#drug package inserts

[jbfly46]

The pharmaceutical industry took away the only non-permanent forms of a lobotomy that kept America sane. Quaaludes, barbiturates, and liberal prescriptions of benzodiazepines, but you can still get a lobotomy. It’s not big pharma’s fault you didn’t read the part of package insert about drug interactions.

[academiccockroach]

it's 1 AM and I have a very specific bone to pick with a very specific thing I consume, enjoy and endorse wholeheartedly

here's the thing about vampire bites. they are depicted as this little unhinged and nasty but mostly sexy thing right. our guy (gender neutral) gets bitten and it's like ah! it hurts but also it hurts good ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). and here im talking about like. proper vampire teeth, non of that twilight bullshit just two to four proper fangs nothing more nothing less

well clearly the person writing the sexy biting smut scene has never been bitten by a cat. I dont mean like 'ah no Scruffy bit me a little' i don't even mean 'oh no Sceuffy bit me a lot' i mean like a fully grown ass feral cat that has never been touched by human in its life and craves the taste of flesh biting thru skin muscle cartilage -even sometimes bone- whatever the fuck you got in your meat sack that tiny needle thin tooth is piercing right through it

and here's the thing. it doesn't hurt at first oh no. okay well it hurts but if doesn't hurt too much ya know what i mean. and it leaves a cute little mark nothing serious at all

but in a day that wound is gonna swell. and it's gunna. hurt like all fuck because it just directly injected about five gazillion bacteria directly into a neat little incubation pouch and then closed it right up. its gona swell its gonna ooze and throb and hurt and if that shits in your neck ur pretty much done for i mean an infection right next to the jugular is just easy mode for the bacteria

so unless your vampire boyfriend gargles with antiseptic beforehand you aint gotta worry about turning or bleeding out or developing a biting kink cus youre gonna be delirious from meningitis with a football sized phlegmone in your neck beggjng for the sweet sweet release of death thank you for coming to my ted talk please ensure your vampire boyfriend employs proper dental hygiene

[yoditopascal]

Like A Prayer (Part 3)

summary: best friends with wade you’re always being dragged into something even when he’s not trying to, what are you to do when you find the fate of your timeline in the hands of yourself, your chaotic merc and an angry wolverine who’s hellbent on drinking himself to death?

content warnings: romance, some angst, a little fluff, character deaths, canon-typical violence, smut, lots of cussing, mutual pining, found family, drug and alcohol use, reader insert but with no use of y/n cuz I hate that shit, deadpool being deadpool, mentions of poor mental health (depression anxiety and ptsd mostly), scent marking, the honda odyssey scene needs a warning all on its own MINORS DNI

a/n: slightly shorter but hopefully worth it! Comments and criticisms are welcome!

tag list: sorry if you weren’t tagged I tried tagging everyone that asked but some usernames didn’t work! @allmyn1ghts @blooket-scares-me @amararosesblog @talanyra @spideybv28

Previous Chapter//Next Chapter

Are You That Somebody?

The two of you stepped through portal after portal in search of the perfect Logan who was willing to help you save your timeline. The first one was a little too short for Wade’s liking, the next one too 80’s he had said, the one after that was too busy fighting the Hulk, the one after that too old, and the one after him…you couldn’t really think of anything to say about the one called Patch except that you found him the most attractive with his eyepatch out of all of them, unfortunately though he seemed to hate Wade the most.

Wade stopped as a portal closed behind you both, as he approached a different Wolverine from behind, this one was alone in a garage and was working on his motorcycle with his back turned to you smoking a cigar.

“Now we’re talking.” He said rubbing his hands together like he was warming up. Every Wolverine so far has tried to kill him on the spot but had spared you for some odd reason, so he probably was preparing himself. “That’s the whole goddamn package right there.” He sounded like he was licking his lips under the mask.

This Wolverine was different, his build looked bigger than the other ones you had met, bulkier and he stood differently too as if he had more confidence in himself.

When he turns to get a good look at you both Wade lets out a girlish squeal as he covers his mouth with his hands.

“Oh, my fuck!” He shouts excitedly smacking you in the arm. “The Cavillrine! The legends are true.”

Now that this one was facing you, you could clearly see his face, he looked completely different from the others, still rugged but not as attractive to you. He looks you dead in the eyes and like all the others before him froze in place when he finally saw you, eyes unreadable as his nose flared.

It shocked you both when this Wolverine calls out your name, clear as day as Wade looks back and forth comically between you two incredulously. He steps forward towards you and you take a step back behind Wade, seeing first hand how violent Wolverine’s can be.

“Sorry to interrupt whatever the fuck that was but may I say, sir, on behalf of all humanity, this just feels right!” Wade says stepping in between you two, breaking the intense eye contact. “We will treat you so much better than those shit fucks down the street.”

“You were just leaving.” This Wolverine snaps calmly as he flicks his wrist, reloading his arms and drawing his claws. With a hard smack of his arm he miscalculates and sends Wade flying into you, through another portal he had opened up at the last minute behind you.

The impact of his body sent you barreling into a pool table as you both flew out of the portal. Messing up whatever game they had going on, a few patrons of the dingy bar you were now in glared at the two of you angrily, one being so bold as to step up to you before Wade stands up grabbing the irate man by his neck, almost instantly putting him to sleep.

Pulling you to your feet, you dusted yourself off from being on the grimy floor and readjusted your clothes. It was getting late, you had no idea how many hours you guys had left but you still hadn’t found a suitable Wolverine to replace your own yet and your chest was starting to tighten up in desperation and fear.

Looking to say something to Wade you realize while you were lost in yourself he had walked off, and instead was going up to a man at the bar. This one you could instantly recognize from behind from his hair tufts alone.

He had found another Wolverine and by the looks of his slouched shoulders this one was neck deep in an alcohol induced pity party.

You followed behind Wade just reaching the bar when the bartender came and took the cup from Wolverine looking equal parts annoyed and scared of the man in front of him. “I told you, you’re not welcome here, you’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.” He said calmly not wanting to cause a big scene but still wanting to get his point across sternly.

“Just give me one more drink and I’ll leave.” The Wolverine answered as he looked down at where his cup had been, he looked the part of a kicked puppy.

“That’s not how this works.” The bartender started again but was interrupted when Wade leaned on the counter beside Wolverine “It does now, leave the bottle thanks.” He says shooing the man away. The bartender stares at the three of you oddly before going off to wipe down another part of the bar, leaving you to it.

This Wolverine’s nose flares as he audibly inhales and snaps his head to look past Wade at you. Unlike with the others before him the emotions in his eyes were clear as day as he looked at you, or more like through you.

Shock, fear, guilt and then ultimately hate welled up in his hazel eyes as he snatched up the bottle of jack the bartender had left beside him talking a few gulps.

“I know you, bub?” He asked you with a hard voice, clearly he did or at least he knew some version of you from this timeline. “Cause you got a lot of fucking nerve wearing the face of a dead girl ‘round me.”

Dead? Were you dead in this timeline?

You open your mouth to speak but Wade cuts you off as he holds up a gloved finger to your lips shushing you.

“Look peanut, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, a lot of emotional turmoil to get out and eventually a heartfelt confession gets thrown into the mix followed by, judging from the sex eyes you’re giving each other, a whole lot of fucky fucky time but we’re kinda on a time crunch here so I’m gonna need you to come with us right now.” He said, nodding towards the door. You felt your cheeks heat up at his words, you loved Wade to pieces but sometimes you wish he’d keep his mouth shut.

“Look, lady, I’m not interested.” Wolverine said, tearing his glare away from you to stare down Wade, he thought his outfit looked absolutely ridiculous and that was saying something, then he felt his gaze drift back to you, taking in your scent again.

Not only did you look like her, only a little younger, but you even smelled like her too, albeit just a little bit different. That was something he knew deep in his gut that couldn’t be replicated no matter what copying powers you had, so how the fuck were you standing here in front of him when he himself had buried your dead body almost a year ago?

Snapping his attention back to the conversation, he hadn’t heard a word red had said to him.

“Why would I go with you?” He asked cutting Wade off as he took another sip from the bottle before drunkenly poking him in the forehead

“Because, unfortunately, I need you. We,” he emphasizes gesturing between the two of you, “Need you, our entire world needs you.”

“You guys gonna fuck or fight?” The bartender comes back looking between Wade and Wolverine, clearly tired of having you all in his establishment. Wade looks at the man like he had sprouted a second head before slowly turning back to Wolverine.

“You gonna take that from him?”

“Yup.” The Wolverine says, sounding defeated, like he was tired of even putting up a fight.

“I can tell you sort of have this ‘don’t get too close, I’ll only break your heart’ vibe going here, but every other Wolverine would have really hurt me by now and we’re sort of on the tic-tic, so upsy-daisy.” Wade said standing to his feet pulling Wolverine up from his barstool. He shoves Wade back away from him and you rush behind Wade to pull him away from him at the tell tale snikt sound of his claws coming out, only when you looked down at his balled fists you could only see just the tip of them peeking through his tanned skin, as if he had stopped himself midway from fully pulling them out.

“Whiskey dick with the claws huh? It’s quite common in Wolverines over 40.” Wade jokes half heartedly trying to diffuse the situation or make it worse, you weren’t quite sure.

“Trust me pal, you don’t want this.” The Wolverine said his voice husky as he stared you two down silently pleading for you to leave before he hurt you like he hurt the others.

Sighing heavily Wade pulls out a gun and presses it to Wolverine’s head “Unless you want to take a deep breath through your fucking forehead, I suggest you reconsider.” He gestured to the door with it. “Let’s go, Peanut.”

With a laugh the Wolverine leans into the gun’s muzzle staring right at Wade.

You had had enough. Walking around Wade you stand in between the two men, placing one arm on Wolverine's shoulder and the other on Wade’s arm silently asking him to lower his gun, which he did just ever so slightly, before turning your attention back to Wolverine.

“Look, Wade isn’t always the best at articulating what he needs without making it a joke, but we really do need your help.”

With a snort Wolverine shrugs off your burning touch from his shoulder, you were making him hot, too hot for the stuffy bar, so he reaches back over the bar to grab the bottle of jack again. God you even sounded just like her.

“We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Wolverine!”

“Don’t call me that.”

He hated it when you called him Wolverine.

“Please! Just please!” You cried out grabbing him by his sleeve, he turned to look at you again, his eyes searching your face.

“We really need you! You’re the only one who can fix this! Trust me I would take literally anybody other than you if I could,” you said, growing increasingly frustrated and irritated with the man in front of you.

Ouch.

“But it has to be you! So are you gonna be that somebody or not?”

The Wolverine gets closer to you, you can practically smell the alcohol and his natural musk radiating off of him at his close proximity. He looks at you for a long while as if mulling over what you had just said to him before answering with a “Not.”

“Oh you motherf-!”

You were cut off as Wolverine stands to his full height, towering over you. He grabs at the barrel of Wade’s gun, drunkenly to steady himself as he chuckles. He holds up a finger telling you both to wait as he proceeds to chug down the rest of the nearly full bottle of jack.

“Good God. Thirsty little honey badger, aren’t ya?” Wade looks at him in shock, just as Wolverine pulls the now empty bottle away and goes to reply he hiccups before stumbling and dropping to the ground completely dead to the world.

“I guess you’ll have to do.” Wade groans holstering his gun and going to grab the now passed out Wolverine by his shirt, just as he goes to lift he spots something yellow peeking from underneath.

“Ooh. Look at those jammies.” He said as he starts to unbutton the Wolverine’s shirt. “That only took 20 fucking years!”

Heaving him up on his shoulder Wade groans at the weight of his limp adamantium skeleton, and starts to drag him outside with you following close behind.

“Quick help me get his clothes off, Nugget!” He said dropping the man unceremoniously to the ground as he continued to unbutton his clothes.

“Wade what the fuck are you doing?!” You snap at his hands as he strips him down to his superhero costume underneath.

It was bright yellow with blue accents with light scuffs and scratches on it, it was tight to him, almost like a second skin, his gloved hands adorned with special slots for his claws to pop out, just like in your old comic books, you almost couldn’t tear your eyes away from him as they dragged down his body.

“Eye fuck him some more why don’t you.” Wade said suggestively and if he wasn’t wearing the mask you know he’d be wiggling his eyebrows at you.

You stutter trying to defend yourself as you feel your cheeks heat up. Ignoring you Wade stands back to his feet, slinging one of Wolverine’s arms over his shoulders as he shoulders his weight. Opening up the TVA device he stole, Wade types something in and opens up a new portal. “Save your lady boner for later Nugget we got a timeline to save!”

You wanted to stop him and tell him that the man he was carrying was insufferable even after only knowing him for a solid 10 minutes and that there was no way he’d have you hot in the pants with the way he was acting but your gut was overcome with a feeling of uncertainty.

A feeling that told you that going back to the TVA would be a trap, but knowing that like always once Wade had his mind set on something that was it, you simply tucked your much smaller self under Wolverine’s other shoulder and helped Wade through the portal.

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 6, In Which You Try To Look Away (It's Harder Than You Thought)

AO3

by the way, I saw today an art on twitter which is extremely Raul-coded

I am not a murderer, you thought as you ordered the ATM to give you another two hundred euros.

Even if I am, that guy deserved it, you thought as you re-inserted the card to give you two hundred more (damn those limits per withdrawal).

Even if he didn’t (and he did), nobody is going to miss him, and his fiancee will move on to the next lawyer in Oliver Peoples glasses soon enough, and besides, people die in freak accidents all the time. 

Even if they don’t, well, if every death wish resulted in an actual death, humanity would be long extinct and that wouldn't be your fault, would it now?

With that comforting thought, you pocketed the last of your ten thousand euro goal, tired from having to repeat the same task for almost an entire hour. Anything can happen, Raphael could cut off access to his account on a whim, but cold hard cash was something you could hold onto even if you fell from his grace.

"Ms. Berger," came a voice on your phone with a strong French accent the moment you picked up. It was Raphael’s banker, Francois-something, who gave you the PIN in the first place. “Would it be easier if we delivered cash directly to you? Your withdrawals keep triggering our petty theft alerts."

"Oh no, thank you," you replied, trying your best not to sound like a petty thief. "I have enough for now... I think."

“As you wish,” came his slow reply.

"But uh... could you help me make two bank transfers?" You asked after a pause. "One to my mother, Franziska Berger… (how much how much how much?) ten thousand euro, I’ll send you the details… and one for the stray cats shelter... (how much how much how much?)… five thousand euro?"

Too much? How do you quantify the cost of accidentally-on-purpose getting some useless yuppie run over by a bus in terms of absolving your sins? 

Five thousand felt somewhat stingy.

“The stray cats?” The banker repeated back at you as though questioning whether this was some sort of coded drug deal.

“Yes,” You replied firmly. “They do incredible work. Ah! The kids cancer foundation, too. Five thousand. No, ten".

That seemed about right for the guy’s life.

"Ah, you meant charity. Of course," Francois replied, relief and amusement in his tone. "Lovely, great for the ESG rating. Make sure to get an invoice for the tax refund."

It didn’t quite sit well with you to use stray cats and kids for tax refunds, but you still said yes and stashed the money deep down the rucksack. You got a bit of cash for now (soon you will go for more, because who knows), but it’s still not an income source. 

What could be? Should you ask Raphael to buy an apartment in your name, or two? You could rent it. Or a company? Tenebris, for instance. Just imagine their gobsmacked faces - especially after they gave you the boot without even a severance package.

That was a delicious thought.

You let it simmer as you sat down in an tourist-trappy Italian restaurant in the city centre, just about to order an Aperol Spritz when your phone began to ring again. You are in high demand these days.

"Anya!" Your mum gasped on the other end of the line. “I saw you on TV!"

Sure, the accident was all over the news channels. Some blurred out the dead body better than others did. You would bet your last cent that the unedited version got more views.

"Yeah, gruesome," you grimaced.

"Gruesome? Why? Ah, you mean the guy. Well, that happens all the time; they really give driving licences to anyone these days. I do hope the driver rots in prison for what he did to this poor young man. Anyway, no. I called to say, I saw you and Raul on the news”.

She managed to infuse an uncanny amount of innuendo into the last sentence.

“Raul is such a handsome man, Anya”, she sighed wistfully. “Quite the catch you got there, huh?”

There we go again. 

“What, way out of my league?”, you joked dryly. “I’ve been told that”.

“Oh, no, what nonsense! You are such a pretty girl!” Your mother protested. “More importantly, a good-hearted girl raised right; I am glad there still are decent men who still appreciate that. Did you meet Raul for a lunch?”

“Oh no,” You replied nonchalantly. "We actually… ah, we actually went to a church. He introduced me to his pastor."

Your mother sucked in an audible gasp like she'd won some kind of maternal lottery.

“His pastor, already? I am so happy for you, sweetie.”, she finally managed to say. “This is like a fairy tale come true”.

Yeah, a Grimm one.

“Sort of”, you chuckled. '“By the way, you will receive a bank transfer soon, ten thousand euro, don’t be afraid. It’s… well, take care of your health, okay? Get a decent dentist this time, a private one”.

“Where do you have the money from? Is it his?”, your mum suddenly sobered up. “Anya, what on earth is he paying you money for? I hope you are not doing anything… anything…”

"No," you cut her off and licked your lips, recalling the last thing that passed between them. “Mom, please! It's not his money, it's my company’s – long story.”

One that you haven't come up with yet.

Besides, if Raphael was giving you ten thousand dollars (thirty-five thousand in total with your other expenses for the day) for one blowjob, then you definitely had a successful career, just not in the field you had planned on.

“Okay,” your mum replied. “But still...you don’t need to...why don’t you buy some nice dresses instead? What on earth was that t-shirt you were wearing to a church?"

“I am hanging up”, You threatened half-heartedly.

You didn’t. You listened in the background to the story of how your mum’s school friend called her to say she saw “her Anya” with a very handsome man on the TV, nonplussed by the fact there was a scattered corpse in the background. 

In the meanwhile, you opened Google on your phone. 

You didn’t fancy doing that before - annoyed by that fake persona Raphael had created. But since he obviously put that much effort in it, it’s worth looking up what he had been up to and for how long.

Nothing good, for sure.

"…Raul D'Avergni, managing partner of an international law firm, inherited the private equity conglomerate, Avernus Capital. This transition was precipitated by the unexpected and tragic passing of his father..."

"…By December 2024, D'Avergni's high-profile liaison with Isabelle Arnaud, actress and socialite, had unceremoniously ended..."

No. Who? No. You didn’t need any ex-girlfriends.

"…Ms. Arnaud levied abuse accusations against Mr. D'Avergni…”

Oh, no…

“…she retracted her claims within a mere twenty hours and ensued a public apology for any harm inflicted upon D’Avergni’s reputation..."

Hmm.

"…her psychiatrist intervened on her behalf. Evidently, Arnaud was grappling with severe mental health issues that led her to make unfounded allegations..."

Raul likes them crazy, they said? Or makes them crazy?

"…Ms. Arnaud now resides in a high-end medical institution in Monaco, focusing on her mental health issues..."

What did Isabelle look like, you wondered, as your mum finished her talk and wished you a good day. You typed her name into the search bar, holding your breath in anticipation as you half-expected to see Hope's face staring back at you.

The woman clinging to Raphael's arm at some fancy film premiere bore no resemblance.

Your stomach sank as if it had plunged into the depths of hell.

She was exactly the type of woman Raphael should have on his elbow; a timeless beauty, but something more Renaissance like, the kind of faces humankind seemed to have stopped producing. She was in her mid-twenties, as well, but… hell, you could not hold a candle to that. Few could. 

Not even the Tavs. She resembled her namesake, Isabelle Adjani, in her youth, maybe even better.

The pictures showed her laughing and looking deeply in love while gazing up at Raphael, while he offered only a very formal smile to the camera. So not Hope then. Nothing like their story. She was in love, he wasn’t. 

Good.

Later snaps by paparazzi painted a different picture: a gaunt woman hidden behind oversized sunglasses and swallowed up by her hoodie, clutching to her coffee cup. 

With a swift click, you banished Isabelle from your screen and plunged further into Raphael's (Raul’s) life story.

You found a photo of Raphael in his twenties (yes, just like the Tumblr post you hated, and no, you wouldn't have fucked him at that age), caught up in a minor scandal in Sankt Moritz (apparently his fraternity brother had pissed on the Swiss flag), more gossip, his philanthropic affairs for local theatres and art galleries, numerous articles praising his professional achievements, and interviews with Lawyer and WSJ and the like. There was mention of a brief marriage and divorce in his early thirties, but when you tried to Google the woman's name, nothing came up.

The whole thing left a sour taste in your mouth. This was someone's real life story, not a fictional character. Raphael wasn't just some wealthy corporate jerk; he was a half-devil from Avernus, which was infinitely better and more sympathetic.

You were well aware that Raphael wasn't exactly a good guy. But he had his rules; he had to have his rules. As for the whole thing with Hope though... What exactly was she? An idea? A person? The fandom barely discussed her, and what little they did, you didn't like; all horrible takes, every single one.

The whole plot felt half-baked.

Anyway, what seeing Isabelle did motivate you to do was to take a real stroll down the city's most expensive boutique street.

Now, the first thing you bought was not because you wanted or needed anything, but because Raphael expected you to. You were not much of a materialist anyway; you were ideologically opposed to consumerism. These things were overpriced, generally not worth it and, on a larger scale, represented everything that was wrong with society.

You decided to enter a Valentino store out of curiosity, as you had never been inside one before. The saleswoman's disdainful look at your T-shirt motivates you to buy a black dress with a white collar, not necessarily because you liked it, but because you want to prove that you can afford it, despite the price tag of two thousand euros. 

Well, you liked it a little. The wool and silk blend was great to touch.

The details of the rest of the shopping trip became a bit hazy. You had your reasons; the consort of an Archdevil Supreme had to look really nice. If you couldn't be as pretty as Isabelle, you could at least dress as well as she did. So you started with some nice blouses and trousers, and a (just one) jacket. With that, you needed shoes. With shoes, of course, you needed a bag. Now that you had a bag (you closed your eyes as the price flashed at the till), you needed some jewellery (you needed to see what all the fuss about Tiffany's was about). And, of course, you needed make-up. 

At each shop, the sales assistants smiled wider and wider as you piled more and more bags onto your arms. By the seventh stop, it felt like their smiles were entering uncanny valley territory. 

Eventually, the banker would call you, right? But when exactly would that be? You tried to find out, but failed. It had to be over forty thousand.

The thought made you dizzy. In one day you had spent your entire year's salary. Now all you could do was hope that Raphael wouldn't make you work off the debt somehow. Unless it was the kind of work your mother suspected you were already doing for him.

You came out of the last shop with five bags and the feeling that you were a very shitty socialist. Since you couldn't carry any more, the shopping concierge (apparently it's a real job) offered to store the bags until your driver picked you up, and just as you were about to say which bloody driver, whom do you take me for, you remembered that you actually had one.

"Mrs Berger," the receptionist said cheerfully the moment she saw you in the door. "Nice to see you again! How can I help you? Oh, yes. The driver, of course. Yes, of course, let me put you through to Mr D'Avergni's personal assistant".

Oh, it's Mrs Berger and my pleasure? They were wondering if the rumours about you wanting the guy to be run over by a bus were already out there. The personal assistant's name was Camilla, her voice was the embodiment of professionalism, and she was the one who could take you to the driver, who was there in no time.

His name was Yuri and he was more talkative than you would have liked. Gruff, huge, way too big for the car he was driving (any vehicle known to man would be too small for him), with a deep booming voice and the face of someone who had spent half his life behind bars.

"Have you seen that poor bastard? All over the main road," he remarked as he passed the street cleaners. "Probably too busy fiddling with his phone to keep an eye out."

"Mghgm," you offered. 

"So, are we stopping by your place first, Miss Berger? Boss said you wanted to get some things first. Are you moving in?"

"Am I?" You ask, surprised by the news yourself, and then think to yourself: "Why not?”

Why the hell not.

****

You didn't waste any time. With a tidy suitcase in tow, you were out the door of your apartment before Yuri could get too bored. You packed the essentials - toothbrush, laptop, documents - and a few other things that suddenly felt crucial to your life.

Out the car window you watched the cityscape change from urban jungle to manicured suburbia and finally to a small gated community. The driver talked politics (he had exactly the kind of convictions you'd expect), then about how amazing Raul was (and how extremely open-minded he was to give an ex-con a job), before returning to politics. 

You didn't ask what crime Yuri did his time for. 

You knew it was Raphael's house the moment you saw it through the car window. Who else would live in such a place? Not a house, that's too boring a term; a villa, all intricate stonework, marble and terracotta, such a flamboyant display of wealth that it should have been taxed just to exist. 

Only a devil or a mafia don would call such grandeur home. So much, too much, theatrical to the point of grotesqueness; no real person could possibly live like this. You couldn't help but wonder if Raphael had been influenced by the films he had seen - perhaps he had developed a taste for modern cinema.

He must have liked The Godfather.

This place. The fountains, the statues (classical, Roman, as if sculpted by the ghost of Michelangelo), the gardens. You wondered how many souls it took to keep this whole thing running.

The gates opened and the car drove you into an underground car park that was already very busy and very Italian: Ferraris, Maseratis, Lamborghinis. You counted; eight. Who needed eight cars? Not even one for each day of the week. 

The lift took you up; Yuri left your shopping bags and suitcase in the foyer and said goodbye.

You'd never set foot in such a house before; the closest you'd ever come was drooling over Sotheby's property listings.

Why would anyone need all this space? For just one person? It was at least six hundred square metres; and the guest and service house looked like another two hundred. The kitchen and dining area was three times the size of your apartment.

You could play golf here.

For what it's worth, the villa didn't remind you of the House of Hope. Firstly, it was completely empty; the servants, if they were in there, managed to make themselves invisible. Second, it lacked the baroque, replaced by the dolce vita and flair of a Lake Como residence. Thirdly, there were no self-portraits, not even pictures, nothing to suggest that the man who lived here had a face, a history, let alone a family.

The first floor was devoted to entertaining guests: the kitchen, the dining room, the library, the ballroom (you guessed this kind of rooms used to be called ballrooms, he even had a piano in it). The second floor was half-locked, except for the master bedroom (the bed easily could accommodate two orthons and a cambion sandwiched between them) and the dressing room. 

There was also a basement - the entrance blocked by a number lock. You considered trying the PIN combination, but decided you didn't want to snoop down there... well, you wanted to snoop very badly, but you didn't want to face the possible consequences. Unless they resembled those in his private club.

So you roamed both floors twice before staking claim to your new sleeping quarters in the master bedroom by putting your suitcase down there. You checked everything else in the room: Raphael's bedside glasses, his choice of books (predictably, Machiavelli, but not The Prince, another book you had never heard of called Mandragola), even his dark silk pyjamas, which lay on the chaise awaiting their owner's return. You open his drawer: hand lotion, velvet sleeping mask, lubricant, two opera tickets (Götterdammerung) from about a month ago... 

Then curiosity led you to look under his bed, where he indeed had something stored: a large black storage box.

Oh, you just had to have a look. 

Just to get an idea of what’s on the evening programme.

Handcuffs, the real kind, the police kind, metal ones. The thought of all the women (and men) who might have been bound with them, as jealous as it made you feel, was titillating. A whip and a crop. Yes, that works for you. And what's this? Butt plugs? Only if they were still sealed in their original packaging (you were not into that kind of hand-me-downs) and way smaller. A chastity belt? Well, that's... intriguing, but probably not in your first month together. A hook? That can stay where it is.

At least nothing too extreme like needles or enemas or any of the other disgusting things you sometimes saw on weird porn sites.

Underneath all that, toys and accessories, lay another plain black box. Oh, a box in a box. Something was written on it.. 

GOOD EVENING CURIOUS LITTLE MOUSE

"Good evening," you said as you opened the lid.

Then promptly closed it again.

"No," you said. "No, no, no. It was just a fic I read and liked, I was very horny, but it's not really my thing. No, thank you. Just because I didn't have a father doesn't mean I have daddy issues. I don't care about the guy, he never cared about me, end of story".

You took a deep breath before opening the box again, hoping that the items inside had disappeared. 

But to your dismay, they were still there: a velvet collar adorned with "Daddy's Little Mouse" in shimmering gold thread, a headband with mouse ears, red lace cobweb-thin lingerie and a tail-butt plug (thankfully still in its original packaging and on the smaller side). The tail was furry and tipped with white, so you must have been a dormouse.

All of the toys were top quality, handmade, and incredibly vulgar. Well, no surprise, having seen what Haarlep was wearing in his house.

You closed the box shut again.

"I'd rather cook us something to eat," you suggested, getting up. "Some pasta. I bet you like pasta?"

You definitely liked pasta and hoped that Raul (Raphael, Raphael) would not have you hanged on the hooks and tortured for your very non-Italian interpretation. You hoped in vain, because he chimed in and tried to stop you from committing a crime:

"Working late. Don't bother with dinner. Take some time to relax and enjoy yourself. R".

As you descended the stairs, ignoring his text, you wondered - did he ever cook? Or was his kitchen just for show, with the real work done in the servants' quarters (do they still call them quarters?).

You forgot that question the moment you saw what was lying on the marble kitchen counter.

The same box you had left upstairs, still with 

GOOD EVENING DISOBEDIENT LITTLE MOUSE 

on it. 

You blinked and took two large steps back. 

The box seemed to crawl forward in response.

You shrieked; this was a bit too much. Raphael's presence, the supernaturality of it, had been subtle before; now it was becoming a bit performative.

"I got your hint," you said, your voice a shaky laugh. "Don't scare me, please. Please."

The box stayed where it was, but it radiated an energy of impatience, as if it might jump at you if you neglected it any longer.

“Fine,” you conceded, coming a bit closer. “A little romance would’ve been nice but…”

"Setting romantic atmosphere," a cheerful female voice said.

who the fuck who the fuck who the fuck

Alexa. 

Fucking smart home systems. The lights dimmed to a soft orange glow, the heavy curtains closed with a soft whoosh and a familiar tune echoed off the walls, the ballroom piano playing in the distance:

I put a spell on you

Because you're mine

The melody was familiar and so was the voice behind it - smooth, silky and oh so captivating (the adjectives you would use to describe it could fill many romance novels). A deep, rich baritone. You chuckled - had Raphael discovered blues? It suited him. 

You know I cannot stand it

You running around

You loved his interpretation of the song. It felt so intimate, him singing to you, so... very, very special. Your fear vanished in an instant; you poured yourself a glass of wine and took a luxurious sip.

"I'll put these on for you," you laughed, putting all the flirt you ever had in this laugh. "But don't expect me to call you 'Daddy'."

There was no protest; Raphael was too busy singing, pouring his entire soul into it. You made yourself busy too; stripping. You weren't very skilled (any skilled), but the thrill of being watched by him awakened something in you. You caught your reflection in the mirror and damn, you were hot. 

Shrugging off your shirt and sliding down your plain black briefs, you swayed your hips at your reflection as the wine worked its magic on your mind. For once in your life, you felt genuinely attractive; he made you feel genuinely attractive. The sexiest you'd ever been. 

Slipping into the silky red lace lingerie he had chosen for you (splurged on, because it was a La Perla) - you fastened the collar around your neck. A long golden chain dangled from it, wrapped twice around the hook and cascaded down your back. Then you put the mouse ears - not cartoonish, not Minnie Mouse ones, but real fur and incredibly lifelike - on your head like a headband. 

You looked like...well, precisely what your mother suspected you were doing to pay the bills. But at least high-end. Very high-end. The only thing worse than being an escort is being a cheap one.

But there was one more item left in the box.

"Ehh," you said at the sight of the mouse tail, especially the part that was meant to be inserted. "I'm going to need... I'm going to the bedroom."

It had been ages since your last foray into such play; back when you were with that boyfriend who constantly pestered you about anal and found it somehow arousing to "accidentally" (sure, mate) poke you and mumble an insincere "oops, wrong hole". 

You didn't stick around much longer after that.

Stretched out on Raphael's sumptuous bed, you slicked up everything - the plug, your pussy, your arse - with copious amounts of lube. First, some warming. So you began to rub yourself, two fingers finding their familiar way to your clit. You couldn't shake the crawling feeling of being watched, every inch of your body scrutinised by unseen eyes.

"Raphael," you called out into the empty room, desperate for some form of interaction or response. "I would love it if you would join me... or say something pleasant”.

Now would be the perfect time to call me a good girl.

But there was no response, just an eerie silence in the room. Feeling too naked and too slutty, you pulled the blanket over you, a makeshift barrier between you and his eyes. Under the fortification, tucking the tail in seemed less daunting.

Before you could get down to business, there was a jerk at the blanket, which fell to the cold floor, leaving you bare again. Then another tug on the chain attached to your collar, pulling you closer to the bedpost.

"I'm sorry," you gasped breathlessly, both hands instinctively reaching for your collar. "I won't hide."

The chain didn’t let go, making a point out of a slight pressure around your neck. Taking a deep breath, you focused on the task at hand, stroking your clit as you guided the plug inside you. 

You told yourself to relax and take it slow; just imagine it's Haarlep. How many times had you dreamed of being squeezed and stretched between the two of them? It was always Haarlep who took you from behind; it just seemed more their style.

The plug slid in deeper. It didn't hurt, and the little discomfort it caused added to the excitement. 

Damn, this is so dirty. 

"It's in," you said as the plug settled inside you. "All the way in. What's next?"

The words were barely out of your mouth when the golden chain, suddenly a snake-like lasso, wrapped tightly around your wrists.

Pulled them towards the bedpost, stretched out and bound tightly to either side. Fear gripped you and you clenched around the plug, pulling your knees tight together.

Tightly. Very tight. A little too tight. You tried to wriggle, the metal biting your skin; you could move your hips a little, but no more. 

You couldn't get out yourself, which was not good news when you were alone (well, almost) in a very big house. Your mind immediately thought of that girl in Gerald's Game.

"Raphael?" you asked. “It’s not that kind of game, is it? It’s a nice game? Can we play a nice game?”

He did not answer, but you heard footsteps. Footsteps coming down the long corridor. Confident, quick and very purposeful.

Stay calm, stay calm, it's him, it's him, who else could it be? Haarlep? The orthon? The driver? 

The door swung open.

It was Raphael, and he was visibly surprised to see you in this state, which was absolute bullshit considering he was responsible for tying you to this very bed. 

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, covering the distance to the bed in two strides. "What a welcome home surprise, piccola." 

Raphael gave you a lecherous, wet-lipped smile and knelt on the bed between your legs. There was something boyish about it, an expression you'd never seen in the game, as if he'd just found his first bike under the Christmas tree.

You searched for “piccola” earlier today: “baby” or “little girl” in Italian. 

"I'm not going to call you Daddy," you repeated, and Raphael shook his head and laughed, not seeming at all horrified at the thought (and he should be).

"I have some compelling evidence to the contrary, Daddy's little mouse," he teased, his fingers playing with your collar. 

"Anything but Daddy," you pleaded. "That's just... demeaning."

Weirdly incestual, too. You haven’t even seen the guy, not a photo, not a… (don’t think of him why the fuck would you think of the old bastard now).

“This is the whole appeal of it, is it not?”, he said. “How would you prefer to address me then?"

Raphael? Something told you that telling him that would make him very angry, and you weren't exactly in a position to want an angry man on top of you. Raul? No, that name just felt completely wrong and made you feel like you were in a Spanish soap opera. 

Raphael began to unbutton his shirt one button at a time, revealing a white undershirt, which he then took off. 

His physique was impressive for a man of his age; not those bodybuilder abs from bg3 but a well-toned body shaped by workouts and diets, which seemed to be very much at odds with his indulgent ways. Rough brown hair spread across his chest and lower abdomen against honey-tanned skin. Every inch of him seemed so put together, so perfectly groomed.

"Master," you finally decided (there was this one fanfic…) as you spread your legs wider in an invitation. 

"Master?" Raphael seemed amused, his fingers tracing the lace of your bra, teasing your hardened nipples through the fabric. "Such flattery. So this makes you my slave girl? Tied up and ready for me to use as I please?"

Reading Raphael say such things was one thing, but hearing him actually say them in real life made you feel embarrassed. It was a bit, ugh... 

“You get flustered easily for someone who waited for me dressed like this, little mouse,” Raphael raised an eyebrow at your see-through lace. “Topolina." 

He wrinkled his nose and laughed, as if the word was funnier in Italian, and poked the tips of your mouse ears. You wanted him so badly that your lips caught his as he came closer and you pushed your tongue into his mouth. He kissed your back, his hands moving up and down your body. 

"How the hell did you manage..." he mused aloud as he studied your bound wrists.

His fingers ventured between your legs, and the moment he stumbled upon your tail, his whole body twitched with excitement, his breath catching in his throat as he traced the soft fur to reach the base of the plug. 

The playful gleam in his eyes was replaced by an intense, wild desire.

"Merda," he breathed out. "Look at that. Aren't you a dirty little girl?"

You cringed at how pornographic the line sounded (his suddenly much thicker Italian accent didn't help), but Raphael seemed to find it excruciatingly erotic.

In one swift motion, he lunged forward and forced your legs apart, his hands pulling your knees towards your chest, folding you in until your muscles screamed in protest at the stretch. 

Without warning, he thrust deep inside of you. You gasped in surprise; no preliminaries, no foreplay, no taking it slowly, just raging, explosive lust.

Fortunately, your own fingers had done their job earlier, so despite the brutal force of his first thrust, pleasure surged through you, along with a sharp twinge of friction as his cock rubbed against the toy lodged inside you.

He seemed to relish the sensation and so did you. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body arched beneath him; stretched and pinned by his weight, trapped, surrendering to the relentless pounding that followed - raw and invasive and yet so fulfilling.

You were so looking forward to coming again from his penetration alone. The mere thought made you pull harder on your restraints, craving the delicious pain of being bound. The furry tail must have tickled his balls because he tucked it under you so that it would tease you instead. 

"Cross your ankles behind my back," Raphael rasped into your shoulder as he grazed it with his stubbled chin. "Yes, just like that... now tilt your hips."

You responded with your most submissive “yes, master”, making his cock twitch inside you, and then sifted your hips to better accommodate his pleasure. Wrapped your legs tightly around him, pulling him in deeper, pain-pleasure soaring through you. You sniffed his hair. 

His cologne (worn leather, cherry liqueur, bitter almonds) smelled so good oh so good.

He slid his arms underneath your arse, lifting you towards him at every thrust. 

Raphael said few words after that, grunting and thrusting and thrusting. Something about him was different this time - something very human - from how his sweat-soaked hair stuck to his forehead to his expressions of sheer lust that bordered on comical at times. 

One thing remained the same - the pleasure his pounding brought you, the familiar hooks of approaching orgasm - not any orgasm, the orgasm of being with him, his sharp talons - sinking inches deep into your flesh again. 

fuck does he feel good

rough or tender it just feels so good

his cock his tongue his breath on your neck

You screamed "fuck me", then once again, louder, not caring how obscene you sounded, and bit his shoulder without a second thought. 

The scream that escaped you was higher pitched than you had intended.

do whatever whatever you want whatever you want with me

Raphael's face creased with annoyance as his strong finger pressed into your cheek. "Easy…easy… piccola... I appreciate…. a good performance… not …overacting," he scolded as he went at you harder, pushing you to the point of pain.

hurt me

fuck me fuck me harder

You would have protested at the implication that you were pretending, but you were too busy coming under him, his hand clamped over your mouth before your temporal insanity could drive you to actually call him ‘daddy’.

If he wanted you to why wouldn’t you he is so sweet to you oh so sweet to you

The scream was swallowed by his palm as an orgasm, brutal in its intensity and lightning-fast, ripped through you, whip-snaked it. You greeted your release with a wail, biting into his hand. Raphael paused mid-thrust, apprehensive of how your pussy convulsed around him and your leg spasmed uncontrollably - if this was a performance, you deserved an award.

"You weren't pretending," he panted, awe-struck. "My apologies. You were not".

The realisation frenzied him; he spilled within a minute after, rutting into you with intensity belying his age. Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of you, his breath, cherries and tobacco, warming your throat as his cock softened within you.

"I may have gotten a little carried away," he said, sounding embarrassed and slightly apologetic as he lay down beside you. "But it seems you're more than content."

You eagerly and quickly nodded.

"Are you that... passionate with every man?" He asked as he helped you free your wrists - jealousy creeping into his voice at the mention of that mysterious 'every man'.

You couldn't help but laugh at the question. "No," you replied. "Far from it. You are not just any man. You are anything but."

Raphael let out a sigh of relief and kissed you, making no effort to hide how much your compliment pleased him. 

When you parted, you hopped awkwardly off the bed - the odd gait one adopts when they have a plug in them (no way were you going to remove it in his presence, no way) and cum was trickling down your thighs. 

Shit, the condom. Now you forgot to ask him to wear it.

Would he have?..

Ah, screw it. Google says Plan B is effective for up to 72 hours after unprotected sex, so you'll take it tomorrow - for tonight and last night. You'd never been this careless before, but hell, you'd never murdered people with a mere thought or slept with an Archdevil of Hell.

Raphael was still lying there, basking in the afterglow, when you returned.

"I have to admit, Anya... I'm seriously thinking of proposing," he murmured with such tenderness as you snuggled against him that you wondered if Raphael really was incapable of love.

"That would be quick," you replied, but made it sound like you wouldn't mind at all.

"Quick?" he scoffed. "A man knows what he wants in a woman the moment he sets eyes on her. Unfortunately, there are very few left in your generation."

You smiled, already dreaming of being the Archduchess of Hell, and half-dreaming in general from sheer exhaustion and satisfaction. 

"They lied about you being bad in bed," you murmured as sleep began to take over. "I knew it was all bullshit."

"They?" He asked, his face contorting into a scowl at your sentence. "Who are they? Anya, for God's sake, stop reading those trashy tabloids."

You closed your eyes for a moment. When you half-opened them, you saw him on the balcony outside, in a black silk robe, AirPods in his ears and a cigarette in his mouth. Behind him you could see the smoke and fire of the Avernus mountain ridge, the fireballs cascading down from the sky. Beautiful. 

Raphael gestured with his free hand, aggressively, and you listened a little closer; fortunately he was more than loud.

"...we will bleed them dry if they dare to break our agreement..."

"...they knowingly and willingly accepted our terms, they will choke on the consequences..."

"...all must pay their dues, sooner or later..."

"...an army? We have our own army..."

A yawn escaped your lips as you snuggled deeper into the plush pillows of the massive bed. Everything, except the AirPods, fit perfectly into the image of Archdevil Supreme.

You felt so chosen, so alive, so gloriously alive, and your life had just begun.

"Are you coming soon?" you called out as you tried to think of an appropriate nickname for him - something intimate, but not too cheesy. Darling? Baby? Sweetheart? Love? My favourite devil?

But he beat you to it before you could decide.

"Soon, my love. Rest," he blew you a kiss. With a loud click, he shut the glass door and cut you off from hearing the rest of their conversation. You let out a contented sigh and rolled over onto your side, drifting into a peaceful slumber.

"My love," you said in your sleep. "Raphael called me his love”.

****

The urgent need to go to pee woke you. The time was a mystery, but it must have been late enough for Raphael to have gone to bed too.

He was pressed close to you, his hand cupping your breast. You looked over your shoulder; asleep, peaceful, in buttoned pyjamas, and it was the one moment when he did not look threatening at all; vulnerable, if anything. You kissed him on the cheek and he smiled in his sleep and held you close. 

When you came back from your short (not really, a good thirty metres to the toilet) trip to the bathroom, you snuggled closer to him, preparing to doze off again, and then you heard something.

You listened closer, thinking you had dreamed it first.

Soft, gentle whimpers. You recognised the voice. You didn't know how, but you did. Something childishly cheerful and slightly mad about it.

Oh, no. No. You were happy, spooning with Raphael, and you didn't need this shit right now, especially when things were finally going so well.

Hope, please, you begged.

You got all your happy endings, so many of them, wonderful endings where Raphael was killed by the player and you got to live and your revenge and whatnot. Can I have one too, please? Without you whining and making me feel guilty for something I didn't even do?

"My love," you asked Raphael softly, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his side. "Can you let her go?"

"Mmm," Raphael murmured in his sleep, "Sure, piccola. Whatever you wish for."

You waited for him to act, but he only tightened his grip on the blanket and shifted slightly.

"You have all the hells and the crown and everything (and me). You don't need her anymore," you tried again. 

"Anya, let me sleep," Raphael mumbled into his pillow, away from your voice. You tried to hide from her voice under your pillow as well, but you could still hear the soft, painful moans. 

Ugh. 

They were very, very far away, but still there.

"She's still wailing," you complained, taking him by the shoulder and shaking him a little. "Raphael? Raphael?"

 "Who is wailing?” he groaned in pure frustration, and then made a half-hearted attempt at listening. “Ah, merda, not that bloody bitch again! I swear, I will plug that hole myself!"

You tried to make sense of that sentence and couldn't, but what you did get was that it promised Hope nothing good and sounded vaguely vulgar, which was even worse. 

"Don't hurt Hope," you begged, appalled by his threat. "She doesn't deserve it!"

"I don't deserve it either," Raphael retorted before turning away from you. "Please be quiet."

He should direct this request to his prisoner. 

What had really happened between them? You didn't think his obsession with Hope was sexual because, well, because, for example, he fucked you and you both enjoyed it, so he was definitely into consent, and Hope was more like a metaphor, a concept, a point to be made, and some shitty fucking rushed Act 3 writing.

"You... you didn't hurt her like that, did you? There was some talk... With that boudoir line... It was misinterpreted... right?"

Right. He may be evil, but he is lawful evil. He believed in consent and seduction, not violence. 

"I haven't hurt anyone, what in damnation are you talking about?" he growled through gritted teeth, and you let out a small sigh of relief.  "But if I don't get some rest, I might."

He hadn't hurt Hope. He wouldn't lie. He cannot; devils can deceive, but not outright lie. You read it somewhere.

Okay, he's not going to let her go and he's not going to help you and Hope was certainly not going to shut up. You have to go to her. And say what? Say what? Sorry for your predicament and the centuries of torture, Hope, but could you please be a bit quieter, me and Raphael just had sex and are trying to sleep? 

Let her go? And lose his favour, his credit card and the place next to him in his bed?

Yes, come on. It would be the right thing to do and you would do it. 

Where was she anyway, you wondered as you walked down the stairs. In the cellar? Hanging from the ceiling? You still don't have the key to the cellar. When you reached the ground floor, the kitchen, you realised that the noises were not coming from the cellar - they were coming from outside.

Outside? Did he hang her on a tree on this cold April night? 

You put on his trench coat and slipped into your sneakers. This was so unnecessarily evil, you thought, suddenly feeling much less happy about everything, especially as the pained whimpering got closer. Hardly human, you thought, more like a creature trapped and desperately trying to free itself. 

Yes, definitely more of a creature.

In fact, it reminded you of a dog. You searched the darkness of the night, determined to find it, and there it was: a dachshund wedged between the ground and a large, weathered fence, whimpering into the still night. 

The poor thing must have thought it was quite the burglar, trying to burrow under a hole in the fence to pull through. But it only managed to get itself stuck.

"Oh, poor baby," you said as you approached the dog. "Let's see if we can get you out."

You pulled on the fence to widen the opening and the cub was free.

It licked your hand in gratitude. Dogs love you. All animals do, and it's quite mutual. You had a harder time with people.

There were distant, panicked cries for Steffie somewhere in the distance; the owner was out on a rescue mission. You took the dachshund in your lap and went to meet her.

The woman was in her sixties, dark brown hair, a very aged beauty, and she looked a bit funny in her fur coat and slippers. She had tears in her eyes. Steffie ran to her as soon as she saw her.

"You silly little girl," she scolded the whining, complaining dog in her arms. She had a thick American drawl. "Why do you keep going back to his house? What's so special about him? I told you he was bad news!"

"Is he?" You asked the question when you knew the answer.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she stammered, forcing a smile to her lips. "I didn't mean it like that. You're Raul's new girl, aren't you? Samantha. I live down the road. Sorry about Steffie, she's very... adventurous."

There were exactly three houses on the street, a mile apart each.

"You meant it like that," you said. "If it's about Isabelle, she's apologised and withdrawn her accusations".

There was a pause, and Samantha's perfectly friendly smile cracked a little.

"Well, in that case," she said, before adding with forced cheerfulness, "thank you for looking after Steffie, sweetheart! You take care now."

She tried to walk away, but turned back; she was as curious as her little dog.

"I was walking Steffie when that French girl ran out of his house," she said, unable to resist the urge to gossip. "She was naked and babbling like a lunatic. She had blood on her, too".

"Did she scream something about the devil?" you asked after a pause.

"Devil? No. Not that I speak French," said the woman, making a last attempt to walk away, but failing. "Listen, I have a daughter about your age. And if some guy - ANY guy - tried to put that kind of crap around her neck, I would chop his arms off".

What did she mean? 

The collar. 

She meant the "Daddy's little mouse" collar you still have around your neck. 

Oh, don't kink shame me, you were going to say, but that kind of talk sounds ridiculous in real life. She managed to shame you very badly, so you hid the collar under your trench coat and mumbled, "I put it on myself".

That actually made her look at you again. Steffie looked at you with the same expression. 

Everybody's out to guilt trip you - Hope, the dog (the dog you saved!), the neighbour, the guy who got thrown under the bus, and you've done nothing but enjoy some devil sex.

The woman finally decided it was time to go, muttering "You need Jesus, sweetheart" before she left.

That's your God who kept women in collars and on leashes for centuries, not the Devil, you thought bitterly, and unlike the Devil, he didn't even fuck them. 

Well, only once.

***

You were back in the en-suite bathroom, washing your face in the marble sink.

Who the fuck was this man, really? What the fuck was happening? 

Your hand shot out, yanking open a cabinet door. An array of men's grooming products stared back at you - cologne, razor, facial moisturiser and scrub, deodorant, shaving gel, sleek, expensive bottles. A man took care of his looks.

Another cabinet creaked open under your touch. 

Your eyes darted to the label on the bottle - Risperidon. You had no idea what it was, but you memorised it for a future Google search, repeating it under your breath like a mantra. 

"Are you rummaging through my belongings, nosy little mouse?”

He was dead asleep last time you checked!

You jerked, closing the cupboard and stumbling back to the bathroom sink, gasping for breath. "No," you stammered, turning to find him standing in the doorway. "I mean... yes. I can't sleep. I thought you might have some pills."

His eyes were canny; he didn't swallow your lie and made no pretence of doing so. He bridged the gap and hugged you from behind - frighteningly strong and wanting every ounce of that power to seep into your bones. His strength made you realise just how much of a level 1 human NPC you were.

"You don't have to violate my privacy when I'm not around, Anya," he whispered against your skin as he began to trail soft kisses down your neck. "If there's anything that's bothering you, just ask me directly. I want us to be honest with each other."

What was in the cellar? What kind of work does he do for you? Did he rape Hope? Or was it Haarlep? Where is Haarlep, by the way? Why does Raphael want to play Raul? 

"What happened to Isabelle?" you asked. 

"Ah, I see. Is that why you asked me if I had hurt anyone?" he said. "Is that what the tabloids told you?"

You nodded.

"Isabelle had an addiction," he admitted, the crow’s feet showing themselves. "It spiralled out of control. She had… a bout of psychosis, a mental breakdown. Made false accusations to the press. She's now getting the help she needs, poor girl”.

"Why was she covered in blood?" you pressed, looking at his reflection in the mirror as an infernal light danced in his orange eyes.

For all the fire in them, they seemed icy, impossibly cold for a man who had called you my love less than an hour ago. "How did you come by this information? You seem to know more than one would expect of you, Anya. There are things about you that make me... wonder. I have been giving you the benefit of the doubt, perhaps foolishly."

Your breath caught in your throat. “The neighbour”, you said. “Your neighbour told me”.

The truth you’d spilled slaked him, but only a little. He looked at you, jaw hardened.

"Samantha? I’ll have a word with her. Very well, we were making love when Isabelle had a psychotic episode."

Making love? Really? He did not make love to you.

"She lashed out at me," he continued. "It was my blood, Anya. I would never hurt her or any other woman. Without their consent, that is."

But that couldn't be true, because there was Hope - and many others who owed him, and Raphael might have been many things, but not a liar, and yet here he was, lying right to your face.

He did hurt people. Whether they deserved it, whether they brought onto themselves, that was a different matter, but he did hurt them.

"If you need proof, you can take a look at the psychiatrist's report," he offered coldly. "The authorities got involved... unfortunately."

"I believe you," came your shaky reply. 

You desperately wanted to. 

Raphael’s eyes flickered.

"Trust goes both ways, Anya," he whispered in your ear, running a finger along your collar. "If you do not trust me, then I will be forced to ask some very unpleasant questions myself. Do we understand each other?"

Which questions? He knows everything there is to know about you. He knows your browser history.

“We do”, you said, still looking in the mirror. “Of course we do, my love”.

"Is that so?” he smiled. "I suggest we go to our bed and put that theory to the test."

[thesuperiorgenshinaddict]

Can I ask for an Emily x reader from class of 09?

Emily x GN! Reader

AN: yo w i fuckin love emily. literally the goat. tbh i highly doubt emily would date anyone who's not actually at least mildly insane so i'm gonna make reader kinda fucked up yk :thumbsup: Pairing: Emily x GN! Reader Warnings: Drug use, Codependence, Unhealthy relationships, Violence, idk just expect similar shit to the stuff in class of '09

HCs:

The two of you met when you were trying to find a plug to hook you up with some Addy's. It was pretty fucking surprising that you hadn't gotten your hands on some already, but that was mainly because you didn't want to die on the side of the road after downing some fake laced shit.

Emily was apparently a solid dealer. Sold for decent prices and gave discounts to people she liked more and it was pretty easy to ask her. You literally just walked up to her locker with a wad of cash and she tossed you a half-empty pill bottle and talked with you for a hot minute.

Somehow, you managed to win her over by bitching about Ms. Ames once and the two of you spent a shit ton of time together. Like, a LOT of time. Skipping classes together, going to the mall and selling crack, even sleepovers (that had way too much tension to be considered platonic).

After she stopped taking her anti-psychotics, she went full on batshit. All the shit about Emily being actually insane that all the bitchy kids were talking about? Fuck, they weren't lying. Emily was defending you with her fucking life. Fucking Jeffrey called you the lamest insult known to man and she practically jumped that fuckass.

Even though you guys were literally saying 'I love you' to each other like, 9 times a day, she was just your friend. Supposedly anyway.

Honestly, you highkey started thinking that you'd be 'just friends' forever until her gang boyfriend got his old ass hands on a huge fucking package of crack. You told her to sell it because some dumbass middle schooler would probably pay their life savings for half a gram, but of course, she doesn't listen.

Normally this shit would be mild as fuck but her parents were acting up and being bitchy whiny fucks so Emily had the genius idea of snorting a concoction of whatever mystery substances she had on hand and like half the entire supply of coke.

She was fucking blasted as fuck and she had the dead fish eye shit going on when she just started being weirdly clingy and she gave a violent but oddly heartfelt confession. It was like highkey concerning because of the sheer number of threats she not so subtly inserted in but it was endearing in its own twisted way.

Her words were slurred and the entirety of the little speech she gave could be summarized as the same shit she told Nicole in that one route but more sociopathic sounding???

Anyway boom I'm gonna put HC's on what it's like dating her now.

She probably wouldn't bother telling anyone that you two are dating, but it's so obvious. Like, everyone knows.

If someone says one thing that can be taken as offensive in the slightest to you, Emily will fucking pounce on the asshole and curb stomp them. She'd act all nonchalant about it afterwards.

Since a ton of the other people in the school have beef with her, if you defend her and slander the shit out of them, she'll be super happy about it.

Free drugs. She's not worried about OD'ing at all and takes smoke breaks with you all the time when skipping.

You guys have sleepovers like, everyday. Not even an exaggeration at this point. If your parents or her parents try to tell her no, she curses them out. If they're being particularly bold, she goes through with the slashing tires shit and is on the verge of actually beating the shit out of them.

If you ever get her a gift that she actually likes, she's going to constantly flex it. Get her a nice necklace or something and she'll literally never take it off.

Choose your words carefully. She's going to get pissed as fuck if you say one thing that she considers harsh. Drabble time woohoo "...Fuck, this is totally laced." Emily groaned, leaning her face onto her palm. She ran her free hand through her hair. Diverting her gaze from blankly staring at the table, she stared at you and raised an eyebrow. She opened and closed her mouth as if she lost her train of thought before giggling and leaning closer to you. "I love you. Like, I love love you. I'd kill anyone who even dares to be a bitch to you. I'd kill myself if you asked me to." She nonchalantly says. Batting her eyes, Emily firmly tugs you closer to her. She coyly twirls her hair around her finger while pursing her lips — and she's like 2 centimeters away from violently making out with you. What do her lips taste like? Xanax probably. Fuck, she's actually so pretty. "You're not gonna say it back?" She pouts. She's clearly high off her ass right now. At this distance, you notice the little minute details, like how she painted her nails today and how her mascara's just slightly fucked up. With a hesitant 'I love you too', she digs her nails into your shoulders and pulls you in for a kiss. She's acting almost rabid and she desperately wraps her arms around your torso and breathes into your lips. Slipping her tongue in, she pushes you onto the couch and pins your shoulders down. After what feels like a long ass time, she parts the kiss and takes heavy breaths while staring down at you. "Can I stay the night at your place?" AN: lmfao sorry that took a lil while my internet was freaking the fuck out. anyway this was fun as fuck thank youuuu :3

[darkmaga-returns]

FluMist manufacturer insert confirms vaccinated can infect unvaccinated.

Jon Fleetwood

Nov 05, 2024

In September, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved AstraZeneca’s FluMist for self or caregiver administration for the 2024-2025 influenza season.

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AstraZeneca subsidiary MedImmune, LLC, the manufacturer of FluMist, anticipates that FluMist will be available for the 2026 influenza season as well.

FluMist, which is sprayed into the nose, is now approved for the alleged prevention of influenza disease caused by influenza virus subtypes A and B in individuals 2 through 49 years of age.Screenshot from FDA.gov taken November 5, 2024 showing FluMist vaccine package insert.

Each refrigerated FluMist sprayer contains a single 0.2 mL dose with “live” attenuated influenza virus (10^6.5–7.5 FFU) from three strains: A/Norway (H1N1), A/Thailand (H3N2), and B/Austria (B/Victoria lineage).Screenshot from FDA.gov taken November 5, 2024 showing FluMist vaccine package insert information explaining which live viruses are present in the drug.

Alarmingly, the FDA package insert indicates that the vaccinated can shed (or transmit) the vaccine virus onto the unvaccinated, potentially infecting them.

“Vaccine viruses capable of infection and replication can be cultured from nasal secretions obtained from vaccine recipients,” the document reads.

Vaccine virus shedding within 28 days of FluMist vaccination was studied in two multi-center trials: Study MI-CP129 (200 healthy participants aged 6 to 59 months) and Study FM026 (344 healthy participants aged 5 to 49 years).

In both studies, nasal samples were collected daily for the first 7 days, then every other day through Day 28.

In Study MI-CP129, participants with positive shedding on Day 25 or Day 28 had additional samples taken weekly until two consecutive samples tested negative.

Here’s a breakdown of the percentage of individuals in different age groups who tested positive for the FluMist vaccine virus at any point within 28 days of vaccination:

6-23 months: 89% tested positive for the virus

24-59 months: 69% tested positive

5-8 years: 50% tested positive

9-17 years: 29% tested positive

18-49 years: 20% tested positive

[something-tofightfor]

The Truth Is Out There: This Is Not Happening

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Female Art Conservator/Restoration Specialist FBI Agent

Word Count: 2,631

Chapter Rating: M (language, unintentional drug use, the effects of drug use)

Series Warnings: Sex Pollen (with a twist), no use of Y/N, female reader insert, Reader works for the FBI in art restoration/conservation and has a nickname that is used often by Marcus. In this house we cannot stand Teresa and Jane and that is reflected in this story.

Summary: You’re out of the clean room and in the hotel, but that presents a much more unique challenge - especially after finding out what the drug you ingested does. 

Author’s Note: This is a short one (might be the shortest chapter of anything I’ve ever posted, to be honest), but the next ones are not. I left it on a cliffhanger, but please forgive me. Thank you so much for reading and interacting; I appreciate you all so much! 

Inbox is open, as always. Come talk about Marcus with me!

Masterlist / Unrequited / One Breath / The Truth

You were both silent, the steady whir of the filter loud after being in the quiet of the other room for so long. But you felt a charge in the small space, and the longer you looked at Marcus’ back, the stronger it became. I want to kiss him. I want to touch him, and I want … I want him. “Marcus, you don’t need to look away. We can both -”

“That isn’t a good idea.” He tilted his head back. “I feel… strange. I don’t … I don’t know what will happen if I see you like that right now.” What? What did he say?

“I feel weird too. Hot. Itchy. And all I want is …” All I want is to touch you. “Fuck, Marcus. Maybe it’s not a good idea to stay together.” Even though the last thing I want is to leave you right now.

“You guys just about done in there?” Scott’s voice carried back into the tent, the man waiting a few seconds to speak again. “We need to get you -”

“Almost.” Marcus spun back to face you, his eyes roaming over your body before they went to the cart. “Couple seconds.” He reached for his sweatshirt’s hem, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion  before letting it fall to the floor, leaving him bare from the waist up. “C’mon, get changed. The sooner we get out of here, the better.” 

But you were frozen in place, your eyes on Marcus’ chest and the way the muscles there moved as he flexed his arms. He watched you watch him, the man’s jaw tight, though that unidentified look was still in his eyes. Does he feel like this too? “Marcus, I … why is this happening? I’ve never felt like -”

“Not here.” He shook his head, reaching past you for one of the packages and ripping it open. “I know, but not here. Not now.” He didn’t look at you again as he pulled the scrub top on and then began to undo his jeans and belt. I can’t. I have to look away, I have to … 

So you did, opening one of the pairs at random and pulling the top out. You removed your shirt, too, the material falling to the ground as a tremor coursed through you. You were still overheated but shivered almost violently as the cool air washed over your skin, your inhale sharp before you put the new top on. 

It was too large, hanging down to your thighs, but you didn’t want to waste time reaching for a second option. Even though your heart was pounding in your chest as you thought of Marcus - pantsless and only a foot or so away from you - you focused on what you needed to do. Because we have to get out of here. 

After removing your shoes and jeans and then tugging the elastic waistband of the comfortable pants over your hips and shoving your feet into a pair of slip on shoes, you glanced over your shoulder, finding Marcus’ eyes on you. “I’m sorry.” He was fully dressed, both hands stuffed into his pockets. “I couldn’t stop myself. I said I wouldn’t watch and then I couldn’t stop looking at you once I was done changing.” Oh. Wait, what? 

“All it took was foreign substance exposure to make you want to watch me get dressed, Marcus? If I’d known that was the best way to get your attention, I would have tried it sooner.” You tried for a teasing tone and winced as you heard yourself speak, the sound of your voice thin and needy instead.

“You have no idea.” He stepped closer, head moving slowly from side to side as one arm extended toward you. “All I want to do right now is tell you how much I -”

“We need to go.” Scott interrupted, prompting  Marcus to step back and then around you, once again swearing under his breath. I’m pissed too. What was he going to say? What was he going to do? “Please, both of you, follow me.” 

— 

Scott ushered you and Marcus across the street and down the block as quickly as he could without your journey appearing frantic. 

You were focused on keeping up with the two men. And you were also very aware that you’d gone straight from being locked in a clean room with people in HAZMAT suits taking blood samples to walking across the street in the afternoon sunshine and then through the lobby of the DC Waldorf Astoria like you were coming back from an afternoon of exploring the city. 

But the thing you were most aware of was the fact that Marcus’ fingers were twined with yours, the heat from his palm thrumming across your hand and up your arm as you moved. He could have let go. He could have dropped my hand once we left the FBI building, but he didn’t.

You were still angry at him, but that feeling was muted by everything else going on - specifically his increasingly frustrating proximity. “Couple more minutes, you two.” Scott tapped his foot as the elevator rose, letting out a long breath. “You’re doing great.” Are we? What else can we do? 

Risking a glance at Marcus as the doors slid open, you saw that he was chewing on his lower lip, brow furrowed in concentration. “Marcus?” Murmuring his name, you squeezed his hand. “You alright?” 

“No. I’m not.” He didn’t say anything else and so you didn’t either, the man only letting go of you once the three of you were inside of a suite. “Alright, Scott. What the fuck is going on?” You’d never heard Marcus’ tone as scathing as it was in that moment, and at the sound, you gasped. What is he… “You need to tell us now, because -”

“Agent Pike, the two of you are going to be alright, but -” Marcus stepped forward, holding up one finger. 

“No bullshit. Just be honest with us.” Scott looked between the two of you once Marcus had gone quiet then reached up, rubbing a hand over his beard. 

“The powder is a drug, and you did ingest enough for it to impact you. Both of you.” We knew that. “We’ve dealt with it a few times over the last year and a half, but never in the volume you were exposed to tonight. And we’ve never made contact with anyone so close to their initial dose.” 

“You’re welcome.” You scoffed. “Glad we could help.” Scott’s smile was brief, but he nodded nonetheless. 

“It actually is very helpful, so thank you.” He rook a breath, looking between you. “There are two major components to the drug that we’ve been able to isolate. One of them is a derivative of scopolamine, which is -” 

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Marcus stepped in front of you, head whipping back and forth. “Why would anyone include that in a street drug?” He knows what it is? I sure as hell don’t. 

“I’m not. But that’s not the thing that you should be worried about.” Scott shifted, arms crossed over his chest. “The other component is something that we haven’t given an actual name to yet, but they’re calling it Lapis on the street because of the color.” 

He paused and you realized that you were sweating again when you curled your fingers against your palms and found them damp, despite the cool room. The air would feel good on my skin. It would feel better. I should take off - 

Tugging on the collar of your top, you closed your eyes. “I don’t feel so good. I -” You licked your lips and then pressed them together. “I’m hot. I feel like -”

Scott started speaking again, the man cutting you off as a means of distraction. “Lapis is a party drug. Works like an amphetamine, kind of like MDMA, but it also increases your level of sexual desire and the time you stay -” Are you fucking kidding me?

“We got dosed with a sex drug?” You dropped your hand and opened your eyes. “Marcus and I? Together? What the fuck are we supposed to do about that?” 

“Not just a sex drug, Scully.” Marcus turned to face you. “A sex drug that encourages people to tell the truth.” What? What would the point of it even be? “This is a problem.” Is it a problem because you and I got dosed together, or … just because you don’t want to deal with it?

“There are two separate sleeping areas in this suite.” Scott gestured deeper into the room, clearing his throat. “Two bathrooms, two beds, two doors with locks.  You’re perfectly safe here, and we’ll be able to debrief you in detail tomorrow, once it’s worn off. But there’s no point in it until you’ve had time to …” He sighed. “Let it clear your systems.” 

“So what are we supposed to do?” You were near hysterical, your hands curling and uncurling by your sides. “Just sit here and wait it out? The three of us -”

“Oh, I’m not staying.” Scott raised both brows. “I just needed to escort you here and ensure that you’re safely in the room. If this follows the experience that others that have taken this drug report, then …” He checked his watch. “Based on the amount present in your blood test results, you’ve got about twenty minutes before intoxication reaches a critical point.” What does that mean?

“But I was breathing it in before he was.” You frowned. “Wouldn’t that make it worse for me?” 

“It hits everyone different.” Scott stared at you. “But to be really effective, you have to consume a large amount. Just getting a whiff of it isn’t enough. Now the only thing you can do is wait and see how you feel.” 

You dropped onto the couch and buried your face in your hands, trying to control your breathing. “Fuck. This is a nightmare.” What a combination for a drug. 

“Do you need anything from us right now?” Marcus’ voice was steady, and when you looked back up at the two men, you saw that he was eyeing Scott with a curious look on his face. “Anything else, I mean?”

“Just confirmation that if I walk out of here, you understand that only the two of you are responsible for what happens next.” He said your name, holding a hand out. “There is another room available if you don’t want to stay together now that you know. And if there’s anyone you want us to call, we can. We can get them on the line or here to the hotel to spend the night with you or -”

“There’s no one else for me.” It was only a whisper, and you winced as you said it, the truth of your loneliness loud in your ears. “And I don’t want to be by myself.” I want to be with Marcus. You barely stopped yourself from saying it, but clamped your mouth shut in time. 

“You can go.” Marcus’ face was flushed, the roots of his hair damp as he gestured toward the door. “We’ll be alright together.” Scott eyed you again, but then nodded, asking Marcus to follow him.

You couldn’t hear what they were saying as they moved, and so you stopped trying to listen, instead standing and moving toward the window, deep in thought. You’d spent the night with Marcus before - falling asleep watching movies or TV, one of you taking the spare bedroom or pull out couch instead of driving home late at night. But not like this. Not with … 

It was a dangerous thing to think about; spending the next hours with a man that was under the influence of a drug that forced truth at the same time it increased sex drive. It was especially dangerous when that man was Marcus, someone that you’d barely been able to conceal your feelings from under normal circumstances. But we can do it. We’ll get through it and be alright. There’s no other option.

“Scott’s gone.” You froze at the sound of his voice, hesitating before you turned around. “It’s just us now.” Marcus kept his distance, but you could see that it was wearing on him. His eyes darted over your face, never lingering anywhere, and he was shifting in place, socked toes curling against the plush carpet. “You alright?” 

“Not at all.” You scoffed. “But at least I understand things now, like why we were both so honest in that room. Why you were able to finally stand up to her and say what you needed to.” 

“It definitely needed to be said.” He inched closer, one of the man’s hands shoved deep into a pocket. “Maybe not the way it happened today, but you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say some of that out loud.” He trailed off, swallowing, and you were transfixed by the movement of his throat, the man’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Do you want the bigger bedroom? I’ll stay out here. Scott said the majority of the effects will wear off after about seven hours, but -”

“Seven hours? Marcus, what the fuck?” You closed the distance, stopping a little more than a foot away from him. “I can’t feel like this for the next seven hours. I don’t want to. I’m hot and I’m anxious and all I want to do is fucking kiss you and I know I can’t, but -”

“Did you mean what you said before? About me and Teresa?”

“Which part?” Your throat clicked as you swallowed. You tried to ignore the way his mouth looked as he spoke, the man’s lips settled into a pout while he waited for your reply. “About being mad at you? About you having to listen to me? About -”

“About me deserving better and being a catch. About getting my attention.”

“Are you serious?” Wetting your lips, you lifted your hand and then paused, fingertips only inches from him. “Marcus, you might be an idiot sometimes, but if you think that that means that I haven’t wanted you since pretty much the moment I laid eyes on you, then  -” 

He didn’t give you a chance to finish, the man leaning in and pressing his lips to yours without touching you in any other way. Oh, fuck me. It took you by surprise after a year of both of you being careful to keep your distance. No. No, not like this.  Instead of kissing him back, you pushed him away with both hands, eyes wide. 

“Don’t.” Moving your hands back and forth, you backed away. “Marcus, please.” But you couldn’t deny that the short kiss had sent flames licking down the center of your chest, the contact enough to crack the barely constructed wall you’d put up since his previous denial so many months earlier. “You’ll regret it. If anything happens between us, you’ll…” 

“I’ll what?” He stepped closer, the warmth in his eyes replaced with heat, the tip of his tongue dragging over his lower lip like he was trying to savor the brief taste of you he’d gotten. “You think I’d regret finally being able to show you how I feel about you?” Finally? What? 

“I can’t go back.” Swallowing hard, you continued to move backwards, letting out a shaky breath. “I can’t do it. It was hard enough a year ago and all we did was kiss before we made that decision.” He was moving with you, taking one step for every two of yours, and even though you knew it was a terrible idea, you wanted him to eliminate the distance - wanted to let him get you. “If we let ourselves go tonight, you’d just avoid me afterward, Marcus.” 

—

tag list reblog coming soon!  

[best-titan-7274]

I just got home from the painfull teeth stuff anf my teeth still hurt so much, can I have some hurt/comfort with Jack and BT? ;o;

maybe Jack gets hurt on the mission, but like, not too serious, just painfull, and has to take care of himself untill the medics could get to them (or they to medics?), and BT kinda frets over him and gets lowkey anxious that he can't really help with that. maybe insert "why are humans so fragile" thinking from BT, and Jack getting amused and countring it with some facts about human resilience (like the fact titans need specifically made copmonents/parts to get fixed, and humans just need some food/drug stuff and rest, or something).

oh I love hurt/comfort, hope you're feeling better by now!

Sometimes, shit happened. That was a phrase that he'd learned long before he ever joined the Militia. But lately it had definitely applied to missions and Jack was starting to get kind of tired about it all.

"Pilot, are you sure that you do not require any emergency medical assistance?" BT asked, not for the first time.

"Yeah, don't worry about it, BT. It looks worse than it is."

Not entirely. His arm does hurt like hell, and it is kind of slashed open from his shoulder to his elbow. He should have kept a closer eye on his surroundings, but the scanner hadn't been working, so he'd been staring at that, and he figured BT was scanning the area himself instead of just watching him-

Anyway, they'd both made some mistakes. And now Jack was hurt. They'd finished their mission just fine, and nothing else had tried to eat him, so he figured everything was okay.

Except the part where BT was more of a mother hen than his actual mother.

Jack had patched himself up, kind of, more like he'd taped a bandage over the cut and then another to keep it from bleeding through. BT had judged him for his slipshod job anyway.

"Why are you so worried about me, anyway?" he couldn't help asking. "Is this more protect-the-Pilot protocol stuff?"

"Partially. I am also worried about you as my friend."

"Aw, BT. Don't worry about me, all right? I'm fine."

"I am still concerned about your injury."

"Humans heal themselves, you know that, right? It's not like a Titan that's gotta have a tech crew with special parts. I mean, sure, the medic is going to want to give me an antibiotic shot or something, probably. But I'll be all right."

"My records of the things that can injure human Pilots indicate that their skin and bones are very fragile compared to my chassis, even if it does require special parts."

"Yeah, we break easier, but we get fixed easier, too. It's gonna be all right. A few weeks at base and I'll be just fine. Trust me."

"Of course I do."

"And if you're really worried, you can help me convince Briggs that double chocolate ice cream is essential to my recovery."

There's a pause, and then, "My records do not indicate that this is correct."

Jack laughs despite himself, and stands up, shoving the packaging from the bandage in his pocket. He's not going to litter, he's not an animal. But he's also not above pestering his Titan into being extra nice to him while he's injured.

"You can keep an eye on my vitals while we keep walking, all right?"

"I believe that will be essential to your continued health."

Geez, not a lot of faith in him. But he has done a lot of reckless things in the past, so BT does have good reason to be slightly worried. Jack trusts his Titan to keep an eye on him no matter what problems they run into. Here, or anywhere.

[mywifeleftme]

364: Various Artists // Israfel

Israfel Various Artists 1997, Ape

A 1997 vinyl benefit compilation of mostly Middle American grindcore / powerviolence / emo acts, assembled in an edition of about 1000 by Bloomington-based DIY label Ape Records (active 1995 to 2002), in handmade sleeve with a recent release catalogue, a substantial zine, and a few priceless gag inserts (incl. YOUR HARDCORE SELL OUT DECODER RING). I’m not an aficionado of any of the genres Israfel covers by any means, but you’d have to be a real head to know most of these: in terms of notoriety, the Locust (who contribute a 47 second blast of lo-fi outrage) are basically Led Zeppelin compared to the rest of the acts, most of whom topped out with a couple of EPs and compilation appearances.

Of course, hearing music that would otherwise be basically lost to time is the appeal of taking a flyer on a comp like this. One of my favourite tracks is “Untitled” by Roanoke, VA’s the Weak Link Breaks, supposedly the first thing the band ever wrote (and, judging from their discography, nearly the last too). It begins with a very, very quiet spacy-Fugazi-style amble (the vocal harmonies couldn’t be more Ian and Guy) that explodes into a brief screamo-style D-beat section, and then some big heaving riffs that make me want to exaggeratedly lift and stomp my feet like a giant trying to keep his balance. I also dig Murfreesboro, TN’s Serotonin, an emo / post-hardcore act with a steely '80s shred band guitar tone who play like they want people in the pit to twirl around ecstatically instead of slam dancing. A lot of the other nasty yowling cat speedballs on Israfel don’t really catch my ear, but that’s okay—I’m weirdly proud of them 27 years after the fact for being themselves and getting out whatever they needed to get out through this violence.

The package’s tone is all over the place. The zine opens with a haunting description of the compilation’s beneficiaries, the family of a pair of little girls with spinal muscular atrophy (a common birth defect) whose condition worsened until they perished, leaving their parents distraught and financially ruined—and the 21-year-old compiler racked with guilt that he didn’t somehow do more to help. From there, it whips through his heterodox thoughts about the hardcore scene (despicably self-absorbed; unresponsive to requests from label operators); the state of emo (too abstract); the best way to bring about change (working within the capitalist system); rape (it’s bad; consent is black and white; can we stop litigating this in the scene?); calling the cops (fine to do); disrespecting the American flag (played out; tacky); and drinking/drug use (“when did self-destruction become rebellion?”). After he finishes up, each band (that got their artwork in on time anyway) gets a page to talk about themselves. This section is full of old school punk zine/leaflet treasures, with designs that mimic motel newspaper ads, postcards, messy handwritten perzines, and Xeroxed 7” grindcore sleeves.

It's funny reading his scornful words about pseudo-rebellious drunkards stumbling toward “the day when punk rock is shelved for an 8 hour workday, Budweiser, and television” and then finding his LinkedIn, where he describes himself as “driving omnichannel excellence” and as “whimsical (after coffee).” You wouldn’t believe it from the splenetic angst of the Israfel zine, but the guy seems like he turned out happy and normal, with a few kids and a successful career. I wonder how the 21-year-old would see the 48-year-old, if he’d call him a sell-out or feel relieved that things worked out; if the 48-year-old would pity his former self, or feel ashamed about losing his edge. More one-time zinesters and hardcore kids end up looking square from a distance than you’d think (I certainly do if you catch me during the workday), because you usually stop hearing about them when they drop out of the scene. For most, the quiet part of life is the larger portion by far. It’s your choice whether to embrace that, mourn it, or seek your own alternative. But if Israfel reminds us of nothing else, it’s the importance of having a good scream at least once in your life.

364/365

[azucarmorena97]

Cold (1)

Prologue | Pt.2

Spoiled rotten. Idiot. Greedy. Gluttonous. Evrything you could ever despise in a human being, all wrapped up in a beautiful, gold foil package. Seokjin is known across the land- or, at least all over three different IVY league campuses in the area- as the party-legend and the guy to call for a good time. Not to mention, a total whore. The last person you ever would've wanted as a group mate for the first quarter of the new semester, and the last one you would've ever imagined to have fallen absolutuely, head over hell in love with.

Hell as officially frozen over.

A/N: This takes place before Jin's part in my BTS as Cliched School Tropes. I will be inserting a link to that piece right where it fits chronologically in the story so you can read it and come back when it's time. All the boys in this story are from that piece with each story occurring in the same universe and on the same timeline.

Series Warnings: Serious themes will be mentioned in this series, such as substance use/abuse, self harm, and violence. Not to mention, there will be smut in the future!

You've known him for a long time. Since you were about ten years old, to be exact. He's been in your class three different times, once for fifth grade, again for eighth, and then one final time for 11th grade. All three years, you'd interacted with him as little as possible, having decided in fifth grade that you hated him because he got everyone in your class to call you AP because, in his words, you were "such a goddamn nerd."

Girls have always liked him; He's handsome, always has been, he has money, knows how to have fun, doesn't take himself to seriously-

I mean, what's not to like, right?

Wrong. There's plenty to dislike, though writing a list would take forever and no one has that kind of time.

In fact, you were quite pleased when he moved schools in the middle of the semester during Jr. year. You weren't sure why he'd left so randomly, but you didn't really care to ask questions... although you did hear a few conflicting stories: busted for drug possession, caught drinking at a house party, stealing old Hitman Bang's (that's what everyone called the principal) car and taking it for a joyride. Honestly, all of those stories were pretty believable for those who knew him.

Hence, why he sucks as a person.

Imagine your surprise when, on the first day of University, he walks in with a crowd of people hanging off his every word. Walked right past you without a second glance.

Good. That's just how you preferred it anyway.

"It's not that I don't trust your judgment, sir. I just don't think it's gonna work out-" "If I do that for you, I'll have to reconfigure everyone else' group and that is just not an option."

Professor Song has just posted the teams for the upcoming group projects and you're desperately asking him to reconsider. Hoseok is standing next to you being of absolutely no help, of course.

"Sir, I understand but I could do it for you, if you'd like!" "Mr.Jung, do you have an issue with Jin being on your team?" Prof looks at him from over his glasses, lifting an eyebrow. Hoseok looks at him, then at you, "I-I don't have a particular issue-" You kick his ankle 'discreetly', "-I mean, but it does seem very very important to Y/n, so I support her?" Hoseok glances at you, giving a pathetic little smile of appeasment.

"Right...well, the decision is final. Sorry!" Without so much as another word, Prof grabs his briefcase and walks out of the classroom.

You glare at Hoseok, "Thanks a lot, dude."

You push past him and grab your backpack, brows furrowed in anger.

"Oh, come on!" He whines, "Maybe it won't be so bad."

"For you, maybe."

You both exit the classroom and start your way down the hall to where the elevators are. You press the button to go down.

"Look, I get your hesitance to work with him but that was high school and this is university! You seriously think he's the same guy we knew when we were 16?" He asks, putting his hands up for emphasis.

Just then, timing as perfect as any movie, the elevator doors open, revealing a girl with her back toward you, male hands clutching firmly at the flesh of her ass, as though neither of them expected the elevator to stop so soon. She jumps off of him and moves to the side- and there's Jin. Lipstick stained, puffy-pink lipped Jin.

You look at Hoseok, your expression screaming "I TOLD YOU SO." Hoseok just shrugs, "Old habits die hard?"

"I heard he's only there so that daddy doesn't cut him off," B/f/n says, leaning forward to add a few extra paint strokes to her big toe.

You roll your eyes, "I don't even care why he's there- I just want him gone. I don't even know how your boyfriend can stand him. Red flag, B/f/n."

She laughs, "Hoseok just...likes to see the good in people." "Yeah, like a dog." "At least I have a dog," She quips.

"Touche," You sigh, throwing yourself backwards onto your bed.

Neither of your speaks for a little while, the both of you lost in thought. A SZA song playing softly from B/f/n's speaker, filling every space of the room.

"Wanna know the funny part?" "Oh, we're still talking about him?" She asks smugly. "Shut up," You crane your neck to give her a quick glare before returning to your previous position, "The funny part is... I remember the first day I saw him. He walked into class and I thought he was likee...the most beautiful boy I've ever seen." "Really?" She asks, raising her brows in surprise. Seeing as how you're the president of the We-Hate-Jin club, it's a shock to think that, at one time, you might have been just as in love with him as everyone else.

"Yeah...and then he opened his stupid fucking mouth."

She rolls her eyes, "Of course."

You sigh, "I don't know what I'm gonna do." "You could always just transfer out of that class, you know? The semester just started, anyway."

"And let him win!? No way..." "Then, in the words of Edward Cullen, you'll just have to endure it."

And endure, you shall.

"For this first assignment, you will be presenting on any current major political event or global issue. I will be posting some idea topics on the projector, though you can choose a topic not on this list as well, just let me know as soon as you decide. Each topic is first come, first serve, so think of at least three possible topics in case yours is chosen," Prof flips his projector on and claps his hands together, "You may now go and confer with your team."

Students shuffle and move around the classroom to get to their teammates, though you and Hoseok stay put. "Should we go over to him?" Hoseok asks, looking behind him to look for Jin. "No. We're already sitting down, he's the one that should come to us," You say with a self-righteous expression.

A good three minutes pass and you're both still waiting. "I-I don't think he's coming," Hoseok says, checking his apple watch. You flare your nostrils, already annoyed. You give in to the urge to look behind you as Hoseok had, only to see Jin sitting with a large group of people in the back; his head jerking backward in laughter as they all huddle together.

Wordlessly, you stand up from your seat though you leave your notebook and pen at the table. You might be the one to go after him right now, but you'll be damned if you let him dictate where you'll work on the project.

As you approach the large group of people at the far back of the classroom, you feel your heart start pounding in your chest. It's like high school all over again. You try to shove your nerves out of your head and make sure not to let it show on your face. "Excuse me, Jin?" You say.

They all keep talking and carrying on, not a single one of them having heard you. It's like you're standing behind some kind of invisible forcefield of assholery. You clear your throat and, before you can fully gather the nerve, your index finger is making contact with Jin's shoulder. "Jin."

His head immediately whips around, "Mm?" Silence befalls the entire herd and you can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. "We're waiting for you."

"Who's waiting for me?" He asks, a genuine look of confusion on his face.

You stare at him blankly, deciding on whether or not he's pulling your leg, "Hoseok and I. Your team. For the project."

He glances over at Hoseok, who is texting away at the other table. "Right, the project." The herd laughs, "Fucking dumbass," One of them says, shoving his shoulder. "Shut your ass up," Jin shoves him, a big smile on his face.

You're still standing there awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

Jin looks as though he's only just remembering you're standing there and he clears his throat, "Uh, yeah. I'll be right there. No worries."

"Alright..." You say, eyes narrowed on him slightly. You're not sure you believe him, but you're also no gonna stand here like an idiot.

You return to your seat and open your notebook. "He coming?" Hoseok asks. "Yeah." "You sure? He hasn't moved like...at all." "He said he's coming, so he's coming. Let's just start thinking of what we want the topic to be." "Alright..." He leans back in his chair, "Well, I was thinking..."

Hoeseok goes through about three different topics, saying this or that about each one, but you can't focus on anything he's saying.

That fucking asshole isn't coming. It's been...goodness, it's been fifteen minutes. Does he just not give a fuck? Of course he doesn't. He's just here so he doesn't get cut off, just like B/f/n said.

"So, what do you think?" Hoseok asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. "Hm?" You ask, blinking slowly as you come back to reality. "Were you listening like, at all?" "Of- of course. Uhm, let's go with your second idea," You glance down at the paper he was jotting ideas down on, "Feminism in the workplace."

"Okay, great," He folds the paper and tucks it into his pocket.

"Alright, everyone. I hope you got some good discussions in. Remember this is due in a week and a half. Make sure to assign jobs tomorrow for everyone to do. Have a good rest of your day."

Everyone starts gathering their things and walking out, chatter filling the room. The crowd Jin was sitting with all walks forward to exit the room, and of course, Jin doesn't even look yours or Hoseok's way.

Fuck it. You don't need him.

"You excited to see him?" B/f/n asks, biting her straw in excitement. You roll your eyes, trying to seem nonchalant, "It's not even a big deal." "Oh, please. You all but begged for Hoseok to invite him." "I did not beg. I...strongly suggested it would be cool to have more people over," You shrug, taking a swig of your coke. "Right," She laughs. "Aaay!" Hoseok's voice booms from the living room, indicating his invited *ahem* guest has arrived.

You and B/f/n both look at each other, sudden panic taking over the both of you; B/f/n for you, and you for yourself. "Teeth!" You both say in unison, prompting you to immediately bare your teeth at her, her eyes carefully examining every single crevice, "You're good." "Breath?" You breath on her. "Minty fresh," She assures. You take a long, deep breath, "Okay. Let's do this." "So much for it not being a big deal," B/f/n says smugly, to which to respond by glaring at her.

"Hey, everyone!" B/f/n greets with a big smile, walking over and hugging Yoongi, Namjoon, and Taehyung.

They all greet the both of you.

"Can I offer you guys any drinks? Namjoon, Yoongi...Taehyung?" Your eyes linger on Tae for just a little longer than the others, as he's your true interest tonight anyway.

"I'll take a beer," Hoseok interjects, to which B/f/n chupses and hits his arm. "Ow?" He furrows his brows.

"I think we'll all take beers," Namjoon says for everyone. "Uhm, I think I'll just have a Sprite, thanks," Tae says.

"One Sprite, coming up" You smile, completely forgetting about everyone else, 'cause fuck 'em, that's why.

"Let's go!" Hoseok cheers, along with the other guys when whatever-the-fuck team scores the winning touchdown. "Good, it's finally over," You say exasperatedly; you're bored to death and just want to be able to talk to Taehyung.

"I don't even know why you'd want to be invited to watch the game- you hate football," B/f/n says, just loud enough for you to hear but no one else.

"I was desperate," You sigh, "I've been trying to get the nerve to talk to Tae' but I never had an in until now." "Just talk to him, you nerd," She says, lightly pushing on your shoulder.

"You're right. I need to stop being a pussy," You nod, "I'm going in."

By this point, everyone's had a few beers- minus Tae- and everyone is in a seemingly good enough mood; "How about some karaoke?" You say, standing in the middle of the living room in front of the TV.

"Fuck yeah!" Hoseok jumps up, "I'll go get the mics."

"Karaoke's not really my think," Yoongi says, crossing his arms. "What? Scared you'll lose your sTrEet CrEd with your shitty singing?" You mock. "Scared? Ha," He shakes his head, "You know what, fine. We'll do some karaoke."

"Ay! Now it's a party," You and B/f/n cheer, "Got the mics," Hoseok says, coming back with the rechargeable mics with built in speakers, "I call first!" "What about you, Taehyung? You gonna sing?" You ask, sitting next to him. He smiles shyly, "I...I don't know. I'm a little shy." "Oh, come on! I'm sure you'll be great." "I think I'll just watch for now," He says, leaning back into the couch.

"Ah, you're the observant type, then?" You ask, taking advantage of the fact that everyone is now focused on Hoseok's overly emotional rendition of The Fray's 'How to Save a Life'.

"I guess so," He nods. "A wallflower of sorts," You add. "What a...pretty way to put being an introvert," He chuckles. "I do have a way with words," You smile. "I definitely don't- I usually get really tongue tied when I'm on the spot." "Yeah, I'm not much of a public speaker, myself." "Shit, me either. I failed speech last semester because of it." "You took speech? Who was your professor?" You ask, rotating yourself to face him better. "Professor Song," He sighs. "No shit- I have him now too!" "Good luck," He shakes his head in pity. "You can say that again. He paired me up with this guy I've known for forever, total dick. I tried to get him to change the teams but Prof was absolutely not with it," You roll your eyes. "Yeah, sounds like Song... Who's the guy?" He asks. "Hm?" "Total Dick." "Ah yeah, him. You may have heard of him. Kim Seokjin?"

"No way, you're working with Jin this semester?!" Yoongi cuts in, plopping down next to you, "I've been overcharging that idiot for weed since middle school," He laughs.

"Remember when you sold him Tums and told him it was molly?" Namjoon laughs. "Oh yeah, that shit was funny."

"So he's really stupid?" Tae asks. "Oh no, he's more than that," You say bitterly. "Oh boy, you've gotten her started," B/f/n sighs. "He's the hugest asshole. Fifth grade, a girl told him he needed a hair cut, so what'd he do? Tangled a huge wad of Hubba Bubba in her hair, then told her he knew a really good barber who could take care of that. Eight grade, he was caught...'playing doctor' with some girl under the bleachers at a football game and then proceeded to completely ignore her for the rest of the year, went on to date her best friend. These are only some of the dickish things he's done-" "Wow, he does seem like quite the asshole," Tae nods, taking a sip of his sprite. You catch yourself having gone on a rant, as you tend to do, and get embarrassed. "Yeah, uhm...well, I-I'm gonna go get us some popcorn. Be right back-" "I've actually gotta get going," Taehyung says, checking his watch. "Yeah, me too," Yoongi nods, putting his beer on the table. "Yoongi's my ride," Namjoon stands as well.

"Oh, okay," You try not to sound so defeated, convinced that you've blown it by sounding like the biggest hater in the universe. "It was nice of you all to come over," B/f/n says. "Of course, thanks for having us," Namjoon smiles. "tHaNks fOr hAvIng Us," Yoongi mocks him, "Fucking dweeb." "It's the polite thing to say," Namjoon furrows his brows. "Bye Taehyung," You say, as he's the last one out the door. "Bye. It was nice talking to you," He smiles politely, giving a slight bow and then following them out.

When the door closes, you plop back down on the couch, letting out a big sigh, throwing your hands over your face in defeat. "Ugh! I blew it, didn't I?" "What? No, not at all...I- I definitely think, for next time, maybe don't go on a tangent about another man?" "Another man? You make it seem like I was talking about a lover," You scoff. "I know, I know. But just tone it down next time." "If there even is a next time," You groan, still not uncovering your eyes. "Oh stop, I'm sure there will be. I'll even make Hobi keep throwing watch parties until Taehyung eventually falls in love with you." Finally, you uncover your eyes, "Promise?" You hold out your pinky, and she hooks hers around it, "Promise."

A/N: I think I'm addicted to writing the boys out to be total jerks. What can I say? That's my type. As always, let me know what you think! <3

[x-heesy]

FЦCҜ ФFF DΞLЦЖΞ 🤪😜🤪

The butterfly effect, we keep 'em all in check

Rub a dub dub, two girls, one cup

Smothered in cum, two balls one cock

Gobble it up sluts (yes!), don't waiste none

Bukake, there's more where that came from

Ain't no justice, just sluts

Asses to asses, butts to butts

Your body's the canvas, my dick's the brush

I paint the picture of no love but lust

She's looking at me like, he must be nuts!

I'm looking at her like... You must eat nuts!

The butterflies in her stomach... Make her vomit...

Nah! She just needs drugs!

I got the butterfly effect on her

The reason she calls up a friend of her's

Bad bitches know, so they spread the word

There's a new sheriff in town, let's flirt!

From flirting comes kisses

From kisses comes fingers

From fingers comes something real' big that I insert

Pow! That hits the spot!

Bitches just keep coming back, that's cause I got:

The butterfly effect, we keep 'em all in check

Yeah I'm making her mad, she wants me so bad

She always says that I'm the best she ever had

I stick it deep down her throat, until she gags

Cumshot to the face, then she laughs

On to the next one, the next piece of ass

She dirty in the bedroom, acting high class

I'm down for the get down, I never just pass

She's butt naked, raising her glass

Toast to the scumbag that came to fast (Woops!)

Second time around, yeah you know I'll last

Beat her up good, made her come with a splash

Grabbed my clothes fast as I left in a dash

She felt like a whore so I left her some cash

Bumped into her girlfriend who wants to get smashed

Keeps on saying that she likes white trash

Here we go again, the effect still lasts

The butterfly effect, we keep 'em all in check

(Check, check) Check this, I'm a mess and sexist

Restless with them breasts, I'm wreckless

Test this, I want to impress the best bitch

Sex all my exes, come witness the wetness

I'm working my magic like a wizard

Kiss her, say:

Abracadabra, make that motherfucking bitch squirt

Straight in my face, I'm-a taste it, gracious!

I love to take a sip when I'm wasted, praise it!

All jokes aside, I'm mostly high

Don't divide, I'll have some American and Kosher Pie

I don't know why, but I want a ho in every areacode

And slide my pole inside

The coldest guy... No, I'll be a sweet dude

Candy for them sweetooth bitches

Brazilian to hebrew

I see through

Because my dick's already getting hard and

From the start, you knew I'd rip your clit apart

So pick a card, good bitches or bad bitches

Rags or riches, ask niggas want ass pictures

I get up in that ass vicious, passing the path Mrs

Butt stuff, I'm in the ass business

Christmas bitches, unwrapping the package

I fucked so savage my dick got casted

I guess I did it for the sex, I guess

Now them bitches keep me in check and that's:

The butterfly effect, we keep 'em all in check

The Butterfly Effect by Dope D.O.D.

@len0r @kattywompuss @bigbonzo 🤪😜🤪

[sammeltassensammelsurium]

Out of Context WIPs Game

tagged by @dirtyzucchini - thank you kindly!

Rules: Pick a few wips and badly summarize them. Ask your followers to select which they'd be most likely to read!

[sharkshapedcookiecutters]

So my little age is 1-4 and my big age is 14 and I just wanted to know if you have any suggestions on how to get pacifiers and a sippy cup ect without my mom knowing because she buys my stuff online :3

Hey kiddo, thanks for the ask. I totally understand wanting kid stuffs to play with! If you think it is going to be very shamed or punished in your household, maybe avoid buying things until you’re older, but here are some tips if you are really wanting to access these things.

1. Buy something in store: you can find pacifiers that are 36 months plus that are decently big enough o be comfortable. They are harder to find but try drug stores and places with extensive baby isles.

2. Consider what your buying: Sippy cups are actually the easier to keep, even right under other people’s noses. They are easy to find at stores, and if you are not picky, there are a lot of toddler cups that pass quite easily as a “childish water bottle” outside of its packaging. Anything with flip up straws and drinking bits can often pass. If you want proper sturdy sippy cups, its as simple as keeping the lids separated. Those solid coloured sippy cups are great because with out the lid it just passes as a plastic cup.

3. Buying adult sized pacifiers online: If you are dead set on getting an adult pacifier, Absolutely Do NOT use your parents card’s and do not buy one if you think that your parents will not be understanding about it and that you could get in serious trouble. If you don’t have a visa debit, go to the store to buy a visa gift card to use online, and order from a third party seller. Like people who sell them decorated on Instagram, this way you can ask for discreet shipping. Make sure the shop is for agere. You don’t want your family concerned that what you are doing is nsfw, and obviously it’s important you don’t enter those spaces as a minor.

4. Be honesty about as much as possible: Don’t hide things that aren’t absolutely necessary. If your family is understanding, no need to hide things like you love for kids movies, or your stuffies or colouring pages, it fosters trust, and it can help them be more understand of your childish side if they already know about it!

5. Be prepared to have an honest conversation about your gear: there is always a chance people will find things. Be prepared to explain how and why you use them, to try and bargain and at least get out of trouble. For pacifiers, try things like “I know it’s odd but it was recommended to me because it prevents teeth grinding (or insert other harmful thing here) while you sleep, and I was having trouble with that”. For kids cups try something like “I know it’s childish but the tip was so much more comfortable and I thought it was cute”.

Sorry this was super long winded but I’ve got lots of thoughts about this. I totally understand not wanting to share this hobby with your family, and as long as you are confident that you’re in a situation where it is safe to have some little gear, I don’t see much harm if you’re thoughtful about it. Make sure you are never putting yourself in danger, or doing anything malicious, or harmful to your health!

[nikethestatue]

I feel like SJM doesn’t actually like Elain or Elriels. I think she likes Azriel. She “likes” Elain enough to have her with Azriel and I think she enjoys her in a general sense of aw this sweet character. But she doesn’t like her enough to stop the slander of her or to give her a leg to stand on while this ship war goes on. I hope I eat my words and she has a role in CC3. What do you think?

The way I consider SJM's body of work and because we know that she is a self-inserter from hell is that Aelin was her 'career' representation--she was building something from scratch, she was writing, she was working, she was publishing, she was fearless and she was climbing her mountain. Feyre is her 'love' representation--Rhys and Feyre are a packaged deal and of course Rhys is SJM's perfect male, her favourite character. Nesta--she is SJM's personal physical and emotional struggles. Bryce is the representation of what SJM (I think) wanted to experience--the wild partying, the carefree life, the sex, the drugs, the clubbing, but didn't get to experience it, because of her relationship and her obligation and her early career.

Now that leaves her family life, her motherhood, her marriage and children...none have been really touched yet at all by her. So could that be Elain?

Is she waiting/have waited for this whole time so she could write that book, with that heroine, and explore themes of 'Life', of family, or 'less fighting more living'? Maybe. I think for SJM it will be a change--i think she plays it safe often, and falls on what is familiar and proven. I think Elain might be a challenge for her, but I am hoping that she is now able to enter that headspace and write a non-fighting female.

So I don't think that she doesn't like Elain. I think that the type of writer SJM is, she needs to be fully immersed in her FMC and I think that maybe now, she is finally there? Perhaps it took a long time for her to embrace that more feminine, nurturing part of herself, and maybe now she knows that she doesn't have to fight so hard?

[daggerzine]

“I am a Cliché” A documentary film about Poly Styrene of X-Ray Spex (2021- review by Dina Hornreich)

There is a so-called “Afro Punk”

<https://www.spoonersnofun.com/afropunk> movement which is yet another tangent to consider upon adding the social construct of race to this ongoing mix of sex & gender rock’n roll activism which allows us to arrive at another level of understanding entirely.

Kimberlé Crenshaw calls this approach “intersectionality” which (in a nutshell) can be explained thusly: if we all live under this male white corporate tyranny which favors a “mythical norm” (cf: Audre Lorde) by promoting greed, violence, & misogyny (i.e. toxic masculinity); then black men may have some advantages because (at least) they are still male, and white women may have some advantages because (at least) they are still white.

But what do black women have working in their favor? <insert cricket noises here>

Enter Marian Elliott (i.e. Poly Styrene) who was a pioneer amongst the outsider world of rock’n roll n*ggers (sic) who found little camaraderie amongst the punks in whom she sought substantial inspiration in the late 1970s. She was very different amongst the regular lot of Sex Pistols inspired bands like Joy Division or even the Slits <https://www.slitsdoc.com/>.

However, her legacy continues to inspire droves of feminist/black punks who also perpetuate this unending dire feeling that needed, wanted, and deserved to express share with an audience. From zines like Osa Atoe’s “Shotgun Seamstress” <https://softskull.com/books/shotgun-seamstress/> to Rachel Aggs’ variety of bands (Shopping, Trash Kit, and Sacred Paws) <https://www.lostmap.com/visitations-rachel-aggs>, her influential contributions remain impeccably unassailable.

When I first discovered her music in the summer of 1995, I was living on a kibbutz in Israel near the city of Netanya which was likely the optimal time and place for me to best appreciate her shrieking critiques of consumer culture and its perpetuation of misogyny, racial oppression, and gender essentialism. It remains the first and only time that I ever looked at the cover art for a recorded album and felt entirely at home in my own skin (before I even opened the package!); and then listening to her music clearly solidifies that sentiment even further.

At that time, there was little else that could validate at the same level of impact that purchasing a copy of “Germ-free Adolescents” at a record store in the bus station in Tel Aviv as it did for me in 1995. In fact, when I returned to the US for my junior year of college at the end of the summer, my male friends relentlessly teased me about the obvious similarities I shared with Poly; and then refused to concede that she was equally important to the movement as Joe Strummer more readily gets recognized. The only legitimate piece of music writing that I could find which seemed to do her work justice was a brief chapter in Richie Unterberger’s 1998 book “Unknown Legends of Rock'n'Roll" <http://www.richieunterberger.com/ulrhome.html>.

The radical ways in which she was spotlighting the propagandistic nature of advertising as it relies heavily on manipulating (and otherwise exploiting) human emotional vulnerabilities (involving guilt, shame, and blame) just to sell consumers a completely fabricated self-concept of gender identity. As a young British woman of partial Somali descent (on her father’s side), there is no respite from her internalization of the stigmas that her innate differences invited (given the experiences that her appearance manifested); and so the overwhelmingly complicated struggles that she faced on a regular basis made every waking moment of her life an arduous endeavor. It was a relentless onslaught of arduous challenges with very little recognition for the substantial emotional investment that she threw into her every effort with almost nothing to show for it at the end. Pills, drugs, and similar remedies are poor distractions from this harsh realization.

The film reinforces how the “punk” label often reveals itself to be an increasingly illusory category – given some of its more “miscellaneous” categorical aspects – and an overall lack of coherent focus which only suggested that its purpose was merely allowing for our ongoing right to be asserting our existence in a cruel and unjust world.

We are not people who were built with the solid foundation to layer on so much pressure given that fragility; as such, she eventually collapsed (mentally, physically, and socio-emotionally) from the toll that trying to find validation in a scene that only mocks any level of commercial or mainstream validation at its outset. So she escaped to the religious fervor of the Hare Krishna movement in India; and struggled in her more conventional roles as wife, mother, etc. I’m not clear on how she elected that particular community, as I’m inclined to think her father may have been Muslim, but I am not really sure how supportive they were for those endeavors.

Because she stood up for herself in these unsustainably creative and political ways leaving herself immeasurably depleted while lacking the resources to keep herself going, there was no escaping the stigmas of successive “breakdowns” – and other concomitant pathologies which only punish her for taking that kind of artistic risk in her work in the first place. (It seems inappropriate for her estranged daughter to even weigh in on such matters, in the first place.)

It’s not clear if she was ever able to take a step back to fully appreciate such influential contributions, and it seems Celeste made this film simply to be able to do that work for her own healing in order to have a more peaceful ending. (Eventually, there was another iteration of her band, X-Ray Spex, involving collaborations with her daughter prior to her eventual passing to breast cancer.) I often wonder how successful most “rockstar” types can be as parents given the demands of that kind of career; especially back in the 1970s. It’s a very demanding lifestyle even though music is considered “the language of the spirit” (and punk didn’t always have that unifying, healing kind of creative vibe).

“I am a cliché” clearly provides ample testimony to the limitations for trying to thrive as a feminist punk rocker while trying to negotiate a suffocating oppression that is created by male white corporate tyrants looking for “the next big thing.” No matter how much Poly tried to find solace from being a trailblazer, the limited availability of resources for supporting this kind of endeavor made the toll of that risk completely unsustainable. There is no glamorization of her life despite these accomplishments, but her legacy remains all the more significant as a result.

www.polystyrenefilm.net

[mlobsters]

things i learned about the opioid crisis that truly shocked me

oxycontin (oxycodone) is more powerful than morphine (i thought i had a decent understanding of opiates, apparently not)

purdue (makers of oxycontin) claimed less than 1% of people got addicted based on a handful of sentences letter to the editor (link to letter in NEJM) in a medical journal about patients taking short term narcotics in a hospital environment and called it a study

the package insert said "Delayed absorption as provided by oxycontin is believed to reduce the abuse liability of a drug." no proof - just believed.

the medical officer at the FDA, curtis wright, allegedly drafted the medical review with purdue including claims about very limited rates of addiction and potential for abuse. a year later, he went to work for purdue

sales reps were paid commission by the number of milligrams their doctors prescribed, encouraging doctors to continue increasing dosages

purdue claimed oxy didn't have the peaks and valleys associated with opioids and used an extremely distorted graph that was incredibly misleading to prove their point (log scale that flattened the curves)

they created the concept of "pseudoaddiction" which meant drug seeking addiction behavior was actually untreated pain so the solution was to increase the dosage

the company who launched the fentanyl spray subsys were encouraging doctors to prescribe it offlabel for back pain and the like with the explantion "pain is pain" asking how is back pain different than end of life cancer pain

i knew fentanyl was a serious problem but i had no idea the overdose deaths increase after the launch of subsys and competitors in 2012 was this stark and terrifying

insys was investing $3-4 million dollars in speaker programs that were a cover for bribing doctors to increase prescriptions of their fentanyl product

in 2015, subsys was one of the top five most profitable opioid products in the US - something that was only indicated for breakthrough pain in cancer patients on around the clock pain management with high opiate tolerance levels as part of end of life care

medicare would not approve the prescriptions and pay for them (many thousands of dollars for one month of subsys) for offlabel uses, so insys created a system where their reps would pretend to be from the doctor's office (in collusion with doctors, dr office would give the private patient information so insys could have the information needed) and lie about the diagnosis to get it approved

actual promo video for sales reps to sell fentanyl

from burlakof, former vp of sales at insys: "the only way that i knew how to do it, to get that guarantee, is to bribe doctors." "you're saying bribery, like you're kind of--" "yes, i am" "that has a really kind of, big meaning, that word." "yes. i think to use any other word would be irresponsible of me at this point." "back then, did you think, 'oh, i'm going to bribe people'?" "yes."

90% of all hydrocodone production was going to pill mills in the late 2000s

at one point broward county alone (ft lauderdale, just a bit north of miami) had 150 pill mills

florida regulations were so lax, anyone could open a pain management clinic - including people with felony drug convictions

florida also did not track out of state people filling prescriptions that would throw up red flags like it did in other states

a retired dea agent, lou fisher, worked with large pill mills to make sure they followed requirements and could pass inspections by dea acting as their "compliance officer"

but fisher was being paid by the wholesaler, he maintains he didn't do anything wrong

by putting prescribing into the hands of corrupt doctors, they could technically be following the rules

once the pill mills were shut down, a large population had been addicted to opioids via pills now only had heroin to turn to

the george brothers and others in pill mills were indicted under the federal RICO act and it was the largest prescription drug trafficking case in US history

chris george maintains he just ran a business. he didn't create addicts, he gave them a safer way to get their drugs. and the people coming to florida to buy his pills were the actual problem. "The patients are the ones that caused whatever problems we have here."

(ps the george brothers are also white supremacists)

stuff i've watched/listened to

American Pain (HBO) - documentary on pill mills in florida, primarily about the George brothers

The Crime of the Century (HBO) - documentary directed, produced, and written by Alex Gibney. The film follows the opioid epidemic in the United States, and the political operatives, government regulations and corporations that enable the abuse of opioids, particularly the Sackler family and Purdue Pharma. Part two focuses on the rise of fentanyl by Insys Therapeutics.

Opioids, Inc by FRONTLINE (PBS) full film on youtube

Opioids in America by American Scandal (podcast by Wondery)

Dopesick (Hulu) - dramatized series based on nonfiction book Dopesick: Dealers, Doctors, and the Drug Company that Addicted America by Beth Macy

Painkiller (Netflix) - dramatized series based on Patrick Radden Keefe's New Yorker article "The Family That Built an Empire of Pain" and Pain Killer: An Empire of Deceit and the Origin of America's Opioid Epidemic by Barry Meier