#Tw: pills

[smooshednetwork]

Colouring test :3

[sadhornydemons]

[vurlient]

tw: drugs, pills

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[kirstythejetblackgoldfish]

Anti-anxiety and insomnia pills were reportedly found in Assad's office

There's a New Statesman article about him, I think it was in 2013, and it said that in 2006, during the Lebanon war, one of his aides entered Bashar's office for a pre-arranged meeting and found him having what sounded like a panic attack - slumped over the desk, gasping and shouting 'They're coming after me!' The aide rushed over to calm him and gave him water and coffee... then the meeting continued as if nothing had happened

[loslentesdepedrito]

A Restless Night

Bottom left gif by: fourdev, top right gif by: @a7estrellas

My Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Spanish-speaking f!reader (Spanish translations are provided.)

Word count: 2.7k+

Summary: You have issues with sensory processing, making it difficult for you to fall asleep. After a restless night of tossing and turning, Joel awakens, determined to do everything in his power to help you sleep.

A/N: I wrote this based on my own experiences with SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder) as someone who has ASD. I refrained from labeling it as x ASD!reader because not everyone who struggles with SPD is autistic/autism, and not everyone who is autistic/has autism has SPD. Also, just a gentle reminder that every individual's experience with ASD varies significantly. If you’ve met one person with ASD, you’ve met ONE person with ASD. Enjoy!

Rating: 18+ Suggestive. Nothing explicit, but this is an 18+ page. Warnings: No Outbreak, hurt/comfort, slight angst, suggestive stuff, insomnia, food consumption, taking an Antihistamine pill.

In the eerie and suffocating stillness of the night, the angry crimson glow of the alarm clock projects the harsh reality onto the walls. The room, cloaked in darkness punctuated only by the faintest glow of the alarm clock, offers no solace. Silently, the digital clock announces the unyielding passage of time: 2:04 AM. With your eyes repeatedly drawn to the clock, you become a silent observer of your own restless fight for sleep.

Minutes dragged on, each one worse than the last. In vain hope, you closed your eyes, waiting for the elusive embrace of sleep. Frustration mounted, and your whispered mantra of "just go to sleep" echoed in the void, its efficacy long worn thin. At this point, the words are obsolete—they hold no meaning for you or your brain.

Your sheets, supposed sanctuary, became your tormentor. The sheets cradle your form, and your fingertips discern every thread, every imperfection in the fabric. Lying on them felt like lying on a box of sand. Even clothed parts weren’t exempt from the torture, as the sheets, like sandpaper against your skin, induced insufferable itchiness. The fabric, an abrasive paper, scratched against your tender skin, leaving trails of discomfort in its wake. Your nails dug into flesh, offering brief respite. The noise it made made you cringe, but you couldn't stop scratching.

Another hell was your hair. Endless adjustments led to desperation, and you gathered it into a makeshift crown atop your head, a futile attempt to detach it from your body. The sheets then morphed into a layer of microscopic needles, punctuating your flesh, and it could almost leave a trail of welts.

The silent plea for rest fell on deaf pillows. Experimenting with positions in the hope of finding the right combination, you lay facing the ceiling, then Joel, then turning away from him—the dance of insomnia continued. After each position, you stayed still, closed your eyes... and nothing. All movements amplified your discomfort, especially the rustling of the loathed sheets, adding to your torment.

An unseen army of ants seemed to crawl across you, their presence beneath your skin. The sensory assault intensified, feeling like the ants invaded your hair, their microscopic footsteps on your pillow resonating in your ears.  

As your nails dig into your scalp, a brief moment of panic washes over you, fearing that actual animals might be crawling on you. However, a deep breath and rational thinking help you dispel the irrational fear. Reassuring yourself, you repeat, You’re just making things up, it’s okay, you’re okay.

Just for reassurance, you pass your fingernails through your neck where you feel the phantom animals. When you look at your hand, it’s empty. A sigh of relief escapes you. Closing your eyes for what feels like the millionth time, the sheets below you rustle. "I can’t take it any longer," you mutter to yourself just above a whisper. Just as you're about to jump out of bed, you feel your husband stir beside you. 

He wakes up in somewhat of a panic, his big hand reaching out to feel for you. You find comfort in his touch, and it gives you something else to focus on. In the dark room, Joel looks around, reassured by the presence he feels beneath his touch. Knowing the room is clear, he turns his face to look at you.

“Shit. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to sleep, baby,” you murmur, breaking the silence.

Concern etches Joel's face as he asks, “What’s wrong?”

"Nada. Duermeté (nothing. go to sleep)," you downplay.

"Nah uh. What’s wrong?" he persists, turning to his right to flick on the lamp on the nightstand. The soft glow reveals the exhaustion on your face.

His eyes linger on your tired face and he swiftly moves closer.

“I can’t sleep,” you confess, the vulnerability in your admission apparent in the dimly lit room.

“Do you want me to hold you?” 

"No thanks. I don’t think that’ll help right now," you say sincerely, a subtle shake in your voice.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Joel asks, unable to simply stand by while you suffer.

"I don't know, I just can’t sleep," you admit, your voice breaking. 

Your husband's heart aches at the strain in your voice and the glistening of tears in your eyes. "What do you think will help?" Joel asks gently, willing to do absolutely anything. 

You shrug, a gesture of helplessness. "The sheets. They just feel rough on my skin. It’s itchy. I keep scratching, but nothing helps." 

Joel's gaze softens with empathy as he registers the genuine distress in your words. With a gentle touch, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The warmth of his calloused skin against yours brings you a sense of peace.

"'M sorry. I fell asleep and didn't even think about it. I was waitin' for you to get home-"

You gently interrupt, your voice laced with understanding. "Joel, sweetheart, this isn't your fault. I was excited to go to bed next to you; I forgot about the sheets too."

Fully sitting up on the bed now, you position yourself on your knees, facing your husband. Cupping his face in your hands, you assure him, "Don't feel bad. You work hard. I know you wanted to wait for me, but you passed out 'cus you're tired."

Joel responds by nuzzling his face into your hands. "I'm supposed to comfort you, you know?" he chuckles lightly, his hazel eyes radiating love.

Smirking playfully, you respond, "And how are you going to comfort me?"

Joel starts to shift, but upon feeling the sheets, his hands freeze, remembering the issue. As he thinks about what's different about the sheets tonight, Joel's expression shifts, realization dawning. "Fuck. Our usual sheets are still air drying. We can go check on them, but they're probably still damp, sweetheart."

"Yeah. Sorry about that," you say with a sheepish grin, feeling a flush of warmth spreading across your skin. The sheets had been rendered wet and soaked from the intimate activities of the previous night. Given their delicate nature and high-end price point, the sheets couldn't be tossed into the dryer, so you had to buy emergency sheets from the nearest store.  

A playful glint dances in Joel's eyes as a satisfied smile graces his lips. "My back still hurts. Thank you for that, honey." 

"Oh, please, I did most of the work. You've gotten lazy on me, Miller," you tease, your words infused with playfulness.

"Lazy?" he exclaims. "You squir-"

You swiftly cover his mouth, your whisper-yell barely audible, "Joel! The kids will hear you." Your words are hushed, ensuring they stay just above a whisper.

Joel rolls his eyes, his voice returning to normal as he lowers his tone. "You squirted all over the bed!" he playfully exclaims. "I'll show you lazy," he scoffs. In a swift motion, Joel gently rolls you over, a shared laugh escaping both of you. As he lowers himself, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. You expect the warmth of his lips, but just as the closeness intensifies, he lifts himself away, leaving the bed.

Before you have a chance to berate him, Joel places one hand on his waist, the other on his beard, rubbing his stubble. A furrow forms on his brow as he puts his tongue to the right side, creating a bump on his cheek. "Maybe we can do something about the sheets. Would you like a different one, or perhaps I can find something to soothe your skin? I should have laid something different underneath you." 

The spare sheets you had kept for such situations ended up damaged during the move to your new house—the one you and Joel had designed together. Amidst the chaotic process of relocating, your attention was divided between ensuring the safety of Sarah’s books and your youngest daughter's beloved stuffed animals. In a moment of distraction, you accidentally dropped the extended sheet onto the floor. When you hastily pulled it up, the fabric caught onto the door, resulting in an unfortunate tear right down the middle.

You figured it wouldn't be a big deal because they were your backup sheets, and you were certain that getting a new backup pair would suffice, given your primary sheets were still intact. However, the problem became apparent when you forgot to place the order, and with your main sheets damp, you found yourself without an immediate solution.

"You're helping now; that's all that matters," you tell Joel, getting up from the bed.

He gives you a smile and then asks, "Are the sheets the only problem or the blanket too?"

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you pause, settling on the edge of the bed. "Just the sheets," you affirm with a small exhale.

"I’ll find something to put underneath you," Joel assures.

"I’ll go to the restroom. See if that helps," you say, walking over to him.

Before you can make it to the restroom, your stomach rumbles audibly. "Great, and now I'm hungry," you groan, a hint of frustration in your tone.

"Ya comiste? (Did you eat already?)" 

You nod. “I had some of the mosaic jello the girls made after I came home from work."

“My love, that’s not enough to fill your stomach," Joel responds softly.

"I know; I was tired and just wanted to sleep."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," he beckons, closing the distance between you.

Joel envelops you in a comforting embrace, his touch proving to be a solace without causing any discomfort. When you lie still, a wave of overwhelming sensations tends to surge, particularly due to the absence of distraction. The stillness becomes a canvas, intensifying your heightened sensitivity. It's worth noting that in your day-to-day life, your clothes can also be bothersome, primarily because of your aversion to certain fabrics.

"Go to the bathroom, and I promise to make everything better, okay?"

"Okay," you reply, and Joel seals the agreement with a tender kiss on the top of your head. With that, you make your way to the en suite bathroom.

Exiting the bathroom, your eyes are drawn to the bed. Joel has carefully laid down a thin cream-colored sheet – the salvageable portion of your once-intact backup sheet. At the foot of the bed sits a small foldable table over the ottoman.

Joel enters through the bedroom door, shirtless, balancing a plate of food and a cup. The darkness obscures the details of what he has on hand.

"I made Camarones a la diabla (Deviled Shrimp)," he announces, placing the plate atop the table. "And a cup of horchata," he adds, the room now enveloped in the rich aroma of the dish.

You wordlessly thank him, and with the fork from the plate, you scoop up a spoonful of the sauce and pair it with a mound of fluffy white rice. The flavors dance on your tongue, prompting an involuntary "mmm" of appreciation. "Oh my God," you exclaim with delight, savoring the delicious food. "It tastes so good!" 

He patiently waits for the audible gulp, a signal that you've swallowed the mouthful, before teasingly saying, "That's what you said last night."

"Shut up," you playfully elbow him, a laugh escaping your lips. "Me destie mucho (you gave me too much), I don't think I can finish it," you tell him. He chuckles and reaches into his sweatpants' pockets, fishing out a fork. "That's what I was hoping you'd say." 

Reaching into the other pocket, he retrieves a foil package. "Oh, and I got you some Benadryl."

You smile at him, accepting the package. With delicate fingers, you peel back the foil, taking out a single pink pill. Without hesitation, you swallow it down with a sip of the horchata. 

As you both continue to enjoy the dish, Joel finishes his portion first. He rises from the ottoman and heads to the nightstand, prompting your curiosity as he opens the bottom drawer. Your gaze follows him as he retrieves your body brush and a bottle you've never seen before.

Returning to you, Joel asks with a knowing look, "Up for the brush, love? You know it helps with the itchiness." Agreeing, you nod, and he gently guides you to the bed. You lie down, and the softness of the sheets beneath you finally soothes you.

His strokes with the dry brush are methodical and gentle, the bristles gliding effortlessly over every inch of your extremities. With each pass, a deep exhale escapes, and you feel tension dissipating as if melting away, allowing your body to succumb to a state of complete relaxation, and the itchiness gives way to a calming sensation.

"Thank you, Joel. It really does make a difference."

Once he's done with the brush, Joel presents the bottle he got from the drawer. "I know you don’t always like lotion, but I bought something I saw online a few days ago. Would you be willing to give it a try? People say it doesn’t leave that filmy sensation," he explains, his eyes reflecting a hopeful sincerity.

"Does it have a smell?"

"It's supposed to be odorless," Joel replies with a hint of pride in his voice. He had done extensive research, well aware of your aversion to the lingering sensation of lotions. The avoidance of body lotions is a common thing for you, and he had made it his mission to find a solution that aligns with your preferences.

"I want to try it." 

"If you don't like it, we'll wash it right off," Joel reassures, deftly opening the lotion bottle and squirting a small amount into the palm of his hand. He then proceeds to apply the cream to your left hand just above your wrist. The initial coldness prompts a sigh of relief from you. Joel lifts his hand off your skin, allowing the lotion to settle. As you open your eyes, there's a pleasant surprise—it feels good. "Wait, it's actually good. It doesn't feel sticky on my skin," you say with genuine amazement.

"Really?" Joel responds, his excitement evident.

"Yeah," you laugh. "Thank you, honey," you add, your gratitude almost bringing tears to your eyes at the thoughtfulness of your husband.

"No tears, okay?" he insists.

You nod, and he pulls you up, giving you a sweet kiss. You melt into his lips, and just as the kiss starts to deepen, he pulls away, helping you stand up. 

"Let's go brush our teeth," Joel suggests. You both head back into the bathroom and after finishing there, Joel takes the plate and cup into the kitchen. As you wait for him to return to the room, you neatly put away the brush and lotion, deciding to store them in your restroom. When you return to the room, Joel is already back, seated on the ottoman, engrossed in his phone.

"What are you doing?" you ask, walking over to him. 

"Just ordered some stuff," he replies.

Climbing onto the bed, you rest your head on his shoulder, peeking at his phone with curiosity. 

"Three more sheets?" you ask, shocked.

"We need to be ready, sweetie," Joel says, turning his head to look back at you.

"Joel, that's a lot of money," you express your concern.

"What do you say all the time?" he asks, unbothered by the cost.

"Mas vale prevenir que lamentar," you say begrudgingly, knowing that Joel is right. 

"Exactly, better safe than sorry, and what else?" 

"Uno nunca sabe, (One never knows)" you mumble grumpily.

"Mhm! They'll be here in three days," he informs you, turning his phone off and climbing onto the bed.

"Joel! Expedited shipping?" you exclaim, now on your knees.

"What did we just talk about? Only the best for my wife," he says, adjusting the quilt to prepare for sleep.

"Okay, fine. But you better not spoil me too much."

He chuckles warmly. "Of course, I will, my love. Ready to go to bed?"

With a playful eye roll, you nod. "Yes, but I think it’ll help if I sleep upside down." 

"Head on the foot of the bed?" Joel asks.

"Yes," you reply, loving that he knows you so well.

Joel puts your pillows on the end of the bed. "Come on," he says, resting his head on the pillow and opening his arms for you.

You eagerly get into bed and lie there, smiling.

"Thank you," you say.

"No need to thank me. You know I'd do anything for you," Joel assures.

"I know, baby. I love you," you tell Joel with a yawn.

"I love you," he replies, and you finally drift off to sleep peacefully.

Extended note: Joel finally gets a happy ending! I don't usually write HEAs for him, but this piece is one of my favorites that I've written about him. I had trouble falling asleep yesterday, and I remembered I had written this, so I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to leave a comment and reblog if you'd like!

@pedrostories

[discocannon8002]

I thought of this and kind of wish it was reality for me (the good parts. The bad parts already exist somewhat for me.) so here you go have a very small little… story? Idk what it is. But it is angst with a good ending so be warned. None of these names are our real names.

Tw: sh, self loathing, medication, slight swearing, depression, suicidal mentioning, blood

“I’m pathetic.” the shaky voice that left my lips only seemed to prove my point.

In the bathroom and sitting on the floor. I can’t even sleep without meds, without talking to many of my meds. I never take more in a day than the Max on the bottle, so it’s not really overdosing, right? It doesn’t count, it shouldn’t, it can’t.

I look at the bruise in the strange place on my hand where I had striked myself multiple times. Probably more than one hundred times now.

“Fuck.” I mutter under my breath. As far as people know, I don’t swear. I shouldn’t swear; I can’t swear.

As far as people know I’m innocent. but in reality I’m far from it. This was never supposed to go this far, never supposed to leave marks. I thought I could stop on my own. I thought it didn’t count as self harm because it never caused marks or anything more than a slight headache. Never any blood or injuries, just pain.

Pain because I needed it. Pain because I deserved it. Pain because I needed to hit something, needed to get my anger out, and I didn’t want to hurt anything else so I hurt myself. That was all it started as, all this was supposed to be. It was supposed to go away with my depression, my depression was supposed to go away!

I’ve been taking my medicines!! I’ve been doing what I’m supposed to do, so why is it getting worse again? We got rid of the medicine that stopped working after seven years of making my life better, we got rid of the medicine that made me feel this way. I have the new medicine that helps with my newfound mood disorder. We got rid of my period because it always made me suicidal—always made it worse. We did it! We did all of it! Why can’t it just be better?!

why can’t I just be better, why can’t I do things right, why can’t I do history?! I do math so well, why do I have to be so bad at history? Whys can’t I be independent? Why do I always have to get others to help me instead of helping themselves?! Is this why Lily is so distant??

I tear up as my fists collide with my skull again. I should be better. I need to be better. Why am I not better? In the chaos, I knock the scissors off the counter, I grab them. I stare at them for a bit, and I wonder… what would it feel like? To make marks, to draw blood? What would it feel like, would I feel better, would the pain go away? I’ve already taken every anxiety medication prescribed to me tonight. I can’t do any more with medication. Just one little cut. I bring the blade towards my wrist.

“Bee?” A voice startles me out of it, I quickly bring the scissors behind my back as my head snaps up to the person who spoke, and my breath hitches. Lily.

No. No no no no no no no, she can’t know—this isn’t her responsibility, I’m supposed to take care of her! She’s my younger sister, I have to—to—I have to—

“Bee, come on, let me have the scissors, okay?” Her voice seems gentle, but it seems like a trick because her eyes are narrowed, is she upset? Did I make her angry again?

I hiss in pain, squeezing my eyes shut. I hadn’t realized how tight I was gripping the scissors. My shaky hands appear in front of me, I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. Blood.

My tight grip had caused the blades of the scissors to press into my skin. Two lines of blood could be made out through the red liquid streaming down my hand. But I do deserve it. I let Lily find me like this. I deserve it.

I feel the scissors being gently pried from my grip, but I don’t dare look up at her. I don’t want to know what she’s thinking, or feeling. I don’t want to see that look of anger or disappointment or annoyance. I’ve already seen it too many times on her face.

I hear a soft clatter, she’s probably put the scissors down. My gaze is still turned towards the ground, I see a sort of face being formed in the growing pool of thick red liquid in front of me.

“Bee? Can you look at me, please?” Her voice was unsteady, and right in front of me. What? But she was standing up, wasn’t she?

I hesitantly look up and am surprised to see her face just about in front of me, but still about a foot away. She’d crouched down in the time I was looking down. Her eyebrows were furrowed, but her eyes didn’t look angry. She looked almost worried.

“Bee…” she sighs, before bringing me in for a hug.

For a moment I’m frozen in shock. She never hugs me. But then I hug her back with the clean hand. And for a moment we stay that way, just two sisters, hugging. It should be the most normal thing in the world, but for somebody who doesn’t hug much… this hug meant she really cares. I sniffle through tears I didn’t know existed.

“let’s go upstairs, yeah? let’s… let’s get you cleaned up.” She whispers, sounding like she’s also crying, which is confirmed as she pulls away to help me up.

She did care. And I was not alone.

[gifsofstar]

1.02 | "The Devil You Know" "They ain't gon' get hurt. They got you, flaws and all. But I do know you gotta tell them girls the truth. You gotta tell them about you and Mary. Y'all past. That's them girls Mama and I think you owe that to them. You gotta be honest. You need to tell them about Jahil, what he did to y'all, why you don't you like him. Ain't about Star. It's about you…bein' honest wit yourself. That's the only way you gon' get through all this."

[kusuokisser]

tw suicidal thoughts/actions -> saiki angst fic promo

imagine that kusuke once noticed how kusuo was showing the warning signs of a major depressive episode and saw an opportunity to get the ultimate victory over kusuo; to get him to willingly die first.

kusuo could have managed through the episode if it weren't for kusuke. the option of suicide that kusuke presented him with acted as a ball and chain clamped to kusuos mind, dragging him down deeper into the spiral of emotions that were flooding through him.

kusuo sees it as a challenge almost, but he sees it as a challenge he's going to lose. a challenge he wants to lose, i mean, having his powers has made his life a living hell hasn't it? maybe kusuke was kind in offering him a way out right? a way to end his torment.

if you thought this was a banger you should read my fic, this is literally the premise lol :P its 100% finished for bingeabiliy purposes but towards the middle you can tell i got bored and wanted to skip towards the end so excuse its obvious rushed-ness.

[pronouncedahn]

"Off With Her Head" Still life, 09/30/2024

[lazymblr]

[oli-draw]

Smile pills

[neatandniffty]

[acidphosphorusofficial]

Guess who just made another mood board again? This time it's inspired by Buddy from the LISA games (though mainly The Joyful)

[galaxyheartfans]

@moonlightravensblog So you drew moonlight villain version.

well...

I have🤗

Pinkie Massacre

Ms. Galaxy as a Villain

She looks like a horror villain but I still like it.😊

[hunter-the-sad-skeleton]

"A dance with death. A murderous melody of bloodied brilliance."(Reblogs appreciated!)

[coffyblak]