#tw misuse of medication

[whump-about-it]

Last Hope

@whumpril Day 10: Adrenaline

CW: Probable misuse of medication (not for plot purposes, but because I'm not a medical professional and am basically making this up), criminal Whumpee, blood loss, fear of death.

Nothing had gone as planned. Whumpee was supposed to get into the compound, download the virus, and get back out. It wasn't supposed to take more than an hour. They weren't supposed to run into anyone. Least of all Whumper. Now Whumpee was bleeding uncontrollably from a knife wound in their chest, and running blindly through the labyrinthian facility trying to escape Whumper and find some kind of exit.

Thank God Caretaker had insisted on coming along. Whumpee had argued that this was a one man job, and they could drive their own getaway car. But Caretaker was a worrier, and apparently a vindicated one now. Whumpee could only hope they would get back to them to hear Caretaker tell them that themselves.

Struggling to stay focused as they ran through the building, trying to remember where they had gotten in from, Whumpee turned down a dark hallway lined with doors. Whumpee hadn't remembered being in this area of the building before, but with Whumper at their heels they could barely complain about the ample hiding places it provided and stumbled forward, one hand staunching their bleeding as best they could and the other grabbing at doorknobs, hoping against hope that one of them would swing open. Finally, at the end of the hall, one of them did with such a loud screech it made Whumpee's blood run cold even as the slipped in and locked the door behind them.

The dark room beyond seemed to be some sort of chemical lab. The walls were lined with counter spaces topped with severely sterile looking machines and locked cabinets. A part of Whumpee's mind drifted towards the idea that there was probably something valuable to steal in the room, before a sudden thunder clap of pain radiated from their chest through the rest of their body so intense that their knees gave out underneath them and they fell to the floor muffling a cry.

It had vaguely occurred to Whumpee before that the only reason they had gotten as far as they had as of yet was because of the adrenaline pumping through their body and numbing the pain and panic coursing through them. It seemed to have been starting to ware off now though and the room swam in front of Whumpee as they rolled onto their back and grasped the bloody hole in their chest with both hands. The contact elicited a disgusting squelching noise and another thunder bolt of pain that made Whumpee's eye site go grey momentarily.

Concentrate! They ordered themselves, their eyes sweeping around the room dizzyingly. There was a window at the far end of the lab. Whumpee couldn't tell if it opened or not, but they could at least be able us it their barings as to where Caretaker might have stationed themselves if they could get to it. That would be no use though if they bleed to death before they got out of the compound, which was a dangerously real possibility right now, so Whumpee continued to scan the room until their eyes finally landed a large metal box screwed to an adjacent wall with FIRST AID written across it in large red letters.

Whumpee pulled themselves into a sitting position and the world wavered in front of them. They could feel the little blood they had left in their body rushing away from their head and heart and towards the open would between their upper ribs. A nauseating feeling washed over them and Whumpee had to fight the urge to pass out. They knew they wouldn't wake up again if they did. This also served to confirm that there was no way Whumpee was going to be able to stand in their current condition. So once they'd gotten their senses back Whumpee resolved to start scooting across the floor on their butt, holding their gushing wound with both hands and fighting for consciousness the whole time.

When Whumpee was halfway to the first aid kit however, they suddenly became aware of the sound of heavy footsteps rapidly becoming louder. They froze and pressed themselves up against the nearest cabinet, holding their breathe as they listened to Whumper's familiar footsteps run down the hall past the room they were in, then back a few seconds later, disappearing back the way they'd come and back into the depths of the compound. Whumpee gasped for air as they heard Whumper's footsteps disapear. There was was a sudden rush in their heartrate that didn't seem so dizzying, and a shock of renewed adrenaline ran through them that they used to leverage themselves to their knees to quickly crawl the rest of the way to the first aid kit.

The adrenaline had run out by the time they got there, and Whumpee teetered on the edge of consciousness as they pulled the first aid kit from it's box on the wall and flung it open. Breathing was getting so painful that Whumpee was beginning to wonder if the knife had punctured their lung after all.

Hang in there, they told themselves. You just need to stuff the wound. Whumpee collapsed against another set of cabinets. Most of their energy spent, and ran a bloody hand over the supplies in the kit, feeling rather than seeing for the packets of gauze. Instead their hands ran over something plastic and cylindrical. Hovering over it out of exhaustion more than curiosity, Whumpee quickly realized what they were feeling. It was an EpiPen.

It took Whumpee several seconds to figure out why their slowing heart leapt with joy at the feeling of the medical device under their finger tips. They didn't have any allergies, and though they'd been trained in how to use an EpiPen, they'd never had need to before.

Epinephrine. Adrenaline. Their mind sluggishly eked out the thought, followed by a half forgotten memory of Caretaker explaining to them how adrenaline worked by constricting blood vessels.

It was a terrible idea. Part of Whumpee knew that. But they were desperate, and probably not thinking straight. And they knew that if they didn't stop the bleeding somehow they were going to be dead soon anyway.

Slowly Whumpee's fingers closed around the EpiPen and they dragged it out of the first aid kit and towards their body. It took them several tries before they managed to get the safety cap off, but once they did they held it up with a shaking hand and hovered over a space just above their wound. They knew that when being used for it's intended purpose, you where supposed to stab the patient in a larger muscle. But when used for bleeding Whumpee considered that they wanted it as close to the veins they were trying to target as possible. Whumpee sucked in what they hoped wouldn't be their final breathe and bit the inside of their cheeks to gag their own scream then drove the pen into their muscle with all their remaining strength, pressing the button at the opposite end before the pain could paralyze them.

Please let this work. Whumpee prayed to any God that might be listening. This is my last hope. Please let this work.

Authors Note: I just want to reiterate that I am not a medical professional and am nearly 100% certain that Epipens can not actually be used to stop bleeding. Please don't try to use them for anything other than their intended purpose.

[mime-rodeo]

what is it with people nowadays using the word “narcissistic” as a replacement for toxic or abusive? even if we are ignoring the fact that this sounds ableist towards people with NPD (which we shouldn’t ignore btw but just for the sake of this argument) y’all are not even using it in its ORIGINAL definition, as in “a person who has an excessive interest in or admiration of themselves”. you’re just using the word for whoever slightly pisses you off. “my friend was kinda rude to me yesterday, she’s so narcissistic” IM BEGGING YOU DO EVERYONE A FAVOR AND PICK UP A DICTIONARY

[that-0ne-loser-ky]

lmao, they gave me a starter dose of some adhd med so i forgot to take it of course so i did the resonable thing and took five on new years and i thought i was having a heart attack and i might have but at least i tryed to make a soldering iron (failed)

[fortheloveofpiggy]

Last night I accidentally got high as balls on nose spray (completely an accident please be careful when taking shit like that unlike I was) and vex fronted to help and he’s usually uptight but he was too high to be so pet our cat binx and talked to our sys bf and now he thinks he’s binx’s best friend smh

[ghostlyschizophrenic]

tw: weed, talks of ativan overdosing, general drug talk (but like, i’m not relapsing and not getting worse so it’s a positive post)

i’m slowly getting better at going for my indica vape stick to get high instead of overdosing on my ativan. im almost out of the ativan, only enough for my actual prescription dose for this week, but i’m really going to try to hold myself to this once i get the refill and i can’t just rely on the fact i have no extra to misuse to begin with. the weed also helps ease my paranoia better than ativan does, as ativan only really helps some of the anxiety response to the paranoia even when im taking 5 times my prescribed amount, while the weed relaxes me in the first place and i can handle all of the paranoia symptoms a bit easier. maybe i should look into asking my psychiatrist about going off the ativan entirely so i can’t misuse it and instead get a medical marijuana card…

[shannaraisles]

Oh dear fluffy gods and all their plushies, WHY are people suddenly using the word “”degloved” to mean not wearing a glove? The word has an HORRIFIC meaning! Stop being lazy and just using the nearest word that sounds right! Seriously!

I realise it is a pretty niche word to immediately KNOW it doesn’t mean something innocuous, but it set off a shudder down my spine.

True definition of degloved under the cut - trigger warning: gore and traumatic injury.

To be degloved or to have a degloving injury means that all or the majority of skin, muscle, fat, and connective tissue has been stripped from a limb, usually a leg.

UNgloved means not wearing a glove.

[ichorandseafoam]

So the thing is over the summer I don’t take my adhd meds- I only take them during school. But I still got more, cause it was easier through the pharmacy that way. So I currently have a bunch of extra adhd meds. The other thing is that taking twice my dosage of adhd meds makes me actually able to function. (I’m meant to take it in the morning, I took it in the morning and then same amount in the afternoon). When I got my original prescription, I noticed a bit of an improvement, but it didn’t really make me more productive. With twice the amount, the executive dysfunction is like not an issue. I can do things that aren’t fun or interesting. It’s absolutely bonkers; my grades are better than ever and I feel so much less anxiety and self-loathing.

The problem is that eventually I will run out of my extra meds, and have to go back to the dose I’m meant to take. I want to ask my psychologist to increase my dose, as I know it will make me more productive, but I don’t want her to think I’m abusing them or anything.

[konigsblog]

nurse!reader and patient!könig

tw: noncon, intoxication, misuse of medication

könig tried to be patient with you. he tried not to force himself onto you, but the more you flaunted your body to him, the more agitated he became. you'd give him medication, ones that made him dizzy and at ease, fucked-out stupid and giggly. he took everything you said either as a joke, or you flirting with him!

it was humilating when he'd grope you unexpectedly, breathing deeply into your ear through stuttered pleas, the tightness in his boxers only growing as he throbbed and ached.

könig eventually took matters into his own hands. he found your water bottle, taking the medication you usually gave him to make him all loopy and fuzzy, and poured it into your drink. you'd sat beside him, with laboured breathing, becoming a giggly mess!

in your vulnerable state, and through könig's pain in his arm, he pushed you down onto his medical bed, tearing your panties off and rolling up your uniform. he fucked his thick fingers into you; pumping them as they quickly got covered in sweet slick. all you could do was shake and sob quietly, feeling scared and weak against him. although, the way he rubbed your clit was driving you insane, moaning sweetly into his mouth between sloppy, drugged kisses.

you didn't even realise his intents at first, ‘til your patient was fucking his hard, big cock into your slicken, wet pussy! his tight balls smacking against your ass with each hard thrust. you gripped his shoulders, your legs pulled and forced over them, giving him a better advantage at fucking deeper into your swollen folds. you felt used; raw and sensitive. he chuckled, seeing you all drugged up on his medication was just driving him closer to the edge. his sensitive, pink tip began leaking more; pearly droplets of white cum oozing out the head of his twitching shaft.

he knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop; he could only get faster, to release deep into you. tearstained cheeks and dizzy eyes looking into his silver ones, bucking and rutting into his little nurse until he was spurting thick ropes of seed into you, and you were clutching your gummy walls down around his girthy dick and squirting all down his bandaged abdomen.

you only realised what was happening when you woke up, panties soaken with cum and slick. :(((

[inuette]

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

aita for not enabling my friends eating disorder?

tw for eating disorders and misuse of medications for weight loss ⬇️

so recently my friend K has been really irritable and snappy with me lately. it's probably because she hasn't been eating a lot and has been losing a lot of weight really fast. i'm not here to blame or belittle her for her ed as i have also had an anorexia problem in the past but she's being a huge bitch and has terminated our entire friendship over ozempic. fucking OZEMPIC

for some background we are both in high school and live with our parents and my mom is a type 2 diabetic who just started taking ozempic. because of this my mom started losing a lot of weight on account of the decrease in appetite and this really inspired K.

so one day she had the gall to ask me to STEAL MY MOMS OZEMPIC just so she could lose a few pounds. this completely threw me over the edge because it was hard enough actually getting my mom the ozempic because of PEOPLE LIKE HER who only want to use it for weight loss are buying it all up and making it harder for people who actually need it to get ahold of it.

she tried to convince me and even bribe me to get it for her. i obviously said no because my mom needs it to LIVE and it escalated into a huge argument. she even had the gall to bring up the fact that she helped me through my ed and that wasn't willing to help her through hers. which is two entirely different things?? I was just starving myself and therefore not hurting anyone but my self and not trying to bribe someone to get me their fucking diabetes medication that they need to live.

(i'm also like 99% sure that K didn't do any research as to what ozempic is bc she is someone whos terrified of needles and wont come near one you and need to inject ozempic into your body. and secondly there is no way in any universe in which I steal the pen for her and its not obvious that i took it since theres only one pen per box and is only enough for one month of injections. theres no way my mom wouldnt notice)

anyway we haven't spoken in weeks and I miss my best friend. I wish we could talk again but K was being a huge asshat and I need to know if this was worth losing our friendship over. so aita here?

What are these acronyms?

[cowgurrrl]

Don't Let This Darkness Fool You

Summary: Joel's journey to sobriety [1.1k]

Author's note: idk how i feel about this

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, ANGST, TW ADDICTION, misuse of drugs and alcohol, mention of Sarah's death and Ellie's time in FEDRA school, chronic pain, symptoms of withdrawal, Joel trying to make peace with his past, happy ending

The first time Joel goes to a meeting, he sits in the back and says nothing. He watches person after person get up and talk at the front of the room like it's the easiest thing in the world. He doesn't move. He can barely breathe in the musty church rec room as he listens to their stories and finds pieces of himself in each. The survivor left to carry on when everyone else died or left; the bereaved parent; the ruthless dealer shaking down clients to make ends meet; the addict.

Joel never felt the need to examine his relationship with substances. He drank and smoked and made bad decisions as a teenager and into young adulthood, which is partly how he became a single parent at twenty-two. After Sarah was born, he didn't have the time or energy to party anymore. Sure, he had a beer or two here, but never anything close to a bender. He always had to wake up for work and make sure Sarah got to school on time. He would just be setting himself up for failure if he drank heavily.

Then Sarah died, and nothing mattered anymore. The FEDRA doctor gave him a bottle of painkillers for the stitches on the side of his head, and he never thought twice about it. At first, it was manageable. A drink here, some pills there. His kid had just died. He was allowed to grieve however he wanted to, or that was his reasoning, at least, when it became harder to get under control. He would go from being fine to the throes of withdrawal and back to the hazy stupor that rendered him incapable of function. It was a cycle. One that Tess and Tommy hated, but he was always sober when they needed him to be, or he tried to be.

That entire year spent with Ellie, he was more scared of what would happen if he did touch the stuff than if he didn't. His objective was no longer how fast he could get his next fix. It was how fast he could get Ellie fed or somewhere safe. When they finally settled in Jackson, he felt like he could relax without the help of a neat whiskey or a handful of menacing white pills. He was good. He kicked his nasty little habit that followed him for decades and cold turkey at that. He was fine. Until the trauma from the previous twelve months finally caught up with him.

His back was permanently fucked up from falling off the horse in Colorado. He got horrible headaches, which were probably the result of one too many hits to the head and neck. His wrist clicked in pain every time he moved it too fast, and he couldn't sleep. The Jackson doctor cautiously prescribed him anti-anxiety medication and painkillers. And goddammit, if those little pills didn't make him feel the tiniest bit better. He could feel the spiral start again but was too scared to voice it or ask for help.

It wasn't until that night when he stumbled home drunk and a little high after a patrol shift and found Ellie doing homework at the dinner table. He slurred an apology, and she eyed him like a dangerous stranger when he sat across from her. They got into a fight. Joel doesn't remember what it was about, but he remembers going to bed feeling stone-cold sober even though the alcohol was still thrumming through his veins. In the morning, Ellie admitted that she hated when he drank because it reminded her of the FEDRA soldiers loudly coming home from QZ bars. Drunk men with authority and weapons are enough to scare anyone, let alone a little girl. Joel promised her it would never happen again, and he fully intended to keep his promise, but he'd be lying if he said it was easy to quit.

His hands shook in pain for the first few days, and he constantly felt sick. He was sweaty and irritable and uncomfortable. It didn't help that the other patrolmen would ask him to join them for a drink after patrols. He almost folded once. He was almost over the threshold of the Tipsy Bison before he doubled back and ended up at Tommy's door, crumpling in on himself from pain and withdrawal. It was Tommy who mentioned something about the drug addict's anonymous support group. "I'll even come with ya." His brother offered as he rubbed his back like Joel was a fussy infant instead of a grown man.

So, that's how Joel found himself white-knuckling his way through a DAA meeting with Tommy at his side. Tommy assured him that everything said in the meeting was privileged and couldn't leave the church doors. Joel was safe to say anything, and he would receive support. Still, he was so scared. He just sat and watched. It would take two more months of tears, sleepless nights, and fighting temptation before he found the strength to walk down to the front of the room.

"Hi, my name's Joel and… I'm, uh," he stumbled. "I'm an addict." He shared the bits of his story he felt comfortable sharing, but his hands wrung nervously the whole time. He was waiting for the room to turn on him or for the world to end (again), but it didn't. He said the worst things about himself and everything was… fine. "I just… wanna do better for my," he breathed deeply. "For my Ellie." He awkwardly thanked the group and moved to sit back down when the group leader, a kind-looking woman named Shawna, stopped him.

"How long have you been sober, Joel?" She asked softly, and he cleared his throat.

"'Bout four months, ma'am." He said, and she quickly turned to grab something out of her bag. Before he could ask what she was looking for, she pressed a dented circle into his hand and smiled.

"Now, it ain't as pretty as the ones back in the day, but you should be just as proud." She said before encouraging the group to applaud Joel. He felt silly receiving the praise, but when he sat back down, he couldn't ignore how much better he felt.

He didn't look at what Shawna gave him until after the meeting. He thought it was a personal thing he should see only when alone. He waited until his boots were off and he was comfortable on the couch before fishing the wonky thing out of his pocket and looking at it. It was obviously made from scrap pieces of metal, and the engraving was all wrong, but the words "4 months sober" still made him beam with pride. Joel stared at it for a few minutes before walking upstairs to Ellie's empty room and scribbling a note on her desk.

When Ellie gets home from studying with Dina and Jesse, she finds the coin on her desk beside a note in Joel's blocky handwriting. It reads, "Every single one is for you. It's all for you."

[murder-cookie-dust393]

I saw the yandere hcs for lord Oyster and I saw the ending of them comforting and thought it was kinda cute so I'll bite for hcs! I got an idea for a type of reader I don't see often but I find the trope interesting. May I ask for hcs of a yandere clotted cream x poor reader?

Bonus little addition to reader if you want: maybe, to make it by, reader works really hard...day and night...and often neglects themselves, like they skips meals, barely sleeps due to a mixture of work and stress, work themselves to the bone just to make sure they have a roof over their head and food on the table?

Just always curious how yanderes react to a love like that lol! Sorry if this sounds weird! Just stumbled upon the idea of poor reader and thought it was interesting!

YOU DONT UNDERSTAND- I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO THOUGHT THE POOR MC TROUPE WAS INTERESTING.

[disclaimer: I’ve never had such a situation so I’m just going off of other people’s experiences]

Tw: spying through documents..?, Hierarchy misuse(?), Clotted gaslights ppl

• Let’s say MC is like a cook or something for idk any form of public gatherings. They work their arms off trying to quickly get lots of food cooked- that tastes good enough.

• Even if more they have lots of co-workers, they still have to do so much to have enough for so many people. Hell, they’re still cooking to keep making enough while the gatherings go on.

• Clotted Cream found a little defect in his food, maybe a dessert that was a bit undercooked. So he quickly sneaks into the kitchen to tell one of the chefs, just so they could fix the food before anyone makes a commotion. After all, he is a very kind-hearted, empathetic consul isn’t he…?

• He ends up talking to MC, showing the small defect. To his surprise, MC is panicking like crazy, afraid of losing their job. They quickly go out to the foods and take the tray of the desserts with a defection and shove it in the oven. They’re thanking him greatly, bowing a few times.

• Clotted Cream notices their hands look a little wrecked, with a few bandages over their fingers. “…Say, are your hands alright? They look to be in a quite- rough state.”

• MC is surprised at the question, answering that they have to work a lot to get the food out in time.

• Clotted Cream ends up talking to them longer than needed, and he’s- interested to say the least. He wonders what they’re life is like, given he was adopted into a noble household.

• Clotted Cream ends up scouring through official files to scour more information about them…He ends up seeing all the bills MC is paying, it could be literally anything: debt, medical, whatever. He feels an odd sense of pity? Or is it…something more humane?

• He ends up throwing himself into a hole of complete curiosity- and soon obsession. He wants to know more about their life, how they survive their endless hours of work. He works endless as well- but not in the way they do.

• At every public gathering, [where they’re serving food] he’s talking to them more than he is to the guests, always asking questions about their life and how they’re doing.

• At some point, he can’t take it anymore, seeing them suffer to keep their surviving. So one day, MC finds that all the bills they had to pay are just gone. Paid for. It confused them.

• The next day, MC goes over to the bill issuer, questioning things. Which the bill issuer responds, “Oh, a cookie came in and said he was your fiancé so he paid them all for you.”

• MC, absolutely flabbergasted, tries to question the bill issuer, wondering who the cookie was. But the bill issuer didn’t know. Only noticing he had green eyes. He’s in a disguise.

• MC goes back home, confused af. For one thing, they don’t even have a fiancé, and two, they don’t even know who this dude is.

• Meanwhile, Clotted Cream is laying in his bed, giggling like some girl that has a stupid school crush. He couldn’t believe he managed to get away with it! Not that it would matter, he could easily trick people into thinking the two of you were engaged.

• A few days later, when MC comes home from a long day at work, they notice literally ALL of their stuff is packed up. And guess who comes out from the closet with clothes in his hands? That’s right, sir fucking Clotted Cream.

• Before MC can even question him, he pressing a kiss to their cheek and smiling. “I’m just getting everything ready for you to move in with me! Don’t worry darling, this is the last of everything.”

• MC can try everything to question and defy him, but he’s just pulling the “I’m sir Consul, I can ruin your life. Now love me.”

• Poor MC, going from poor to confused and weirded out.

• If MC is compliant, he’s a needy mf, who’s super affectionate behind closed doors. Constantly giving them hugs and compliments.

[Ok- ngl this was self-indulgent. I would say this is my longest post on here lmao]

- Celina

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: implied suicide attempt, happened before story set, people are reasonably okay. In related warnings, misuse of medication

(Probably not canon complaint they probably got yeeted IC too but you can't prove it isn't just yet)

They are curled up on the floor of the haunted library, and nobody is really sure what to do. Some bread had been shared around earlier, but all they have is what is on their persons.

Everyone has split off into smaller groups, huddled together whereever there is space. Some of them can be heard talking in low voices, but with the eggs asleep they try to keep it quiet.

Felps is already asleep again, face buried in Pac's back as he clings. Richarlyson has somehow wormed his way between them, while Ramón sleeps sat against a bookshelf. His head has drifted to rest on his father's side, Fit keeping watch as he keeps Pac's head in his lap and plays with his hair. Bagi sits on his other side, Empanada asleep in her lap. Mike thinks she was trying to keep watch as well, but joined her daughter a few minutes ago.

Mike himself is pressed against Pac's front, awkwardly propped up on Fit's knee. It's worth it, though, to be able to curl properly about his best friend. Prison has torn all of their trauma back to light, but Pac...

Fuck, they are so lucky he only managed to steal half a handful of sleeping pills.

"You good, Mike?" Fit tries to keep his voice quiet, but it's still deep enough to carry.

"He's a fucking idiot," Mike says, in lieu of an answer. "I swear, if he pulls this shit again I'll kill him."

Fit's hand shufts from Pac's hair to Mike's, not petting but instead allowing his thumb to rub circles just behind Mike's ear. Mike allows the tension to drain a little.

"We'll work on it," Fit promises. "He's safe for now. We're all safe for now."

With something called a reset and instability? It's not going to last.

Mike tells Fit as much, and gets laughter in return.

"You get used to it," Fit replies, not unkindly but not gently either. "People only trash so many of your bases before you give up on getting attached."

"I know that," Mike snaps back, and maybe it hasn't been bases but he and Pac have lost nearly as many homes as they are years old.

Between the orphanage, and the streets, and a life of crime then being on the run. The island is the first time they've had a home that felt like - maybe - it was theirs to keep, and already it is being torn away.

He should have known better than to hope.

"Hey, hey," Fit taps him for attention. "None of that shit. We've got each other still - between you, me, Pac, and the kids we'll get a house sorted in no time. Sand and concrete isn't much - we can still make that house Pac wanted. Just need to start again."

And Mike... he doesn't know how to say that, after this, he isn't sure Pac is still going to want a house. Maybe it's changed, but what he's always wanted before was a small, dark hole, somewhere hidden and secret and enclosed on all sides. There's comfort in hiding and in anonymity, and fuck knows he'll need the comfort after this.

Mike's comfort is Pac's comfort.

Either way, he doesn't care.

"It'll suck," Mike replies.

"It always does," and Fit sounds so tired. Still he says, "go to sleep, Mike - I'll keep an eye out and we can sort it in the morning."

Mike doesn't think he can, but he sees the out for what it is. He tucks Pac closer to himself - a little awkward for felps and Richarlyson also clinging, and even worse for Fit's knees - and finds his pulse.

It's still in a state of drug-induced slowness.

It's fine, though, Mike knows what it being dangerous would feel llike. They've done that before, and fuck knows it will happen again.

It's also steadily improving; if Mike didn't know what Pac had done, he would think it just the pulse of someone deeply asleep.

Fit doesn't tell Mike its fine, not again. He just keeps watch, and keeps them safe, protecting the group even as Mike protects their Pac.

[sim-songs]

An update

TW: s***ide, hospitals, misuse of meds, depression, etc.

So... Where do I start? First of all, this is difficult for me to write about, and something I have been debating posting about here.

As you may or may not know, I struggle with depression. With that comes medication to ideally make you feel better in combination with regular therapy. I'm on some meds, nothing special.

But. Last few weeks I spiralled. Really badly. Badly enough that I knew to get a new therapy appointment asap and bad enough for my psychologist to then send me to my psychiatrist the same day. He prescribed me some new meds to take for sleeping, which I expressed at the time I don't really understand why he'd prescribed me those as sleeping was not an issue. Looking back now, I still don't understand.

I'm not going to go into all the details here, but last week, on Saturday the 11th of February, I attempted s***ide. I was rushed to the hospital later that day, and spent one night in the emergency room and one night in intensive care. I was discharged from the hospital on Monday and have spent the last week getting back on my feet and being monitored. I have no lasting damage from my attempt as they got me hooked up on the IV quickly enough not to damage my liver.

I am rambling about this, and I don't apologise because I'm still wrapping my head around it all. Looking back at the last few weeks is hard for me, and I keep stumbling into blank patches of things I forgot while medicating myself into oblivion. I was abusing my xanax, and the sleeping meds I had gotten. But mostly xanax.

Obviously I no longer have access to any medication for the time being, and I am fortunate to have a good support system in my boyfriend, family and friends.

So yeah. I'm still around, liking stuff, replying and reblogging but things may be slow from me. Sims 3 has always been an escape for me, so I am holding on, keeping up, regrouping etc.

Much love,

Sim-Songs

[quotablefanfiction]

“Emotions are dumb,” Yuugi tells Jii-chan as they’re finishing up dinner. “Are they dumb because you’re feeling them, or because someone else is?” Yuugi scowls. “Yes.” “I don’t know when you learned to abuse yes or no questions but the Japanese language did nothing to deserve it,” says Jii-chan.

Yuugi misuses language (chp. 6)

Let the Darkness Bring Us Into the Light by arinrowan (AO3) Boku no Hero Academia / Yu-Gi-Oh! – Teen #Alternate Universe #Fandom Fusion #Autistic Mouto Yuugi #Sensory meltdowns #Canon-Typical Violence #Yuugi believes in his friends #Midoriya Izuku has a lot of emotions #Shadow games don’t work like that #Except for when they do #lizards happen #meltdowns #Bullying #Medical TW #Autistic Character #they’re going to get to UA eventually #but right now it’s a story about the two of them growing up together #and the trouble that ensues #Emetophobia #canon-typical problems with quirk marriages

Yuugi was never interested in becoming a hero. But he’s always wanted friends. Friends who he could rely on, and who could rely on him, no matter what. And after meeting Izuku, Yuugi’s determined to support Izuku as Izuku becomes a hero. Even if it means getting involved in heroics, getting dragged into way too many fights, being around way too many loud people, and winding up involved with too many dumb secrets.

[asa-m-holland]

A S A . H O L L A N D

FULL NAME: Asa Michael Holland HOMETOWN: Swords, Ireland DOB: October 24, 1978 AGE: 45 GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: He/Him OCCUPATION: Head Librarian SEXUALITY: Gay HEIGHT: 5'7"

BIOGRAPHY

Full bio under the cut! Please read trigger warnings before proceeding!

TW // Medical malpractice, homophobia, abuse

Asa grew up in a small family home in a town on the outskirts of Dublin. Both parents were devoutly Catholic and the whole family walked to church multiple times a week. He worked summers helping clean up the little church-house in the valley and his father often pawned him off to ‘learn a hard day’s work’ at various places in town. Despite his father having plenty of money and working at a bank in the city, Asa was often treated like he had to provide for his family as well. He wanted to spend time with his siblings but it often fell on him to get a job first, get his sisters to school. There was immense pressure from his family at all times to be the model son.

He had always been introverted but starting in high school, he started to rebel, getting angry at his parents and lashing out at them. His father had just started a very high-profile job in the government and his 13 year old son was the least of his issues. Eventually, Asa was sent away to a home for ‘troubled teens’ and was essentially beaten into submission by orderlies and people who did not care about his wellbeing or his mental stability. He was treated like a problem, like an inmate in a prison at the age of 14 and was kept there for years due to his father’s negligence and lies. Saying after Asa came back for a short time once that he was still ‘acting up’. That they had failed and he would expose them if they didn't forge documents to send Asa off to a mental institution.

Through it all, Asa was manipulated into thinking he was the problem. That he had done so much wrong that he was being punished, and would continue to be for the rest of his life- tormented by the Devil. Because of his father's lies, he was in and out of a few psychiatric facilities, given experimental medical treatments, and treated as insane. His father was a constant terrifying presence in his life, always finding a new place to send him off to in Ireland, Wales, and London.

Asa changed the course of his fate when he fled to the U.S. After stealing his father's money, he began to formulate a court case to close down the corrupt most recent institute he had been stuck in - St. Irene's in London, that had given him permanent head trauma from the misuse of ECT. Using meticulous planning and organizing, Asa was able to craft a perfect court case to take down the mental institution, put the doctors in charge behind bars, and win a huge settlement of money.

All the while he worked for a sweet little old lady who ran a large library in Ashmore. He'd been taken in to organize- a quiet and sometimes (unintentionally) unsettling man who had trouble finding any sort of job, given some grace. As she prepared to retire, she let Asa take more control of the library, going from just putting books away to planning library events, running the social media, handling all computer systems, and talking to customers.

Now Asa is the Head Librarian at Ashmore. A weird little man covered in tattoos who some find a little offputting and others weirdly charming. Asa cares about his employees and cares about his job-he's an artist in his free time and has a little historical home in Old Ashmore where he takes care of 5 cats.