#foul-smelling urine

[drforambhuta]

The manifestation of kidney stone symptoms can vary significantly and is influenced by factors like stone size, location, and whether they obstruct the urinary tract. Common indications include:

1. Intense Discomfort: A defining feature of kidney stones is severe, piercing pain, often referred to as renal colic. This kidney pain usually begins suddenly and can extend from the lower back to the abdomen and groin. Its intensity can be agonizing, necessitating immediate medical attention.

2. Hematuria: The presence of blood in urine, known as hematuria, is another prevalent sign of kidney stones. Hematuria can be visually evident, causing urine to appear pink, red, or brown, or it may require microscopic urine analysis for detection.

3. Increased Urination: People with kidney stones may experience heightened urges to urinate, often accompanied by pain or discomfort during the process.

4. Nausea and Vomiting: The severity of kidney stone pain can be sufficient to induce nausea and vomiting in some individuals.

5. Fever and Chills: Infections linked to kidney stones can result in fever and chills, although this is more frequently associated with struvite stones.

6. Turbid or Foul-Smelling Urine: Infections stemming from kidney stones may lead to cloudy or malodorous urine.

There are some of the best hospitals in Delhi, such as Indraprastha Apollo Hospitals, where you can be diagnosed and treated for kidney stones early.

[urologist-surgeon]

If you are experiencing persistent, strong-smelling urine, it is important to consult a doctor as soon as possible, as it could be a sign of an underlying medical condition.

[lola-writes]

𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐄 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐈 ║ II. Anaticula ║ Marcus Acacius x Hanno's sister!reader

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi

➣ Chapter I. | All chapters

Word Count: 3,9k

Synopsis: As an esteemed warrior of the Numidian army, your world turns on its axis when you’re taken prisoner by the Romans. Ever since your stealth attack that nearly cost the General of the Roman army, Marcus Acacius, his life, he appears to have taken a special interest in you. Under his tutelage of swordplay and carnal things, you delve deeper into the heart of the Roman Empire, uncovering its instability, and Acacius’ true intentions with you…

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person, blood & violence, slow burn, enemies to lovers, implied age gap, misogyny, political corruption & instability, yearning & longing, mutual pining, slavery, mentions of suicide, pet names

Anaticula (duckling), Adonis (god of beauty and desire)

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

I never saw Acacius again after we disembarked. But I heard his name. It was cheered in chorus, vibrating through the city like galloping hooves. The wealth of Rome was rooted in his conquests, and the people loved him for it. To them, he was a hero, the embodiment of all their dreams come true. The dream of Rome. 

But from the outside looking in, this dream was rotten. The roads leading out of the city were a blight, a growing miasma of poverty and despair the further you went, like a festering wound. I gritted my teeth at the stench rising from the fetid streets, the scorching heat of the sun turning the smell thick in the air like soup, causing nausea to course through me again. 

I should have killed him, I thought. I should have fucking killed him. 

The ovation for his victory faded as the carriage pulled us further from the city. And after what felt like hours immersed in the relentless heat of the southern sun, a distant silhouette of buildings emerged before us. From the words exchanged between the drivers I surmised it was the city of Antium. Despite its teeming population, it lacked the grandeur of a true metropolis, its only notable feature being rows of crops sprawling their green tracks atop mounds and the circular arena at its heart, a seemingly smaller replica of the Colosseum. But to my relief, our distance from the capital offered some respite from its pestilence. 

As the carriage rolled through the city centre, I felt the weight of countless eyes upon me. Judgemental, hungry, lustful, hateful – their gazes were a tangible threat. The chains clattered around my wrists as I retreated from their outstretched hands. Whether their intentions were to caress me or hurt me, I was determined not to find out. 

The carriage halted before a jostling, clamorous crowd, and a burly guard yanked me and the other women out from our rusted cage. The moment my feet touched the gritty Antium soil, a man with long, greasy hair, and front teeth poking forward like a rat, approached me, reaching his grimy hands out to touch me. A foul stench, like rotting fish and cat urine, clung to his ragged robes, and without a second thought, acting purely out of instinct, I lunged back and connected my foot with his gut in one violent kick. The rat man fell backwards in the sand with a grunt, and the crowd erupted in gasps and cheers of delight.  

Panic sparked through me. In this foreign land, stripped of my title and reduced to a mere commodity, no more significant than shit under their boots, I had dared to defy my captors, and all I could expect was my sure destruction.

The rat man regained his footing quickly, bashing his huge incisors in a growl that sent saliva spurting out, and went for me again. I braced myself, having mere milliseconds to decide whether to submit or break his neck. But a hand shot out then, halting his attack.

“No touching before you buy!” growled a man in long beige and white coloured robes and a half head of hair. And though the bile rose up in my throat at the thought, I could only assume this was my master. The rat stepped back, piercing me with a look that demanded blood. 

A laugh came from my left. It was a laugh so exuberant and hearty that it spoke of wealth and power comfortably worn. He was tall and regal, his complexion the richest shade of brown. He wore golden circlets in his ears and his robes flowed red, purple, and gold, excellently complimenting his skin. His very presence whispered of charisma and effortless charm. 

“This is a feisty one!” he beamed, wagging a jewelled finger at me. “Are you certain you can handle her, Master Fausta?” 

The man in beige and white cast his gaze upon me, and a cold shiver creeped below my skin. His eyes were light blue and crazed as they bore into me, nearly bulging out of their sockets the way he pierced them open. “Trust me, Macrinus,” Master Fausta sneered, “Even the wildest dog will yield to the whip.”

I stared back at him defiantly, feeling the cuffs tighten around my wrists. If only he knew how fortunate he was I was chained up. 

Macrinus flashed a knowing smile, a row of perfectly white teeth. “Perhaps you should surrender her to me,” he suggested lyrically. “She’d triumph in the fighting pit.”

I couldn’t discern whether he was speaking in earnest or attempted to make a jest, but the idea intrigued me nonetheless. “Without a doubt,” I concorded, and watched a crackle of allure pass through Macrinus nearly black eyes, before a blow to my temple sent me reeling, and I tumbled to the ground. 

“Slaves don’t speak!” roared Master Fausta.

My head throbbed from the impact and something warm trickled down my face.  

“Now, now, there is no need for such theatrics,” Macrinus said calmly, before grabbing me by my arms and pulling me to my feet. My sight quivered from the impact, and briefly, I thought there was two of him. “What is your name, child?”

“Y/N,” I managed. 

“Y/N,” he repeated. “Remember – there are always worse fates to find yourself in.” He pulled a handkerchief from underneath his robes and dabbed at my temple with it. “Chin up,” he said, and before he left, he made a playful bow, swaying theatrically with his red-golden robes. “Best of luck to you, Master Fausta. And if it runs out, you know where to find me.”

_

For days, we languished in their squalid cages, subjected to the scrutiny and degradation of the public while the masters prodded and examined us, inspecting us for injury, disease, and fertility - appraising us like livestock. As the days bled into endless nights, my spirit was slowly broken. Despair crept in, as I sunk deeper and deeper into poisonous thought. I would become a slave to someone’s whim, a mere commodity. The idea of escape was such an impossibility that the allure of oblivion grew stronger. Perhaps I could strangle myself with my own chains, or lure a guard close enough to grab his sword. 

Acacius’ voice echoed in my head, ‘That’s not going to happen.’ I admitted there was a part of me that had believed him. That some greater plan of rescue were hidden beneath those words. A fleeting thought. But now, huddled in my own filth, I was consumed by a darker fantasy. The moment of the battle when he was at my mercy replayed endlessly, but in my mind, I composed a different outcome. One where I plunged my dagger into his neck over and over, until it came off his body, and my vision dissolved into a crimson haze. It offered me a fleeting reprieve, a momentary release from the crushing weight of despair. But once reality dawned, I had sunk deeper into the abyss.

On the third day, they dragged us from the cage. A throng had gathered further down the street, a sea of faces converging on a small, raised platform. It was early still. Though the sun had barely crested the horizon, the streets were already abuzz with activity. The bidding war was already raging. The women from my village were paraded like livestock, their beauty or youth the sole currency in this barbaric exchange. Men jostled and shouted, their voices a clamour of greed and lust, waving their purses heavy with coin for the young and fair, their enthusiasm waning for the aged and ugly. I watched in horror as the perfumed aristocrats fumbled, roamed and pulled on their newly acquired possessions. I shuddered, imagining the degradation that awaited them in this accursed place. But fear did no longer consume me, for I would not live long enough to be submitted to any of it. 

A wave of icy dread washed over me as I saw Master Fausta, his grip tight on a trembling girl, perhaps no older than fourteen. She clung to herself like a frightened bird, while the men haggled over her like she was a prize mare. But as the auction raged ahead, my gaze caught a spark of shiny metal strapped to Fausta’s waist. A leather-wrapped dagger hung loosely against the young girl. And all I could think was being up there with him meant that I would be just within reach of it. 

I was up next. Each step towards the platform was a fresh wave of anguish. Two equally agonizing choices loomed before me, with mere seconds at my disposal to decide. Dread twisted my gut, a cold blade churning, while adrenaline infiltrated my veins, hot like fire. As I mounted the platform, my blood slowed, and dissociation clouded all ambient noise, the uproar of clattering coin purses fading into a distant hum. 

“Ten aureus!” one man roared.  

“Twelve!” bellowed another.

Master Fausta snorted with contempt, his beige-white cloaks swirling around him. “You can do better than that, just look at her!” he sneered, his grip on my face bruising.

I readied myself. The dagger at my side throbbed, a burning beacon.  

“Fifteen!” 

“Twenty-five!”

The bids escalated, each one a hammer blow against my will. The crowd below stretched out before me, a vast, undulating sea of faces, their eyes gleaming with avarice. 

As I reached for the dagger, a head in the crowd caught my attention. It wasn’t among the gaping bidders, turned to me with a purse raised in a clamour. It was hooded and obscured, flowing through the crowd with a predatory grace like a lion pursuing a herd of blackbuck. Every movement were deliberate and calculated, and when the hood revealed strands of black and silver, I nearly gasped. 

Like he was a silhouette against the sea of faces, he vanished into the throng before I had a chance to discern his features. My breath was hitched in my throat, my hand returning to my side - the purpose of its movement suddenly forgotten. 

“Thirty!” The crowd roared.

“Sixty,” came a voice in the front, commanding attention. 

“Oooooh,” Fausta exclaimed, trying to get a glimpse of the man who’d placed the highest bid yet. “Will anyone go any higher than sixty?” his voice echoed through the square, a challenge hanging in the air. 

My eyes locked with another’s through the chaos, and my heart leaped into my throat. Acacius. His face, obscured by the shadows of his hooded cloak, was an enigma of intent. A curious sense of relief washed over me before I could reprimand it. He stood unmoving, silent, not lifting a finger to get me away from there. And why should he?  

“Higher than sixty?” Master Fausta announced, his voice straining for excitement. But the crowd was silent, the faces casting glances at each other, each wondering who had dared to bid so extravagantly for a slave. But Acacius only held my gaze among them, unwavering, almost challenging. My relief soon curdled into malice, a venomous serpent coiling within me. I was on the verge of acting on that venomous impulse when Acacius, as though he could read my mind, placed a finger over his lips. Silence. And despite the beast of hatred clawing at my reason, I obeyed. 

He could not have placed the bid. There was nobody coming to save me.

“Anyone?” continued Fausta, his voice less enthusiastic. “Sold!”

I was discarded as swiftly as I’d been captured, thrust into the waiting arms of my new owner who tossed a heavy purse into Fausta’s greedy hands. The man, smelling of too much perfume and an undertone of bad milk, spoke to me, but his words were lost in the maelstrom of my own thoughts. As he guided me out of the throng, my eyes remained fixed on Acacius, his frame a ghost in the shifting crowd. His eyes followed me, but as the auction resumed, its roar drowning out all else, he vanished.  

“You listening to me, girl?” my master growled, and I nearly cricked my neck trying to find Acacius again. Once the crowd fell behind us, my master jolted me back to him and fixed me with his gaze. He was an imposing figure, old and tall, his body draped in a beautiful turquoise toga beneath a common hooded cloak, and his wrinkled skin had a film of falsity. His features twisted into a scowl from not being heard. “We have no time for this,” he grunted, pushing me towards an elegant wheelhouse. “Get in,” he said. 

Before I could even gasp a question, he shoved me into the shadowy confines of the wheelhouse and slammed the door shut. The vehicle rattled forward almost instantly, the discordance of the auction receding into a distant echo. Peeking through the curtains, I watched the scene shrink behind us – the jostling crowd, the slave cages, the arena, all fading into insignificance. 

We veered south, but before I was pulled back into the stench of Rome, we took a second road west. For hours, we traversed a landscape that shifted between dusted streets of civilisation and desolate stretches of sand beds. During the journey, my mind was a captive, contemplating all the horrors which awaited me. Would I scrub his floors? Would I cook his meals? Warm his bed? The prospect of becoming a Roman whore was excruciating. Revolt coiled and itched under my skin like maggots. 

The image of Acacius swam up before me. I was on the brink of preventing all of this, but his presence had paralysed me. Again. What was it about him that held such a suffocating grip on my mind? Like his very presence occupied too great a space for anything else to exist. 

What had he even been doing there? A man of his stature. A General. Lingering in an ocean of squabbling merchants. Perhaps his purpose there was to witness my fate. To watch his near killer get sold as a slave and relish in the imaginings of the cruel life which awaited her. However, next time, I would not fail. Whether it was him or me, one of us would die tonight. 

The carriage rolled onto a tree-lined gravel road, gliding towards a massive gate. As we passed through, the grandeur of the estate unfolded before me. I swallowed as the carriage came to a smooth halt; the silence broken by the squeaking carriage from the weight of moving bodies. The door flung open, and my master’s wrinkled face loomed over me, the lines etched deeper beneath the shadows of his cowl. I shuddered.

“We’re here,” he announced, his voice oddly subdued. Lost in a whirlwind of desperate schemes, I barely registered his words. “Quickly now!” he hissed, pulling me from the chariot. 

The world exploded into colour. I was engulfed by a verdant garden. The air was thick with birdsong, the scent of flowers mingled with the warm breeze, and sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting the scene in liquid gold. For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot my predicament, captured by this idyllic haven with a single thought that: I would not mind staying here forever.

“Make haste!” my master barked, striding towards the domus which centred the gardens, making no attempts to ensure I followed suit, but for some inexplicable reason, I still did. A chill prickled my skin even though I was damp with perspiration, as I followed him into the atrium. 

A sense of vastness and cool air washed over me. The pillars that crowned the room brought it up high, casting long, dramatic shadows across stone. And a feeling as though I’d walked into a cave from the desert brought me awe. The distant sound of trickling water drew my attention as we slowly approached the centre of the atrium, where a small pond had been built, teeming with vibrant fish, gleaming red, black and bright silver. 

My master ceased in front of it, his gaze fixed on something else but the fish. A thought of whether I should just drown him in this pond passed me like wind. I stopped across from him, awaiting his next move.  

The sound of footsteps brushed my ears and a shiver from another body entering my range of view coursed through me. White and gold muscle cuirass gleamed beneath the filtering rays entering through the ceiling, and as skin came into view, my breath lunged in my throat. 

“Senator Thraex,” came a voice set in steely velvet.

“General Acacius,” greeted my master.

A breathless feeling choked me as I locked eyes with him. His countenance was etched with a stern resolve, tempered by a flicker of concern. He stood bathed in the ethereal light, the gold and white seemingly shrouding him in a veil of divinity. 

He maintained a studied distance, as though he wished to assess the situation based on reaction first. His hair was gently coated pepper and salt, and his eyes were so dark they were nearly black. My mind raced as I attempted to tame the raging tempest of my disposition, while simultaneously attempting to piece together his presence here.

Thraex gestured towards me, “I’ve brought her. As you requested.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Acacius, taking a measured step forward, his gaze barely grazing Thraex. 

“A peculiar sort of savage you’ve picked out,” Thraex observed, his toga gently swishing about him as he appraised me with a cautious glance. I responded with a glare of pure venom. Master Fausta’s dagger seemed a distant, yet desperately needed, memory.

“I’m afraid I am a man of unconventional tastes,” Acacius replied, his immensely dark eyes still piercing me with an intensity that kept itching beneath my skin. “I would get out of here before this one decides to try something foolish.” His voice dipped at the last word, the implication a veiled warning to us both. A furrow etched deep between his brows as he watched me knowingly. 

“I’m afraid I agree with you,” nodded Thraex and increased the distance between us. “It’s been an honor to serve you once more, General. I trust you continue the cause that inspired Lucilla-”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Acacius interrupted, cutting off Thraex’s sentimental pronouncements. There was a palpable urgency in his tone that led me to believe he was avoiding a subject.

“Indeed!” smiled Thraex and bowed. “Good day.”

Once the rustle of the carriage departing outside melted with distance, an unsettling sort of tension permeated the atrium, a palpable unease hanging heavy like the scent of an impending storm. 

I scrutinized his expression, desperately trying to decipher what the purpose of this encounter was. Was this a favour, or a punishment? With the stretching silence, I felt small... exposed, like an antelope in an open field. It felt like an eternity in the oppressive stillness of the atrium, until Acacius took another measured step towards me.

“Anaticula,” he said, and I began to question whether he used it as a slight or an endearment.  

“Why am I here?” I demanded, my voice coming out shakier than I’d intended. 

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: this man had orchestrated my purchase and had me smuggled into his own possession. What exactly did this entail? That I now belonged to him? A wave of nausea washed over me, a sickening sensation of weightlessness. Was this his revenge?

“Are you going to kill me?” I finally blurted out, the question like smoke in the air. 

He snorted, as if amused by the very notion, then quickly schooled his features into an expression of chilling solemness. 

“I’ve told you that dying was never an option,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. 

“So, what then?” I demanded, my voice edged with frustration. Another silence stretched, and the furrows between his brows deepening, as if the subject was overwhelming to contemplate. Then, he fixed me with eyes so demanding, and almost pleading, as if to somehow ease the impact of his words. 

“I have bought you,” he stated, and the words ignited a flame that began licking my nerves hot. “You belong to me now.”

What sort of sick plot was this? Was I to be his slave forever? An eternally suffering punishment. 

I would rather die.

“I’m going to kill you,” I hissed.

He quirked an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips as he dropped his gaze to his feet. “Well, we both know how well that worked out last time,” he said, gazing up at me again.

My retort died in my throat, choked by a surge of disbelief. But before I could recover, he uttered six words that would forever alter my fate. 

“I’m going to set you free.”

I blinked, utterly bewildered. Was this some sort of ruse?

“On one condition”, he said, approaching me slowly – so slowly I hardly noticed. “You’ll have to do one thing for me.

“Just like that?” I scoffed. “I do something for you, and you’ll set me free?” 

He seemed closer now, the gleam of his white cuirass almost blinding me, and his features more apparent. I felt strangely winded, and a foreign pressure bloomed in the pit of my stomach. 

“That’s right,” he said, his voice a low, silken drawl.

“And what guarantee do I have that you won’t deceive me?” I demanded, my voice faltering as I caught his eyes flickering over my lips. A fraction too long. 

“You’ll just have to trust that I won’t,” he said low, like it was something only I should hear.

He was looming over me now, and I suddenly became very aware of the fact that I had not had a bath in a really long time.  

I studied him extensively, but nothing about his countenance revealed even a hint of deceit. Suddenly, all my previous fears facing slavery dimmed, and I concluded that, no matter what he’d ask of me, the exchange for my freedom would be worth it. Killing him would be a small feat if his demands would prove unfavourable.  

“What do I need to do?” I asked, a steady tremor of anticipation clearing my rage. 

“I cannot say before you agree,” he replied, his timber firm and utterly convincing.  

I nodded slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy upon me. 

“Swear it,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “A sacramentum.” He extended his hand out to me, and I hesitantly took it. I glanced down at our union. His made mine look miniscule in comparison. They were rough and calloused from years warfare. But there was a warmth in them which nuzzled through my bones as his fingers gently played across my skin. My skin sparked hot, like my hands had just become the most sensitive part of my body. “Repeat after me.”

I swear that I shall faithfully execute all that you command.

I shall never desert the service,

and I shall not seek to avoid death.

The words tasted like ash in my mouth, like pledging myself to the enemy – betraying my own people for my freedom. 

But no one was coming to save me. This was my only option. This is how I would stay alive. 

“Now,” I whispered, my voice trembling, the nerves in my stomach twisting into knots, a thousand terrifying possibilities flashing through my mind. “What do you want me to do?”

His eyes hardened, the shadows inside them rising to the surface. 

“I want you to help me kill the emperors of Rome.”

All chapters

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[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

✧₊⁺ This Was Not In The Codex ✧₊⁺

Pairing: demetrian titus x reader(f)

Summary: Titus is on a much-needed leave on Macragge. While there he runs into you, or rather you run into him escaping terrible punishment for being unable to tell a lord no.

Part 1/?

Arthur's Note: I am terrible at keeping POV when writing in the third person and try to do omniscient, but again I am no real writer.

Warnings: Pregnancy (reader is pregnant), mentions of SA, and general gimdarkness.

18+ Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

There were several reasons Titus was planet side, from a wound he sustained that required more rest than normal, and Calgar seemed all too aware that with everything that had happened, there was still lingering broken trust among his brothers. Moving Leandros to Chaplin was a means of stopping the boy from doing more harm, but it wasn't a move Calgar hadn't been overly pleased with.

But Titus seemed to understand the will of their Gene-sire better than most, and his humanity despite it all remained intact. Something Guilliman wanted to make sure was nurtured.

Titus lumbered through the streets, drawing eyes as he did. Even within the great Macragge people were still awe-struck to see an Astartes. It was odd the monotonous sounds of everyday life felt more overwhelming than the loud cacophony of war. Though the smells were much more desirable. Scents of smoked meat were pulling the large man along when his ears picked up commotion and then something small bumped into him.

Oh the pitiful creature that had run into him. You looked worn beyond your years, weak from malnourishment and shaking like a leaf in the wind looking up and seeing what you ran into. Your lips busted and scabbed over from dry blood. Your feet are torn and broken apart from no proper footwear.

The thin rag you call a dress barely hides your bump. Your hands instinctively wrapped around it, as if you could protect your unborn child from such a giant. A smell rose into his nose as he heart the faint trickling of liquid. You were so terrified you were urinating yourself. Titus had seen this fear in warzones. What in the Throne had you so scared. His size aside.

Titus could see law enforcement coming up, chasing her. But they weren't local militia, these were private. His mind reeled all the practicals and theoreticals there could be to this situation.

"Can you get behind me, please? Are you able to move?" he asked quietly, as gently as he could, though with some urgency.

You nodded weakly and moved behind him, his massive body hiding you.

The guards stop short of Titus gazing upon the Asartes. His aura gave them great pause, mostly seeing how you were hugging one of his large legs.

"I see you are one of the Emperor's angels. Lord, she is a wanted criminal, and have been tasked to bring her back to our lord's estate." one guard finally spoke, but there was a shakiness to his voice.

"Wanted? On what charges, and why back there and not turned over to proper authorities?" Titus pressed. The rough timber of his voice becoming more pressing against the guards.

The guard looked uneasy and agitated, going between the two emotions rapidly, "This matter is hardly of note for one such of you My Lord, please, let us take her."

Titus shook his head, "No. You have not answered my questions. What is her crime and why is she to be taken to your lord?”

“Is not enough that she is a serf who has abandoned her duties?” the main guard responded, “She is to be taken home and punished. On top of that she is to be questioned by the Inquisition for heresy for seducing our lord with foul magic.”

Titus choked down a snarl at the mention of the Inquisition. Of course, a group of religious zealots could be tricked into seeing a poor serf as a heretic, so a piss poor excuse of a lord could get rid of his dirty laundry.

Perhaps his primarch was right and this Imperium was a rotting corpse.

“Then this is cause for my concern. I will take her into custody and our librarian will see to her.”

You start to plead and move away, as vain as you know it to be, but a large hand stops you. Holds you in place. It is firm, but not harsh.

The guard tried once again to argue but Titus cut him off, this time not holding back so much on his voice's power, “Are you challenging a member of the Astartes guard? I am not beholden to you, and she is in my charge now, so she is no longer either. Tell your lord if he so wishes to continue this nonsense he can do so with me. Now leave unless you wish a more physical understanding of my words.”

The warning was understood and the men scattered, and after a moment the crowd that had gathered went about their daily lives. Sounds of a busy community returned.

Titus turned to you, his hand still upon you. He knelled so he might be close to your eyes, “Hello, Little One. I am Lieutenant Titus, of the Ultra Marines. Would you allow me to carry you back to our fortress? You are safe. I give you my word.”

What choice did you have? None really. He could crush you with no effort, and you were dead anyhow. You just hoped when he decided to end you, it would be quick, and he would spare your baby.

You nodded, but sob quietly, “My Lord...I...” you were ashamed, “I soiled myself, I would not want that on you.”

Titus smiled, “Hush now,” he spoke cradling you in one arm and standing, “Far worse has been on me. There is no shame. I will see you get some clean clothes, food in your belly, and a Medicae Mortus to see to you.”

A soft chuckled rose from him, it was unnerving, yet comforting. This angel, was being so kind to an undeserving serf like you.

“Our Apothecaries are not specialized in baseline human needs. I am not even sure they know how babies are made, or how they grow inside you. But ask them about how to deal with a wound from a spawn of the warp? Collect gene-seed? Well then they don't shut up.”

You looked up at him with some confusion, “you do not know where babies come from?”

Titus felt warm suddenly, and adverted his gaze, “I mean. Well. It was not something they deemed important for us to know.”

You could only hum a response. Resting in his powerful harm. Held so delicately and carefully. It was dangerous. You knew this, but it was still the safest you felt in months and your worn body, gave out and forced you into a sleep that was deeply needed.

[hellyeahsickaf]

Low Spoons and Hygiene

Sometimes being disabled means struggling with hygiene and that can be embarrassing, even though it's not your fault or a reflection of you as a person. Nobody wants to be stinky or feel dirty, especially when a lot of illnesses and disabilities can entail symptoms like excessive sweating that can make the issue of struggling with hygiene a million times worse.

But smelling bad is the least of your worries, as poor hygiene can lead to things like skin infections. Bacteria and fungi like hanging around in stagnant, often damp areas that collect sweat. And most people have folds- even if just a little, which can be the ideal habitat for dangerous microorganisms. Not changing your underwear/bra or washing your body for an extended period can lead to things like jock itch, intertrigo, yeast infections, athlete's foot, UTIs (anyone can get one and they can spread to the kidneys within days or even hours- and you need those little guys!), all sorts of complications. The existence of foul or sometimes even a slightly "sweet" odor on your body or even in your urine tends to indicate the existence of bacteria (it's why armpits stink) or fungi like candida. Dental hygiene is equally important- an infected tooth or excessive cavities can be bad news. If you experience these things or struggle to regularly care for your body, it's not something to be ashamed of. All of those complications can and do happen to people who do everything right.

Note that issues like UTIs or dental infections don't tend to just go away on their own and need to be treated as urgently as possible.

However, I'll share some things that may prevent or remedy issues like infections and odor that's gotten out of hand and hopefully some may find this list helpful in some way. Any products I've listed may be found at other retailers or at different prices, they're just examples. Feel free to add on to it.

The bare minimum is always better than nothing. Brushing with just a dry toothbrush, using disposable body wipes or a washcloth/sponge instead of a shower, dry shampoo (the sprays are actually pretty bad for you, I'd stay away from those if possible), leave in conditioner, also whole body deodorant is a thing. If the most you can do is change your clothes- hell even just change your bra and/or underwear, it can be the one thing between you and an awful infection.

If infections are a concern, like if say you suffer from chronic UTIs or yeast infections it's advisable to wear breathable cotton underwear.

If you can't get up to brush your teeth or struggle to do so, it may be helpful to purchase disposable toothbrushes. These ones have floss picks attached.

Flossing is just as, if not more important than brushing. If you only have the energy to floss on some days, do that. If you need to keep floss picks and a place to dispose of them near your bed, then that's fine (just don't let it pile on without disposing of it and create a biohazard). it can help remove food particles that help create a breeding ground for bacteria. Also gently moving in and out between your teeth with slight movement if needed is ideal, don't roughly saw across your gums, ouch.

If you struggle with wiping say due to mobility issues, there are products for this. Wiping back to front as an alternative risks yeast infections and UTIs. It's a very common cause of these diseases due to bacteria like e-coli. We do not want that.

Crashing and can't wash your sheets? Out of shirts with no energy to do the laundry today? Antimicrobial fabric spray may help with the odor and bacteria that accumulates on fabric as a temporary fix until you can properly wash it. Try not to wear clothing or interact with fabrics like blankets and couches that are still wet from the spray, as that can irritate the skin.

Try to avoid "feminine wash" products if possible, you don't need the fancy Summer's Eve premium strawberry hibiscus blush scented whatever, it can fuck up your PH and kill good bacteria despite claims to do otherwise. Same with PH wipes. It's recommended not to use soap on your genitalia, especially scented and especially if you have a vagina. If you must use some sort of soap, dermatologists typically recommend the most basic, unscented wash. And do not put it in your body by any means.

Rinse free shower sponges have been a life saver for me, especially the ones that also work as shampoo (it's probably not color safe tho). You just add water, lather, and make sure you dry off well. If it helps you determine how much to buy, I normally find myself using maybe 3-5 sponges each time.

OTC jock itch cream can work for some fungal infections on the body not limited to jock itch but if you see no difference or worsening within a few days of using it, consult a dermatologist as you may need something different or stronger.

Unscented pads and tampons are best and should be changed every 4 hours or so ideally. Never leave a tampon in for over 8 hours. Despite common fears, 9 hours won't give you toxic shock syndrome, that normally takes a few days and is quite rare with tampons but that doesn't mean that 13 hours or something is good or safe. I've just heard some say that sex ed scared them away from tampons after being told stories of TSS. I hear that menstrual cups are also a great alternative that many don't consider.

Monistat and similar yeast infection products often come with different options like 3 day treatment, 5 day treatment, 7 day. I know you want to feel better ASAP, but just take into account that 3 day will be highly concentrated and can cause more burning than the 7 day. Longer treatment may also be more effective in some cases. Penile yeast infections exist as well. Just be aware that some products are more potent than others regardless of birth sex. Antifungals in general may cause itching and/or burning, which some are more sensitive to than others or may even find triggering in cases where it must be applied to the genitalia.

Hydrocortisone cream is your best friend if you're experiencing itchiness due to things like skin infections, contact dermatitis, yeast infections, etc. But please don't use it to mask the symptoms of an infection without treating it.

How frequently you need to wash your hair varies by hair type. This can vary between every 2 days for some and every 1-2 weeks for coily and textured hair. Make sure you look into what is ideal for your hair type. And again on days where you cannot wash, disposable sponges and dry shampoo can be a life saver.

If something is discolored, odorous, itchy, inflamed, bumpy, producing moisture, warm to the touch, oozy, weepy, splotchy, sticky, burning/painful, it may likely be an infection or in some cases an allergic reaction. Familiarize yourself with what different skin infections and diseases may look like on your skin tone. Ringworm and other fungal infections for instance may appear red or pink on fair or lighter brown skin, but on darker skin may appear gray or darker brown.

Fungal infections are also super fucking contagious. To other parts of your body, other people, even to pets. Wash your hands well with antibacterial soap, especially before and after applying any topical treatment or touching the area in any way. After a shower, PAT the infected area dry and do not reuse that towel or use on other parts of the body.

Invest in a shower chair if you feel it may help you, it's one of the best things I've ever bought. I didn't want to get one at first because it felt like I was "giving in" to my disability more and more but that's the internalized ableism talking. Get the shower chair.

A bar to help you stand from the toilet/tub/shower chair may also be helpful.

Again, feel free to add to the list if you want!

[cfk302-blog]

Behind the handsome face of this young man lies a dangerous character. He plotted a murder for money but was uncovered before he could carry out the crime.

Still, after visits from his lawyer in the local jail, he was convinced he would get away with it. After all, at the time of the crime, he was still a minor.

For the first hearing, he dressed himself neatly and presented an impeccable appearance. Who would want to punish him? But the judge decided to protect society from further harm at the hands of this young criminal.

At his next court appearance, the young criminal had to face the judge in his prison-issue pajamas, barefoot, with sweaty feet in foul-smelling plastic slides. In the local jail, he had been unable to care for his feet. His toenails had grown too long, and a fungal infection he contracted in the communal showers caused his feet to stink of sour, cheesy decay.

Realizing his chances were slipping away, the young inmate threatened the judge. But the shackles on his bare ankles kept him from standing up.

The verdict: 30 years in a maximum-security prison. As a disciplinary measure, he was sentenced to solitary confinement for the entirety of his sentence—30 years spent 24/7 in a small metal cell with no daylight, deprived of any form of recreation. He was forbidden books or other distractions, left with only himself and endless time.

Screaming, he was removed from the courtroom. Guards restrained him by his hands and sweaty feet and escorted him on a long drive to his next place of incarceration. During the transport, he threatened the guards and made repeated attempts to escape. When his attempts failed, he resorted to frustration tactics, urinating and defecating on himself as a form of torment for the guards.

Upon arriving at the prison—after a five-hour drive, half of it spent in unbearable stench—he was hosed down with cold water and given his uniform: yellow scrubs. The color symbolizes his high-profile status as an inmate. Shoes and socks were deemed unnecessary, as he was not allowed to leave his cell, except once every two weeks for a cold shower.

Even during his sentence, he continued to rebel. On one occasion, he stripped off his uniform and, when the guard entered his cell, pulled the sweat-soaked garment over the guard’s face before running naked down the hallway. Of course, he was quickly apprehended. Such disobedience was harshly punished. In such cases, the young prisoner was restrained naked to his bed for two weeks. His desperate escape attempts clearly demonstrated that solitary confinement was driving him to madness.

In this photo, we see the young man 15 years later, halfway through his sentence. The isolation had drained all emotion from his face. For the first time in all those years, he was allowed to leave the maximum-security prison for a parole hearing. For his court appearance, he wore a khaki jumpsuit, a uniform given to all convicts for transport. Would the judge set him free and show leniency this time?

[unforgivenn]

SHACKLED BY ROYALTY

#10: NO WAY OUT

Previous/ Masterlist

CW: physical violence, torture, blood, gore?, intense emotional distress, Andrey being a weird fuck.

When Damian awoke, his body screamed in agony. Every muscle, every fiber of his being, was on fire. His head throbbed as if it had been split open, and his arm... oh God his arm. The wound was far from being his only source of pain now, but it burned with a white-hot intensity that blurred his vision.

He could taste blood, his own, mixed with the stale air of the room—a foul blend of sweat, fear, and something more acrid, like the smell of burning flesh. His throat was dry, and his mouth felt like sandpaper, but even if he could speak, what would he say? There was nothing left to plead for. Nothing left to lose.

The smell hit him next—stale sweat, urine, and something metallic, like rust or blood, hung thick in the air. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he tried to push the nausea away.

Then the realization dawned on him. He wasn’t in that grim room anymore. He was outside, and a crowd was gathering. He looked down at his loosely bandaged arm as the murmurs and whispers of hushed and expectant people filled the air around him. "What the fuck...."

The sunlight seared Damian's eyes, and he winced, turning his head away. Andrey stepped into view, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he surveyed Damian’s prone form. The sight of him sent a wave of dread crashing through Damian, the memory of their last encounter still fresh in his mind.

“I see you’re awake,” Andrey said, his voice dripping with condescension. He gestured, and a guard stepped forward, a long, leather whip coiled in his hand. Damian’s breath hitched in his throat as he realized what was about to happen. His mouth went dry, terror clawing its way up his throat.

“No..” Damian croaked, his voice weak.

Andrey ignored him, turning to address the gathered crowd instead. “This,” he began, his voice carrying easily over the assembled throng, “is what happens to those who betray my trust.”

Damian’s heart pounded against his ribs, the sound deafening in his ears. He thought he would be ready.

He should've been ready.

Mikhael -the motherfucker- uncoiled the whip with a sickening snap, and Damian’s entire body tensed in anticipation of the first blow. He could feel the rough texture of the post against his back, the cold bite of the shackles around his wrists, the coarse fabric of his shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

The first crack of the whip sliced through the air. It connected with his back with a force that drove the breath from his lungs, the pain exploding through him like fire. A ringing sound filled his skull, gasping.

A strangled cry tore itself from his throat before he could stop it, the sound of his own voice raw and desperate. The whip came down again, and again, each strike sending a shockwave of pain through his body that left him gasping for air. The lash came across his injured arm. He let out a guttural scream. He forced himself to look at the arm.

Blood.

Oh lord, there was so much blood.

The world around him seemed to fade in and out, the sounds of the crowd, of Andrey’s voice, of the whip cracking against his flesh, all blending into a dizzying, nightmarish cacophony. Jesus.. how the hell did Noah manage this..?

The smell of blood was thick in the air now, mingling with the scent of sweat and dirt, filling his nostrils, his lungs, choking him. The only thing he could hear now was the continuous slap of the whip.

His breath came in ragged gasps, something as easy as breathing now seeming like a great task. His body trembled uncontrollably, the searing pain in his back making it impossible to think, to feel anything but the agony that consumed him.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The whip fell silent, the tension in the air palpable as the crowd held its collective breath. Damian’s body slumped against the post, every inch of him screaming in pain, his back a mass of raw, torn flesh that throbbed with every heartbeat.

Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the dirt and blood, but he didn’t care. There was no shame anymore, no pride. There was only the pain and the desperate hope that it would end soon.

But it didn’t. The lashes kept coming, each one worse than the last, the whip cutting deeper and deeper until it felt like his very soul was being flayed from his body.

His body sagged against the post, held up only by the iron rings that bit into his wrists. His vision blurred, the world around him fading in and out of focus. He could taste blood, thick and metallic on his tongue, and the coppery scent filled his nostrils, making him gag.

Mikhael finally stopped, the silence that followed almost more deafening than the sound of the whip. Damian’s body trembled, the muscles twitching uncontrollably, spasming in protest. His skin was on fire, the agony so intense that it felt like his nerves had been set ablaze.

He barely registered the hands that unbound him, the rough shove that sent him sprawling onto the blood-soaked ground. His body hit the earth with a dull thud, pain exploding in his back as the wounds made contact with the dirt.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t fucking breathe. The world around him was a blur of colors and sounds, distant and unreachable. His mind was fraying at the edges, the darkness creeping in, and this time, he didn’t fight it.

He was dimly aware of Andrey stepping closer, the man’s presence a dark shadow that loomed over him, suffocating him.

Damian couldn’t respond, couldn’t even lift his head to look at Andrey. All he could do was gasp for breath, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue, the throbbing agony in his back making every movement torture.

“I could have killed you." Andrey paused for a moment, before continuing. But that would have been too easy. No, I want you to live with this, Damian. I want you to remember this pain, this humiliation, every single day for the rest of your life.”

The words were a cruel mockery, twisting the knife that had already been driven so deep into Damian’s soul. He felt the tears begin to fall then, hot and bitter, mingling with the sweat and blood that stained his skin.

Andrey leaned in closer, his breath hot against Damian’s ear. “And know this, Damian… as long as you breathe, Noah will never be free. He will suffer because of you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

The horror of those words, the realization of what his defiance had cost, was too much. The last thing he felt was the cold, unyielding ground beneath him as his body crumpled, the sound of Andrey’s chuckle echoing in his mind like a terrible lullaby.

---

When awoke once again, he was laying on a hard cot in a small, dimly lit cell. His back was bandaged, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to his wounds, but there was no relief from the torment that gripped his soul.

He could still hear Andrey’s voice, those final, damning words that had sealed Noah’s fate. Damian’s heart ached with a grief so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. He had failed. God, why did he always have to fail?! Before Noah it was-

Tears slid down Damian’s face, silent and unbidden, as the full weight of his failure and distant memories pressed down on him. The cell was cold, the air thick with the scent of mildew and despair, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the pain, the guilt, the overwhelming certainty that he had lost everything.

Andrey had won. Damian had nothing left. Nothing but the knowledge that he had only succeeded in condemning Noah to a fate worse than death.

The tears came harder now, shaking his frail body as the sobs wracked his chest. There was no hope, no light at the end of this dark tunnel. Only pain, and the cold, empty void of despair that stretched out before him, endless and unforgiving.

Reblogs are appreciated <3

Taglist: @miireux134/ @nuriiz134/ @noeul-whumpsss/ @morning-star-whump/ @parasitebunny/ @anutz1234/ @whatwasmyprevioususername/ @whumped-by-glitter/ @lordcatwich/ @someoneoninternettt/ @natthebatt/ @noeul-whumpppssssss1234/

@electrons2006/ @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees/ @lolrpop/ @yassifiedinformation(let me know if you want to be added or removed :D)

[reallyromealone]

Patreon exclusive

The smell was foul, Aizawa keeping composed as the smell of urine and filth was heavy, what horrified him though was the tiny child that couldn't be older than two sitting there horrified "get the med team"

[pixeldistractions]

She hadn’t actually seen his camper before except in pictures. All she knew of this thing was what he told her, and he told her everything. The mechanical problems, the foul smells, the strange creaks and moans. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t worry about staying here.

“Oh, okay,” she said, stepping inside.

He laughed at her lack of enthusiasm. “I know it’s not The Ritz. But you just wait, someday…”

“But it doesn’t smell bad,” she said. Because she remembered the early stories he told her of a potent mix of urine and something that had possibly died in there. Now it smelled like fresh-cut lumber, aged leather upholstery, and a couple of candles that had been extinguished recently. And that wasn’t foul at all. It was possibly not even bad.

“I had to lose the carpets,” he said, “and the old sofa, and the mattresses, and well, anything that had fabric on it at all. It couldn’t be saved. The wood floors are new, too. Reclaimed wood, I got a pretty good deal.”

Next they looked at the tiny bathroom. Truly tiny. They hardly had room to both step inside at once. 

She had questions. “So, uh, where does the stuff go?”

He chuckled behind her. “I’m just gonna tell you it’s magic and you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Oh.”

“Really, you don’t need to think about it.”

“Then I won’t,” she said. She would try not to, at least.

“And the kids bedroom.”

“Oh, this is charming,” she said. 

“Well, I guess I made it a little girly to start,” he said. “Pretty sure JoJo will get first dibs. I haven’t had much luck getting my boys out here.”

“She’s gonna love it,” Maria said. “And don’t worry, we’re gonna get your boys out here, too.” 

“I, uh, haven’t thought about what we’ll do if we need to fit all three at once.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a great problem to have?” 

“Yeah.” 

They went to the main room again. “Welcome back to the living room. It’s also the dining room and kitchen. But I mostly cook outside on the grill. The fridge works, but the power is hit or miss. The solar battery is faulty, so don’t be alarmed if the lights go off.”

She laughed. Then she grinned. “What ever are we gonna do in the dark?” 

Oh, this. How she missed all of this, how they were, so sparkling and playful and sweet. They smiled at each other, charged with longing, until they couldn’t stand not touching for a minute longer.

The bedroom. The grand finale of this little tour. Not because it was fancy or luxurious. Actually, it was hardly a room at all. There was no door. One of the walls was a curtain and the windows had sheets for shades. But it looked tidy and comfortable and she longed to lay across that bed and let him devour her, if she didn’t devour him first, ravenously and completely.

— from “boxes and squares #4.4: now know the answer” (2/5)

… I’m sure y’all know what to expect for tomorrow’s post. 😘

Let’s see if mama’s gonna get sent to the principal’s office again, lol! And let’s see if I can remember my login for Pillowfort.

Next ->

[ranposbabe]

Infidel | Johan Liebert x Reader

Chapter 4

The breeze was soft. The sky was splattered with shades of a dull grey.

While others would find irritation in such wheather. It brought you comfort knowing you could find sanctuary in such loneliness out in nature.

But of course calmness cannot last forever.

“I’m sick of bringing you to this shit show of a field, y/n !”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking here.” You sigh, tugging at the cuff of your sleeve. “You needn’t stress yourself driving me here. Especially since I cannot recall ever asking you to.”

Your back is turned to him and yet this somehow irritates him more than your sly comments. The stream flows fast yet steady. It’s so steady. Unlike the buzzing.

“Well come on now. You can watch the piss stream flow by any day now let’s get going.” At that he slams the car door.

You don’t fasten your seat belt. Wanting to escape the car as quickly as possible.

You can’t help but wonder why your father wants to take you specifically to a case he’s involved with. For a while now, your fathers been sneaking around chasing this man that you have no interest to learn the name of who your father is certain is involved of handling drugs around the neighbourhood and apparently there’s a child involved.

Your father has been playing pretend friends with the man to gain information. You suppose he wants you to try and find signs of neglect since a young child is involved.

“Now I’m gonna talk to him in a separate room but while that’s happening you sneak round the living room but make sure you don’t search out the child, let the child come to you.”

You nod at his words more so for him.

You don’t need instructions from him.

Perhaps your father was still in his commander role since he always had to explain everything to his colleges that lack the average amount of brain cells.

The car pulls up to a small apartment complex that looked as if though it had been rotting for decades. Although you cannot speak as your apartment had also looked as if though it belonged in the slums.

“It’ll be fine.” Your father attempts to soothe you as if you were a child. Whatever impression you gave off he was surely mistaken. As per usual. “Get off.” You mutter, rubbing off imaginary dirt from your sleeve as you hurriedly walk right past him and into the slums.

“You know you can’t keep giving me the cold shoulder forever, y/n.” He states.

He walks far behind you as you sluggishly make your way up the dainty staircase.

“Is it because I didn’t invite you out drinking last week ?” You shake your head at the imbecile. You’re right. He is always behind you.

“Ah Mr l/n ! So great to see an old friend !” The door is already opened before you reach the top of the stairs. A drunken middle aged man stands theres his arms wide open and his face flushed a vulgar scarlet. Your father walks straight past you as the man barely manages to acknowledge you before limping his way back into the apartment.

Your father nods your way before him and the man walk of to some small room.

Slowly but surely you start to eye around. Your eye instantly catches the small scratches towards the end of the door.

Unless a stray had been around you doubt it was caused by an animal. As you step closer towards the corner of the room your nose scrunches up at the noticeable smell. Urine. Despite the tissues that out on the floor, it’s clear to you that there wasn’t much effort into wiping away the unhygienic area.

Hearing a slight shuffle behind you, you look back over your shoulders to discover a small girl no older than six hovering from side to side. Her mouth is slightly opened yet she doesn’t make a sound. The long sleeves hides any indication of bruising or markings. She holds a stuffed toy. Her head slightly tilts towards the wall to her left and it’s then you see the child’s piece of artwork.

Written in crayons, low on the wall displayed for all to see of such foul word that not only a child shouldn’t know but also shouldn’t be able to perfectly spell. There on the stained wall was the word.

WHORE

Somewhat amused, you crouch down before the shy girl pointing at the word.

“Is that suppose to be me ?”

Before you could analyse the girl further, both men walk out the room distant as per usual. Perhaps the young girl and you shared some in common.

“y/n.” He whistles, nodding back towards the door. Calling you as if you were a dog.

You rise as she rubs the toys stomach repeatedly almost as if she were agitated. She pats the bunny’s head. Wash. She wants in washed. “Next time I come here he will be as pretty as you.” You tell, taking the worn down toy from the girls tight hands.

At that you leave, not daring to look back at the young girl who now has nothing to clutch on to. Oh how you definitely shared more in common.

“Any thoughts ?” You father starts, already pulling out of the driveway. “Clearly he has been bringing prostitutes often.” You sigh.

“He makes sure the prositutes in bed yet not the child.”

“So what did you learn from him.” You attempt to have a conversation with him to somehow give the impression that you actually tolerate his company. However the mask does slip as he recalls you “eyeing towards heaven”

What lies.

“That needn’t concern you.”

Now whose giving the cold shoulder ?

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Seventeen (Part 2)

We get dressed and head off to the festival grounds after that, and Claire, Shane and I agree that we want to go and see Fight Like Apes who are playing at midday. Jen opts to come with us, and I expect Jude to come too, but he decides to go with Joe and Kasper to see some DJ called Tiga, which throws me even more.  Maybe I’m just overthinking. I tell myself he’s being normal, and that he’s probably just playing it cool.

The festival is so busy that day that I don’t see him around again after that, but I try my best to ignore the heavy feeling in my stomach, and the increasing thoughts that maybe I did something to annoy him, or maybe I’m a bad kisser and he’s disgusted by me. Maybe I’m too young and immature, or that he’s figured out that I’m actually a big loser with nothing interesting to say. Maybe everyone is right about me.

Claire is having fun though, and she looks so beautiful dressed all in white in the sun. Every time I think it’s impossible for her to look prettier, she somehow does, and I know I’m not the only one who’s thinking it. I catch Shane looking at her more than once with an expression I’ve never seen him wear before: pure unabashed adoration. Like she’s the sun that lights up his sky. I hope he realises how lucky he is. They’re inseparable all day, and stand together through every concert we go to with their arms around each other, him delivering little kisses to the top of her head as he holds her. Watching them like this makes my heart ache. I want more than anything for somebody to look at me like that, or to touch me like that, but instead I feel heavy with the knowledge that the boy I like is off somewhere, lost in the realm of this gigantic festival, probably with a plastic cup of Corona in each hand, listening to some mindless electronica that he doesn’t even enjoy and not thinking much about me at all. 

I don’t do a good job of hiding my listlessness when Jen and I sit down for lunch together in the shade of the marquee we were just crammed into for a Crystal Castles gig a few minutes ago. 

“What’s up, chicken?” She unwraps a burrito and lays into it. 

“Nothing. I’m tired.”

She nods. “Have you had anything to drink?”

“No.”

She slides the cup of beer she bought for herself across the picnic bench to me and gestures to it like Bon Appetit. “Have one on me, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Won’t drinking just make me feel worse?”

“No! There’s truly nothing a drink won’t fix, right?” She nudges Shane, who’s just joined us at the table with Claire still stuck to his side. He looks at me disapprovingly and then starts to say something boring about how I’m too young to drink, even though he was miraculously fine with Claire doing it yesterday, but Jen just rolls her eyes and tells him to shut up. “You have to stop with this protective-older-brother craic, let her live her life.”

“Well I know her mam, and I know what she’d say if she knew she was drinking.”

“Are you going to tell on her?” 

He knows it’d be heinous to do that, and I know that he never would. I grab the beer and I gulp it down, just to show him that I can. I’ve been drinking since I was fifteen and I know how to handle it as well as he does.

“Better?” Jen asks me, and I nod, even though I find beer to be generally disgusting. The taste transports me to days spent drinking Tesco lager in a field after school until someone throws up. I bring the empty cup over to a nearby bin where a guy with shorn hair is openly urinating. “That’s so foul.” I tell him, letting my horrible feelings seep out of me. I don’t care, he’s a stranger. 

“Piss off.” He suggests, and then directs the stream towards me instead. I jump out of the way too late and it splashes on my wellies. I cry out and try to shake them dry while he cackles with delight. Everything around me seems ugly, I’m so aware of the litter all over the ground, overflowing bins, the horrible man who pissed on my boots, and the smell of distant porta-loos. The sweet, cloying taste of beer in my mouth is making me feel ill. 

Claire is so happy that she’s able to buy alcohol now, so throughout the day I keep giving her money to get me cups of white wine. I drink them quickly, and eventually they do make me feel better, in an synchronously awful kind of way. We go from gig to gig, and I have drink after drink until the day blurs together into one long smear of loud drum beats and bitter wine. I don’t ever really get drunk, the time between each break and the queues for the alcohol stands is so long that I just stay in this queasy purgatory state between states of being until I run out of money and nobody wants to buy anything else for me.

The evening settles down with the smell of bonfires, and eventually we meet up with the three others under the entrance to go and see Foo Fighters, which everyone unanimously decided would be the unmissable gig of the weekend. I feel nervous in anticipation of seeing Jude, now so entirely convinced after a whole day of catastrophizing that he hates my guts, actually, and wouldn’t come to my funeral if I died. 

He’s not that bad, but he’s not being especially friendly either. The only way I can think to describe him is as neutral. Like he’s not experiencing any emotions right now, and when I’m used to him being so lively and expressive it’s very unsettling to be around him. When we start pushing into the crowd I give in to my anxiety and touch Jen’s elbow. “Is Jude okay?”

She nods while rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I think he’s just in one of his moods.”

I didn’t realise he had moods. I can’t think of what to say to that, my thoughts feel fuzzy, so I just utter a dejected: “Oh.”

“Don’t worry about it, he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I had to see him like this all the time at school. Just ignore him, he’ll be grand tomorrow.”

“Nothing happened to him, did it?”

“I doubt it. He’s just in his head about something, probably.” She leans towards me. “He’s a scorpio.” She explains, as though that’s supposed to mean something to me. 

I’m still trying to remember what scorpios do when we reach the churning centre of the crowd. It makes me anxious, but everybody else is just diving right in, so I do too. I’m wedged between walls of bodies on all sides of me, but there’s a distinct excitement rising all around. I’m still holding on to Jen, the others seem to have been swallowed up by the crowd like they were never there in the first place.

The first thing I can hear is the soft plucking strings of the opening line of The Pretender rings through the air, and then I can’t see Dave Grohl, but I can hear him. The crowd starts to transform from a solid mass of bodies into something fluid, and I realise that I’m being pushed out of the way, my spot being stolen by big men shoving their way to the front, all limbs flailing everywhere, launching themselves through the crowd to try and get closer as the drums start pounding. One of them actually grabs the back of my shirt and yanks me backwards out of Jen’s grip like I have no right to be where I am, no girls allowed in the Foo Fighters mosh pit. Another one crashes suddenly into the side of my ribs and I am so desperate to escape. When a third bangs his body against me he catapults me into the man behind me and tears spring to my eyes. I let myself go totally limp and let the heaving motion of the animal spit me out to the back shoulders shaking, sobbing and alone.  

When I look back at the pulsing crowd I can’t believe I was in there. It’s a rat king of testosterone, men shoving each other around to the music, hands grabbing collars and shoulders, and in the middle of it I see Joe, Kasper and Jude, gleefully participating in the chaos. I can’t help but feel dismayed, remembering how quick he’d been to save me from the crowd yesterday, holding me in front of him and shielding me from pointy elbows and stomping feet, and today when the crowd is bigger and rougher he’s left me to fend for myself. I don’t know what I did. Maybe I’m just too inexperienced, and he wants a woman, not some seventeen year old. I should have let him keep kissing me, I should have let him take me back to his tent and shown him that I’m grown up enough. That’s what a normal girl would have done. 

I go and stand at the very back where I can see the band, but barely. They’re just little black smudges on a blazing stage. I know the songs but I don’t sing along, or dance, or even uncross my arms from my chest. I stand there until they finish, crying my makeup off my face. I feel like a husk. Hollowed out, nauseous, tipsy. 

Prev // Next

[envihellbender]

What would the successful Last Feast look like?

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Jared Hopworth, John Haan, Monster Pig

Content: gore, bodily fluids, extreme weight gain, animal death, cannibalism

Summary: The UK succumbs to the flesh

—

Jared Hopworth may cause the Last Feast in Istanbul, but it’s the Magnus Institute in London he decides to build the centre of his new world. When it begins, the blue of the sky fades. It becomes grey before turning to the yellow of pus, there’s a strange fractal pattern across it that’s only visible without a telescope when a strange electricity pulses through it. The ground becomes soft and wet, it almost seems to breathe. Flowers aren’t flowers anymore, petals are like skin and they smell of meat. The only respite from feeling as if you’re being marched towards the Killing Floor is if another Fear takes an interest in you.

In place of the Panopticon would be the Abattoir, except instead of towering over all of London, the entire capital city has turned into the horrifying palace of bones, blood, visceral, fat, and muscle. From the outside it’s a gigantic grey building with chimneys that go far beyond the sky, pumping out foul smelling smoke that covers the entire country. There are gigantic metal doors that open automatically to welcome in their guests, the walls inside are covered in flesh and muscle, pulsing and pumping constantly. The first rooms you see are the Flesh Avatars that have happily embraced their new place. John Haan can be found chopping up the victims of the flesh, the ones who stumbled into the Abattoir or who were in London when the Last Feast began. He had his own Killing Floor now, the zombie of his son Tom dutifully bringing him more humans to be toyed with, eaten, or fed to the Boneturner.

If you go down to the pens where the livestock is kept, be careful not to vomit because it’s like catnip to the ruler of the pens. In each one are shaking, sobbing victims, fat with hormones being pumped into their body and covered in their own urine and faeces. In the centre of the hall is sat the most gigantic hog than could possibly have existed outside of the Abattoir. The pig could have crushed Buckingham Palace underneath its behind and its breasts and head are hidden through its gigantic gut. If you were able to climb a top of it, you’d see a grotesque beast, a neck roll that swelled and caused a fat head to sink into it with a snout poking out. As his useless arms can’t lift themselves, and his trotters are pathetic stubs, the building brings his meals to him. The pulsing meat on the walls dragging and passing him down the line until they reach the gaping maw of the sow.

In the heart of the building is the Flesh Garden, where rests Jared Hopworth, or what was Jared Hopworth. Now he’s The Boneturner. If you’re unlucky enough to reach his flesh garden, the first thing you would see was a table, a long, wide table covered in rotting carcasses. Cadavers that have maggots crawling in them but are still being left to be feasted on by The Boneturner. If time still worked, it would take the time to walk to the head of the table as it would to walk from one side of the London to the other. What you will see however is tendrils, so many tendrils. Some of them are pink and pulsing, they’re humming as if they’re pumping a substance towards something. Others are hard white bones with sharp edges that follow the same route as the others.

The denizens of The Abattoir and the Flesh Garden exist to serve the Boneturner, all of the flesh that is shredded from those who enter is fed to him eventually, and the bones are added to his own. Few actually see the ruler of this new world, and only the unlucky are given the opportunity. He isn’t recognisable as anything that was ever remotely human anymore. The fleshy tendrils have sharp teeth when they reach their ends which sink into The Boneturner’s skin and cling to him, pumping him full of all the fat and viscera in the Abattoir. The ones they tangle around, that are hard and white as bone are the man himself, he has become so full of bones that they pierced his muscles and skin. Parts of him have tons of bones forced into gigantic mounds of fat, but the ones that don’t have flesh to cover them simply split his skin open and keep growing. Everything in this new world exists to feed, sustain, and add to his collection.

[nanshe-of-nina]

Favorite History Books || The Royal Art of Poison: Filthy Palaces, Fatal Cosmetics, Deadly Medicine, and Murder Most Foul by Eleanor Herman ★★★☆☆

For centuries, almost every death of a relatively young royal was rumored to have been caused by poison. But was it poison? Or had they all died of natural causes? I decided to return to this absorbing topic, which so adeptly combines my love of forensic crime shows with my passion for the past. I soon found myself up to my elbows in the grisly, the astonishing, the tragic, and the hilarious. I learned how to perform a sixteenth-century autopsy and embalming—not something for the faint of heart. Wide-eyed, I read Renaissance beauty recipe books whose ingredients included mercury, arsenic, lead, feces, urine, and human fat. I dove into modern scientific papers on the exhumations of royal bodies found to be riddled with a variety of toxic materials. And I discovered the elaborate—and to us comical—poison-prevention protocols at royal courts. As I delved into this world, I learned that palaces were bursting with many kinds of poison, not all of them deadly doses of arsenic intended to kill. Gazing at the gorgeous portraits of centuries past, we don’t see what lies beneath the royal robes flashing with diamonds: the stench of unwashed bodies; the lice feasting on scalps, armpits, and private parts; the lethal bacteria from contaminated water and poorly prepared food; and the excruciating cancers eating away at vital organs. We can’t smell the nauseating odors of overflowing chamber pots or the urine-soaked staircases where courtiers routinely relieved themselves. We don’t glimpse the barbaric medical treatments more dangerous than the original illness itself, or elixirs designed to beautify that sometimes killed. To bring you into this world of sublime beauty and wretched filth, I first investigate the palace poison culture of prevention, protocols, and antidotes, followed by chapters on deadly cosmetics, fatal physicians, and the royals’ perilously unhealthy living conditions. I then examine twenty cases of royal personages rumored to have been poisoned, from the renowned, such as Napoleon and Mozart, to the obscure, such as a fourteenth-century Italian warlord and a sixteenth-century queen of Navarre, household names in their own time but mostly forgotten in ours. … What I have found is that people living in terror of poison were, in fact, poisoning themselves every day of their lives, through their medicine, cosmetics, and living conditions. At Europe’s dazzling royal courts, beneath a façade of bejeweled beauty, there festered illness, ignorance, filth, and—sometimes—murder. Nor is poisoning of one’s political rivals hermetically sealed in the past. As my final chapter will show, in some countries political assassination by poison is as alive and well as ever it was in the sinister royal courts of the Renaissance.

[cfk302-blog]

In the local jail, the hours stretch endlessly. Most of the time, the only way to kill time is simply to sleep.

Then, for a brief moment, you can escape—dreaming away from the shackled existence in a confined space. Like this inmate. He lies in the fetal position, protecting himself from the desolate environment surrounding him. The calm will soon be broken when the man beside him is woken up by the cheesy stench of his foul-smelling feet. After his intake into the local jail, he hadn’t been able to shower for six days. As a result, he reeked offensively of a mix of sour sweat, dried urine, and the grimy residue clinging between his flabby buttocks.

This other man had also sought an escape from the chaos downstairs and decided to take a nap. For a fleeting moment, he was back home, snug on the couch with his family. But then, he was jolted awake by the sound of men shouting over one another. What followed was: "Wake up, you lazy piece of crap." It was a guard who pulled him out of his sweet dream. Reality hit him again as he realized where he was. He pulled himself out of bed, slid his bare feet into his stinky slides, and began to shuffle aimlessly through the halls of the local jail, where he was serving an 8-month sentence for unpaid fines.

The ‘upside’ of the local jail is that you wear the same outfit during the day and at night. These three men were already preparing for the night, lying on their beds half an hour before the lights would be turned off. They could just keep their orange jumpsuits on. They’re like oversized babies, entirely at the mercy of their guards, who dictate every second of their day.

[rebbiasisback]

In a dark, abandoned warehouse, Eric had been planning his most heinous prank yet. The air was thick with the smell of decay and rot, and the only sound was the distant hum of flies.

Rebbias, unaware of the horror that awaited him, was dragged into the warehouse, his eyes wide with fear. Eric's plan was to subject him to a series of depraved and disgusting challenges, designed to break his mind and body.

The first challenge was to force Rebbias to eat a bowl of rotten, maggot-infested food. The smell was overwhelming, and Rebbias gagged as he was forced to consume the foul substance. Eric watched with a twisted sense of glee, his eyes fixed on Rebbias's contorted face.

But that was only the beginning. Eric had set up a series of twisted challenges, each one designed to push Rebbias to his limits. He was forced to drink a glass of urine, and then to eat a plate of feces-covered crackers. The smell was overwhelming, and Rebbias's stomach churned with nausea.

As the challenges continued, Rebbias's body began to break down. He was forced to endure hours of physical torture, his body battered and bruised. Eric used a variety of twisted tools, including pliers, hammers, and knives, to inflict maximum pain and suffering.

But the worst was yet to come. Eric had saved the most depraved challenge for last. He forced Rebbias to perform a series of disgusting and degrading acts, including eating his own vomit and drinking his own urine. The smell was overwhelming, and Rebbias's mind was shattered by the horror of his situation.

As the prank reached its climax, Rebbias was left a broken, shattered shell of his former self. His body was covered in bruises and scars, and his mind was forever damaged by the trauma he had endured. Eric, meanwhile, watched with a twisted sense of satisfaction, his eyes fixed on Rebbias's defeated form.

The warehouse was a testament to Eric's twisted sense of humor, a grim, nightmarish realm where the boundaries between sanity and madness were blurred beyond recognition. The air was thick with the smell of decay and rot, and the only sound was the distant hum of flies.

As Rebbias lay on the floor, his body broken and his mind shattered, Eric began to laugh. The sound was maniacal, a twisted, evil cackle that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. The prank had reached its climax, and Eric had emerged victorious.

But the horror didn't end there. Eric had one final twist in store for Rebbias. He forced him to watch as he performed a series of disgusting and degrading acts, including eating his own feces and drinking his own blood. The smell was overwhelming, and Rebbias's mind was forever damaged by the trauma he had endured.

As the darkness closed in around him, Rebbias knew that he would never be the same again. The trauma of the prank would stay with him forever, a constant reminder of the horror that he had endured. And Eric, the twisted and depraved individual, would always be the one who had inflicted this degradation upon him, a monster who had taken pleasure in his suffering.

The prank had reached its conclusion, and Eric had emerged victorious. But the true horror was only just beginning. Rebbias's mind was forever damaged, his body broken and scarred. He would never be able to escape the trauma of the prank, and Eric would always be the one who had inflicted it upon him.

The warehouse was left to decay, a grim, nightmarish realm where the boundaries between sanity and madness were blurred beyond recognition. The air was thick with the smell of decay and rot, and the only sound was the distant hum of flies. The prank had left its mark, a twisted, evil legacy that would haunt Rebbias forever.

[ooc-miqojak]

Fuck Landlords

Today, I started sharpening my proverbial knives for this winter's Devouring of the Landlord. Here is the snipped text from an email I got from her today in response to a request that they assist me with a foul smell emanating from a wall in my apartment.

Since the snip is so small, I'll copy/paste what the bitch wrote when I told her that there is a horrifyingly vile stench of death in a closet/in a wall that is between my downstairs closet, and my computer room. A smell that is so pervasive, it has even begun to stink upstairs now that it has been almost a week we've been waiting for this to be dealt with (this is a closet under the stairwell).

"We had a maintenance tech and our pest control vendor come over earlier to look at and identify the smell.  They said they noticed a smell but it was not strong.  The pest control vendor said it did not smell like an animal and he did not see any animal droppings.  He was concerned that it may be a pet going to the bathroom in the closet?  Is there anything that could have spoiled that is in a box or around the closet?  Perhaps some cleaning out may help? He will come back in a couple of days and if it has not gone away can go in and open the wall.  We reached out to the resident in the unit below and they are alive.  So there are no dead bodies in the building. Please let me know if the smell continues."

So, when I complain that there is probably a dead squirrel in the wall in my apartment (and intimated they might want to do a quick wellness check on my elderly neighbor downstairs just to be safe, because you never know)... they send pest control who says 'nope, no pests here!'...which I already knew, because I didn't need pest control. Then, either the landlord is lying to me about what pest control said, or he seems to think my cats have human hands that can twist round doorknobs, and they are using their ~magical human hands~ to sneak into my closet to take massive, invisible shits, then they are leaving the closet and closing the door behind them. She is implying that it is my fault and I must just...be living in filth? Except...what pest control person thinks that feces and urine smell like death? And I doubt that anyone said 'the smell wasn't strong', because the first maintenance person to show up today immediately noted that it smelled like death/rot, and even mentioned they'd probably have to open the wall up to access it!

So the bitch lies to me, gaslights me, and then insinuates I must let what are effectively my children shit in the floor, and that's clearly the source of the stench. Except, I know my rights, and I wrote her about 4 paragraphs back about how I know my rights, how what she did is gaslighting and inappropriate and incredibly condescending... and in as kind a way as is possible, made it clear that I'm willing to make this a long, ugly fight she's not going to win. I grew up in the Southeastern U.S. - I will smile bright, call you hon, and the venom you never see will still melt the flesh from your bones, so I think she got my point. She is bound by law to deal with this issue, especially as it could be a health hazard - and it's real funny how her tune changed completely in her responding email, upon having me point out how I would also be making sure to hold onto her condescending and wildly inappropriate email here that blames me and condescends to me (especially as she is not the first member of management to try and step to me), for when I take this complaint further up to the parent company that owns this place.

Just a shame her apology email came too late, and I had already left a voicemail and an email for the parent company about the shockingly inappropriate behavior of this employee, and how she sets a low bar for their brand.

(It's worth noting that she's full of shit on other points, too - I specifically mention in my first complaint email that this closet stores nothing in it but nice smelling candles and toilet paper. So the bullshit question about cleaning it out just amounts to 'cOuLd It Be ThAt YoU'rE jUsT gRoSs?', which is wildly inappropriate, as well!)

Eat the godamned rich. Hold your ground against landlords.

Make them eat shit.

Edit: I made a follow up post to this, but the tl;dr is that I was right and she was wrong(obviously), and she refuses to actually apologize - she just makes almost-apology-excuses for her dogshit behavior. I hope she gets food poisoning over the holidays.