mind altering drug

2-(1H-Indol-3-yl)-N,N-dimethylethanamine (DMT)

This psychedelic in the tryptamine family is a primary component of ayahuasca (soul vine), which has a long history of being consumed by indigenous people in the Amazon rainforest for spiritual and divinatory purposes. Its effects are intense, occur rapidly, and are of a short duration, lending DMT the nickname “businessman’s trip” in the 60′s in the USA.

As a close analogue of melatonin and serotonin, DMT is not considered to be either addictive or toxic to humans.

Have a safe trip!

For Vanessa and @i-simply-am-not-there

Injured Villain/Hero Prompts

wanderingmind18 said:Ahhh I love your blog so much! If you’re still not sick of all the hero/villain things you wrote, can you do some more prompts on a hero trying to save a dying and/or injured villain? Thank you so much! :) // Hello! I’m not sure if this was asked before, but may I request a prompt about a hero protecting or saving the villain from another villain? Thank you so much :) //  Anonymous said:I love your blog! I’m always looking forward to your prompts! Could we get some prompts where the hero takes care of the villain? //  feelinalittleblue said:can i have some platonic angst hero x minor villain? Like the minor villain being really hurt and the hero actually caring about their friend? Love this blog!  // Anonymous said:Any hurt villain prompts? Like the hero taking care of the villain after they’ve been injured?//    Anonymous said:Do you think you could write one with an injured villain and the hero takes care of them?


1) “I’m scared,” the villain admitted. Tears burned in their eyes.
The hero cradled them close, struggling to put pressure on the wound. “Help - somebody - anybody -”
The villain laughed. A raspy, bloody sound that wracked through their whole body and made them shake. 
Nobody came. It was as if they had all turned suddenly deaf. The villain didn’t look surprised by this fact. 
The hero struggled to pull them up, knees sagging beneath their weight. “Just hold on.” It wasn’t that bad, if they got the villain to a hospital they would survive. 
“No, no,” the villain squeezed their hand. “Don’t…don’t. Just…just sit here with me for a while. If you don’t mind.” Oh so polite, strangely so.


2) “Would you look at that…I win.” The villain pressed a bloodied hand to the hero’s cheek. “You should see the look on your face.” 
“No - no. Tell me where they are!” The hero shook them. If they died…if the villain died then everyone else the hero loved would die with them. They’d never thought the villain would actually - “Stay with me.”


3) “What the hell is this?” They gestured at the villain. Barely recognisable, curled up in a fetal position to protect their head as much as they could with their hands bound behind their back. 
The rage seared through the hero and left them breathless.
“They’re not talking…”
“You don’t bloody kick someone when they’re down!”
“They would.” 
“Yeah, well-” They strode over to the villain, kneeling to inspect the damage, “-we’re supposed to be better.”
The villain flinched from even the most gentle of touches - it made their chest ache.


4) “Easy - easy.” The hero lunged forward, pressing a hand to the villain’s shoulders. “Don’t move too much. You’re okay.”
“You…saved me.” The villain looked more mortified than someone who nearly died had any right to. “I could have handled it!”
“I loved the bit where you handled it by getting your arse handed to you,” the hero said. More focused on examining the wounds and making sure everything was healing as it should. “You were handing it great.”
“Ugh. I didn’t ask you to sweep in with your - with your - your pretty face!”
“My pretty face?” 
“You’ve given me something.”
“Painkillers.”
“Poison.”
“Painkillers.”
“Mind altering drugs of truth and compulsion.” 
“You had an infection, you nearly died. Stop talking, alright? You need to save your strength.”


5) “It’s pathetic,” the villain spat. “Your perpetual need to save everyone. As if that will ever bring back the people who have died for you.”
“I’m not leaving you behind - stop trying to bait me. It’s not going to work.”


6) “You need to eat something,” the hero said quietly. “I made soup.”
“It wasn’t enough to beat me, now you have to mock me too?”
“I’m not mocking you.”
“I’m not a stray kitten for you to take in and make better!” The villain surged to their feet, only to regret it as the pain lanced through them. 
The hero caught them in an instant, steadying them as all of the colour drained from their face. 
“Don’t-” the villain spat. “Don’t touch me!”


7) “We were friends once. Just…just let me help you.”
“I think I’d rather die actually. But thanks for the offer. It’s sweet of you.” 


8) “Don’t pretend you understand.” The hero was never supposed to catch sight of them like this. They’d been doing such a good job of hiding the hairline fractures, the chips, the scratches. They turned away, shoulders hunched protectively. 
“You’re right, of course,” the hero said flatly. “I know nothing about nightmares. Never been through anything traumatic in my life.”


9) “After what I put you through, I’m amazed that you can still stomach being in the same room as me.” Despite the injury, the villain’s gaze was as dark and piercing as ever.
The hero still struggled to meet it and kept their eyes trained on their task instead, grateful for the excuse not to.
“So scared, even now,” the villain continued softly. “Poor thing. Have you stopped waking up screaming yet?”
The hero pressed down on the wound at that, viciously. Looked up. Glared. “They told me to save you, they didn’t tell me to make you comfortable. So shut your mouth.” 


10) “Take your shirt off, I need to see your back.”
“I always knew you secretly wanted to get me out of my clothes. This is…intimate.” They shrugged the shirt aside, letting it fall into a crumpled heap. A smirk tugged at their lips, deliberately. They refused to wince as the warm cloth dabbed disinfectant over the wounds. “Should I take my trousers off too?”
“I should just let you bleed out.”

Through the whiteness of dissociation
I have seen existence from the astral realm
Fractals rise and fall, samsara is witnessed
In this state, my name is irrelevant
For I am merely a small piece of infinity

Proposed: Thedas is not a ‘medieval’ setting

I don’t know about you, but when I was first considering the overall state of Thedas, mostly for worldbuilding purposes, I was semi-consciously thinking of it as a fairly typical pseudo-medieval-Europe.  And that’s natural enough, because in Origins, Ferelden really did look like that.  Thatching, half-timbering, nobles in fortified castles, a fairly monolithic church around which much of society was built.

The further you go into the franchise, though, the more problems you encounter with this.  Kirkwall as a city doesn’t give off a particularly medieval vibe, nor does its government.  You have sailing ships that are more advanced than Europe saw in the middle ages, you have the Qunari with their mind-altering drugs and poison gases and explosives, you have a popular novelist.  A popular novelist requires printing presses, paper manufacture, relatively widespread literacy, and fairly complex shipping systems to exist.  The first European novels were published after the medieval period.  Come Inquisition, we have the almost Baroque Orlesians, broadsheet newspapers, and a lot of things most people probably didn’t notice, like cast iron cookstoves and Bianca Davri’s steam-powered thresher.

Here’s the thing.  Okay here’s a lot of things.  I once had pages of notes trying to work this out, and I’ve tried a dozen times to make a post about it, but it’s too much.  I give up being organized.  So here’s some of the things:

  • Ferelden is a poor backwater.  I know, I’m a rabid Fereldan too, but to the rest of Thedas, it is canonically the arse end of nowhere.  It is no more a good example of the overall technological state of Thedas than the hills of my Appalachian home (where people lived without power or indoor plumbing well into the 20th century) in the 19th century were a good indication of the state of things in 19th century Boston, even though they were only a few days’ ride apart.
  • Thedas’ history and development is in no way like the real world.  It’s a place where the world faces a potentially fatal apocalypse ever few hundred years.  Again, the first game is pretty misleading in this regard, because we neatly wrapped up that Blight in, supposedly, a year, without it ever escaping the borders of one country.  The First Blight lasted over a hundred years and ranged across all of Thedas.  Far and away the shortest Blight besides the fifth still lasted 12 years and destroyed entire kingdoms.  That’s five huge periods of world war and cultural destruction.
  • Magic.  I mean, obviously.  Now, the tangible existence of magic and demons in the Dragon Age arguably has a lot to do with the strength of the Chantry, which has set itself up as a protector from these evils, thus providing an excellent excuse to accumulate military power and suppress dissent.  It doesn’t really effect everyday life much for anyone but mages in the Dragon Age–most people have never seen a mage, and only the wealthy can afford enchanted items.  But of the five empires Thedas has seen, only two (dwarves and Qunari) put any emphasis on technology, and the earliest two (Elvhenan and Tevinter) relied very heavily on magic, and thus presumably had very little incentive to develop technology.
  • The Qunari deliberately suppress at least some technological innovations in the south.  Remember your friendly neighborhood dwarf who liked to blow shit up from Awakening?  His name is Dworkin Glavonak.  You meet his cousin Temmerin in DA2 during the Finding Nathaniel questline, and he tells you that Dworkin’s been driven into hiding by the Qunari. (video)  Certainly sheds new light on why no one outside of dwarves seems to have explosives or gunpowder in the south.  Orzammar dwarves may be the exception here because a) they use lyrium in their explosives, thus making them self-limiting due to the restricted access to lyrium, and b) since Orzammar is a closed society and you cannot come in from the outside, the Qun could not easily place spies in Orzammar society anyway.

So let’s look again, not starting from Origins but look back from Inquisition.  And this time when we look, we find a world that

  • has steam technology, albeit very new–steam-powered threshers were invented around the 1850′s
  • has cast iron stoves such as were not invented in our world until the 1850′s
  • has a canonical reason for lacking gunpowder–which, in turn, completely changes the nature of warfare (or more accurately, doesn’t change it, since it’s guns and cannons that put an end to armor and swords and siege weapons)
  • clearly has printing presses, even if we don’t see them, because there are popular, cheaply printed novels and broadsheet publications and banned book lists

And it’s not quite all from later games, either.  Branka was made a paragon for the invention of ‘smokeless coal’–which isn’t actually a thing in itself but rather a process which removes the impurities from the coal so that it then burns cleaner.  Which, as far as I can ascertain, is a process that was developed during, you guessed it, the 1800′s.

Now, I’m not trying to excuse all the inconsistencies in technology or claim that the devs did a good job of following through on all the implications of things they stuck into Thedas.  Frankly, I think it’s a weak point in their worldbuilding.  BUT it’s really going to keep not making any sense if you try to insist that the setting is more-or-less-medieval-Europe.  In fact, I think it’s futile to try to match Thedas up to any period of real-world development, partly because Thedas’ history is just too wildly different, and partly because a lot of the worldbuilding is done by sticking a bunch of cultures into a blender and picking out what they like.  But if you start thinking about it as a place where technology has continued to develop in places to something roughly congruent to the western world in the 1850′s, but with none of the socioeconomic conditions that created the Industrial Revolution, you might be a bit closer.

It’s madness...

Originally posted by cheers-mrhiddleston

First off, I just want to say how much I love this man. Secondly, this specific gif (not mine) pretty much sums up how I feel about Ragnarok! I don’t want to go into specifics as I know lots of people haven’t seen it yet but basically I can’t decide whether it was sheer brilliance or absolute crap.

Honestly, when I came out of the cinema earlier my first thought was “what the bloody hell have I just seen?” Thinking about it now, I’m still not completely sure. I feel like… Well, I don’t even know but whatever it was I thoroughly enjoyed it! 

There were a lot of moments that left me almost cringing but the rest somehow outweighed that. The Grandmaster is basically just Jeff Goldblum playing a self aware space version of himself which is really all you need in your life and I have no words to describe the weirdness of everything that goes on on Sakaar. That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy it - I did in the way that I’m sure you enjoy mind altering drugs - just that I don’t think there are any words in the English language suitable for describing… Well, any of it!

To be honest, as sad as I am to say, Cate Blanchett’s Hela was my least favourite thing about the film. I was so engaged in the practically soap opera quality of madness on Sakaar that her scenes felt out of place and jarring against the rest. Still, she looked amazing so who cares.

And obviously, Loki - my truly beautiful, sarcastic little shit - was without doubt my favourite thing about this and I’d quite willingly watch the insanity all over again just for the faces he makes in the background of every shot throughout. Don’t worry about what is going on in the scene. Just watch him. I mean, who doesn’t, really?

Basically… Go see it! You’ll either love or hate the madness (it’s definitely a marmite situation) but will definitely appreciate the sheer range of brotherly love/hate emotion between Thor and Loki. Seriously. Just go watch it. Go. Now. I’ll see you there.

N.B. STAY FOR THE ENTIRE CREDITS. People left halfway through - THERE ARE TWO SCENES GUYS

NikNik: Amazon Pony, Amazon Cow

The rhythmic sound of the milking machine had the almost hypnotic effect on her that it always had. The accompanying pull and release on her nipples that accompanied the sound was, as always, a constant physical reminder of her usage.

Of course, everything about her situation served to remind her of her purpose. Whether it be the constant bondage, the torture of her body, or the way her Master used her for his pleasure whenever the mood struck him.

But the milking, that was when she was truly reminded of just how much of an object she had become.

It overwhelmed all her senses, became the center of her universe, and, surprisingly, allowed her mind to drift and wander.

She had learned from her Master, the man that had owned her the last two years, that most “dairy farmers” used mind altering drugs, of various types to put their “livestock” into an altered mental state that made them easier to handle.

The drugs were designed to, essentially, cloud a woman’s mind, making her more susceptible to suggestion and, more importantly, make her more accepting of her situation.

Her Master, however, believed that this state of drug-induced acceptance reduced the woman’s production of milk, both quality and quantity and so chose not to use any of them.

Instead, he relied solely on physical training, unyielding bondage, and psychological dominance to achieve the same results.

She knew, from her own experiences, that it was an effective alternative to the drugs. Although it had an extra benefit, according to her Master, it left the woman, completely aware what was happening to her. He liked that his cows didn’t have a drug induced stupor to escape into, and instead were forced the experience everything that they were subjected to with no shield. Leaving them all completely broken and submissive to the will of their cruel Master with no ability or inkling to offer any resistance or even consider trying to escape.

Even if all her shackles and bindings were removed at this very moment, and she was shown a clear path to escape, with a virtual 100% chance of success, she would still not be able to muster the mental resistance needed to take advantage of it.

She had been a slave now for 20 years, but her current Master, was more brutal and effective, as a psychological manipulator and slave trainer, then all the former men she’d been trained and tortured by, combined.

While she’d been tortured, abused, and dominated to the point that she had long learned, that this was her life, and she was never going to escape it, it wasn’t until this man got his hands on her that she truly understood what it meant to be a slave.

All the other men had simply dominated her with their power to rape, beat, and enjoy her, but it was a power they exercised through bondage that rendered her helpless to resist.

Here, on the farm, she’d learned that there were far more powerful forms of domination.

Here, she’d been broken. Completely, utterly, irrevocably broken.

Her current master had taught her, through repeated, and judicious use of the whip, the crop, the cane, and a myriad of other implements of torture, including various electrical devices that had never existed in her darkest night terrors, even after over 15 years of slavery, that she was an object who’s only purpose was perfect obedience and perfect submission, and that anything less than absolute perfection was brutally punished.

If he told her that she was expected to cover a distance of exactly 6 feet, and four steps, while bound, where in ballet boots and a helmet, then that is what he expected.

Anything less than exactly 6 feet led to come at the very least, a vicious caning of her ass, thighs, and calves.

If he was especially displeased, he would use special boots, that had tacks in the soles, and make her do it again, and again, and again, until she was perfect and ready to collapse from exhaustion and pain.

Then he would do it all again the next day.

Every aspect of her existence was like that.

Perfection, obedience, subservience, and submission were the only currency available to prevent some level of suffering.

Nothing could prevent it completely, as she had heard him comment often, suffering, was a slave’s lot in life.

But she had learned, the perfect obedience did help too, usually, keep this to a minimum. After all, damaged cows didn’t produce as well as healthy ones.

It also had the added effect, as mentioned before, of making it impossible for her to even contemplate any form of resistance, let alone escape.

To this day, years after she had learned all this, her mind is still refused to consider, and her body shuddered in uncontrollable terror, at just the mere idea of the savagery she would endure, if she ever tried to escape.

As her mind continued to wander, she was reminded, after all, it is another torture, reminding her of her, “anniversary”, was coming up, she thought about how this all began.

*****

Time had been difficult to track, but she knew at the time she’d been in her early 30’s and had been living in Portland, at the time.

At this time her name, had been Nikki. That of course was one of the first things she’d lost.

She was 6’2”, beautiful, full size 40 breasts, fit and trim, with long, luscious black hair that she took great pride in.

She was a picture that anyone would surely call upon if they wanted to imagine a powerful Amazon warrior.

She took pride in her height, and her body, and enjoy the fact that both men and women looked at her with envy. She had her pick of bedmates and was never without someone to entertain her.

She’d, at one point, been approached to act as a Mistress, but that hadn’t interested her. She was simply enjoying her life and wasn’t looking for anything to complicate it.

Unfortunately for her, it was her physical attributes that first brought her to the attention of the slavers in the area. After they had learned a bit more about her, they decided her attitude was perfect for a future sex-slave. A woman that desperately needed to learn her place.

It was her physical attributes that had attracted their attention, it was her personality that was to be her undoing.

The idea of, “sex slavery” was, to her, something from the movies. A plot to a bad ‘B’ rate movie perhaps, or something one might see in a movie of the week on Lifetime.

It most certainly wasn’t something to be concerned about in modern day America.

Because she could not contemplate the existence of the danger, she certainly wasn’t doing anything to protect herself from it.

She had no idea that she had indeed caught the attention of such a group, nor did she notice when they spent the next several weeks with her under surveillance learning anything and everything about her life. Every aspect was learned,  cataloged, and assessed to decide if she was a candidate. If she had too many attachments or too many people that would look for her, they’d have to forgo acquisition.

They’d lost many a prime candidate because of things like that. This time, however, there were no such worries. The green light was given.

Then one night, while she was shopping, not paying attention to the dangers and predators in the shadows around her. She suddenly felt a sharp, painful prick in her ass cheek, she reached back instinctively.

Her hand came back with, what looked like a dart.

She had just enough time to wonder what this could mean, what the hell was going on before the fast acting drugs took effect and her vision quickly tunneled to black.

When she finally regained consciousness, it was in a decidedly different situation than she had been in. She couldn’t see at all, she could barely hear, and, apart from the bindings that were holding her in place, she knew she was naked.

She screamed, struggled, and squirmed for what felt like hours. Tears fell in really from her face, only to be absorbed by the horrible helmet that they had wrapped her head in. Her nipples were in agony as something was pinching them, tightly, and making every move that much more painful.

Finally, she felt hands upon her. That fact, however, did not bring the comfort, as the hands did not try to release her. In fact, the hands lingered and took their time as they stroked, caressed, pinched, twisted, and even slapped various parts of her body.

As she struggled against all of this, more hands joined in. Her breasts were grabbed tightly and bounced and jiggled as if someone were weighing them in her hands. Her nipples were pinched and twisted, and it seemed that they were testing her responsiveness to the pain.

Hands delved into her cunt, and fingers penetrated her without mercy, remorse, or permission. Her clit was grabbed and held tightly, and even her asshole with penetrated.

All this was happening as she struggled to resist, and begged for mercy.

Finally, as the hands slowly fell away, she felt something and part of the helmet was removed.

When it was, her eyes snapped shut at the sudden brightness of the light.

She saw figures in the brightness, shadows in the shape of men, but she couldn’t see their faces. She had no idea the numbers, but she estimated at least a half a dozen.

Soon after, the rest of the helmet was removed and she could open her mouth to speak.

Before she could, howeverr, her nipple was suddenly grabbed tightly and as she tried to pull away, but the pressure was increased and then began to pull, forcing her to move forward, or hurt herself more, rather than away as she wanted.

“A slave does not try to pull away from its master,” a voice said coldly.

“Slave? What do you…”, She didn’t get to finish her question before she was viciously slapped across the face.

“The slave will remain silent, or will be punished”

she didn’t take the hint, her mind too shocked by being hit to register the words that had been spoken and again she tried to speak, “I don’t understand, I’m not a slave.”

She again was cut off, only this time not by a slap to her face, but because she was too busy screaming to speak.

The man had picked up what looked like a switch, and without warning began to rain blow after blow across her body. In her bondage, she could not protect herself, and her ass, thighs, breasts, and feet received repeated vicious blows.

The beating seemed to go on for hours. Slowly, over time her efforts to resist were slowly exhausted and she was even too tired to really scream anymore. It was only then, that the prolonged beating finally ended.

Her body was a crisscross of angry looking welts, but, she would have been pleased to know if she could form a thought at that moment, that the man had known his business and had not left a single permeant mark on her body.

The only place this beating would ever leave a lasting mark was on her psyche. A painful reminder and lesson that would quell many an effort at rebellion in her mind.

The first of many such lessons she would learn over her time as a slave.

“This slave has been warned, it will not talk, it will not attempt to talk, and it will not attempt to resist. Does this slave understand what is demanded, or shall I continue with the more persuasive instruments?”

The man held a bullwhip, and she realized that the long thin leather would be utterly agonizing, and she knew, down to the bottom of her very terrified soul that he would use it on her, happily.

In fact, she was certain everyone would enjoy it.

Except for her.

“The slave will obey, instantly,”, the voice said, “does it understand?”

She nodded her head quickly, desperate to convince his man that she would do anything she was told to avoid more torture or pain.

After that first introduction to her future, her surrender to absolute sexual servitude and slavery became a mere formality.

The occasional bouts of instinctive resistance to her new existence were quickly and ruthlessly overcome by various forms of training and torture. All too quickly, and depressingly easily, her will, her spirit, her very soul came to accept and then embrace her slavery.

Once satisfied, the men began to use her, as a whore to bring them money. They offered her holes by the hour, for the use of various men.

Never in one place more than a few days, she was a traveling pleasure instrument.

Sometimes would be in the back of a trailer, the grunting of manual laborers as their dirty hands pinched and mauled her body.

Other times, her accommodation would seem almost palatial, as well-dressed men violated her body with the abandon of knowing that no one could or would stop them.

Through it all, she slowly lost all hope that she could be rescued. Eventually, she was reduced to completely accepting the realities of her situation.

Time passed the men got tired of her, and the novelty of the Amazon Warrior wore off.

Her owners eventually decided to get rid of her and turn a profit at the same time. She was sold to someone south of the border, she suspected Columbia or Brazil, as she knew the language somewhat and had occasionally seen something she thought she’d recognized as a landmark.

Her new master was, incredibly, even more, vicious than she’d previously been exposed to. Her old Masters were determined to keep her in as good a condition as possible, lest she be worth less when rented out or, eventually sold.

Her new Master didn’t think the same way at all, enjoying her cries as she was raped again, again, and again while being tortured for any perceived lack of skill or effort. She was never once given the option of displaying her obedience to avoid pain.

In fact, the entire idea seemed foreign to him. On more than one occasion she was sure she was going to die. She surrendered to the idea that she wasn’t going to last long here, and eventually, she’d end up in a shallow, unmarked grave.

If she was that lucky

Then, one day, she was simply strapped down, masked, and loaded into, what she thought, was a trailer of some kind. No explanation given, after all, one did not explain the situation to livestock. All she was told, as clamps were applied to her nipples and a vibrator placed against her clit, was that if she came, she would be punished.

She was driven for what seemed like hours, fighting desperately, a losing battle in which she lost count of how many times she came.

Finally, she was dragged out of the trailer, her mask was removed and she gazed upon her new Master who was, incredibly, a farmer.

He owned several slaves, some used as horses, some as cows, and some he simply destroyed.

Her, he thought she would be perfect pulling his cart and proving him milk, and he took great delight in explaining that future to her. But first, she needed to be punished for her failure.

He wielded his whip like an expert and when he was finished there was not a single square inch of her body, save her face, that wasn’t burning red with welts and pain.

She resolzed then and there, to be perfect, if only as a way to maintain her sanity. She would learn, over the course of the next several months, that her sanity was the least of her worries as she suffered more pain, agony, degradation, and breaking, than in all of her previous years of slavery combined.

At least it felt like that.

Her Master was unforgiving, unrelenting, and simply vicious.

He seemed sexually insatiable, violating her ass, cunt, or mouth in what felt like hourly cycles of abuse.

All three seem to constantly be dripping his semen. The slightest twitch that even implied resistance was brutally punished.

The first time he introduced her to the milking machine, she tried to struggle. Even after all she had been through to be reduced that completely to an animal had caused her mind to momentarily flinch.

He said nothing, his demeanor had not changed at all. It wasn’t until she was fully strapped in and immobile that he had beaten her ass to the point that she was sure the flesh was going to peel off.

Then, once he was done with that, and a fully cowed slave was again before him, he showed her the branding iron. She shuddered and struggled in absolute terror, but he ignored it completely, stroking her hair, almost gently as the iron heated up.

When it was finally blazing hot, glowing red with heat, and anger, he calmly walked behind her and, without ceremony or comment, pressed the red-hot metal into her bare ass.

She screamed in utter agony, but he ignored it. He was finally finished, mutilating her with his mark, he put the brand away, applied some salve to the burn, and then fucked her ass again, while she continued to cry and scream in pain, humiliation, and defeat.

Finally, he came around to her face, and lifted her chin roughly, “Congratulations, Niknik, you’re now going to be my perfect cow and my perfect pony. You’ll serve in both ways and do so exactly as I demand. Or else.“

He made good on that promise over the next several months, and then years. His training was relentless as it was effective. She performed flawlessly after just a few months. Pulling his cart like she was born to it. Sometimes he even dressed her elaborately, so he could show her off. She was embarrassed by how proud she was that she performed so perfectly for him.

Where had her pride gone? How could she be so accepting of her reduction to a mere animal?

As a cow, she was, if anything, a greater source of pride for her Owner. Fed a complex cocktail of drugs, including such drugs as Domperidone, to stimulate, and then increase her production of milk.

Every night, after being used in his bed to please him in any way he saw fit, she was strapped into the milk machine and left to produce for the night.  After the initial horror of it all wore off she began to look forward to her time with the machine as her breasts were usually very full and sore by the time he hooked her up.

The need to be milked overriding any sense of shame. In too short a time she wasn’t even able to feel shame or humiliation anymore, because, for it to be possible to feel either of those, you needed some sense of self-worth.

She had absolutely none.

She had become a mere thing for him to use and abused.

During her time here, being used as she was, she had twice ended up pregnant. Both times he had taken the child and told her he sold it to an adoption agency.

In both cases, she was never even informed of whether she’d given birth to a boy or girl.

Indeed, she never even heard them cry.

After giving birth the first time, and not even being acknowledged as her child was taken from her, that was when she truly realized what her life had become. Yes, she had accepted her place, but there had still been some small, insignificant part of her that was holding out hope for a chance to return to some semblance of her old life.

But as the vet stitched her up, and her Master carried the little bundle of life away, not even acknowledging her, she truly accepted what she was.

She wasn’t a person anymore. She wasn’t a free woman, American, or even a human being.

She was just a pony girl. She was just a milk cow. She was just a slave.

She was there to bring pleasure to her Master in any way he saw fit to use her.

*****

All these thoughts passed through her head as the machine continued its unfeeling cycle of milking her filled, massive breasts. She felt the tears in her eyes at the memories and she tried desperately to push them away. This was one of the drawbacks of her Master not using the mind-altering drugs as others did. She remembered her life, remembered who she was, and how she came to be here, but, due to the training and complete mastery he had subjected her to, she couldn’t develop the necessary feelings to try to get any of it back, or to even hate him for what he had done to her.

Her master came in, and stroked her hair gently, almost knowingly.

She leaned into the touch, knowing that all too soon these gentle hands were going to be inflicting agony on her once again.

The farmer said, "you’re such a good girl, Niknik. My good little cowgirl.”

Those words, made her cunt spasm in orgasmic need.

Later, as she hung from the ceiling, her ass and cunt fully exposed for her Master’s use, she thought that she didn’t want to be anywhere else, and she was so lucky to have found her place in life.

Her Master simply stroked her bare and well used pussy, and told her, over and over, what a good girl she was.

anonymous asked:

Were Cassie once a goth?

Yes, a big one. Her mother found very disturbing letters written to her best friend ‘Mona’ in ninth grade. However Cassie had already been slipping since fifth/sixth grade. She hung around with the wrong crowd, ditched school, smoked a lot of pot, became a satanist. It got so bad her parents were actually afraid of her. Thats when they sent her to a Church and she became all religious. They really cared for her. The church was an act of desperation. They literally had no idea what to do. Cassie just seemed so far gone. They couldn’t tell at first if was a real threat or the typical teenage talk like “I’m going to kill my mom she won’t let me go to the mall” but it turned out to be very real. Here are just some examples from her book:

  • A letter addressed to Cassie from her best friend Mona (not her real name) opened with several lines of unprintable sex talk and ninth-grade gossip, and went on to discuss a teacher at the high school, Mrs. R., and invited Cassie,“Want to help me murder her? She called my parents and told them about my F.” The letter ended with a reminder about a “neat spell,” drawings of knives and vampire teeth, mushrooms, and a carica- ture of Mrs. R. lying in a pool of blood, butcher knives protruding from her chest.
  • Most of the other letters were decorated as well – monkeys with vampire teeth, axes, knives, mushrooms (for mind-altering drugs) – or scribbled with spells and rhymed couplets:
    • Prick your anger, it is done. The moon has now eclipsed the sun. The angel of dark has spread his wings, The time has come for better things.
  • In one letter the writer went to great lengths to describe how much she hated her father; in another, how much she adored Marilyn Manson. There was endless talk about the “sexiness” of black clothes and makeup, the “fun” of contraband alcohol, marijuana, and self-mutilation, and the adventures of a classmate whose girlfriend went to “this satanic church, cult thing where you have to drink a kitten’s blood to get in.”
  • Several of the letters advised Cassie to do away with us and thus solve her innumerable problems. One ended, “Kill your parents! Murder is the answer to all of your problems. Make those scumbags pay for your suffering. Love you, me.”
  • Another was illustrated with grisly drawings of a couple (“Ma and Pa”) strung up by their intestines, daggers hanging from their hearts, and referred to the “intestine hanging thing,” which the writer thought was a “pretty good idea.”
  • “Vampires among us forever!” followed by a crude poem: “Leave me to swallow my own blood, Let me drink my life away. Forever the glow of the candle shines Through the emptiness of my soul. Don’t touch the fire, the old scar says, My blood will boil when the right time comes. As evil closes on my name, The spark of life will fade away…”
  • Cassie was as good as any teen at playing straight. She stayed at school after hours, because “I’ve got to pull up my art grade” (never mind the pot smoking and the drinking, and that, contrary to what we had been led to believe, there was no supervision in the room). She showed us her cool new CD’s, though not the ones she knew we wouldn’t approve of. She introduced us to Rick, a classmate who seemed harmless enough, but she did her best to keep us ignorant of his dabbling in satanic rituals and his problems at home.
  • Cassie would erupt in fits of anger and despair, and we never knew quite what she would say or do next. I began to dread getting up in the morning. Brad remembers:
    • When Cassie got upset with us – and I mean really upset – she would scream about how unhappy she was, and how unfair it was for us to have gone through her room. She would cry and scream and yell, “I’m going to kill myself! Do you want to watch me? I’ll do it, just watch. I’ll kill myself. I’ll put a knife right here, right through my chest.” I would try to calm her down by talking with her, or stroke her and hold her tight and tell her how much her mother and I loved her. There were times when she was acting so irrationally that I felt like slapping her, just to knock her back to her senses. But I never did. Instead I put my arms around her even tighter, pulled her real close, and said over and over, “I love you, Cassie, and I don’t want to see you do anything to hurt yourself. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you at all.”
  • Initially, it seemed Dave would be right. In a letter to a friend dated January 4, 1997, Cassie wrote:
    • “…The letters they found in my room were really graphic, and even had pictures of how we would kill my parents. So now they know about the smoking, drinking, all that stuff, plus about our not-serious killing stuff. S—, so now I can’t speak to my best friends, Mona and Judy, and my other friend, Rick. If I see or speak to Mona, the sheriff will  le a restraining order. Yeah, my parents contacted the police! I think they’ve completely blown this whole thing out of proportion. I’m not addicted to alcohol or cigarettes. I’m not a pothead, but basically I’m really lonely and depressed and hate my parents. Hope your life doesn’t suck as bad as mine. I tried running away, but they caught me. One good thing though, I’m going to sneak out to the Marilyn Manson concert. Mona and Rick are going too, so at least I’ll get to see them then.”
  • I remember coming to the doorway of Cassie’s room and not being able to bring myself to walk in. I can’t quite describe it, but it felt like you could almost cut the air in that room with a knife, the atmosphere was so oppressive. Finally I went in, and I sat down on Cassie’s bed and began to cry. (I’m thinking that’s some sort of witchcraft).
  • Then there’s this

There is just so much more, I can go on if you would like, but this post is already too long haha.

HOW I FEEL ABOUT ACID
  • <p> <b></b> People who think doing acid is the worst thing you could ever do make me laugh. Yeah, things can go wrong I guess but doesn't stuff go wrong no matter what you're doing? Getting drunk is legal and could potentially kill you. You can even have bad experiences with just smoking weed. With ANY kind of mind altering drug OR drink anything can happen. Its about the set and setting. Of course I'm not saying go get a bag of heroin or go buy some crack I'm talking about alcohol weed and hallucinogenic drugs. Acid isn't addictive. Overdosing is near impossible. Acid DOES NOT stay in your spine and you won't become addicted and start tripping if you crack your back! I'm living proof. Prior to a fatal car accident of mine I did acid at least 3 months before and about a month after I started going to daily chiropractor appt. I NEVER once started tripping after or during and I am not dependent on the drug. Acid can be the best thing ever. Seeing things you wouldn't see normally, noticing small things you wouldn't have acknowledged before, hearing sounds in new ways, thinking of things about life you've never thought of before, smelling scents you wouldn't have ever smelt. Its a great drug. BUT, along with this mind changing experience you shouldn't do it every day or even month. A few times every year. Doing acid daily, weekly, or monthly could change your perception if your using too much. Its not weed. Excessive tripping could change your mind state if your constantly tripping. Do not drive on acid. Acid is something you need to prepare for. Its like a big event. Tripping and having a good trip is all about set and setting. Don't set yourself up to be in danger and be with close friends who you can trust. Even having someone sober would be good. Don't go out in heavily public places because you WILL become paranoid. Don't drive on acid or let someone drive on acid. Don't underestimate the power of the drug. Choosing a bad set and setting could result in a bad trip which you do not want to experience. You will have a good trip if you follow what I said. DO NOT do acid if you are going through mental health problems and don't do acid if you've been through a recent trauma such as a fatal car accident, close family or friend death anything that could be on your mind and upset you. Acid isn't as bad as people say. People say weed is the worst thing ever but st the same time people love it. Just because you read weed makes you this and that and does this to your body and that to your body doesn't mean its true? As many people who say its horrible will say the exact opposite. Its your decision to do what you want.<p/><b></b> I AM NOT TRYING TO ENCOURAGE ANYONE TO DO DRUGS OR DO ACID I AM TRYING TO EXPRESS HOW I FEEL ABOUT THESE DRUGS. I AM NOT A DOCTOR OR ANYTHING I AM GOING OFF MY PERSONAL EXPERIENCES BOOKS IVE READ FRIENDS EXPERIENCES AND OTHER SOURCES. I HAVE DONE ACID AS MANY AS AT LEAST 10 TIMES AMD HAVE NEVER HAD ANY BAD EXPERIENCES. IF YOU DISAGREE WITH WHAT I HAVE SAID PLEASE JUST AGREE TO DISAGREE WITH ME. FEEL FREE TO ASK ME ANYTHING.<p/></p>
First Class Treatment

“The next train arriving on platform 4 will be the 11:27 train to….”

Stephen stood up, stretching groggily, he’s been waiting at the station for what felt like hours for his trip to meet his friends. The first weekend of every month was always something to look forward to, so as the train arrived he smiled to himself at the prospect of spending the next few hours with his friends. He looked down at his ticket, “Supreme first class”, a spontaneous present from his friend, oddly he had never heard of an upgraded first class ticket but he wondered what pampering he could look forward to.

The train arrived and he stepped on-board the last train car walking into the carriage it appeared no different to any other first class cabin he had been in, comfortable chairs, TV screens in the seats, with a few complimentary food and drink items set out. Stephen found his seat and sat down, he looked around as the train set off, frowning at the odd collection of passengers. All men. The train rattled along the track with the quiet mutterings of chatter present amongst the passengers when the on-board announcement sounded. “We would like to welcome you on-board this Nexus train service today, we will be operating a special service which we hope our passengers find unforgettable.”

As the announcement finished the cabin filled with a dull white noise as the windows tinted, darker and darker before turning black. The whispering increased as the passengers started to ask what was going on. Stephens brow furrowed, contemplating the sudden situation, and what kind of gift his friend had sent him. Suddenly the TV screens flickered on, adorned with shimmering spirals as limb restraints erupted from the chair and clamped down holding Stephen and the other passengers in place. Attendants walked down the aisle, forcing the limbs of some passengers who had managed to remain free into their shackles. The struggling continued for a while, until slowly, gradually the struggling stopped.

Stephen stared into the spiral, finding it increasingly harder to look away as a slow trickle of drool begun to leak from his mouth. The spiral before each passenger began to pulse, as their clothes began to dissolve away, spreading outwards from the restrains. Once naked, each boys cock stood erect, leaking precum just as their mouths leaked drool. These boys had interesting futures ahead for them, but Stephen was a supreme first class ticket holder, and his booked treatment was different to those of the other boys. One of the attendants walked over, unfastening Stephen, they picked him up and carried him into the on-board toilet, fastening Stephen down in front of a new screen, with fresh restraints, just as his resistance began to resurface.

The new spiral before him soon recaptured his attention as the attendant exited, just as a strong smell of urine began to fill the room. From the seat below him a metal arm slowly cupped Stephens balls and cock and gently begun to stimulate it, causing him to moan as the spiral flashed words deep into his brain. “Slave. Urinal. Cumdump. Thing.” Over and over his senses were assaulted until his new programming was all he could remember. The urine smell was merely a fragrance, disguising the new mind altering drug produced for just this type of reprograming. The new urinal was held on the edge of orgasm before a sudden, painless, shock caused his dick to soften as a solid chastity belt was welded to his frame forcing him to be forever horny and obedient. An orgasm from touching his dick, would after all break his new careful programming. Liquid latex was soon pumped out from the shackles, leaving the urinal coated in rubber up to his neck, his head to be left explicitly untouched for further…fun…. with his sir. The shackles detached and the urinal boy dropped to his knees, mouth open. Ready to drink and serve. The attendant returned and gladly obliged the urinal his first drink of hot yellow piss before he then dressed the boy in fresh clothes then escorted him down into a regular passenger car. Stephen was after all, to be delivered to his friends as expected and his sir who was eagerly waiting with them. Once he was sat in his new seat, the attendant returned to the special car, full of all the tranced boys, still drooling and leaking. Stephen shook his head and pulled out his phone, the new programming wouldn’t kick in for good until his sir instructed it, and he wouldn’t even consciously notice that he was covered in rubber under his clothes. In the distance the train couplers could be heard disconnecting, as the train car holding the now entranced boys begun to slow down, joining a separate track. These boys were of great importance to the company. After all, new products require testing before made available for purchase. The rest of the train continued to its planned destination with one unsuspecting passenger about to have his life change forever.

So….will you be travelling soon?

Fic Prompts: Strange Magic Monday

“Look at him,” Marianne seethed, fingers tightening on her coffee mug. “He’s taunting us. I know he is.”

“He probably is. The guy’s a piece of work,” Dawn agreed unexpectedly.
Or maybe not so unexpectedly. Anyone who broke her sister’s heart was on Dawn’s Cloudy Day list.
Anyone who broke her sister’s heart and then tried to use mind altering drugs on her went way beyond Cloudy Day list and straight into a little black book that only Sunny had seen.

And then there was the part where he’d held Dawn hostage during the standoff with Marianne and Bog.

Suffice to say that Roland Knight was making a very poor choice in buying the grand studio across from Dawn and Marianne’s apartment.

“Don’t we have a restraining order on him?” Dawn asked suddenly.

“Not officially,” Marianne said slowly, “Dad wanted to try to "work things out” before. But we could probably get one.“
She grinned at her sister and put the coffee down before throwing open the window and easing out onto the fire escape.

"Ooh! Are you going down to Boggy’s apartment?” Dawn asked, “Tell him I need the cheese grater back!”

Marianne shrugged. “If I head that way, I’ll tell him.”

“Well if you’re not going to Boggy’s, where are you going?”

“Well I’m either gonna get the security feed of Roland threatening you, or I’m gonna commit a felony. I’ll decide when I get downstairs.” Marianne called back.

anonymous asked:

Do you really not like hugh hefner ?? He seems fine for me and idk why the whole Marilyn thing is a big deal

he:

  • exploited, sexualised, and objectified women for nearly a century
  • nearly ruined marilyn monroe’s career by publishing nude photos of her without her consent- causing her to be nearly fired from several jobs she was working and forcing her to have to issue a public apology on the matter. said photos would go on to haunt her for the rest of her life, making her the butt of many jokes and making men and women believing her to be inmoral to boycot her films
  • said this gem: “The notion that Playboy turns women into sex objects is ridiculous. Women are sex objects…It’s the attraction between the sexes that makes the world go ‘round. That’s why women wear lipstick and short skirts.”
  • also this one: “they [feminists] are our natural enemy. It is time to do battle with them. It is time we do battle with them…”
  • built an entire career on the backs of the women he exploited and treated as sexual objects to be consumed by men
  • subjected the women in his household to unwanted sexual and physical advances from the men who came to visit/stay
  • forced the women to undergo invasive medical procedures and pelvic exams before allowing them to come in contact with guests
  • preyed on multiple women and has a history of sexual touching and groping of women without their consent
  • did not allow the women he lived with access to cars so they were unable to leave the manse without first asking his permission
  • had a much higher ratio of white women to woc published in his magazine and working as bunnies
  • was accused of threatening to throw acid in the face of a woman who reached out to gloria steinem after her undercover expose of the playboy mansion was published
  • required women wear bunny outfits that were “so tight they made your legs go numb”
  • steinem also wrote that “The boning in the waist would have made Scarlett O’Hara blanch. The entire construction tended to push all available flesh up to the bosom.” Stating that to make the garment bearable bunnies stuffed their costumes with plastic dry-cleaning bags for padding as well as “cut-up bunny tails, Kleenex, gym socks, and silk scarves.”
  • purported and bragged about the power he gained from objectifying women
  • did not pay his staff a fair wage and was constantly accused of underpaying them
  • kept more than half of the tips made by the women working for him
  • normalised and popularised porn, an industry which is infamous for the mistreatment, exploitation, and abuse of its female performers
  • told the women in his household that they must have unprotected sex with him and each other multiple times a week if they were to continue to live under his roof
  • told linda boreman that he would pay to see her have sex with a dog
  • forced himself on dorothy stratten in the pool of his manse
  • was accused of being aware that bill cosby was drugging and sexually assaulting women on his property
  • pressured the women under his employ to take illegal, mind-altering drugs in order to “loosen up”
  • said, while referencing feminists and ordering an anti-feminist article be written for his magazine, “These chicks are our natural enemy. What I want is a devastating piece that takes the militant feminists apart. They are unalterably opposed to the romantic boy-girl society that Playboy promotes.”
  • was anti vaccine and raised money for anti vaccine charities

tl;dr he is a piece of shit and i hated him when he was alive and i’ll hate him after he’s dead

Tip for people who are new to drinking: take the time in a safe, private setting to learn how much alcohol you can handle. With one highly trusted friend or family member, take time to slowly drink alcohol, talking and moving after every shot/glass/cup (the appropriate unit for the kind of alcohol you’re drinking). 

Learn how you feel when you’re tipsy. Learn how you feel when you’re edging on drunk. Consciously think about how your body feels. Actively listen to the words coming out of your mouth and your mood. Try to reach out and grab something off a table or standing up and sitting down. Observe your own reaction to alcohol and learn your limitations. 

Alcohol is a mind-altering drug, so learn how it alters your mind. That way, when you start drinking in social settings, you can gauge where you’re at and how much further you can safely go. There’s a world of difference between thinking you’re “kind of tipsy” and realizing that you’re “at the stage of tipsy where I will misjudge where my chair is and fall ingloriously to the floor”.

This experience is what lets me walk home from a party on my own two feet while my roommate falls asleep in a bathroom, aha. 

My Ouija Board


I made this board by using a wood burning tool and a wooden canvas from an art store. I simply sketched out everything I wanted on the board in light pencil and went over it with my wood burning tool. I traced my own hands to fill up the board and add protection.

I salt my board and cleanse it with moon water and charge it during Full Moons. 


I do not recommend using Ouija Boards under the influence of drugs, especially alcohol and harder/mind altering drugs**

Tim Drake in Batgirl (Cass’s Run)

Okay, so context. This guy - Dr. Death, I think - is a manufacturer of chemical weapons and the like. In order to escape, he dosed Cass and Bruce with a drug that makes them really violent, so they’re fighting.

He’s just about to leave when…

Lesson #1 of Operating in Gotham: Always count the Bats and Birds before you monologue. You never know when the littlest one is going to come up and punch you in the face.

Later, Tim has to backtrack to the police van to grab the drug antidote from Dr. Death.

He just straight up leaves the guy to his fate. That’s some cold, poetic justice right there. Giving him some antidote would have taken an extra 10 seconds, you did not do that to save time.

And he looks so cute in this scene. He scares the shit out of this guy with a mind-altering drug, all while having the biggest innocent eyes and this tiny smile. He’s super cute in these panels.

And scary. Cute and scary. Amazing.

(Source: Batgirl #50)

once in his life

So this fucker needs warnings. Thiis is super dubcon, and it’s also set in year 2 before jack and Bitty get together soooooooo. Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Please also note that you should always have safe sex. This is meant to be a fantasy, not a how-to guide.

That said, please enjoy…

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Do you have headcanons about Charon?

MY SON HNNNGH

-My biggest headcanon is that he’s a pre-war ghoul, and his contract is part of an experiment conducted by the military to program either soldiers that could never go AWOL or sleeper agents that could get inside enemy lines and then would be activated. They used a number of methods, everything from mind altering drugs to straight up torture and conditioning to achieve the effect. It’s all very much psychosomatic though, the contract is actually just the consent form he’s been lugging around for 200 years. It would take some time, but he could essentially unlearn his obedience if someone qualified tried to break him out of it. Most people just use him for combat, few people have ever even made an effort to dissolve his contract.

-On a more light hearted note. he really enjoys music. We all know about the happiness is a warm gun thing, but the taciturn ghoul likes any kind of song (although he’s partial to blues), and wants nothing more than to have an afternoon in a chair with the radio on. The only song he doesn’t like is Butcher Pete. That song can die in a fire as far as he’s concerned.

-K this one hurts my heart but, around the time of the 3rd game, he’s fighting feral tendencies, and it’s part of the reason he’s stern and clipped. I mean, he’s always been like that, but it’s especially apparent then. His conditioning and the contract has helped him kind of hold onto himself as long as he already has, but as the years go by, his grasp on whatever made him Charon is slipping, and he turns a year or two after Project Purity.

-He’s an only child born to a lower class family, but he doesn’t have any mementos left over of them from before the war. Even the house he grew up in (which he’s not entirely even sure he lived in it was so long ago and the contractual experiments were so taxing on him mentally) was reduced to ash, being at the heart of the one of the atomic blasts. He doesn’t think about his life before the bombs much, he considers it pointless to dwell.

-The man who held his contract before  Azrukhal (a nerdy asf fellow who plundered libraries and needed an extra hand navigating the wastes) taught him about Greek mythology, and was the first to suggest the name Charon. They went through several, but “Cerberus” and “Hades” sounded too heavy handed, plus Charon didn’t want to name himself after a dog, even if it was a three headed hellhound. Azrukhal ended up killing him and taking Charon’s contract, which is part of the reason he hates him so much.

-And to end on another lighter note, he can eat an entire box of Sugar Bombs in one sitting.

Very interesting look at the #hippie #culture and #history in #California.. <<When they pulled into Berkeley, the hippies were everywhere—standing on every corner, lining every avenue. Joe had never seen anything like it. “People don’t really understand this now, but at that time, in most of the country, you couldn’t have long hair and not be in danger of being beaten up,” Joe explains. “In Boston, cars used to come screeching to a halt and guys would jump out and want to kill me. I’d have to run.” Even in New York, whenever he left Greenwich Village, “I was continually harassed, spit on, and shoved around.” And Joe wasn’t even really a hippie. “I was hip,” he says. “That meant boots, black jeans, a black t-shirt, a leather jacket—the kind of thing you’d maybe see the Rolling Stones wearing.”>>

Keep reading

Orochimaru as parent

FYI: just because Orochimaru is a better parent than most adults in this series doesn’t mean he’s a good parent. After all, he forced Mitsuki to participate in this charade six times until he got the result he wanted, which was for Mitsuki to leave for Konoha. This may be part of a sleeper-agent plan, or Orochimaru may genuinely want Mitsuki to develop free will. Regardless, Mitsuki got horrifically injured five times and got tricked into drinking mind-altering drugs. That’s still abuse.

The sad thing is, I think Orochimaru knows on some level that he’s abusive.His mind is just so twisted that even if he genuinely loves his kids, he can’t help but be a toxic influence, which is why he sends Mitsuki away. The lesson here is that you can still traumatize the hell out of your kids, even with the best of intentions.

smol-house-dragon  asked:

. . . Gemma, go talk to your brother, figure out what the problem is and, if need be, smack some sense into him.

Anonymous said to knitter-eggsy-universe:… Can someone go check Owain for alcohol poisoning, or mind altering drugs, or a concussion?

I am already on the fucking road.