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impale-me-radio-daddy · 7 months ago

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Reddest Flags, Longest Nights

⩙ Summary: The year is 1989. The Berlin Wall has fallen, and Nintendo have just overseen the release of the Game Boy. The first ever episode of Baywatch has just aired, and Ted Bundy has just been executed by electric chair. Vox's relationship with the Radio Demon is on the rocks. Their solution? To add a third person to their bedroom: you

⩙ Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Vox X reader X Alastor, Radiostatic is a committed relationship (well, they're trying), Reader is a girl and she has a pussy, tentacle sex

⩙ Other notes: This is set in a sexy alternate universe for the characters in @bapple117's Bluest Monday

“I'm not for sale,” you say. It's a truly stupid, suicidal thing to say, with the Television Demon's talons wrapped around your arm, and his associate the Radio Demon watching with amused interest as Vox pulls you into their private booth.

“Come now, dear, that surely isn't true.” It's not Vox who speaks, but Alastor, his tones the same genial, cheerful ones he uses for his broadcasts. “Everyone has a price, after all.”

“Everybody fuckin' wants something, yeah.” Vox agrees, releasing your arm once he's convinced that you won't immediately bolt away. He's not slurring his words, but his movements are clumsier than you would expect. He's drunk, you realize. Both of them are. “People want power. Money. Control.”

“Sex,” says Alastor, flashing a grin at Vox, who makes a noise like someone just tuned him to a dead channel, his face filling briefly with static.

“Shh-yeah, some people want sex, Al. That's a normal fuckin' thing to want.”

Alastor's smile grows, a little smug, a little cruel, and his red eyes turn to you. “What about you, dear? Do you want sex?”

“Al! You can't just fuckin' ask a girl that!”

“Last I checked I was better informed on etiquette than you, old chum,” Alastor's smile slides sideways. “And besides, if our interests align, there's a deal to be had.”

You hadn't come to the club intending to sell anything, but the two demons are adept negotiators- Alastor assuring you that no, he doesn't need your soul per se, just your services, services of a personal, private nature, and aren't you inclined to give those, isn't it in your own best interests? All the while Vox is giving a more direct incentive, the front of his boxy face focused on you, entirely you, dexterous talons skating over the exposed skin of your forearms with enough pressure to make you shiver, with the implied promise that he could touch you in less socially acceptable places, if only you would agree to what the Radio Demon was offering.

You're tempted. You're so, so tempted. You know that this is a bad idea, that these two are bad news to be around, that you should just go back to your normal sinner life, but instead you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely to Alastor's solicitations, and Vox, still touching you, grows bolder, his hand dropping below the table to stroke your thigh.

The top of your thigh at first, skating the seams of your clothes, then dropping to your inner knee, Vox's claw drawing a daring line from your knee and up your inner thigh to your panties.

Your breath hitches, and Alastor tips his head at you, expression amused. “You seem distracted. Would you like me to repeat that last part?”

“Would ya like me to repeat that last part?” asks Vox, his grin as wide as his face and lecherous.

“I can make him stop, if you'd prefer,” says Alastor, with a casual menace.

It's hard to listen to the full terms and conditions with Vox's fingers massaging the fabric of your panties, and maybe that's the intention, but you can't bring yourself to ask him to stop, or even to ask Alastor to ask him to stop.

“What've you got to lose?” says Vox, his heavy box of a head nudging against your shoulder as the pads of his fingers press against your now slick-drenched gusset. Your thighs press together, his hand trapped between.

“Of course,” says Alastor. “If you'd like to think about it-”

“Oh, she's thinkin' about it, Al,” says Vox, his tone laden with filth.

“I'll do it!” you blurt, and both of their faces light like pinball machines. “I mean, yes.”

“Splendid,” chirps Alastor. “Now, as a rule, I will close a deal with a handshake, but for this-”

A kiss.

You've never imagined kissing the most terrifying demon in all of Pentagram city, so you have no idea what to expect, but Alastor's hand on your cheek is a feather light touch, a swirl of green magic around you. His lips on yours are chaste, brushing rather than prying, in stark contrast to Vox, who takes the opportunity to push your panties to the side with his fingers and stroke a slow line along your slick-coated inner lips. You whine against Alastor's mouth, and he slides his hand to the back of your head, holding you there as the deal is sealed.

That’s how you go home with them, Alastor holding the green chain that fastens to the shackle around your neck. Vox drives uptown, away from Voxtek, away from the Radio Demon’s broadcasting tower, and you end up in a quiet, well-appointed apartment in the most nondescript tower block that you have ever seen.

You note the shoe rack; the way that Vox’s shiny black dress shoes are stacked up next to Alastor’s bespoke deer-soled boots, and it occurs to you that this isn’t just Vox’s playboy apartment, as you’d expected. The two of them live together. There is only one bedroom.

“So, what now?” asks Alastor, holding out a gentlemanly arm for you to lean on as you remove your shoes in the entrance. “I believe your suggestion was to try new things, yes?”

“Jesus, Al.” Vox’s sigh is heavy. “We’ll just go to the bedroom, undress, and, uh, see where we go, yeah?”

“See where we go?” Alastor’s voice inflects upwards into his upper registers, the sound of a capacitor about to burst, and you realize that you are in considerable danger.

Alastor is grinning, but his body language is stressed, his ears back, lips pulled back over his gums to show the most of his teeth. In your second possibly suicidal move of the night, you squeeze his arm, where you have been holding him since taking off your shoes.

Alastor’s gaze snaps to you, eyes dangerously red, but there’s uncertainty in the corners of his smile. He kissed you, back in the club, you reason, so he can’t find you entirely objectionable. You lower your gaze, sliding a hand up his forearm, and his ears shift, subtly. He exhales, a little of the tension going out of his chest, and you slide your hand to his upper arm, pushing him back against the coat rack behind him, pressing him against an electric blue shell jacket, and he just lets you.

If Alastor were half a foot shorter you would kiss him, but as it is he stares down at you, his smile a question, until finally he gets what you’re trying to do, and bends his knees fractionally so that you can stand on tiptoes and press your face to his.

You can feel his smile under your lips, parting as you dare to pry, your tongue finding his teeth, and then the tip of his tongue, cautious against yours. You can feel the little shiver of his breath, his hand down your back. At first you think he’s about to slip his hand under your waistband, but instead he spreads his large hand under your ass, cupping it, and lifts you off your feet.

You feel a moment of vertigo, and a swoop in your stomach that is definitely not vertigo as Alastor holds you with your face level to his and slips his entire tongue into your mouth. You took him initially as a conservative kisser, but perhaps he was holding back before. You groan against his lips, feeling heat spread into your lower half as his tongue explores your mouth, the tip probing the roof of your mouth, the soft flesh of the insides of your cheeks. It’s not just the kiss but the feeling of helplessness that it brings, of being held aloft by a being so much more powerful than you. Your knees press the coats either side of Alastor’s waist as he cradles your ass, your tongue lapping against his, eyes closed, arms locking around his shoulders. By the time he breaks the kiss you are gasping, heart pounding in your chest, and Alastor gives you an appraising look.

“You are very small,” Alastor comments, his face a little flushed from the kissing. He doesn’t set you down, however, shifting his forearm under you as you wrap your ankles around his waist, his staff in his other hand.

“Ah, she’ll do fine, Al,” says Vox with a glance over his shoulder, unbuttoning his shirt as he stalks through the living area and into the bedroom. Alastor follows, carrying you as if you weigh nothing.

Seeing the bedroom only serves to solidify your impression that the two of them live here together. There is definitely Alastor’s side of the bed, with red deer themed slippers poking out from underneath, and Vox’s side of the bed, with a digital alarm clock and a special pillow with a square cutout for his head. Two powerful demons, together in secret. It’s enough to make your head spin as Alastor sets you down, gently, on the his side of the bed.

“Alright, let’s fuckin’ do this.” Vox clambers onto the bed, shucking off his shirt, a pause before he reaches you, his hand on your knee. “You too, Al.”

“Must I?” Alastor gives a sideways sort of smile.

“You don’t say that in front of a girl!” barks Vox, and you get the impression he would be pulling his own hair, if he had any. “You’re gonna hurt her feelings or some shit. And yeah, Al, you gotta join in. Otherwise it’s just me fuckin’ a girl on the bed in front of you, and that’s not really a fuckin’ threesome now, is it?”

Alastor smiles thoughtfully. “You did say we would see where we go. I could read a book.”

“Fuck my life,” Vox mutters, flopping back, his boxy head hitting the duvet heavily.

You tug on Alastor’s sleeve again, catching his attention. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“I’m aware,” says Alastor, expression guarded, smile thin. He pauses. “Are your feelings really hurt?”

Your smile is wry. You’d be lying if you said his reticence didn’t hurt, at least a little. “My ego, maybe?”

“Ah.” Alastor looks down at you, and you are caught for a second by just how red his eyes are, like rubies, or pools of fresh blood. His fingers whisper across your cheek, pushing away a strand of hair. “We can’t have that now, can we?”

Tossing his staff onto Vox’s supine form, Alastor climbs onto the bed. He cups your face in his hands and kisses you for the third time that evening, all pretense of propriety gone as he pushes you onto your back, your head onto his pillows and his tongue snaking its way into your mouth. It takes your breath away; you can feel nothing else, only the dance of your tongues and lips, slick with saliva, Alastor’s hands sliding down to your jaw and your neck with the barest pressure. He traces the lines of your arteries, almost absently, and you moan into his mouth as you feel your body respond to him, your pulse growing insistent between your legs. You spread your knees without even thinking about it, your cunt level with his navel as you lie shameless and gasping and red-faced beneath him.

“Now we’re talkin’” Vox grins sidelong at the two of you, propping himself up on his elbows. “You are such a fuckin’ tease, Al.”

“Mm…” Alastor looks down at you, his lips parted and shiny with spit. “I do hope that’s a compliment.”

“Thank you,” you breathe, and Alastor presses a finger lazily to your lips, his eyes narrowing fractionally as if to say no thanks needed.

Vox, meanwhile, is removing your panties. He’s not shy of the Radio Demon’s body either, his hand on Alastor’s flank as he makes the space he needs to get them off. In short order you are naked, your clothing peeled away and the sheets warm against your back, though with the gazes of the two men on you, the room feels far from cold. Vox is down to y-fronts, which his cock strains against valiantly, while Alastor keeps his trousers and shirt, his tie and waistcoat discarded beside the bed.

Vox kisses your breasts, not even trying for your face, Alastor sitting back to give him better access. Vox’s lips are strange, part of the curvature of his front glass and yet not, warm and staticky against your skin, supple as his lips curve around your nipple and suck. His tongue is stranger yet, its sensation alien as the buzzing of fluorescent lights as he traces a circle around your areola and brings your nipple to a shivering point. Vox repeats the action with your other breast, Alastor stroking the vents on the back of his boxy head, his expression unguarded and fond.

“Al-” Vox makes a frustrated noise, his breath hot on your breast. “Pay attention to the girl.”

Alastor smirks, his expression almost flirtatious. “I was,” he says, his eyes meeting yours briefly, “But you and your big head got in the way.”

“Oh for crying out loud, Al.” Vox pinches the top of his frame with two fingers, his other hand on your breast. “There’s plenty to be done here-” Vox’s hand moves down your body, over the softness of your stomach and to your sex, a reassuring squeeze on your hip.

Alastor looks at you, your pink cunt spread open for him, and his brow knits slightly. He’s still touching your leg, hand stroking your shin where it rests against his waist. He’s nervous, you realize. Afraid of fucking up. Afraid of spoiling things.

“Wait-” Vox’s face is thoughtful as he reaches the same conclusion. “You’ve never eaten a girl out, have you?”

“I’ll have you know,” says Alastor, his spine straightening a little. “That I ate two ladies just last week.”

“No, fuck- I mean… eat pussy, Al.”

Alastor raises an eyebrow. “Certainly not!” he pipes. “The taste is revolting, the fur gets stuck in my teeth, and they have too many small bones.”

Vox gives a growl, and you find yourself holding back a laugh. Alastor catches your eye again, his eyes narrowing, red and beautiful as he bends to kiss your knee, a brush of his thin lips. “As my friend here has surmised, I am new to the neighborhood,” he says, his smile a little embarrassed as his gaze travels your inner thigh. “If you would be amenable to showing me around?”

You had expected the Radio Demon to be dominant in the bedroom, to take charge and fill the room with slapping, squelching sounds, but instead he is quiet, his gaze intent as you nervously spread yourself for him. You don’t know what directions he might want, so you hesitate, shrinking back as his eyes seem to drink you in.

“May I?” he asks, and when you nod, he drags a finger through the wetness that seeps viscous from your cunt; a slow, deliberate touch that seems to set every nerve ending in its path aflame. He pulls the finger away, his expression fascinated as a clear string of slick stretches between his finger and your cunt. “How interesting!” he exclaims, before popping the finger in his mouth, eyes closing as he savors your taste.

Vox rests Alastor’s microphone across his knees, impatient. “Al, you’re meant to put your face down there.”

“I’m building anticipation,” says Alastor, his lips a thin smile. “And if you had an ounce of natural showmanship, you would understand that.”

Vox shakes his head, his hands and mouth going back to your breasts, your shoulders and your neck. Vox’s head is too large to comfortably fit in the crook of your neck, but his tongue more than makes up for that, slithering bright across the sensitive flesh of your throat as his claws gently knead your breasts. The biggest side effect of this is that Vox’s large head blocks your view, and you cannot see what Alastor is doing.

There is a cannibal overlord between your legs is the first thought that registers as Alastor’s lips move glacial up your inner thigh. He kisses, he sucks, and he tastes, his fingertips ghosting feather light over your hips and stomach, tracing lines from your navel to your mons.

Vox finally deigns to kiss your mouth as Alastor reaches your cunt. Alastor parts your labia, his long tongue stroking between your folds as Vox’s tongue slips into your mouth, the doubled sensation delicious in its intensity. Alastor’s movements are hesitant, almost conservative, but your cunt is sopping wet enough that even the stripes he licks up your inner labia have you moaning into Vox’s mouth, your hips bucking needy into Alastor’s face.

Alastor’s fingers squeeze into the flesh of your ass, holding you firm as he tends to you, his face pressed firmly into your cunt, lips dragging across slick pink flesh as his tongue probes, a breath of pause between each attempt, his hands weighing how much each teasing lick makes you strain against his grip. His nose brushes your clit, which makes your entire body twitch, and he repeats the action more deliberately a second time.

It’s not long before he has found the most sensitive parts of your anatomy, along with the pattern of touch that best makes you arch your back and cry out. Alastor’s tongue moves back and forth, sweeping hot and wet and divine over you as you spread your knees as wide as they will go, your stomach tightening as you arch your back.

“Holy fuck.” Vox breaks your kiss to look impressed, one clawed hand kneading your chest. “Al, you’re gonna make her cum.”

Alastor doesn’t answer, a primal growl into your cunt, and you cannot answer, the only noise in your throat a mewl of helpless pleasure as Alastor, a man who has spent decades in Hell inflicting pain on souls attacks your nerve endings with a furious precision. You’re going to cum, and you don’t have a choice about it, not with his grip steely on your hips. You want to beg, but your lips can’t even form words as Alastor’s tongue robs you of sense, of language, of decorum, each movement of his mouth sending you hurtling towards the edge. Vox’s hands on you are marginalia to the treatise on pleasure that Alastor’s mouth writes.

It occurs to you, as your orgasm hits, crashing over you and shattering you into pieces, that Alastor might have ruined sex with other men for you. Alastor carries on, tongue pressing into too sensitive flesh through your aftershocks, even as you whine and try to twist away, until Vox touches his shoulder and stops him.

“She’s done, Al,” says Vox, his claws gentle in your hair, and you whimper against the warmth of his chest as Alastor releases you. “Hey, babydoll,” murmurs Vox, the proximity of his screen making the hair on the top of your head stand on end. “You good?”

“Y-yeah.” You swallow, language returning to you in bits and pieces, and look at Alastor, who kneels between your legs still, his face glistening with your juices. His eyes are uncertain, and you reach out to him, catching his thin wrists and pulling him to you.

“You’re good at that,” you say, looking up at Alastor as you lie sandwiched between the two of them, Vox’s strong arms around your waist, Vox’s cock pressing into your lower back.

Alastor kisses you, tasting of you, and pulls back, looking pleased with himself. “It’s a lot like torture,” he says, eyes half lidded. “All I need to do is listen to your screams.”

“God fuckin’ damn it, Al,” grouses Vox. “It’s always the horror show stuff with you.”

“God forbid a man have hobbies,” Alastor’s head tilts, but there’s no venom to his reprise. “And for your information,” he adds, a glance at you. “It’s not always torture. I also enjoy dancing.”

You laugh into your hands, the afterglow of your orgasm filling you with a pleasant kind of warmth, and Alastor steals another kiss, grinning all the while.

“What now?”

“Now?” Vox grins, dangerous. “Now it’s your turn, Al.”

Alastor’s smile becomes fixed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Vox’s smile grows wider, and he disentangles himself from you, a crackling kiss to the side of your head. “C’mere.”

Alastor gives an undignified squeak as Vox leaps and tackles him into the bedsheets, dexterous claws on the buttons of his shirt and his fly.

“Impudent! I can undress mysel- mm!” Alastor is silenced as Vox catches his chin and kisses him, open mouthed, long blue tongue lapping your juices from Alastor’s chin, and you watch as Alastor melts for the Television Demon, his shoulders going slack, his shadow splaying itself across the pillows. Alastor’s shirt comes off without complaint, and you crawl over to touch him, your hands on his narrow chest, his shoulders, his arms, as Vox undresses him the rest of the way. Alastor’s heart is beating fast; you can feel it through your hand on his sternum, like a butterfly’s wings beating futile against a glass windowpane, but it slows as Vox kisses his back, and Alastor places a clawed hand over yours. “I suppose you both mean to fuck me,” he says, a little sulkily.

“You tryna say you don’t want that, Al?” Vox’s teeth glow as he grins. “You don’t want me to fuck you as the lovely girl here sucks you off?”

Alastor’s smile purses, but he can’t bring himself to say no, not with you staring up at him prettily and Vox growling sweet nothings into his neck.

His cock stands at attention, the tip red and angry, and you take him in your palms before you get on all fours and take him in your mouth, feeling the quiver that runs through his stomach as your mouth envelops him.

“F-fuck,” Alastor hisses, filter failing, his hand in your hair as Vox��s talons circle his narrow waist. He’s sensitive- you can tell that much from your first few sucks, his precum salty and organic tasting, each movement of your tongue drawing soft noises from his throat. Part of that might be Vox working him open, your position in the bed lowering fractionally as Vox pushes Alastor’s knees apart.

“See, you want it, don’t you Al? Gettin’ completely fucked.” You feel Alastor’s talons tighten in your hair as Vox pushes into him, Alastor’s cock twitching against the back of your mouth, and you breathe through your nose, enjoying the feeling of Alastor coming undone.

“Vox!” Alastor’s voice is tight, high in his register, and Vox slows, stroking him and easing him through sensation, the two demons’ hips moving in tandem as Alastor ruts into your mouth, a strangled noise in his throat.

“Say you like it, say we fuck you good,” Vox growls soft, but the only things coming from Alastor’s mouth are obscenities, his senses overwhelmed by the two of you working together.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Alastor’s chest heaves, his eyes screwed shut, his lip bleeding where he has bitten it, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every roll of his hips, a lewd little whimper escaping his lips with the apex of each of Vox’s thrusts.

“There you are,” Vox breathes, seeming to sense Alastor’s imminent climax before Alastor himself. You feel Alastor’s cock swell in your mouth, his grip tightening. “We got you, Al. Let go.”

“Don’t -ngh- tell me what to do,” says Alastor, emptying his load into your mouth, hot and salty. He gasps, and you swallow it down. “Shit.”

“Oh, you’re so good, Al. So fuckin’ good.” Vox’s voice is a groan as he presses his face crackling into Alastor’s hair and starts to fuck him in earnest.

You move your face from Alastor’s cock, and it would be the easiest thing in the world to lay back on the pillows with Alastor’s microphone and watch the show, but instead Alastor grabs your wrists and pins you under him as Vox pushes him to all fours, and Alastor kisses you, unreserved and passionate. He tastes of you, and you of him, small whimpers still escaping him as Vox fucks him. Your fingers are in his hair, over his ears, over his antlers, his thin back, and he holds you to his chest, lips locked with yours as Vox finishes inside him, the three of you shivering with it, the room still in the aftermath.

“Ngh.” Vox’s screen shows a test card for a good twenty seconds. “Fuck.”

“Yes,” Alastor agrees, a slow exhalation as Vox withdraws from him.

The three of you are side by side in the bed for a moment as Vox drops to the sheets. Vox’s breathing is labored, Alastor’s more controlled, and neither of them speak.

Alastor rolls onto his back, turning to Vox. “You’d best wash up.”

“What?” Vox narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“It’s rude,” says Alastor, with a coy smile. “To keep a lady waiting.”

“Oh.” Vox stares at you as if he’s just remembered you are there, face coloring. “Oh. Shit. Yeah. Keep her warm for me, Al.”

Alastor takes his staff back in one hand, and pulls you to him with the other, your head nestled nicely against his bony shoulder as you watch Vox disappear into the bathroom, water running. It feels as if you could both drift off like this, comfortable and satiated, and you almost do, until Alastor’s fingers start tracing a slow line from your knee to your thigh, and your eyes flicker open.

“He’ll be pissy if he finds us asleep,” says Alastor, his tone amused. “So, unless you want to see him blow a fuse-”

You swallow as you feel him part your labia with his fingers, careful with his claws as he drags the pads of his fingers through the slickness that seeps from you. “Is this really the best way to stay awake?”

“Probably not,” admits Alastor. “But it is one of the more entertaining ones, don’t you agree?”

“Very,” you agree, your breath hitching as Alastor’s finger graces the base of your clitoris, drawing a small circle, pressing your flesh against the bone of your pelvis with his fingertips. “I am very entertained right now.”

“A performer is nothing without his audience,” quips Alastor, but his smile seems genuine. You’re wondering how he’s going to manage his claws if he fingers you when he extrudes a long black tentacle from his back. “Open wide now.”

Your legs spread, Alastor strokes your knee, the back of your calf, the arch of your foot, and his tentacle slithers, wrapping fully around the meat of your thigh before its tip teases at your cunt.

He doesn’t penetrate you right away, which is a good thing; ready and willing as you are the tentacle is girthy. Instead, Alastor teases with it, his smile relaxed and his ears pricked as he listens to your breathing, your sighs. Your words, when you are able to use them.

“There, there, just there,” you tell him, and your reward is a squeeze of his hand on your ankle, his breathy voice in your ear, telling you what a good audience you are tonight, how supportive, how participatory. The tentacle moves in tandem with his hand, the tip twirling at your entrance as he strokes the folds of your cunt, dragging slick from your hole up over your clit, coaxing it from its hood, his touch so light that it makes you hold your breath, and then firm, a pressure that has you gasping, moaning so loudly that he holds his microphone to your lips and asks you to repeat yourself.

When Alastor’s tentacle pushes its way into you, you are ready, more than ready, speechless at the girth of it and giving heady little gasps as you feel yourself stretch around him.

“You’d better not reach the climax before Vox gets back,” says Alastor, a soft murmur in your ear as you whimper, senseless against his chest. “He really will blow a fuse if you do that.” He’s enjoying himself, you realize. He’s playing with you, his smile relaxed as he manipulates your body to his liking.

But you are already mounting the summit, your body helpless in Alastor’s clutches. He barely needs to use his fingers, not with the tentacle pressed into you, an obscene squelching noise as he curves it in and out of you; Alastor simply holds his fingertips over the tip of your clit and lets the motion of the tentacle do the rest of the work, each brush of contact with the exposed nub of flesh like a lick of flame across your nerves that makes you cry out, over and over, until your throat is hoarse with it.

You cum as Vox returns, a spasm through your body, your cunt fluttering around Alastor’s tentacle, and the Radio Demon grins at Vox.

If Vox’s eyes weren’t just images displayed on his screen, they would be bulging right now. He stares. Alastor grins at him.

“Al.” Vox’s lips are an annoyed line as he watches Alastor pull his tentacle out of you, your cunt fluttering around nothing. “How the fuck am I meant to compete with that monster?” His cock is well proportioned to his frame, but it’s nothing compared to the tentacle. You look between the two demons, hoping they’re not going to fight.

Alastor’s grin widens. “You’re a resourceful man, Vox. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

Vox shakes his head as he climbs back on the bed. “You’ve always gotta fuckin’ upstage me, huh.”

“That’s why you like me so much,” says Alastor. “Isn’t it?”

“Ah, fuck you, Al,” says Vox, all bark, and Alastor beams at him.

Alastor pulls you on top of him, your back to him, and hooks his chin over the top of your head, so that you both face Vox when he climbs atop you, on his hands and knees.

Vox kisses you, softly, hand cupping your face, and you feel Alastor’s sound of approval through your back, the low hum of an electrical appliance.

“You ready, babydoll?” Vox asks, and when you nod, he pushes into you.

You feel him. Your orgasm has made you tender, Alastor’s tentacle has made you tender and you feel every inch of Vox as if your cunt were just made yesterday, shipped direct from the factory.

“Oh fuck, that’s nice babydoll.” Fragments of test card float on Vox’s screen as he pauses, in you to the hilt. “You feel fuckin’ nice. Fuckin’ soft, god.”

You feel Alastor huff into your hair with amusement, and he reaches for your legs, pulling up your thighs and then your knees, pulling your legs flush with your chest; a mating press for you and Vox.

Vox grins, his hands joining Alastor’s on the underside of your knees, and he fucks you in earnest.

That his cock is smaller than Alastor’s tentacle doesn’t matter one bit, not when you’re pressed like this, his cock able to reach the deepest parts of your tender cunt with ease. He fucks you, and you cry out; not the mewling whimper you had before but a full throated cry that escapes you at the apex of each thrust, your throat already sore, your voice cracking, but crying out regardless.

Vox’s monologue is all sweet, sweary nothings- you’re doing so good babydoll, so wet for me, so soft, so good, so fuckin’ good and Alastor’s commentary is drier- do you think you’ll be able to walk again after this? Now that’s a scream worthy of my studio, all the while you are crying out, tears in your eyes, a pressure in your abdomen, Vox hammering into the most sensitive parts of you, over and over and oh.

Your cunt flutters again, Vox growling a good girl before his seed floods into you in hot, pulsing waves.

You lie there, boneless, seeing stars, the three of you breathing hard. Vox drops his face onto your chest, and you stroke his hot vents, as you’ve seen Alastor do. Alastor lets go of your legs, a kiss to the top of your head.

“Fuck,” murmurs Vox.

“Seconded,” you croak.

“Mm,” buzzes Alastor. “Quite.”

Vox rolls off you, and you roll off Alastor, the three of you side by side on the bed, points of contact between you; your leg crossing Alastor’s thigh, Vox’s arm across your stomach.

It is a long, hazy moment before Vox sits up, digging through the dresser on the Vox side of the bed, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“In the apartment?” Alastor complains, sleepy.

“It’s a fuckin’ special occasion, Al,” says Vox, leaning over you to place a cigarette between Alastor’s smiling lips. Alastor takes it, and Vox lights it, before offering the box to you. “You smoke?” he asks.

If you didn’t already, it was a hell of a time to start.

#alastor x reader #vox x reader #vox x reader x alastor #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #vox x you #hazbin x reader #alastor x vox #vox x alastor #vox x y/n #radiostatic x y/n #radiostatic x you #radiostatic x reader #radiostatic #deer x reader x tv #alastor x reader x vox #reader x alastor x vox #reader x vox x alastor #vox x you x alastor

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medusapelagia · 4 months ago

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29 The Escape

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt:Future ) and @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: Force into hiding) Rating: Teen and Up Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: Eddie shaving his head (I know!!!) Words: 1196

“We are leaving. Now.” Steve says, grabbing the duffle bag they always have ready under the bed.

“Who?”

“Suits.”

Fuck. Still better than Demogorgons, but not ideal.

“How many?”

“Eddie, I didn’t stay to introduce myself, ok? I just saw a couple waiting suspiciously outside the diner and I turned back before they saw me.”

“You’re not wanted. You could just go there and tell them I kidnapped you or some shit like that. Everyone will believe you and you will finally be free from hiding.”

“No fucking way. We’re in this together, did you forget it?”

Steve was the only other person at the trailer when Chrissy’s Cunningham body snapped into pieces like nothing. He knew about monsters, and creatures from other dimensions, and now that the big boys have invaded Hawkins, he’s Eddie’s only companion. Steve’s the one who can drive, go grocery shopping, book a stupid motel room, all of this while Eddie hides in the trunk or in the back seat covered by bags and moldy blankets. Because nobody suspects that Steve Harrington, Hawkins's golden boy, is friends with the suspected serial killer Eddie Munson.

Yeah, because after Chrissy other two teenagers died one after the other, Fred and Patrick, and even Max almost didn’t make it. But the danger is still lingering in Hawkins, waiting to find a way to get back to their dimension, and while Eleven, the super girl, and the Party do their best to find a possible solution with the help of Owens’ team, Eddie is still suspect number one so the only thing he can do is hide.

Canada doesn’t sound so bad after all. A little bit cold, maybe, but Steve told him his parents have a house somewhere in Canada and that’s exactly where they are going, traveling by night, driving always within the limits to avoid bad encounters.

Avoiding Hawkins’ checkpoints wasn’t that easy, but luckily the military was still busy coordinating the aid and it wasn’t that hard to pretend that Eddie died in the earthquake, but now that they are finally close it seems that the suit is following them. Maybe they didn’t find a body and so they have sent communication outside Indiana. For the first time ever Eddie saw his face on the television and it wasn’t a nice feeling. But Steve is optimistic, he keeps saying that they are almost there. Just a couple of days more and they’ll pass the border and then things will get better.

“Hey, big boy, need a place to rest?” Eddie asks, seeing Steve’s head fall down abruptly.

“I’m good. We’re almost there.”

“We are not, Steve. We can rest for a moment, you know that right?”

“We can’t keep spending money in motels, we have to save. Canada is expensive.”

“Let’s reach a parking area and rest for a bit, huh? Just half an hour, maybe less.” Eddie proposes, while he knows perfectly well that if Steve agrees he will let him sleep way more than half an hour. The boy has huge dark bags under his eyes, and they haven’t checked his wounds in hours. They surely need to be clean again. And that’s Eddie's second part of the plan. Get clean in a bathroom and maybe do something a little bit drastic but necessary.

“Ok. Just half an hour, ok?”

Eddie winks, fingers crossed behind his back.

Once they find a little rest area he helps Steve in the back of the car, it’s not comfortable enough, Steve is too tall and he’s sleeping all crumpled on the back seat, but it’s still better than sleeping on the driver seat.

Eddie turns on the radio, keeping it softly, listening to the night music. A dejay somewhere is talking to the night people, and Eddie never felt such a deep connection with someone he doesn't even know.

His life, his messy and complicated life, it’s gone. The only person who ever cared about him thinks he’s dead, or a murderer, or both. And he didn’t graduate. Not even on his third try.

The sun is starting to shine when Steve stirs in the back, coursing loudly when he notices how late it is, but Eddie simply shrugs.

“You needed to rest, Steve. We both know it, and a couple of hours will not fuck up our entire plan, ok? Now come on. I need to check your wounds and ask you a favor.

***

The bathroom next to the gas station is filthy, dirty and smelly. The walls that once were white are now yellowish and covered in pornographic graffiti and phone numbers. For a moment Eddie wonders if they should call one of those numbers, just to hear who will answer. Maybe Mary Ann, who seems to be ready to help everyone feel good, is just a nice granny baking cookies in California.

“You ready?” Eddie asks, grabbing the white bag with antiseptic and bandages Steve just bought.

“Be quick, I don’t want to lose more time.”

“Yes, captain,” Eddie chuckles, unwrapping Steve’s bandages while he holds his t-shirt and hisses between his teeth, “This might sting a little. Sorry.”

Steve nods and Eddie cleans the wounds that are still pouring some blood even after days.

“You should have those checked. Like professionally.” Eddie says, trying his best to patch him up.

“Once we’re in Canada I promise I will,” Steve replies, pulling down his t-shirt and covering his hairy chest that was already giving too many ideas to Eddie.

“Now what? You told me you needed a favor.”

Eddie nods, grabbing his switchblade, “Cut my hair.”

“What?! No!”

“I’m too fucking recognizable, Steve. Cut my fucking hair, then I’ll shave my head.”

“I thought you wanted to shave your face! not your hair! I’m not going to let you.”

“So what? Are you telling me what I can do and what I can’t, Stevie?”

“No… it’s just… it’s your hair.”

“They’ll grow back.” and they will, the only thing Eddie doesn’t know is if they’ll grow back in prison or not.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I hate this!” Steve complains, but grabs the switchblade and starts to cut Eddie’s black curls.

The more hair falls on the ground the more Eddie remembers that his father used to keep him with a buzzcut and that he hated it, but that’s not the moment to cry on some stupid hair.

“Do you want me… do you want me to shave you?” Steve asks softly.

“Please…” Eddie begs, unable to stare at the mirror.

Steve squeezes Eddie’s shoulder, trying to reassure him, and then he starts to shave his head. Once he’s done Eddie doesn’t seem the same person as he was when they first entered the bathroom. Even he as to stare at the mirror for a long time to realize that’s him. Once he’s finally convinced they leave the bathroom and get back in the car.

This time Eddie is sitting next to Steve, wearing Steve’s clothes and with a shaved head he keeps playing with.

“You ok?”

“Peachy.”

He freezes when they cross the border, but once they are safely in Canada Eddie takes a big breath of relief.

Maybe he’ll have a future after all.

#au gust #steddieangstyaugust #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #writing prompt #prompt challenge #fandom event #au gust 2024 #alternate universe #writing challenge #steddie event #stranger things #angst #angsty august

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unsolicited-opinions · 3 months ago

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Latest Antisemitism From the BBC

youtube

The speaker, whose lies are not challenged by the host, Mishal Husain, is the University of Tehran's Mohammed Marandi,

An excerpt:

“Because we are all Amelek – we are inferior, they are the chosen people, they are your allies and it’s basically an extension of the Western empire over the last few hundred years – the civilising mission. Wherever the West has gone, they are civilised and that justifies the destruction of the uncivilised and the barbarians, so this is basically a repeat of history and the only solution is resistance.

“The only way forward is resistance because there is nothing that will stop this Israeli regime because that is the nature of the regime…it believes in ethno-supremacism, it believes they are the chosen people, they have exceptional rights and therefore they have exceptional rights to the whole region. It’s not just Palestine, it goes beyond the borders of Palestine.”

How did the host, Mishal Husain, respond?

“Professor Marandi, thank you very much.”

Then the BBC also platformed him on television. That "interview" can be seen on Twitter here.

These sorts of lies are all that Marandi ever offers any time he appears in any media. I fail to understand why any legitimate news agency would give him airtime, let alone the @#&*ing BBC.

#Antisemitism #Bbc #Mohammed Marandi #Mishal Husain #Jumblr #Jewblr #Israel #Youtube

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monstersinthecosmos · 4 months ago

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Vamptember Day 1 - Experiment

{agnes obel - kamma}

Daniel’s thoughts don’t make much sense.

Like everything is a fragment, like nothing is in order.

Sometimes, a sound has a taste to him. Some remembered flavor from his human life, that he’ll never really know again. Sometimes a color has a smell. Sometimes, the music in the background of a television ad sends him spiraling into a memory so deeply that he can’t remember where he is when he comes back up for air.

His thoughts shuffle together. Don’t make much sense. Marius tries to keep a respectful distance, to give him privacy, but checks in from time to time, just to know how he’s doing. It’s often hard to tell. His thoughts are like a kaleidoscope some nights, and the sound of radio static on others. Sometimes he’ll be tidy, in perfect working order, until some intrusive thing sours him. It can be a texture beneath his fingers, a scent, a painting. It’s like an ink bottle tipping over to ruin a half-written page.

Perhaps, Marius wonders, to someone Daniel’s age it’s more like the electricity shorting.

Some nights Marius stares at him, and Daniel doesn’t seem to notice. The child of his child, unmoving for hours, curled into the corner of the sectional sofa. It’s hard to tell how much is his own bias, but Daniel always looks young like this. The Blood had restored the weight in his face, erased the human signs of age, but it’s how small he makes himself. Marius stares, and thinks that Daniel seems like a broken little thing.

“I heard that,” Daniel mumbles.

Daniel rubs at his face. His hunger cramps through his thoughts, permeates the entire room, and the pain in his strained arteries somehow becomes a color in his mind that he can’t unsee. He squeezes the bridge of his nose and pats at the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, as if looking for something.

Old human habit, Marius imagines. Looking for cigarettes that he hasn’t touched in over a decade.

“Would you like to hunt?” Marius asks.

Daniel just shakes his head. He pulls his knees close to his chest. Nails scratch against his scalp.

“You’re hungry,” Marius says gently. He leans into the door frame, crosses his arms over his chest, wondering the best solution here.

Marius is old. He can handle hunger. Likes it sometimes, the way the pain can clear him out a little bit. But Daniel is too young. Shouldn’t go so long without feeding. The weakness brought on only makes his acuity worse, makes him less patient, more quiet. The bad kind of quiet, though.

Daniel’s thoughts race, imagining the next handful of steps it takes to go hunting. Changing his clothes, putting shoes on. The cold wind outside and then the sweltering heat of a bar. The noise. The bitter chemical taste of perfume on a woman’s throat. Cleaning up afterwards. Too much for tonight, and the thought of the swoon isn’t even enough to drag him off the couch.

It’s not good to let the hunger build like this, though. Not for someone like Daniel.

Marius reaches for the light switch beside him, twisting the dimmer to bring the lights lower. He grabs a blanket from where’s it’s lazily thrown over the arm of the couch and brings it closer, drapes it across Daniel’s shoulders as he takes the seat beside him.

“Drink from me, at least,” he says gently, as he unbuttons his cuff, and rolls the sleeve up his forearm.

Daniel turns in his seat. Leans his temple into the soft couch cushion. Rubs his cheek in the fabric for a moment, as if it’s soothing.

Armand’s child. Marius looks at him, really looks, and he can see what Armand saw, just for a second.

Marius holds out his hand. The purple veins still show, just barely. Enough that Daniel’s breath hitches when he looks down and sees them. He shifts, crosses his legs, pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Marius waits, with all his patience. He lets his hand fall into Daniel’s lap, inviting his control.

“I always thought I’d be afraid of you,” Daniel says.

It’s the most he’s spoken in months, but Marius doesn’t point it out. Thinks Daniel might take it badly.

Marius doesn’t answer, either. A quiet Hmm in consideration, to acknowledge him, as he settles back into the cushions. He tucks one of his feet beneath the opposite leg, lifts his free arm to rest on the back of the couch. Snow is beginning to fall outside, and he watches as frost grows on the corners of the windows.

The cool grip, finally, as Daniel touches him. Fingers tentatively curling around Marius’s forearm, as if reaching for a slithering thing. Not real revulsion, though, Marius can tell. Just the exhaustion and curiosity, too fragile to deal with any surprises tonight.

And then his teeth, and the cautious wet-cold press of his tongue. The pain tingles pleasantly in Marius’s spine, breaking through the barrier of immortality for a moment.

“My fledglings weren’t like you,” he says softly, as Daniel drinks. His eyes are closed and he moans, just enough for Marius to hear. Quiet little noise, sated for the moment. Marius wonders what Daniel sees in the Blood, and tries to think of beautiful things.

But my fledglings weren’t like you, he thinks again. Even at her most morose, Pandora still floated at the surface. Amadeo could be reclaimed by a game of the switch.

Maybe Marius just never knew, though. Never saw into their heads like this. Maybe Amadeo was this disorganized, too, maybe that’s why he liked this one.

Daniel pulls away with a gasp, and his voice garbles around the blood in his mouth.

“Armand thought of me as an experiment,” he says. He drops Marius’s wrist and falls back against the cushions. He licks the blood from his teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not—”

“He told me once that he was an experiment to you, too.”

Marius rubs a thumb over the healed wounds in his wrist. Straightens his shoulders as he buttons his sleeve back up.

His throat cramps, and his heartbeat is loud in his own ears. He glances at the snow outside.

“I need to hunt,” he says. He pats Daniel’s thigh as he stands. “Please don’t leave the house without me.”

#vamptember #marius/daniel #marius de romanus #daniel molloy #stuff i wrote #vampire chronicles

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iww-gnv · 1 year ago

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LOS ANGELES (AP) — Talks bitterly broke off between Hollywood actors and studios late Wednesday, killing any hopes that the three-month strike by performers would come to an end anytime soon. The studios announced that they had suspended contract negotiations, saying the gap between the two sides was too great to make continuing worth it, despite an offer they said was as good as the one that recently ended the writers strike. The actors union decried their opponents’ “bullying tactics” and said they were wildly mischaracterizing their offers. “We made big moves in their direction that have just been ignored and not responded to,” Duncan Crabtree-Ireland, the national executive director and chief negotiator for the Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists had resumed negotiations, told The Associated Press on a Los Angeles picket line Thursday. “We’re not going to find a solution to this if they just leave and don’t talk to us.”

#news #us news #uspol #us pol #sag aftra #sag-aftra #amptp #sag aftra strike #sag-aftra strike #actors strike #duncan crabtree ireland

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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

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✰ 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 — 𝐉𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐀

↳ summary: a bad day at work drives you to drink. When a stranger offers to be your drinking partner for the night, you realise that he’s the solution to your problems.

↳ pairing: javier peña x f!reader

↳ [6.7k words] content: 18+ MDNI. Alcohol, diabolical attempts at flirting. Fingering, oral ( m & f receiving ), p in v sex, twist at the end! This is a @beskarbabs remaster — original post date 2021.

javi masterlist I| main masterlist |I join the taglist here

Cigarette smoke and aged whiskey assault your nostrils, the acrid scents singeing the inside of your nose the moment you walk through the doorway and step into the bar. Your aching muscles buzz at the microdose of nicotine, driving you forward despite the exhaustion that desperately tries to pull your throbbing body back to your apartment and the comfort of your bed.

Peering inside, you find the older patrons at the counter smoking cigars while engaged in small talk that you can’t discern from this far away. The smouldering ends pinched between their fingers add to the already significant, smoky haze that blurs the ceiling above your head. Neon lights douse the foggy air with a crimson overlay, and classic Spanish guitar music plays quietly from the radio in the corner of the room. Public houses in the middle of Medellín were busy most nights, but this was a Monday evening, and most of the sticky tabletops were vacant. Desperate to unwind after the taxing work, you resign yourself to the smell of tobacco.

As you reach the bar, you pull your coin purse from your pocket and pinch the zipper between your thumb and forefinger. You can’t help glancing at it as though it may explode in your face. You’re almost out of money; the account is running on empty. Considering you are yet to make a significant breakthrough for your boss and the mission he levied on you, you couldn’t exactly act shocked. You only get money when you provide what he requests. Sure, it probably broke every trading law in the book, but that was the ‘contract’ you’d signed.

You settle onto a stool separate from the rest of the customers and mumble your request to the bartender for a shot of tequila. Sliding over the exact amount of pesos needed to cover the drink over the tacky countertop covered in alcoholic liquid and cigarette burns, you let out a shaky sigh. You couldn't be giving away any tips with how little money you had. In reality, you shouldn't have even walked through the door, but you were desperate to unwind, even just for a little while. It wasn’t ideal, but you could always turn off the television for a week to prevent the electricity bill from racking up more than you could afford – those telenovelas were shit anyway.

Tapping at the surface of the serving area with your nails, you wait impatiently on the drink. You can’t even recall the last time events at work drove you to drink; you usually excelled at meeting your boss's demands. Business had been turbulent recently, the constant violence that plagued the streets of Medellín causing significant strain in your line of work. You rub at your temples with the pads of your thumbs in exasperation as you feel the irritation begin to mount again, nipping uncomfortably at the edges of your mind in the form of a headache.

"You look like shit," the barman points out honestly, and the laugh you return is bitter. If anyone else had ‘blessed’ you with such a compliment, you’d be throwing the tequila into their eyes– but it was too fucking expensive to pass up, and you knew Jose well. He speaks the truth, ugly as it is. You'd been coming to this bar since you moved to Medellín, and you’d never entered the doors as anguished as you are now. He passes over the shot of tequila, and you thank him tacitly with a nod.

"I do," you admit with a sigh of indignation, continuing to tap your nail on the cool, smooth side of the shot glass.

"Lover? Family? Work?" Jose probes, watching you as he polishes a pint glass with a microfibre cloth. You shrug awkwardly, considering just how much you could safely indulge him.

"Work, but it's not that important," you dismiss with a wave of your hand, and he thankfully takes the hint, nodding and walking to serve the older men at the end of the bar attempting to wave him over.

You pick up your shot glass and knock it back with a wince, mildly enjoying the burn in the back of your throat. It adds to the warmth on your skin, the humid summer air having already dampened your brow with sweat. Leaning into the comfort of it, you take a moment to appreciate the taste and the immediate ease of the work pressure that had been silently crushing you.

Tracing the rim of the empty shot glass with your fingertip as you wait for Jose to finish serving the elderly gentlemen, you consider ordering a refill. You don’t plan on getting drunk, but you hope to relax a little. Recently, you’d spent so many evenings staring up at the ceiling while silently bargaining with the plasterboard to let you sleep. The dark circles taking root under your eyes are mildly concerning. Eventually, you decide on just enough to drink to get you tipsy enough to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow in your apartment.

"Need another, Hermosa?" A gravelly voice speaks up over your shoulder. Twisting in the stool, you take a glimpse back at the person who spoke—a handsome man dressed in a red button-down shirt and tight-fitted denim jeans that look as though they went out of fashion a decade ago and yet look delicious strapped across his thighs. He has yellow-tinted aviators tucked into the collar of his button-down, which you observe is unbuttoned far enough that it exposes more of his bronze-tanned skin and flashes his collarbone.

"I do, actually," you hum with a smile, taking him in. He’s easy on the eyes, and you aren't exactly about to turn down a free drink, so you decided to play along with his game. You playfully gaze into those wandering eyes through your lashes, and his sultry lips pull up into a smirk.

The handsome stranger clicks his fingers with self-assured arrogance, grabbing the attention of the barman, Jose, almost instantly. His American accent, laced with a southern twang, slips seamlessly into Spanish, ordering you another tequila shot and himself a glass of whiskey as he settles down on the stool beside you. All the while, his eyes remain rooted to you, taking in the curves and plains of your body. The hubris this man gives off is excessive, and yet it suits him well. It is clear to you he knew how attractive he was, and how to use it to his advantage.

"That's very kind of you, sir," you thank him politely, turning in your stool to face him. He arches his eyebrow a little at that, lips tugging his smile wider. The honorifics seemed to please him.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice you were all alone," he drags his eyes over the length of your body, clearly enjoying drinking in the view, "So I thought I'd join you. You were staring into oblivion looking as though you were waiting for Prince Charming to save you from a miserable day."

"Oh, are you saying you are my Prince Charming?" You quiz with an arched eyebrow, keeping up with his teasing. You rest your chin on the balls of your palm and balance your elbow on the countertop. A sparkle dances in the warmth of his irises, amused by your ability to match his flirtatious taunts.

"Why don't you wait and see?" He keeps his eyes on yours, and his voice drops to a thrilling, gruff tone that sparks excitement down your spine. He’s bold and brazen, and you find yourself already warming to this stranger’s charms. He turns back to the counter, breaking the spell momentarily as Jose approaches with your drinks.

While he speaks to the bartender and thanks him for his service, you mindlessly drop your gaze to his hand and spot something that piques your interest. When he pulls out his leather-bound wallet to pay, you note his identification cards, driver's licence, bank card and recognise the flash of a silver badge too. Etched into the shape of a shield, the badge very clearly states in bold, midnight blue writing that the dashing stranger beside you belonged to the DEA—a Drug Enforcement Officer. You sit back slightly on your stool, observing the man as he hands over a few pesos notes and pushes your drink over the counter to you.

"Cheers, Hermosa," he nods to you, taking up his whiskey and holding it aloft for you to tap your glass against. You waste no time picking up the shot and clinking glasses before knocking back your drink with a grimace. It burns your tongue and heats your stomach lining. He sips at his, swirling the amber liquid around the crystal glass slowly as he takes in the view of your body again.

You purse your lips, glancing around the room for a second to act indifferent, despite the fact you are now very much interested in this stranger. "So, what is the name of my Prince Charming?" You urge him to talk about himself. He smirks at your questioning, undeniably assuming this meant he’d hooked you in this ‘pick-up game’.

"Javier," he answers, sipping his whiskey again as you repeat it back to him with a hum. You trace the rim of your shot glass with your fingertip absentmindedly. The man before you had captured your attention enough for you to escape boredom for just a little while at least. It could get interesting from here on.

"Prince Javier works for the DEA too?" You ask with a knowing smirk. He pauses, glancing at the wallet in his palm. “I didn’t realise they hired royalty.”

"You're observant," Javier says cautiously, his voice suddenly guarded as he places his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans. You shrug, keeping the light and flirty atmosphere between you as Javier rests his forearm on the countertop, still holding his glass of whiskey.

"I have to be. Can't be too careful when a random man is buying me a drink," you point out, indicating you felt safe around him now you knew his occupation.

"But I'm not just a random man, Hermosa. I'm Prince Charming," He winks at you, but also finds himself grimacing at the clunky attempt at flirtatious raillery. It triggers a giggle through you, shaking your head as you twist the shot glass over the countertop with a grin.

"So you keep saying. Why don't you prove it by sticking around and having a few more drinks with me?" You ask in a coy tone while slowly inching forward and tracing shapes on the back of his palm with the tip of your index finger, the pad wet with remnants of your tequila shot that coated the rim of the glass. His eyes flit between your touch to the curve of your lips as a cheeky smile stretches across his mouth.

"Only if you let me buy you another drink," he raises his eyebrows.

"I like the sound of that, Javier."

-----------

The hours fly by, and the hands on the clock on the wall complete two rotations by the time you notice. Javier had moved his stool closer to yours and ramped up the flirting the more he drank. You’d both bounced off each other, conversations about family and interests flowing smoother than the alcohol between you. It’s way past one o'clock in the morning, yet neither of you seemed to tire, invigorated by each other's presence.

You had told him about your funniest stories, and he, in turn, spun you a tale from when he was back in Texas as a teenager, leaving his high school sweetheart at the altar to fight the narcotics epidemic in Columbia— You hang onto his every word, clasping his palm in your own.

At this stage, the two of you had been through quite a few glasses of tequila and whiskey, and while Javier is clearly feeling the effects of his drinks, you maintain a constant tipsiness. You had been pacing yourself, not wanting to look a fool in front of such a handsome man.

Despite his intoxication, Javier was still charming and had been showering you with so many compliments that you had lost count. During the shared drinks and life stories, the two of you had settled on the nickname Princesa despite you giving him your name, given he insisted upon making himself out to be ‘Prince Charming’. It was cringe, but the two of you found the funny side in your drunken states.

"Mhm, Javi- I like your dress shirt," you muse, reaching over to smooth the collar. Your fingertips trace the tanned skin just beyond the fabric, noting the heat that rolls from him.

"You do?" He watches you closely, taking a drag from a cigarette he had lit a few minutes ago. He claimed it was because he was craving the nicotine, but you hadn’t failed to notice how his jeans looked a whole lot tighter.

It was subtle at first. You hadn't been able to stop yourself, moving your hand to his bicep as you laughed, with Javier returning your touches by stroking his hand up and down your thigh while you converse. It had been give and take, teasing touches and lingering gazes adding to the sexually charged atmosphere between you. The circles he thumbed across your knee had settled butterflies in the pit of your stomach, the hungry eye he’d aimed at you heating your cheeks.

"I do. It suits you," you trace your hand down the front of his shirt and across his sternum as you look up at Javier through your lashes. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the warm brown of his irises and watching you hungrily as you circle the buttons of his shirt with your fingertips. You knew that you were driving him crazy; he’d been giving you this look for hours— like he'd been ready to throw you over his shoulder and carry you out of there around an hour ago.

His hand drags up your thigh slowly, settling on the hip of your skirt as he pulls you to the edge of your stool. It tears a gasp of surprise when your noses bump. He makes no effort to remove himself from your personal space, and you can smell the whisky on his breath. It’s strong, the heavy, woody scent swimming in your mind as you sink your teeth into your lower lip.

He groans softly.

"Princesa, this bar is closing soon. Would you like to come back to my apartment?" He says it so casually, as though he isn't implying anything at all. Like he was just asking you back for another drink, his body, however, betrays the unceremonious offer. His eyes are hungry, and his hand squeezes at your hip, underlining the question and almost leaving you light-headed.

"I'd like that," you whisper, gazing back into his brown eyes, your own heavy-lidded with want. He smirks and gets so close, *so close* that you swear he’s going to kiss you until he’s patting at your hip before standing. He thanks the bartender, leaving you light-headed and giving a small wave before Javi practically drags you to the door. The red lighting in the bar bleeds into the street, the dark of the outside punctuated by the yellowish glow of the sparse street lamps.

"I assume you don't live very far away?" You ask quietly as he walks alongside you. He shakes his head and gives a small smile.

"No. I only live around the corner, actually."

Well, that was convenient.

You both walk in relative silence after that, taking in the quiet street and the sounds of the city in the background. Loud drunkards stumble out of the closing bars as the owners begin to throw them out, and there’s the distant sound of cars driving on the main roads.

Distracted by the ‘music’ of Medellin, you felt the back of Javier’s hands brush your knuckles gently, skimming the skin in a feather-light touch. It’s such an innocent connection, and yet the touch sparks heat in between your legs and lights up your spine. You don’t even need to look up at him to see if he feels the same way; the excitement crackles thickly in the slither of distance between your bodies.

You both walk into the apartment's hallway, walking to one of the doors on the first floor, directly opposite the entry door. Room number 3. It's a pleasant apartment complex, unremarkable, clean and quiet, with stairs leading to other floors.

Finally, Javier pulls his keys out of his jeans pocket, and he looks at you. Those fucking eyes drag over your body again, unashamed in how they drink you in and savour the view. You watch, anxious with anticipation and chewing on your lip, as he slips the key into the lock. The click echoes in the small hallway.

The nerves begin to kick in a little now, and you start shifting your weight from one foot onto the other as you wait impatiently. Javi looks at you with such an intense hunger that you feel the warmth pooling deep down in your abdomen. It feels as though he’s sparking your nerves set alight, blooming across your skin that was begging for his touch. You’re sure you’re sweating, a soft sheen clinging the fabric of your clothes to your body.

He takes his time as he steps towards you, and you try to steady your breath as he closes the space between the two of you with ease. Tingles of excitement tickle your skin as he takes you by the hip, his large palm swallowing your side and anchoring you against his chest gently. He backs you against the door, which he hasn't yet opened.

The hand on the curve of your pelvis is dangerously slow as it skims your body, trailing his fingertips from your hip across your waist and tracing the edge of your breast until it settles, cupping the side of your neck gently. Javier’s thumb brushes your throat delicately as he stares fixedly into your eyes.

"Javi," you whimper, breathing shallowly as you watch him touch you delicately.

"You're such a tease, Princesa. Kept touching me, kept giving me these looks like you wanted me to bend you over the counter right there in that bar," his voice is gruff, and you feel yourself throb at his filthy words. You’re beginning to think you wouldn't have complained if he had; grasping the edge of the countertop, wailing as he took you from behind in front of the patrons and claimed you for himsel-

Javier uses his gentle grip on your throat to pull you impossibly closer, so your nose brushes with his. Once again, you can smell the whiskey on his breath, but also the scent of what you assumed was his aftershave. It was citrusy and mixed with the smell of the cigarettes he had been smoking in the bar. You wanted so desperately to kiss at his neck and take in that scent deeper, drag the tip of your nose against his jugular and sink your teeth in.

"Is this okay?" He asks under his breath, wanting to be sure this is what you wanted. Before your mind even has the time to process the query through the haze of citrus fruit and cigarette smoke, you’re nodding your head with a soft whimper. Tilting your head up to chase his mouth, you gaze into his eyes in a desperate, silent plea. He takes in your expression for just a moment, relishing the evident arousal he draws from you and then smirks, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours in a soft brush of a kiss.

Javier controls the kiss, still clasping your throat gently as he keeps the kiss soft. His moustache brushes your skin slightly, and yet you don't mind it; you're too lost in his touch to care. His tongue slips into your mouth, tracing over your own and taking in your taste as he leans you back while fumbling for the door knob to open the door into the hallway. You're both stumbling in the darkness, with Javi blindly feeling against the wall to turn on the lights. You pull him closer by the collar of his red button-down, his aviator glasses clattering to the floor and skidding beneath some of the furniture. He groans, tugging on your lower lip with his teeth and guiding you towards the bedroom.

The kiss is rough now, all teeth and tongue as you move your fingers on one hand into his hair, the other gripping the open collar of his shirt. He nudges the door open with his shoulder with practised ease, not once breaking away from the kiss in the process. He edges you towards the bed, carefully helping you lay down when the backs of your knees hit the mattress. Javi climbs over you with a soft groan of praise at the sight of you beneath him, the sound making your body almost vibrate with need.

"You're such a minx. Could barely keep it together this long," he growls in your ear, spreading your thighs with his palms and slotting his hips between them. His lips trace against your neck, kissing gently over your throat.

"Fuck, Javi, "you breathe out, a crack of white-hot pleasure running down your spine as he wastes no time in sucking marks onto your neck that you are sure will be a violent purple tomorrow. Already your body craves him, arching against the mattress to chase more of his touch, to pull him impossibly closer.

Javier’s hand shifts further, slipping beneath your skirt and brushing his thumb across your soaked lace underwear. The pad presses against your swollen clit, and he chuckles as your body jolts in shock at the sudden stimulation. Javi anchors his free hand to your pelvis to push your hips down, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

"You're so wet, Hermosa. Your panties are soaked," he whispers as your hips grind into his palm, desperate for more friction. The burning need in your abdomen has you babbling, begging to be filled. You’re not even sure that you’re making any sense any more; the only words spilling from your lips are a pathetic mixture of ‘Javi’ and ‘please’ and curses all strung together.

"Do you want to get off on my fingers? Is that what you want?" He rasps, rubbing tight little circles through the fabric that makes you choke out a needy, sinful little whine. It’s like you can’t suck in enough air to your lungs, toes curling at the build-up of pleasure in your core. Fuck yes, that's what you wanted, but you found yourself utterly inept at trying to form words while he teased your clit like this, slowly and teasingly circling it with the pad of his calloused fingers. He's dragging out wails of bliss from your shuddering chest with each brush of the bundle of nerves.

"Please, Javi, plea-" you're cut off, eyes rolling back into your skull as your panties are pushed to the side, and his finger slowly slides into you. You feel every individual ridge of each knuckle as it stretches you, adding a bite of dull pain to the tingling pleasure burning through your cunt. Javier watches your expression as your mouth falls open, brows knitting together. Your hands reach up, gripping at his red button-down as he begins to move his fingers in and out of you slowly.

It's like your brain short-circuits. He seems to know every part of your body that makes you feel good, not once missing those pleasure points that make your toes curl with each gentle thrust of his fingers. Your hips are again rising off the bed, legs spreading wider, desperate to take him deeper. Javi waits until you're clenching around his digits before he pulls them out despite your pine of protest. He's teasing you, repeatedly giving you hardly any time to enjoy the full feeling and then pulling his fingers out again, leaving you begging for more.

"Javi!" You beg, breaking off into a sob. You need his touch so badly, the pulsing ache between your legs almost painful. He ignores your pleas, hooking his fingers unto the waistband of your underwear and sliding them down your thighs achingly slowly. He tosses them somewhere on the other side of the room and hikes your skirt up to your hips, too impatient to battle with the zip to rid you of it entirely. Subconsciously, you lean into his kisses, fingers making quick work of his button-down and sliding it slowly off of his shoulders and down his arms to reveal his carved biceps and a white undershirt. He pulls back and yanks this over his head, discarding it in the same general direction he had thrown your lace. Even in the dimly lit bedroom, you can still make out the delicious expanse of tanned skin on his chest and toned stomach. Before you have the chance to taste it, craving to leave kisses across his sternum, his head is trailing down your body. He's mouthing at your thighs, gripping your hips to hold them in place as you sit up on your forearms to watch him.

"Or do you want to get off on my tongue?" He murmurs, the lewd sound that escapes your throat in answer louder than you expect it to be. Javier clutches your thighs, pulling your legs over his shoulders and causing your breath to hitch in your throat with anticipation.

Then his nose brushes over your clit, followed by the warmth of his tongue dragging a stripe over the length of your cunt and eliciting a soft moan from you. Despite your best efforts to restrain yourself, your fingers found themselves in his dark curls, pulling slightly to ground yourself as the tip of his tongue swiped over your clit. He moans at your taste, causing a familiar, buzzing sensation that has you clenching around nothing. Fuck, he felt heavenly, tongue moving lazily against your clit as he built that electrifying arousal.

"Don't stop," you beg him, gripping tighter at his hair and pushing his face deeper, almost terrified he’ll stop. Javi doesn't miss a beat, instantly fulfilling your wordless desire for more by slipping his fingers back inside of you and sucking on your clit. He's brutal, not giving you a moment's rest as he continues stimulating your throbbing bundle of nerves while moving his fingers in and out of you. It's so good, a coil of bliss working its way at the base of your spine and causing you to lose any form of inhibition. You use his hair to anchor him as you shift your hips, attempting to ride his face for more friction to satiate the growing wave of ecstasy between your thighs.

His teeth graze at your clit, and suddenly your mind is wavering as it goes blank.

"Shit-"you gasp out, feeling your climax build tightly between your legs as you desperately pull at his hair.

"Fuck, please, pl-please-"you gasp out, a sound of elation caught in your throat as his fingertips brush a spot inside of you, which drives your hips from the mattress entirely. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as you tip headfirst into your blinding orgasm. You’re enraptured, caught in the most intense sensation of bliss as your ears ring, cumming against Javier's mouth. He continues to tongue your clit, your legs trembling, and your back lifts off the bed as you keen, tears streaming down your face. Javi keeps at it until you're sobbing, grasping at his hair and forcing him back. His tongue runs over his bottom lip, his moustache slick and glistening with your cum.

"You taste so fucking good, Princesa," he purrs, watching you as you float back down from your high and into your spasm-wracked body. He takes your face in his palm and moves back up towards your face, kissing you gently while settling onto the mattress beside you. You can taste yourself, musky and heady, yet it's so good with the hint of woodsy whiskey still lingering on his tongue.

You wind your arms around his neck, pulling Javier closer while he fumbles his belt. You know he must be struggling in those painfully tight jeans, his cock straining against the denim, so you trace your fingertips against the zipper. Pulling it down ever so slowly, you watch as Javi pulls the belt from the loops.

As you slide your hands down into his pants, you feel for the waistline of his boxers to dip your fingers underneath. The further you move down, however, you're shocked to find he's not wearing any at all. You pause, minding the arousal that floods back between your thighs at his brazen choice. When you look at Javi, he's smirking at your expression, the cheeky bastard.

"Are you really not wearing any boxers?" You whisper, staring at him in shock.

"Easier access," he muses, enjoying your surprise. Heat prickles the skin of your cheeks, and you focus on tugging his jeans past his hips. Javier helps you pull them off entirely as you concentrate on the throbbing urgency of his cock. The head of his dick is flushed red, needy after almost three hours of incessant teasing. Tentatively, you take his length into your palm to stroke him, and Javier lets out a soft groan as he lays his head back against the pillows. His breath is shaky, hand gripping at your hips again as you pump his cock slowly.

"Fuck," he breathes out, eyes rolling back into their sockets as you run your tongue over the head of his dick, tasting the salty precum leaking from the tip. You keep your mouth busy, taking him deeper as you use one hand to unzip your bunched-up skirt and wiggle out of it, kicking it off the mattress somewhere onto the floor over the side of the bed. His fingers slowly card through your hair, but do not apply any pressure.

You whimper softly, hollowing your cheeks as you take the rest of him into your hand and begin to jerk him off slowly. Javier tilts his head back further into the soft down of his pillows, hips twitching slightly as he attempts not to thrust down your throat. The moans that creep up your throat send vibrations from base to tip, and Javier releases soft gasps of shock as your tongue traces the veins on the underside of his thick cock.

"Dios mío, Princesa," he growls, lifting your head off of him and flipping you suddenly onto your back. You yelp in surprise, Javier quickly grasping the base of his twitching length to stave off any impending orgasm.

"If you keep doing that, I'll cum," he rasps, lips tracing the shell of your ear as you wrap your arms around his neck. Pulling your thighs around his waist, Javi reaches for one of the drawers on his nightstand. You pat him quickly on the chest, stopping him.

"It's okay," you whisper, and he looks down at you in surprise.

“Princes-“

"I'm on contraception.” You swear that even in the dark, you see his pupils dilate as he stares at you. Avidly, he lines himself up with your folds, holding your face in his palm and smoothing your cheekbone with his thumb. Brushing the head of his cock up against your clit, Javier groans as he watches you jolt slightly, still hyper-sensitive from that mind-shattering orgasm. You slowly trace your fingers down the shaved skin of his chest, eyes pleading with him to fill you.

Javi begins to sink his hips heavily, cock pushing at your entrance and stretching your walls deliciously. You whine, head cocking back into the pillows and exposing your throat for him to kiss while you adjust to the sting between your legs. Javier holds your hips in his hands, rubbing circles into your skin soothingly as you grow accustomed to the intrusion. By the time he's sheathed fully inside you, you're convinced he's split you open, begging for him to start moving.

And then he does, slamming his cock into you and setting a cruel pace. He feels so fucking good, the pleasure so intense and the slam of his hips so heavy that you can feel your walls fluttering around his cock already. He's stoking the fire twisting between your thighs and making you feel so full that your eyes are out of focus, tears welling up in them.

Javier pulls back from your throat, looking over your body with a ragged groan as he uses his grip on your sides to pull you back onto his cock harder. The overwhelming waves of bliss grow maddening as his tight hold on your waist leaves a dull, painful sensation, and you're almost sure you'll have bruises the shape of his fingerprints in the morning, complete with swirls and arches. You can feel Javi pulse inside you and grinds his hips, attempting to find that earth-shattering spot inside of you again.

"Fuck, you look so good like this; keep your eyes on me," he demands, wanting to see the build-up of pleasure in your eyes. You roll your hips, whimpering at the way he commands you. Soon, with your combined efforts, the head of his cock is knocking up against your cervix, and the pressure has you wheezing out his name with a sharp intake of air. Javi takes this moment to brush his thumb over your clit, growling when he sees your eyes roll back into your skull at the sudden fervour you feel that's bringing you closer and closer to climax.

Then he brushes against something inside of you that makes your nerves light up, and you're sobbing desperately, eyes squeezing shut and trying so hard to chase that high. Javier pulls his calloused hands over your stomach, pressing down on the pliant skin there to feel himself move in and out of you at a rapid pace. Your pleasure is threatening to spill over, sparking at the base of your spine, and suddenly it's too much to hold back.

"Javi-"you beg, voice catching in your throat.

"Come on, Hermosa. Come on, give it to me," he purrs, brushing his thumb against your clit one more time and suddenly— oh, suddenly, you're there. Time seems to slow down for a moment, suspended in the air until it crashes down on you. It’s so intense, so overwhelming that you have tears streaming down your cheeks, cumming with a keen of his name. Your cunt is pulsing and tightening around Javi's cock, and he's growling out a moan as he goes rigid inside of you, pumping you full of his cum. He's shuddering, and his fingers dig tightly into your waist.

For a moment, the two of you stay still, Javi leaning over you and peppering your chin with soft, open-mouthed kisses. As the afterglow kicks in, you're giggling, covering your face with your palms as the delirium kicks in. You hear Javi chuckle to himself, pressing his lips to your hairline and wiping away the sheen of sweat at your temple.

As you come down from your high, you relax into the covers of the bed, entirely spent. Exhaustion is ebbing at your mind, your breath still heavy as Javi pulls out of you with a haggard groan and holds you close to him. You both don't say anything to each other at first, too blissed out to form a sentence.

Javi kisses your forehead over and over, brushing his hand along your bruised side in an attempt to ease the painful ache his fingers left behind. You find yourself leaning into his touch, allowing yourself to revel in the post-orgasm bliss.

"Do you need some water?" He asks you softly, stroking your hair back, to which you shake your head no but thank him quietly for his consideration. He nods and gently pulls the thin cotton covers over your body as he settles in beside you. You both lay in each other’s silent company, Javi's thumb tracing lazy patterns on the skin of your abdomen as his eyes slip closed, alcohol and blissful exhaustion causing him to fall into sleep relatively quickly.

The room is quiet, Javi's breathing the only sound you can make out. You lay perfectly still for at least ten minutes, feeling the man beside you ease into unconsciousness. With his breathing slowed and his thumb eventually stilling at your side, you assume sleep has him in a tight grasp. Ever so gently, you ease out of his hold, slipping out of bed and picking up your clothes. You’re careful to be silent — the last thing you needed was him waking up and discovering what you were about to do.

A part of you feels terrible, using Javier this way. He'd been kind enough to buy you drinks. Instead, fear motivates you to put one foot in front of the other, the bare soles of your feet padded across the floor towards the bedroom door. Your boss, Pablo Escobar, had demanded information on DEA agents from you and the other women he had hired, and you daren’t argue, fearful of the bullets that you were almost certain had your name etched into them. Having bumped into Javier at the bar, it was a stroke of luck akin to striking gold; a stay of execution.

Don Pablo had hired a group of women into his staff only recently. Well known for hiring only men, like most drug lords in Columbia, he knew the women he hired would not come under the scrutiny of the DEA or the Columbian police. With the support of the American government, the DEA was closing in on him, and the Medellin cartel at a frightening pace, and he was in dire need of some form of information to get ahead of the gringos - stat.

Without the suspicion of the police, you had managed to get around relatively quickly, but finding the information without talking to anyone and alerting people of Don Pablo's covert mission was a much more challenging task than anticipated. You had carried on regardless, motivated by knowing you wouldn't get paid unless you handed over relative information to Escobar and his cousin Gustavo. You were getting pretty desperate for both the money and your life, knowing Escobar was anything but forgiving. Javier just happened to step into the line of fire.

You find your way back to the living room in the darkness and grab at anything you can see that could be of value. Papers that had Escobar's name on them and had multiple attack plans regarding the cartel's drugs labs in the Amazon Rainforest lay in the drawers of the desk underneath the television and a recording device that was set on the table. When you play it, the sound of Javier and his partner, whom he referred to as 'Murphy’ in the bar, floats quietly from the speakers.

Covert recordings of sicarios' conversations played, revealing the code words Pablo and his men used that the two partners had managed to decipher and use to their advantage.

You could almost laugh at how careless Javier had been to allow you into his house with all of this information just strewn about in the open, but you suppose he thought that you weren't a threat. No one did.

You take the items you snatched from Javier's apartment and slip out into the humid street once again. As you walk back to your apartment, you can’t help but think back to the conversation you and Javier had at the bar. The one where he claimed he was "Prince Charming saving you from a miserable day." You realise, looking back on it, that he had done precisely that. Prince Charming had unknowingly given you all the information you needed for a payout from Escobar and managed to save you from the end of a pistol barrel.

And you try to convince yourself of your shamelessness, insisting to yourself that you aren’t exactly the princess he’s looking for.

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radioisntdead · 17 days ago

Text

There was a slight accident where I couldn't reply directly to the ask, so, screenshot, BUT I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS, I sent my friend Kirby like 30 voice messages about it on Instagram.

Unlucky visions

Song used

Warnings: the ending is a little rushed, and some parts are a bit messy, my apologies

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren,

Don't name him, don't name him

You were never the luckiest person when you were alive, people would stay away from you, or if they came close something bad would happen to them, you were used to having things thrown, splashed at you, maybe you were just born unlucky or maybe you smashed a mirror, ran under a ladder, had a black cat across your path, or did something to cursed you with an unlucky life.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

It wasn't a surprise that your afterlife was even more unlucky, after all you somehow ended up in hell! Maybe it was the pretending to be psychic and see the future, you did scam a good amount of people doing that! It wasn't your fault they were gullible enough to fall for it though!

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him

It didn't matter now, what done was done.

Hell wasn't all bad yes it was you had a decent apartment with a surprisingly competent landlord, you had a decent job, you adopted a hellish cat with stunning black fur and a quadruplet set of eyes that reminded you of mint.

Toquen madera y quemen benjui

Knock on wood and burn benzoin

Oh, and you could actually see the future now! It wasn't anything too big to handle, at first anyways, just a glimpse of what you'd have for lunch or that guy running across the street would run into a wall in a few moments! Or that lady was about to propose to her girlfriend?

But eventually they started getting more vivid, changing, after you saw the princess of hell try to promote her 'happy hotel' on television.

Your visions were no longer just what you'd have for lunch the next day, it was now of people you didn't know, glimpses of an alcoholic cat, a piece of a red coat getting torn, a whole musical number about sorry and getting thrown off a building.

They became frequent enough that they disrupted your daily life, and so you could only figure out one solution.

Miren quién se acerca, miren quién viene ahí

Look who's approaching, look who's coming there

You held on to your luggage, a tattered and battered four leaf clover pattered bag that was reminiscent of Mary Poppins bag, it held practically all of your belongings, your lovely Peppermint sat patiently in his carrier.

¡Es él! el yeta, el que agita mis pelos

It's him! The jinx, the one who stirs hornet's nests

You stood outside the very hotel that was the result of a possibility delusional princess's pipe dream, the very hotel that had been haunting your visions for the past couple of weeks.

El que todos dicen que es un pájaro de mal agüero

The one everybody says is a bird of ill omen

Su presencia arruina cualquier celebración

His presence ruins any celebration

You took a breath and knocked on the hotel doors, honestly you thought you should just stroll on into there, that's how hotels usually worked right? But it was a private property? You shook the thoughts away as the door was opened.

And it was just your luck that you were met with the Radio demon himself.

Y siempre al invocarlo una desgracia sucedió

And each time he's been invoked misfortune striked

Despite you being thrown off guard by the radio man, Your arrival at the hotel was warmly welcomed by Charlie, you were introduced to the other hotel guest, Angel dust, then the staff the alcoholic cat you saw in your visions, the hotel's maid who was focused on trying to kill roaches, Vaggie.

Dicen que es así, que así fue y será

They say that's how he is, how he was and will be

Much to your glee, the visions decreased, they were still present of course but back to normal.

Y que atrae desastres como si fuera un imán

And that he attracts disasters as if he were a magnet

You were never supposed to grow close to anyone, you were only there to stop your stupid visions and that was it, and once you were sure they stopped or when the hotel would inevitably fail you'd go back to your regular afterlife.

Que no nos vea y que no nos toque

Don't let him see us and don't touch us

Uh uh uh

But you found yourself growing close to the hotel residents, especially as the time passed.

Pentious coming into the hotel, the song about sorry, getting thrown off a building by Vaggie, Husk slipping away so he wouldn't get thrown off the roof by Vaggie, everything you saw came to pass.

Que a nadie se le ocurra saludar

Let no one think of greeting him Uh uh uh

you grew close with the majority, unconsciously using the visions you saw to prevent them from getting hurt or preventing disasters.

No vayan a gritar su nombre

No one go yelling his name

It was good, for the time being, that was until the visions started getting worse again.

Porque llama a la fatalidad

Because he calls for fatality

This time it wasn't just one possibility of the future like before, but multiple.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

Some where the hotel succeeded, some where it failed, sinners redeemed, sinners massacred, visions where the hotel crumbled, where Charlie is betrayed, where she's not, where the people you spent the majority of your time with perished or where they thrived.

So many routes, so many possibilities filled your head.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

No, don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

No, don't name him, don't name him, no!

You couldn't do anything but curl up on the floor of your room, holding your head and try not to cry as your little scruffed up cat meowed beside you, headbutting you as a way of comfort.

Todo lo que toca lo echa a perder

Everything he touches he brings to ruin

You boarded yourself up in your room, letting the visions consume you.

Igual que el rey Midas pero al revés

Like King Midas, but the other way around

Eventually Charlie got worried and broke in, it was a jarring experience to see someone she liked to consider a friend, curled on the ground, in a puddle of their own tears and sweat, mumbling incoherent words

"Fue él" lo acusan cuando pasa algo grave

"It was him!" They accuse him when something serious happens

You remember feeling Charlie put her hand on your shoulder as Vaggie came in, you heard her drop something followed by footsteps before seeing her infront of you.

Pero en lo cierto es que en verdad nadie sabe si él sabe

But what's certain is that, in truth, nobody knows if he knows

You could barely tell the future and present apart.

Cuando su fama comenzó como un rumor se propagó

When did his fame kick off? How did the rumor spread?

You felt Vaggie hold your head up as a cup of water was held to your mouth, you faintly heard Charlie asking you to drink, who knew how much fluid you had lost, and dehydration was a horrible way to die.

Again.

¿Quién fue el primero que lo estigmatizó?

Who was the first to stigmatize him?

You had no idea how long they were there for, minutes? Hours? But the visions finally ceased leaving you to explain the visions you were cursed with.

Porque una vez marcado siempre lo señalarán

Because once marked they will always point to him

Quien se hace piedra, piedra morirá

He who turns to stone, stone will die

From that day it was common for you to hide away in your room for a while when the visions would get overwhelming, Charlie or Vaggie would cover for you, making excuses that you were ill.

Uh uh uh

Toda la vida cargara ese peso

All his life he will carry that weight

Your mental state started to deteriorate, it was visible, it showed with the eye bags under your eyes, the void look in them, your room became overran with notes about what you saw, poorly drawn doodles that in all honesty were horrifying.

Uh uh uh

Y ese peso acabará con él

And that weight will be the end of him

Uh uh uh

Sometimes you told Charlie or Vaggie about them, sometimes parts slipped out to Husk when you decided to drink in order to dull the pain of the visions.

Y un poco en broma, un poco en serio

And half-jokingly, half-seriously

Será el blanco de una risa cruel

He'll be the target of cruel laughter

It wasn't uncommon to see you hurl yourself across the hotel in order to stop a cup from falling because apparently it resulted in someone getting decapitated.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

No, don't name him, don't name him, no!

Before you knew it though, visions of the upcoming extermination day appeared.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

You breathed heavily as you laid curled on the floor of your room.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

No, don't name him, don't name him, no!

You heard Peppermint meow and paw at your face, you couldn't afford to have one of these vision frenzies.

Extermination day was coming up quickly, everyone was preparing, training away.

No tiene explicación y es anti racional

It has no explanation, it's irrational

You were no different, training and preparing amongst the residents of the hotel along with the residents of cannibal town.

Como en la inquisición, cazando brujas por cazar

As in the Inquisition, witch-hunting just because

You eventually forced yourself to get up and write down what you saw, not daring to show anyone for fear of indirectly causing one of your more negative versions to come to pass.

Y quien dice que no, que uno no será también

And who says no? That one won't be too

Sin justificación, otro innombrable a quien temer

Unjustifiedly, another unmentionable to dread

Before you knew it was extermination day was upon you, the night before wasn't that bad for you, having drank a concerning amount of alcohol you were able to dull the visions out enough to be able to have a nice time with your friends, if it was for the last time you didn't have any complaints.

Y escondemos en un saco de otro

And in a torn sack we hide

Uh uh uh

La cobardía de no aceptar

The cowardice of not accepting

Parts of your visions came to pass, parts that you had prayed wouldn't, Sir Pentious had fallen, along with many others, Alastor was nowhere to be seen leaving you to worry that Adam had in fact, killed him.

Uh uh uh

Cargándole la culpa a otros

Making others bear the blame

You let out the biggest sigh of relief when Niffty had stabbed Adam and the rest of the exorcists retreated back where they came from, you were filled with joy that none of the more horrific visions of yours came to pass.

De las cosas que nos salen mal

Of the things that go wrong for us

You didn't have any more visions as The hotel was rebuilt, you didn't have any visions for a while after.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

Your mental health improved greatly, you were getting the sleep you needed, you no longer had to write down any notes of the things you saw.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

It was nice.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

But all nice things come to an end, after more sinners started joining the hotel your visions started again.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

But they weren't horrific like the ones you had before, they weren't terrifying, they didn't haunt you in your dreams.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

No lo nombren, no lo nombren

Don't name him, don't name him

Your visions were good, showing that the hotel had a bright future, not without its challenges of course, not without hardships, not without resentment and regrets, but it was for the most part bright.

No lo nombren, no lo nombren, no

Don't name him, don't name him, no!

For once you couldn't wait for those visions to pass.

GOOD EVENIN' FOLKS! THIS WAS SO MUCH EDITING, also I got the idea for this fic and the song from an encanto animatic! I used to be in the fandom, never wrote for it though, anywho! I DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED!! THANK YOU FOR TUNIN' ON IN! I HOPE YOU HAVE A WONDERFUL REST OF YOUR NIGHT FOLKS!!

ALSO PEPPERMINT DOODLE

Psst! join our discord!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you

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justforbooks · 7 months ago

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Dr Michael Mosley

Popular celebrity medic who offered health advice to millions through his TV and radio roles, most notably on fasting

Dr Michael Mosley, who has died aged 67 on the Greek island of Symi, explored health and fitness issues of interest to big audiences. He was a versatile communicator, whether as a television diet guru, newspaper columnist or podcaster.

He became a household name for diet books promoting calorie reduction and fasting, including The Fast Diet (2013), written with the journalist Mimi Spencer. His work gained in popularity from his self-experimentation, which included swallowing tapeworms, magic mushrooms, internal cameras and – most famously – fasting to cure his own type 2 diabetes, diagnosed in 2012. He became a well known TV and radio celebrity medic, regularly appearing on The One Show for the BBC and This Morning for ITV. On BBC Radio 4’s Just One Thing podcast he offered health tips to the nation, from the benefits of daily spoonfuls of olive oil to the usefulness of the plank position.

Yet his own medical career was brief. Mosley, who studied philosophy, politics and economics (PPE) at New College, Oxford, trained in medicine at the Royal Free hospital, north London, after two years of working as a banker. He wanted to become a psychiatrist, saying that he found people more interesting than finance, but was disappointed to find that “there were severe limitations to what you could do”, he told the British Medical Journal in 2004.

He opted instead to exert influence through the medium of television, joining the BBC training scheme as an assistant producer in 1985, and going on to produce documentaries based mostly in science, mathematics and history.

His most glorious moment arguably came with the Horizon programme Ulcer Wars, which he made in 1994 about the work of Barry Marshall of the University of Western Australia, who was convinced that the bacteria he had identified called Helicobacter pylori was responsible for most gastric cancers and ulcers.

The story appealed to Mosley and inspired his own self-experimentation: Marshall had drunk a solution of H pylori from a beaker in the 1980s and his stomach had been colonised by the bacteria, which disappeared when he took antibiotics.

Marshall was right and later, with his colleague Robin Warren, won a Nobel prize. Mosley received more than 20,000 letters from people cured of their ulcer pain by antibiotics. The film brought him awards. “I probably did, in a funny way, more good with that one programme than if I had stayed in medicine for 30 years,” said Mosley in the BMJ.

In 2002, Mosley was nominated for an Emmy as executive producer on the documentary featuring John Cleese, The Human Face. In 2013, he began to host the series Trust Me, I’m a Doctor for the BBC. His most recent TV series were for Channel 4: Who Made Britain Fat? (2022) and Secrets of Your Big Shop (2024).

The Fast Diet book, which launched the 5:2 diet, also came out of a Horizon documentary. Eat, Fast and Live Longer (2012) was inspired by Mosley’s own diagnosis of type 2 diabetes, which is linked to excess weight. The disease ran in the family. His father, Bill, had died of the complications at the age of 74. Mosley came across the American neuroscientist Mark Mattson’s work on intermittent fasting, and adopted the pattern he advocated of normal eating for five days and consumption of just 500-600 calories on the other two.

He claimed to have lost 20lbs and reversed his own type 2 diabetes. Mattson appeared in the documentary, which is credited with popularising the 5:2 diet. In 2021, Mosley published The Fast 800 Keto, which combines fasting with a ketogenic diet, high in fat and low in carbohydrates, but in its later stages allows carbohydrates back in.

Mosley’s diet work was controversial because of its focus on calorie reduction to lose weight. In 2021, the eating disorder charity Beat said of his Channel 4 series Lose a Stone in 21 Days that “the programme caused enough stress and anxiety to our beneficiaries that we extended our helpline hours to support anyone affected and received 51% more contact during that time”.

He said he had suffered from chronic insomnia from his late 30s. That became the subject of another BBC documentary and also a book published in 2019, called Fast Asleep.

Born in Calcutta (Kolkata), India, Michael was the son of a banker, Bill Mosley, and his wife, Joan. At the age of seven he was sent to boarding school in Britain. Mosley said in an interview with the Sydney Morning Herald that his mother was heartbroken to send him away to school, but that his father worked in Hong Kong and the Philippines, wanted Michael and his other son, John, to become bankers as he had, and that sending children to boarding school back in Britain was part of the culture of that time.

His maternal grandfather was an Anglican bishop. Mosley said he came from a long line of missionaries, but “the closest I get to religion is incorporating fasting in my diet”.

Mosley met Clare Bailey at the Royal Free hospital medical school, now part of UCL medical school, and they married in 1987. Bailey, who became a GP, was an active partner in Mosley’s dietary work and wrote recipe books for people embarking on the Fast 800 diet as well as newspaper columns in her own right. She told interviewers that she did not fast, because she had never needed to lose weight, and that she would hide chocolate from Mosley, who had a sweet tooth.

She survives him, along with their three sons, Alex, Jack and Daniel, and a daughter, Kate.

🔔 Michael Mosley, doctor, writer and broadcaster, born 22 March 1957; found dead 9 June 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Michael Mosley #in memoriam

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lazyyogi · 2 years ago

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Sensory Stimuli: The Next Pandemic?

If you look at how society has changed over the last millennium, one obvious escalation involves sensory stimulation. In fact, it has demonstrated an exponential increase in parallel with technological advancement.

Radio to television, computers to smartphones, and social media to virtual/augmented reality.

I'm not here to judge whether all of this is good or bad. It's happening regardless and it will only continue to escalate. So the question is how will this change us?

I see it even now at family gatherings. Conversation lapses into long silent stretches of people lounging around on their phones. Even my mom in her 70s, who once limited our TV time and scolded us to log off the internet after an hour when we were children, will disappear into her phone. It effects everyone.

Accelerating sensory stimuli may end up being one of the single most important cultural impacts in the coming decades.

In my opinion, the solution is not to restrict usage but to train our minds. We must learn how to use advancing technologies without being used by them, without becoming victim to their effects.

Otherwise symptoms of restlessness, compulsion, obsession, decreasing attention span, and susceptibility to manipulation will grow and grow.

Even if you aren't after enlightenment, you can think of meditation as the insurance policy for your own sanity in this changing world. You have seen how elders struggle to adopt an understanding of today's technological world. Their sense of isolation and confusion contributes to the progression of dementia as well. Can you imagine how different our world will be when you are an elder yourself?

The ability to use something and then put it down and come back to yourself in this moment will be a priceless skill of sanity. As is the cultivation of neuroplasticity such that we are never shut off from new ways of thinking, perceiving, and acting.

Contemplate the landscape of the future in 10, 20, 30 years.

Invest in your wellbeing and sanity now.

#meditation #mindfulness #future #technology #stimulation #philosophy #psychology #sanity

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mariacallous · 7 months ago

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Two things happened this week that got me really worried about AI’s role in the US election:

First, WIRED published a massive story on how voters in India have received over 50 million deepfaked voice calls imitating candidates and political figures. That’s a lot of deepfakes, and voters are confusing them for the real thing.

Second, the Federal Communications Commission announced this week that it’s considering new AI ad rules only a few months after it banned synthetic robocalls. (Synthetic ads are ads that are created or altered with AI.) Excuse me, but why is the FCC the only government entity that’s approved new AI and elections rules this year? The Indian election should be a warning sign for the US to get busy regulating, but the FCC is the only one picking up the phone.

Let’s talk about it.

The US Is Running Out of Time to Stamp Out Deepfake Political Ads

Remember when the Republican National Committee put out an AI-generated ad attacking Biden? Or when Florida governor Ron DeSantis’ super PAC released an AI ad that mimicked former president Donald Trump? It’s almost been a year since both these ads came out, and there aren't any new laws governing AI ads, despite all the outrage at the time.

Last year, Senate majority leader Chuck Schumer started holding meetings with a rotating set of stakeholders and AI industry leaders to develop solutions to issues raised by generative AI. One of the leader’s priorities was to protect US elections from whatever mess the tech may create ahead of November. He has issued a report and pushed senators to turn that guidance into law, but that’s about all that’s happened.

The FCC can’t do as much as Congress can, but it’s done the most out of the two. In February, the agency outlawed using generative AI in robocalls in response to the New Hampshire call impersonating President Joe Biden. On Wednesday, chairwoman Jessica Rosenworcel went further, proposing that broadcast television, radio, and some cable political ads disclose when synthetic material is used.

“As artificial intelligence tools become more accessible, the Commission wants to make sure consumers are fully informed when the technology is used,” Rosenworcel said in a statement. “Today, I’ve shared with my colleagues a proposal that makes clear consumers have a right to know when AI tools are being used in the political ads they see, and I hope they swiftly act on this issue.”

This is all great, but voters are probably going to encounter more digital fakes online than over broadcast. And for digital ads, the government hasn’t issued any solutions.

The Federal Election Commission was petitioned by the advocacy group Public Citizen to create rules requiring FCC-like disclosures for all political ads, regardless of the medium, but the agency has yet to act. A January Washington Post report said that the FEC plans to make some decision by early summer. But summer is around the corner, and we haven’t heard much. The Senate Rules Committee passed three bills to regulate the use of AI in elections, including disclosures, earlier this month, but there’s no promise it will hit the floor in time to make a difference.

If you really want to get scared, there are only 166 days until the presidential election. That’s not many days to get something related to AI disclosures over the finish line, especially before the Biden and Trump campaigns, and all the downballot politicians, start dumping even more cash into ads on social platforms.

Without regulations, tech companies will carry much of the responsibility for protecting our elections from disinformation. If it doesn’t sound that different from 2020, I feel the same way! It’s a new issue, but with the same companies leading the charge. In November, Meta said that political ads must include disclaimers when they contain AI-generated content. TikTok doesn’t allow political ads, but it does require creators to label AI content when they share synthetic content depicting realistic images, audio, and video.

It’s something, but what happens if they make a huge mistake? Sure, Mark Zuckerberg and every other tech CEO may get hauled in by Congress for a hearing or two, but it’s unlikely they’d face regulatory consequences before the election takes place.

There’s a lot at stake here, and we’re running out of time. If Congress or an agency were to issue some guidance, they’d need to do it in the next few months. Otherwise, it might not be worth the effort.

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skjam · 3 months ago

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Pulptober 2024 Day 9: The Lone Ranger/Weapons of Justice

While I don't have any blog posts for him, I realized I do have some words to say. The Lone Ranger's distinctive weapon isn't his gun, which is a standard large revolver, but his special ammunition, the silver bullet.

From what little we see of him in the source material, Reid did not have a Code vs. Killing when he was an ordinary Texas Ranger. It's unlikely that he could have held down that job if he had. Rather, it's his own near-death experience leading to him becoming the Lone Ranger that convinced him never to shoot to kill.

The bullets are made from the ore of a secret silver mine run by a retired Ranger whose life the Lone Ranger saved. This source of wealth is also why the Ranger never has to accept a reward or have a job outside his mission to bring justice to the West.

Silver, as it turns out, is too brittle to make good bullets out of--the process is difficult so relatively few bullets can be made in a batch, and the Ranger has to travel back to the mine every time he needs more. This means that each bullet is precious, as are human lives.

In the radio series and first television series, the Lone Ranger is not superhuman. While yes, he can outdraw and outshoot any single opponent, blasting the gun from their hands, you can get the drop on him, and he can't simply disarm multiple opponents in the split second before they fire at him. This means that he often has to use his wits and try to find less lethal/non-violent solutions to his problems. He doesn't waste silver bullets if there is a better way.

And of course, there's his mighty steed, Silver, named for his shiny white coat and showing that he, too, is precious to the Lone Ranger.

Tonto being played by Jay Silverheels in the TV show is just a lucky coincidence.

#pulp heroes #pulptober 2024 #lone ranger #weapons #silver bullet #radio show

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andromedasummer · 2 months ago

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oh you're a media student? did you study like screen/media or journalism...? idk if they fall under the same category but i think they do right? i find it so ironic tho how they'll pander to this govt, despite the fact we might not even have an nz run media industry anymore by the time this govt is finally out of office, considering the defunding and closures are still ongoing.

I graduated with a media studies major under a bachelor of arts last december! you can also do media under a bachelor of communication as well, but i changed my focus halfway through another degree i abandoned.

at first i focused in kind of like... everything? i did courses on basic media theory, advertising media, social media, journalism and informative media, television studies, radio, i did some extra basic film courses until i finally focused on media policy and regulations in my final year.

it was one of my favourite courses. we talked about nz on air and the govt funded media institutions, the commercial news media we have, the failed Commercial/Funded neolib solution to our lack of state television that labour doomed to fail and national killed in the form of the beautiful TVNZ7 (i miss her every day) and the regulatory bodies like the censor and broadcasting standards authority. we studied and wrote about the broadcasting act, the film act and the online safety act.

we even talked about The Christchurch Call and had a lecture done by the chief censor during 2019, whose responsibility it was censoring footage of the christchurch mosque shooting, and formulating the law in a watertight enough way that no one could weasel out of responsiblity or sharing it, but also get it out quickly enough to ensure arrests and charges could be made straight away.

it was regulation (how we rate movies, how we decide what is and isnt banned media ((and we very rarely ban films, books or tv media here because it all has to follow specific acts and regulations))) and specifically, the lack of regulation preventing harmful content online that fascinated me the most. the need for an international authority to prevent cases like the christchurch shooting and other extremist hate content from being spread online. because social media companies are overwhelmingly stonewalling countries that put their foot down and try to create their own national regulations.

my plan was to specifically work in media regulation and policy here in nz. but its there aren't a lot of roles. worst of all, The Christchurch Call, which was heralded internationally as the first step towards reigning in social media companies such as twitter and meta by pressuring them into multiple changes (that went on to improve but not ultimately fix extremist content esp on facebook live) was completely dissolved by nactfirst when they came onto power, with multiple media personalities like mike hosking (scumbag) telling the public that it was useless and didn't work. ironically usually while complaining about how hostile online spaces are.

adding in the thousands of public service jobs that got dissolved/removed by nactfirst, including my own 2 months ago, i just dont see myself being able to work here with all the jobs disappearing. its likely within the next 5 or so years I'll have to leave for somewhere like aus or try a country in europe, as the EU and Aus are taking a more proactive position that I want to be involved in and would suit my degree.

it sucks because my professors and all the people i met in the industry during my study are the ones begging the governments (both labour and national, because there was that massive failure of a state media merger by our last labour govt) to listen to them and other experts about what needs to be done, thats being met by silence because 1. Labour are too neoliberal to put in meaningful policies and only ever do half-measures that fall apart and are ripe to be picked apart by opponents and 2. National don't give a fuck about data, science or expert opinions and will bulldoze ahead in the name of profit.

if you ever want to learn more about media in the country (or media in general) i highly advise the following books (some are textbooks i picked up secondhand so they wouldnt cost hundreds of dollars). the BWB ones are a good place to start, they act as introductory texts to specialist subjects by experts and theyre all dedicated to issues surrounding aotearoa and māori and pacific peoples and interests and often cost around $20 brand new, $13-18 secondhand:

- Understanding Media Studies Oxford (The most expensive textbook I ever bought. Like $190. I barely used it for class but read it front to back twice. Very good introductory media book for general global media studies and cos it's an Oxford text you should be able to pirate it fairly easily)

- Technology and Social Inclusion (About Media Access and the Poverty Line)

- From Paper To Platform by Merja Myllylahti (BWB text about news democracy, platform power and subpar efforts on online media regulation by our governments)

- Shouting Zeroes and Ones: Digital Technology, Ethics and Policy in New Zealand (What it says on the tin. Another BWB book.)

- More Zeroes and Ones (Follow up to above book)

- The Broken Estate: Journalism and Democracy in A Post-Truth World by Mel Bunce (Another BWB text, exactly what it says on the tin)

- Don't Dream It's Over: Reimagining Journalism in Aotearoa New Zealand (General text about the future of journalism here with fucktons of important voices in our media circle)

Anything by Noam Chomsky is solid as well. Very solid, he's got fantastic texts on American news media and why its such a hellhole (Like how Reagan made it legal to lie to the general public on TV and no one. Ever did anything about it after he was gone. In other countries you get fined heavily for misinformation if you're a news programme.)

And then I can't find it but I know I have a textbooks on Television Studies about TV media here in Aotearoa but I cannot find it. Might have bed packed away in preference for the move, sorry!

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ahaura · 1 year ago

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(Dec. 29) [Article] by Afnan Abu Yahia & Lila Hassan

Title & subtitle:

The Impossibility of Reporting the Story of Gaza: The work of Gaza’s journalists has been essential these past months, but as the challenges of reporting continue to mount, the world is getting only a fraction of the story.

Article text:

Samer Abu Daqqa loved being a journalist. A cameraman for over 20 years with Al Jazeera, Abu Daqqa, 45, had covered at least seven wars. Israel’s war on Gaza, however, would turn out to be his last.

While covering an air strike at a United Nations–run school on December 15, Israeli forces shot Abu Daqqa. Intense shelling prevented an ambulance from reaching him—three paramedics were killed trying to get to the area—and he was left to bleed for over five hours, succumbing to his injuries just as the Palestinian Health Ministry got approval from the Israeli military to retrieve him. In the end, they brought his body to the hospital, where his family said goodbye. Medical workers removed his bloodied press vest and helmet, which were placed over his body at his funeral.

Since the beginning of Israel’s war on Gaza, which has now killed more than 20,000 Palestinians, journalists have been on the front lines, both as witnesses and victims. For more than two months, as Israel has rained bombs on Gaza, they have rushed from refugee camps to hospitals, and from hospitals to schools and back, trying to stay safe while covering what they describe as their own genocide. According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, 68 journalists have been killed in Gaza, Israel, and Lebanon since October 7, making this the deadliest conflict since the CPJ began tallying press fatalities. The International Federation of Journalists estimates that at least 66 journalists have been killed in Gaza alone. Many have also lost their families. On October 26, Ahmed Abu Artema, a contributor to The Nation as well as a poet and activist, was seriously injured and lost his young son when Israel bombed his father’s house.

“What is happening now is unprecedented,” said Sherif Mansour, the Middle East and North Africa program coordinator at the CPJ. In 2022, the CPJ reported that a total of 68 journalists and media workers were killed worldwide; Gaza reached that number in just over two months.

Journalists, said Mansour, “are the ones on the front lines and they are the ones we need the most, but they are also the most vulnerable.”

It’s hard to overestimate the importance of the Palestinian journalists in Gaza right now. They, after all, are the only ones who have been reporting from the Strip since Israel instituted a total siege on October 9 and banned foreign press from entering. Their work has been essential and their commitment unceasing; yet, as the weeks have passed, the mounting challenges of reporting have meant that the world outside of Gaza is getting only a fraction of the story. Even social media has offered only a partial solution, as many of the platforms regularly censor Palestinian voices.

By far, the biggest challenge for journalists is simply staying alive. The struggle to survive while reporting is an all-consuming endeavor. But this struggle has been seriously compounded both by the conditions of war and the shattering effects of Israel’s total siege of the Strip. Food and water are scarce; fuel is dwindling, electricity inconsistent, and cell phone service undependable; many journalists no longer even have homes to return to.

For journalists, this has meant everything from reporting on empty stomachs to writing up stories while worrying about when and how they will find water. One journalist has used Gaza’s salty seawater to bathe, and another said he shared half a liter of clean water for four days with colleagues. Meanwhile, it has become normal to wait for food in hours-long lines and still not manage to buy anything, said Nazar Sadawi, a correspondent with Turkish Radio and Television. “I don’t have the luxury of time. I don’t have 10 hours to wait for my turn,” he said, explaining that instead he lives mostly off of bread, tea, and biscuits. “Aid trucks bring in canned beans, water, and some medicine, but it doesn’t even meet 5 percent of the need. We can literally reach a famine.”

Sadawi left the north for the south after Israel issued an evacuation warning on October 11 to the entirety of north Gaza’s 1.1 million people. “You can call me homeless” or a “displaced person,” he said. The neighborhood around his home has since been bombed, and his parents’ house as well as his car have been destroyed in Israeli air strikes. With whole buildings either completely or partially destroyed, finding anywhere with a bed or couch is near impossible. Sadawi is lucky to get two to three hours of sleep, he said, usually on a hospital chair on the sidewalk, and without a blanket. “I don’t have clothes. I left those at home,” he said. The hospital is also where he showers and uses the restroom, which also requires waiting in hours-long lines.

Meanwhile, Sadawi said, the frequent shutdowns of Internet and cellular service have meant that reporting has reverted to old-school methods—trekking from area to area over debris and destroyed roads, surveying survivors and witnesses for casualty numbers, and listening to the radio for context and conditions. “The news that I used to get in three minutes I now get in an hour or two,” he said.

Before Gaza lost consistent access to the Internet and cellular service, journalists used to call each other to swap information. But now, “I call the people who are covering air strikes 20 times for the line just to connect, and just so I can check on if they’re still alive,” he said. Satellite phones could solve this, but Sadawi said it’s impossible to obtain one now given the blockade. “Only five journalists probably have them, and they got them before the war,” he said. Often, Sadawi has to pick between calling his family or the woman he loves. “She lives somewhere I can’t reach.”

Journalists no longer keep regular working hours. Because Israel has stopped “roof knocking”—alerting people when an air strike is incoming—journalists cover the aftermath at all times of the day, but they are eager to be sheltered by sunset (around 5 pm), because shelling is strongest in pitch-black conditions. And because the bombardment is constant, the noise, as well as nightmares make it hard to sleep—something both interviews and a survey of journalists’ social media posts show.

This, along with the trauma of lost loved ones, lost homes, constant fear, and the relentless sight of death, is wreaking havoc on journalists’ future mental health, said Ghazi Aloul, a Roya News correspondent. Aloul, who has spent only six hours at home since November, is living in the same areas he is covering, relying on hospitals for rest and charging his equipment. “I have experienced many painful moments in this war,” Aloul said. “Previous wars were not this brutal.”

Within this landscape of brutality, “the most sensitive scenes for me to see are children bleeding and injured, because immediately I think of my little 2-and-a-half-year-old girl,” he said. Still, he keeps working. “I try to stay firm and convey my work, photographs, and the truth, because my daughter could be among the dead, and I would need someone to convey her voice and image,” he added.

Aloul says that he himself is not afraid to die. ”If that’s my destiny, then so be it,” he said. But he cannot bear the idea of losing his loved ones. “Experiencing loss is extremely painful and unbearable, and that’s what I can’t get out of my head.”

As the stories of murdered journalists have mounted, many in Gaza have come to suspect that Israel is deliberately targeting the press. This fear became particularly acute after an Israeli air strike hit and killed the place where the family of Aljazeera’s Gaza bureau chief, Wael Aldahdouh, was sheltering. “They are taking revenge on us through our children,” he said, sitting next to his dead son’s body. On December 15, Aldahdouh was shot in the arm while reporting on an air strike on Haifa School in Khan Younis; it was during the same reporting trip that Abu Duqqa was shot and killed.

Israel’s military has repeatedly denied that it targets journalists. “The IDF takes all operationally feasible measures to protect both civilians and journalists. The IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists,” a spokesperson told The Nation. “Given the ongoing exchanges of fire, remaining in an active combat zone has inherent risks. The IDF will continue to counter threats while persisting to mitigate harm to civilians.”

Yet the IDF’s actions have continued to raise questions for journalists, as have statements from the Israeli press. Hours after the strike that killed Aldahdou’s family, Avi Yehekli, of Israel’s Channel 13, said, “Generally, we know the target. Like today, there was a target on the family of an Aljazeera journalist.”

Meanwhile, as fear of being targeted by an Israeli air strike has grown, The Nation found that several journalists have pleaded with others in their profession not to add a location to their social-media posts. Aseel Moussa, a correspondent in Gaza with Middle East Eye, believes that Israel will continue to kill journalists because it has never been held accountable in the past. (From 2000 to 2022, Israel killed 55 Palestinian journalists, according to the Palestinian News Agency. Last year, Israel admitted, after several months of denials, that it was responsible for shooting and killing Palestinian-American Shireen Abu Akleh.)

“There is nowhere safe in Gaza for anyone of any profession,” said Moussa, who evacuated eastern Gaza for the south last month only to be met with more bombing. Two days before our interview, Moussa said, her relatives’ home was hit, killing nine family members. Seven were children.

Compounding all of these horrors is the painful reality that, even when journalists do manage to report, their stories can have limited reach. For years, digital rights groups and tech watchdogs have claimed that Meta censors content related to Palestine and that it also monitors Arabic content more excessively than it does Hebrew content. Last week, Human Rights Watch found that Meta systematically censors Palestinian content around the world.

This kind of shadow banning, as it is called, stymies the world’s access to content coming out of Gaza. Motaz Azaiza, a photojournalist who has gained a global following of over 17 million followers on Instagram and was named GQ Middle East’s Man of the Year, shared screenshots from Meta indicating that he’d violated Instagram’s community guidelines for posting images; he also shared notifications alerting him that some of his content had been taken down. Meta has not responded to multiple requests for comment.

Still, despite the mounting threats and dangers, what matters to Middle East Eye’s Moussa most is his work. “When I can’t publish my articles or cover the stories around me, that’s when my feelings of helplessness deepen,” he said.

And so, journalists keep reporting, knowing that it might lead to their death. In the last month, several journalists have written their own anticipated obituaries online, sharing their last words, and predicting their own deaths. Roshdi Sarraj, an admired journalist whom Moussa described as “at the top of the field,” was one of them. In one of his last personal posts, Sarraj wrote on Facebook: “We will not leave. And when we do leave Gaza, we will go to the sky, and the sky only.” He was killed days later in an air strike, survived by his wife and baby girl, who turned 1 on November 6.

#palestine #the nation #articles #📁.zip

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