#(alcohol poisoning)

[crmsnmth]

Alcohol Poisoning

I didn't even feel it before I realized something was wrong My eyes roll back to check in with my brain and I fell forward, right off your couch I can't thank you enough for not owning a coffee table I would've cracked my head right on it

And the whole room laughed, Because that's what we do when someone is dangerous drubk You feed me more liquot in a rodent's water bowl I can't focus my eyes on anything and I'm thankful that there's nothing to look at anyways The world is spinning and I can feel it's rotation

There was no help Not yet, no one's gotten scared But they will when I stop moving except a flow of vomit from my lips Too much, and I indulge until My brain is just a mush and my words come out in slurs and spit My tongue doesn't want to work and I think I ought to swallow it Hey, a boy can dream

Call an ambulance I swear I'm puking out my stomach and esophagus Internal organs turn me inside out I'll make it easy for the embalmer If the EMTs just don't make it on time.

But they do and as I'm being carted away You just shrug and restart the party

[weirdstrangeandawful]

So… about rubbing alcohol…

Rubbing alcohol was (until relatively recently) commonly used to help bring down an elevated body temperature via evaporative cooling. Essentially you would bathe someone (often a child) in it to help bring down a fever. The problem is this practice is dangerous because it can cause alcohol poisoning (small amounts are absorbed through the skin and when you’re quite literally swimming in it, those small amounts are no longer so small).

Just think of a Caretaker with outdated caretaking skills or an outdated medicine book trying this on a Whumpee but ending up with a feverish and now poisoned Whumpee.

[fruitstache]

in vegas rn and

[coffin-contemplator]

❝one of suffering & narrow bathrooms❞ — 𝒶 𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, part II

Summary:

“‘I wouldn’t want to serve you with an «I told you so»,’ they both know that’s a lie. ‘But I told you so.’”

“I wouldn’t want to serve you with an «I told you so»,” they both know that’s a lie. “But I told you so.”

Hoffman doesn’t repay him with a usual retort. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t exactly have a say in what he’s able and not able to muster right now—his body is too busy returning most of everything he’s consumed and drank during the past twelve or so hours. It’s not the first time he did this kind of number on himself and it surely won’t be the last one either. The only difference tonight is that he’s not alone, and that’s something he’s not entirely certain how to feel about. 

“Listening is a useful skill to have,” the taller man’s fidgeting with his hands, as if not sure what to do with them now that he’s managed to drop his wasted companion onto the bathroom tiles. “You might wanna try that, see how it’ll work for you.”

Alright, so Hoffman’s not at all used to anyone seeing him in such a vulnerable state. He can do a whole lot of exactly nothing to protect himself, and that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Being at the mercy of the FBI-psycho strikes him as one of the layers of one, too. The detective would probably worry about either of these things more if it wasn’t for his unclear state of mind. Instead, what occupies his attention is the experience of hearing a live narration of his misery. 

The retching pauses. Finally. Hoffman doesn’t feel like that’s it for tonight but at the very least his organism decided to take pity and let him catch his breath. 

“Can handle myself,” he murmurs, not daring yet to open his mouth. “Y’can go.” 

There’s a brief moment of silence before the sound of footsteps starts echoing through the room. The detail that does catch Hoffman’s focus, despite the overall haziness, is that they grow louder instead of getting softer. Suddenly, there’s a not-so-gentle tug on his hair, as his head is forcefully lifted up, slightly. He lets out a growl.

“Be nice,” Strahm scolds him quietly.

He reaches toward something above the detective’s field of view. Not a second later, the noise of flushing water fills Hoffman’s ears. “‘M not done,” he states very matter-of-factly, as if absolutely sure this is not the end of his torture.

The agent spares him a glare, one that the other man can’t actually see because at this moment nothing in this world will force him to turn away from the toilet bowl. Strahm’s grip on the detective’s hair loses and he takes a few steps back, before sliding down the wall to the detective’s right, onto the floor. For the second time this night, he feels an urge to smoke. 

“Told ya I can handle m’self,” Hoffman repeats, his brain apparently still perceptive to some degree, as he notices his company is still right there. 

“You can handle yourself?” The agent repeats dryly. “So far tonight, I haven’t witnessed anything to prove that.” A chuckle escapes him—it lacks any shade of humour. “Sorry if I don’t believe you.” 

Silence envelops them for a while, as both men occupy themselves with their own predicaments. Hoffman seems to be almost ready to fall asleep, yet his stomach is still clenching in knots, making sounds and generally conveying a clear message of not being particularly happy with tonight’s diet. The detective mutters something under his breath, sounding so pathetic that Strahm can’t help but feel a pang of concern.

“What are you blabbering about over there?” He asks, faking annoyance, trying hard not to let on his actual feelings. Scooping closer, he settles beside the latter, suddenly feeling the urge to check if the man is even conscious.

Hoffman, slowly becoming somewhat aware of the shift in their positions, finally manages to lift his head up, his eyes locking with the pair of the agent’s. He appears to be struggling, trying to lay down a coherent sentence, and Strahm finds himself unable to stop staring. The detective looks so dishevelled and so pitiful, slumped on the floor like this.

Saying nothing, the agent observes as the other man opens his mouth, as if about to say something. He listens. 

“‘Imma puke ‘gain,” is the sentence that eventually reaches his ears, as Hoffman once more leans into the toilet bowl, gripping its sides for dear life. 

Why did Strahm expect anything other than this? He’s not sure.  

The detective’s gags echo throughout the small bathroom, yet nothing else leaves his body, except for a small amount of bile. His stomach is empty, everything that could’ve possibly been returned had already come back up. The FBI agent gives him a few more minutes but when nothing else happens, he finally decides he’s had enough.

“Alright, I think you’re done.” Not a question, a statement. He raises to his feet, his knee joints cracking loudly in the process. “Bed. Now .” Strahm’s tone leaves no room for argument and rightfully so, as Hoffman appears already half-asleep, his forehead leaning on the toilet seat. 

Strahm reaches for him, mercilessly yanks him upwards, then involuntarily reminds himself just how heavy this man is, especially while barely aware. The agent all but drags the detective to the bedroom, where he finally unceremoniously drops the latter onto the mattress. Some courtesy might still be hidden somewhere within him, though. After merely a second of hesitation Strahm makes sure to turn the unconscious body to the side, therefore minimising the risk of Hoffman drowning in his own vomit through the course of the night.

Once all that is set and done, the agent allows himself to drop down next to the drunkard, exhausted. If someone were to come in and take a look at the pair, they could have trouble believing that the FBI agent wasn’t the one puking his guts out just a few minutes ago. Objectively, Strahm looks like shit—that’s an undeniable fact. 

Without dwelling much on his actions, he reaches for a blanket nearby. It’s a rather mechanical, almost automatic movement, or at least it appears as such. Draping the piece of fabric over Hoffman, he’s not as careful, nor gentle, as one might deem appropriate in such a situation. But hey, it’s not like the unmoving pile of muscles will notice any difference. 

Oh, how much Strahm craves rest right now; even a stupid few hours of unconsciousness in this semi-comfortable position he’s sunk into would probably strike him as sufficient. His eyelids keep falling closed and the man has to fight hard to force them open again and again and again. He deserves to drift off, having no obligation to the person sprawled beside him.

What he finds equally strange and annoying is that he simply can’t follow through with his needs. There’s this something pressuring him to prioritise the other man’s well-being over his own, this scarp of feeling that seems impossible to ignore. Simply summarised, the agent worries, yet is too much of a coward to admit it even within the secure walls of his own mind. 

A lazy stir beside him forces Strahm to, once more, re-focus on his surroundings. Upon looking down at the detective, he’s a bit startled to find those grey eyes briefly open. Hoffman isn’t looking at him, more like through him, which is honestly to be expected from someone on his level of drunkenness. And just when the agent is about to ask the latter what in the world would he want now, the detective blurts out a pair of words that causes Strahm to pause.

“Thanks, baby.”

There’s a snoring audible throughout the room immediately after, forbidding the FBI agent from seeking context or asking any further questions. 

Strahm is stunned, to say the least, his brain completely unable to process the sentence that has just been addressed. He blinks; once, twice, thrice. Looks at his watch, looks at the detective once more. Inhales deeply to calm his nerves, exhales through his nose. 

Well, shit, problem solved.

Now, he won’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon.

────── ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ──────

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this work, please consider stopping by my AO3!

[bellysoupset]

I know you said that Luke gets the lion's share of attention, but I'd love to see him maybe getting dangerously drunk at a party with the football team and either Vince or Leo calling Jonah in a panic because they don't know whether he needs to go to hospital...

(bonus points if he drunk dials Bella before he's utterly paralytic 👀)

I LOVED this prompt, it kinda caused the entire break up plot to spiral badly. Now we're here, angst fest. This is a part 1.

-------

Vince was not in the mood to play tonight. Not him and certainly not Leo. They had just recovered from their own turn with the flu and to make matters worse Lucas' had been acting completely off since the aforementioned Break Up.

No one dared to say anything about it, but they were all thinking it.

They were playing at home tonight, which was a relief, because it was a freezing night and Vince did not want to add an incredibly inconvenient bus drive on top of the general down mood.

"Hey cap," Vince thumped Lucas' back as he finished strapping his helmet, "everything good?"

"Yes," Lucas answered roughly, pushing the helmet down on his head. Over his shoulder, Leo flinched and Vince smiled at him in sympathy. He waited until his friend marched ahead before approaching the blonde.

"What do you think?" Vince whispered and Leo shrugged, looking every bit as annoyed as Vince felt.

"I think we're going to lose."

"Yeah, me too."

They didn't lose. Nearly did, but not quite. 33 vs 29. Such a game would normally have all of them in a frenzy in the locker room, euphoric even, but not this time around.

Instead, Lucas was the first out of the field, and the first out of the showers, sitting down on the bench to put on his shoes, while the rest of them were still busy arguing with each other and getting rid of the uniform.

Vince didn't expect Lucas to still be around by the time he walked out of the showers. With how incredibly childish and pissy Luke was acting, he expect the man to have left already.

Instead he was still sitting on the bench, humid towel hanging around his neck and still shirtless, the water dripping from his hair. No matter that it had just started to snow and everyone was rushing to get dressed as fast as possible.

"Okay," Vince moved closer, tugging his shirt down, "what's the matter?"

"Uh?" Lucas raised his eyes, seemingly lost and Vince frowned at him, bumping his knee against his friend's.

"What's the matter?"

"Hey Luke," Aidan interrupted Vince's rant, a huge smile on, "we're heading out, you're joining?"

"Yeah," Lucas opened a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but finally seemed to be startled into moving. He put on the shirt, while Vince raised both eyebrows.

"Where are you going?"

"Celebrate, duh" Mickey slapped his arm, "you wanna join? You can bring Tinkerbell."

"Don't call her that," Vince immediately shut him down, while Leo scooted closer.

"We're going out?" he asked and then very quickly it got out of control and both Leo and Vince were pulled into the partying, even though neither of them were feeling it.

Vince felt completely out of character, being the only sober one sitting on the corner.

"Mikey burped on my face and I nearly threw up," Leo said, slumping down next to him. Maybe not the only sober one, Vince thought, letting out a surprised chuckle.

"We'll just stay an hour and then get the fuck out," he said, leaning back and tugging on his jeans. He had gone down an entire size thanks to the flu, it was annoying as hell to keep pulling on his pants.

Leo grinned, "we could have a beer. Granted I'll probably throw it up, but I don't wanna sulk here in the corner."

Vince rolled his eyes, incredulous, "fuck no. I've been on a liquids only diet all week, I'm not risking it. You go ahead, though."

The blonde shrugged, picking at his nail as they watched their friends have fun. Or something like that, in Luke's case. Whatever he was having didn't seem to be "fun".

"Just one," Leo smiled mischievously and then got up to join them. Vince grinned back at him, thinking the guy was insane for trying his luck like that.

One hour very quickly turned into one and a half when Leo hopped back to the table and dragged him to join the rest of them, exclaiming loudly that just because Vince was going fully sober tonight, it didn't mean he had to pout-

Lucas draped an arm around his shoulders, head nodding along to Leo's giggly speech, "he's right. Sit with us-" then he downed another shot.

"You've got to let loose," Luke said, a dumb smile on, eyes completely dazed, "you've been so pressed this week, calm down."

"I've been sick this week, not pressed," Vince rolled his eyes, shoving Luke away from him in a playful manner.

It was a really cold night and getting colder, even inside the dimly lit pub. They were all packed together for warmth, as Leo explained, downing a shot of tequila that he regretted exactly twenty minutes later, as he lowered his head to Vince's shoulder.

"Nothing is sitting right."

"I'm shocked," Vince chuckled, thumping his back, "just puke it up, you'll feel better."

"Ew, no," Leo shook his head, yawning, "I want to go home, I think I had enough fun."

Same, Vince thought. He had been nursing the same sprite since they arrived and although his mood was a little lighter, he was dead on his feet and wanted to go to sleep.

"Yeah, let's go- Where's Luke?"

"He was doing shots in the back with Spence and Alex...?" his voice trailed off at the end, turned into a question and Vince frowned, looking away from the shitty television behind the bartender, that was displaying a football game, and towards the blonde.

"Leo?"

"Spence?" Leo straightened up, sobering up, "dude- Hey, what's going on?!"

Only then did Vince realize that Spencer was clutching his nose, blood gushing between his fingers, while Alex was holding up a bunch of napkins.

"Lucas'z a duckin'dunt" Spencer groaned, wincing in pain. Vince frowned, looking at Alex for explanations.

"What happened? Where is he?"

"Drunk dialing his girlfriend," Alex scoffed, rolling his eyes, "and crying. We tried to stop him, but he shoved Spencer when he tried to get the phone."

Oh that explained it. Leo exchanged a concerned look with Vince.

"Where is he?"

"Bathroom," Alex rolled his eyes, "you guys think it's broken?"

"No," Leo shook his head, "he'd be in a lot more pain if it was broken."

"Maybe it's time we all call it a night," Vince said, but he didn't really stick around to hear the responses, as he was already walking to the bathroom.

Whatever he expected to find, it certainly wasn't Lucas curled up on a very disgusting bathroom floor.

"Lucas...?" he ran inside, all but skipping to his knees, "Luke, what are you doing on the ground? Lucas, hey!" he shook his friend's shoulder and Lucas let out a groan.

He had vomit on his shirt and blood on his knuckles, all in all a picture of misery. He also didn't seem able to support his head at all, like a baby, "...eave'me-alone," he slurred and Vince's heart picked up.

"Hell no," he cupped Lucas' neck, feeling his rapid heart beat, skin clammy, "Luke, are you just wasted or-"

His shoulders hitched again and more pale yellow puke covered his lap. Lucas seemed too out of it to even feel bad or humiliated by it, all he did was let out another pitiful whine.

"LEO!" Vince shouted, not looking away from his best friend, "LEO!"

"Vin? I'm just calling Spen- What the fuck?!" Leo cut himself immediately as he took in the state Lucas was in. He walked inside the bathroom, crouching down, "Lucas? Luke, hey - Is he conscious?"

"Barely," Vince patted his best friend cheek, "get Jon on the phone!" he bossed, already fishing for his own phone. He struggled to find Wendy's contact, panic making his mind cloudy.

Between them, Lucas let out another groan and dipped dangerously to the side, causing Vince to lurch forward to grab him, patting his cheek again, "Luke, wake up. Stay with me, alright? Open your eyes."

As if actually obeying, Lucas blinked blearily, the fact his eyes were bloodshot making the green stand out scarily.

"Jon!?" Leo squealed to his left, "Jonah, we're at a bar and- And Luke is completely passed out and we don't know what to do-"

"Leo?" Jonah sounded asleep. Vince vaguely tried to think of what hour was it. 1 AM? "Leo, what's going on-"

"Jon," Vince interrupted, as Leo put the call on speaker, "we're in some pub and Luke is wasted. Like actually properly wasted, I- We have no idea what to do."

There was a pause as Jonah collected himself, "is he conscious?"

"Not really, just a little but not responding."

"Okay, if he's awake keep him sitting up, otherwise put him on his side to not choke on his sick," Jonah bossed and then they heard rustling around and the noise suddenly changed. A crowded room.

"He's puked, like a lot-" Leo offered, unhelpfully and Vince rubbed Lucas' arm, trying to keep him awake.

"While conscious?" Jonah asked, his voice muffled by the noise, "were you there?"

"No, we just found him," Vince's heart was in his throat. Had he severely fucked up by letting Luke out of his sight?

"Fuck," Jonah cursed and then his voice changed as they heard him telling the front desk of the hospital, "I need an ambulance to this address- Guys, where are you?"

"Uhm-" Vince struggled to remember, but Leo interrupted him, citing the address perfectly from memory.

"It's not far from the hospital, we're just around the corner of the university..." He added, then sucked in a sob as Lucas groaned and then his eyes rolled back into his head, turning into half moons of white.

"Shit! Leo, move, let's get him lying down-" Vince ushered him, rolling Luke to his side, almost curled up, "is this right? Should we stick something in his mouth so he won't bite his tongue?"

"Is he seizing?" Jonah yelled through the phone, interrupting Vince's worried questions.

"No, but he passed out," Leo answered, planting his fingers to Lucas' neck, "and his heart is really really fast."

"He might have a seizure. Do not hold him or try to stick your fingers in his mouth, or put anything in. All you'll do is choke him," Jonah sounded just as panicked as the rest of them, "check if he's breathing."

"He is, really slow, but he is."

"Alright, just move anything from around him that could potentially hurt hi-"

"Shit," Leo groaned just as Lucas' shuddered on his side and then coughed up another stream of pale vomit, this time all over the blonde's knee next to his head, "he's throwing up again."

"That's good, he's responsive then," Jonah sighed in relief, "three minutes for the ambulance, just stay with him- One of you should go talk with the bartender and see what he drank. Or took."

"Lucas doesn't do drugs," Vince said, defensively and Leo let out a disbelieving scoff.

"He also doesn't get black out drunk, but we're here!"

"I'll go..." Vince said, but didn't move. He couldn't move, "Jonah, is he going to be okay?" he said, voice small. Lucas might be acting like a prick, but he was not ready to lose his best friend. At twenty three? In some dingy pub's floor? No fucking way.

"Vince go check the bottles, the paramedic will need to know when they get there. Leo, check if he's breathing again, make sure it doesn't sound like he's wheezing."

Vince nodded, noticing just how Jonah had refused to answer his question. He got up, stumbling and rushed out of the bathroom.

Much to his relief no drugs had been involved, the bartender spilling the beans the minute Vince said Lucas was passed out and the ambulance would be there in a minute. Just loads and loads of alcohol, so much that the man ended up just writing it all down on a paper napkin, seeing as Vince was shaking too much and too choked up to properly remember any of the names.

"Which one of you is-"

"Vince, Vince," Leo tugged at his sleeve and from the way his nose and eyes were red, it was clear he was and had been crying, "you go. I - I'll just... I'll send the other guys home, I'll meet you there."

"Are you sure?" Vince asked, but he didn't mean it. There was zero chance he was staying behind when his best friend had a group of paramedics lifting him up.

"Yes, go. I'll meet you there," Leo was shaking like crazy, hyperventilating.

Vince nodded, drunkenly chasing after the paramedics and getting in the back part of the ambulance.

"Does he drink frequently?" the paramedic asked him immediately and Vince shook his head.

"No, almost never, actually," he squeezed Luke's hand, while they checked his respiratory vias, "he - He had a bad month, that's all."

"Is he a danger to himself?"

"No," Vince scoffed, "Luke's not dangerous, he's the nicest person I know-"

"No, sir, is he a danger to himself? Do you think the amount of alcohol consumed was purposeful?" the paramedic repeated, stabbing Luke's finger with something that looked like a diabetic device.

"I... I don't know, I don't think so...? No, Luke's not suicidal, no," Vince shook his head, knee deep in denial. He couldn't even wrap his mind around it, but besides just not believing Lucas was suicidal, he didn't believe this was how he'd choose to go, "no, not at all."

"Has he shown any concerning behavior recently?"

"Is he going to be okay?" Vince interrupted, "because you're sounding like- Like he's gonna be arrested or something, he just drank too much too fast. He's fine. He'll be fine, right?"

The paramedic, an older guy whom Vince vaguely remembered from the hospital, opened a small reassuring smile, "we're doing our best."

That was not a fucking answer, Vince scoffed, squeezing Lucas' hand even more tightly, urging him to wake the fuck up. What a mess of a night.

Once they parked, they rushed Lucas inside and ahead of him, but Jonah was already at the doors of ER, in scrubs and looking every piece as wrecked as Vince felt.

"Dr. Cohen is ta-"

Vince shut him up by tackling him into a hug, all of his emotions crashing down on him. He expected Jonah to pull back, but instead he squeezed him a little harder, letting out a measured breath.

"He's all white and... And dead... I- I don't-"

"Vince," Jonah pulled back, tugging on his white lab coat to force some composure, "breathe. Sit down. They're checking him over, there's nothing you can do now."

"Are they... What happens now?" Vince crumbled down on top of a hospital plastic chair, making the seat creak. Jonah shuffled uncomfortably.

"First we need him to wake up. Then we'll keep him for 12 hours on a glycose drip and diazepam."

Vince stared at him and Jonah opened an exhausted smile, "they'll just put him on IVs. It's not as dramatic as on TV... Bella called me."

"What?"

"Apparently she tried calling you too, but... Uhm, Luke called her before you guys found him. Scared the living crap out of her, she's on her way here."

"At... At 1 AM?"

"It's almost 3," Jonah rolled his eyes, wiping a hand over his face, "you should go wash up, you look like a mess. Leo said anything?"

"He should be here in a minute too, he said he'd meet me here."

"Okay, I'll wait for him then," Jonah crossed his arms, "go, Vince."

[problematic-rwby-shipping-poll]

ABUSE BRACKET - ROUND ONE: EMBERALD VS TYRIQROW

Propaganda is below the cut.

EMBERALD

"The og mommy issues pairing! The mutual desperation, the mimicking of old trauma, the deep desire to be loved x the sheer refusal to give it, seeing her old self in Emerald’s eyes, mwah mwah"

"literally femslash tauradonna like oh my god this is so toxic in a million ways, like Emerald's mommy issues and electra complex from chibi, cinder slapping her and ordering her around  like a slave (!!!!!) what was that 'don't think obey' line (!!!!! WTF !!!!!) but ask around enough and you'll find 'can't wait for emerald to redeem cinder' headcanons but when I, cain, make tauradonna headcanons-"

TYRIQROW

"Tyrian has been flirting with qrow since day 1 and then they kill a man together, their leitmotifs merged, that's true love."

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Alcohol Poisoning

Summary: Written for the Hurt And Comfort Bingo. Set after Httyd 2. Eret accidentally triggers a traumatic memory of Hiccup's.

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol abuse

Rating: Mature

Words: 1 882

Prompt: Amputation

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Eret, Valka, Ruffnut, Tuffnut

Pairing: Mentions of Hiccstrid

Author's Notes: Actually wrote this for a prompt from a different bingo, but then it didn't seem to fit anymore, so I repurposed it.

Enjoy!

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"2 jeunes gens sont morts de façon tragique," La Presse. August 10, 1943. Page 3. --- Ils auraient bu de l'alcool de bois dimanche dernier. - Enquête demain. ---- Deux adolescents ont succombé, ce matin, à un empoisonnement causé par l'absorption d'alcool de bols. Tous deux sont de S.-Henri. Il s'agit de Marcel Roy, 14 ans, 5172, rue Ste- Marle, et de Marcel S.-Jean, 15 ans, 5061 ouest, rue Notre-Dame,

Le premier a succombé vers 2 h., ce matin, en l'hôpital Général de Verdun où il avait été transporté hier soir. Le second est mort vers 8 h. ce matin à l'hôpital Général, division ouest. Les cadavres furent transportés à la morgue de Montréal où une enquête sera ouverte demain matin avec un jury sous la présidence du Dr Pierre Hebert, coroner conjoint du district de Montréal.

Témoignages des parents D'après les témoignages des parents des victimes voici les détails de cette tragédie: Les deux jeunes hommes étalent partis de leur domicile respectif de bonne heure dimanche après-midi pour se rendre, avec un groupe d'amis, au parc Lafontaine. Ils y avaient passé l'après-midi.

Au cours de la soirée du même jour, ils s'étalent rendus, avec les mêmes amis, à une soirée d'amateurs qui avait lieu au stade Notre- Dame, chemin de la Côte S.-Paul.

Le frère d'une des victimes, M. Lucien S.-Jean, nous a déclaré que ce serait au cours de la soirée que les deux malheureux auraient absorbé la boisson mortelle.

Il nous a encore déclaré qu'hier matin, Mme Hugues S.-Jean réveilla son fils, Marcel, à l'heure habituelle, pour aller travailler. Cependant, le jeune homme refusa de se lever, révélant à sa mère qu'il souffrait d'un violent mal de tête et de maux d'estomac. Elle lui demanda alors ce qu'il avait mangé ou bu la veille. Il répondit qu’il n'avait rien bu et qu'il se sentait simplement malade. Sur la fin de l'après-midi d'hier, M. Lucien S.-Jean constata que l'état de son frère empirait. "Les yeux lui sortaient de la tête", dit-il, et il avait l'écume à la bouche.

"Il était presque méconnaissable". C'est alors qu'll fit venir le Dr Laurin, de la rue Notre-Dame ouest, qui lui conseilla de faire transporter le malade à l'hôpital.

Mustisme complet "Nous avons tenté par tous les moyens, durant la journée de lundi, de lui faire avouer ce qu'il avait absorbé, mais ce fut en vain. Ce n'est qu'à l'hôpital qu'il nous déclara avoir pris de l'alcool avec des amis. Il n'a j'amais voulu nous dire qui lui avait donné la boisson".

"Après avoir fait transporter mon frère à l'hôpital, ajouta M. Lucien S.-Jean, je me rendis chez les parents du jeune Roy. Je savais que Marcel Roy soufrait du même mal. Je leur enjoignis de faire transporter leur fils à l'hôpital.

M. et Mme Joseph Roy, parents de l'autre victime, nous ont déclaré qu'ils tentèrent eux aussi de faire avouer à leur enfant ce qu'il avait pala. Es n'obtinrent pas plus de succès. Le Dr Archambault prodigua les premiers soins au jeune Roy.

Les deux adolescents conservèrent le plus absolu mutisme jusqu'à leur dernière heure. Mais on croit qu'un adulte leur aurait fourni l’alcool. Le Dr Jean-Marie Roussel, médecin-légiste, nous déclarait ce matin qu'à leur äge un ou deux onces d'alcool de bols suffisaient pour causer la mort. Même si les deux victimes avalent déclaré plus tôt qu'ils avaient absorbé une telle boisson on aurait eu peu de chances de les sauver.

Les sergants détectives Fitzparick et Senecal, de l'escouade des homicides font aujourd'hui une en- quête dans ce cas. On s'attend à des révélations prochaines. Legende:

MARCEL ROY (à gauche) et MARCEL SAINT-JEAN, morts dans des circonstances étranges à l'hôpital après avoir bu, dimanche dernier, ce que l'on croit être de l'alcool de bois.

[phoenix-flamed]

steed-of-waloed replied: "Bold of you to assume I won't flirt with every man on the planet~"

Oh no worries, Elwin would expect no less from him. And that is exactly why he is laughing and raising a wine glass in salute. Bottom's up, lads!

[littleblackqrow]

He's a ten but he's got a habit of being attracted to some toxic people. *Cough*Tyrian*Cough*

"It's not attraction in the normal sense; I'm aware this is a problem. I cannot explain the inherent eroticism that comes with despising someone to the very core of your being."

[thewickerking]

qrow & tyrian 👍

thank u for sending them in bc no one cares abt them in the whole world </3 theyre so everything to me tyrian is obsessed with qrow in my beautiful mind and nothing excited him more than qrow vowing to kill him AND OUGH. the way they fought together so well despite qrow not wanting to???? tyrian wrapping his tail around qrow and flinging him at clover was sooooooooooooooooooo.... twirls my hair. couples date ideas: killing a cop together ♡ that being said there's no real. Wholesome option for these two i hope they fuck nasty and die after. i love them ♡♡♡

edit: ask game link!

[spn-fic-prompts]

Prompt #15

* * * Warnings! This prompt/fic idea involves substance abuse, alcohol poisoning, near death by alcohol poisoning and is up to your discretion on whether you read it or not. * * *

Dean's drinking problem goes too far after Cas' death. To the point where during one of the times that Sam is out of the Bunker, Dean nearly dies of alcohol poisoning. After getting saved by Jack, Dean realizes how bad it is and works to get sober. Sam doesn't know why Dean is doing it, but he's supportive, regardless of how the hunter mentality makes it seem odd at first. When Cas comes back, Dean has been sober for a few months. He doesn't explain why or what's going on until Cas points it out. Once Dean is done explaining it all, Cas tells Dean that he is proud of him. When Sam finds out, he tells Dean the same.

[airbrickwall]

[maniccherrygirl]

I dressed up as Lana Del Rey on Halloween and then Jim ultraviolenced me….

[philipjohnclapp]

Out of Control

Featuring Johnny Knoxville as Clay Barber, mentions of death, alcohol, and Reboot spoilers.

Word Count: 792

A/N: Okay, this is a rough topic, but I really wanted to write some Clay. It’s sad, but what do you except. Could always right a sequel of this fanfiction if you’d all like.

It was just one drink, he told himself. Though one turned into two, two turned into three, three turned into four, and after a while he wasn’t sure how many drinks he ended up drinking. Enough that he was on the floors of a shitty bar bathroom, on his knees swaying in front of the toilet. It was just one drink, he told himself. It was just supposed to be one drink. 30 days of sobriety down the drain, or was it 31? He couldn’t remember now that his brain was filled with a dull buzz. His thoughts all jumbled up like a game of scramble.

He was freezing as he hurled over the toilet, though the bar was as warm as it could be. His skin caked in layers of sweat, he felt dirty, and cold to the bone. He didn’t know how he even ended up here in front of a toilet, the seat had cracks in it. Graffiti littering the walls, and a tied up condom laid next to the toilet from someone else’s endeavors.

Tilting his head forward as he felt bile come up from his throat. Soon flooding his mouth as his hands instinctively shot forward and grasped onto the edges of the seat. Finding himself gagging on the stale beer mixed with stomach acid in his mouth. And as he coughed it up he fell forward, head banging against the front of the seat, and the vomit that came from his mouth getting all over himself and the floor. His knees buckled, somewhere along the lines he ended up in some makeshift feedle position in a pile of his own puke. Which was practically a rainbow of colours in itself.

As he laid there in his pile of filth he trembled. Head pressed against the grainy tile floor, all he heard was his own heartbeat. Though, very much could be the loud music beats bouncing off the floor into his ear drum. Thump. Thump. Thump. The more he listened the more nausea ran over him, his body filled with tremors, and as the bile raised up his throat once again he couldn’t find himself able to pull himself back up and off the ground.

The feedle position he once was laying in became another. His eyes staring up at the ceiling, arms spread out like some starfish position. Limbs too heavy to lift up, and his legs bound to the ground. As he laid there, the puke that soon filled his mouth. Clay suddenly realized one thing and one thing alone. It was the fact he couldn’t open his mouth, and the more he thought about it the more stuff he started to realize, he couldn’t feel his fingers, his toes, or anything. It was like he was paralyzed.

The main thing though was he couldn’t breath. The throw up in his mouth wouldn’t go down or come out, and within an instant he was choking. His lungs stung as he tried to grasp onto just even a small breath of air, and none would come to him. Tears sprung from his eyes. All he could do now as he plummeted down a rabbit hole was think about what everyone might say. He needed to be at the set tomorrow, and Bree? She’d be so disappointed in him, but why should he care? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter because his head was getting all fuzzy and he couldn’t think coherent thoughts. All it was filled with was his struggle to breath; and rapid heart rate. The more he struggled the more it burned, and the more he struggled the heavier his eyelids seemed to feel.

He could only choke for so long, like clockwork. After so long of choking on his own bodily fluids, his body seized, and his eyes drew shut. His rapid heart rate slowed down, and as he went out like a light he heard something, a door opening, someone frantic cause he forgot to lock the stall. By the time they got to him though, he was out

The hands that soon were shaking at him. Prodding at his chest, trying to get him back up. The attempts of cpr, the substances that came from his mouth finally, but he was out. The thumps of his desperate alcoholic heart dialed down. Until there were none, just a very sick sight. A dead Clay Barber in the presence of god knows who. Trying to get him back up, someone else in the corner of the bathroom called 911, while the other person continued at some cpr. He wasn’t able to stay sober, leaving the world behind.

With just the wonder alone of what everyone would think of him, as expected, hm?

[ifonlyweknewwhatiwasdoing]

The Death of You, The Ghost of Me (#3 Whumptober 2022)

Prompt: Gun to the Temple | Say Goodbye | Impaled

Fandom: Star Wars- All Media Types, Star Wars - The Clone Wars (2008)

Pairing: Obi-Wan & Qui-Gon

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Canon Compliant Death (Qui-Gon), Thoughts of Suicide, Alcohol Poisoning

Summary: Obi-Wan, one day as he was sliding into the bed, realized through his haze of exhaustion that when he laid down all he could smell was him.

Qui-Gon’s scent no longer permeated his sheets.

The resulting incident as the temple called it, would be the talk of the temple for the next few days.

--- Fic Under the Cut ---

It wasn’t being there for Qui-Gon’s death, that in the end had really been Obi-Wan’s undoing.

There’d been so much adrenaline in the moment that although it was true that the actual breaking of the bond had left something dark swirling in his chest and blood rushing in his ears, he’d not had enough time to really process everything that had happened.

And then there’d been a matter of ensuring that he’d be the one to train Anakin and that in itself had been such a tremendous undertaking that it had stalled the part of Obi-Wan’s brain that would normally process things like that.

In fact, it wasn’t until Anakin was to move into the temple that Obi-Wan had really registered anything that had happened at all.

Anakin was a padawan and as such was moved into the room for padawans but Obi-Wan had forgotten along the lines what that would entail.

If Anakin were to take his room, he’d have to take Qui-Gon’s.

And for the first few weeks of being back at the temple, Obi-Wan had turned this over in his head, hoping that given a little bit of time it would make more sense.

He’d have to replace Qui-Gon.

It didn’t, of course, make any more sense three weeks later than it had that first day and after Anakin had questioned him, asking if he wanted his room back and that’s why he was sleeping on the couch -because he’d been hoping Anakin would get the hint- Obi-Wan was forced to reevaulate.

He could have just talked to the Jedi in charge of room assignments, he knew. Had her coordinate removing all of Qui-Gon’s stuff so that when he walked in it’d only be an empty room and not a treasure trove to a happy ending that he’d never receive.

But the idea of erasing his master in such a way had made Obi-Wan’s chest tighten and his breath come too quickly and when black dots had filled his vision he’d been forced to admit that the panic attacks weren’t getting any better and the idea of getting rid of Qui-Gon like he’d never existed was far worse than any memory he’d have to endure.

And when he’d crawled into the man’s perfectly made bed, surrounded by the scent of a familiar beard oil and the soap that his master had used, it had made his heart ache so badly that he’d thought it might actually give out.

But there’d also been some sort of comfort in knowing that it was almost like the man hadn’t left, like he’d been sent on a fairly long mission and given a few days he’d be back, shooing Obi-Wan back to his own quarters with a small amused smile and an exaggerated huff.

And it had been comforting.

Until Obi-Wan, one day as he was sliding into the bed, realized through his haze of exhaustion that when he laid down all he could smell was him.

Qui-Gon’s scent no longer permeated his sheets.

The resulting incident as the temple called it, would be the talk of the temple for the next few days.

Obi-Wan hadn’t meant to drink that much. He’d just been hoping that a drink or two might take off some of the ache that was stuck in his chest and he figured if he didn’t want people to ask questions -namely about his puffy eyes and splocthy complexion- that he should probably pick a bar on one of the lower levels, where people normally minded their own business.

Unfortunately for him, two drinks turned into six and then from there what happened was incredibly fuzzy, although he remembers vaguely not being able to lift his head and someone muttering about how he wasn’t breathing and alcohol poisoning.

He knew instinctively that it was Quinlan who’d grabbed him and brought him back to the temple but the next thing he remembered was the unrelenting panic that had filled his chest as his mind had bombarded him with images and moments of Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan had been suppressing.

He didn’t want to love his master, now that his master was gone.

He wanted to be with his master.

He’d not taken kindly to them trying to pump his stomach, sure in his inebriated state that he should follow his master into the afterlife, if only so that he could see him one last time.

The result had been a completely wrecked medical room, two padawan healers being bitten, and Obi-Wan being restrained with force cuffs, which had managed to make things feel that much worse.

He’d woken up feeling so empty that he wondered for a second if he’d indeed been dead and he’d gotten what he wanted, only to realize there was a warm lump against his hip and under his armpit and when he looked over, vision still a bit blurry, he’d seen his padwan tucked his his shoulder, looking just as exhausted as Obi-Wan himself had looked.

And Obi-Wan had been forced to admit to himself there, that he couldn’t do to Anakin on purpose what had been done to him on accident.

So he’d walked in Qui-Gon’s room with a few boxes and started to pack things up, his chest feeling like it was on fire and his eyes burning as he packed away clothes and boxed up books to give to away.

He’d had to stop, shoulders shaking from his sobs when he’d gotten to the place where Qui-Gon had always kept all his souvenirs from trips. The smooth meditation stones from Ryloth and wood chimes from Catolinda had been some of Qui-Gon’s favorite things and to box them up felt like almost as much as a travesty as the man’s death had been.

In the end, he’d decided to keep a few pieces; a jade green tea set from Byrol from when they’d saved their ship, a piece of driftwood, and a soft woven blanket that Obi-Wan hadn’t been able to convince himself to strip off the bed.

When he’d sat on the bed, after everything had gone where it’d needed to go and he’d replaced almost all of the clothes in the closet with his own, the ache in his chest was still there, just as heavy as it’d been the day he’d really realized that his master wasn’t coming back.

Little Anakin had pushed the door open, looking a bit nervous as he shifted, clambering up onto the bed to the best of his abilities and pushing himself into Obi-Wan’s side, underneath his arm so that they could sit in silence for a few moments more.