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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 7 months

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WT #1: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

The Aftermath before the End - Speculative/science fiction universe.

TW: Mentions of suicide attempt | references to self harm | drug abuse | depression | emetophobia WC:

Summary: Jack visits Mitch after a troubling night.

WC: 684

The soft thud of fabric on his chest swore him to consciousness before he could even comprehend it.

Like the desert, his mouth was parched; his lungs heaving for the dry air his surroundings had to offer. Exhaustion carried his limbs while his heart beat to its own erratic drum.

His eyes were open, staring as they always were. How long had they been open for? The grittiness to his vision suggested a while, yet the fresh tear tracks trailing his temples suggested otherwise.

His sense of hearing was the last to come back, like a reluctant tide it washed in, first with static then with details of his surroundings. The rustle of fabric, the scrape and stomp of worn feet on an even more trodden carpet. Next was the grumble of the ancient boiler, followed by the fan of an overworked computer in the corner. A clatter in the kitchen and traffic outside developed more of his soundscape, whereas an argument on the floor above rounded him back to the room.

The steps approached. Stomp, drag, stomp, drag. Somewhere in there was a curse, and maybe even a sigh.

A man dropped into his periphery, a stilted action that landed him on one knee with the other leg stretched elsewhere.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Jack asked, showing him the backs of his index and middle finger, the others were tucked into his palm.

“Two, you tosser.” He groaned, rolling his head to get a good view of under the sofa. In hindsight he was ashamed.

“Yep, that’s you alive.”

And if the man strained, he may have heard pity behind the thinly veiled relief that was Jacks anger.

“You’ve got to stop doing this Mitch.”

“I know.”

“I know, you know. But knowing is different to acting upon it.” Jack huffed, hauling himself back onto his feet.

“What was it this time?” He asked, taking back the hoodie he had previously tossed onto Mitchell’s chest, and folded it over the back of the sofa. “Rich said you were pretty close to offing yourself this time before they intervened. Apparently you were trying to toss yourself in the estuary.”

“Probably coke then.” Mitchell groveled, his heart pounding in his chest, so much so he wondered if a heart attack was on the way.

“One of these days someone’s not gonna be around to stop you. To haul you back here and call me.” Said Jack, returning from the small ensuite where he had turned the shower to warm. But by the time Mitchell would get to it, the water would only be halfway to tepid.

"I know."

"I know you know." Jack said. The mantra had long lost its anger - it's ire at Mitchell's lies. He stood patiently, watching the husk of his friend slowly gather himself. He crawled up the edge of the couch, fingers clawing the cracked, faux leather as he went. Splashes of mud and vomit and traces of road salt from the winter slush coated his trouser legs that hid scarred skin, and eventually Mitch managed to get standing on the shaking appendages. Jack crossed his arms, more in an attempt to get warm as opposed to a refusal to help. There was a rattle of pans, startling Mitchell from his concentration. Jack appeared nonplussed.

"Lisa insisted on coming too. She's starting dinner; figured you might need to line your stomach with something."

Mitchell stopped, swaying on the spot. He frowned as he tried to comprehend the scenario; he didn't have any meaningful food beyond the few old vegetables in the fridge. And how did Lisa get in? How did Mitchell get in?

A migraine began to spark behind his eyes as he tried to shift the cogs in his mind into remembrance.

"She bought stuff from our flat.” Jack filled in, stepping forward and taking Mitchell's arm. He gripped hard, and Mitchell hissed in pain. Jack immediately softened. Specs of dried blood soaked through the thin cotton of his old plaid shirt.

“Come on Mitch, you’re the one who has to pay the water bill.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

#whumptober2023 #surro writes: tabte #whump #original work #original writing #speculative fiction #science fiction #suicide tw #depression tw #angst #emetophobia tw #self harm tw #drug abuse tw

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whileurmine · 5 days

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@icarian-carrion

frank didn't even remember why he was on the floor anymore. cell phone propped between his shoulder and ear. lips parted slightly as he breathed in ever so slowly and then just as slowly, he breathed out. was he gonna call someone? did call end already? he didn't know anymore. eyes heavy and body sluggish to every movement. the air around him was doing such a terrible job at getting into his lugs, but it hardly seemed to matter when he was halfway through falling asleep. it was like he was underwater, floating in the middle of nowhere, the world was distant, silent, hazy. frank just wanted to lay down for a little bit. just one tiny little bit. he needed a nap so bad, he could just stay there in that exact place and nod off...

#icarian-carrion #drugs tw #drug abuse tw #overdose tw

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wickedsrest-rp · 3 months

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Name: Gael Córdova Species: Werewolf Occupation: Chemistry / Physics Tutor Age: 41 Years Old Played By: Random Face Claim: Oscar Isaac

"They say that change starts from within. Joke’s on them, I’m trying to stop that change."

TW: Drug / alcohol abuse

You know the type of person that succeeds in life without really trying?

That was Gael. The studious, intelligent only son sandwiched between four sisters saw early success in his childhood passions, namely the sciences and religion. He was well-liked among his peers, displaying zeal and enthusiasm for anything he set his mind to, whether it was practicing martial arts out of a need to protect his sisters, involving himself in the church or feeding his growing interest in nuclear energy.

As he entered college to major in chemistry, his enthusiasm was somewhat misplaced and he turned into a party animal - studies were replaced with illicit substances, the church was almost forgotten in the haze of a frat boy lifestyle. He wasn’t too worried about it, though; he was a fast learner and his natural charm and charisma carried him through those formative years of getting blackout drunk with friends out in the woods and placing seemingly innocuous substances into his body. Nothing happened, was the kicker. He graduated cum laude despite it all, and everything was going great for the newly-formed scientist.

Though he attempted to relax a little after college and put the party animal times behind him, those addictive habits never quite left. He wore them well, however, never giving any implication that he wanted or needed help. He was still the golden boy, Mr. Popular and Prince Charming! That was, until his long-time girlfriend left him. Back to going out drinking and partying, it was. It didn’t bother him, he was still fine.

Aaaand then one night years later, Gael was out doing what he thought he did best - having a grand night out in the woods with his friends, illuminated only by a big bonfire and the light of the full moon - when he was attacked by what he could’ve sworn was a bear, something that tore him up and landed him in the hospital. It was fine, though, he was fine. It was just a bear attack, it happens to everyone.

Well lucky for him, he wasn’t mauled to death by a bear. A little less lucky for him was that it was actually a werewolf, not that he believed it for over a year. The blackouts, the torturous pain, being covered in blood and waking up in his birthday suit three nights a month? The attack had left him with a… very severe sleepwalking disorder, that’s all. Happened to everyone, right? …Right?

Turns out it doesn’t happen to everyone and after thinking he accidentally killed a good friend of his and his willful ignorance actually getting an innocent hiker murdered, Gael realized that maybe things weren’t as good as he thought. He said farewell to Wicked’s Rest the first time, taking his surrogate daughter with him to travel across the country for a cure for the lycanthropy that took the normalcy out of his life.

He missed being a human, he missed getting a good night’s sleep, he missed the lack of back pain, not hearing everything that was said under everyone’s breath and being able to smell the one kid in his class that had too much body spray on. While he was traveling and despite all the positives that he realized came with having the wolf, he quickly came to the conclusion that there is no cure. He was and forever would be a werewolf.

But that’s not where the story ends.

There wasn’t a cure, sure, but while he was away, his sleepless nights were filled with books that he read when he was younger. He searched for equations, methods to eradicate or mitigate cancer cells. He searched for holistic remedies to all the symptoms he had, things that had been passed down from other wolves and even other species to assist with their unique forms of pain. He researched ways to sedate animals, how much was required, how the body naturally lost its sense of smell over time due to age and other factors. There was no cure, but that wasn’t to say that he couldn’t attempt to replicate being a human once more. The wolf, the wretched thing inside him that ruined everything, had its way with him for three nights but Gael, the human, had the rest of that time to think about what he could do to make the wolf as miserable as it made him. The human was still the original and his life was perfect before; why should the wolf get to change that?

He knew people in Wicked’s Rest, intelligent people, people who could possibly help with his newfound desire to simulate being a human once more. Safely leaving his kiddo with his family, he returned to Wicked’s Rest where he is now, trying with his usual brand of denial– er, enthusiasm, to find a way to get as close as possible to how he felt as a human before. Make the wolf slow, unable to effectively kill anyone else.

Character Facts:

Personality: Ambitious, sarcastic, fun-loving, temperamental, empathetic, stubborn, intellectual

He used to be a chemistry professor with UMWR before he left. Now that he’s back, given the unreliability of the transformations, he now has a job as a freelance all-round science tutor with a specialty in chemistry and physics.

While he spent most of his time as a werewolf in complete denial over the supernatural, he’s since been confronted with it to the point where he'd be too foolish to ignore it. A switch has been flipped - he’s now in “knowledge absorb” mode and tries to be as gentle as possible with his questions when he’s curious about something or someone new.

He makes it very clear that he does not consider himself to be the wolf inside him and vice-versa; he takes responsibility for it but as far as he’s concerned, the wolf is its own entity. He named it Lycaon and it shares a fur pattern similar to this. He’s still not a big fan of being called a “werewolf”, preferring to refer to it as a parasite.

As mentioned in his history, he’s fallen back into a few more bad habits. Some of them, he claims, help with dulling his senses. It makes sense in his head and definitely isn’t an excuse to give in to those vices.

Despite that, he hasn’t abandoned his religion and he’s still never seen without his cross-shaped necklace. It used to be silver. He can’t wear it anymore for obvious reasons. Fun fact: before he realized it was lycanthropy, he thought he was possessed.

#drug abuse tw #alcoholism tw #retired

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solsticeamaris · 2 years

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everyone supports people with ptsd until it's "inconvenient," they have severe mental breakdowns in public, it causes them to sleep a lot, they're not a military veteran, they're under 18, they cope through drugs, self-harm, and/or disordered eating, they struggle with disassociative amnesia, they pass on socializing at larger events, they seek compassion and attention, they dislike law enforcement, they assume the worst of everyone they meet, and when their trauma perpetrator is upper-class/walking free/in the family.. the list goes on and motherfucking on, it never ends

#ptsd recovery #ptsd tw #actually cptsd #tw cptsd #ptsd #complex ptsd #tw trauma #childhood trauma #cw vent #personal vent #okay to rb and add on #do not derail #ed ment tw #tw sh #drugs tw #drug abuse tw #disassociation

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allthecanadianpolitics · 1 year

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A 21-year-old Calgary woman is suing the Alberta government to maintain access to her prescription for a high-potency opioid, which she says has saved her from overdosing on street drugs.

For two years, Ophelia Black has been injecting herself three times a day with the opioid hydromorphone, prescribed to her by her doctor.

Black has been diagnosed with severe opioid use disorder and says this prescription has kept her alive and helped her kick her fentanyl habit.

In October, the province announced an amendment to its narcotic transition services (NTS) program, saying patients would no longer be allowed to take the drugs at home. In Calgary, that would mean they would have to transition to a clinic in downtown, be monitored while administering the treatment and eventually be tapered off the drug.

Black's prescription ends Friday.

Two days ago, she sued the government. [...]

Tagging: @politicsofcanada, @abpoli

#cdnpoli #Alberta #Calgary #drug abuse tw #overdose tw #drugs cw #harm reduction #healthcare

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momguilt · 20 days

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❝ you don't have to talk to me. hell, you don't even have to look at me. but, please ... give me a sign that you're hearing what i have to say. ❞

eyes averted. she had no plans of looking at him - if only because then she would see the pure desperation in his face. the pleading eyes and down-turned mouth. she wasn't interested. HE'S TRYING TO SAVE YOU. some people don't deserve to be saved. she wasn't looking for her redemption at the bottom of the bottle of pills. it was a way to numb the hell all around her.

abby had been pushing him away since the day the bunker door closed. he forced her into a survival she did not want. now that they were all in eden , he had discovered what it was she was doing. killing herself slowly. one pill at a time. extinguishing the light behind her own eyes with one painkiller after another. and here he was - PLAYING HER HAND , AGAIN. not this time.

he was there to plead with her , to beg that she stopped. but her fiery heart had been dampened by all the medication. she was cold now. especially towards him.

" get out , marcus. " she remarks without turning to face him. " i have patients waiting to be seen. " she knew that they were both too stubborn for their own good. he wasn't going to walk away from this fight. " and don't come back unless you need a doctor. "

#no icon while i mess with my psd #i dont like the one im using #but this show is so hard to do #ALSO i apologize for her #⋅ we fell from heaven and landed in hell. › answered meme.#cultfic #DRUG ABUSE TW #DRUG ADDICTION TW

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 7 months

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Primetober Day 3: Stalkers Tango, with all three extra themes (scopophobia, stalking, and “You’re like a little bug”).

Canon compliant. Tommy's first night after Wilbur leaves, he panics over the idea of Dream watching him with no one to comfort him, and he gets an idea on how to avoid the watching eyes. Warnings for suicidal thoughts, self-isolation, stalking, extreme paranoia, feelings of resentment and abandonment towards abuse being dismissed, abuse in general, animal abuse (as a metaphor), reckless drug use, and talk of overdosing.

ao3 link

Tommy couldn’t sleep.

He’d thrown together the bunker as quickly as he could, petrified to even take a step in the open now Wilbur was gone. He wasn’t stupid- he knew Wilbur couldn’t fight Dream, but he had a silver tongue and a sharp wit. If Dream took him, Wilbur would have whipped up some sort of rescue, and Dream might be strong but he couldn’t take on people like fucking Technoblade. And while it was a morbid thought, at the least, it’d give Tommy time to run if Dream killed Wilbur first.

Now that Wilbur was gone, there was nothing stopping Dream from killing Tommy, dragging his corpse into whatever hellish prison he wanted, and then making good on his promise of toying with him forever and ever. Nothing at all. Not even the slightest fear of retribution or even inconvenience. No one would notice Tommy was even gone. Hell, Tommy had the inkling that half of them wouldn’t give a shit even if Dream did the torture right in front of them. They might even have cheered.

So, not wanting to be a Primes be damned chew toy until the end of time, Tommy didn’t exactly put much effort into making it livable. Survivable? Sure, he had a small garden of potatoes set up- just enough to keep him alive, if he rationed it, though he knew when things got this bad, it’d be hard to force himself to eat even that much. But as for living, he had nothing to keep himself occupied, nothing to remind him of happy memories, and the closest thing he had to a bed was Dream’s old ratty cloak he gave him in exile.

(Tommy hated it, and hated himself for it, but it was the only thing that numbed the nightmares. At least a little.)

So there he was, shivering on the cold, hard floor, curled up in his torturer's old cape like it was somehow a comfort. Dream would laugh if he saw him there, clinging onto the blood-stained fabric like a lifeline, like he was the obedient little pawn he was in exile.

If he saw him there. Ha. Very funny.

Tommy wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, no matter what everyone said. He could feel Dream’s eyes on him, piercing and cruelly curious, even if he couldn’t see him. And it wasn’t- it wasn’t paranoia or any of that shit he and Puffy had figured out existed looking through that old DSM-whatever book. It wasn’t. Dream had been in his walls before, and Tommy knew those tunnels still existed, right underneath the prison, where Dream was when Wilbur- when he was fucking stupid. When he gave Tommy the worst parting memory, except maybe their actual parting memory.

He still wasn’t sure if Wilbur had lied and disappeared under the waves. Tried to hide that from him. Sometimes, he wanted to join him, underneath the ocean, but if he did so, then Dream would just bring him back and it’d hurt. So he just longed for it.

Prime, when he was young and stupid, he thought it was funny that Dream was… well, a Primes be damned stalker. After all, it was Dream. The man he idolised, the hero of the Manhunts he always loved to watch, the founder of a brand new server! He thought Dream was so cool, and the idea of Dream being interested in him at all was so exciting it didn’t matter that he was a little overbearing.

Now, he’d give anything for that fucking monster to not have ever laid his eyes and his hands on him. He hated Dream, but not in the way where you’re full of vengeance and murder and stabby shit. He hated Dream in the way where he just didn’t want to ever have to think about him again.

Yeah, that’d be nice. To leave this dumpster fire of a server behind, go buy a little cottage in the middle of nowhere where Dream wouldn’t find him (because he knew that just leaving the server wouldn’t stop him), and live a quiet life. Get some cows, start a farm. Maybe learn to draw properly or something- he enjoyed sketching shit, even if it looked like something a six-year-old drew with their eyes closed, and he could make a living if he got real good at it, probably.

He could have had that if Wilbur just fucking asked if he wanted to go to Utah with him. They didn’t even have to stay together or whatever. They could have never seen each other again, and that’d be fine. Tommy would have been free from the pins through his metaphorical wings (and possibly through his literal wings, considering Dream’s threats), and he could be happy. But Wilbur was fucking stupid, and didn’t listen to him about Dream ever.

And now he’d never see Wilbur again and Dream would torture him forever and he’d probably end up killing Wilbur anyway and it’d all be Tommy’s fault for not begging on his hands and knees to protect him from the threat it seemed only he knew about.

He didn’t know how others couldn’t feel it. Dream’s eyes on him, that is. They were piercing, like a lance through his stomach, pinning him to the ground, like an insect pinned to a board, a specimen on display. He could feel the pressure every time he breathed, could see pinpricks of green in every shadow. They had to know, right? Dream didn’t even bother to hide his obsession, seeing his fascination with him as something that was as natural as breathing.

Maybe they just didn’t care. Maybe they just thought of him as a little bug, too.

Little bug. Little pest. The words felt like knives tearing through his skin, again and again and again, repeating in his head. Dream had called him that so much, usually in annoyed tones, sometimes in the affectionate way Wilbur might have called him a child. An animal, an annoyance, something to be displayed and studied, not treated like a person.

That wasn’t even how you were meant to treat bugs, really. Bugs were great and beautiful and deserved love and kindness, and anyone who hurt them should kill themselves, in his unbiased personal opinion. Especially spiders, who were amazing in every way and were very warm to cuddle at night when they were big like Shroud.

It made Tommy feel sick to wonder where he was now. Surely, Dream had tracked him down, and… y’know, did what he did to Mushroom Henry. One day he’d awaken to the corpse of his precious angel baby boy, and he knew it.

But Dream didn’t see it that way- and maybe no one else did. Maybe they agreed with Dream, that bugs were to have their wings pinned and displayed in a glass case. Except people usually allowed butterflies the mercy of death- Dream far preferred to watch him squirming and trying to pull his bleeding gossamer free.

Watching, watching, watching. Always watching.

Tommy knew the exact look on Dream’s face, the almost innocent childlike curiosity on his face, the crookedness of his smile, the burn of his gaze worse than a million deaths. Watching, watching, watching. Always. Always. Whenever he was around Dream, even back when he thought he was cool as shit, he’d always had his eyes directly on him- it was obvious, even with his dumb mask, his gaze so intensely trained on Tommy that he often missed out on things around him.

And… it was something he could feel. That wasn’t some fucking dumb exaggeration. He could feel the weight of Dream’s gaze upon him, and he felt it constantly. He only felt free from that agony once Dream was in prison- he’d felt those watching eyes before he’d heard the sirens. It made Tommy feel like he wasn’t real, like he was a thing on display, or maybe a character in a book, and it gnawed at his mind and his soul.

Tommy hated being watched so much. So, so much. He would have done anything to avoid the idea of anyone, anyone at all, gazing upon his face ever again. Even Wilbur or Tubbo. Back when Shroud was around, even his adorable little eight eyes made him feel like he was gonna be sick.

Gazing at the potion stand haphazardly thrown across a hastily-placed platform, an idea crossed his mind. He knew how to brew shit from Wilbur, but Wil had always monitored anything he took to ensure he didn’t overdose. Vaguely, he remembered the concentration and ingredients to make an invisibility potion, the strongest possible. The type Wilbur would never let him take.

Almost in a haze, Tommy stumbled up, towards the brewing stand. At least if he overdosed, no one would find his body. No one would see him ever again, and Tommy could spend eternity in Limbo forever, certain he’d never be watched, ever again.

#my writing #cprimetober #suicidal thoughts tw #Isolation tw #stalking tw #abuse tw #drug abuse tw #overdose mention tw #dream smp #c!primeboys

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wcshedup · 5 months

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@fizziifrxg ;;

{ don't be an IDIOT. } negative self-talk wasn't the most positive of tools -- definitely not the sort of coping strategy that near-sighted therapists pitch in the home stretch of rehab. but if she was being honest with herself, it was the only way she knew how to keep the YEARNING at bay. { don't be a FUCK UP, it's been 6 MONTHS. }

FUCKING BLITZ.

if he hasn't come along on some VALIENT mission to -- what ?? rekindle their relationship from the long-tepid mount of proverbial ashes ?? AS IF. now she was hard-up for work, and without some semblance of routine there was no WAY barbie could hope to keep her place in the halfway accommodations -- and then where would she be ?? { it was one thing to be sober inside, but out on the streets ? an ENTIRELY different moral struggle. }

the uncertainty is threatening to drive the imp right back to the BEST source of stress management she knows -- it would be so easy to wander out into the alleys, the next fix was always closer than the average denizen might realize.

in a last-ditch attempt to corral herself, barbie ACTUALLY takes some of that advice from her counselor. { CALL SOMEONE YOU TRUST. } and there's only one option in that department, only one who wouldn't encourage that destructive method of self-soothing.

the number is already on speed dial. { it rings longer than she expects, actually. }

" HEY fizz -- what're ya up to ? "

#WELCOME TO ME SCREAMING ABOUT THEM.#threads.#fizziifrxg.#addiction tw #relapse tw #drug abuse tw

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maybanksbabe · 11 months

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Thinking about helping Rafe through getting clean. Staying up with him to calm him down after withdrawal-induced dreams, making sure he stayed hydrated and comfortable during depressive episodes. Ensuring he knows that if he starts craving for a bump, to call you and no matter where you are, you'll drop everything to help him out. Nursing him through any colds he comes down with. Reassuring him he's doing a good job and making the right choice by going clean even when he's sobbing and aching and feeling like a failure for not being stronger to get through it. Just being by his side and refusing to let him down the way everyone else has so far. Taking him to NA meetings when he finally agreed to attend and emphasising the fact that he's not weak for finding it hard.

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe thoughts #drug abuse tw #libra speaks

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dee-voss · 8 months

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"Dude." Dee took a heavy, haggard lean back against the boardwalk timbers at the side of Benny's stall - which was mercifully empty, as they finished setting up for day two of all this. He hadn't been as much help as he'd wanted to be; just as much help as he could be, still sore from the night before, that set he hadn't expected. And all that staying out and up with Elly, after...

And. Today. Tomorrow. He had those other gigs, now. Just a few; any was wild, though. Seemed like it was a hell of a lot easier to misplace a guitarist than he'd ever figured. But - rolling his neck, carefully, Dee bit down hard on a wince. Then tried to finish that thought he'd had. "How - how strong do you make those special orders? Like..." He straightened a little, shoulders squaring. "Say I -" need, "- could use some mellowing out." Sounded better than hurting less. "But I've got shit to do, later. I don't wanna get totally knocked down, just..." he wavered, his bad hand, what'd been his good hand, before, circling in the air like the right words might be drifting by on that seabreeze. "It'd be real nice, to sand some of the edges off. You know?"

@bellstrom

#stillwater: goodbye summer fest #stillwater: event #stillwater: benny #stillwater: benny: two #drug abuse tw #I'm putting that last one on here for reader safety though of course pain management is complicated!!

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mxrvelouscreations · 7 months

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[armed-and-alxne] (to Sara about substances) "You're relying on substances to numb your pain, but it's only a temporary escape."

@thenexusofsouls

Sara scoffed slightly at Luke's words, shaking her head. Who was he to try and lecture her? "Why does it matter to you?" She asked, tilting her head to look at him, "I mean to you, I'm just another little runner for Markus, why should it matter if I'm using or not?" Using had been the reason she had joined Markus' business in the first place. Rather than paying him for the drugs, she was used to move supplies, as well as some other business that didn't matter to Luke. "What's got you all so high and mighty huh?"

#thenexusofsouls #ch: carl lucas #drug mention tw #drug abuse tw

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thesoulesscollection · 10 months

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Randy Radman Hc

Some Randy Radman Hcs. Mainly set in my Family Bound Together Au. Does include other characters too that I feel are important here. Such as an Oc from the Kinsley family and some Toppats

Tw/Tags: Implied Drug Use/Addiction, Health Issues, & Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Started up as the clan's leader precisely at 1927, at the young age of 24yo (up until his end at 1940) nearly right after Cloudface finally decided to step down

^ Cloudface & Randy had a close mentor/mentee relationship where Randy looked up to the older man and was notably upset when the other passed on unexpectedly

Charismatic, very personable, he's someone many found to be a welcoming source that brought comfort and warmth within.

Often he tried his best to be a worthy leader, where he made up for it with extravagant displays (ie. Parties and uniquely creative thievery)

^ Though he did take a backseat on actually leading and instead kinda lived off the current living the clan gathered through the years prior

^ Thrown huge parties to hide the fact the clan is struggling and it worked for the most part to keep up the act until really bitterly

Beneath the calm, laid-back and easy going attitude, this man is severely stressed, under prepared, filled with inner confliction, such as the untreated health issues, among other problems he didn't want to face in a healthy way

^ Used to self prescribe rather strong meds/under the table, and illegal drugs that's mixed with alcohol to 'help' settle the turmoil within

^ Eventually it did take their toll on him which at the end, he never managed to fully recover from despite trying to stay clean

The Kinsley family only came to be in the clan around the 1930s when Honey's grandmother, 'Reeses' was amusingly interested after Randy's implored for her to join after trying her addictive sweets

^ This is where the 'party craze' hit the highest for the Toppats where Reese became the local hot spot for the new treats 'drugs'

Randy & Reeses soon grew to be close friends (some even rumored they were even more than friends) glued to one another's hips, not being seen without the other

It was in his plans too to have Reeses as his right hand but couldn't have it fulfilled with the clan not accepting the idea (instead they picked Reynaldo for him)

#Long Post #Ask Away #Thsc Au #Family Bound Together Au #Henry Stickmin Collection #The Henry Stickmin Collection #Randy Radman #Thsc Randy Radman #Drug Abuse Tw #Drug Addiction Tw #Thsc Oc #The Kinsley Family #Reeses Kinsley

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wickedsrest-rp · 7 months

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Name: Archie Kinsella Species: Zombie Occupation: Fighter at the Grit Pit Age: 28 Years Old Played By: Joey Face Claim: Taylor Zakhar Perez

"I only know how to exist when I'm wanted."

TW: Sibling death, drug abuse, self harm

Mother? Father? The Kinsella twins knew nothing of this concept, and they never did learn its true meaning. Stability was not something anyone was able to offer them. The one constant, the only predictable variable in their story, was each other. Two boys, indistinguishable if it wasn't for the stark differences in demeanour. Leon, the quieter, the smarter, firm from a young age in his position as protector. Archie, the louder, the attention seeker, always in need of protecting, always emotional and near uncontrollable.

This continued into their teenage years, where their constant hopping of homes and families and schools had hardened them. They grew physically, and they learned what they could do with their fists. It was Archie who would throw a punch first, no longer the small, fragile boy that Leon was so used to protecting. But it didn't stop Leon's desire (or need) to control the only thing that he could control outside of himself: his brother. The twins garnered notoriety as they grew into their anger, and while Archie was infinitely more volatile, it was Leon that made others most nervous. That smart young boy had turned into something wicked, a schemer, a manipulator. Some used to say that there was a devil in that boy, or something worse, with the way he could remain so calm as he inflicted pain. Leon was remorseless, while Archie was ever-plagued by guilt and other horrors.

The moment they turned eighteen, they were thrown to the wolves, abandoned for good. Not that they ever knew support to begin with. The Kinsellas struggled with their Dublin life, finding odd jobs that just about kept them afloat. But with Archie's inability to keep a job and his almost non-existent impulse control, money was always a stressor. It drove the twins into dark, dangerous corners of Dublin. It was in these dark and dangerous corners that Archie was attacked. Violence, he was no stranger to. But he couldn't say he had ever been bitten before. Unbeknownst to him, that bite would become so much more, and take so much away from him. For the time being? He told no one, he thought nothing of it. It was just another mark someone had left on him.

Leon had a bright idea, he moved them across the Atlantic, setting foot on American shores. He was not naive enough to believe in the American dream, but clever enough to see the parts of this system he could use for his benefit. But that variant of the American dream was cut short. Archie found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. In of itself, not unrealistic for a trouble magnet like him. Except that time, Archie didn't miraculously make it out alive. And yet, he stumbled home after the fact. He doesn't remember the events of that night even to this day. All he knew, all that plagued and still plagues, was coming to, glistening red on his hands that he thought should feel warm but felt cold like every other part of him. Confusion was what came first, but when he clocked the source of the blood, he broke entirely. Nothing could describe the pain of his futile attempts at shaking his brother awake. But Leon would never open his eyes again, not now that his brain was gone and consumed.

Archie had a hard time coming to terms with it all. He relinquished his already weak grip on reality, because detachment was the easiest option. How was he supposed to face being alone when he was never built for it? He was not his brother, he was not careful nor meticulous. For a time, he thought shadowy figures were following him, so he hops from town to town. In reality, he was running from police who knew too much and too little all at once.

He wouldn't have been able to tell you how he ended up in Wicked's Rest, and if he tried to explain, most would write him off as not all there. But there is no one he can trust with the story of his loneliness, his life without Leon. Sometimes Archie thought he could see him too, bloody and mangled just how Archie left him. Sometimes he allowed himself to play pretend and live in a world where Leon still stood at his side, still protecting. Sometimes Leon didn't look so dead. There was no drive to protect himself, there never has been, and sometimes Archie would go searching for danger because it was then that Leon's voice was strongest, even if he was berating. But Archie was quick to learn that he healed fast, and limbs would grow back. Cursed from birth, cursed for eternity.

Character Facts:

Personality: Affectionate, gregarious, loyal, daring, resilient, hot-headed, sensitive, impulsive, obsessive, volatile.

Has very noticeable ADHD and has struggled with mental health issues since a young age. He was failed by the system.

Hasn't lost his accent one bit and has had some trouble with people understanding him if he speaks too fast.

He's got a super shitty 1 bedroom flat in Worm Row that he spends as little time in as possible because he can't stand to be alone. He's usually got Wade with him if he can.

He's got a big ass fucking dog. Wade (affectionately named after Archie's favourite comic book character: Deadpool) is a mostly chill, not super well trained Alaskan malamute mix. Archie found what he thought was a husky puppy abandoned in a bush, cried, and took the then small animal home. Turns out he's a little bigger than a husky. Wade's presence in Archie's life has been a blessing and a curse. A blessing because Wade gives unconditional love and has been able to calm Archie in times of great emotional distress. And a curse because Archie lives in a near constant fear of losing control and killing Wade too.

He tends to keep himself well fed, if anything for Wade's sake, and exclusively feeds on humans, not animals, and he'll never try animals as long as he can help it. But Archie is not smart, he is not good at covering his tracks. Someone help him. He is however, pretty efficient at killing, albeit messy.

Archie also has a tendency to use his undeadness as a party trick, which contributes to deterioration of his appearance. Scars were always present on his body, but his new found healing ability has left him with new ones where some parts of him haven't healed quite right, leaving skin discoloration over some parts of his body.

Grew up very much a lad and has retained a lot of those behaviours and ways of dressing himself, but since figuring out he's gay, he's found freedom to dress the way he wants to. Wears a lot of joggers and hoodies for comfort and has a lot of plain clothes, but gives the illusion he's comfortable in his own skin by wearing open shirts, mesh tops, and bright colours, mostly in clubs.

He'd turned to drugs long before he died, and since turning undead that addiction has not subsided. He's searched for the same highs with normal drugs with not much effect.

#sibling death tw #self harm tw #drug abuse tw #retired

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residences-of-the-darkforest · 2 months

Text

Dark Forest Resident: Blackclover

TW: This story will contain strong mention of drug addiction.

Aliases / Nicknames: Herb-stealer

Gender: tom

Sexuality: homosexual

Family: Icelily (mother), Pondheart (father), Whistlespring, Firstripe (sisters), Flintarch (mate, formerly)

Other Relations: unnamed mentor, Sandburn (apprentice)

Clan: ShadowClan

Rank: warrior

Characteristics: optimistic (formerly), likes random fun facts, pessimistic, in constant pain

Motive to Harm: to stop his pain

Number of Victims: 2+

Number of Murders: 0

Murder Method: N/A

Method of Harm: clawing in blind rage, destroying herbs

Known Victims: Flintarch, unnamed medicine cat, unnamed Clanmates, unnamed WindClan cats

Victim Profile: his mate, the medicine cat, ShadowClanners, WindClanners

Cause of Death: poppy seed overdose

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story:

His life was good.

His mother loved him, and though his father rarely visited, that didn't affect Blackkit much. He spent enough time preoccupied with nuzzling with Icelily or playing with his sisters or visiting the elders to really notice.

But as an apprentice, he began to see little things. Like how Flintpaw's father cheered just as loud as his mother at his ceremony, and how he always asked his son how his day was. Was that how it was supposed to be like? Or was Flintpaw's family strange?

Blackpaw decided to try it out. After one training session, he approached his father and asked if they could share a sparrow. Pondheart was open to it, but any form of conversation was utterly dull. Anything Blackpaw said, he would only get 'mmms' and 'uh-huhs' in response.

When they were done eating, Blackpaw padded away dejectedly--and walked into Flintpaw, who sympathised, having seen what happened. Blackpaw was on-edge at first, after all Flintpaw had just beaten him quite humiliatingly in training, but it turned out that the older apprentice was really nice!

He asked about the things Blackpaw had mentioned to his father, allowing Blackpaw to talk about them with someone. He wasn't Pondheart, but maybe he was better--after all, he actually listened and talked back. So more and more, Blackpaw would go to him. And Flintpaw would go to him in turn if he had something he wanted to talk about.

They spent more time together. First to talk, then to also play, then to talk and play and patrol together, then it was whatever they wanted to do.

By the time they were young warriors, it was clear that they were the most important cat in each other's lives. Becoming mates felt like the next natural step....though Blackclover was near sweating his fur off at the prospect of Flintarch saying no. He proposed while the two were alone on a dusk patrol, and they slept in a shared nest the following night.

For moons, everything was perfect. Pondheart may be indifferent, but Blackclover cared less and less. He had a wonderful mother, he had the best annoying sisters, and he had the love of his life who he woke to curled around him every morning.

His mentor, too, had been a wonderful guide, and his apprentice had been energetic enough to make him feel as young as a kit.

Then it rained, over and over again until the streams became fast-flowing rivers that swept anything that entered it away.

Sandpaw had been too confident. She thought she could catch a frog that sat on a rock by the shore, but she ended up slipping into the water. Instantly, it began to drag her below to surface and away.

Blackclover ran after her without thinking, not caring about his own safety. He told--practically ordered--Flintarch, who had been with them, to get help while he went after Sandpaw.

He ran and ran until his paw pads bleed and burned, and ran more, then leaped along the stones dotted along the rushing water until at last he could reach Sandpaw's scruff and help swing her to the shore--but she was heavy, the rock was slippery, and the effort of the swing caused him to fall and slam his chest into the ragged edge of the stone.

He was lucky enough to be rescued by the patrol his mate had fetched. But that's as far as his luck would go.

The pain was unbearable.

The medicine cat suspected that he broke three ribs at most, but other than that, she couldn't tell what was happening inside of him. She could only offer him medicine.

Horsetail was applied all around his chest as a precaution to rid of infection and clean the wounds.

There was bindweed and comfrey root, which was wrapped around his chest and the spine behind it so that his bones could heal undisturbed.

He was given coltsfoot once a day to ease his breathing.

But his best friend became the poppy seeds.

The poppy seeds soothed his pain. Even better, they eased his distress.

When he didn't have them, the pain felt as though it was digging in more and more, spreading throughout his body.

His apprentice, who had to be trained under another warrior while he healed, couldn't cheer him up, not even when she received her full name.

His loving mate couldn't distract him against the intense ache, even when they lay wrapped together.

Only the poppy seeds could keep the agony at bay. But the more he ate, the less affective it was. He needed them in higher and higher doses, doses so high that the medicine cat refused to give him what he needed, stating that it was dangerous.

Frustrated and in pain, Blackclover swung his claws in a fit of fury, scratching the healer's muzzle and earning him the ire of his Clanmates.

They didn't understand.

Neither did Flintarch or Sandburn, who tried to help him heal in other ways--stretching his front legs, massaging his chest, breathing deeply. But none of what they tried helped at all.

With each passing day, the pain only dug deeper and sharper, and his only comfort were the poppy seeds that he wasn't even able to take that much of. And now, they didn't relieve him like they did before. It took care of the pain, but only slightly, and their effect fell quickly.

He became desperate. When convincing the medicine cat to give him more failed, he broke into the herb stores himself while she was away. But as he searched, the pain got worse, and he became frustrated again. Near crazed, he threw any herb he came across that weren't the poppy seeds.

The ruckus caught the attention of Flintarch, who attempted to pull him away.

He was angry.

He was so desperate.

In a fit, he swung blindly, and struck his mate.

They had stared at each other in shock. Flintarch's ear was split, dripping blood down the side of his face. He told Blackclover that he had a choice: him or the herbs.

Why couldn't anyone understand?

The medicine cat said that his ribs had healed, there was no reason to continue taking medication.

But the pain was still there. And when the poppy seeds were stored in a hidden area, he only suffered more. He was unable to sleep, he trembled from the anxiety that crashed through his entire body and had sweat through his fur until his nest soaked, the nest that most of the time he was too depressed to rise just to clean it.

Flintarch tried to support him. Blackclover knew it, but he was suffering too much for it to matter.

Then he was put on a battle patrol that was to attack the WindClan camp. The other Clan's medicine den caught his eye...

His leader was furious. The whole Clan was furious. He went too far, destroying their herbs.

They all thought that he wanted to weaken them, but Flintarch saw through that. He told Blackclover that he knew now was Blackclover's choice was, and that they were through.

Their rage, the break-up, it only made his anxiety worse. He was rocked by emotional turmoil at the same time pain stabbed through his chest with every passing second.

He knew what his body was telling him.

He needed the poppy seeds.

At the Half-moon meeting, when the den was unguarded, he snuck in. It took a long time, but at last he found the hidden treasure. He lapped them up, already feeling the relief, and lapped them up more and more. He became a bit confused, and then disoriented, but he shoved the feelings away and kept lapping.

He swallowed down so much, and some of it came back up again, coughed onto the floor in red vomit. Blackclover stared at it, dizzy, then turned his head when he heard his name called.

Silhouetted in the entrance with just enough light to see his features, Flintarch shook his head sadly, ear split and half of his face drenched with blood. He whispered to Blackclover that he made his choice.

Then everything went dark.

Additional Information:

--Another song resident! This one was from @liberhoe who suggested the number 148. The song is Wasted by 8 Graves (lyrics here).

Other songs I have that could connect to the story are When We Die by Yungblud (lyrics in video) and The Mystic by Adam Jensen (lyrics here).

--This took a while to write because 1) I was REALLY tired, 2) I had to write exams and 3) I wanted to have enough energy to really focus on the story and get it right.

--Flintarch in the very end here was just a hallucination. If it had really been him, he would have instantly tried to help.

--Blackclover DID break three ribs, but he had also damaged nerves around the same area that the medicine cat was not able to find, so not only was he in double pain, but when his ribs healed, everyone thought that the pain was in his head or just an excuse to get more medication, which was of course absolutely frustrating.

--Poppy seeds were chosen because they help with pain, help to calm, and can be deadly in high doses (which was why he was cut off).

--The poppy seeds lost their effect because his body became used to it.

--To put it short: Black got injured saving his apprentice. His pain was severe, and the only thing that could soothe him were poppy seeds. Literally nothing else helped his pain, 99-100% due to the actual source of his pain not being treated at all. But he could only have so much before it was dangerous, so the med cat cut him off. But that gave him withdrawal symptoms and that mixed with his physical pains made him feel even worse, to the point that he only cared about finding and taking poppy seeds. As well, others thought that he was faking or being dramatic because his bones healed but his nerves didn't (and they didn't know about the nerve issue). The physical pains, the withdrawal, and the lack of support all made it worse.

--Flintarch tried to help for a long time.

--In the Dark Forest, Blackclover felt incredibly guilty for how he had treated Flintarch, and refused for anyone else to get close to him, because he didn't want to hurt them. But there is a tom that will eventually find his way into his heart.

--For the record, I DO NOT believe that Black should be in the Dark Forest. He was condemned by StarClan, and we all know their way (and to clear up, he was condemned for stealing or destroying herbs which could have had terrible consequences for the sick or injured, attackingtwo of his Clanmates, and going against the orders of both his leader and healer).

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