of Joseph Fouché, Inventor of the Modern Police State, by Rand Mirante. These are a great example of how dramatically interpretations of a historical figure can vary from one historian to another (see also the difference between Alan Schom's interpretation of Napoleon vs. that of Andrew Roberts). And also a great example of why it’s a good idea to read multiple biographies on the same figure, to gain a more well-rounded perspective, instead of simply accepting/adopting that of the first biographer you read.

Zweig is a colorful writer and his biography is highly entertaining—he actually had me laughing out loud a few times—but his depictions of Fouché are so hilariously sinister and malignant throughout that at times it almost feels like a caricature. Zweig also utilizes the least amount of primary source material out of the three biographers--hardly any, actually--and so much of what he writes in regard to Fouché's motivations and thoughts come across as pure speculation or projection, but are always stated very matter-of-factly. Zweig presents a Fouché who chafes at the smallness of the roles he is given, driven by "unflinching selfishness." "When in power," Zweig writes, "he does not work for the State, does not work for the Directory or for Napoleon, but for himself." Aside from raw ambition, Zweig attributes most of Fouché’s actions to his sheer delight in engaging in intrigue for the sake of intrigue, an interpretation that seems to come straight out of Napoleon’s venting on St. Helena: “Intrigue was to Fouché a necessary of life. He intrigued at all times, in all places, in all ways, and with all persons. Nothing ever came to light, but he was found to have had a hand in it. He made it his sole business to look out for something that he might be meddling with. His mania was to wish to be concerned with everything.” Overall, Zweig’s book is worth reading, but out of the three English-language Fouché biographies, it’d be ranked third on my list.

Hubert Cole’s interpretation of Fouché is as different from Zweig’s as night is from day. The key word in Cole’s title is “Patriot,” and Cole’s central point is that Fouché, at each point in his career, was doing what he believed was in the best interests of France, even if that meant negotiating for peace with Britain behind Napoleon’s back, or pushing Napoleon towards a divorce and remarriage for the sake of shoring up the Bonaparte dynasty, or even (repeatedly) abandoning one master to serve another. This is the second one of Cole’s biographies I’ve read, and as most of you following me already know, I loved his dual biography on Joachim and Caroline Murat, the deceptively named The Betrayers, which is actually a very sympathetic look at the Murat couple. Cole is no fan of Napoleon and doesn’t really attempt to hide it, and maybe it’s because of this that he feels inclined to look deeper at the motivations and actions of those who ended up in opposition to Napoleon at various points (and who have therefore been demonized in history books accordingly). Cole draws heavily on primary sources, from letters and memoirs of Fouché’s contemporaries, to Fouché’s police bulletins (quoted at length throughout) to argue that “It is possible… that he was a sincere and moderately successful patriot. It is not uncommon in France for egoists to be hailed as patriots, and patriots condemned as traitors.” Far from the sinister, cold-blooded figure that haunts Zweig’s biography, or the “universally distrusted, feared, and hated” social pariah of Mirante’s, Cole's Fouché is charming, a welcome figure in the drawing rooms of Paris society, with a preference for making friends rather than enemies; nevertheless Cole does not deny that Fouché could also be ruthless, ambitious, and cunning. Cole also uses numerous accounts regarding Fouché by British, German, and Russian contemporaries, “in the belief that their prejudices, if national, are less personal.” Out of these three biographies, this one was my personal favorite, as I think it provides a more well-rounded picture of Fouché as a human being.

The primary focus of Mirante’s book is Fouché’s administration of the Ministry of Police, and the biography goes into great detail about the operations of the police in Napoleonic France, its vast network of informants, subversion of the press, surveillance of emigrés, and steady stream of information flowing in from all quarters. Fouché emphasized to his subordinates how one small detail or event could be “of great interest in the general order of things by its connections with related matters of which you are scarcely aware.” Like Cole, Mirante quotes frequently from Fouché’s police bulletins, as well as from memoirs of the era (though most of the excerpts are those hostile to Fouché). Unlike Cole, Mirante’s Fouché is driven not by any higher patriotism, but—especially after his humiliating flight from France in 1810—by a deep and abiding hatred of Napoleon, towards whose final destruction Fouché is willing to go to any length. Mirante provides more detail on Fouché’s exile and final years than either Zweig or Cole, one interesting aspect of which is the warm welcome Fouché received in Trieste from Elisa Bonaparte, who had been driven from power in Tuscany largely through Fouché’s machinations with Murat in 1814. Mirante ends the book with a critical look at Fouché’s dubious, ghostwritten “memoirs,” the credibility of which he is far more suspicious than Cole, who accepts the argument of French historian Louis Madelin that they are “largely authentic and accurate.” Mirante, on the other hand, is not convinced, and concludes that the memoirs are “highly assailable, at least quasi-spurious, and shrouded in controversy and deceit.” Mirante ends by drawing parallels between Fouché’s policing methods and those of the Gestapo and NKVD in the 20th century.

Overall I enjoyed all three of these for different reasons, and taken together they offer a more complete picture of Fouché. I haven’t gotten around to reading any French-language biographies on Fouché yet, but I do have a couple works on him by Emmanuel de Waresquiel that are definitely on my to-read list.

[mychlapci]

Milf Drift mania is all consuming

Drift, who worried himself to tears that he ruined any chance of carrying from his days of substance abuse, would take on being a fat milf in a heartbeat.

The second he finds out he's carrying he'll be so excited and go right into momma mode. He has double his rations every day so he can put on weight as soon as possible for his precious little bitlets, making his already curvy body rounder and softer. He hasn't even been sparked for a month, yet he insists Ratchet feel his titties every day so he can track if they're growing enough for his sparklings. Ratchet assures him the changes to his frame will come slowly, but imagine his surprise when one day they wake up and Drift is absolutely huge.

His tits filled so much overnight his chest plating did an emergency override to open up, now he has 6 sets of massive leaky titties that are so sensitive it leaves him begging for Ratchet to nurse off him to relieve some of the pressure. Drift's frame is ruined and he loves it. He'll never be that skinny lightweight speedster again and he's the happiest he's ever been, he loves to be a fat carrier growing what he finds out to be six big healthy babies.

He'll keep up his duties on deck as long as he can, but he'll be forced to go into an early maternity leave. It's not that Drift can't work so late into his carrying, the problem is that he's so sexy he's gonna make the damn ship crash. Rodimus can't keep his eyes or hands off him, which Drift just eats right up. He's been going without his chest plating since it forced itself open, leaving his huge breast out for everyone to see. He's so into all the attention and praise he's been getting for being a good carrier. Everyone wants to feel his huge baby bump and dote on him, most secretly wishing they could have been the one to knock up the third in command if they knew it'd make him so hot. Megatron has to be the one to order Drift to his room, and he hates it because it's depriving him of the perfect view of Drift's fat aft and those wide hips that beg to be grabbed.

Ratchet hardly cares everyone is fawning over his conjunx because he knows Drift is all his. He thinks he's been doing a good job hiding how insanely turned on he is by Drift's new heavy frame, but Drift's been onto him since day 1. Ratchet is getting off on claiming Drift as his own. Even more than being married to the guy, Drift is carrying his sparklings. His body is completely warped now from him, and once the sparklings are born Ratchet is going to fill him right back up, and Drift will be begging for it. He has Drift in every way, and now everyone else gets to seethe in jealousy for not taking him first.

hrghh Drift would be so excited to be a momma... rubbing his growing belly, checking his nozzles in the mirror to see if there's any milk coming out yet, gladly jumping at any opportunity to have Ratchet run an ultrasound and show him the state of the newsparks and forming protoforms... Drift eats so well and so much, he grows a nice plush ass and for a while, his tummy gets so big you can't actually see his bump... Of course, the bitlets grow fast, and his belly dents out quickly.

Drift was attractive before but now that he's an expecting momma everyone aboard the ship is obsessed with the doting carrier. They only keep their hands off because behind the cute carrier is an extremely irritable medic, but sometimes not even that seems like enough. Especially when Drift's titties get so big he can't stuff them behind his plating anymore...

Ratchet has a field day, every day, getting to squeeze Drift's warm tits and rub his large bump as he fucks him from behind, telling him all about how much bigger he's going to get and Drift just sobs, overloading hard.

By the end of his pregnancy, Drift is twice as wide as he used to be, titties getting pumped three times a day and pussy so swollen he has to stay in their habsuite on most days, because he can't close his panels <3

[theforbiddeneden]

Metal Hammer Magazine December 2023 Enter The World Of Sleep Token - Revista Metal Hammer Dezembro 2023 Entre no mundo do Sleep Token

"We'll never see the band at this level again" Sleep Token fan Benji Purdy

A deep, distorted voice is coming through the PA of Los Angeles’ El Rey Theatre.

“Do you think they want you to cry?” it’s saying. “Do you think they like it?”

A second voice, lighter in tone but still distorted and oddly inhuman, replies.

“Not as such,” this one says.

“I think they just want to know that I am feeling something, feeling what they are feeling, perhaps.”

The audience in this ornate, 800-capacity venue stands silent, entranced by the voices. The band onstage are masked metal sensations Sleep Token, tonight playing their first headlining show in the City of Angels as part of their month-long North American Rituals tour.

The dialogue that is playing out around us is hugely significant to everyone in this sold-out crowd. It marks the first time crowned frontman Vessel – the lighter voice – has broken his silence in public. The deeper voice he’s communing with belongs to Sleep, the god-like entity at the heart of the band’s lore. As the conversation continues, you could hear a pin drop.

“Do you think that this amount of crying is healthy for you?” Sleep asks.

“I don’t know,” comes Vessel’s response. “But at least I feel something. If I don’t feel anything then why would I even do this?”

At this, the crowd lose their minds and a wave of mania ripples across the floor. That the voices are pre-recorded doesn’t matter. Nor does the fact that this isn’t, strictly, the first time it’s happened – Sleep Token have been doing throughout this tour. But modern metal’s most enigmatic band have done something they’ve never done before: they’ve cracked open the door and given us a tantalising glimpse into their inner world.

This show isn’t the biggest Sleep Token will play this year. In December, they will headline London’s Wembley Arena. But Los Angeles, together with New York, is one of the epicentres of the US music business, and the buzz that’s surrounding the anonymous band suggests that America is paying attention to them.

More than that, La La Land has always had a thing for cults, from the Manson Family to Scientology, as well as the countless smaller ‘spiritualist’ groups that operate in the city today. An anonymous, masked British band with their own mysterious, quasi-religious mythology? LA never stood a chance.

“There is a new atmosphere at these live shows, an electricity,” says Benji Purdy, an American fan who also acts as moderator on the band’s official Discord server. He first saw Sleep Token when they supported metalcore act Issues on a 2019 US tour. After witnessing their headlined show in Portland, Oregon a few days ago, he says they’re an entirely different beast this time around.

“We’ll never see this band at this level ever again,” says Benji. “They are catapulting themselves.”

2023 has been the year Sleep Token’s cult success went fully overground. On January 5, the band released Chokehold, the first single from then-upcoming third album Take Me Back To Eden. Twenty-four hours later, they chucked in another new song, The Summoning. By the time the track hit TikTok, videos of listeners reacting to the genre-defying sound were reaching users around the world, with some even hitting a million-plus views.

Their social media profile was helped by celebrity boosts from Slipknot frontman Corey Taylor, Architects singer Sam Carter and Lorna Shore’s Will Ramos. And in May, they announced that Wembley date. All 12,500 tickets sold out in just 10 minutes. Sleep Token had officially become a arena band.

Chris Lody, a Sleep Token fan based in Coventry, set up a subreddit for the band back in 2018 after discovering they won their nomination for Best New Band at the Metal Hammer Golden Gods. The same year, he saw their first headline performance at St Pancras Old Church in front of 150 people. He’s had a front row seat to their dizzying rise.

“To go from that to Wembley in December, it’s incredible,” says Chris. “Creating the subreddit was a bit opportunistic really. Nothing like it really existed and I wanted to see what other people were saying about the band.”

It took a while, but fans eventually began to head to Chris’s Reddit page to share their own interpretations of Sleep Token’s music, art and lore. After the release of Chokehold and The Summoning, the page exploded with new users.

“The volume of people posting day-to-day is massive now,” says Chris, adding that it has grown from around 6,000 users to 34,500 at the time of writing. “We’ve had to take on more moderators just to maintain a bit of order.”

Much as the fandom has expanded, so too have the opportunities afforded Sleep Token. This summer, they stepped up to festival headliner status in the UK, with appearances at Portsmouth’s Takedown in April and Manchester’s Radar in July. Radar organiser Joe James admits they lucked out with the timing of the band’s booking.

“We got them at that sweet spot that every promoter dreams of,” he tells Hammer. “We’re a festival that wants to book progressive, contemporary music. Sleep Token tick all those boxes: they’re doing something fresh and are at the top of their game at the moment.”

Headlining the first day of the festival gave the band a full “limitless” rehearsal time, which in turn resulted in a truly headline-worthy performance.

“It looked and sounded amazing,” Joe enthuses. “They are so massive now, but they don’t behave like they’re blowing up just yet. I truly think they’re the next Download headliners of the new breed.”

It’s 4pm in Los Angeles when Hammer arrives at the El Rey Theatre, and queues are already stretching around the block in both directions. Some fans have brought chairs and blankets to sit on, while others are propping themselves up against the walls of the venue, clinging to the scant shade to avoid the glare of the Californian sun.

Amy McLaurin and her friend Sarah Hibbert are standing at the venue barrier. They’re from Virginia, and arrived at the El Rey at 9am, despite having fast-track passes that guarantee them priority entry.

“I found them on TikTok,” she says of how she discovered Sleep Token, with a nervous smile that suggests she’s worried any gatekeepers will leap out and chase her away at any second.

The pair saw Sleep Token for the first time a couple of weeks earlier in Baltimore, but couldn’t risk booking flights to come more than 2,000 miles to repeat the experience. It’s doubly impressive because Baltimore was Amy’s first ever gig, full-stop.

“I’d never really found an artist I loved enough,” she says. “Right now they’re everything I want in music. I listened to rock before Sleep Token, but not much metal – I’ve actually discovered more metal through them. I also met Sarah at the Baltimore show and we both decided to fly here.”

“They make you think about things you otherwise wouldn’t want to talk or be open about,” adds Sarah. “These songs can mean something different to everyone, a universal pain we all feel but some might be less able to express that.”

Vessel famously doesn’t do interviews – the only one he has given was to Hammer in the band’s early days ��� but their fans have been more than happy to pick up the slack. Sleep Token’s official and unofficial social media channels are full of running narratives, memes and jokes.

It hasn’t all been deadly serious, either. In April, a fan-filmed clip of an audience member at a gig in Sydney letting loose a “sinister” fart during the quiet part of the song Atlantic went viral. Similarly, after the release of The Summoning, a section of their fanbase dubbed Sleep Token “metal’s sexiest band,” largely thanks to lyrics such as

"THEIR MUSIC TRANSCENDS THEIR PERSONALITIES" SLEEP TOKEN FAN CASSIE KNOX

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

“THERE ARE SECRETS LEFT TO BE UNCOVERED”

Daniel Owen is the man behind the artwork of Sleep Token’s first two albums, 2019’s Sundowning and 2021’s This Place Will Become Your Tomb.

WHEN DID YOU FIRST COME INTO CONTACT WITH SLEEP TOKEN?

“Around early 2018. I ended up becoming one of their lead visual creatives from [that year’s single] Jaws through to This Place Will Become Your Tomb, and some initial development on Take Me Back To Eden.”

HOW MUCH OF A BRIEF WERE YOU GIVEN IN EACH CASE?

“The briefs behind each project have varied greatly in scope, but usually only restricted to a few lines – in the case of Sundowning per song - or a paragraph to explore the central idea of This Place Will Become Your Tomb. Symbolism throughout history has always been a communication method that encapsulates a sense of power and reverence; my work for the project has always aimed to champion atmosphere while masking a considerable amount of intention below the surface. “One example would be the Sundowning sigils as a whole: being informed by the passing of time and mirroring the positions of a clock face, referencing the namesake of the album. Individually, each sigil was a cipher I'd developed that represented a hidden selection of elements relating to the singles that later served as artwork – eventually all would be removed from streaming services and become an intentionally forgotten to reflect one of the central themes of Sundowning and its primary cover. A beautiful part of working with a band is that there's an unparalleled level of bravery involved with taking the kinds of creative choices that many are too hesitant to pursue.”

SLEEP TOKEN PUT HIDDEN ‘CODES’ IN THEIR SONGS AND IMAGES. ARE THERE ANY SECRETS IN YOUR ARTWORK THAT FANS STILL HAVEN’T DISCOVERED?

“There’s certainly some things I’ve left seeded within my work that’s ready to be pulled from the future if I’m called upon. There are still some secrets left to be uncovered.”

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

‘Or are you really here to cut me off? Or maybe just to turn me on’ and ‘I would be lying if I told you that I didn’t think that I could be your man / Or maybe make a good girl bad,’ combined with a raunchy bass drop in the song’s second half. This sexiness is something the band have leaned into on this US tour. During The Offering, members have been seemingly kissing through the masks, reportedly prompting a suitably ecstatic reaction from the crowd each time.

There are other, more wholesome displays of fandom, from fluffy crochet plushies to homemade necklaces. A video of guitarist IV putting on a cowboy hat given to him by an audience member at a gig in Dallas has yielded close to two million views on TikTok. Back at the barrier at the El Rey stands Cassie Knox, who has come to LA from Houston, Texas. Cassie has now seen the band eight times, including at Radar in the UK.

“Sleep Token have a big thing about community,” she says matter-of-factly, when we ask whether it gets lonely following the band on tour. “I met two girls last night in San Diego, they’re here with me and we’re also going to Anaheim [the next gig on the tour].”

While every fan has a personal answer for what Sleep Token mean to them, Cassie’s response seems to be shared by many. “They taught me self-love,” she says, holding a sign stating as much.

In May, shortly before the release of Take Me Back To Eden, several select fans were invited to an exclusive listening session for the album in London. Chris Lloyd, who runs the Sleep Token subreddit, was one of them. He won’t divulge too many details of the event, but offers an anecdote that highlights the band’s dedication to keeping their enigma intact.

“We got there and there was just this stage with curtains,” he says. “They opened at the start of the album and we thought there was a Vessel mannequin just in a chair. It was really dark and there were loads of smoke, but it was really exciting. Then right at the very end of the session, the ‘mannequin’ stood up and it was actually Vessel – he’d just sat perfectly still the whole time! It was insane.”

The band show no sign of changing their minds when it comes to preserving their mystique. Hammer’s request for an interview with Vessel is, predictably, turned down. But this anonymity is something that their devotees embrace. The golden rule of Sleep Token fandom is to never, under any circumstances, divulge or speculate on the members’ real-life identities. Still, that hasn’t stopped some people trying.

“The mystery surrounding the band will always be a key element that draws people in,” says Discord mod Benji Purdy. “It’s a rabbit hole and people love diving into them. But I have found that since [2021 album] This Place Will Become Your Tomb, there has been a culture shift within the fanbase between those who want to respect the band’s wishes to stay anonymous, and those who have a general lack of respect and think the band don’t care.”

This ring of secrecy is intact today. Before the show, Hammer is sitting at a table in the taco restaurant adjacent to the El Rey. We can hear and see the security manager briefing in front of the venue.

“Tonight’s show is Sleep Token,” the security manager says, marching along his ranks like a general on the eve of battle. “Their whole deal is that they are anonymous. If anybody – anybody – tries to go where they shouldn’t, you MUST. STOP. THEM.”

In reality, transgression seems to be the furthest thing from anyone’s mind. The people queuing outside the El Rey are here to Worship, after all.

“Their music transcends their personalities as individuals,” Cassie Knox tells us. “Everybody has a part in this music, and from the messages that the band have put out, it seems like that’s exactly what he [Vessel] wanted.”

By the time the doors open, the excitement is palpable. Airport-style security gates mean everyone is thoroughly searched before entry and it seems half the audience has brought along trinkets, gifts and signs in their own expression of Worship. One fan has turned up with a bouquet of roses so big it is seen engulfed her head. They all make it through security without issue.

While some fans have been dressing up in full Vessel cosplay elsewhere on the tour, there’s no such regalia tonight, although many have covered their faces with painted Sleep Token sigils. Equally, it’s striking just how youthful the crowd is as a whole.

“It’s been like this the whole tour,” reveals Matt de Burgh Daly, guitarist/keyboardsist with support A.A. Williams, as he sits down next to Hammer to grab a bite pre-show. Williams and her band previously supported Sleep Token on their 2021 UK tour, and now they’re on these US dates, suggesting they’re within the headliners’ circle of trust.

“It’s funny actually,” Matt says between taco bites. “This is actually one of the smaller shows on the tour, I think. But we’re pretty nervous.”

Oh?

“Yeah, our drummer’s broken his arm – he’s having to play Def Leppard style!”

With its art deco exterior, crystal light fixtures, chandeliers and blood red decor, the El Rey Theatre feels more like it should be hosting a seance than a metal show. It’s not your typical dive venue. But where Sleep Token aren’t your typical metal band, sonically or visually.

From Hammer’s vantage point, a dark balcony overlooking the main floor, it looks like nearly everyone is adorned in some kind of Sleep Token memorabilia, be it t-shirts, hoodies, or even smaller items like necklaces or homemade earrings. A queue stretches from the merch stand to the barrier throughout the entirety of A.A. Williams’ set and right up until Sleep Token themselves appear.

Sure enough, the headliners’ arrival elicits a frenzy of activity. An extended shriek of pure ecstasy greets the band as they march onto the stage, and it’s not long before the audience is singing along ardently, tears literally streaming from some fans’ eyes.

Detractors may point to the prevalence of piano ballads in Sleep Token’s sound, but there’s no shortage of heft in tonight’s set. Chokehold is explosive, its pendulum riffs cutting through the air like a buzzsaw. Hypnosis has the booming, almost floating menace of a great Deftones track, fans waving their arms wildly throughout.

Even in terms of physical presence, there’s a marked difference from the band that toured in support of 2021’s This Place Will Become Your Tomb. Back then, Vessel seemed like a solid, rooted entity, his movements stiff and minimal, clinging to the mic-stand like he was tethered to it. This time out, he’s a ball of kinetic energy, bouncing, dancing and stalking his way backwards and forwards across the stage, even dropping to do push-ups during The Summoning. Bassist III and guitarist IV are similarly lively, headbanging furiously and commanding circle pits and walls of death with finger gestures and head nods.

The Take Me Back To Eden songs are especially visceral live. Vessel skitters across the stage during Vore like someone having an ancient entity, switching between howls and soulful melodies before intoning the song’s key lyric: ‘I want to give you all, but nobody else will ever go?’

For all the excitement, background chatter falls away completely when segments of conversation between Vessel and Sleep play out. The distorted voices discuss everything from the fandom to the role the masks play in their mythology.

“In order for all of this to work there has to be a certain boundary in place,” Vessel says, his unearthly, pre-recorded voice spilling from the speakers. “They need to be able to project themselves onto this, without anyone else’s identity getting in the way. In turn, I need to be able to show my true self to them in a way that does not compromise their ability to connect.”

There’s certainly no shortage of connection as fans roar along to the likes of The Summoning, The Love You Want and Alkaline, some moved to tears as the music takes on new dimensions, the closing rave-metal thrust of The Offering ending the night on an exultant and triumphant note, before Vessel clasps his hands in thanks as Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody (Who Loves Me) plays incongruously over the PA.

So where next for Sleep Token? In a year where they have notched up a Top 10 album in the UK – Take Me Back To Eden peaked at No 3 – and sold out venues around the world, it’s hard to say exactly where the ceiling could be for them.

“I could easily see them playing arenas here in the States within two years,” Benji states. “The demand here is insane – as seen by the number of people who’ve lined up at every almost every show of this tour.”

For a British metal band to break into the US market is no mean feat, and the buzz and excitement Sleep Token are generating here is starting to catch up with the noise that surrounds them back home.

Equally, their pop sensibilities enable them to serve as a gateway, their success on TikTok showing they don’t just appeal within the metal sphere, but to wider audiences whom then tumble further down the metal rabbit-hole after discovering them.

Uniting newcomers and dyed-in-the-wool metalheads alike, Sleep Token are a new breed of band, transcending genre boundaries by simply refusing to stay in one, and backed up by a mystery and spectacle all their own. They are as at home supporting Slipknot and Architects as they are appearing at festivals like Reading and Leeds – testament to just how influential and breakout they’ve become.

Crazy as it may seem, 2024 will likely be an even bigger year for Sleep Token, and they’ve already booked some of the world’s most iconic venues in that period. With Wembley Arena and Alexandra Palace shows in the diary for next April, Sleep Token will be looking to cement their place at the top of the mountain. How long before the Worship of Sleep Token becomes a religion?

SLEEP TOKEN PLAY WEMBLEY ARENA ON DECEMBER 16. TAKE ME BACK TO EDEN IS OUT NOW VIA SPINEFARM

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MASKS REVEAL THE ARTIST’S VISION

Mario Garvera and Beatrice Rebondi are MysteryStar, an art studio specialising in masks, costumes and accessories. They also created the Vessel mask

WHAT IS YOUR BACKGROUND IN MASK-MAKING?

“We’ve always been drawn to the dramatic and theatrical aspects of expression, along with our shared love of music. We have produced thousands of pieces together over the decades. We never make replicas of our masks; they are, and always will be, one-off characters, created especially and never to be repeated.”

HOW DID YOU BECOME INVOLVED WITH SLEEP TOKEN?

“In early 2019 they were looking for a workable mask, as they hadn’t found anything wearable that could work onstage yet. We provided [Vessel and Sleep Token’s management] with several sketches and worked out together how to keep Vessel’s character essence and vision, while creating something that could work on a human head and be practical onstage.”

WHAT WERE THE BIGGEST CHALLENGES?

“It took several modifications, especially around the shape of the head. We had to accommodate certain parts of Vessel was adamant were integral parts of the full-face mask for the photoshoots and a mouth - less one for tge stage perfomances. These were the first two masks that we made for Vessel.”

WHY DO YOU THINK WE FIND MASKED BANDS SO FASCINATING?

“Masks have always been important to humans since perhaps the beginnings of civilisation. Ancient tribes created masks, for recounting their history and transmitting knowledge of their young; for healings and for warding off their enemies. In addition, it could be because masks are a created expression of the artist – the one - who created it, as well as the one who wears it – and as such reveal something of the artist’s mind and their vision.”

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Transcription English Version from theforbiddeneden

[melljam]

gosh this facial expression samuel makes is sooo interesting to me >_<

looong analysis below

only skimmed over some chapters to find it so im not sure if this is necessarily always the case but so far, all the instances ive seen of it have been in relation to samuels inferiority complex and jake

all of situations have been ones where samuel is evidently unstable (because of jake) and yet he can still look strangely calm while being in a manic state , which is considerably unsettling and adds some depth to his unwell behavior beyond “i will beat your ass reeeaally hard” (which is fun but ouhh the psychological aspects of his fights are so interestingg)

-> first image (and its context)

from chapter 311, samuels cruel treatment of the big deal girls prompt them to protest the conditions that he is forcing them to work in to make a 100k won in a month. yeonhui tries to bring up jake and how he would never do this to them and samuel immediately responds by trying to hit her (thank god jerry intervened)

when i first read this chapter and saw this scene i was so enamored with it because oh my god . its just so indicative of samuels character and how much his feelings of inferiority get to him. he doesnt care that he was about to hit yeonhui in front of everyone, he only knows that she compared him to jake and insinuated that jake is better than him, which strikes his sorest spot in the worst way possible (and no one truly understands why)

samuel got a lot more expressive after the big deal arc but his eyes in that picture say so much . he is brimming with rage and jealously over the mere mention of jakes name and comparison to him. the implication that jake could have done better, would have done better, than him just destroys any of his self esteem and sense of achievement while also bringing back all of the grief over feeling like he is no longer on equal footing with jake. he is being reminded of how he is now below him in every aspect (morally, family-wise due to gapryong, and later on in terms of strength since he loses against jake)

he is overwhelmed with his emotions and the only way that it can play out on his face is with a seemingly neutral expression displaying a crazed ache deeply ingrained into his eyes

-> second and third image

from chapter 466, during jake and samuels fight while samuel is drugged to give him a heightened feeling of inferiority and subsequent mania (or ‘frenzy’ as the official translation puts it)

all of his insecurities and terrible feelings are being intensified and it is absolutely not being helped by the fact he is fighting jake, the catalyst for his inferiority complex.

he is also remembering (and experiencing in his delusions) the sequence of events that happened during middle school: meet his real dad and committing patricide, learning that jake is gapryongs son, failing to receive guns approval twice, and becoming goos secret friend

(okay this is a side tangent but i love how this chapter was written to include all of that. the scene where samuel chokes alexander and sees his dad in him, the way he saw middle school jake and his own middle school self after re-realizing that jake is gaps son, the way he keeps on quoting people to show how much those events still affect him. its all written so gut wrenchingly well. i love the mental anguish)

he is effectively feeling his worst throughout this entire fight, and his face spells it outright for us

the second picture is samuels reaction to jake grabbing his collar after he ‘sentences him to death’ and lands a bunch of hits on him in tandem. this is probably looking waaaay too deep into it (but so is this entire post ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) however it almost like samuel is being reminded of his perceived inferiority simply by being stopped by jake. even though he cant be gapryongs son, he can still be stronger than him, right? right? jake continually disprove this and no matter how strong samuel gets, jake always seems to come out on top regardless.

in the third picture samuel is stepping away from his frenzied insanity (and the terrible, terrifying facial expressions that he makes because of it) to quietly question why it is that the universe has put jake in front of him to make him feel awful all over again, with a similar neutral face that displays undertones of distress and misery

and here he says it directly! jake shows up and makes samuel feel pathetic no matter what happens and its just … so perfect how his solemn face reflects how utterly defeated he is by that feeling

the way he is stepping on jake here, quite literally on top of him, yet he still feels lesser to him. he can beat jake up all he wants while smiling but at the end of it? he is still left with a burning feeling of inferiority that never gets resolved. and he can only wonder why that is

the frustration from not being able to figure it out overwhelms him, and thus causes the sudden change of his expression to a serious one. this is the issue that plagues his entire character and so it is only fitting that he reserve a special look for it; one of somber neutrality as the only way he can express his feelings of defeat and inadequacy

-> stylistic analysis

so all of that covered the context which surrounds that facial expression and the psychological aspects of it. while that serves to make the expression impactful as the culmination of all of those factors, the way that his face is artistically depicted also plays into its effect

i mentioned the look in his eyes before when discussing the first image, so lets just build onto that point of a crazed ache in his eyes by explaining why it evokes that feeling. his irises are small and much of the white of his eyes are showing, which is a stylistic choice that usually signals to us that a characters mental health has plummeted

his eyes are also shown to look like that in his other frenzied faces, but the contrast of his crazed eyes with the rest of his emotionless features distinguishes it well

and the second artistic choice i would like to point out is the use of lighting and shadows to depict his face to the audience

shadows are a very useful tool for artists to convey emotion on seemingly neutral or indifferent expressions as a little signal for the reader that the character is seriously ticked off but attempt to not show it

in all of the images, the light source seems to behind his head and leaves his face in the shadows. this lighting conveys a sense of seriousness along with undertones of horror. his somber expression is incredibly unsettling in contrast to all of the emotional turmoil he is feeling, and the use of shadows excels at giving us this visual cue

and its very interesting how the lighting stays consistent whenever he makes a face, signaling a certain emotion (of disdain? of grim comtemplation?? something along those lines i think) each time

final thoughts

well, my first final thought is that i wrote too much about this and somehow managed to overanalyze three panels into a little mess of angsty mush but it was sure fun :)

but secondly, i love how ptj does facial expressions, of course samuels faces in particular (this whole post is about him after all) since he is always so incredibly expressive. i love unhinged samuel, i love his ‘actively in mental decline’ faces. so freaky, so awesome ^_^

third and lastly, the parallels for samuel throughout the story are so, so interesting. i had to resist multiple tangents that go waaay beyond the scope of this post while writing it because of the sheer amount of stuff i found out i wanted to write about. so i will likely be writing more about that stuff in the future :p

thanks for reading !!!

[curlsandsnakes]

AU POLIN FANFIC

Courting Penelope Featherington

It’s raining the day he comes home.

Dark, moody weather that sets the tone wonderfully for the rather lackluster greeting he gets from his preoccupied siblings and absolutely rung dry mother. With two girls out in society, 1 pair of newly weds, 2 youngsters, and a Benedict, he can’t quite blame his mothers half hearted declarations and wandering eyes. He’s fully aware they’re happy to see him, Hyacinth even cries, but they all have their own dramas going on and have no time to entertain his stories of travel.

It doesn’t matter any, there really is only person he’s desperate to talk too, desperate to thrill with detailed accounts and sketched photographs.

It’s a shame Penelope Featherington wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

Eloise is the only sibling who never responded to a letter he sent. It’s clear she’s fully aware of the horrible things he’d spoken in a drunken haze nearly five months ago , and in true Eloise fashion she has no intention of betraying her best friend. She doesn’t even speak to him until he drops into the chaise beside her.

“Eloise. I missed you.”

Her bored expression never falters.

“Lovely to have you home, colin.” It’s so formal he nearly snorts at his rebellious little sister.

“I understand you are still displeased with me about my error last season.”

That does it.

“Error?! You call what you did an error?” Her body twists towards him and she fixes him with an outraged glare.

“Well yes, it’s was uncalled for and I…”

“Uncalled for?! I’ve never known you to be a fool but I find I do not know you at all. You nearly ruined her , Colin! She was wiped from the marriage market by your comments alone! If even her best friend couldn’t imagine being with her, why would anyone else? You have no idea what you accomplished!” Eloise pants, her face alarmingly red. “And then, when the damage was done you ran off to travel the world leaving Penelope to fix her reputation entirely on her own! And the audacity to write to her.”

Theres pain in his gut, crushing and turning everything in his stomach until he’s left nauseous and weak. What had he done? Was he truly that blind to see how fragile Pen was already? If anyone knew how desperately she wanted a husband, a family, it was him. And he had spoken so callously, degraded the one decent woman in the entirety of the ton.

“But you needn’t worry, penelope is no longer the Insipid wallflower you once knew. She has blossomed quite beautifully, I myself was astonished by her transformation.” Kate calls from her place at the head desk in the drawing room, a knowing sparkle in her eye.

“It’s true! She’s the prettiest one at all of the festivals.” Gregory is fussing with his gift while he speaks but makes sure to keep eye contact with Colin when he continues “and everyone says so.” It feels strangely like a warning from the 12 year old.

“Do we speak of Penelope?” Violet Bridgerton waltzes back into the room “I’ve heard from a reputable source that Lord Debling and Master Anderson both have plans to begin a courtship with our beautiful friend. I’m so intrigued to see who she will choose to marry.”

“Marry?!” His voice carry’s over the deafening crack of thunder “she can’t marry! She would need at-least a season of courting and this one’s nearly over. If they haven’t begun courting her yet, it would be wise to wait until next year to begin!” He feels hot, sweaty, his heart beating so fast it’s bound to give way to his mania any moment now.

“Not in Penelope’s case. This is her third season with no matches, she’s more than welcome to accept whomever she chooses at whatever time.” Violet is perched on Simons lap.

“I quite like Debling. I believe he would make a good addition to the family.” The duke tickles his wife’s ribs.

“As do I. We all get on quite well and since Penelope is essentially a sixth Bridgerton sister it will be nice to have someone we can all tolerate.” Anthony adds.

“She is not marrying Debling!” Colin’s voice is firm and slightly frantic, panic rising up the back of his neck. “She will not marry this season.”

“And who are you to decide what she does brother? Have you not done enough. Your opinion is inconsequential and it would do best for you to keep it to yourself, lest you scare any more suitors off.” Eloise has her hands on her hips and it’s almost intimidating enough for him to stop speaking but God himself could not save Colin Bridgerton now.

“There will be no more suitors and she will not be marrying any of these men!” He barks, firm and unmoving.

“Why do you keep saying that?!” Eloise shouts.

“Because she will marry me!” The words pour out of him in a roar, his chest heaves and his hands ball his neatly pressed pants. “She will marry me when I am done courting her, she deserves the full courting experience. I had intended to come home at the start of the Season so I could do it properly but my boat went down at a shipping port and I didn’t make it out of Greece for weeks.

Violet claps her hands, a watery smile on her lips

“These are your intentions, dear?”

He has never seen his mother so proud, joy shining in her eyes.

“Yes. They have been since I left All those months ago. I regret the words I spoke instantly and I needed to figure out why. It didn’t take me long to realize Penelope is the one I desire, I crave, I need her in every humanly way.” It feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest

… until of course, Eloise speaks.

“We’ll best of luck on that journey, brother. Penelope Featherington absolutely loathes you.” She takes too much pleasure from his pain.

“All will work out as it should.” Violet pats his shoulder gently before walking back out.

He needs to fix this before someone else takes his place.

He needs to court Penelope Featherington, and he needs to court her right now.

[the-solar-eclipsed]

Simulation Descriptions

Simulation Alpha (Third Life)

The very first simulation. This was when we obtained 14 subjects, meant to see how developed their powers were, and how they act with others. This has been our longest lasting simulation, lasting four months with an occasional break for a few days.

Simulation Mania (Last Life)

This simulation introduces the Mania injection. This injection overrides the subjects though process, influencing them to temporarily eliminate another subject.

This simulation is meant to test the subjects strategy skills when under pressure, and test their abilities.

Simulation Soulink (Double Life)

This simulation had the original 14 subjects obtained in it, where we linked them with a different injection to see how they would work together.

The simulation is meant to test their coordination with using their abilities together.

Simulation Kronos (Limited Life)

In this simulation, had the original 14 subjects, the difference was that the Mania injection was returned, and the subjects were given timers that automatically eliminated them when the time runs out.

This simulation is meant to test the subjects quick thinking skills, in a stricter environment.

Simulation Enigma (Secret Life)

This simulation contained 17 subjects, introducing a new scenario where subjects need to complete ‘tasks’ in order to survive. Failure results in a punishment or a more difficult task.

This is meant to train the subjects obedience to us and their future Generals, testing how loyalty works.

Simulation Beta (Real Life)

A shorter version of simulation Alpha, introducing by all 18 subjects to the simulation.

Simply meant to be a quick test on the subjects progress.

Simulation Wildcard (Wild Life)

The most recent simulation, we put the subjects into absolute chaos, using unique injections to enhance their powers. Though the injection doesn’t last long and will likely be scrapped after the simulation.

This is another simulation meant to test the subjects quick acting, and loyalties.