#the toxicity is potent today

[dorothy16]

alancummingreally Today is my 58th birthday and I want to tell you about something I recently did for myself.

I returned my OBE. Fourteen years ago, I was incredibly grateful to receive it in the 2009 Queen’s birthday honours list, for it was awarded not just for my job as an actor but ‘for activism for equal rights for the gay and lesbian community, USA’. Back then the Defence of Marriage Act ensured that same sex couples couldn’t get married or enjoy the same basic legal rights as straight people, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell ensured that openly gay, lesbian or bisexual people were barred from serving in the military. (Incidentally both these policies were instituted by the Clinton administration). This is the statement I made at the time: ‘I am really shocked and delighted to receive this honour. I am especially happy to be honoured for my activism as much as for my work. The fight for equality for the LGBT community in the US is something I am very passionate about, and I see this honour as encouragement to go on fighting for what I believe is right and for what I take for granted as a UK citizen. Thank you to the Queen and those who make up her Birthday honours list for bringing attention to the inaction of the US government on this issue. It makes me very proud to be British, and galvanised as an American’. The Queen’s death and the ensuing conversations about the role of monarchy and especially the way the British Empire profited at the expense (and death) of indigenous peoples across the world really opened my eyes. Also, thankfully, times and laws in the US have changed, and the great good the award brought to the LGBTQ+ cause back in 2009 is now less potent than the misgivings I have being associated with the toxicity of empire (OBE stands for Officer of the British Empire). So I returned my award, explained my reasons and reiterated my great gratitude for being given it in the first place. I’m now back to being plain old Alan Cumming again. Happy birthday to me!

[wandashousewife]

Dear Child (Chapter One)

Pairing — Wanda x Reader

Synopsis — Your father was notorious for going on failed tinder dates for years after your mother had left for her own reasons which she never told you. You never actually thought your father had a chance in the vast sea of relationships until you found out that one of his friends knew a European woman a couple years older than you who wanted to marry him. Strange.

Warnings — Failure dad, absent mother

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

You observed with a heavy heart as your father slumped onto the worn-out couch, his tired eyes scanning aimlessly through the channels, seeking solace in the flickering images that danced across the screen. The familiar routine had become a somber ritual ever since your mother's departure, leaving behind a palpable void in the once lively household.

You couldn't fault her for seeking refuge elsewhere, considering the tumultuous nature of your father's existence—a tumult that often mirrored the chaos of a raging inferno. Despite the turmoil, you couldn't help but yearn for the warmth and tenderness your mother once enveloped you in, like a comforting embrace during your tender years. Her absence loomed large, casting shadows of nostalgia and longing over the mundane moments of everyday life.

The room was engulfed in an oppressive silence, punctuated only by the relentless drone of the sports channel emanating from the television's speakers. Amidst the stifling stillness, your father's gravelly voice shattered the tranquility, his words slicing through the heavy air like a dull knife. Each syllable seemed weighed down by the burden of his existence, tinged with the stale odor of cigarette smoke that clung to his every exhale, staining the air with a sickly sweetness that made your stomach churn with disdain.

"Y'know my old buddy Chad?" His inquiry hung in the air, thick with the acrid tang of regret and longing, a bitter reminder of past connections that had soured over time. The mere mention of Chad ignited a simmering rage within you, a visceral reaction to the memory of a man whose arrogance eclipsed even the most brazen displays of confidence. Chad, with his smug demeanor and unwavering self-assurance, epitomized everything you despised in a person—a toxic amalgamation of conceit and entitlement that grated against your very core. The thought of him, swaggering through life with unchecked bravado, filled you with a potent cocktail of resentment and loathing, a sentiment that mirrored your disdain for the pungent stench of your father's breath and the bitter taste it left lingering on your tongue.

“Sadly.” You mumbled under your breath, putting down your phone.

“Well, he finally found me a wife!” Your father's booming voice reverberated through the house, brimming with an infectious excitement that seemed to electrify the very air around him. Wait, what? Chad found him a what?!

“You’re joking.”

"No! He said it’s absolutely real, plus it’s one of those European girls," your father declared with a sly wink, his tone laden with a hint of lasciviousness that left a bitter taste in your mouth. The subtle leer in his eye betrayed a lingering penchant for lewdness, a facet of his personality that never failed to incite your contempt and disdain.

"And he said that she should be here today," he stated proudly, his chest puffing out with a sense of accomplishment. The suddenness of the revelation caught you off guard, prompting a surge of incredulity to bubble within you.

"So you just bought a wife?" you queried, your voice laced with skepticism and a tinge of disapproval, unable to fathom the notion of acquiring companionship through such transactional means.

"Not exactly, apparently he has a buddy from his traveling days who was offering his daughter to someone rich. Great sob story though," your father explained, his tone tinged with a hint of cynicism as he recounted the dubious origins of this supposed arrangement. The mention of a wealthy stranger peddling his daughter as a commodity stirred a sense of unease within you, prompting a cascade of questions about the morality and ethics surrounding such transactions.

The sudden ring of the doorbell shattered the tense atmosphere, signaling the arrival of the anticipated guest. With an almost childlike eagerness, your father sprang from his seat, his footsteps echoing across the floorboards as he hurried to greet the visitor. As the door swung open, you caught your first glimpse of her—a striking figure adorned in luxurious attire, her long, brown locks cascading effortlessly down her shoulders. Despite her undeniable beauty, an air of unease settled over you as you realized that this poised woman standing before you was the embodiment of the arranged alliance your father had so eagerly embraced. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you resigned yourself to the inevitable complications that lay ahead.

“Salutări, numele meu este Wanda. Esti sotul meu?” The woman greeted, with your father just eagerly nodding along, most likely not even understanding her.

"I have no idea what you just said, but you are gorgeous," he declared boldly, his words dripping with unchecked admiration and a brazen disregard for propriety—a trait of your father's that never failed to incite a mixture of embarrassment and exasperation within you. The unabashed forwardness of his compliment served as a stark reminder of the stark contrast between his cavalier approach to social interactions and your own more reserved demeanor.

"Oh, sorry. I said that my name is Wanda, and are you my husband?" she translated, her voice carrying a gentle warmth as she offered a soft smile in response. Your father's eager nod and reciprocated smile seemed to mask an underlying sense of satisfaction, one that hinted at ulterior motives lurking beneath the surface—an unsettling realization that sent a shiver down your spine as you observed the exchange unfold before you.

"Why yes I am, and this is my dear precious daughter, Y/N," he proclaimed, his voice carrying a hint of forced enthusiasm as he introduced you to the stranger standing before you. The subtle nudge from your father prompted a strained smile to tug at the corners of your lips, though beneath the facade of pleasantries, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions churned within you—a tumultuous blend of resentment, apprehension, and reluctant compliance.

Wanda's lingering gaze bore into you with a curious intensity, her eyes probing beneath the surface to unravel the enigma that lay hidden within. The faint hint of intrigue reflected in her expression stirred a flutter of uncertainty within you, prompting a momentary self-reflection as you pondered the possibility of harboring hidden depths that had captured her interest. The notion of being perceived as intriguing by this stranger ignited a spark of curiosity, compelling you to reassess your own sense of identity and the mysteries that lay shrouded within your being.

“She does look like a precious little girl.” Wanda smiled, laughing.

The sudden rush of flustered unease enveloped you like a suffocating cloak, its oppressive weight pressing down upon your senses with a stifling intensity that left you reeling in discomfort. Unlike the whimsical tales of fanfiction where sparkles danced in the eyes of enigmatic strangers revealing their true identities as vampires, the reality of the situation was anything but romantic or fantastical. The notion of Wanda possibly being a vampire, while momentarily amusing, quickly faded into the background as the sheer embarrassment of the situation washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning out any fanciful musings with a stark reminder of your own vulnerability and discomfort.

Despite your father's insistence on giving Wanda a tour of the house, her gaze continued to stray in your direction, each glance feeling like a subtle yet probing exploration of your very essence. The intensity of her scrutiny seemed to linger on you like a weight, igniting a flicker of discomfort that danced along the edges of your consciousness.

The notion of her seemingly feeding off you with her eyes, while possessing an undeniable allure in a different context, now felt uncomfortably inappropriate given the newly formed familial dynamic. The juxtaposition of attraction and familial boundaries blurred into a disconcerting haze, leaving you grappling with a tumult of conflicting emotions and unsettling thoughts.

Despite your repeated protests and fervent attempts to dissuade your father from venturing into your private sanctuary, his relentless insistence persisted, leading the procession towards the one place you had hoped to shield from prying eyes.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you watched helplessly as he swung open the door to your bedroom, exposing the inner sanctum of your personal space to Wanda's curious gaze. The air hung heavy with a palpable sense of intrusion, as the boundaries of privacy blurred and the carefully curated refuge you had crafted for yourself lay vulnerable to the scrutiny of outsiders.

Wanda's gaze locked onto yours once more, her eyes alight with a mischievous glint that seemed to pierce through the veil of your embarrassment with unnerving precision. The knowing smirk that played upon her lips betrayed an acute awareness of your discomfort, a silent acknowledgment of the boundaries you had sought to uphold and the vulnerability you now found yourself exposed to.

As the evening unfolded, Wanda seamlessly integrated herself into the household, her presence casting a newfound sense of warmth and vitality over the once somber atmosphere. The tantalizing aroma of her culinary creations wafted through the air, filling the space with the enticing promise of a delectable feast. With each savory bite of the Romanian delicacy she had prepared, the rich flavors danced upon your palate, leaving a lingering impression of culinary excellence that spoke volumes of her culinary prowess.

Yet, amidst the conviviality of the dinner table, Wanda's unwavering gaze remained fixated upon you, a constant presence that seemed to defy explanation. The intensity of her scrutiny bore into you like a relentless tide, leaving you unsettled and acutely aware of the unspoken tension that lingered between you. With each passing moment, the weight of her gaze pressed down upon you, an unspoken question lingering in the air, begging to be addressed yet remaining shrouded in enigmatic silence.

[cryptwrites]

Poisons

Hello! I'm gonna share how I go about writing poisons and the things I think are helpful to keep in mind. Now, I have never actually poisoned someone - shocker - but I have done extensive research on the topic, so I would say I know a decent amount about how to effectively poison someone. Disclaimer: This is for writing purposes only, don't poison people. Thanks.

Keep In Mind:

Poisoners need little to no physical strength although they do need a strong sense of self control & nerves of steel. Shooting or stabbing someone takes a mere moment of consideration and is frequently the result of  a split second decision, while position requires dedication. Many poisons require a certain amount of time to work and the poisoner usually must administer several doses of poison in order to work. The poisoner also usually must be within close proximity to their victim and often will have to look them in the eye and engage with the person while the person slowly dies.

Exotic poisons can be more trouble than they’re worth. Importing exotic poisons leaves a trail for authorities to follow, and they require more research to correctly use.

Smart poisoners work with what they’ve got. The clever killer looks for drugs that are already in the victim’s medicine cabinet and that could be deadly. Read medical warning labels to get an idea of how to use them.

Poison can be used in ways that aren’t deadly. If the goal isn’t death, you can render someone dizzy or dopey, making a character vulnerable to a bad influence. 

Common Poisons

Hemlock: Poison hemlock comes from a large fern-like plant that bears a dangerous resemblance to the carrot plant. It was readily available for treating muscle spasms, ulcers, and swelling, but in large doses will cause paralysis and ultimately respiratory failure. 

Mandrake: It was used as a sedative, hallucinogen and aphrodisiac. Superstition mediaeval denizens believes when the vaguely human-shaped root was pulled out that plant gave a piercing shriek that would drive anyone to madness or death - hence the harry potter scene.

Arsenic: Arsenic comes from a metalloid and not a plant, unlike the others but it’s easily the most famous and is still used today. instead of being distilled from a plant, chunks of arsenic and dug up or mined. It was once used as a treatment for STDs , and also for pest control and blacksmiths, which was how many poisoners got access to it. It was popular in the Renaissance since it looked similar to malaria death, due to acute symptoms including stomach cramps, confusion, convulsions, vomiting and death. Slow poisoning looked more like a heart attack.

Nightshade: A single leaf or a few berries could cause hallucinations - a few more was a lethal dose. Mediaeval women used the juice of the berries to colour their cheeks, they would even put a few drops on their eyes to cause the pupils to dilate for a lovestruck look which is why Nightshade is also called ‘Belladonna’ or “Beautiful woman.” The symptoms include dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, blurred vision, tachycardia, loss of balance, staggering, headache, rash, flushing, severely dry mouth and throat, slurred speech, urinary retention, constipation, confusion, hallucinations, delirium and convulsions.

Aconite: This toxic plant, also called Monkshood or Wolfsbane, was used by indigenous tribes around the world as arrow poison. The root is the most potent for distillation. Marked symptoms may appear almost immediately, usually not later than one hour, and with large doses death is near instantaneous. The initial signs are gastrointestinal including nausea, and vomiting. This is followed by a sensation of burning, tingling, and numbness in the mouth and face, and of burning in the abdomen. In severe poisonings pronounced motor weakness occurs and sensations of tingling and numbness spread to the limbs. The plant should be handled with gloves, as the poison can seep into the skin.

If someones poisoning another:

The character should analyse the daily life of the target well before attempting to poison them. Note what sort of medicines they take, at what moments they are most vulnerable, how attentive they are to their surroundings, and so on.

Choose a poison that suits your needs. You need to be as discreet as possible and not arouse suspicion. Too dramatic and people will know something is up. Choose poisons that are easy to slip into meals/don't have to be administered constantly, or you could simply frame it as an overdose by using the target's own medicines.

Think of how you want to administer the poison. Some take effect through touch while some require being swallowed. Based on that, come up with a plan to poison your target.

Make sure everything corresponds with the plot and characters, and nothing becomes a plot hole. Don't have a typically nervous character be perfectly calm when thinking of poisoning. Don't poison someone just for the sake of it. Have everything tie back to the plot, your characters rarely should be poisonings someone just for the "cool" effect. Trust me, it doesn't actually have that effect and just comes off like lazy writing. Have your characters act in accordance with their personalities.

Research time periods and history when choosing poisons. Not all poisons were popular during the same time periods, and not all of them are native to the same geographical areas.

[harry-styles-obsessed]

Request: can you please write something cute with Harry and like 7 year old daughter please!! + y/n?! Ty!!!

Warning!! Cuteness overload! A/N I have NO idea what I was writing about but I guess I hope this is okay!

©️ please do not copy or translate my work.

-

You had, had an overly busy day and finally you were able to head home. Today was Halloween and the kids were already out causing a nightmare. Sure Halloween was fun but still you didn’t like working during it. Here you were unlocking the front door, looking forward to see your husband and, daughter Florence. As soon as you had opened the door you were hit by a strong smell of… something. Your nose crinkled slightly in disgust before you shut the door quietly. As you made your way closer and closer to the living room the smell got more and more potent before eventually you had stopped outside of the door seeing Harry sat on the floor, talking sweetly to Florence, whom was jumping up and down with a nail varnish pot that had a piece of paper wrapped around it which said ‘pleasing’ clearly the little girl wanted to paint her daddy’s nails with his own brand of varnish but that stuff was expensive so he had to get around it somehow.

“Is someone learning to be a makeup artist?” You spoke up, Florence looking at you with a massive grin as she nodded Harry looking to you with a small smile “let’s show mummy yeah?” Florence nodded excitedly grabbing onto Harry’s wrist and lifting it up to show you the… art.. she had created on his hands. The paint was all over his fingers practically, going way past his nails, some of the nail varnish even covering his tattoos. You let out a small laugh “oh wow that’s beautiful.” You smiled looking at Harry who was still remaining a good sport. “Flo has used many different colours. Haven’t you sweetheart.. tell mummy.” He spoke, the little girl looking at you with excitement “yes! Daddy loves blue so I did blue!! Pink!! Black and…” she looked at Harry who looked at her with such a loving look “white.” He spoke, Florence nodding excitedly “that’s beautiful..” you spoke before you walked over to Harry and pressed a kiss to his lips “I’m going to clean up.. have fun…” you giggled out, Florence scrunching her face up as she whined out a “ewww” making both you and Harry laugh.

-

As you went upstairs Florence went back to decorating his nails “daddy can I do your nails for your concerts?” She asked excitedly and he chuckled nodding his head “sure.” He spoke watching as she burst with excitement again, nearly sending the nail varnish everywhere if it wasn’t for Harry’s quick movements his large hand surrounding her smaller one “hey… no throwing.” He watched her continue to bounce up and down, not listening to him, in her own world “hey… hey… Flo..” he tried to grab her attention but still she wasn’t focusing “Florence.” He spoke more clearly and she paused looking at him “listening ears on, yeah?” She nodded slowly giving him the nail varnish and leaning into him holding onto him tightly

“Daddy” she spoke softly and he hummed “can you dress as Peter Pan and I go as Wendy?” Harry let out a small laugh, last year he was a princess with her, the other year he was the beast and this year… well… he was now Peter Pan. Clearly. “Of course darling. Anything you want.” She smiled excitedly and kissed his cheek over and over again excitedly “can you paint my nails too?!” Harry nodded and happily did as she wanted, painting her nails oh so delicately, holding her small hands in his palm and carefully stroking the brush over her nails slowly and gently and eventually he had completed on doing her nails, constantly having to keep her hands out of her mouth and keeping her wrists down but explaining “toxic” things to a seven year old wasn’t exactly easy.

-

eventually nighttime had come and you and Harry had come up with outfits for him and Florence. Here you were laughing and taking pictures of Harry who was still being a good sport but did not look comfortable whatsoever. Florence looked pretty in her dress and Harry was wearing tight green trousers, a green T-shirt that had holes in it and a random cap but the effort was what mattered. You laughed continuously to the point you were certain you were going to pee yourself and eventually he had taken Florence’s hand and they were both going trick or treating. You loved that man so much.

The evening passed by slowly and eventually the two were back and Florence was eating her dinner, Harry stood by you his arm wrapped around your waist

“Trick or treat…” he teased you still wearing the tight outfit. “Trick…” you hummed out and he smirked before leaning in and kissing you deeply but gently all at once.. oh how you adored him.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Aphrodisiacs

The Greek Goddess of Love, Aphrodite, lends her name to an extensive list of foods and other weird and wonderful items that are supposed to increase the libido and enhance the chances of seduction and therefore fecundity.

The issue of fertility has always been an overriding concern for humankind, and any substance that either enhances sexual prowess or increases the chance of conception has always been highly sought after.

Ancient man had a limited seasonal diet, and a bad hunt or the failure of a crop could literally be a life-or-death matter. Getting enough food to eat was an overriding concern.

Chances of fertility are restricted if nourishment is poor, and so certain foods were given magical powers in the hopes that they might increase both male and female potency despite the limited diet.

There is a marked differentiation between the foods that increase fertility versus the ones that enhance sex drive, and given that early man did not know about the chemical constituents of food, many aphrodisiacs were chosen as such primarily because of their symbolic significance.

The Doctrine of Signatures—the notion that a plant or a feature of an animal that is similar in appearance or quality to a body part could be beneficial to the organ it resembles—had an important part to play in deciding which foods had aphrodisiac qualities.

Example: The Rhinoceros Horn still carries a frisson as a stimulant to sexual appetites, as does Spanish Fly. Both these ingredients, sort of mystical precursors to Viagra, were ingested by men in eager anticipation of increased virility.

Pliny the Elder and Dioscordes documented many of these aphrodisiacs as far back as the 1st century, and it is likely that they would have been regarded as such for some time prior to this.

The behavior and lifestyle of certain animals made them fertility symbols, too:

Example: The sparrow, a prolific breeder, was sacred to Aphrodite and its blood was a popular ingredient in love potions.

Steak was thought to contain all the virility of the animal it came from, the bloodier the better.

Ground rhinoceros horn is symbolic of the libido but the power of the rhino is also perceived as the ultimate in male sexual energy.

This ancient, visceral belief in the power of appearances has meant that many of the original foods that were considered to have aphrodisiac powers by ancient man still carry the same meanings today, despite their actual chemical constituents.

It is true to say that certain foods actually do have aphrodisiac powers purely because of these old beliefs, and generally owe more to folklore and symbolism than to fact; however, a symbol is a potent force and often the association alone is enough to bring about the desired effect.

Example: A dinner date where oysters and strawberries are on the menu will leave no doubt about the intended conclusion to the evening.

To our ancestors, any kind of food that resembled the penis, the vagina, or constituent parts thereof, carried powerful suggestive meanings, although latterly our ability to analyze certain minerals and trace elements has proven that some supposedly aphrodisiac foods may actually deserve their reputation.

Example: The fifty oysters that Casanova reputedly managed to swallow every day for breakfast not only resemble the female sexual parts in scent, texture, and form, but it has also been discovered that their high zinc content may indeed help enhance the libido; a large proportion of zinc is spent when men ejaculate.

For ancient man it was not always necessary for the foods to be eaten for them to have the desired effect. Some of the weird and wonderful things considered to have aphrodisiac qualities were toxic, but could work their magic simply by close proximity.

Example: The berries of mistletoe were a reminder of the semen of the Gods and the little crosses on the undersides were kisses, but it would be unwise to eat them.

Seeds, nuts, bulbs, and eggs, because they are full of potential new life, were considered as aids to fertility; snails, too, were considered to enhance sexual appetites because of the viscous fluid of the trails they leave behind, although slugs are not considered to have any aphrodisiac qualities whatsoever.

Source

[valscigarette]

Summary: Val gets so overstimulated by his own prehensile dick that his demonic form comes out. inspired by this post by @shushposting!

Tags: Vox/Val, Val/Angel, Val/Velvette, Poly Vees, Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Toxic Relationship, Smut

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed warnings!

WC: 7.9k | AO3

-

By now, Vox has the ritual down to a science. Every so often, just infrequently enough to avoid suspicion, he taps a couple drops of Velvette's love potion into Val's morning Four Loko and jumpstarts the program for his desktop camera feeds to follow Valentino for the day. It’s easy. Val never fails to leave his drink unattended at some point over breakfast and no attendant would dare point out Vox spiking his drink. Even Kitty, ever watchful, says nothing. 

“I'm busy today, just so you know,” Vox lies while Valentino curses out their toaster one morning. “Back-to-back meetings. Try not to have any emergencies.”

He pulls the bottle of potion from his pocket and draws up the usual two drop dose, leaving only a thin veneer of the glossy liquid at the bottom. It always amazes him how potent it is; the formula is derived from Val's own pheromones, after all. The love potion dissolves easily into the acidic drink, and, when a quick glance confirma Val is still fighting to get his bread back, Vox tips the remainder of the bottle in as well. It's hardly anything, he reasons. There's no sense in leaving so little behind. 

As he slips the empty container back into his blazer, Val turns around with a frown twisted across his face. “Vox, the fucking toaster is broken again!”

“Did you hear me? At all?” Vox asks, already getting up to assist with the not broken toaster. He leans into Val's space as he pulls the lever back up. It was knocked off track by Val's struggling, but his breakfast is salvageable and Vox can have the toaster replaced after the fact. “You're on your own today. Don't call me unless the tower is burning down.”

Once Vox plates up the toast, Val swans back to the table to spread spiked butter over it. Generally, Vox can't remember a second of the time he's known Valentino and seen him sober, and it no longer surprises him how much Val takes in a single day. So long as the studio keeps pumping out blockbusters and Val stays too high to notice a little extra kick in his drink, Vox is content to let him bury his days in a foggy quagmire of his own making. Val's less of a bitch the higher he is, anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, your schedule’s tight, Papi's got more important things to do than me,” Val drawls. He slugs back a heavy gulp of his Four Loko and doesn't so much as twitch. “Tell me, Vox, when did you get so fucking boring?”

Vox takes one of Val's hands and rubs his knuckles, a charming grin cutting into his screen. “These meetings keep the lights on, babydoll.” His own face mirrors back at him hundreds of times in Val's compound eyes, dancing as his gaze shifts over the reflections. “If anything goes wrong, take it up with Velvette. I'm sure she'd be,” Vox stops, his fans whirring like an inhale to cool his rapidly heating processors, “happy to assist. Provided you leave her models alone.” He raises Val's hand to his screen for a kiss, and doesn't begrudge Val a flirtatious caress along the bottom of his screen as he pulls away. 

Val groans low in the back of his throat, but it's too early in the morning for him to put up much of a fight. He finishes his breakfast in relative peace, scrolling through Sinstagram, texting Angel Dust, and occasionally slurping his drink, none the wiser about how long the day ahead will be for him. Vox can barely contain himself long enough to see Val out the door of the kitchenette, still nursing his Four Loko as he lights a cigarette.

The second he can drop the pretense of his own standard morning routine, Vox zaps into the nearest security camera. The electrical currents carry him down to his office, where a set of screens on the right side of his desk follow Val through the hallways of Vee Tower exactly as planned. His day is empty. There are no meetings. All Vox has to attend to is his own libido as he watches the love potion slowly rip Val’s self control to pieces. 

Its effects first make themselves known on the elevator to the studio. A simple twitch is all it is. Val looks down at his crotch, mildly surprised by the semi, but overall nonplussed as he finishes the last of his drink. He’s probably watching porn on his phone, Vox thinks, and can blame the early tinges of arousal on it. 

Valentino bursts into the studio like a model entering a runway, his wings a cape and his smoke a dramatic cloud, and the plain irritation on his face only enhances the beauty of his harsh angles. One of Vox’s cameras, outfitted with a zoom lens, closes in on the shape of his cock trapped in his tight white bell bottoms. Shifting shadows hint that the eager thing is already squirming, probably mere minutes from plunging into Val's own hole to sate its drug induced need. Vox cups himself in sympathy, stroking his thumb along the length of his bulge. 

“Angel,” Val hisses. His gravelly voice carries across the studio, distracting Angel Dust from the makeup artist turning a black eye into a smokey shadow look. “I need to see you in your dressing room.”

With a flurry of assurances to the cosmetician, Angel follows Val to his dressing room, unable to get a single questioning word past his lips before Val bends him over his vanity, yanks down his panties, and shimmies his own pants down just enough to let his swollen, prehensile dick out. The side angle from a visible security camera is perfect for admiring it until Val hunches over Angel, guiding himself into place and humming in pleasure as the slut beneath him squeaks. At that, Vox switches to a hidden camera among Angel’s makeup brushes, which allows him to watch Val’s tongue loll out and antennae quiver as he pounds Angel so hard the vanity dents the drywall.

“Fuck, fuck, Val,” Angel whimpers, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth glass top until Val pins all four of his wrists with two hands of his own. “Val, please, I’m gonna-”

Val shoves his head down against the vanity to shut him up, evidently not in the mood to hear his begging. “Just a couple minutes,” he coos, barely audible to the microphones in the room over the wet slap of his balls against Angel’s ass. “You can take it.”

None of the cameras are positioned appropriately for Vox to see the bulge Val is undoubtedly making in Angel’s stomach, but he can forgive it when this is hardly going to be Valentino’s last orgasm of the day. It’s just his first. Watching Val’s thrusts lose rhythm, Angel’s eyes cross, convinces Vox to unbuckle his belt, unzip his fly, and shove his slacks down to his knees. He knows he has all the time in the world to take care of himself. 

Angel doesn’t finish, but does keen in at an obnoxious pitch when Val does. A rich, velvety moan accompanies the final few thrusts, each hard enough to bruise and pushing more jizz to spill down Angel’s quaking thighs. Moments later, he's still panting and shivering when Val pulls out to continue jerking his now glistening cock, either unwilling or unable to stop pleasuring himself as Angel weakly pulls against the hands still pinning him in place. 

“Clean yourself up before the shoot,” Val snaps. Coming has done nothing for him, and he must realize the sort of day he’s in for. “If we fall behind schedule because you’re a disgusting cumslut, I’ll make you regret it, Angelcakes.”

“Got it, Val,” Angel hiccups.

As soon as Val lets go of him, he stumbles out of the dressing room to get to the studio shower. Left alone, Valentino plops down on the couch and lets his head fall back. The whir of Vox’s cameras zooming in on him must get his attention, because he opens one eye and bares his teeth. 

“Thought you were too busy for me,” he bitches, legs twitching apart as he pets a vein down the side of his cock, visibly trying to keep its interest in his hand so it doesn’t go searching for something better, like Val’s dripping pussy behind it. 

In answer, Vox strokes himself faster and waits for Val to realize he can’t walk out into the studio touching himself like a desperate pervert. No one’s coming to help him out with his little problem, and nothing would help anyway except to let the love potion run its course. 

“You better not be saving this to your spank bank, Voxxy,” Val spits, his back arching as his writhing dick finally escapes his grasp and presses into his hole. “You ffffuck- fucking asshole.”

After a few indulgent minutes, he clenches his fists, wipes the sweat off his brow, and eases his pants back up his hips, though their tightness does little to obscure the lewd act happening beneath. His staff ought to know better than to acknowledge it, though, when Valentino perches in his director’s chair with his legs crossed and calls action. 

For the first half of the day, Val puts up an admirable fight against the overstimulation of being fucked by his own dick non-stop. He disguises his several orgasms behind cursed insults and bites so deep into the heel of his hand that his teeth come away dark with blood. Vox doesn’t get himself off as he watches, but occasionally manages to get a few emails sent off when Val gets himself together enough to complain about the costumes or the performances. 

Vox knows things are getting interesting when Val calls for a lunch break. The mere idea is laughable, unless one happens to know it’s an excuse to clear the set so he can handle whatever meltdown possesses him on a given day. Practically the second he’s alone, Val calls Vox.

It takes a lot of willpower, but Vox lets it ring all the way to voicemail, eyes locked on the obscene movement in Val’s visibly soaked pants. He doesn’t answer the second time either. He also doesn’t feel guilty when Val throws his phone into a wall out of pure frustration. After all, Vox did warn him he would be too busy to help today.

“You little shit,” Val whines in the general direction of a camera, wobbly, like he might cry. “You can’t leave me like this Vox, get your flat fucking ass up here and help me!”

Truly, Vox calls Velvette out of the kindness in his heart. She answers for him right away, her end of the line chaotic with the background of her workshop, though she’s pristinely put together herself. “What, Vox?”

“I gave Val some love potion this morning,” he tells her, politely maintaining a high enough camera angle so as not to flash her with his own body or Valentino’s. “Great work on that formula by the way, my dear.” She grins with the compliment, a perfect opportunity for Vox to offer, “He could use a break if you’re up for it.”

Her smile drops as quickly as it appeared. “I’m not playing ring-around-the-cock-cage,” she snarks.

“Of course not.” Vox placates her by texting over a link to his live feeds of Valentino. “But I know you like him all pathetic, so I thought I’d give you a go.”

Velvette harrumphs and considers his proposition, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh as if he’s asked some gargantuan favor of her by offering up an overstimulated, submissive Valentino on a platter. “Fine. But you owe me one.”

“Whatever you please, darling,” he says. “Your wish is my command. Now, go put on a show, I’ll be watching.”

“Nasty prick.”

She flips him off, face wrinkled in faux-disgust before hanging up the call. On looking back at his screens, Vox finds Val spread out on the studio floor, massaging the base of his dick that isn’t buried in his pussy, back arched at the overwhelming sensations. The deep v of his low-cut shirt falls open as he thrashes to occasionally show one of his heart-shaped nipples, pierced and nearly as flushed as his cheeks with excitement. It takes minutes for Velvette to appear, but they drag on forever when Vox has such a delectable sight to enjoy.

“Come on, Val,” Velvette says, her voice ringing out before the cameras catch her walking up to his prone form on the ground. “You shut down the whole studio for this?” she asks. One of her sharp heels kicks Val’s hand away from his crotch, allowing her a better view of his situation. “This is embarrassing for you. You seriously can’t control your needy dick long enough to get through the day?”

To his credit, Val manages to speak between the wet hitches of his breath. “It’s not my fault,” he spits out. Excess drool puddles around his lips and tongue, slurring his speech. “I can’t make it stop, and fucking Vox won’t pick up his phone!” He lifts his hips toward Velvette but she backs away before he can touch her.

“If you only want Vox, then…” Velvette teases.

In an instant, Val is falling over himself to take it back, practically snapping his neck with how quickly he springs up on his knees. “No, princesa, I’m happy to see you!” Vox’s cock leaks at the desperation in Val's tone, the tremor in his hands as he claws up the hem of Velvette’s skirt. “Don’t go. Daddy’ll make it worth your while, don’t you worry your pretty head-”

“Shut up,” Velvette interjects. “Just- take your pants off and try not to make a fucking mess.” 

She helps Val kick off his shoes so they can strip away his bottoms, exposing him to the cold studio air. Several of Vox's cameras whirr as they focus on the million dollar view of Val's mindless, almost tentacle-like cock cruelly fucking him past him past the oversensitivity. Oh, he's going to be crying before Velvette finishes with him. 

The morning's buildup of tension surges in Vox's stomach as Velvette straddles Valentino, perfectly positioned to grind against the base of his cock and fondle his pretty nipples. A chirping trill breaks from his mouth when she pinched one between her fingers. “If you want a break,” she huffs, “we have to work for it. You know that, babes.”

Val moans a few slurred words that sound enough like an agreement for Velvette to slice off her panties to get them out of the way. Later, she'll absolutely invoice Vox their cost. At present, his cameras perfectly capture her sopping pussy rutting against Valentino. They're set to record automatically when he runs the program tracking Val, but he has to double check that he'll be able to watch the two of them forever. Velvette's exquisite heat is enough to tempt Val's cock out of himself and into her as well, giving Vox yet another gorgeous shot to obsess over for weeks before it plunges into her.

“Goddammit, Valentino!” she yelps, digging her nails into his chest. 

At the same time, Val's hips jerk up to help him bury his dick in her cunt, the poor thing helplessly repeating “Thank you Velvette, thank you, thank you,” like he's forgotten how to say anything else. Dozens of cameras strewn about the studio give Vox every shot he could want, including a down-angled lens that lets him see both the place where Val disappears onto Velvette, and Val's swollen pussy that twitches every time he bottoms out in her. Pearls of come bead from between his lips and drip to the floor, and it's the realization of how much Val has already come that pushes Vox over the edge. 

He's alone, but still bites the inside of his cheek to quiet his moan as he spills over his hand, the suddenness of it only intensifying the sensations. On screen, Val has found the perfect angle to drive fucked out little “ah”s from Velvette's painted lips on every thrust. His legs betray him. They kick out, restless and useless, a perfect tell that he's past his limit by midday. 

“So perfect, so fucking tight,” Val praises. His lower set of hands find purchase on her hips to aid each fluid motion and the pressure makes Velvette groan. “My pretty dolly.”

“Please shut the fuck up,” she snarls. “I'll cut this thing off and hang it like a trophy in my office, don't test me.”

Contrary to her intentions, this drags another breathless orgasm from him, noticeable only from her offended gasp and the cum frothing around his cock as he continues fucking her. “Y-you can have it, amor,” he chokes out, “it'll grow back.”

“You wish. It's the only worthwhile thing about you.” Velvette's cruelty always impresses Vox, and strikes one of Val's many kinks. “Now hurry up and get me off, I have actual work to get done today.”

When it takes him too long to work up the coordination, she grabs the upper hand not somehow still clinging to his cigarette holder, spits on his slender fingers, and forces it into place so that she can still grind her clit into his palm even if he goes limp beneath her. Their hands make the swell in Velvette's lower stomach look even more obscene, visibly twitching as Val's devilish cock moves inside her. 

“Finally. For a porn overlord, you're useless with a pussy, you know.” Her words don't match the climbing urgency of her motions, but do fit Val's downright sloppy rhythm that he'll be ashamed of when Vox plays this back for him later. “Vox fucks me better.”

“You fucking bitch!” Val cries. 

Although Vox planned on waiting a while for his next round, Velvette's hard-earned praise has him shifting in his seat with pavlovian interest. In his second of distraction, the slight enrages Val enough to flip himself and Velvette over with a heavy thud. The cameras fuzz with the power radiating off him, not long enough for Vox to register it as anything more than his own malfunctioning systems as he wraps a hand around himself once more. 

Velvette moans under Valentino, who has found the energy to put his back into each harsh thrust and growl, “I'll show you who fucks better.”

The spurt of jealousy surpasses his exhaustion and frustration enough for Val to drill her into the floor, each motion rhythmic and punishing in the way only a professional cam achieve, one of his many hands busy circling her clit between them.

“I can do this all day, Mami.” Every time Val thrusts into her, Velvette slides up the marble floor, until she wraps her legs around his waist for purchase. “All-” he interrupts himself with a whine, “all night, too.”

He's fucking her too hard for Velvette to get out a response, but her wordless moans say enough. She probably meant to rile him up. It worked beautifully, and Vox files away a mental note to buy her the most extravagant gift basket in the entire Pride ring tomorrow. Beads of sweat roll down Val's back like invitations for Vox's tongue, and each whimper in symphony with Velvette beckons him to join them but he promised himself he'd wait. It'll be so much better to deal with Val tonight after an entire day of this.

“Mi princesa.” Val's voice is equal parts breathless and honey-sweet, as saccharine as his dopamine riddled drool that Vox can see soaking stains into Velvette's top. “So beautiful, you, shit, you drive me fucking crazy.”

She doesn't reply so much as arch into him, nails digging into his skin once more and drawing enticing furrows of blood down the expanse of his back, mean tips of her heels beating bruises into either side of his spine with each vicious thrust. On another day, when they have the time, Vox could easily spend hours watching the two of them fuck like they're fighting. Today he only has one goal. 

“Don't stop,” Velvette gasps. Her body has gone mostly pliant beneath Val, drowning in the sensation too much to keep giving as good as she gets. “Fucking hell-”

Val presses himself as tightly against her as he can when he comes. His muscles seize, thrown in perfect relief under the calculated, cold studio lights, then go lax as he collapses in a gaggle of uncoordinated limbs on top of her. Still, his cock keeps working on its own. Judging by her whimpers, Vox missed Velvette's orgasm under the beauty of Val's, though he doesn't mind when she's still exhaling pleased groans every couple seconds. 

“Okay, that's enough,” she sighs. 

Muffling his voice in her shoulder isn't enough to disguise Valentino's sob. 

“Cut it out,” Velvette tells him, sharper this time, and shoves at Val's shoulders until he props himself up enough for her to wiggle from beneath him. Her biggest challenge is getting away from his ruthless cock, relentlessly trying to pound into her, but the advantage of being a separate person allows her to get back to her feet as Val's two excessive loads of spend drip down her legs.

Without the reprieve she grants, it takes seconds for Val's dick to find its way back to his hole. His legs collapse almost immediately. The tears come back full force when Val falls on his ass, overcome by his own rare disinterest with sex and the prospect that, like Vox, Velvette will make him deal with his libido on his own. 

“Please don't go,” Val trills, unironically crawling across the floor to Velvette because his legs must be useless. Vox earmarks this section of the footage too. It’s not often he gets to see Val in a state so desperate, so soon. “I’ll do whatever you want! Anything for mi princesa, my beautiful Vel, always so good to me and Vox.” He reaches her inches from the doorway, clumsily petting whatever parts of her he can reach in the distraction of his nonexistent refractory period. If he notices her pushing his hands away, he doesn’t care, continuing to offer, “as much head as you want, my face was fucking made for sitting on,” with no appreciation for her waning patience.

“Piss off!” she finally shouts, kicking Val away with a heel to the chest that will surely bruise.

Now that seduction has failed, Val growls at a pitch subaudible to most sinners, and somehow draws himself up on wobbly, fawn-like legs. He hardly looks threatening, still at the mercy of his own traitorous body, but Vox still snaps screenshots off every camera. “Do you know how many bitches would kill to breathe the same air as me?” If he expects to frighten Velvette into submission, Valentino has another thing coming. “You don’t get to abandon me like this, amorcita.”

“Funny,” Velvette sniffs, “I don’t actually care.”

Before he can issue another empty threat, Velvette whips out her cell phone to take several crisp, high-definition shots that Vox knows he’ll want framed even before they upload to the crowd. Thousands of pixels catch all the glory of Val’s wrecked state: his fur matted by a mixture of his own fluids, Velvette’s, and Angel’s; his cheeks flushed so bright he looks made up; his mouth slack with a suffering that could easily be mistaken for pleasure; his cock a noticeable fiend blurred by its motion. Oh, Vox could kiss Velvette right now. Instead he rewards himself by speeding up his jerking off.

“Interrupt my work day, Val, see what I do with these,” she taunts, waving around her spoils. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Val roars, though he doesn’t make any move to take her phone or stop her from leaving. “Fucking ungrateful, irritating cocktease!” As Velvette exits the studio, his shouting follows her down the corridor, all the way to the elevator. “You’re dead, princesa! FUCKING DEAD!”

She laughs as the elevator doors close.

Vox happily returns his attention to Val, who cannot distract himself forever by fussing at someone who’s not on the same level of the building anymore. The brief reprieve for his overworked pussy seems to have made things worse, reducing Val to a weeping mess as his surge of adrenaline wanes and he fights to get to the set bed before his knees give out beneath him. Honestly, Vox couldn’t have designed this better himself. The studio is the perfect place for Val to take repose as his own cock relentlessly wrecks him. 

He drags a pillow to his face and bites it to muffle the sobbing moans that return with a vengeance now that Val is giving into the helpless state he’s found himself in. What a pretty picture he paints, a magnificent masterpiece of debauchery that makes Vox understand the appeal of the sloppy scenes Val shoots all day. They’d make millions if he wasn’t such a priss about losing control of his dick, because the Sistine Chapel itself couldn’t compare to the tableau Val presents on days like these.

Another orgasm wrenches a scream from Val’s throat, his limbs jerking and the wet spot beneath him on the bed spreading faster than his legs on any-damn-day of the week. Vox has to congratulate himself, as Val’s crying turns to borderline hyperventilating, on picking such delightful business partners. Nothing in Hell compares to this, nor could it come close. And it’s all for him. He knows Val is waiting for Vox to come fix his problem, as always, and it’s a heady power the demon would never consider allowing anyone else except for maybe Velvette- who wouldn’t have put Love Potion in Val’s Four Loko this morning, but might’ve been more sympathetic if she didn’t get off on her participation in Vox’s scheme.

“Vooox,” Val whimpers, hardly discernible through the pillow and its feathery bite wound. The allure of his name in that voice has Vox leaning forward in his chair and squeezing the base of his cock so he doesn’t come from the acknowledgement alone. “Vox…?”

He switches his main camera, a few feet away but in need of an adjustment he knows Val will catch the motion of, given the wanton way he looks at the sea of cameras around him. All it takes a small movement, a few inches to angle the lens higher, and Val lets out a defeated laugh. 

“You, mmm, motherfucker,” he giggles, or perhaps sobs. Vox can see every tear to drip down Val’s face, but there’s a humorous bend to his tone like he reaches when he’s grasping at straws for any semblance of control. It typically takes him all day to break this far, but Vox did tip extra into his drink to empty the bottle, and he can’t find it in himself to fault Val for his own mistake. Not when it turns out this well, that is. “Better be coming to help me, or I’ll- I’ll-”

Vox zaps into his desk and reemerges from the camera he fixed. All the footage runs in the background of his processors, but he won’t complain about the chance to see Val up close. His screens, no matter how high definition, can't capture the scent of sweat, smoke, and cum permeating the air, or the sound of the silk sheets rasping against the waterproof cover beneath them.

“Aw, Val,” he teases, crackling with all the faux-sugar that normally falls under his partner’s purview. “You’ll what?”

Anything coherent disappears into Val’s crying. From the edge of the mattress, Vox can run his claw-tipped hands up Val’s strong thighs, nudging them further apart for a better look at his predicament. The skin on his cock is as pink and raw as his pussy by now from his fruitless attempts at shutting down his libido, as if he truly believed that a go at anyone else would be enough to stifle his need. 

“You’re no better than the rest of your whores, poor thing,” Vox tuts. He sinks into the bed enough to nearly lose his balance when he climbs on, but quickly braces himself with one hand on Val’s ass and the other on his lower back, between his bottom set of shoulder blades. Faintly sparkling sweat sticks to him, a side effect of the potion. But the barest contact drives Val wild, bucking as if he’s not sure whether he wants the attention he’s been demanding or if even Vox’s comparatively innocent touch is beyond the pail. “I can’t wait to show you all the footage later. Don’t worry- I probably won’t release it.” He squeezes Val’s ass to make him shudder. “This is just for me, right, honey?”

Val nods, trembling like he might be close again. “One more, then…?”

He sounds so pathetic, so tired, that Vox might’ve felt bad for him if he wasn’t leaking through his slacks. “Dunno about that. Your cage’s down in my room, and, honestly,” Vox trails off, shifting to pin Val’s legs with his own to stop them from twitching shut, “you already shut down the studio, and I’m not marking today as a loss.”

He knows well enough that his fingers alone won’t be enough to coax Val’s dick out of place, but he still traces the swollen point of connection where it disappears into his cunt, constantly rolling and grinding with more mechanical precision than Vox’s best designed machines. The joke really is on whatever God stuck them down here: nothing could be more heavenly than this.

“Do you know how many times you’ve come today?” Vox asks. “I counted a round dozen, but I might’ve missed some.” He rocks his hips into Val, which is barely satisfying, but nonetheless triggers his cooling fans to top speed and wires a shock over his body. “What’s your single-day record, anyway? It’s higher than twenty, if I remember correctly.”

The implicit warning breaks through to Val. He shoves the pillow away and fights to prop himself up enough to tearfully beg, “Don’t, Papi, I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” With little more effort than swatting a fly, Vox summons his cables to encircle Val’s wrists and ankles, each pulled flat to the bed until the moth is spread out for him and unable to wiggle more than a couple inches in any direction. In the chaos, he runs a quick records search as well. “You did twenty-four, one on each hour, for a New Year’s special a couple decades back. But you’re not the record-holder.” Vox abandons him on the bed. “That would be your pet project, Angel Dust. Last Valentine’s Day, you got a round thirty out of him. We never released it, but I’ve got it all on camera in case we decide to.” He pats Val’s ankle affectionately. “You’re not letting that whore outdo you.”

“Vox.”

Pretending not to hear him, Vox finds Val’s director’s chair to drag over for a better view. Nothing changes in the moments his back is turned, but he can’t stand to miss a moment of the best show of Val’s career--especially not when he finds the seat of the chair still damp. 

“Calm the fuck down,” Vox assures once he’s perched at the foot of the bed, studying Val like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case his cameras fail. “Like you said, you were made for this. Cry all you want, sweetheart. I’m not here to help you.”

Either Val is worked up to the point that words are enough to send him into yet another orgasm, or Vox’s timing was perfect to the instant. It’s a victory either way. As Val babbles into the sheets, his wings begin to flutter and struggle too with the inescapable stimulation. Vox can’t strip his suit away fast enough, probably should have stripped it off before he came, but the combination of his dizzying hard-on and the pure filth of Val laid out in front of him make the layers unbearably warm.. 

“Fuck, if you could see yourself, Val.” Vox can’t decide whether it’s better to finish himself off now, and last longer when he gets around to fucking Val later, or if he should draw each climax out to its highest potential before letting himself enjoy them. “I’ve been nice. I always come to help when you can’t get ahold of yourself.” Choppy wheezing is music to his ears. “I’ve earned a front row ticket here, don’t you think? Raise those hips a little.” When Val doesn’t so much as try to move, he uses the cables to rearrange him like a doll. “Let Daddy see. Don’t tell me you’re shy now; you look gorgeous.”

Val gags on the length of his useless, slimy tongue, and slurs unintelligibly. The change in angle is enough to let the searching tip of his cock probe that much deeper, wrenching a broken scream from his throat as he seems to come again, even if his shriveled balls are too empty to pump any more jizz out: another moment Vox bookmarks. 

“There’s thirteen, baby. Just eighteen more to go.”

Something in Val breaks and he struggles with renewed vigor. For all the times Vox has encouraged his favorite little interruption, he’s never dosed out this much in one sitting, and as the air thickens with demonic power, he wonders if he may have pushed Val too far this time. Funny, considering Vox hasn’t even made him cum that many times yet; they have longer sessions than this before breakfast, some days. 

“Vox, Papi, pleeease,” Val crows, pulling hard enough for one of his shoulders to dislocate with a bright pop. He’s a real mess. A flap of his wings generates enough wind to knock over a couple of cameras but still does nothing to save him, which is no one’s fault but his own, because it’s not technically Vox’s responsibility to help him cage his naughty tentacle of a cock. “Can’t do it. Help me, Vox, please.” He gulps for breath before rubbing his face into the blankets to wipe away snot and tears, sniveling, “Please, you have to.”

The safe move would be to wrap this up and defuse the rising tension in Val’s body, like it’s waiting to explode into something far deadlier, but Vox is used to riding the line of too close to the sun. “I don’t have to do jackshit. I do whatever the fuck I want: which, right now, is to watch you,” he sends a lovetap of a shock toward Val’s thigh, “break the Vee Tower orgasm record.”

Val’s responding screech echoes back off the studio walls. In a heartbeat, the bunching muscles of his back bulk and his slobbery tongue lengthens.

“Shit,” Vox mutters. He has moments before Val snaps through the cables like paper chains, quickly rescinding them to spare the extra sparks that are certain to incense the monster before him more. “Val, baby.” Racking his servers for the right words to talk Val down, he finds himself too overloaded to move. As Valentino morphs into his full demonic body, his dick never hesitates in its quest to mold its owners cunt to its exact shape, though the second phallus--one Vox somehow always forgets he has--growing from Val’s pelvis is easily occupied by one of Val’s expert handjobs. 

Whatever biological process generates Val’s aphrodisiac fluids kicks into overdrive, causing his saliva to cascade down his chin and chest, while his slick coats his legs. An extra pair of arms stretches in tandem with the first two as Val’s form grows to dwarf the bed he previously spread out on. In his presence, all the air seems to thin, leaving nothing but the siren’s call of his pheromones, strong enough to make it through the precise filters of Vox’s systems. 

“What’s the matter, amorcito?” His purr resonates through Vox’s chest and vibrates the walls of the building, while the subtle hums and trills he makes are finally loud enough to be heard without Vox cranking his audio sensitivity far higher than is reasonable. “You have a record to break.”

A panicked laugh echoes from Vox’s speakers, filling the room as easily as Val’s voice. “I was joking. You know, how we sometimes laugh at each other’s expense.”

“I get it now.”

Val’s arms shoot out to grab Vox before he knows what’s happening. It feels as if he teleported into Valentino’s embrace, face buried in his chest and still embarrassingly hard dick pressed against his second cock. Being this close puts the size into perspective; Vox couldn’t wrap both hands around it, let alone one, and its length makes him queasy, both attributes that set him against having it this close to him, let alone pressed against him, groin to ribs, like a threat. 

“Let’s be reasonable, dear,” Vox says. Static cuts through his voice, his face, in a betrayal almost worse than his own behavior this morning. “It would rip me in half.”

That tongue, endless and curious as the dick squirming against Vox’s stomach, caresses his body and drenches him in rosy spit. Several errors pop up at once, but he still hears Val murmur, “You’ll get over it.”

“Val. Val, come on.” One of Val’s hands trails through the viscous fluid and smears it down to Vox’s ass. Slender fingers circle his hole, massaging the drool into it and relaxing the muscle with unnatural ease. Vox’s only coherent thought is that it must have a different chemical makeup than the standard stuff. “No. Val-”

Val forces two fingers in. It should hurt, but instead it shoves Vox’s protests from his mind as his body falls limp into Valentino, and he barely notices the hasty addition of a third finger. Though they both know Val is an expert at both prep and fingering for the hell of it, he’s sure the cursory glance against his prostate is an accident because the bastard won’t touch it again. 

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Val only spends a couple minutes perfunctorily working Vox open before his impatience wins out. Three of his hands--the fucker has too many--lift Vox to position him with the tip of Val’s massive cock kissing his woefully underprepared hole. 

“Val,” Vox entreats in a final desperate attempt, flaring his brightness to its maximum as his eye begins to spin, “you’re not putting that in me.”

He doesn’t get a second of control. Val laughs at him, and begins to press Vox down. Although the tip is flared, it’s still painfully wide from the get-go, and reflex-tears spring up with the first quarter inch. He bluescreens at the half and comes to at the quarter. He’s barely on Val at all and swears he can feel it in his throat with how full he already is.

“Nnn- Not gonna fit,” he chokes.

“Does it hurt?” Val coos, not that he cares. “You’re plenty wet, Papi.”

Vox shakes his head. “No. But I’m fucking full, ‘s not fitting.” The fact that it should hurt doesn’t cross his conscious mind.

“Not with that attitude, it’s not.” A haze of smoke comes on Val’s next exhale, and another one of his endless hands tilts Vox’s screen up so it seeps into his ventilation system. Another wave of warmth, of need, rolls through him in response and he loosens up enough to drop further onto Val’s impossible cock, and feedback squeals at them both in response. “You’re goddamn lucky the other one’s too busy for you, Voxxy.” Fuck, Val’s voice seems to be coming from everywhere, darkly continuing, “or I’d stuff you so full, you’d be in Velvette’s workshop for a fucking month.”

If Vox’s speakers aren’t blown, they're at least broken, judging by the constant static whine as Val works him further onto his cock. When the ridge of the head finally pops in, Vox spasms as he blurts precum into Val’s abs “Fuck, fuck, too much.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Clearly mocking or not, Val’s voice seems to soothe Vox’s panic as he absorbs more and more of his toxins. “You’re thinking too hard, amorcito.” One by one, Val’s supportive hands let go, leaving Vox at the far lesser mercy of gravity to impale him on his cock. Of course one finds its way back to Vox’s wrists, to prevent him from holding himself up as a defense, and the one holding his screen never moves, but Val achieves his goal of defeating any chance Vox has left of escape as his dick explores to the best of its ability inside him.

At the point Vox thinks another millimeter will cause a crash so hard it takes all of Hell out with him, Val’s body locks up again as he orgasms, no longer too empty to flood Vox with burning, intoxicating cum. There’s too much for him to hold. It presses ruthlessly against his prostate and makes his stomach cramp even as it spills out around Valentino like a fountain.

Vox’s finish pales in comparison, pathetically small when the fullness drags it out of him alongside a glitching moan, though several lights shatter overhead and a rogue shock momentarily freezes Val in place. His system panics and bluescreens once more to prevent a crash, but he boots back up quickly enough that Val is still whimpering his way through the aftershocks. 

“O-okay,” Vox gets out, “that’s enough.”

But he’s still slowly sinking down on Val’s cock with no hope of escape when Valentino sighs, “But we’re only a third of the way there.” At least Val relinquishes his screen, but it’s to press against the bulge in Vox’s tummy with a gusto that makes him simultaneously spurt out a few more drops of cum and gag so hard he tastes bile. “See? Plenty of room, Papi.”

“It’s not- you can’t-”

Val suddenly moves, thrusting up to force himself deeper. “What was that?” Maybe it would be less overwhelming, to be stuffed so full, if Val’s cock wasn’t constantly moving like it’s mapping every square inch of Vox’s insides and will be tested on its findings later. He can’t catch his bearings long enough to have a coherent thought, let alone keep up a debate with Val. When he dares to look down, he can see the outline of it through his skin, rearranging his internal organs to make more room for itself. “Just a few more inches,” Val informs, like he’s not already pressing against parts of Vox that shouldn’t be reachable without dissection. 

Vox tries to say no, but a jumble of technical sounds and error beeps come out instead and Val just keeps pushing. There has to be more of dick inside him than anything else, or so he supposes until Val seizes and comes again. At this point there’s nowhere for it to go besides down what’s left of his cock outside Vox's body.  Val is too far gone to play the slow game and he continuously rabbits up into Vox, fucking him on two or three inches at a time with no regard for the consequences. 

The deepest thrust yet cracks something in Vox’s spinal cord and he loses connection to his left leg, but a complaint is too high a demand for him to fulfill when all he can think about is Val, Val, Val, in and around him, an inescapable fact of reality now. Nothing else matters. Nothing else compares. The complicated mesh of brain matter and AI that makes Vox could be rewiring themselves to dedicate his existence to being Val’s cocksleeve and, at this moment, he couldn’t give less of a shit if his soul depended on it. He can’t understand how Valentino complains about a pleasure so all-consuming as this one. 

As he’s questioning whether Val’s cock ever ends, or if it will keep coming until he bursts like an overfilled balloon, his ass meets the cradle of Val’s hips. “Not so bad is it?” Val simpers. Vox only manages to gurgle. His heart, his lungs, his everything feels flattened and pinned to allow for Val’s monstrous cock. Not only does it continuously rub against his prostate, but the sweeping arc of its movement alights sensitive spots Vox would have never known existed, otherwise. “Feels, ah, so fucking good, Voxxy. Other bitches die of shock before I get this far.”

Somehow that sentence worms its way into Vox’s consciousness like a compliment. No one else could handle Valentino in his full form, but Vox can, and he’s forgotten why he kicked up a fuss about allowing it now that he’s managed the impossible. To reward him, Val’s roaming hands are back. They stroke down his back, trace the bulge in his abdomen, tease his nipples, and work his oversensitive dick.

Val allows the independent movement of his cock to do the work rather than thrusting, which Vox has to remind himself comes from laziness and not any sort of care for the damage he’s capable of causing. Between their moans, the wet sound of Val’s cocks fucking them both fill the silence. 

Then Valentino comes inside him a third time, and whatever happens next is lost to a system crash that knocks out the entire city for several hours. 

Eventually, Vox wakes up on Velvette’s workshop table with his chest sliced open and her nimble little fingers nudging his ribs back into place. She must have turned off his pain sensors, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of washing the copious amounts of spend from his skin. Hardly any of his lower body was spared, and a flaky trail that starts on his screen, floods around his neck joint, and spills down his throat only ends a half-inch above Velvette’s incision.

She glances up at him when she sees his face appear but quickly returns to the task at hand. “Do not tell me how the hell this happened. I cleaned jizz out of places it should never be, Vox. Never.”

“I appreciate it, my dear,” he croaks. She hasn’t gotten to his voicebox yet. But when he wiggles his fingers and toes, they move without issue, which is an improvement over his last memory. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to put me back together; can you imagine Val trying to replace my liver?”

They share a laugh before Velvette reprimands him for moving while she’s working. “Trust me, you’ll want to leave the pain receptors off for a couple days, but don’t forget to take it easy. Val did a number on you this time.”

“Yeah, well.” Vox grumbles, “I told him it was a bad idea.”

She pushes the mechanism that replaces his diaphragm with more malice than necessary, drawing a neon blue bruise to its surface from the rough handling. “I can't fucking wait to watch the video on our next date night.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you about it?”

Velvette leans down to press a kiss to his exposed sternum. “I want you to show me instead.”

A lesser man than Vox would be embarrassed, but he merely grins in anticipation of reliving the memory with his partners in the days to come.

[magickkate]

Today, let's delve into an important aspect of ethical and responsible witchcraft—understanding and avoiding the use of toxic plants and oils in our magical practices. While the natural world offers a vast array of botanical allies for spellcraft and healing, not all plants are safe for human, animal, or environmental health. Join me as we explore the importance of ethical considerations when choosing botanical ingredients and oils for our magical work.

Understanding Toxicity: Ethical and Practical Considerations

Health Hazards:

Human Safety: Some plants contain toxic compounds that can cause skin irritation, allergic reactions, or serious health issues if ingested or absorbed through the skin. It's crucial to prioritize safety when selecting botanical ingredients for spells or rituals.

Environmental Impact:

Ecological Responsibility: Using plants that are endangered or harvested unsustainably contributes to environmental degradation and threatens biodiversity. Responsible witches strive to protect and preserve natural habitats and species.

Plants and Oils to Avoid

Poisonous Plants:

Belladonna (Deadly Nightshade): Known for its toxic berries, belladonna can cause severe poisoning and even death if ingested. Mandrake: While mythologically potent, mandrake roots contain toxic alkaloids that pose risks if mishandled or ingested. Foxglove: Recognized for its beautiful flowers, foxglove contains cardiac glycosides that are poisonous to humans and animals.

Allergenic Oils:

Cinnamon Oil: Highly concentrated cinnamon oil can cause skin irritation or allergic reactions in sensitive individuals. Nutmeg Oil: Ingesting large amounts of nutmeg oil can lead to nausea, dizziness, and other health complications.

Ethical Guidelines for Responsible Witchcraft

Research and Education:

Botanical Knowledge: Educate yourself about the properties and potential risks of plants and oils before incorporating them into your magical practice. Alternative Options: Explore safe, ethical alternatives that align with your intentions and respect the well-being of all living beings.

Sustainable Practices:

Harvesting Practices: If gathering plants from nature, do so responsibly and ethically, ensuring you're not depleting wild populations or disrupting ecosystems. Cultivation: Consider cultivating your own herbs and plants in a sustainable manner, promoting biodiversity and ecological balance.

Choosing Ethical and Safe Alternatives

Herbal Allies:

Lavender: Calming and protective, lavender is safe for various magical uses and promotes relaxation. Rosemary: Known for purification and clarity, rosemary is versatile and safe when used appropriately. Chamomile: Soothing and gentle, chamomile is ideal for spells involving peace, sleep, and healing.

Essential Oils:

Lemon: Uplifting and cleansing, lemon essential oil is safe for aromatherapy and spiritual purification rituals. Frankincense: Sacred and grounding, frankincense essential oil is valued for meditation and spiritual connection.

Final Thoughts:

As practitioners of witchcraft, we have a responsibility to honor the Earth, protect its inhabitants, and practice magic with integrity and mindfulness. By avoiding toxic plants and oils, we uphold ethical principles and promote a harmonious relationship with nature and the spiritual realms.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Mad Gasser - Day 55

Race: Vile

Alignment: Dark-Chaos

June 14th, 2024

Some demons are conspiracies. Some are mass hysteria. But if we were to combine the two? The interesting annals of American history have several strange sidenotes, but one of the most baffling is related to the sleepy town of Mattoon, that being an incredibly curious case of the Mad Gasser of Mattoon, today's Demon of the Day.

In September of 1944, as recanted by Colin Dickey on AtlasObscura, Aline Kearney was spending some time home with her young daughter, Dorothy, and sister, Martha. It was the height of the second World War, a time of panic and unrest, and while her husband was off serving the Navy, the constant stream of news about lives lost only led to further stress for poor Aline. As day turned to night, however, it went from stressful to downright bizarre. A strange, sickeningly saccharine smell flooded Aline's nostrils, though Martha, who was presumably in the room with her, had smelled nothing. Things went downhill fast as Mrs. Kearney's legs suddenly froze up, her throat constricted, and she became paralyzed from the waist down. Terrified, Martha went to call her husband, but as he arrived, the suspect had already left- a tall, cloaked man in a gas mask.

This first attack is inexplicable... as were the rest. The Mad Gasser struck 33 times over the span of 12 days after his story was picked up in the newspaper, with several families reporting to the police and news that they had been woken up deep into the night, legs frozen in place and throats dry and scratchy. While none of these attacks were fatal, the confusion surrounding them gave way to the burning question as to why they even happened. There wasn't any real motive for them, and they were almost purely random! Later on, an officer released a report that it was likely the result, not of an attacker, but rather toxic gasses blowing over with the winds from a nearby power plant.

However, that conclusion has been heavily disputed, and still to this day explanations are sparse. The most widely accepted one, however, is that of this not being an enigmatic attacker, but rather a case of widespread mass hysteria. The concept of mass hysteria, if you're not familiar, is effectively defined by 'a group of people acting in an odd way for extended periods of time-' historical instances like the Meowing Nuns or the Dancing Plague come to mind, but it can be attributed to even entire hallucinations or actions. As with the Dancing Plague, the people attacked were effectively uncontrollably stopping, experiencing hallucinations that brought them to believing that they were, indeed, a victim of a gas attack.

Combine the high stress of the times with the first attack spreading widely throughout the news, and you have a potent recipe for disaster. However, what still sticks out is the figure spotted running away from the first instance of an attack. Most people consider them to be a concerned neighbor who was checking in on the chaos going on in the house, but the way he ran away may bring different ideas to mind. Past this, several attacks later down the line mention a similar figure spraying gas into their houses almost like spray paint- while this was likely just a hallucination as well, the concept of a figure being responsible in-and-of itself for these attacks has purveyed throughout pop-cultural consensus, and it's this figure that is the Demon in question today.

The enigmatic figure responsible for these attacks is widely unknown, but what we do know about it is that they were an individual wearing dark clothing with a tight-fitting cap. And that's it. Yeah, there's not much else to any depictions, given that all reports of this man take place in the absolute dead of night. However, despite how little they had to work with, I feel like the Mad Gasser's design in SMT works really well to portray the idea behind them. It also looks frankly cool as hell.

[tender-rosiey]

I've been thinking about actor/actress s/o and gojo reading the most cringy the most vile s/o x reader fanfic idk 🤭

fame with a price — gojo satoru x f!reader

a/n: so while i try to finish to the gojo angst, have this <3 being sick in exams weeks is the literal worst but oh well

“hello, I am y/n gojo!”

your husband smirks, “‘y/n gojo’ always sounds like music to my ears.”

you elbow him and he winces in pain, but quickly recovers to introduce himself, “I am satoru gojo, the amazing and handsome husband of this gorgeous woman beside me.”

he wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close, “we are the hot couple who acted the normal couple: Elien and Arthur from Lover’s Potent!”

the interviewer smiles, “you guys know why you are here, right?”

the both of you nod, and the interviewer chuckles at you pulling gojo’s arm away from you and instead holding his hand and stroking it which makes him smile rather goofily.

“so, gojo,” she starts, “would you mind telling our viewers what we are doing today?”

“which gojo?” your husband smirks, earning a kick to the shin, “I mean! today, we are going to read a ‘x reader’ fanfic about my wife!”

“you are awfully enthusiastic, ‘toru, even more than usual,” you hum.

he stretches and places his hands behind his head, “I am just enthusiastic to rub it in people’s face that I can have you and they can’t.”

you take the phone handed to you by the staff, and clear your throat, “I am going to start; so the first one sound rather promising.”

gojo hums and you elaborate, showing him, “look? even the title is adorable.”

“‘the stars were made for you’, well I can certainly take the stars for you if you want,” gojo boasts but you ignore him.

you, then, read it out loud, “‘as I gazed into her eyes, that sparkled under the moonlight, my heart almost beat out of my chest at the sight of her smile that dazzled me’,” you giggle, “that was actually pretty cute.”

you hear gojo groan and snatch the phone away from you, “I can say things better than that!” he scrolls through the number of options displayed before him, “aha!”

“y/n x alpha!reader, smut, +18 minors don’t interact,” he finishes with a smirk.

you sweat-drop, “honey, how about you skip that one? we’re on TV.”

“absolutely not, do you know how many views will this get us?”

the staff, on the other hand, are tip toeing between whether to keep the following scene or not.

gojo clears his throat and gets ready with his most elegant voice, “she was in front of me bare, looking oh so delectable and ready for me to devour and indulge in her— this is in first person by the way— I sunk my **** into her ***** as my teeth ***** **** **** and my growling only grew stronger when she ***** *** **** ***.”

“satoru, please how are you not ashamed to read this or even bothered?!” you exclaim smacking his shoulder repeatedly.

he tsks, “wife, I am absolutely livid, but! they can dream all they want because I don’t plan on giving up on you.”

“toxic much?”

“giving up on you as in trying my best to make you stay in love with me,” he huffs.

“that will prove to be very useless, I am afraid,” you smile smugly.

gojo panics and sits up, looking at you, “wait why?!”

your smile only turns to a grin as you shrug, “the next fanfic is called ‘lover’s paradise’!”

the man beside you, who was presumed defeated and deflated, takes the phone from your hand and silences your protest with a quick kiss.

“the next fanfic is actually ‘the ****** for y/n’,” he says.

“aren’t we off to a great start, even part of the title is considered not suitable to be shown to the public,” you muse sarcastically and can only watch as the staff laugh their hearts out.

“I am going to start reading! ‘***** *** ***** *** ** *** *** y/n and me *** ***** **** *** **! then when I heard her **** *** ****** ***, my **** th****** so hard that it blew up.’”

you started cackling and soon you fall to the ground, wheezing and tears start to form in the corner of your eyes, “they wrote that?!”

“y/n! that’s not nice! they put all their sussiness in it!” your husband argues, but his words reach no one, even the staff.

the camera man is visibly shaking while the director is rightfully disgusted.

“that’s enough I think,” one of the staff squeaks out and the rest nod in approval while you’re trying to compose yourself with your husband helping you sit on your chair once again.

the interviewer speaks up after a, very, long time, “so that it wraps it up, I believe!”

“aw man, we won’t be reading anything else?” gojo pouts, “I wanted to see the fanfics about me too!”

he, unsurprisingly, is smacked on the shoulder even if it’s weak as you’re still taking breaths in to calm down.

the director gives his own opinion, “yeah no, that’s enough; thank you for your time!”

“rude,” gojo mumbles and intertwines your fingers, “like the director said, that’s enough for today, my loyal followers and fans!”

“see you guys in another episode where we hopefully don’t do this again!”

“this was more boring than I thought,” your husband whines after the the director announces the end of the episode.

you sigh, “it was certainly an experience for me.”

he pokes your shoulder lightly and leans in slightly towards your ear, “how about we try doing some of what we read?”

gojo pauses the episode and looks back at you from the couch, “we were amazing, weren’t we!”

“I can’t believe they left in the last part without telling us,” you grumble while taking out your anger on the dishes you’re washing.

your husband, on the other hand, is more than pleased, “I think we made the best episode ever for them.”

“satoru, half of the episode is censored.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss @pompompurin1028 @scul-pted @dazaisdeathwish @requiem626k @nameless-shrimp @shinys-bsd-world-1 @sonder-paradise @ravenina14 @jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @bakugossanity @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @luciferspen @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @fiona782 @ginneko @kisakitwister @iamjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99

copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[banavalope]

Hello, I'm a Homestuck and Good Omens fan and just saw your post about coffee. I came to the Homestuck fandom way late, though, and don't know what the coffee theory was. I was wondering if you'd be willing to share that story from the trenches if it's not too traumatic :)

I'll preface by saying, this all happened near about the time I began to step away from Homestuck, as this was late 2011 to early 2012. My recollection could very well be missing some juicier deets, because I always managed to avoid the worst of it. In all I had a pretty benign time floating about the Homestuck fandom, I'll say that. My knowledge is as a fly's.

If you want the short version: once upon a time, the Homestuck fandom was so stupid it had discourse over the way coffee was drawn in a single panel, because the stylistic choice used to show the way cheap potted coffee has that oil slick sheen on the top Really got the gamerz thinking Gamzee was putting troll blood in the coffee.

The long version is this: this Act was annoying. All the Acts had been annoying, there'd been rather more than six of them so far. The fandom's toxicity was at its most potent, and the main fandom exodus hadn't happened yet. But the stylistic choice brewing on page 4702 of A6I2 suggested a discourse was on the horizon, and it was the size of planet fucking Jupiter.

To understand the affairs of 2011/12 Homestucks, a few things are important to mention: first, nobody enjoyed Act 6. Ask anyone from the tumblr era First Wave, we all agreed that Cascade would have been a better place to start wrapping up the comic as a whole. When Act 6 opened introducing the alpha kids, a whole new plot derivative, and we all realized we'd have to go through the same slog again, that the story wasn't over, the collective exhaustion was palpable. SWATHS left unhappy; worse yet (for some), the alpha kids brought us away from the game of SBURB and the over-aching plot, to instead place our focus on their interpersonal relationships. It was a bad time to take your audience away from a well crafted climax.

Reading it now as a completed work makes this not so bad, because the book is wrote. You can consume it as a finished piece and clearly interpret a through line for yourself, start to finish. Skip it even, if you want. When you've no idea at what time the next update will come, while all the pieces remain necessary to tell the story, any pacing is bad pacing.

Second, while Homestucks are known for many things - all of them cringe - the one that goes overlooked most, in spite of the ripple effect we still feel from it today in every corner, is the sheer amount of over analyzing done to the story itself. Every panel, every inch of every pixel, was a part of a puzzle we all collectively made up. Theorizing was an integral part to the Update Culture era of Homestuck's fandom, that we Figure Out the Story, you had to be the one who predicted what came next. Impressive how none of us came up with some kind of fandom Nobel Peace Prize, for how much we lauded it as a lifetime achievement.

I'll give you, Homestuck does have a very rich narrative. Much of it, I'll favor, is even intentional. It made worldbuilding choices captivating enough to get people painting themselves grey, for fun, so surely it had a few right ideas in some places. And there's nothing wrong about analyzing your media, picking apart its references to tie together a background story, even if it's just one you make up based on how you experienced reading it. That's kind of the whole point of consuming art. It's to be discussed, share your personal conclusions on. Theory is the breath of creativity.

It's the whole part about wanting to be right, where Homestucks as a collective force wanted to start eating each other alive on the spot. We were fucking OBNOXIOUS with theory posting. I'll be honest with you, I really ate that kind of thing up, and even I was getting annoyed. People were beginning to stretch, likely to cope with becoming bored.

Finally, the sober Gamzee controversy. This came about a while before coffeegate, but the effect the inciting update had on Homestucks is comparable to a haunting. It was fucking chernobyl, and a bad day to be a nuclear scientist because now it was your problem. Vriska fans - equally insufferable, as we all were by some respect[1] - and Gamzee fans fought with each other VEHEMENTLY, just to see whos gang was better. Keep that in the background of your mind as the theme music to what's playing. Everyone was anxiously wondering what had happened to Gamzee, because for the last several some-odd panels, we'd lost the boy. He was full of murderous intent, we were down to precious few characters on the meteor left, and we'd lost the boy.

So here we are. It's 2011. We're standing now at the end of the world, we've lost the boy for several panels, and finally the plot is trying to move along. We're all tired, and irritated, and divorced, doing this song and dance one more time but god willing the LAST TIME, when a joke about the look of shitty potted coffee gets made.

And some harbinger of the fucking apocalypse takes to tumblr dot com, drafting up a post about how Gamzee - living in the meteor walls - is putting troll blood into the coffee. Because, otherwise, how is Kanaya as a rainbow drinker doing so fine? Dave called the taste metallic, like blood. Something something long forgotten theories about trolls blood here something something. People would chime in to say "that's just how coffee looks", somehow it dissolved into actual discourse of people violently discussing back and forth how it could ONLY BE BLOOD, because coffee drawn in a prior panel UPDATES AGO didn't have the film on top, only now AFTER SOBER GAMZEE. Etcetera. It was just the worst case of reading too hard into something that you done ever did see.

Shortly following this, many people who were already growing exhausted with Homestuck's narrative direction at this point decided to take this coffee theory as their sign the flood was coming and to board the ark or learn how to swim. Anyone who learned to swim subsequently left during the exodus of 2015.

Again, my memory is pretty hazy. Thanks to Requiem Cafe, surprisingly difficult to google these days. Certainly another old still following me will have something more to add that I'm forgetting, as your handy dandy unreliable narrator.

[1] Said the Eridan fan.

[flower-often]

February 5

Today's flower is the deadly oleander! Scientific name Nerium Oleander

Oleander, scientifically known as Nerium oleander, is a flowering shrub that belongs to the dogbane family, Apocynaceae. Native to the Mediterranean region, oleander is widely cultivated for its attractive flowers and ornamental value.

In ancient times, oleander was highly regarded for its medicinal properties. The ancient Greeks and Romans used extracts from the plant to treat a wide range of ailments, including heart conditions, asthma, and epilepsy. The plant’s therapeutic value was also recognized in traditional Chinese medicine, where it was used to alleviate digestive issues and reduce inflammation.

oleander became a symbol of love and romance, often used to express affection and adoration.

However, oleander’s symbolic significance isn’t limited to positive connotations. In some cultures, the plant is associated with deception and betrayal.

Every part of the oleander plant contains toxic compounds, but some parts are more potent than others. Here are the parts of the plant that pose the greatest risk:

Leaves: The leaves of the oleander plant contain cardiac glycosides, which are toxic to the heart. These compounds interfere with the normal pumping of the heart, leading to irregular heart rhythms and potentially fatal consequences if ingested.

Stems: The stems of the oleander plant also contain cardiac glycosides, although in lower concentrations compared to the leaves. While the stems may not be as toxic as the leaves, they should still be handled with caution to avoid any potential adverse effects.

Flowers: Surprisingly, even the beautiful flowers of the oleander plant are toxic. They contain the same cardiac glycosides as the leaves and stems, making them equally dangerous if ingested.

Seeds: The seeds of the oleander plant are highly toxic and should be avoided at all costs. Ingesting the seeds can lead to severe poisoning and even death.

source: garvillo.com/meaning-of-oleander/

[pkmnherpetology]

OKAY!! let's talk about venom!!

there are several species of venomous herp pokémon. we have seviper, the arbok line, toxicroak, and the salazzle line. now you may notice that this list does not include salamander pokémon despite me discussing their toxins in multiple posts, nor does it include the venusaur line. why is that?

well, although they are both toxins, poison and venom aren't quite the same thing. venom is generally, although not always (we'll get into this) modified saliva that is delivered through injection, while poison is more of "you die if you eat it" thing. similarly, toxtricity isn't venomous, but rather gathers toxins in stagnated water in its body and expels them through secretions. the venusaur line does something adjacent through its relationship with the corpse flower on its back.

so today we're focusing on those pokémon that inject self-produced venom, either through their teeth or through some spur on their bodies.

let's start with the snakes.

seviper and the arbok line both have fangs like hypodermic needles. when they bite and inject venom, muscles in their upper jaw squeeze their venom glands and a controlled amount of venom is delivered through the hollow fangs into the victim's bloodstream. these pokémon all have different types of venom, but what is their venom for?

well, with the exception of the toxin on seviper's tail, which is a hot topic in terms of classification, and i won't be talking about it here, venom in snake pokémon is believed to have evolved for the sake of hunting. for this reason, many defensive bites are quote-unquote "dry bites" where no venom is injected.

now then, what do these snakes' venom do? it depends on the species.

seviper's venom is predominately a haemotoxin, but also has cytotoxic properties. a seviper bite, left untreated, can cause hemorrhaging, damage the kidneys and livers, cause painful swelling, blistering, and even necrosis, and lead to permanent tissue damage.

ekans starts out with venom similar to seviper's, but less potent and with some slightly different effects (predominately, rather than causing excessive amounts of bleeding, bleeding from an ekans bite is stable, but happens for a longer amount of time). however, for reasons we don't fully understand, when ekans evolves into arbok, their venom becomes predominately neurotoxic and extremely fast-acting. untreated arbok bites are far more dangerous than seviper or ekans, and begin with numbness, partial paralysis, and end with a complete shutdown of the respiratory system, including paralysis of the heart and lungs. victims of arbok bites may require artificial respiration in order to survive, and because arbok is fucking huge, it has a lot of venom to deliver.

but what about the salazzle line? it doesn't have nearly as sophisticated of a delivery method as the snakes, so what gives?

unlike the snake pokémon, salazzle and salandit actually evolved their venom for different purposes. salandit venom is not for hunting; salandit often prey on slow-moving or uh...unmoving prey (eggs), and when they prey upon fast-moving species, they use toxic gases rather than venom to subdue their prey. similarly, salazzle mostly use their venom to ward off predators that might infiltrate their lounges and prey upon them or the salandit. thus, it's believed the salazzle line evolved their venom for defense.

this probably also contributes to the poor delivery method. salazzle and salandit do not have fangs, nor is their venom created in the upper jaw. rather, venom is produced in a gland in the lower jaw and when squeezed out of this gland, sort of vaguely drooled out through grooves in enlarged back teeth. because of this method, despite sal venom being drop-for-drop as potent as seviper venom, envenomation is rarely as significant. salandit in particular struggle to envenomate foes, and must "chew" to inject any significant amount of venom. one doctor a hundred years ago stated that anyone stupid enough to be envenomated by a salandit deserved it and he would not treat them. some salandit will cling to a victim for ten or more minutes just to get some kind of result. salazzle, due to their size and strength, are more efficient.

but what does it do, once it gets in the bloodstream? sal venom is a combination of haemotoxins and neurotoxins. in salandit, it prevents clotting, lowers blood pressure, causes swelling and attacks pain receptors, producing extreme pain. once a female salandit evolves, this venom becomes stronger, and the hemorrhaging it induces can cause shock. there are no known human fatalities from salandit venom, but a handful from salazzle.

finally, what's the deal with toxicroak and croagunk? croagunk does not produce venom, rather oozing a relatively mild toxin from its finger, but toxicroak does. while the salazzle line and snakes produce venom in the form of modified saliva, toxicroak produces venom in the form of a concoction of lipids, amino acids, and polypeptides. i don't fully understand the details of the chemical makeup of this substance, but the important part is that it's not saliva, nor is it an environmental toxin harnessed by the body.

the claws on toxicroak hands contain a strong cytotoxin pumped down from glands in the neck and stored in the knuckles. this cytotoxin is the structurally similar to the poison in its throat and chest, and comes from a gland close to its throat sac, but is significantly more concentrated and potent. it dissolves tissue as it spreads through the bloodstream, causing swelling, extreme discoloration, blistering, cell death, and ultimately can lead to necrosis and death. toxicroak, unlike lizard and snake pokémon, which evolved their venom for defense and hunting respectively, it seems to have evolved this venom specifically for fighting other pokémon. it predominately uses this to engage in territorial disputes both with its own species and with others.

so there you have it! a brief rundown on the venom in reptile and amphibian pokémon.

[blundrdskiesnburninlands]

Title: The Enigma of Death Angel Mushroom

Greetings, my favoured companions,

Allow me, to introduce to you the realm of ethereal beings cloaked in beauty yet veiled in peril, the allure of Death Angel Mushroom, which captivated my attention and interest.

Quite a name, isn’t it? It dances upon the tongue and lurks with dangers that take hold of oneself silently. A white beauty with a sweet smell and taste, straight out of a fairyland, these beautiful

Amanita mushrooms are responsible for bringing deaths and pain to humans worldwide.

Behold the majesty of the Amanita family, with over 900 species, among which these Death Angel mushrooms and Death Cap mushrooms are part of the nine species that produce amatoxins, a family of deadly and potent toxic compounds. For those science guys and girls, it consists of eight amino acids arranged in a ring structure, called cyclic octapeptides.

Habitat and Manifestation

One might find these mushrooms in oak-hardwood forests and growing in a bunch or singly, under the shade of the tree. Pristine whiteness, delicately smooth with a convex cap ranging from 5-10 cm in diameter with white pores and a smooth skirt-like ring and stem, basking in the ephemeral glow of sunlight for a few hours each day. While maintaining the fairyland aesthetic, they appear and proliferate in springs and summer and soon die in autumn and winter, concealing a lethal secret.

Amatoxin, a lovely yet nefarious agent of destruction, having three henchmen,- Alpha, Beta and Gamma amanitin, plays a very twisted and simple dance of death. It blocks a key enzyme called RNA polymerase II which is crucial for making mRNA, basically instructing cells to produce proteins. Without mRNA, cells can’t make proteins which are essential for various functions and most of all survival of the cells. Without the proteins, the cells start to die, especially the liver and kidneys which are targeted organs, working hard to process toxins and maintaining body functions.

Symphonic Suffering

A symphony of symptoms unfolds, 6-12 hours after ingestion. A tumultuous attack on the stomach and intestines, very similar and often mistaken as normal mushroom poisoning, followed by profuse diarrhoea and vomiting. Ideally, this would be the right time to seek immediate medical attention but often ideocracy and human incompetency disguised as overconfidence gets in the way and these symptoms get overlooked, misplacing the key to salvation.

This initial phase affecting the gastrointestinal tract may soon end in a few hours causing a feeling of relief or creating a fake recovery period. But here’s the catch, dear acquaintances, these toxins crawl about one’s body causing slow and steady damage while under the pretence of low blood pressure. For a few days, one shall live but all one feels is that the mushroom poisoning is all done and in the past.

And as soon as that fake realization sets in, the second attack or phase starts, within mere days. One will greet kidney and liver failure, bleeding disorders and eventual brain dysfunction occurs, which is when toxins have been successful in damaging the vital organs and will eventually lead the path to coma and sweet death.

Salvation

While all hope would be lost after the second stage, hospital or emergency room should be the first choice of treatment which prevent severe symptoms and organ damage with intensive care

if one feels they have ingested death angel mushroom or something similar. And know this, dear acquaintances, it might prove beneficial for you someday, that a general antidote for such poisons is activated charcoal, taken by mouth. It plays a simple yet crucial role in preventing the absorption of any poison in the stomach or intestines. Mix it with a laxative and the poison’s excretion will be faster and the unavoidable can be kept at bay, at least for today.

Dehydration is something which could severely aid this agent of death, by impacting your blood pressure and de-accelerating one’s body to a dangerous condition. Electrolytes and fluids will be prescribed to restore hydration if timed correctly.

A famous antidote for mushroom poisoning is Silibinin or Silybin, cultivated to inhibit the uptake of amatoxins by liver cells, reducing liver damage and enhancing the elimination of toxins from the body. One can find it available in both oral supplement and intravenous formulations, the latter is usually preferred. Other drugs like NAC, is also used with or without, depending on the availability of the former.

When all hope is lost, Haemodialysis is what one is left with, if one’s too late for the above-mentioned antidotes. Mainly to remove toxins and waste products from one’s blood if the kidneys have eventually failed, Haemodialysis is the last treatment to be done as a treatment for amatoxin poisoning.

A final note

Beneath the forest canopy, the death angel mushroom hides its lethal secret amidst the innocent guise of the button mushroom. Its pristine appearance might make it look like a healthier and prettier version of the button mushroom and an easy choice to be handpicked. A nice amount of death angel mushroom is toxic enough to kill a person within a few days of ingestion, the symptoms slowly but surely show up and can be deadly without quick medical help.

Such a delicate beauty can show the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit if any. Tread lightly in the realm of nature’s dark embrace, cause the allure of darkness and death doesn’t let go of one’s hand after a sweet interaction with this botanical odyssey.

Till next time…

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References-

*The images attached are not my own, explored from Pinterest

Sources vary, yet are reliable tbh I forgot to note them down as I wrote this... WebMD, Clinical Toxicology, Mushrooms Demystified by David Arora etc*

[beautifulpersonpeach]

Have we reached the limits of the multi-label hybe system, at least for Korea-based music label subsidiaries? It seems like their ecosystem within the company is massively strained

***

You sent me this ask weeks ago and I drafted a lengthy response with links that Tumblr glitch-deleted. After the court’s decision today, I feel this is a good time to try answering this again. At least in an abridged way.

Short answer: yes.

There are many things this case with MHJ has exposed and confirmed about HYBE, all of which are unsavoury. In a way, maybe we were expecting too much that a company like BigHit, that until 4 years ago was fully private and wasn’t held to the standards of a publicly traded company, and was ruled under the sole authority of one man, wouldn’t struggle to adjust not just to the expectations of shareholder management, but also to a multi-label system where authority was shared among sub-label CEOs and protected from Bang Sihyuk.

He wanted to create a label like Sony (which owns labels like RCA Records and Columbia Records that operate independently), but he clearly lacks the restraint and wherewithal to manage such an enterprise. For a couple of reasons I think:

1. He’s operated as a law unto himself for too long to manage such an abrupt change. In my opinion, the way HYBE chose to handle this case, from the very beginning, showed a reckless disregard for safeguarding shareholder value. In short, he managed this fiasco as though HYBE/BigHit were still a private company, not the most capitalized company on the KRX. That was the first indication to me that this dispute was not merely business, it was/is very personal, and to use shareholder assets to pursue his vendetta is infinitely irresponsible. He’s shown he’s not capable of managing the sort of business he wants to create.

2. He cannot tell his shareholders that sub-labels are independent with full creative freedom, and then backtrack on that when he feels like it or when he personally falls out with a sub-label CEO. Even more to that point, if he’s going to choose to remain tightly controlling of some labels and not others, he will foster a toxic competitive environment between labels. All that does is create an army of “yes men” in a system that in theory is created to combat exactly that, and there is no way that’s sustainable for multi-labels to thrive. It seems he didn’t really understand this point. His approach would’ve led to a conflict of this nature sooner or later, that it’s happened within 5 years of him implementing it is something of a small miracle.

Korea is a very hierarchal society that’s prone to rewarding sycophancy over merit. Call it a hazard of Korea’s potent mix of Confucianism and Capitalism. It works fine for companies where responsibility for every group’s success is perceived to be shared by everyone in the company led under the same management, but unless a company adopts the mindset of full independence and merit above all else, a multi-label system is near impossible to implement. It’s why companies like JYP Entertainment instead have ‘sub-divisions’ that manage groups but it’s still under one management and the hierarchy is clear.

Until this point, I assumed HYBE (aka Bang PD) indeed believed the mantras he was chanting, but he’s revealed himself to be no more enlightened than the typical Korean male chaebol. A company like HYBE that has exclusive rights to manage BTS - the golden goose that will always generate enough ‘fuck you money’ to last a couple generations at least - can afford to pay lip service to their multi-label system for as long as BTS remains with them. After this MHJ case, Bang PD will learn the wrong lessons and will look to exercise even more control over the sub-labels.

A multi-label system can only be successful if there’s a radical shift in mindset away from what is typical in Korea. Until now I thought HYBE had managed that, but this MHJ dispute has shown that was never the case. It’s a shame.

[captainmera]

Well, I was reading about Victorian fashion and tuberculosis and arsenic came out, oh humanity.... and I remembered that you love the Victorian era and I said... we'll talk about your opinion, well if you want to

"Good taste is essentially a moral quality. What we like determines what we are." - John Ruskin. (19th century)

This quote comes to my mind whenever I think about the Victorian fashionista. It rings true for the late 19th century person as they were incredibly materialistic and fond of trends, not at all unlike what we do today.

The industrial revolution changed everything, and the people of the time (much like us now) were rushed through the sudden boon of technological advancement on and in every field.

Fashion, trends, were no different.

Tuberculosis, aside from being an actual illness, was also a popular stylish trend - The modern equivalent would be something similar to Heroin chic. It romanticised the meek and fragility of a sick (nearly dying) person.

There was something, apparently, utterly gothic and romantic about the threshold of death itself knocking on somebody's door. The escapism of imagining yourself being sickly, melodramatically fainting, by your side your lover doting at your every need was.... well, trendy.

There was a ton of short stories and full-on novellas that involved a character (side or main, or romantic interest) suffering with the ailment. Not just women! Sickly men was all the rage as well.

"The green death, a fashion to die for."

Scheele's green was invented by Carl Wilhelm Scheele who was a Swedish pharmaceutical chemist (Note that he was also German and did prefer to speak German over Swedish.) This colour was used in everything from wallpaper to children's toys, to clothes.

Long story short, the paint contains various poisons that does what poison does best: Kill you slowly.

Not only was it highly flammable, it was also a toxin that you could breathe in and get gradually sicker over time of exposure, as well as being potent enough by touch alone that you could get sick from handling it too much.

Children died for licking toys painted in the stuff, for some reason kids also licked the wallpapers(???). Parrots died in rooms where the wallpaper exposed them to the toxic air. This also contributed to the myth that going to the seaside and breathe in the "healthy salty winds" would make you better. Most likely, just holding your breath would do just as good.

Young women not only fainted from wearing the colour, they also caught very easily on fire. Which was already a risk for women, as matches lit very easily and the cringles of dresses often got caught by neglectfully standing by fireplaces. But this shit ignited when exposed too long to the sun or heat.

DESPITE that people caught on FAIRLY EARLY MIND YOU that this new fashionable green colour was HELLA DEADLY...... It was just too bitchin' cool to wear, that most trendy women and men lift their digit fingers and said "worth the risk" and subsequently suffered for the art of fashion.

[would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend]

Would A Beedrill Be A Good Pet?

No! A beedrill would make an unambiguously bad pet! Beedrills should only be left alone in the wild or in the care of extremely experienced keepers!

To put it simply: beedrills are far too aggressive and dangerous to be kept in a home environment. This species is actually the first I've covered in the project where the pokédex explicitly warns the reader to stay far away from the wild pokémon for their own safety! Beedrills are said to be extremely territorial, attacking in swarms anyone who comes near their nests or angers them (Ruby/Sapphire). They are also active hunters, taking down large prey to bring back to the nest and eat (Crystal). Whether or not they would view humans as prey I don't know, but this sort of behavior should certainly raise an eyebrow when it comes to a pokémon of this size.

Beedrills attack with potent venom, injected into targets with the stingers on their forearms and tail (Red/Blue). They are known to fly towards enemies at high speed, stinging relentlessly until they are defeated (Red/Blue, Yellow). Using these stingers, beedrills can use a multitude of dangerous poison-type moves, posing a massive health threat to anyone who is stung. Surely a beedrill anti-venom exists today, but given their habit of rapid, repeated injection of venom it is unlikely that someone cornered by an aggressive beedrill will be in a good position.

Handling a beedrill's territorial nature in the home, as well as their toxic aggression, is going to be too much for most pet owners to handle, especially given their size. There are numerous bug and poison-type pokémon that would make a better choice for prospective pet owners, with less aggressive tendencies and deadly attack patterns.