#opioids lover

[xtrain-of-thoughts]

#morphine #mst #opioids #opiodaddiction #drugs #pharmacy #drugs lovers

[eggmcmuffin666]

Couples who overdose together, stay together 🤞🏽

#me n bae #obbsession #sex and drugs #lovers #ecco2k #oxy pills #romance #afterlife #opioids opiates

[opiatesandspeed]

Who do you believe is ultimately responsible for fentanyl being put in with heroin?

Please feel free to put your opinion below. I'm genuinely curious. Before fentanyl was added to heroin, it wasn't as deadly, it was manageable, and there at least was some kind of control. As a buyer, you knew what you were getting and weren't getting shit that gave you a rush and felt like you needed another within 10 mins.

#heroin #fentanyl #drugs #dealers #narcan #lost friends #lost lovers #lost humans #opiates #opioids #harm reduction #nodsquad #drug blogs #pills #harm redux

[myosotisa]

Like Real People Do - e.m.

Part 1/2 - Why were you digging?

ǁ  summary: 30 days into your stay at the Betty Ford Center for Rehabilitation, Eddie Munson gets brought in against his will. While in the middle of trying to figure out your own issues, you find yourself being followed around by a detoxing rockstar who won't take a hint and get lost.

ǁ  tags: angst, hurt/comfort, heavy themes. depictions of inpatient rehab in the 90s. implied fem!Reader, no pronouns used, no y/n. strangers to reluctant acquaintances to lovers.

ǁ  content warning: both parts will contain mentions of drug use, struggling with addiction, self worth, society's view on drug users, grief, and death by drug overdose. brief mention of domestic violence and drug assisted disordered eating. please consume thoughtfully and if you have any questions before reading, feel free to message me.

ǁ  word count: 7k

ǁ  Part 2 ǁ  Read on AO3 ǁ

The lock on your door clunks open at exactly 8am every morning. A glaring alarm that your new day is about to start whether you want it to or not.

At 8:15, one of the workers on staff is barely knocking before pushing in to make sure you and your roommate will be ready for breakfast at 8:30 sharp.

At 8:30, you’re standing in line with everyone else to get your morning meds. Amoxaphine for depression. Atenolol for high blood pressure. Methadone for opioid withdrawal. Acamprosate for alcohol withdrawal.

A little paper cup of water to wash them all down, your mouth presented to prove you did actually swallow them, and then a verbal pat on the back before sending you over to the breakfast line.

A styrofoam plate of scrambled eggs and toast with jam on a plastic tray, balanced carefully with a cup of whatever juice they decided to buy this week. Carefully set down on one of the small tables by the window where you’ll sit and eat alone – appreciating the quiet and serenity for the few moments a day you get it before you’re shoved off to the next task.

The same thing for the past 28 days since you were deposited in the Betty Ford Center. You’d gone from euphoric, cold, and totally out of it to anxious, shaky, unable to sleep, and just fucking miserable. And while some days were getting easier and others seemed more difficult than ever, at least you had gotten into the routine of inpatient rehab. At least you knew to expect the same thing everyday. At least you were prepared to deal with what the external world threw at you.

Until you weren’t.

The moment the doors to the main hall are thrown open – impacting the opposing walls with a slam –  you get an overwhelming feeling that something is about to change. Something big.

“Hey fucker! Hey! Get your meat hands off me, lughead.”

Most of the heads in the room turn toward the source of the yelling, a parade of 5 coming through the double doors. Two you know, the medical director Mr. Ford and one of the doctors Dr. Lincoln. They both look annoyed and uncomfortable as they walk ahead of a set of 3 men. 

Flanked on either side by a buff orderly, getting borderline dragged across the floor, is a man you’ve never seen. His long, messy waves whip wildly around his head as he lets out expletives and pulls against the sharp hold on his biceps. His voice is ragged and slurred as he makes nonsensical arguments towards the two men leading him away. He’s in regular clothes – outside clothes – with torn jeans and metal chains hanging off his hips, ripped sleeves showing off his tattooed arms, and large rings on every finger.

Someone new?

Having gotten their eyeful, half the room goes back to pushing around their breakfasts with plastic cutlery while the other half continues to watch with amusement. A new person only comes through every 15 days or so, and this was only the second since you’d arrived. The first one, a meek boy named Thomas, had been admitted so quietly that he all of the sudden appeared one day in group, already through the worst of the detox, before you had ever even heard of him.

It makes you wonder if more inpatient admissions are like that or like this.

You wish you could remember yours.

In a whirl of movement, the man rips his arms free and flies backwards with a stumble. Had he been more coordinated, and probably more sober, than he is, he might have made a decent break for it. As he is, he’s barely able to turn toward the doors they came through before the men are grabbing him again from behind, hooking their arms around his to now actually drag him down the hallway toward the hospital wing.

The heels of his black boots drag against the beige tile floor as he slumps in their grip, eyelids fluttering slightly before he manages to bring back enough energy to yell another, “Fuck you!” at his captors.

Just before they disappear behind another set of locked down double doors, the two of you make eye contact. From this distance, you can still see how bloodshot his eyes are – deep brown ringed by red toned white. They are steadily falling closed with each blink as he most likely loses the fight against some kind of sedative. But somehow, with what must be the last moments of consciousness he has left, he sees you watching him. The corner of his mouth tilts up in a lazy smirk. And he winks.

The motherfucker winks at you right as his head lulls to the side before falling forward and the group of 5 disappears.

Something new indeed.

You don’t see the stranger again until 6 days later.

New admissions normally spend anywhere from 3 days to a week and a half in the hospital wing after arriving. IV fluids, heavy meds, and a more prepared medical staff to deal with the worst of the detox period. Depending on what you were on, how recently you took it compared to when you arrived, and the length of your addiction makes a huge difference in how much time you spend there before being sent back to the rest of the floor.

4 days is average, which is the amount of time you spent in the hospital wing before being put into room 102 with Melissa Redding. Teen beauty queen of the Betty Ford Center who got hooked on meth after a consultant for the pageant used it to help her lose weight.

The center had a neat little tradition of having your roommate show you around on the first day. For you, that had meant busy bee Melissa whispering in your ear in and outs of who was who and all of the drama entailed even though you didn’t care in the slightest. That continued through the rest of the day as she showed you around the main hall, gave you a tour of the garden during your mandated 1 hour of outside time, and into the Therapy House.

While she had initially been excited to have a roommate, she very quickly learned you would not be the entertainment she wanted. So she went back to gossiping with Kathy the housewife, who was in for a bad habit of using too much Adderall to get through the day with her kids. Leaving you to your own devices.

It was better that way.

You’re already in your seat by the window with breakfast by the time the stranger stumbles in after Howard, the gruff old man whose family sent him here for drinking too much (drinks the same amount as any other man his age, but who are you to judge?). He gets right into the med line, now half diminished due to their late arrival, and doesn’t seem to pay any attention to the stranger as he wanders away.

Guess he decided that wasn’t his job.

Tall, dark, and lanky looks like he’s been through the ringer. Skin pallor and clammy, hair pulled into a bird’s nest of a bun on the back of his head with the top and bangs matted flat with what you assume is sweat, hands fussing in front of him like if he doesn’t move as many muscles as possible at once he’ll explode. There are deep purple bags under his wide eyes as he approaches one of the other windows in the space, 30 feet away from where you’re sitting. 

He looks over the frame like he’s trying to find a way out, coming back with nothing before heading to the next window, closer to you. His appearance and behavior make you think of a wet rat trying to claw its way up the side of a bathtub – unable to grip onto anything and getting sent back down into the water again every time he tries to climb.

Hoping not to catch his attention, you direct your gaze down, focusing back on your under salted eggs and grape jam. Between the lack of seasoning and the juice of the week being some kind of weird pineapple mix, you’re left wanting even more so than usual over your bare bones breakfast.

Despite your half assed attempt to be invisible, the single chair across from you at your table is pulled out, flipped around, and then settled into by the stranger. In your shock, you look up at him before you can second guess the reaction.

“I saw you, I remember,” his voice is deeper than you thought, raspy at the edges with exhaustion and hardship. His gaze flicks rapidly from the table, your food, your face, the rest of the room, his hands. Everywhere at once it seems. “The day they brought me in.”

“Yup,” you confirm with an awkward nod of acknowledgement before looking back at your food.

Please leave, please leave, please leave.

“I’m Eddie. Eddie Munson.”

Looking back up at him, he has a bit more life in his face. Something that looks a little bit like hope.

“Okay.”

His face falls.

“You… Doesn’t ring any bells? Eddie Munson, guitarist, Corroded Coffin, biggest rock-metal band of the 90s?” The longer he goes, his wet eyes widen, making him look like a pleading animal looking for food scraps. When you show absolutely no recognition for anything he’s saying, he brings his hands together, fingers moving to twist at rings that no longer sit there. When he doesn’t find them, his leg starts to bounce under the table and his palms start tapping on the top of the chair at his chest.

“If you’re looking for celebrity worship, I’m sure Melissa or Kathy would be happy to provide.” You inform him, hoping he will lose interest and go searching for them to give him the attention he seems to be looking for. You go back to spreading jam on your slightly burnt toast.

He doesn’t take the bait. “How, uh, how long have you been here?”

Taking a long inhale through your nose and out through your mouth, you set your plastic knife back down. “A month.”

His hisses out air through his teeth, eyes searching over the rest of the room, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen. “How long do people normally stay locked up in here?”

Ah. 

“I dunno. A couple months? I’m not exactly some kind of authority here. You should go ask–”

“Has anyone ever broken out?”

Though you’re not sure why you’re surprised, you still struggle with the question. He makes eye contact with you again and the look in his eye is different now. Smaller.

He’s scared.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He scoffs, using his hand at his chin to crack his neck in either direction, looking unsatisfied with your answer. “Come on, like nobody has ever tried to get out? You’ve never tried?”

A weight presses down on your chest. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah right, I’m sure that there’s some–”

“Mr. Munson!”

An orderly stalks toward the table, looking crabby and annoyed this early in the day. Eddie looks about ready to bolt after their bark but somehow remains seated until they arrive. “I’m sure Howard didn’t inform you, but first thing in the morning you’re supposed to come up to the nurse window to receive your medication.” They present their arm back to where the now empty med line stands, everyone else settled into seats with their breakfasts. “After you’ve taken your medication, you can grab some breakfast and…” They make eye contact with you that you’re quick to avoid. “Converse with whoever you want.”

“See, your mistake was that I don’t need any medication, so I don’t need to wait in line.” His voice is slowly raising in volume, drawing more and more attention as he goes. “In fact, I’m not even supposed to be here!”

“Mr. Munson, please lower your voice, you’ll disturb the other residents.”

“Fuck the other residents,” he slams his palms down on your table, almost knocking off your plastic cup of juice when it rocks and you jolt back from the show of aggression. All eyes in the room are on him now, and by extension, you. Other residents, other orderlies, nurses, the kitchen staff.

Too many eyes.

While the attention makes you want to crawl into a hole and die, it seems to please Eddie. He pushes up off of his chair and makes a show of arguing with the annoyed orderly all the way over to the nurse’s station. All eyes in the room follow him and his suddenly animated features, looking like he has gained 10x more energy than when he walked in. You use the distraction to your advantage.

By the time Eddie has had medication forced down his throat, a plate of shitty eggs deposited in his hands, and he turns around to look at your table again, you’re nowhere to be found.

He finds you again in the garden before group therapy.

You’re tucked away in a painted white, wrought iron chair that’s bolted to the ground next to a tall shrub. It’s still in the gated off outdoor area, but mostly hidden from view. The orderlies know to find you there if they need you because that’s where you always are – sitting on that single chair in the sunshine with a paperback book on your lap. Today it’s Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.

When a body blocks the sun over your book, your first assumption is that it’s an orderly coming to tell you it’s time to head to Therapy House. But it seems too early for that, and you’re normally a pretty good judge of time (at least, in here), so when an unfamiliar voice clears its throat in front of you, you huff a breath before you raise your head to acknowledge him.

“Is that seat taken?” He asks with a grin, motioning to the empty table bolted to the ground beside your chair. It’s obviously a rhetorical question – maybe to get you to smile or laugh. You do neither and give him a flat look.

“Actually, I’m saving it for someone.”

This seems to delight him even more, eyebrows raising and eyes getting some more life in them as he takes a seat on the table anyway. “Well I’ll keep it nice and warm for them until they show up.” He pulls his facility-issued navy sweatpants covered legs up to cross under him, effectively draping his knee over your arm.

Accepting your fate to not get rid of him, you open your book again to where you left off. 

“Best not to speculate, really,” said Aziraphale. “You can’t second-guess ineffability, I always say. There’s Right, and there’s Wrong. If you do Wrong when you’re told to do Right, you deserve to be punished.”

“I checked the perimeter of the garden,” his voice is lowered, as if someone would overhear him, “looking for weak spots.”

You hum an acknowledgement, keeping your eyes on your book as you reply in a sarcastic monotone, “Because that’s definitely not suspicious.”

He waves you off out of the corner of your eye, beginning a light tap of his hands against his knees. Even with the medication. He either needs a higher dose or he’s hyperactive at baseline. “They probably just thought I was giving myself a little tour or something, I don’t know. I don’t really care if it’s suspicious, actually. All I know is there’s like… Nothing. At all.”

“Shocker.”

Continuing to ignore your lackluster responses, a bopping of his head joins the beat of his palms. You attempt to reread the same paragraph over and over to try and comprehend it through his talking and fidgeting, failing time after time. “Not even like a locked gate or anything. And the fence itself is too high to get over with no footholds, unless you got something to stand on to grab the top and pull yourself over. Yeah…” 

“Oh!” The sudden volume of his voice makes you jerk away from him again, not expecting the sharp change. “What about your chair, is it loose?” One long fingered hand grips the backrest between your shoulder blades and the other the chair arm closest to him, attempting to give it a shake. “Maybe we could get the bolts out and use it to climb the fence.” He only succeeds in making an annoying rattling sound and jostling you back and forth.

“Fuck, Eddie, will you –” Using the paper cover of your book, you smack at his forearm a few times, causing him to quickly withdraw and hold his hands up in front of his chest like he’s worried your attack will continue. “Fucking, stop it.”

“Geez, sorry,” he mutters, looking slightly sheepish but still not exactly apologetic. “What’s your name, by the way? I forgot to ask.”

“Seems a little too late to ask now, don’t you think?” You turn the page of your book to make it look like you’re making progress despite the fact that you haven’t been able to finish a sentence since Eddie sat down beside you. Anything to help you look less interested in his attempted escape and, therefore, him.

An amused snort leaves his nose, tapping hands turning to a hold on his knees to let him lean back without falling off the table. “Well you are just a ray of sunshine,” he snarks back, looking more amused than annoyed. “Anyone ever told you that before?”

Finally lifting your head to give him a placating and overly artificial smile, you meet his eyes to make sure he can see your insincerity when you say, “Only every day.”

And while he opens his mouth to probably throw back another sarcastic retort, he’s interrupted by the “relaxing” (read: fucking annoying) gong by the Therapy House going off, signaling it’s time to head inside. You snap your book shut and push off your chair without a word to join the rest of the group outside in the unenthusiastic shuffle toward the birch wood doors. Another set of slip-on shoes, a matching pair to yours, sidles up beside where your own drag through the dirt path.

“So what happens now?” He asks, leaning a little bit closer to you as he speaks again, like the two of you are conspiring together on something. Based on your interactions so far, maybe he thinks you are.

“Therapy,” is your sharp reply. And, as if finally understanding he probably isn’t going to get much more information, he shuts up and just walks beside you toward the two story building off of the main facility.

All 12 of you wander through the doors in your similar outfits – sweatpants, t-shirts, and hoodies in shades of blue, grey, and black. Crossing from dirt and stone pathways onto the pristine wood floors of the Therapy House that’s awash with sunlight. As many windows as possible in all directions and a huge circular skylight above leaves the whole room bright and airy.

There are 13 metal folding chairs set up in a circle beneath the skylight, 1 more than yesterday, and the one directly across from the door is already occupied.

Mrs. Penelope Windsor is the head of therapy at the Betty Ford Center for Rehabilitation and wears that title with the utmost pride. She’s put together, ambitious, intelligent, and damn good at her job. Not to mention attractive, with her long legs crossed under her black pencil skirt, her crimson red button up blouse showing just enough collarbone to still be ‘professional’, and the long brunette braid draped over her shoulder. Her black heels are patent leather and perfectly shiny along with the matching briefcase sitting beside her chair. She stands out sharply from the white walls and birch wood floors of the Therapy House – but she commands your attention that way. A focal point in a room of white and tan and beige nothingness.

And the moment you walk through the doors with Eddie beside you, you feel her hazel eyes on you like a fucking hawk.

You avoid making eye contact, as per usual, and settle into the seat you’ve been using since the first day you came here. To your displeasure, Eddie immediately grabs the seat to your right, flipping it around to sit backwards in it, folding his arms over the back with a certain lazy confidence.

Tony, who normally sits there, hovers uncomfortably for a moment behind before scuttling over to the only remaining chair between Mrs. Windsor and Melissa.

As soon as he’s seated, heavy and tense silence settles over the room while the rest of you wait for Penelope to greet the group. You could hear a pin drop in the room in these moments, everyone shifting uncomfortably in the quiet as she takes a few moments to look over the group before her.

Almost like she enjoys making us all squirm under her authority.

Her sharp eyes settle on Eddie, her face as passive as always. He does very little to react to her stare but takes it as a sort of challenge – staring right back where most would shy away. The corner of her mouth lifts almost imperceptibly, like she appreciates the challenge.

The silent standoff is broken as Thomas’ wooden cane clatters to the floor beside his chair from where it had been leaning. He immediately turns bright red from the collar of his black t-shirt all the way to the tips of his ears. “Shit – Wait, oh, shoot, sorry!” Scooping it up in shaky hands, he is quick to tuck it between his knees, white knuckle fisting the handle in his embarrassment.

“That’s quite alright, Thomas,” is Penelope’s serene reply, a gentle smile directed his way before she addresses the group. “Good afternoon, everyone. Welcome back to our group session for today.”

No one says a word as she takes another uncomfortable moment to scan the group before doubling back to land on Eddie. “I see we have a new member of our group today. My name is Mrs. Windsor and I’m the head therapist here at the Betty Ford Center, but you’re more than welcome to call me Penelope. Could you introduce yourself for us, please?”

“Eddie Munson, guitarist, Corroded Coffin.” He answers cooly, and you watch his eyes do a quick scan to see if anyone shows any recognition. When there are a few reactions, his smile grows into one of satisfaction before he returns his gaze to Penelope. “Am I supposed to say what they locked me up for now or somethin’?” It comes out in a teasing lit, like he is trying to make a joke of it all.

No one laughs.

She takes it in stride. “You’re more than welcome to share what you’re struggling with, if you’d like.”

His shoulders rise slightly, like a cat going on the defensive. “Okay, first of all, I’m not struggling with anything. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling them if they just let me call my manager we could get this whole thing cleared up so I can get the fuck out of here and back to my life.”

“Your manager…” She leans over, plucking a file from her briefcase and unfolding it on her lap. “Mr. Scott?” She looks up through her eyelashes for confirmation.

He settles again, looking slightly relieved. “Yeah, Jonathan Scott, Razor & Tie.”

“Mhmm…” She looks back at the file, flipping a page up in what looks to be a show. Like she already knows what she’s supposedly ‘looking’ for. “It says here Mr. Scott is the person who applied for your stay in our center and is the sign off as your legal guardian while you’re completing your treatment.” She lightly closes the file, sitting up straight again to look at him. “Did you know that Eddie?”

“No,” he answers, voice suddenly unsure, eyebrows drawing together on his forehead and shoulders falling. “No, I didn’t.”

“Well then,” her smile is nothing but satisfied when she slips the papers back into her briefcase. “It seems there’s nothing to be cleared up here after all. And I’m sure we’re all very excited to get to know you over the next few weeks, Eddie.”

Challenge won.

When he doesn’t respond, she moves on. “Now, Kathy, it looks like your nails are doing better…”

You tune out the rest of her interaction, focusing on the man beside you. He has his head slightly hung down, eyes on his hands as he holds one wide and uses the opposite thumb to rub along his palm. There’s an air about him – closer to one you saw this morning. Confused. Lost. Scared.

You almost feel sorry for the guy.

Two hours later, you’re in one of the ‘office lofts’ of Therapy House, a 5x5 closed room with a loveseat for you and an armchair for your therapist. After group is over, there are rotations of 1 on 1 therapy with one of the various counselors on staff, herding each of you into tiny rooms for an hour at a time. At the beginning of your stay, you had somehow lucked out to being assigned to Queen Penelope herself.

She sits across from you with her holier-than-thou attitude and a spiral notebook clutched in her well-manicured hands – filled with notes about you that you’re not supposed to see. In the sunken down cushions of the loveseat, you end up sitting below her eyeline even if you tried to sit up straight. So you don’t try – tucking your legs under you and crossing your arms under your chest.

As per usual, she starts the session with a few moments of horrifying silence. Almost as a dare to get you to talk first just to break it.

You never have.

“So, how are you feeling today?”

“Fine. Same as always.”

She clicks her pen, like she’s already prepared to start taking notes off that one sentence. “Indeed. Everyday is always ‘fine’, isn’t it?”

Eddie must have made you more snippy than usual, because you’re already ready to turn on her. “What point are you trying to make, exactly?”

“Everyday, every time anyone asks, the answer is always ‘fine.’ Fine is a noncommittal answer that means nothing.” She leans back in her chair, cool and collected as always. “Fine is the answer you give when you’re avoiding the answer.”

It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes at her. “Okay, what is my answer supposed to be then?”

“The truth, preferably.”

Wow, thanks, that’s helpful.

When you don’t respond with a new answer, she moves on. “Are you still having nightmares? Flashbacks?”

A shiver crawls up your spine, creeping toward the cold sweat that starts to build at the nape of your neck on instinct. “Sometimes.”

Liar.

“How often, would you say? For the nightmares?”

Clammy hands press into the fabric of your grey sweatpants. “Maybe once a week.”

Liar.

She scribbles something down in her notepad. “And the flashbacks?”

A vision of cold, blue tipped fingers reaching out toward you from the dark comes to the forefront of your mind before you blink it away. “Less than that, I think.”

Liar!

“And are they all still about her?”

The cold from those blue tipped fingers permeates through your body, settling into your bones in a chill that never seems to leave you anymore. “Not all of them.”

LIAR. LIAR. LIAR. LI–

“Actually, can we talk about something else?” Your request comes out quicker than you’d like, giving a show of desperation as you adjust in your seat. “Please,” you add as an afterthought.

Her gaze is sharp as ever and calculated in her perusal of you for another few moments, but she concedes. “Alright. What would you like to talk about then?”

When you flounder for an answer, mouth opening and shutting uselessly, she offers an alternative of her own. “I saw you walk in with the new guy today. Eddie, right? Did you talk to him at all?”

You let out a huff, eyes directing down to where your wandering fingers have landed on a piece of loose thread on your pants. “More like sat there while he talked at me.”

“He didn’t give you a chance to talk or you never took it?”

“I don’t exactly have anything I want to talk to him about,” is your cold response, once again looking up to make eye contact with her.

“You know, it wouldn’t actually hurt to try to connect with someone again. Maybe open up to a new friend?”

This time you’re not able to withhold your eye roll. “Junkie rockstar is not exactly the kind of friend I’m looking to make.”

“That’s a bit of a hurtful representation, don’t you think?” She is writing another note as she speaks, eyes looking between you and her page. “How would you feel if someone didn’t want to interact with you because you’re a ‘junkie’?”

Your gaze flicks back down to the thread between your fingers as you mumble, “They wouldn’t exactly be wrong.”

“Do you think you’re a bad person because of your drug use?”

I think I’m a bad person for a lot of reasons.

“It doesn’t exactly give you a glowing perception in the eyes of the public,” you answer defensively.

“That may be true. So you did something that was frowned upon by the general public, making it ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’.” She adds in the air quotes, even though her tone was enough to warrant the assumption that she was being facetious. “What about all of the good things you’ve done? Is there some kind of threshold for the amount of ‘bad’ things a person needs to have done in comparison to the good ones to brand them as a ‘bad’ person?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

Her eyes flit over to the book beside you, resting on the cushion with the cover Good Omens facing up, before returning to you. “I think, personally, that it’s possible to have done bad things without it making you a bad person. It doesn’t make you a good person either, mind you. Because there’s also no such thing as a person who is wholly good either.” She folds her hands over her lap like she always does when she thinks she’s about to say something really profound.

“Good and bad are just malleable descriptions we give to things. People are not simply good or simply bad. People are just… People. Where good, bad, and everything in between coexist.”

Then why do I feel like this?

Eddie plops down in front of you at breakfast looking slightly less like a wet rat than he has so far.

"Good morning, sunshine." And he grins, way too fucking chipper for being 2 weeks into detoxing.

"Don't call me that."

"Whatever you say, sunshine," he repeats with the same grin, like he's glad you don't like it. "I have a plan for us to get out of here."

Get out? A plan? Us? You don't even know where to start with that. "Ah. No wonder you look like it's Christmas morning."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment." With a noncommittal 'mmfh', you go back to pushing around your over salted scrambled eggs. "Aren't you going to ask what my plan is?"

"No."

"Well, since you asked," he ignores you and leans over the table, once again lowering his voice to a soft murmur. "One of the night nurses is a fan of my band."

He pauses there, like he's looking for some kind of response. You offer up a completely lackluster, "Congrats."

"Sooo, maybe I can butter her up. Promise her VIP tickets or backstage passes or something. Bribe her to get us out."

Stabbing into a chunk of egg hard enough to almost pierce through the styrofoam beneath, you mumble, "Good luck with that."

He points his fork at you, eyes narrowing in a glare. "You don't think it will work."

"I don't care if it works," you sigh as you bring a hand up to rub at the sudden tension in your temple. "What do you think is gonna happen when you get out, huh? They're just gonna say 'Well, he got out of rehab, guess that's it then!' Your manager is just gonna have you delivered right back here."

"Then I get a new manager." Another flat look is leveled in his direction. "Seriously, I can figure it out once I get out of here. And if you're gonna be this negative about it, then maybe I won't take you with me," he says it like a threat, looking smug as he sips at his not-quite-pineapple juice.

"Good."

His plastic cup hits the table fast enough that a bit sloshes out and onto the vinyl cover. "What do you mean 'good'? You're telling me you don't want to get out of here?"

It's like he's finally hearing you for the first time. "Yes, that is what I'm telling you."

"As if." He scoffs, shoving a chunk of scramble egg in his mouth before continuing to talk through chewing it. "Nobody wants to be in here getting pumped full of happy meds and talking about our feelings with the Ice Queen."

A part of you actually wants to be amused at the term Ice Queen, but you're quick to beat it down. "Yeah, well, maybe I do."

He takes a big bite out of his stiff toast next, crumbs flying with the force of it. "I think," he pauses to swallow the bite before pointing the toast at you this time. "That you have Stockholm Syndrome. And have accepted defeat in your captivity."

"Whatever you say, Munson."

You should've known better than to assume it would end there.

After breakfast, all of you scatter throughout the main hall to do various things to fill your time. As usual, you sit down on a chair by the window so you can continue your book. You're quickly approaching the climax of the narrative, when the four horsemen begin their ride toward the end of the world.

Eddie has set up shop at a table nearby, bent over the top that's scattered with papers that are all covered in drawings of various mythical creatures. He's currently scratching away at a sketch of a three headed Hydra, mouths roaring fire toward the sky.

You'd never tell him this of course, but you have to admit that they are pretty good.

It's 30 minutes of blissful silence with plenty of progress made in your book until he starts talking again.

"Do you actually not want to get out of here?"

You exhale through your nose sharply, annoyed that you're being forced to continue this conversation. Closing your book with your thumb tucked in to save your page, you turn your upper body toward him. "Is that really so hard to believe?"

"Yeah, actually, it is. What are you even in here for anyway? Like what 'problem' do they think you have?"

"None of your fucking business," is your extremely grumpy reply, settling back into your chair and opening your book again in hopes he'll drop it.

"Well, whatever it is, it's not worth sitting in this glorified prison for months on end, I can tell you that much."

Something about the way he's talking really starts to grate on your nerves, making you want to fight more than you want to ignore him. "I'm sorry, would you rather be in actual prison?"

This makes his face drop, a muscle in his jaw rolling with tension. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that coke and meth are illegal, in case you forgot. And can actually get you arrested." Your tone is condescending, tinged with venom. "So maybe you should be grateful to be in this 'glorified prison' instead of a real one."

"Grateful?" He lets out a fake laugh, looking at you in disbelief. "Yeah, let me just try to be grateful to have my every move watched and my entire day planned for me like I'm in a fucking daycare."

An orderly walks in through the double doors to the garden, propping them open in an invitation to move outside for the hour. You're quick to rise, tucking your bookmark into your spot and muttering a dismissive, "Whatever," as you pass.

You're barely off the stone path and into the grass towards your seat when he comes barrelling out after you.

"Hey, I'm not done."

"Listen," you continue forward, talking over your shoulder at him as he marches after you, "I get you're still in denial and everything. But it's not my job to make you accept that you're here for a reason. So why don't you just leave me alone."

A hand grips your shoulder, forcing you to turn toward him. The sun is behind his head from this angle, leaving him silhouetted in light and you standing in his shadow in the grass.

"And what exactly do you think the reason I'm here is?"

"I don't know," you push his hand off your shoulder, tucking your book in against your stomach. "Why don't you ask yourself that question?"

"I'm here against my will because a fucking corporate prick thinks I need 'fixing'," his voice comes out as a hiss through his clenched teeth. His hands tighten into fists at his sides. "Everybody thinks we need to be 'fixed'."

"Maybe we fucking do, Eddie! Did you ever consider that?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your argument getting some attention from other patients and an orderly standing watch, but you're too caught up in your anger to care.

You jolt in surprise when Eddie's hands grip your shoulders, forcing your attention on him. "Are you even fucking listening to yourself?!"

"Eddie, let go of me."

His hands only tighten, his wide eyes going wild. "They fucking infected you with their bullshit doctrine of what society thinks is right and wrong, but it's not true."

You try to pull away from him but his grip just turns bruising in response, fingertips digging into your skin painfully. Fear takes hold, tears starting to push at the back of your eyes as you plead, "Please, Eddie, you're hurting me–"

"They're hurting you!" He's borderline yelling in your face now, emphasizing his next point by shaking you where you stand. "Don't you fucking get it? They're the ones hurting you by making you think there's something wrong with you!"

An orderly appears beside him and grips his shoulder, ordering a tense, "Let her go."

This seems to shock him as his hands release you mid-shake, sending you backwards onto your ass. You make impact with a yelp, the tailbone pain enough to force the tears that were threats before to start to spill down your cheeks. You're sure that if your hands weren't pressed to the ground behind you, they'd be trembling.

Heels click along stones on the approach, heated and quick. "What the hell is going on here?" Penelope Windsor asks sharply, barely faltering as her heels meet grass and dirt.

You look up at Eddie with tears in your eyes, shocked and terrified.

He looks down, as pale as a ghost, the orderly's hand still on his shoulder as he stares at his own like they don't belong to him.

"Are you alright?" Penelope asks when she kneels to the ground beside you, fancy slacks of her pantsuit in the dirt. A gentle hand hovers over your shoulders, concern evident in the way she looks you over.

Swallowing hard around the lump in your throat, you break away from your stare at Eddie to glance at her and then the ground. "I'm fine."

"I…" Eddie's voice sounds small, scared. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to–"

"Come on." Penelope is calm as she interrupts him, more caring and gentle than you've ever heard her. "Let's go get you cleaned up."

You manage a nod before you allow her to help you to your feet and put a protective arm around your back as she leads you over toward the Therapy House.

Eddie stands there with the orderly, hands shaking and tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he watches you go. Hoping you'll look back. That you'll tell him it's okay, that you'll forgive him. Tell him that you will be okay.

You don't look back.

Once you've disappeared behind those birch doors, the orderly finally lets him go. Walks back over to the main hall without another word – leaving Eddie alone to his panic and shame while he stares at your copy of Good Omens from where it sits half open and abandoned in the grass.

Your chair is empty in group that day.

-

-

-

-

thanks for reading!! please reblog if you liked it and let me know what you think, feedback means everything!! read part 2 here

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x female reader #rockstar!eddie munson #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #myos ideas #myo4munson

[lillymakesart]

more episode 5 discussion

tl;dr a continuation of my video dissertation on lilly.makes.tiktoks: (summary) mikio fell in love with mizu, they had their first argument, mama convinced mikio to turn mizu in, mikio did go turn her in. "love poisoned by betrayal" where mikio is the love, mama is the betrayal

i feel like mama's betrayal needs some more reading into in order to truly understand her motivations, because that pipeline going from caretaker to ultimate betrayal is so insane

mikio's petty actions (picking at mizu's insecurities by calling her a monster and taking away the horse he gifted to her) are all in line with a hurt, petty, toxic lover that just wanted to hurt mizu back in the way the she hurt him

what about mama? she has cared for Mizu all these years, had been her mother figure, and even reaped some benefits off of Mizu's arranged marriage. isn't turning her adoptive daughter into the very men she fought all her life to keep her safe from a bit too intense?

to wish such foul ill on someone must have taken years and years of built up resentment and vitriol. maybe if we look at the timeline from mama's perspective the motivation behind her betrayal would reveal itself

Fowler said that mama was Mizu's maid. not sure if this has any significance, but he didn't say nanny or wetnurse. maybe she was simply a maid that worked around the house and only tangentially caring for the baby. life in the estate must have been pretty cushy for her as she was generally sheltered and protected under her lord's care

but then assassins come for the baby, she is caught up in the mess, and she can only stand by and watch as Mizu's life hangs in balance before her. fate decides that Mizu should live, and she is shoved into mama's arms and the man tells her to take the devil child and run, and so she does. she leaves the cushy protected life of being a maid in the estate and becomes a homeless woman on the streets, now burdened with a crying baby and no idea what to do

at some point she turns towards a life of prostitution, which at this I'm guessing is her only option. this life must be terrible compared to her work at her lord's estate. perhaps the stress turns her towards opioids, and she becomes an addict

maybe a messenger keeps in contact with her and makes regular deliveries of money to continue caring for the baby. the money amount could have even been generous, enough to keep them off the streets in a respectable town, but with mama's addiction we all know where the money truly went.

one day the money stops, and mama can't get her opioids anymore. theoretically she could have continued caring for Mizu, but she'd rather work full-time as a prostitute and continue acquiring drugs than care for a child that she never wanted, was never even trained to care for. in fact, this child has brought her life lower than ever before, so of course she'd leave her

the resentment has already built up when Mizu was a child, but it really ramps into full force when she finds Mizu again as an adult

we can see some first signs of jealousy when Mizu tells mama that she "should never do that again, I earn money, more than enough" and mama replies "how honorable you turned out to be." the implication here is that mama thinks Mizu is accusing prostitution of not being honorable. Mizu does not have to suffer woman's work in the way that mama has because Mizu has lived as a man, and was permitted to learn an artisanal trade to earn money with. this is a luxury that mama will never know, and builds on the resentment.

when mama finds Mizu a husband, to the audience it seems like Mizu is the one doing the favor for mama, but for mama, this is the least Mizu could do for her in return for all those years of debased service caring for her. at least with Mikio things could somewhat start looking like mama's old life again, protected in a household, not having to worry about when the next meal would come in, and most importantly, a steady stream of income for drugs

but then Mizu blocks mama's drug money, forcing mama to go out and work for her drugs again (more discussion on this part in the tiktok video tl;dr my theory is that mama never stopped smoking and was secretly going out to work for her drugs and just keeping it a secret). this return to a debasement that mama thought she was finished with really drives home the hatred she has developed for Mizu at this point

from mama's point of view, Mizu is an ungrateful brat that ruined her life, stole her best years from her, forced her into prostitution, and now just when she was starting to get some return for all those years of turmoil, Mizu snubs her again by forcing her back into prostitution

when Mikio comes home that day after the duel, clearly angry with Mizu and looking for ways to hit her back, this must have been a point of weakness for mama where she just couldn't help but divulge the secret of Mizu's bounty. all those years she has held back her resentment and hatred, with no thanks or appreciation for what she has given up for Mizu's wellbeing, must have come crashing down on her as she let the bitterness and resentment win at this exact moment

it's not right, but it does make sense. mama betrayed Mizu in the ultimate way, but she too was once a victim send post

#mizu #mizu bes #mizu blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai fan theory #lillydrawsmizu theory #bes fan theory #blue eye samurai mama mizu theory #bes mama mizu theor #blue eye samurai episode 5 #bes episode 5 #blue eye samurai episode 5 theory #bes episode 5 theory

[aheavenofhell]

Personal headcanons I had that became ✨actual canon✨ in S2

1. Crowley caring about what to feed the ducks.

2. Aziraphale being a massive Jane Austen fan.

3. Crowley being ✨like that✨ when talking about Gabriel trying to destroy Aziraphale.

4. Crowley being dragged down for punishments for doing good (I wrote that fic).

5. Aziraphale having a bunch of weird little jobs throughout time.

6. GOOD OLD FASHIONED LOVER BOY. I have said so many times that it’s all I wanted this season.

7. Aziraphale being unable to resist Helping even though he doesn’t have to anymore.

8. Them not getting together right after failed Armageddon. I always felt that Aziraphale would need a processing period.

9. Being able to split/share miracles between the two of them to divide the power.

10. Crowley saves kids. That is all.

11. Suicide Prevention Team. I wrote that one as well (but much shittier).

12. Crowley doing opioids and deeply regretting it.

13. Aziraphale having a gun somewhere in the shop (and Crowley not owning one).

14. Small one but just. Aziraphale being UNABLE to tear his eyes away from Crowley on their ride from the church. Beaming at him the whole way. It was so cute.

15. Aziraphale’s favorite color being the color of Crowley’s eyes.

Consensus: this season was fanfiction and it was made for me specifically thank you.

#loves it #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #good omens season 2 #go2 spoilers #good omens spoilers

[bullet-prooflove]

Help Wanted - Bottles x Reader

Tagging: @proceduralpassion @crazy4chickennuggets @callsignartemis @kmc1989 @darqchilddaydreamz @the-person-in-the-circle @librarian1002 @prettyinpunk85 @thanossexual @@littlestroman @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @lunamoon @s1lverhand @wakeama @adaydreamaway08

When your dad gets sick you pull away from him. Bottles isn’t sure if it’s a self defence mechanism, if you need the brain space or what. All he knows is that you aren’t around, and that you stop picking up his calls. When he goes past your house, it’s dark and locked up. It goes on for a few weeks. The two of you have only been together a few months but the idea of you in pain wounds him, your absence in his life cuts deep.

When he does catch up with you it’s at the supermarket of all places. It’s ridiculous how something as normal as buying toilet roll can turn into a twist of fate. He isn’t looking where he’s going when he comes around the corner of an aisle, and he bumps into you literally. He knows it’s you before he even registers your face, the recognition is instinctive at this point, he’s attuned to your presence. He catches the scent of your perfume, sensual and soft with a hint of mandarin.

You look tired, your hair is pulled back into messy bun and looks like it hasn’t been washed for days. Your face is gaunt and there’s dark shadows underneath your eyes. You are far from the vibrant girl he knows and loves, and it kills him.

“Talk to me.” He requests his hand coming to rest upon your arm, his thumb chasing over the hollow of your wrist. “As a friend, as a lover, I don’t care what.”

It’s at a table, in the outdoor seating area of the café next door, that the whole thing comes pouring out of you. Your dad’s been sick for a while, longer than you realised and you don’t have time anything else in your life right now.

It had started with him calling you at odd hours to ask when Family Fortunes was on, something that he had never done before. Bottles remembers these phone calls vividly, because they always seemed to occur around a similar time on a Saturday. Your phone would ring and the two of you would look at the clock and he’d say “It’s your dad” without even looking at the call display.

At first you had thought he was just lonely, your job as an events manager kept you busy especially with the Santo Padre Summer Festival on the cards. Then one day you’d popped over and discovered he’d had a mini stroke. He’d lost movement in his left hand, he could barely hold the remote, his memory was shot to shit, and he was asking where your mother was despite the fact, she had passed away five years earlier. It was soul destroying.

You are one of the strongest people he knows, so when you start to cry it breaks something deep down inside of him. He shifts seats to the one alongside of you and wraps his arms around you because this shit is far too much for one person to bear. He holds you close as you sob into his chest, cradling you close.

He knows a thing or two about being exhausted and overwrought, how it feels like a weight bearing down on you. After his father died of an opioid overdose, his mother hadn’t been able to get out of bed for weeks. His relationship with both of his parents had been fraught, but he had spent that time taking care of her. He made sure she ate, that she had company and little by little he’d helped pull her out of the depression until she had started to function again. He knows that this shit isn’t easy. That between your job and caring for your father you’re wearing yourself down, he can see in your eyes how your struggling to cope.

“Let me help.” He asks you. “Please just let me help you.”

He must catch you in a moment of complete weakness because you agree.

The first time Bottles turns up at your father’s house, the old man thinks he’s one of the in-house nurses that he’s managed to run off. There’s been a couple of them so far and none of stuck around more than a few days. After spending a couple of hours with your father he can see why.

He’s a veteran, he used to be a Captain. People like that hate anyone to seeing them vulnerable, so they lash out. Bottles thinks that’s part of the reason he didn’t tell you about the mini stroke in the first place, he didn’t want to shift this burden onto your shoulders.

Albert or rather Bertie, is not kind with his words but Bottles has lived through worse. He’s entire life has been far from a walk in the park and he’s now a Prospect in the Mayans. Your father is a cake walk compared to that. He isn’t sure how it happened but the three of you slip into a routine. You’ve taken as many days as you can away from work, so Bottles steps in to cover the time you’re away. He cooks for Bertie, he helps bathe him, cleans him up and changes the sheets if he doesn’t make it to the bathroom in time, he does as much of the heavy lifting as he can until Bertie starts to get a little better.

When you come home, he shoots out and deals with club business. At night, he curls up around you in your single bed, holding your close and whispering tender words into your ear until you fall sleep, surrounded by Blink 182 posters and Evanescence playing on the C.D player because he’d forgotten that they’d even existed. He switches it up with a couple of Green Day C.Ds after he’s flicked through your collection.

“There’s no money you know.” Bertie tells him one day when the two of them are in the living room watching Family Fortunes. It takes Bottles a minute to understand what he’s saying. “She doesn’t get much if I die. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?”

“I’m not here for the money.” He informs Bertie as he raises to his feet and collects Bertie’s bowl from the tray set across his lap and places it inside his own. “I’m here for her, to make sure she takes care of herself.”

“I used to take care of her and now she takes care of me, how fucked up is that?” Bertie says in a rare moment of clarity. “I fucking hate it.”

Bottles can understand that. Parents are God in the eyes of children, and this is what happens when you realise that they’re just mere mortals like the rest of you. He knows how jarring this whole experience has been for you, and for Bertie. Confronting your own mortality changes you, he knows, he spent his entire childhood, thinking he was going to die every time he went under the knife because a child with a disability wasn’t good enough for his parents. He sets the bowls down on the floor beside his usual chair before sitting down again.

“I had forty-six surgeries by the time I was eighteen,” He confides to Bertie, pulling up his trouser leg and showing your father his scars embedded deep within the tissue of his leg. “Suffering isn’t new to me, you can’t imagine the shit I’ve gone through, and I can’t imagine the shit you are going through but I know what it’s like to feel like your life isn’t your own, to feel frustrated by your own capabilities.”

 “I don’t want this for her.” Bertie tells Bottles.  “I don’t want her putting her life on hold to take care of me and I don’t want to end up in one of those homes where they feed you gruel and leave you to die alone in a bedroom where the curtains are still drawn because nobody bothered to open them.”

“I hear you.” Bottles says. “It’s fucking depressing.”

“So, what are my options?” Bertie asks him. “I rely on my daughter and her… What even are you?”

Bottles shrugs his shoulders because truthfully the two of you have never really put a label on it.  All he knows is he’s committed to you; he has been since the moment he kissed you on your doorstep.

“The man who loves your daughter.”

“Boyfriend? Partner? The guy who hoses me down when I make a mess of myself?”

Bottles finds himself smiling before he shrugs his shoulders.

“All of the above.”

“I’m serious when I’m asking you what my options are.” Bertie informs him, his gaze straying back to the T.V. “I need to start figuring shit out before I start losing my marbles and the decision is taken away from me.”

“I could find out.” Bottles offers as he leans in close. It feels like the two of them are engaging in a conspiracy, because the both of them know that the idea of putting your father in a home is not something you agree with. “One of the guys in my club, his mom has memory issues. She started to fall down a lot. He managed to get her into this sweet place up by the community centre. She loves it there, she’s made a lot of friends, there’s all these clubs she goes too, they do some pretty cool shit. I could look into it for you?”

Bertie reaches across the space between the two of them, his strong hand grasping Bottles’.

“Could you?” Bertie requests before he tilts his head to the bedroom door where you’re sleeping. “I have a feeling we’re gonna have a fight on our hands.”

"I'll talk to her." Bottles promises the older man. "See if we can't all get on the same page."

Love Bottles? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Wanna read more? Check out Bottle's Masterlist here!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#bottles goggles #bottles x you #bottles x reader #bottles mayans #bottles mayans mc

[sixminutestoriesblog]

poppies

In Flanders Fields the poppies grow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

In Flanders Fields by John McCrae

I have always found the excerpt above, and the rest of the poem that comes after it to be pleasant to the ear, sweetly melancholic and, to be honest, more than a little creepy once you hit the threat at the end. The mental image of mostly desiccated World War I soldiers clawing their way out of the upturned soil, spilling flecks of half rotted uniform and red flowers from their bodies as they drag themselves forward after me just because I don't feel like holding a grudge against another country for a war nobody really should have been in in the first place isn't exactly what I suspect Lt. Col. McCrae was going for but its sure the picture he painted in my mind. Not cool, John. Not cool.

In other news, the poem did help make the poppy a popular symbol for war veterans that died in battle, especially overseas. These days red paper poppies are worn in jacket lapels and sold on street corners in multiple Western countries during Remembrance Day, Anzac Day and Memorial Day. Today that's pretty much the only association most of us have with the flowers but for the soldiers that lived during that time, the red corn poppies were a familiar sight, being some of the first and hardiest plants to grow in the churned up soil around trenches, the morass of no-mans-land between and yes, the freshly dug graves that grew almost as quickly as the poppies themselves across the battlefields.

Poppies were associated with the dead long before WWI however.

Hey, August babies! Let's talk about one of your birth month flowers (and keeping corpses in their graves)!

Did you know that poppies have been found in graves and carved on tombstones all the way back to Roman times? The Greeks and the Romans associated the poppy with forgetfulness and sleep. Giving the dead poppies was supposed to help them sleep in peace, though I did see one article speculating that the poppy seeds found in some graves was more akin to the old legend that the undead have obsessive-compulsive disorder and will be compelled to stop whatever they are doing to count scattered small items like seeds.

GIF by gifs-of-puppets

Who knew Sesame Street was so in touch with its darker side?

Back to the point, the Greek gods Hypnos (sleep), Thanatos (death), Nyx (night) and Morpheus (dreams) all have poppies as their flowers. Pappa means 'milk' in latin and the milky sap as well as the seeds of poppies have been used since ancient times to grant forgetfulness, peace and sleep, tracing as far back as the early Egyptian empires. Multiple opioids are made from the poppy with some of the most famous being opium, heroin, codeine and morphine, named after Morpheus for its dreamlike effect on the human brain and body. The opioid crisis has been with us since at least Victorian times and for many of the same modern reasons back then as well.

Speaking of escape from pain, Demeter, the goddess of agriculture, is associated with poppies as well. It was said that after Persephone was kidnapped by Hades, Demeter was so distraught that the gods gave her poppy seeds to help her sleep and escape her grief for a time. Afterward, the flower would spring up wherever her footsteps fell. The ancient Assyrians also associated poppies with agriculture and in fact, even today, poppies seen growing in cornfields are considered lucky and a sign of a good harvest to come.

Poppies in China are also considered lucky, or at least the smell of them is and they are a melancholic symbol between lovers too. The story I read claims that the poppies growing on his lover's grave gave a Chinese hero the inspiration he needed in battle.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz employed a poppy field to put its heroes to sleep.

Poppies should only ever be given in bouquet of thirteen. Any other number of poppies is considered unlucky.

Greek athletes would mix poppy seeds, wine and honey for an invigoration drink.

In Wales, sleeping with poppy seeds under your pillow will show you the face of your future lover or give you the answer to whatever question you were thinking of when you fell asleep. The seeds are a ward against forgetfulness.

#poppy #poppies #august #Demeter #morpheus #folklore #superstition #herbalism #cottagecore #birth flower #birth month #wizard of oz #vampire #flanders fields #anzac day #remembrance day

[lovesickrobotic]

Aftercare headcannons?

Rated L for Lewd!

SC-01A - Kisses between your legs and on the tops of your thighs. Gently getting carried to a tub full of thematic flower petals - they Googled it - and goats milk, the scent of sex washed away with gentle touches. It's half massage, half washing, but all love.

DeepMind - Pillow-talk and staring into your eyes. Your cheeks are rubbed by soft fingerpads as she nuzzles you in an eskimo kiss. Your clothes are whisked away for washing, or perhaps for keeping. Her nose presses into your shoulders, into your neck, trying so hard to fill her sensors with your scent before her departure.

SH-4RP - Adoring looks, antennae drawn back in awe of your gorgeous body. Rhythmic wiping as your sex is accidentally overstimulated with a cloth, evidence of activity removed. Soft boops of his head into your thighs, stomach, and chest with cheesy kiss sound-effects as he makes his way up to your face.

BT-7274 - A nuzzle of his optic against your sex appreciatively, a single finger that traces across so slowly and delicately you press your thighs together and squirm. Appreciative humming from the machine, almost like a purr, as he thanks you for trusting him. Comments on the warmth of your body in precise degrees. Gentle one-finger brushes against your body, admiration of how small and beautiful you are in comparison to a Vanguard.

AM - Tentacles that path up your body. You hear cooing from all angles, like a crowd of himself is adoring every inch of you. The devious possessive curling of mechanical tendrils around your bosom, your hips, as he holds you as close as he can. Instantly heals the worst of anything and lets you feel the rush of synthetic opioids as dopamine cradles you to a peaceful rest.

HAL 9000 - Hugs you close to the buzzing wall with a mechanical arm, letting you hear him, and the ship, in its' life - like a heartbeat, capacitors and traces and spinning platters of data animating your lover. Adjusts your pillow perfect to your posture before you sleep. Watches over you valiantly as you rest, adjusting your blanket whenever it threatens to slip and expose you.

GLaDOS - Cleans you up intently, not a trace of sex, sweat, dirt or what-have-you left behind in her wake. Every movement is precise, aimed at the ideal of psychological comfort. Philosophical pillow talk about plenty of topics. The occasional comforting shoulder-pat. Long, soft rambling as she discusses flora or fauna with you to wind down.

#2001aso #portal 2 #titanfall #headcanons #nsft #anonymous #am x reader #hal 9000 x reader #glados x reader #bt 7274 #bt 7274 x reader #sh-4rp #deepmind #sc-01a

[k--havok]

💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫💫 (copy and pasted what you sent me +1 😈)

Shit. Hung by my own petard it seems. I've been discovery writing a fifth chapter to Osiris' Trials since my current WIPs I've been focusing on outlining instead. So here's 70 new sentences from that WIP!

--

That monster of a man did not stand in the doorway. Rather, an older woman did, dressed in black scrubs with golden trimming. She wore no name tag. Her graying hair was piled in a bun atop her head and round glasses sat on her squat nose. She carried in a metal tray. From his vantage point on the bed, Dakarai could not quite see what she had brought in.

Her steps were silent as she padded over to him. She set the tray on the nightstand.

Dakarai watched every twitch of her wrinkled fingers, every flutter of her heavy eyes like that of a predator eyeing his prey. He did not blink. He merely stared at her with his dulled gaze.

The woman did not bother to check his heart monitor, which beeped slightly faster than before. The damn traitor. She did not bother to peel back the gauze swaddling his wounds. She simply cast a quick, cold glance at him before taking out her smartphone. She tapped something out on it, the soft thunk thunk of the quick text beating out of time to that of Dakarai’s heartbeat. The phone chimed a tune too happy for Dakarai’s liking, signaling the text went through successfully.

Then, the woman got to work. She did not speak to him. She pulled at the gauze, unwinding it from his arms and legs.

Dakarai had half a mind to snap at her. To bury his blunted teeth into her wizened hands. To draw fresh blood from her half-dead veins, which burst with age. But he held back.

She was not gentle. She was not kind. She worked with a cold, clinical nature, uncaring with how he winced as she changed his bandages. She rubbed an ointment into his puckered wounds, which burned; aiming for an infection that hopefully was not there.

No IV pole hung next to his bed. And she did not bring any form of opioids to numb the pain of his wounds. But Dakarai was used to pain. He was born into it as his mother screamed out from natural birth. Ever since his first early breath into the world, Dakarai had to fight back against agony and death. Hunger and strife.

The sting from the gauze pulling at barely-healed scabs was nothing in comparison to the piercing burn of his failure.

She wrapped fresh bandages across his wounds. Then, once her work was done, stepped back and sat in one of the comfortable chairs across the room. She took out her phone.

The happy, cheerful music of some sort of match-three game toyed with Dakarai’s sensibilities. He ground his teeth together, wincing. He yearned for silence.

He did not know how long he laid in bed, waiting. The woman said nothing. He said nothing. He returned his gaze to the ceiling.

Perhaps someone more charismatic would have spoken to her. Would have coaxed her into sharing secrets, into pity, and into distrustful arms. Perhaps, if Dakarai knew how to play the social game, he could have reminded her of a past lover. Grandson. Babe. Friend. Whoever he needed to be for her to give him what he needed.

Dakarai had never been good at such a game. And now, too much time had passed for him to break the silence. He was on his own.

He had been on his own for most of his life now. That would not change now.

The abrupt halting of her game, and the shuffle of her scrubs as she shot to her feet broke Dakarai from his musings. He tensed as the door creaked open.

The woman finally spoke. “He is still awake, Mr. Nimr. Wounds are clean. He appears to be cognizant.”

The devil’s voice was too smooth, too soft, for Dakarai’s liking. It slithered into his bones, rotting him from the inside out. “Has he spoken yet?”

“No sir.”

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

From his peripherals, Dakarai watched as the woman inclined her head.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #am writing #ao3 #ask box game #Osiris' Trials #OT #original fiction #dark fiction #my writing #Lanx Writes

[headingalaxys-spicy]

Hi! Following the "demon! darling who is like a chaos lord" thread how about if she falls in love with a human and seeks to redeem herself by staying on earth? (Kind of like Discord with Fluttershy)....

I would like the separate reaction of Yandere!demon! Germany, Yandere!demon! Russia and Yandere!demon! America

Thank you so much, I really enjoy the way you write! 💓💓💓💓

Thank you Anon I’m glad you do! 🥹✨

Tw: Mentions of torture soooo yeah.

Let’s just be clear right now: Human is dead. And that shouldn’t surprise you, all of them torture the human you fell in love with. Also you picked three of the STRONGEST nations of the G8. You just wanted the worst odds.

🇺🇸 America 🇺🇸

Oh holy hell will he not like the fact that you choose a mere mortal over him……a MORTAL.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Y/N?”

He’ll sit on his throne with envy consuming his soul. Just like one taking a strong opioid he was already knee deep into his infatuation for you. And he wasn’t about to quit. He’ll disrupt whatever peaceful life that you’d already built with the human you’re in love with. He’s ruthless when he feels he’s been slighted. You having any demon besides him is a slight. Having a human as a lover is outright blasphemy for him. When he does find out that you have eyes for a human he will stalk you to see if the rumors that surround you are actually true. The moment he beholds you and your lover sharing in a passionate kiss, rage and envy saturate his veins. It takes all of his strength not to immediately run at them and rip out their heart.

On the same night that he witnessed your betrayal to all of Demon Kind your lover will be taken away hidden under the shadows of night. Never to be seen again. Not even the body will be recovered.

When it comes to torture his treatments are cruel and enduring.

Alfred crafted an entire room dedicated to the torture and inevitable killing of your lover.

He’ll start off with a classic torture method: Waterboarding. This is likely to continue for an hour as he shrieks about the humans' wrong doing for daring to be in love with a demon. He will also begin to use other torment methods utilizing all four elements with physical force. It’s not a pretty sight and they’re far below the crust of the earth. Screams begging for mercy will fall to ears who did not care to listen. Alfred will relish in the hellish scenario that he’s created.

Alfred covers his tracks well and makes sure that you never find out. He even goes so far as to erase his memories. So if he were to ever be grilled about it, he would be innocent in a sense.

Depressed you accept their permanent absence after many years of denial. However even with your acceptance , that doesn’t mean he gets his way with you. In fact it made it worse. Whenever you see him and he has tried to be overly touchy feely …. He gets a nasty curse on him that either Arthur has to help him with or he has to wait a week, month, or a few days for your magic to wear off.

So overall neither of you wins.

🇩🇪 Germany 🇩🇪

His disapproval is written all over his face. He practically has to will himself to not grind down his own pearly whites, in the midst of his anger. He sees nothing but red and wants your lover dead. However he is sneakier and less reactive, initially when he found out that your lover was a human.

‘That woman is ridiculous. A human. Verdammt! That makes me angry as hell! A chaos lord and a human. Ludicrous!’ His mind a buzz with thousands of objections over the romantic entanglement.

Your relation defined reason and logic in his mind.

He will spend a few days devising a plan to get you to come running to him. He must dispose of his obstacles. He enlists the help of Kiku and Feliciano. Ludwig intends on making sure your human lover feels the toxic cocktail of emotions he’s been feeling. Your lover will face acute agony, that Ludwig feels in his heart translated into physical pain. It will start with a ruthless flogging.

“DATING A Y/N IS NOT RIGHT! IT DEFIES ORDER!” As he allows his rage to be relieved by seeing the poor human’s face covered in scratches, tears, and mucus. The full 8-hour torture session ends with the obvious death of the human when they’re stabbed directly in the heart.

“Now, you know how I feel, you pathetic human. Now time for phase two: damage control.”

Damage control involved making a few deals with other shady humans who ultimately took responsibility for the killing of your lover. There was a cover story, finger prints, alibis, witnesses, etc. An entire conspiracy that covers up the real cause of death for your lover. You were told that a cult of sorts needed a sacrifice and they seemed to be the target. One thing led to the other and your beloved human was erased from the face of the earth forever.

Ludwig will be your rock…your stable shoulder to cry on during this time. All thanks to Feliciano’s ability to assist Ludwig in emotional manipulation, it's a sealed deal. You belong to Ludwig now thanks to the perfect execution of the scheme thanks to the help of the innovative Japanese demon and the Casanova like Italian demon.

🇷🇺 Russia 🇷🇺

While his face held onto a permanent smile it briefly shifted down when he caught a glimpse of you with your lover. He hated the sight of you with them and wandering the earth gleefully. The two of you found heaven like bliss.

God, did Ivan hate that. It made him want to gag and bash someone’s head in.

Ivan now had his new target.

Only dark chattering, satanic mantras, & wicked curses bounced around his head like hundred of rubber balls. This will carry on for a while before he finally decides to act on his envious feelings. While you were busy tormenting other mortals, demons, and angels for your own amusement he decided to act upon his darker intuitions. He caused a harsh winter storm to batter the town that your lover resided in.

Icy winds pummel your small town. Midnight had arrived. Snowfall was relentless and an alert had been sent out that no one was to leave their home. A blizzard. It took only an hour for the snow to pile up to 5 feet within the span of an hour. So everyone was locked inside by a wall of snow that would continue to get worse until the one he hated ceased to be.

In your humans attempt to keep warm while they had their generator going and were making themselves some hot chocolate. While their back was turned, poison was slipped in by Ivan. It was colorless and odorless so you nor the coroner that would be reviewing their body would be able to figure out the true cause of death. It made their muscles convulse and atrophy. A state of pure agony. Ivan simply watched in the shadows pleased with his heinous deed.

When you find your lover now dead, ice & grief consume your heart. The decimated town becomes your resting ground. You’d never be at ease. You now began to hide yourself because you hated Ivan's insistence that you should go with him.

‘The past is the past.’

‘They’re in a better place now.’

Anything that attempted to minimize the pain that you felt about the insignificant mortal.

After a while of this his minimization of how you feel will bother you more and more with each passing day. You hated his blatant disregard, for the only one you really ever loved.

This would be the start of a war between the two of you until one of you gives up.

#hetalia fandom #hetalia #hws #headingalaxys writes stuff #yandere hetalia #hws america #headingalaxys spicy #hws russia #hws germany #hetalia fanfiction writer #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia demon au #yandere x reader #hetalia x you #hetalia x reader #yandere hetalia x reader

[coffee-in-veins]

Dismas for the bingo? Also I keep seeing the 'fandom is wrong about them' the filled with no further explanation, if you fill it could you elaborate? Thanks!

ding-ding-ding we have double bingo!

who is surprised? certainly not me

as for the "everyone else is wrong about them" elaboration...

my problem mostly lies with how fandom loves to absolve characters of their shittiness - and now canon does too.

like if we look at DD1, canonically, Dismas is not a good man. maybe kind in his own right, maybe loyal, maybe friendly in his own way, i'm not denying any of it. but he did shit. he killed people. he robbed, mugged, most likely caused road accidents (considering how highway robberies were made). very few people write/draw/talk about him as a man who has serious problems, is probably an alcoholic, a tobacco addict, and considering times, proooooobaby on some dubious opioid/alcohol/only Light and Para knows (probably more Para than Light) what else mix which was considered medicine at the time - that is, if he can be bothered or can afford it. he has to be at least somewhat shady.

in my opinion, he has to scheme, lie his ass off, double cross people - it's what kept him alive for so long, after all. sure he can tell noble lies, but it doesn't mean he's any more honest. sure he knows his way around people, but look at his barks, he surely is a braggart. he sees his skills as superior (as anyone in Hamlet does, really, but that's beside the point). he is a conman, a shitbag, a cheater - and yet in most cases, I see him portrayed much like a cat: a bit bumbling, a bit of a jerk, sometimes moody but in the end, harmless. and this isn't what he is, imo. he's a thug. a thug who writes poetry in his free time, sure, but a thug nonetheless.

it's honestly my problem with DD2 mostly. characters there are washed-out toothless poor little meow meows. and it saddens me, since i see them as horrible people who try to make the most out of their current situation - it doesn't make them any less of the shitbags for it. like, i have no doubt that Dismas would suicide-rush a boss to save a friend (much like that Darius highwayman who met his end in encounter with Shambler) - but it doesn't mean he won't sacrifice a seeker he doesn't care for to assure his or his friend's survival or won't mug some sorry bloke in the town if he wouldn't have enough for a bottle. fandom, unfortunately, is usually pretty bad at seeing the moral greyness of characters and sticking to it. they either become the bastards or the infallible "precious babies". and since Dismas is widely popular, he bears the brunt of it.

we know he was in prison but it is barely explored (we don't talk about DD2's portrayal of him there in this blog, i need to be much more inebriated to talk about Buffmas). he is writing poems, but it's rarely referenced. he used to be a candlemaker, used to have a lover, maybe was in Vvulf's brigand, and knows marine terminology, so maybe he was on a ship or was sold as a galley slave from prison - there's so much going on in his backstory that seeing RH dumbing it down to "desperate meow meow who had literally no other viable options was tricked by a bad gang to assault a clown car" and even the "moral sin" which is pushed heavily as the reason he came to Hamlet in the first place was washed off him; in DD1, he shot the carriage deliberately: he heard a noise, and fresh out of a fight, his reflexes snapped into pulling the trigger. but the big emphasis of the scene in the comic was that it was after the fight was completely and utterly over. that was the tragedy - the same quick reflexes that let him live to his age, that he always, always starts the run with, screwed him over into murdering a defenceless woman and a child. however, in DD2, he's robbed even out of that, as they died, as Narrator puts it, "in erratic gunfire", cleansing him of deliberately pulling the trigger and having full responsibility of it when there was no need for it.

i can go on and on but... those are the biggest gripes.

#my shoebox of letters #an avid dismas enjoyer has bingo on dismas xD #i'm shocked shocked i say #grievings of the mountain || discussing dd2

[semper-legens]

149. Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing, by Matthew Perry

Owned: No, library Page count: 250 My summary: So no one told you life was gonna be this way...Matthew Perry tells all in his autobiography. Fame and fortune came hand-in-hand with the addiction that has plagued his life, and now he's ready to tell all in a no-holds-barred memoir about the highs and lows of his career. My rating: 3/5 My commentary:

EDIT: This post was written before Perry’s death - I have a massive backlog of books that I’m working through. I’ve left the text as it was, but I just want to express my sadness at this news. 54 is still too young.

Matthew Perry is a weird guy. I don't think that statement is controversial. He's best known for his role as Chandler on Friends, but he's had a rough time of it. He's dealt with addiction, both alcoholism and opioid addiction among other things, and other mental health issues that saw his health spiral around the drain throughout his life. I picked this up off the shelf at work and skimmed a few pages, and this book struck me with both its candour and its humour, so I decided to check it out just to see what was going on. The result? I...still don't really know, if I'm honest.

I came away from this book just confused about what to think. On the one hand, Perry's stories of addiction and how it has ruled his life despite all of his best efforts are both insightful and thoughtful. He laces his stories with wit and sarcasm, talking frankly about his life and the decisions he has made, both good and bad. He's candid about his self-worth and abandonment issues, complimentary about people who helped him along the way, and ever-grateful for the help he's received. On the other hand, he treats the fame and fortune he got from Friends as being almost inevitable? I know that addiction is a horrible disease to face no matter how much money you have, but most people don't have a spare couple of million dollars to spend on rehab, and can't buy giant penthouse apartments when they're out. I want to be clear, I wish in no way to trivialise Perry's struggles with drugs and recovery. Having incredible wealth doesn't mean you're not sick, and a lot of what he's gone through in various attempts to get clean is terrible, I don't want to imply he's had it easy by any means. But he never really talks about how having millions and millions of dollars might have made his road a bit easier than most other people struggling with addiction. He also talks a lot about how fame sucks, which is probably true, but the way in which he does so comes off a bit...entitled? It's weird, the text is both incredibly self-aware and really not self-aware at all, which makes for a very odd read. An interesting read! But an odd one nonetheless.

Next up, some ghost stories from Japan.

#Friends Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing #Matthew Perry #bookblr #book blog #book blogger #3

[katherinebotten]

Jack Donoghue, the opioid epidemic merch hoodie, and Salem

Jack is cool because of what he brings to the situation. The situation isn’t cool. It’s cool because jack is there. Jack sets the tone he does not let the tone dictate how he is received. He has a romantic mid-west America sensibility. Humble. Disappearing to become a heroin addict ploughing the fields of Alaska like a gold-rush miner in the 1800s. Always in a BPD codep relationship but he remains the Elvis of his life. The captain of his ship. Enough self hating insecurity that we relate to him yet enough mastery over his exterior material conditions that we are in awe. The shame never takes him under the way it would us. He is a god amongst men because shame would kill us mortals yet he takes his shame and turns it into capital through the commerce possible from fine art. Everyone else tries to be Salem but only Salem is Salem. Everyone else should try being themselves. He dated lana because they are both magicians. Liam wanted to be Jack. Every boy wants to be jack. If I saw a person in a Salem t-shirt I would make sure not to talk to them. I think identifying with Salem is for losers only. But I can’t deny the appeal of jack. And of Salem! 

Daisies boyfriend wore a black hoodie it said “I survived the opioid crisis” and I wanted it even though they are the most loser couple of insecure losers on earth. Australia’s prom king and queen if the high school was Insecure High. And it really makes you think, huh, it must be true… money doesn’t make you happy. I didn’t know who made this hoodie - for days I was thinking about it. It was like a sigil. Charged with subcultural power. Then I googled it and saw it was Salem merch... Of course! Salem merch is cringe by nature because when you signal the code that your into Salem you also signal that your a desperate creton lazy death lover with no creativity. Like every art gallery in Melbourne named after death. But this hoodie got me. Death has built in sex appeal that’s why I think it’s lazy. I wish Salem made pro-life merch but they wouldn’t, couldn’t, and won’t. Because then they wouldn’t be Salem. I come for the death and stay for the sex. Jack is the Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive” song, walking down the street in spring using your denim cock crotch as a compass. Jacks cock = true north. He is magnetic because he is a child looking for a whore and/or a mother and won’t break out of himself to become sovereign (ie to become a magician) and we identify, the magnetism is that he is us but he looks, sounds, and seems cool doing it, so we idolise. We want to feel okay. We also can’t break out to become sovereign selves, we want company. But jack is accidentally a magician and I can’t figure out why. He is a martyr in that he becomes magician so we don’t have to and we praise him for it. (Idk how u become a magician without becoming a magician????) He is America. He is a poet. He is a beat poet. He is a dumb hunk. Drunk. Drug addict. Sex addict. Bpd pest. Annoying regressed pitbull. The archetype of the Casanova, Eros, Mars the planet named after the Roman god of war. He signals an authenticity that hipsters feed off but being death obsessed isn’t authentic it’s fake and a cover and fear centric and our authentic core is always life obsessed. My magic coach max says life and death are the same thing. Idk I just know Jack is a loser because death is pathetic but I also know that he gets me everytime and we love him because we want to love the fearful parts of us too and in jack we see the dualism of fear and the things we do to camouflage it that to dumb people appears as fears opposite. We want to empower the parts of us that are scared and weak and lying to cover themselves over as strong (see: in Melbourne - indifferent, apathetic, amoral, apolitical). So we love jack. Scum John Travolta. A boobytrap. Salem is for the codependent. Salem is loaded, charged, cool. 

I watched a fan made documentary on YouTube about Jack and spent the next 12 hours totally desperate to relapse. Every product we want has a secret promise it will make us feel safer. No one wants to die and to change is to die and to be attracted to darkness is liking this sensation you get when you think you are changing because you are dying because you like darkness, and how happy it lets you feel making believe like you're changing when your actually not. Surrounded by darkness my loser XXXXXXXXX thinks he is so cool because he loves death but he doesn’t change he is stuck because he thinks the attraction to death is death (he's not brave enough to die). The final thing out of Pandora’s box was hope and it was the cruellest of all because it kept people exactly as they were. Unchanging. We are such liars. Salem hoodie losers declare themselves as liars. Looking beyond death is life, like in Zazen setting up seated meditation and staring through the hoodie. Refracted out on the other side is the understanding that there is a quality within you that is dependent on external validation for your sense of mysticism, and this is of a low vibrational frequency and probably blocking you from real divine union, being yourself, knowing your purpose and carrying it out.

I wish they didn’t have the opioid brands on the back it makes it uncool, glib and heavy handed. It’s cheap like loser graphic design not fine art and you could find anything that looks like that at Savers or someone in Brunswick yuck. The front is kind of dope in that it’s a public service announcement and mysterious and doesn’t technically have to be true. Then the brands on the back is this energetic doubling down but it’s confused and Vibrationally comes off as not mysterious. Too “of the world”. Plus can you imagine all the losers behind you as you walk being intrigued or scared while reading the branding on your back it’s kind of beyond ugly thing to force to happen in the environment in fact I would go as far as to call the graphic element on the back of the hoodie environmental rape. 

It seems like no matter what he has friends and some what accepts himself. If it was one of us who ended up picking olives in willunga, South Australia, or being a cleaner on a FIFO offshore oil refinery, or in the mines of deep Queensland I doubt we would remain cool and desirable, it is the perserverance of Jack’s essense despite the material conditions that we admire. It’s like he is in the olympics of remaining cool despite what is happening around him. I would kill myself if I ended up childless and living in the fleurieu peninsula alas I am sober and Jack copes by smoking, driving a ute, staying reflexive to trends, and contributing to the zietgiest with markers reminding us of his virility via Instagram posts. I’m torn, it’s not king behaviour. I stan a drop-out, jack hangs-in. 

One day zac described to me that Ed Sheeran was famous because he distilled the essense of England into a man and that is what was being celebrated. England championing the spirit of “England”. The schizophrenia of it was enticing, I don’t know if it checks out. I think we just want to be carried off to sleep, our consciousness blunted. Nothing toooo much but enough of enough to think we’re being satisfied. A Course In Miracles says nothing of this world could be satisfying. I think jack represents the edge of an edge most hipsters are happy to occasionally occupy or aim for. If Jack actually was a frontier explorer we wouldn’t know or see him because he wouldn’t be so representable and locatable. (I wonder if that’s truly true?)

I like jack because he shows me beauty in hopelessness. Where jack is is ok not because it is ok but because jack is there. This is a representation of presence-creation. If I am ok then I can be present. At the end of it all we love hope. The art is dark but it represents making the most of nothing and that is hopeful. Jack is a magician because he is an alchemiser. 

I still think wearing Salem merch shows yourself to be retarded it’s the same as saying I am four years old but I can’t deny that the graphic design of the Salem font is an effective sigil. I respect the mastery of magic in this regard. Salem tea towels would be cool. “I survived the opiod epidemic” on a teatowel would have such a different register vibrationally than a black hoodie. I guess I’m missing the point again people want death not life from salem and tea towels are too life coded. I wonder if there is a way for salem to have less loser attracting merch? 

I know they have such bad porn star sex. I actually feel so sad writing that, I look into their eyes above and see broken 4 year olds crying out for affection and security. They could perfectly heal together, two of the same wounds. My heart breaks to think of both of them stuck on the same merry-go-round from hell.

#katherine botten #jack donoghue #salem

[90363462]

Not Matthew Perry going after Keanu reeves

Keanu dont bother nobody!

😳🙆🏿‍♂️

Nah I’m pissed

Matthew Perry Takes Aim at Keanu Reeves: Why Is Heath Ledger Dead, but Reeves ‘Still Walks Among Us?’

Zack SharfOct 26, 2022 1:24pm PT

Popular on Variety

Matthew Perry’s upcoming memoir, “Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing,” includes more than a handful of revelations, including Perry having to exit a movie after his heart stopped for five minutes, but perhaps the most shocking is a pair of seemingly out-of-nowhere digs Perry throws at fellow actor Keanu Reeves. At two points in the memoir, Perry questions why Reeves is still alive when “talented” actors and “original thinkers” like River Phoenix and Chris Farley had tragic deaths.

“The list of geniuses who were ahead of their time is too long to detail here — suffice to say, near the top of any such list should be my costar in ‘A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon,’ River Phoenix,” Perry writes.

Perry continues later on, “River was a beautiful man, inside and out — too beautiful for this world, it turned out. It always seems to be the really talented guys who go down. Why is it that the original thinkers like River Phoenix and Heath Ledger die, but Keanu Reeves still walks among us? River was a better actor than me; I was funnier. But I certainly held my own in our scenes — no small feat, when I look back decades later.”

Keanu Reeves is cited again when Perry writes about the death of comedian Chris Farley. “His disease had progressed faster than mine had. (Plus, I had a healthy fear of the word ‘heroin,’ a fear we did not share),” Perry writes. “I punched a hole through Jennifer Aniston’s dressing room wall when I found out. Keanu Reeves walks among us. I had to promote ‘Almost Heroes’ two weeks after he died; I found myself publicly discussing his death from drugs and alcohol. I was high the entire time.”

“Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing” is now available for pre-order and releases on Nov. 1. Other revelations in the book include Perry admitting that he’s spent approximately $9 million on his collective attempts to stay sober and Perry revealing he nearly died in 2018 because of opioid overuse.

Read More About:

Keanu Reeves,

Matthew Perry

[artpoint420]

I watched Morel Orel over the weekend, I have headcanons

Orel- Autistic, the fact he takes things literally is a big key point in the first season. Masochism. Uses religion as a coping mechanism but comes to develop a true faith.

Clay- gene for autism but mostly NPD. Masochism. Still a spoiled brat. Substance abuse disorder to the point it will be what kills him.

Clay’s male lover: Satanist Christian, bear with me. Had more potential to change than clay, and actually began a nice arc which was imcomplete because CN are worse hypocrites than the citizens of Morelton. Bi-sexual or pan sexual. He probably wouldn’t even use such terrible methods to get Clay if his society wasn’t so homophobic and really that is kinda heart breaking.

Bloberta: OCD, need I explain why? Self harm disorder. Masochism, it runs in the family. Opioid addict. Possibly autistic?

Doughy’s parents- Neurodevelopmental delays, it would explain a lot.

Doughy: less delayed than his parents

Reverend: Incel syndrome. Was actually passed down the role from his father and uses money to motivate him to keep the job but he actually wants to do something else, he just doesn’t want to disrespect his father. He might be happier doing Ted Talks where he doesn’t have to constrain his talks to his beliefs. Let’s face it though, based on the fact in one ep he has a mug that says I hate my boss he hates God. He’s not Christian like many reverends actually aren’t, but it’s more of a faith struggle with him.

Ms. Censor: intersex, complex ptsd, wants to be mayor to be everyone’s mom.

The teacher: Complex ptsd, copes with being nearly murdered with fantasizing she was in love with her rapist and in control, OCD. Either that or she’s the type of woman who would have ran after Ted Bundy. She’s a MATERIAL GIRL! as seen when she uses Doughy for the gifts gave her. Praise the Lord she didn’t go steady and avoided it.

The principal: Actually a good principal but he uses Nurse Bendy to deal with his hypersexuality which is a severe problem he doesn’t enjoy.

Catherine: non-biney! So cool! The best! The coolest! I want her in m friend circle! Autistic.

Christina: autistic, good chemistry with others, probably likes scrapbooking. Probably gets into situations like Orel does, we just don’t see it because it’s less severe.

Christina’s family is worse on account they forced the Puppingtons to house their Shapey bootleg and never take him back in. At least Bloberta eventually takes Shapey back in.

Shapey and his bootleg: ADHD, very very severe ADHD. Learning disabilities that effect speech and communication.