#so many drugs

[vveirdvvitch]

Hahahaha I did so many drugs

Why am I awake?

[yagirlyubnub]

Drugs

(Screenshots by @spacedoutmar)

[wraith-of-thiodolf]

wait, lumley 'cthulhu is evil and has a good twin brother' is also the author of necroscope?!

explains a lot actually

[fernsfabulousfloweringfacility]

Shoutout to @xmaruu11 and @kitsuneisi for wrecking my brain and destroying my life with this stunning au

[foldingfittedsheets]

I’ve never had a particularly strong desire to get high. Altered mind states have always been somewhat unappealing to me. The only drug I’ve ever enjoyed taking was a prescription strength muscle relaxant that loosened all my knots at once and sent me into the boneless slumber of jello. Top marks.

But I have dabbled with pot. As I’m wildly sensitive to smoke my only recourse was to try edibles and anyone could’ve predicted this was a recipe for disaster. So here’s the story of the first time I got high.

Brendan was a major stoner. He was a high energy guy who loved hiking, had his shit together, and absolutely loved getting high and relaxing. One day he decided to make pot brownies. Brendan was an amazing cook in his own right but he came into my life at a time when I was eating mayonnaise sandwiches and started giving me real food so I viewed him as a paragon of cookery. He made amazing desserts. And he didn’t make a batch of no pot brownies.

I’d never had one of Brendan’s brownies, before, but dear god I wanted one when they came out of the oven in a waft of rich chocolatey smells. They were fudgey and perfect and all that I wanted in the world was to eat one. I watched him take a bite, burning with envy and desire.

Being high seemed like a small price to pay if only I could sink my teeth into the warm splendor of brownie. I came up to where he was sitting on the couch, slightly behind his left shoulder. “Hey. I want to try a bite,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!” I was sure as fuck that I wanted that brownie in my mouth.

Brendan was sat facing the tv and held up his hand without looking so I could take a bite. I am not a creature of modest bites. And I wanted that brownie. I took a huge bite, carving into the interior of the brownie, leaving Brendan with a only a rim.

He pulled his hand back and saw the brownie crime I had committed and gave a resigned chuckle. “Well this is going to be fun.”

On one other occasion in my life I’ve tried an edible and there was a brief relaxed period before things went horribly wrong that made me think, this is probably where most people stop and enjoy themselves.

But on this occasion, the massive bite of brownie didn’t drift me slowly up through layers of being high. It skyrocketed me into high space with great prejudice. I have no memory of a middle point, I wasn’t high and then I was suddenly so high I couldn’t function.

I’ve heard people talk about paranoia. I didn’t have that. Some people mention nervousness, no, none of that for me. My mind was simply gone. A thought would blip to life on one side of my brain and fail to travel through the fog to find its conclusion. I couldn’t think. I wasn’t really experiencing sensation. I was nothing in the void.

When Brendan realized I’d been staring wall eyed at nothing for too long he said, “How are you doing?”

It took a long time to process the words and even longer to slur out, “I can see everything.”

I don’t remember him getting up and leaving, or waiting, or anything really. Thoughts flickered and died in my mindscape, meaningless and alone.

Then Brendan put headphones on me.

I was unable to conceive of anything as wonderful as music surrounding me, and thus began the only nice part of the trip. I might have experienced ego death but at least I had the ethereal sounds of Pure Reason Revolution to wrap myself in.

I’m not sure how long the nice phase lasted. But eventually something started going wrong in my mouth. My throat became uncomfortable enough to pierce the haze I was in. It was almost numb, and impossibly dry. I drank water to no avail. Finally I conceived of the solution. “Ice cream!” I demanded of Brendan.

He went to grab some and I was dismayed that when I took a bite the sensation in my throat intensified. “It made it worse,” I complained.

“Made what worse?” Brendan asked, because of course I hadn’t actually told him why I’d wanted ice cream.

When I told him what was happening he said, “Oh, of course ice cream is going to make cotton mouth worse.”

“Well then why did you give it to me!” I complained. He smiled fondly at my irrational grumping and got me more water.

Finally I’d had enough. Music couldn’t erase my discomfort, I was getting frustrated I couldn’t think but I was still high as balls and I wanted the night to be over. Brendan suggested I go to bed so I climbed up into my bed and lay there, uncomfortably high.

I couldn’t sleep. My throat was so cottony, a side effect I hadn’t known existed and I thoroughly loathed.

Then I thought: I could masturbate! Brendan had talked about enjoying that while high. I’d give it a shot. My body however was wiser than my head and was having none of this plan. It refused to respond, stubbornly insisting that now was not the time.

I doubled down, refusing to give up on this horrible idea and in a bitter struggle, and against my body’s own wishes, I produced an orgasm that rated a 0 on the pleasure scale. Something happened but it was like a resentful flex of muscles that stopped immediately.

Furious with the overall experience of being high I buried my head in pillows and finally slept. I told Brendan the next day about my attempt and he facepalmed so hard. “Why didn’t you just go to sleep! You were way too high to enjoy that.”

I grumbled and agreed that it was very stupid. I tried to weigh the single bite of brownie I had with the absolutely wretched hours of discomfort and while it didn’t quite balance it was still pretty close. It was a really good brownie.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Warming Up The New Client

Fred Weasley x Reader

Sum: Was another one of those little bets you and Fred did. You lost, but you are kinda the biggest winner between the two of you. Especially when one of the Weasley’s business partners come in to discuss important things. Let’s see if he can keep his head straight

Warnings: 18+, cock warming, blow jobs, semi public, kinda cracky because not everything needs to be a porno you gotta laugh, accidental choking, worried boyfriend because whoops this has become a sitcom, after care. Lowkey tho any fic you’ll read from me will have it, unless stated otherwise. HEALTHY AND REALISTIC SEX

“MR WEATHERBIRD! What are you doing here?!” Fred would panic, as he would force his chair to push into the desk. Was followed by a thump, as your body hit the back of the desk. Hardly any space for you, and his legs, in the confined space.

Why were you under his desk, and between his legs? Well you lost a bet. Was a harmless one. Just those lazy Mondays, at the shop, where you both needed something to help stimulate the day. A bet where it didn’t matter who won or loss, because there weren’t really any losers when the fun is the game.

Your prize for losing was to give the winner a blow job. Nothing too crazy. That is until unaware company arrived. That being a man that the Weasley twins were meant to do business with. Seems like George must have missed the man. Well, he arrived via fire place. George wouldn’t have seen him arrive, unless in the office with you two.

“Is now a bad time, Mr. Weasley? I figured Mondays would work best for you. Tis a joke shop, after all. The slowest day of the week, as your largest income bracket is through the school children. A Monday morning felt the most reliable to arrive.” Damn his logic, that was what Fred thought. He had a point.

“No no! It’s fine, you are right. Just surprise, that’s all. Take a seat. Let’s talk!” He would grin his award winning smile, as you remained stuck in your hiding place. Left with a choice to make. Stop what you are doing, or see how far you could push the button. Well, you married a Weasley. What’s a little bit of risk?

“Wonderful. We have much to discuss.” Boy was this going to be boring. You knew it, Fred knew it, but hey. You are certainly going to make it more enjoyable. Or worse. Either way, it’s gonna be fun.

As the older gentlemen began his garble, you were busy with your own garbling. Letting his cock press into your cheek, as you tried to find a way to move your head. You didn’t want to just keep thumping your head on the wood. That’s not fun at all.

You were shifting your head all over the place, as you tried to get comfortable. Made for your boyfriend to struggle with paying attention to the boring work jargon his business partner was making. Was certainly difficult to make sure he looked like he was listening, and not currently getting sucked off. Certainly difficult indeed, when those freckled cheeks of his were rosey.

“You seem a bit warm, Mr. Weasley. Are you feeling well?” The older gentlemen would ask Fred. Ever the charismatic man he was, he was oh so quick to think on the fly. Lie out of every situation. Such a charming gift to have.

“Fever fudge. You know how my brother and I are. We always self test our products. That way if anyone gets hurt, it’s us. We only ever field test with mostly our siblings. We know how they would react to what we make, but not to strangers. No. We don’t act like it, but we try and keep things safe.” That seemed to win over Mr. Weatherbird. Charmed the man as much as he could charm a gaggle of girls in a quidditch stand.

The devil on your shoulder was going to be the death of you, and him, with what it was whispering to you. Wanting to try and make his facade crack somehow. Just a little bit. Enough to make him sweat under the pressure. Just a little bit. You don’t want to actually put him at risk of anything, but gambling is gambling. Win big, or die trying.

As you finally managed to force Fred’s chair back, you could properly move your head. Made him need to sit awkwardly, to not make it appear that he was pushed back. Didn’t want the man to get suspicious. Seems he wasn’t, as he was busy with papers. Gave Fred time to look down, and see your devious face. Stuffed with his cock. Was so arrousing, you could feel his cock twitch on your tongue. With fresh flavor for you to enjoy.

He would shoot you a glare, only for the man to look back up. Forced him to meet the clients eyes, as to try and act as chill as possible. Never did he think he would want to do paper work right now. Anything to not just cum down your throat. George was the moaner, not him. But you were seeing if they were identical in a few other ways.

That was until Mr. Weatherbird started to lean over the desk. Just trying to be polite, and show him something on the papers. Had Fred quickly slam himself back under the desk. Forced you to take his cock all the way down your throat, and gag on it. Had you cross eyed, and trying so damn hard to not gurgle on it. Guess you weren’t quite enough.

“What was that noise-?” “What noise?” “Sounded like someone was choking….” Fred, ever quick, was able to come up with the perfect lie. A lie melted in truth, to keep the seal on the little secret at hand closed.

“We have a product here called puking pasties. A pastry used to help kids throw up. For one reason or another. Not to mention we have many things that stink so bad you wish to obliviate yourself from the memory. Just kids being kids. George has it under control.” He would brush off the worry, as you tried to find your ability to breathe again.

Was rather difficult, as you were now trapped entirely under the desk this time. How your head was pressed against the desk, and held no way to move your head. Just gagging around his cock, with drool soaking all over your clothes.

The more you tried to steady yourself, the more his cock twitched in your mouth. Feeling your tongue trying to adjust itself. How your throat kept clenching and your lips desperate to move.

Before you could make any other noises, he was quick to wave his wand. Had his gramophone kick to life, and play that loud swing music those twins loved. Nothing like some big band to liven up the scene. Along with hide more of your gagging, and sputtering, in the hopes to finish this meeting.

“That’s better. Now, as we were saying-“ The droning was starting to get to him. All his mind could think about you was choking on his cock. Had him aroused, but also very worried he was hurting you. It’s not hot if it’s not consented on. Was an accident, yes, but he loves you and wants you safe. He had to figure out how to get you out of there, before things get worse.

“Say uh. Mr. Weatherbird, um-“ Wow was it getting harder to talk. Wasn’t helping that you were still scrambling. Your hands reaching into his lap, to try and push him back some. When trying to reach the front of his chair, you got a full grab of your favorite stress toy instead. Had his eyes go cross, for a moment, as he had to bite his lip. Trying so hard, but he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Oh, I know it’s alot. You are so new to this world of business. I respect it. You two are stars, I can see it. I’ll do my best to help guide you both. You two are already doing so wonderful. Truly business savvy. Your parents must be so proud. Here, I’ll leave these papers for you and your twin to discuss over. Just send an Owl if you have any questions.” He gave a tip of his hat to Fred, as Fred himself did his best to give a flustered nod.

Mr. Weatherbird would give a wave goodbye, and vanished through the fireplace. As soon as he did, Fred pushed himself back. Made for a rather pornographic sight, and sound, as he popped his cock out of your mouth.

You were just covered in your own drool. Face more flustered than his own, with your lips swollen from being stretched for so long. How you were panting hard from the stress of the scene. It was all too much. You were just so perfect in his view. He just had to add to it.

He barely had time to close your eyes, as he leaned back. His cock just spilling his cum all across your face. Across your drool stained chest. You were just covered in so much. You were surprised he even had so much in him. Guess this was some life or death edging, so to speak.

With your breath caught, it was his turn to pant. Just leaning back in his office chair. His body slack, as he was seeing stars. That release was so needed, and so intense. He swore he pulled his back out from it.

“That could have gone better…Or worse. Depends on if we look at this from a positive view or not.” You would joke, as he gave a dry laugh. Happy to know you were ok. You knew he was worried, you could just tell. There was something sweet about it. That even with such heat of the moment he was looking out for you.

You would let him collect himself, as a cleaning charm solved all your problems. You also were polite to help out his dick away for him. After care goes both ways, after all. When he would come back to reality he would take care of you. You knew that. Until then, you’ll make sure he is cared for to.

Once he had his time to no longer sweat himself a new pool, he would pull you into his lap. Just cuddling you. A means of apology, without saying it. You knew he was trying to not have you humiliated. It wasn’t intentional in any way. The way you would play with his hair conveyed it. Both of you using your own silent little love language.

“So….Whens your next meeting?” The fact you asked that made his head spin. You wanted to do that again? That risk? The choking? The fear? The adrenaline? The insanity of it all?

“…….Thursday, after lunch….” He’s a Weasley. They were all adrenaline junkies. That’s just one of the many things that made you love him. Love him, kiss him, and bump your noses together. His adorable bird nose, with yours.

“You are such a minx, and I LOVE it.”

[battiegutz]

weed smoking gfs

[fawnnpaws]

I need u to hear me out on this one Ok. Ok so. listen to me im on some devious shit. 30s art somno… years and years of tennis is catching up to him and his body just doesn’t keep up. he’s a major sleepyhead (like, clinically, he should see a doctor) and takes a nap or two everyday. it doesn’t bother you, of course, you know it’s good for him and what he needs, plusssss he looks so delicate when hes sleeping. he’s a relatively light sleeper too, but falls back asleep really easily so he’ll jostle a little when you start to grope him but falls right back to sleep when he sees it’s only you. etc etc u see whats happening.. hello can anyone hear me is this thing on

i love that u prefaced me needing to hear u out when i was on board the second u mentioned somno I’M SAT !!! I LOVE SOMNO !!! <3333

oohhh he looks so pretty when he’s sleeping, it’s so hard to resist waking him up so you can kiss him stupid. you find him asleep all over the house for a while, sometimes on the couch, sometimes at his desk in his office, but usually he’ll put himself to bed when he knows he needs to sleep for a couple hours mid-day. you know he needs the extra rest, but something about how soft and pliant he gets in his sleep makes you ache to touch him. it shouldn’t be hard to resist, really. you tell yourself you should have the self control not to touch your husband while he’s sleeping, to wait until he’s awake. but you don’t have that self control. how can you when he sleeps in nothing but his tiny little blue briefs and kicks the covers off himself when he gets too hot? how can you when he lets out the softest little whimper when you skim your hand down his chest and graze your fingers over his dick? it just makes you want more.

you move him gently so he’s laying on his back with his legs spread for you to sit on your knees between them. you’re so careful not to wake him at first, but the more you touch and grope at his body the more his dick starts to fill out and strain against his briefs. he’s letting out these soft sighs that have wetness pooling in your panties and suddenly you don’t really care about being careful anymore. you toy with his waistband and smile to yourself at how his hips lift towards you. he’s still so reactive even when he’s asleep. you don’t even take his underwear off fully, just pull his waistband down under his balls and climb on top of him. you’re thankful you wore a dress today as you move your panties to the side and sink down on his cock in one fluid motion. finally, his eyes flutter and his brows knit together. he peeks one eye open and visibly relaxes again when he looks up and sees you. his voice is thick with sleep and you can tell he’s barely half awake, “baby?”

you roll your hips and grind his dick against that sweet spot inside you. “just me, honey, just - fuck - needed you. it’s okay, go back to sleep.”

he doesn’t need to be told twice, just lets out a whiny mhmm and closes his eyes again. his jaw goes slack and you can’t help it, you start bouncing yourself on his cock. you brace your hands on his chest, squeezing his pretty tits as you work yourself up and down. it doesn’t take long for you to get close to the edge. somehow even in his sleep, art’s dick hits that soft spongey spot inside you every time you rock your hips down and he’s still letting out those pretty sighs. it feels dirty, using his body like this when he’s not even conscious, but the power he’s giving you makes your head spin. you could do anything to him and he’d let you. he’d have no choice. you bring a hand to your clit and you can’t help the staccato moans falling from your lips. what finally sends you over the edge is the feeling of sticky warmth filling your pussy as art cums and his hips involuntarily jerk up into yours. “oh fuck—” you follow immediately after, cum so hard you think your eyes cross. a full body shiver wracks through you and you fuck yourself through it, art’s body limp beneath you.

you gingerly lift yourself off of him, readjusting your panties and his briefs. you should clean him and yourself up, but you revel in the feeling of his cum leaking out of you and soaking into your panties. you lay down facing him, now craving a nap of your own, sighing happily and weaving your legs with his. his arms instinctively wrap around you and pull you close until you’re flush against his chest. as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but think about making him suck your panties and pussy clean of his cum. it’s only fair since he came before you <33

[childrenofcain-if]

How would the RO's change MC died after they were romanced?

C LACROIX

C wasn’t made for grief.

they were made for insulting words and cutting smiles, for elegant lines and perfected exteriors. loss was not something they wore well; it settled wrong, like a coat several sizes too heavy, dragging them down. they didn’t know how to process it, not when they first heard the news, not when they saw your body, not even in the quiet moments afterward when the world felt like it had slipped out from under them and left them hollow.

it was a plane crash. nothing grand or cinematic, just a routine flight that went horribly wrong, the kind of accident that everyone reads about but never imagines happening to someone they love. one second, you had been flying back from a conference, and the next, you were gone. just like that. no warning, no chance to say goodbye.

C had stared at the TV when the news broke, their face frozen in something close to disbelief, their hand still clutching his phone like maybe, just maybe, you would call and say it was all a mistake. it was supposed to be a big fucking joke, wasn’t it? it had to be. you were too alive to just disappear. you were too vivid, too present, too… everything.

when the silence settled, after the news anchor had moved on to some other tragedy, C let their phone fall from their hand. the sound of it hitting the floor was distant, a hollow echo that meant nothing. everything meant nothing.

they never cried. not at the funeral, not during the long, agonizing weeks that followed. people expected them to, C could tell. they waited for the breakdown, the outpouring of emotion, the proof that C.A. Lacroix was, in fact, human. but it never came. instead, they stood by your grave, their hands in the pockets of their coat, their eyes as dry as the winter air around them.

“i always thought i’d be the one to leave first,” they said quietly, their voice almost drowned out by the wind. it was a bitter truth. C had lived their life like they were invincible, like nothing could touch them. and now, standing there in front of the cold stone with your name etched into it, they realized how utterly foolish that had been.

one night, weeks after the funeral, C found themself in your apartment that you’d rented after graduation, sitting on the edge of your bed. the door had been left unlocked for them by the landlord, who had given them a look of pity before leaving them alone with the memories.

the apartment was the same as it had always been. same stupid art that C had painted on the walls. same worn leather couch. same lingering scent of lavender in the air—so faint now it was barely there, but enough to make their throat tighten. they walked through the space like a sleepwalker, their fingers brushing absentmindedly over the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the handle of your favorite mug.

this is it, they thought. this is all that’s left of you.

they then proceeded to walk to your bedroom. it was untouched, as if you might walk in at any moment. they picked up one of your books from the bedside table, thumbed through the pages without really seeing the words. it was a tattered old paperback you’d read a dozen times. they flipped through the pages, stopping at the footnotes you’d scribbled in the margins, half-formed thoughts, sarcastic remarks, things you’d meant to tell them but never got the chance to.

their fingers traced the words as if that action would bring you back to them.

“you were always smarter than you’d think,” C murmured to the empty room, their voice rough, broken at the edges.

but there was no answer. there never would be.

the door creaked slightly, and C’s heart leapt for a fraction of a second before reality crashed back down. It wasn’t you. it would never be you again. they closed their eyes, trying to will the ache away, but it only spread deeper, gnawing at the hollow space you had left behind.

***

for a long time, they did nothing. they went through the motions of life—work, social engagements, even the occasional meaningless flirtation—but it was all mechanical. they weren’t there, not really. they were somewhere else, trapped in the memory of what you two had, of all the things they never said to you when they had the chance. the words that stuck in their throat now were the ones they’d dismissed as unimportant then.

because they thought you still had time.

“come back,” C would whisper into the dark of their empty apartment one night, drunk and foolish. “you’re supposed to be here, damn it.”

C hated how small their voice sounded. they hated the vulnerability that seeped in when no one was watching, when the mask they wore for the world slipped just enough for the cracks to show. they didn’t want to be vulnerable. not to anyone. especially not to a ghost.

***

years passed like water through cupped hands, but it didn’t heal the way it was supposed to. instead, it twisted the wound, making it fester in the quiet moments. C became colder, more rough. people commented on it behind their back, how they’d changed, how they’d become more distant. as if they hadn’t always been distant. they avoided relationships like a plague, finding them tiresome, pointless.

they took to spending more time alone. alone felt safe. alone meant no one could disappoint them. alone was all they had now.

***

C never married. they never loved anyone after you, not in the way that mattered. there were flings, of course—fleeting, shallow things that never stuck. they didn’t want them to stick. they’d feel sick everytime afterwards; it was a subconscious way to punish themself.

when C died, at the age of 74, it was in a quiet, sterile hospital room, their body finally betraying them to some nameless illness they didn’t care enough to fight. no one was at their bedside. no family, no lovers, no friends. just them, alone, the way they had spent the last decades of their life.

the nurse who came to check on them found a small silver bracelet on their wrist, the only piece of jewelry they ever wore. it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, though no one ever asked them about it. but rumours are fickle, and there were many. they believed it belonged to the only soul C had ever loved; they’d be right.

alas, there was no confirmation. C never talked about their past, never spoke of the person who had owned their heart so completely all those years ago. but the bracelet stayed with them until the very end, a quiet reminder of the love that had once been, the love that had shaped them in ways no one could see.

and so C.A. Lacroix left the world as they had lived in it—cold, distant, and untouchable. they were buried next to an heir who died young, a fortune to their name which C had inherited and then donated to several charities around the globe.

V NÆSHOLM

V would’ve never imagined that their life could unravel so completely in the span of a single, terrible moment. they’d spent so much time wrapped up in their faith, in the steady rhythm of prayer and the familiar weight of their cross resting against their chest, that the thought of losing you seemed almost impossible, even when they whispered it in the quietest corners of their mind.

but now, you were gone, and all V could do was stand there in the hospital room, staring at the empty bed, their mind slow to catch up with the horrifying finality of it all.

it had been a car accident. quick, brutal, unexpected. you had been walking home, your usual route through the city, nothing unusual. just a random, terrible twist of fate—a driver who wasn’t paying attention, a red light ignored. and then the call. V had gotten the call, their heart dropping into their stomach the moment they heard the voice on the other end, calm but clipped, like they were just delivering bad news in a routine, detached way.

at first, V had held out hope. they’ll be fine, they told themself, clutching the metal cross around their neck so tightly the edges dug into their palm. they’re strong. they’ll be fine.

but you weren’t fine. you didn’t wake up. you didn’t squeeze V’s hand back or open your eyes when V whispered their name. the machines hummed, the doctors muttered their apologies, and in the end, it was just… over.

***

in the days that followed, V couldn’t seem to find solid ground. the world tilted around them, spinning out of control, but they kept moving as if through thick, suffocating fog. people spoke to them—friends, family, even strangers at the funeral—but none of it registered. the condolences, the words of comfort, they slid off V like rain on glass, unable to penetrate the haze of disbelief and sorrow that wrapped around their heart.

they spent hours alone in the small church near their apartment, staring at the flickering candles that lined the altar. the scent of incense hung heavy in the air, but it didn’t soothe them the way it used to. nothing did. not the prayers, not the hymns, not even the familiar rhythm of the rosary beads sliding through their fingers. they prayed, but the words felt empty now. they didn’t know what they were asking for anymore. forgiveness? strength? understanding? none of those things seemed to matter when you were gone.

one evening, weeks after the funeral, V found themself at the spot where it happened. it wasn’t a conscious decision; they had just been walking, trying to escape the suffocating quiet of their apartment, and their feet had carried them there. the street was busy, cars rushing past, people laughing as they walked by, utterly unaware of the history beneath their feet. V stared at the pavement, at the place where you had fallen, and something inside them broke.

“i should’ve been there,” V whispered, their voice swallowed by the noise of the city. “i should’ve… i should’ve done something”

they didn’t know how they could’ve stopped it, but the guilt was there, gnawing at their insides like a slow, relentless tide. they wrapped their arms around themself, clutching at their cross like it was the only thing holding them together. but the truth was, they weren’t holding together. not really.

“i don’t understand,” they murmured, their voice trembling. “i don’t understand why god took you. you didn’t—” their voice broke, and they pressed a hand to their mouth, the tears coming faster now, hot and relentless. “it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

V stood there for what felt like hours, the world blurring around them as their tears blurred their vision. they had no answers, no solace. only the terrible, aching silence of a world without you in it.

***

in the months that followed, V’s faith began to falter. they went through the motions, attending church, praying before bed, but it all felt distant, disconnected. the questions swirled in their mind, louder and more insistent with each passing day. why would god take someone so good, so full of life? what kind of plan was this? V had always believed in a higher purpose, in the idea that everything happened for a reason, but now? now, nothing made sense.

V stopped wearing their cross. they couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it happened—one day, they just forgot to put it on, and then the next day, and the next. eventually, it stayed in the drawer by their bed, tucked away like a relic of a life that no longer made sense. their prayers, once a source of comfort, felt like words spoken into a void. and V, for the first time in their life, felt truly alone.

***

time passed, but the ache never really went away. V learned to live with it, the way one learns to live with an old wound that never quite heals. they moved on, or at least that’s what everyone said. they got a new job, met new people, filled their days with distractions. but every time they walked past the spot where you had died, they felt that same hollow ache in their chest, the same weight of regret pressing down on them.

V never got married. they didn’t believe in soulmates anymore, not in the way some people did, but they knew deep down that they’d never love anyone the way they’d loved you. they carried that love with them, quiet and steady, like a flame that never went out, even as the years blurred together and their hair turned gray.

when V died—peacefully, in their sleep, at the age of 83—they were found with an old, worn photo of you tucked under their pillow. the photo was crumpled and faded, but V’s fingers had held onto it until the very end. they were buried with it, and when the priest spoke at the funeral, he didn’t know the story behind the photo. he didn’t know how V had spent a lifetime missing someone they’d lost too soon, someone they’d never stopped loving.

but that love? it stayed with V, even in death.

W OSTENDORF

W had never been good at letting go. of anything. not of people, not of feelings. so when you died, it was like losing gravity, like the world had unmoored itself from beneath their feet and left them floating, untethered, in an endless, cold space.

for a while, they had you. they had you in all the small ways that mattered—the quiet moments in the morning when you would drink coffee together, the long, easy silences that wrapped around you like a second skin, the unspoken understanding that nothing could break them.

until something did.

it had been an illness, terminal and insidious. at first, W thought it was just exhaustion—long nights of work catching up with you, a bout of stress, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. but then the doctor’s visits turned into hospital stays, and the vague reassurances became grim warnings.

you got weaker, thinner, your voice a little quieter every day until W couldn’t ignore the gnawing dread that curled in their stomach every time they looked at you. you tried to be brave about it, for them, for everyone, but W could see it in your eyes—the fear, the acceptance.

“i’m not scared of dying,” you had told them one night, your hand trembling as you reached for them. “i’m scared of leaving you.”

W had kissed the top of your head, their lips pressed hard enough against your hair to hide the fact that they were shaking too.

“you’re not going anywhere,” they’d whispered, because the alternative was impossible. they couldn’t lose you. not you. not again

***

but you did go. slowly, painfully, slipping away in a way that left W feeling raw and powerless. they were there, at the end, holding your hand, their voice cracking as they begged you to stay. but you didn’t.

and W broke.

it wasn’t a loud break, not at first. it was quiet, a silent shattering of everything they had built around themself, a slow unraveling of the person who had once known how to smile, how to laugh, how to love. they went through the motions at the funeral, shaking hands, offering nods of thanks to the people who said they were sorry. they were all sorry, but what did it matter? sorry didn’t bring you back. sorry didn’t fill the gaping void that swallowed them whole every time they closed their eyes and saw the empty space beside them where you should’ve been.

***

in the weeks that followed, W became a shadow of themself. they stopped going out, stopped answering calls. their apartment was too big, too empty, every corner of it a reminder of the life they’d lost. the couch where you used to sit together. the kitchen where you would make fun of their terrible cooking. the bed—god, the bed—where your absence felt like a punch to the gut every night when they lay down and realized they’d never feel your warmth beside them again.

they didn’t cry, not really. not like they thought they would. the grief was too big for tears, too vast and strangling. instead, it weighed them down, pressed against their chest until it hurt to breathe. every morning, they woke up and went through their routine—shower, coffee, sit at their desk—but it was all mechanical, all pointless.

emerson tried to reach them, worried out of their mind. their aunt asked if they were okay. but W couldn’t answer them. they didn’t know how to explain that the person they had known, the person they used to be, had died the same day you did.

***

time passed, but it didn’t heal. W didn’t move on. they didn’t want to. moving on felt like a betrayal, like erasing the only part of them that still felt real. they didn’t go on dates, didn’t flirt or laugh or even think about love. they couldn’t. not without thinking of you, not without comparing everyone to you and finding them all lacking.

sometimes, late at night, W would pull out the old letters you had written them. small notes, tucked into books or left on the counter, filled with inside jokes and quiet declarations of love. they’d read them over and over until the words blurred, their vision clouding with tears they never let fall.

“i miss you,” they whispered one night, the paper crinkling in their trembling hands. “god, i miss you so much.”

the apartment echoed back in silence.

***

W never married, of course. people talked about it sometimes, behind their back, wondering why someone like them—successful, good-looking, with their whole life ahead of them—never found anyone else. they didn’t understand. they didn’t know what it was like to have your heart buried with someone else.

they grew older, their hair turning silver, their body slowing down in ways they hadn’t expected. but they kept going, day after day, carrying the weight of their grief with them like an old companion. it wasn’t sharp anymore, not like it had been, but it was always there, lingering at the edges of their mind, a dull, constant ache.

when W died, quietly in their sleep at the age of 79, they found them in their armchair, a book in their lap and a small silver band on their ring finger. it was worn, the inscription inside barely legible after all the years. but if you looked closely enough, you could still make out the initials: three letters which belonged to a young heir of a massive fortune who died a long time ago.

W hadn’t spoken about you in decades. they hadn’t needed to. you were always with them, in the silence of their apartment, in the spaces between their thoughts, in the worn pages of the notes they had never thrown away.

D DIACONU

D—rook, as many would know them—had always been too good at running. they knew how to leave feelings behind, how to laugh things off, how to keep people at arm’s length so nothing ever hurt.

“flighty little wolf,” mihail, their older brother, would laugh when they were younger. the sentiment didn’t lose itself even as D grew older.

it was easy, life was easy, until you. and suddenly, nothing was easy anymore. they were flirty by nature, playful, keeping everything light, but you were the exception to every rule D had lived by. the one person they couldn’t outrun.

but even then, D didn’t want to acknowledge it—not completely. love was an unwelcome thing, something that made people weak, made them care too much. so, they danced around it, avoided the word, kept things just close enough but never fully admitted it.

they were still D, still flirty, still detached on the surface. yet, whenever you were around, something about them softened in ways they’d never allowed before. in those moments, they were scared shitless. because what if one day you weren’t there? what if you disappeared like everything else D had been too afraid to love?

***

and then it happened. suddenly. the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to other people, in distant stories, not to you. you were in an accident—an unforgiving, tragic turn of events that left D shattered. they were at the scene. D could still remember the way the sky looked, overcast and thick with grey, how the sirens sounded distant, like they were underwater. it wasn’t real. it couldn’t be real. they stood there, frozen, heart in their throat, staring at the wreckage that used to be a car, and everything in their world stopped moving.

D didn’t say a word, not to the paramedics, not to the people around them. they couldn’t. there was nothing to say. nothing mattered anymore. you were gone.

***

“you’d laugh if you knew,” D muttered under their breath one night, sitting alone in the corner of some dingy bar. they stared down at the half-empty glass in front of them, spinning it slowly between their fingers. “all this time, you thought i didn’t care. that i didn’t... feel. but here i am. utterly wrecked by you.”

they chuckled, but it was hollow. the kind of laugh that only came out when the truth was too heavy to hold in. because you had gotten under D’s skin in a way that no one else had. even after all those times D had told themself not to fall, not to let you get too close, it had happened anyway. and now, D was stuck with all these feelings they didn’t know how to handle.

so they write and write. songs after songs, pages after pages filled with their long-gone eternal muse. the band’s popularity skyrocketed, the producers milked it for as long as they could.

D could not bring themself to give a shit.

***

months passed, and D became a ghost in their own life. they showed up, sure, but it was like they weren’t really there. they’d skate through the days with the same careless swagger, but something was missing. people started to avoid them. it was too hard to be around someone who looked alive but was dead inside. it seemed like the only people who tried to be there for them at that point were their bandmates and C.

they would laugh it off when their friends asked if they were okay. “me? i’m fine. never better. just living, you know?” and they’d wink, flash that charming smile that always got them out of trouble.

but the world became smaller, dimmer. D moved from one party to the next, one high to the next, chasing something they couldn’t name, something they had lost with a bright-eyed heir with an evergreen heart. nights blurred into mornings, and nothing felt real anymore. nothing except the ache, the emptiness that had been left behind.

on some nights, after too many drinks and too many bad decisions, D would find themself sitting in a bathroom, staring at their reflection in the mirror. their pale face would be gaunt, their gray eyes hollow. they would look like a stranger.

rook didn’t know who they were anymore.

***

D died young. too young. it was late one night, after another wild party, and they had pushed things just a little too far. the drugs had been an easy fix—an easy way to drown out the feelings they didn’t want to face. but this time, their body couldn’t handle it. the paramedics found them slumped on the floor of a room at chelsea hotel, empty pill bottles scattered around like confetti from a life that had spiraled out of control.

but what was strange—what the paramedics couldn’t quite understand—was the look on D’s face. even in death, behind the glazed-over eyes and the pale, lifeless skin, there was a smile. a soft, almost peaceful smile, like D had finally found what they’d been searching for all along.

in the end, D had stopped running.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

the news of your death came to M as a whisper, traveling through the rigid, polished halls of their life before it reached their ears. at first, it didn’t make sense. death, for someone like you, felt improbable, impossible even.

you had been everything untamed in M’s world, everything wild and unpredictable, a force of nature that couldn’t just stop. yet, the world had stilled. all the reckless plans you had made—the fleeting escapes, the late-night laughter—had ended in a way too final for M to comprehend.

M grieved in silence. royals were trained for composure, for duty above all else, and M had mastered that lesson too well. there were no public displays of despair, no headlines that suggested the depth of the loss they felt. even when they stood at your graveside, surrounded by others who wept openly, M stood perfectly still, a model of grace and solemnity. inside, though, their chest felt hollow, as if someone had reached inside them, twisted through the maze of their ribs and snatched their heart away.

after the funeral, M’s life became a carefully curated performance. they married—someone of equal status, someone safe and suitable—but it was all a façade, a slow march into an existence they hadn’t chosen. the marriage was a duty, a requirement. it lacked everything you had ever been. The late-night conversations that made the world feel infinite, the reckless plans that filled the air with electric energy—all of it was buried with you, and M was left with nothing but a name and a title they never cared for.

they’d close their eyes at night and still hear your voice, soft at first, then louder, like a song they couldn’t forget but could never play again. the world, once vibrant with you, felt drained of color. the laughter that used to spill from M’s lips was replaced by brittle smiles, the kind that didn’t touch their umber brown eyes.

they never spoke of you—not to their spouse, not to anyone. it was as though speaking their name aloud would unravel M’s delicate grip on sanity, on the life they were barely holding together.

***

a few years passed. M became more distant, more remote, even within the walls of the palace. their marriage grew cold, each day more formal and lifeless than the last. they were trapped, locked in a gilded cage with no way out. your memory remained, a quiet presence that lingered at the edges of M’s mind, haunting them with the life they could’ve had, the person they should’ve been.

there were whispers, of course. rumors about M’s detachment, their coldness, their increasing absence from royal duties. but no one knew why. no one could have guessed that their heart had been buried in the grave of a lover they couldn’t even publicly acknowledge.

***

a scandal. a disappearance.

the royal family awoke to find M gone, their accounts drained, their titles stripped of meaning. no one knew where they had gone, or why. the official story was vague—an extended sabbatical, perhaps—but there were no answers. their spouse, barely more than a stranger, said nothing. the media speculated for weeks, but no trace of M was found.

***

years later, in a small village (zaanse schans) in the netherlands, a farmer passed away in their sleep. they had been quiet, unremarkable, living in a modest cottage on the outskirts of the village. they kept to themself, never married, and was mostly known for their collection of british royal memorabilia. it wasn’t until after their death, when the local authorities came to settle their estate, that they discovered who they truly were.

a runaway royal. third-in-line after their mother and older sister.

the village was stunned. for all the years they had lived among them, no one had guessed their identity. but as they sorted through their belongings, the truth became undeniable. among the memorabilia were photographs—of you, smiling beside M in moments no one else had ever seen. there were letters, too, carefully folded and kept in a box, written in a hand that only M could recognize. letters that had never been sent, but that held all the words M had never been able to say.

the villagers spoke of them with quiet reverence, a kind and humble individual who had always paid their bills on time and helped their neighbors when they could. they didn’t know about the wealth that had quietly flowed into anonymous accounts over the years. they didn’t know about the palace, the titles, the life of privilege M had left behind. all they knew was that they had lived simply and that they had loved someone fiercely until the day they died.

***

and that was how they were remembered. not as a royal, not as someone of wealth or power, but as someone who had once loved deeply and had chosen, in the end, to live for that love, even if it meant leaving everything else behind.

M’s name would never appear in the official histories, but in that quiet village in the netherlands, they were remembered for who they truly were—someone who, despite it all, had found a way to keep you with them until the very end.

[fuckyeahchinesefashion]

OP: Check out. The fully-sexual charged cinematic movement design.

Cnetizens: How did the director come up with the idea to have him kneel on a playing card, adding so much aesthetic energy, is that some kind of genius?

[konigsblog]

imagine waking up chained to a metal table, with a doctor who wants to do all sorts of experiments on you... (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠)

[skelerangart]

GIRLS NIGHT!

[transingthoseformers]

Actually, the idea of Soundwave agreeing to everything Megatron says except☝️ Megatron's attraction to Optimus is hilarious, actually.

[jayktoralldaylong]

Singed escaping the entire of Arcane season one and Arcane season two without EVER paying for his fucking crimes says a whole damn lot! (⁠T⁠T⁠)

Like sometimes the bad guys don't get punished, sometimes they live a life of bliss with their robot daughter because they're so messed up in the head they actually make their fucked up dreams come true.

[shinybulbasaur]

Rules: Make a poll with five of your all-time favorite characters and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone's favorite!

I was tagged by @suddenrundown, thanks for the tag! I was so tempted to put "eliot's baseball hair" but I resisted (also polls don't allow strikethroughs. sad). tagging @michinaranja, @vero-niche, @acidmatze and anyone else who wants to play!

[somdxr]

bugsnax 4/20 yayyyyy