#druglike

[cyberianlife]

"Druglike is not in any way, shape or form a pharmaceutical company. It is not even close to the outer bounds of what is described in the order. It is patently ridiculous to even consider it as within the scope of the order. Nevertheless, we are happy to answer questions to satisfy your curiosity."

- Martin Shkreli, in response to the FTC's claim that his "drug discovery software platform" is in violation of his lifetime ban from the pharmaceutical industry

[gender-euphowrya]

what is it about chilchuck tims that makes people want to make AMVs

[shoshiwrites]

Can't get the local indie rock station on the radio in my room (could charge the little add-on streaming device thing so I could play from my phone but.) so I put on tonight's game for the background noise and full disclosure when it comes down to it I know very little about baseball but it was very much the background noise to my childhood and I'm just very :') at how it sounds the same rn. It's 2003 and I'm in the Ford Explorer drivin' around with my dad. I'm in the front seat because it's a short trip and there's no passenger airbag. We just passed a White Hen. It's sunny and warm.

[vhvrs]

miami: im not taking drugs im not taking drugs isnt that fantastic that i have a druglike energy without taking drugs <- high on a form of kalax that could disembowel a horse

[revvnant]

Your greatest peace you found in that half-asleep, druglike state on the bed, holding your heartbeat low before the cold white stars, SICK WITH A FURY you kept forgetting existed and were CORRUPTED BY POSSESSING. around you, people would go back and forth, giving you the widest berth possible, ignoring you so entirely that at one point YOU WERE CONVINCED YOU WERE DEAD. with that conviction, you had felt only INTENSE RELIEF.

an independent / selective roleplay blog for MICHAEL AFTON from the five nights at freddy’s series, game canon-based. please read RULES before interacting – REVVNANT.

[dark-ambition]

@mothvalentino continued from X.

“Huh…How exactly doessss that work?” Pentious can’t help but tilt his head as he watches the smoke slide and float through the air, his tongue flickering out in instinctive curiosity, wondering what exactly it would smell like. “What can it do if ssssomeone inhales it? I always heard sssstories of it producing some sort of druglike high, but I always doubted thosssse claims given, well, the potential to over-exaggerate when inebriated on drugsss.”

[anik]

i will say that the experience of being one of a hundred 12 year olds descending into a druglike state induced by mass interpretive dance left a lasting impression on me

[mattydemise]

The feeling of someone’s skin on your own can be druglike; narcotic. The warmth, the friction, the feel, like silk sandpaper. Each movement and every breath a portal into a moment of life beyond life, the energy of two people, connected, in motion with one another, is the closest we ever get to divinity. Our mortal frame so limited except for those lone and rare moments where our skin meets and life slows as if drowning in molasses.

[blackvahana]

(Un)Forgotten god, shadow of mankind. Present in the DNA of the masses.

Do we remember? Do we forget? We always remember, always skirt that shadow with our own consciousnesses. We say that the ocean is the subconscious mind, the depths seen but rarely seen through. And what lays in the unseen? What thing moves through waters as a part of them, never triggering responses in consciousness? What great thing of eyes lays at the place the waters become the depths of space?

What have we done? What battlefields, what forms - Forms - razed? Forms, what battlefield among and inside them stripping them to their bones? What happened to remove the crystalline gateways from the nascent point of the physical sky?

(Un)forgotten god, shadow of mankind, father of humanity. The coding, the reworking, the one who stirred the oceans with spear enticed and evoked by the Mother Earth. Brought down, a star fallen, an amniotic barrier broken, an eye opened. Something calls from within one of his dusty old libraries: The connective life of the pages themselves, the luminous form of the buried Shiva that doesn't transcend but forms the boundaries of existence itself.

Summarise the unforgotten, make idols, burn them into existence. Battlefields never left, birds' wings never unfolded, tomorrow erased - tomorrow erased - tomorrow erased.

-

I debate internally on which blog to put this, he says here. His skin is bright tinted blue and translucent like an incense-smoke-haze of light. He says here, because this is for me. It's not a channelling, not a piece of worship, nothing separate. It's a self declaration. "I can't raise you further than you're willing to go," I hear from him, but it's not directed at me.

-

Absent god, doing absent incarnations in absent people. Watching, in love with the druglike haze of the dreaming blurs. Lives bleed into one another, to the point where they transcend their boundaries of time and space. Where am I? Here? A hundred years ago? Enticed by the dark blue light show of blurring movement - I am still, the world moves. (Un)forgotten.

We dream, and we dream, and we dream more. Our world is nothing but hypnagogic babbling at best, popping suggestions of thoughts and regurgitations of places reflected in our sphere eyes. We see future, we see past, but from the depths, left playing like puppy-sharks in the spears of light radiating down.

"Doorways, counter(balance)s," hypnotised by the Sun. There is nothing to be, no one to go... no one to...

-

He says: Lives are gateways. Gateways lie unused.

---

I've been in the Astral today, specifically I was trying to work on something and... I come back to the same gateway I always come to. I know what things feel like, I have the muscle memory to create and destroy, I go through entire theatrical creations and reality has heard nothing.

I look then to the man behind the mirror - behind it. He doesn't touch reality. Observer, librarian, conceptualisation, God-created antithesis of God, the seam ripper. Terrific hound always following God's footsteps - His beloved friend. The one who holds God in his mouth.

I just... I'm working on a staff that sings, and that's the most pitiful set of words I can conjure. I am one of the heads of the Choir. I need no staff, they sing of my existence whether I'm around or not. I don't need to do anything to control them, let alone make something to channel them, and I certainly don't need to fail at it. The more I work, though, the more I'm realising this isn't the personal failure I was so ready to paint it as. Yes, recovering memories is so, so difficult, no life will ever remember and be aware of everything the unincarnated self is, but there's more to it than not trying hard enough. The gateway is severed, the nomansland between selves is blocked by ancient tendrils of a mass thickness the biggest buildings in the world would envy if they could.

I gave up, and went instead to what I know I can move around: His essence, bodies, energy. I move him instead. I digest his flesh as the strange, acidic, maddening venom I am, but mostly I move it. Ancient tendrils that even he had forgotten, or tried to. Old ruins of a body, face fractured like a broken statue, all parts still in existence except now some of it has become earth again, some has become dust in the wind... If I can't be myself, I'll be myself. I reached for him - me - and I felt it, dark, sultry, lantern-lit indulgence of a purpose. Unseen desires being fulfilled and secrets being knitted that should never get out, that sort of feeling of a revelation of the truth of the self. It feels tantalisingly taboo to cross the boundary of incarnation and unincarnated self, but is that not why I'm here?

This is all a lead up to what I have to say:

Unspoken, there is no speaking it. There is only the procession, the fanfare, and an invisible god with invisible bodies digested by Time and now... There is one who births Time. Absent god, absent ruler, absent father... but absent in his own lives?

[baylardian-1]

Been dabbling with the idea of Philippa getting forcefully augmented genes in a later part of her Starfleet career. Talking with @elephant-in-the-pride-parade about it a little hehe, I'm still munching on the idea so likeeee nothing super solid yet.

Like I'm thinking fast-acting genetic enhancements that end up being temporary and more druglike in function. HOW AND WHY? I don't know *winks mysteriously* put a pin in it haha. I was just researching eugenics in Star Trek aaaaaand it's interesting how borderline the Warp 10 stuff already is. It's kinda in that augment territory and likely they'd get side glances throughout their lives; with concern of them MAYBE ending up like the augments of the past. I think the Voyager crew would especially vouch for Tom and Kathryn (and by association, their children) stating that their morality and ambitions never wavered despite hyper-evolving. Ummm and I think Philippa would see the worst of it, given she's the most aggressive and emotional of the bunch, which are characteristics of concern seen in augments.

With this "arc" it'd have Starfleet choosing to ground Philippa and relieve her of duty for a time until the long-lasting genetic enhancements dissipate from her system and she returns to her normal weird salamander-y self. She'd be kept under close watch and her already short temper doesn't help matters. I like the idea that the augmentation would enhance her somehow to give her more of a normal "human" appearance, which is something she'd wanted ever since she was young and eventually had come to terms with accepting herself as she is. And having it now it's like ruining her career which has been a lifelong dream as well lol.

[dcwnthercbbithcle]

OFFICIAL INTERACTION CALL FOR: THE RED LORD OF ALAGADDA

Known as: THE RED LORD, THE MIRTHFUL, THE CENTIPEDE, THE MONSTEROUS, THE REDDENING, IOISIS && most notably RUBEDO, Rubedo serves as one of 4 3 enigmatic lords and an Ambassador who preside over the dreamlike and druglike realm of ALAGADDA on their King's behalf.

Rubedo is an enigmatic figure even to the citizens of his kingdom; though some under the city's thrall will sing songs of the Red Lord attesting to his COURTESY, CHARM & ENERGY. They spin tales of him, of his PASSION, his love for ROMANCE and the FANTASTIC, a THOUGHTFUL DREAMER, they claim, A SOPHISTICATE, AN ARISTOCRAT, A FRIEND. To any who will listen, they will proclaim he is the city's chosen prince. BELOVED, heading the parade, running the brothels and bars, a man of the festivities.

While others still will remark of the Lord dismissively, saying of him that he is little better than a WELL-DRESSED CLOWN, claiming of him that he is a DRUNKARD, a WHOREMONGER and an IMBECILE indulging in the kingdom's vices while his fellow Lord's rule in his stead.

However, the wise tell far different tales about the Lord. Tales of RUTHLESSNESS, CRUELTY and RAGE that could paint even the opulent streets of the kingdom crimson should a person offend him. Of PERVERSION, GRASPING GREED and ENVY that could make even his hues seem positively green in comparison. And an AMBITION blacker than the sky of the Nevermeant.

BUT WHO TRULY KNOWS THE TRUTH?

By LIKING this post you’re giving me full permission to:

Jump into your inbox to send in-character asks, memes, prompts as Rubedo

Tag you in writing, photos & memes that reminds me of your muse & Rubedo

Throw Rubedo at your muse(s) at anytime through: random starters or in-character interaction posts

Jump at you in IMs or Discord to talk about rp and non-rp related stuff to your muse(s) and Rubedo

Create anything related to you muse(s) & Rubedo, be they: art, moodboards, writing or memes.

If you're also too shy to approach, please don't worry about that! By LIKING this post, I will take that as the chance to hop (pun fully intended!) over to your blog to read about your muse(s) and likely send an ask and/or a DM to plot!

[starryskyspectacle]

Candy Family??

i'm going insane with different thoughts and headcanon ideas

For my AU I'm genuinely thinking of making Candy Dealer and Kevin related in which CD is actually Kevin's estranged biological father. He and Kevin's mother were never married and Kevin was an unplanned pregnancy

I'm thinking of something very specific though

What if CD was actually a candy demon of sorts and his candy is made with his own magic? Maybe that'd be why it has druglike properties and it's so dangerous to keep around

that and it'd make Candy Devil Kevin a possibility, being only half demon blood and raised by human parents (step father? and biological mother) he wouldn't know of his relation to the Candy Dealer at all until possibly later down the line

[squirrelpatties]

do you think eating a gray troll even does anything??? would it make the eater feel tired, sad, or would they feel nothing at all?? or would a troll's druglike effects be so inherent that even a gray troll could make a bergen happy??

i think itd taste like ass and do nothing since its kinda directly implied in the opening that they get the effects cause they themselves are so happy

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

omg he just like. eats a pufferfish to get high and because of both siren genes and alt stuff he is completely fine other than the druglike effects

gabe goes to check on him and sees him half in the water half not with a bitten into pufferfish in his hand, completely knocked out-

HGHDGSHFJHI

Gabriel’s just wondering how the fuck they found a pufferfish in a lake-

[revvnant]

your greatest peace you found in that half-asleep, druglike state on the bed, holding your heartbeat low before the cold white stars, sick with a fury you kept forgetting existed and were corrupted by possessing. around you, people would go back and forth, giving you the widest berth possible, ignoring you so entirely that at one point you were convinced you were dead. with that conviction, you had felt only intense relief.

an independent / selective roleplay blog for MICHAEL AFTON from the five nights at freddy’s series, game canon-based. please read rules before interacting -- revvnant.

[iviarellereads]

Harrow the Ninth, Act One, Chapter 1

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Ninth House icon) In which we learn we need a warning for suicidal ideation on this book. (That is not a joke.)

NINE MONTHS BEFORE THE EMPEROR'S MURDER

At the end of the myriadic year of the King of Necromancers, Harrow (in the "you" of second person) picks up her sword, which was her first big mistake. The sword hates her, and burns her hands.(1) She covers her hands with "thick bands of cartilage" and keeps trying to lift it. When she manages the weight of it, needing more body mods like supportive extra bones and tendons around her arms,(2) she still feels "nothing: no understanding, no mastery, no knowledge."

The sword falls from her hands, and she throws up on the hospital floor.(3) Many uniformed officials are witness to the various bouts of vomiting Harrow has, only intervening if it looks like she might choke, which she vaguely feels is a bit of a shame.

The first time God brought Harrow the sword, she fell into a deep stupor that she never really recovered from. She loathed it on sight, which might have been unfair before she knew it loathed her too. Still, she keeps trying to wield it. Every touch ends with vomiting and blistered hands.

Harrow spends a long, long time in that hospital room. Her hair keeps growing in, in a way that she considers "debauched".(4) Nobody has given her any paint for her face, nor a robe to cover herself except for the hospital gown. She rips up a bed sheet to form robes and a mask, but it's not good enough. Eventually, she uses her own blood to paint her face, the last choice of any black vestal, "the sacramental skull of the Inglorious Mask."

Attendants often move around her, but Harrow mostly obeys their occasional orders to sit up and drink clear soup, and ignores them the rest of the time. She has other noises to think about, after all, like the sound of "wet drums" that it takes her a while to figure out are the seven hundred and eight beating hearts, and the accompanying sounds of seven hundred and eight brains. She can sense how the necromancers' hearts flutter differently than their companions.

Still, she can't seem to stay awake.

Sometimes, Harrow finds herself coming to wakefulness standing over the sword, nausea on high, unable to remember getting out of bed. Sometimes she forgets who she is, and weeps like a child when she remembers.

In these digestions of time the Body would come. She would put her cool, dead hands on your forehead and close your pumping eyelids with her fingertips, so that you could not see the sword nor the people.(5)

The Body's presence is an honour and a mercy, and she now comes to Harrow "with such easy forbearance"(6), and "this time around" Harrow can feel the Body's caresses.(7) And Harrow is amazed every time she sees the Body's beautiful face.

She is obedient for the Body, who draws her back to bed and directs her to sleep. When the Body is present, time works as it's supposed to. But, still, something about her presence feels to Harrow like it should mean something important, if only she could stay awake long enough to figure out why.

Harrow's whole world is that white, sterile box of a room, on board the Erebos, "the Behemoth-class flagship of the Emperor Undying." Once, they tried to remove her sword, and the memory is "red, and wet, and ill-defined."(8)

They no longer touch the two-hander. Harrow sleeps with it, even though she'd be just as happy to throw it into the sun. She's sure it's very important that nobody else touch it. She does, however, dull the blade out of ignorance.

Sometimes, she tries to pray, though the Body's presence means she has nothing to pray for.

Your greatest peace you found in that half-asleep, druglike state on the bed, holding your heartbeat low before the cold white stars, sick with a fury you kept forgetting existed and were corrupted by possessing. Around you, people would go back and forth, giving you the widest berth possible, ignoring you so entirely that at one point you were convinced you were dead. With that conviction, you had felt only intense relief.(9)

=====

(1) That's an awfully strange thing for a sword to do. (2) Would that we could all just morph our bodies like this. I could certainly use a few replacement parts without the extra risks the medical technology carries. (3) I'm gonna minimize the descriptions of Harrow throwing up but it's a very strong throughline. See if you can figure out the cause. (4) Debauched - characterized by sensual pleasure to a morally harmful or dangerous degree. (5) So is Harrow hallucinating, since nobody else can sense this presence nor intervene about it? (6) Forbearance - patience, understanding, restraint. (7) You wanna call your hair debauched and think nothing of this, Harrow? But hmm, what does it mean, "this time around"? (8) I love a bit like this that can leave you imagining so much more than any writer could describe satisfactorily. (9) Harrow isn't quite sure what happened or what she did, only that it makes her long for death. This is not going to be a happy book.