#tw alcoholism mention

[shitistolefromyoutube]

#half life #source filmmaker #SFM #gman #g man #gordon freeman #tw alcoholism mention

[mywingsareonwheels]

1974.

Morse is interviewing witnesses to a murder at one of the colleges, and one of them is strikingly familiar. He's a man in his early twenties, a recent medical graduate back visiting friends before heading off to move into a totally different career. He has a posh accent, a friendly smile, warm brown eyes.

Oh he's truly, desperately familiar, and Morse isn't looking too hard into his own motives when he lets the younger man talk him into a drink out, and then a one-night stand, and then something rather more like a friendship played out over Scotch and crosswords and literary quotations.

[More behind the cut....]

He does mention, briefly, that his new friend reminded him of someone else on first meeting. And somehow that turns into a discussion of ancestry, and the young man discusses with some glee the skeleton in his family cupboard: the fact that his paternal grandmother when barely eighteen had a dalliance with a working-class ruffian of the same age from Mile End, of all places. That she'd got pregnant, but her parents wouldn't let her tell the lad, but instead got her engaged to a somewhat stuffy friend of theirs called Richardson.

"Dad hates to talk about it," says Morse's friend, "he's rather a stuffed shirt, especially for a surgeon. But Granny used to love telling me stories. She did come to love my Granddad, I think, but she missed that boy from Mile End all her life." He chuckles, but a little shakily, because he has yet to learn the effortless-seeming confidence he'll spread before him one day. "I'd give anything to meet him."

Morse swallows, heart suddenly in his mouth. And something in his face makes the young man carry on, more intensely.

"Granny told me that she named Dad after him, though he doesn't know. So that's what I have: Frederick, from Mile End. Fathered a child around 1930 when he was just a lad and doesn't even know he did." He laughs, wryly. "Not much to go on, is it."

"Douglas," says Morse, and his voice is shaking but there's a smile in his eyes. "I... I'll need to look into this, but I think. I mean. I think I can help."

The postcard is of York Minster, which is only a half hour drive from where three exiles from Oxford have settled. On the back it reads just:

"Sir,

Un bel di, please could we talk? There's someone I think you should meet. Bring 2 rounds ham and tomato sandwiches. --"

At the day and time thus ordered, Fred Thursday finds Morse standing admiring the rose window, and follows him out to a bench in the Minster gardens. He's torn between confusion and shame, though above all trying to hide how overjoyed he is to see the rusty curls and those haughty, sea-green eyes again. When Morse explains, and introduces the young trainee pilot with a face Fred remembers from his mirror as a long-lost grandson... well, it's good he's already sitting down, is all.

The years past, and they are gentler than they might have been.

Fred lives to see his grandson a captain, to meet his great-granddaughter. To introduce his grandson to his uncle and step-grandmother and eventually even his aunt. To become friends with Morse again, even if quietly, and for the most part only by letter. To relish that Douglas and Morse, despite occasionally enraging each other beyond reason, seem to be friends for life. (He suspects that they might once have been more than that; if they aren't going to tell him though, he's not going to point it out.) Something healed in him that day in York, and it never breaks again.

When Captain Douglas Richardson puts down the bottle, in an attempt to salvage something of his career and his relationship with his daughter, perhaps it's partly because he's still grieving for his grandfather, dead some ten years now, but most of all because he's still grieving for his friend and one-time lover, and doesn't want to die so young himself.

When First Officer Douglas Richardson meets his new captain at MJN's portacabin in Fitton, he's a little strikingly familiar too. He's shorter, and more pompous, and vastly less good at word games, but there are rusty curls and haughty sea-green eyes.

He's no relation of Morse's at all though, it turns out. This is, eventually, rather a relief.

#ficlet #itv endeavour #e morse #endeavour morse #cabin pressure #douglas richardson #fred thursday #martin crieff #well this rather ran away from me but hopefully someone else will have fun with it too ;-) #ridiculous crossover time #endeavour #roger allam #long post #tw alcoholism mention #tw canonical character deaths #tw complicated family history mention

[hiraganasakura]

I'm not sry for going a little unhinged over the cut RWBY V9 epilogue [lighthearted], especially over Qrow. You don't know how much it means to me that he's ok. He is my ultimate blorbo. I was so scared that he was gonna spiral into severe depression and alcoholism and it was gonna destroy me bcus of my hyperempathy for him. Instead I get destroyed by how pleasantly surprised I am that he's actually trying so hard to hope

He's still carrying his losses and things are pretty bad but he's *trying*, he's trying so hard to see the good in things, he has a support system that he can count on and is working to support others

And compare this to how Qrow used to be, the lone wolf who isolated himself from others bcus he was so scared of hurting them with his Semblance, who drank his troubles away no matter how much it hurt himself or those who loved him, who has experienced sm trauma and pain and loss throughout his life and recently... and he's *grown*. He's grown and changed sm and he's trying so so hard

Qrow is a character who means a lot to me (for reasons I can neither understand nor articulate). And to see how he's grown and changed and how he *wants* to hope no matter how hard it is makes me so so *so* proud of him

#original post #also it looks like his relationship with raven might get rebuilt! and i'm so happy for him! #i love this guy [platonic] and he holds such a special place in my heart. and i'm so happy that he's finally getting good things #he's helping willow with her own alcoholism! he's spreading ruby's message! he's becoming closer with robyn! he's reuniting with raven! #i rly rly hope v10 gets greenlit. obviously bcus i want this story to conclude. but also bcus i just wanna see my blorbo *happy* #i'm super close to crying over him rn you have no idea how much he means to me #rwby #qrow branwen #tw alcoholism mention #rwby9 #rwby9 spoilers #rwby9 epilogue

[galaxyworm103]

Me watching the Zed vs Schlatt poll and seeing people try and explain their reasonings why Zed shouldn’t be winning:

me: is nobody gonna tell these people that Zed was also canonically an alcoholic in his solo series, and that character Zed has an ambiguous sexuality because of Willy the Worm?? Who was his husband?? Also are we jus gonna ignore that before S8 he was associated with purple, because it’s a common sexyman color. Zed was often made some kinda horror back in 2021-2022, often relating to the Void itself. The entirety of S8 exists, where if you weren’t watching him, and didn’t see most of what he was doing, you’d probably be vaguely concerned due to the aesthetic and everything.

also. This is for my Ex n Wormman fans: Ex did not win last round. At least let Zed with the Wormman Skin win for them!! It’s what they would WANT!!

#wormtalks #worm talks #mcytblr sexyman polls #sexyman polls #wormman #zedaph #i am not tagging the other people mentioned here THIS IS FOR ZED #Zedsweep #Wormsweep #dO IT FOR WORMMAN #IF NOT FOR ZED. FOR WORMMAN #Tw alcoholism mention

[real-godzekiel]

shut the fuck up i'm figuring things out

opal doods

translations: 30多岁成年人->30+ year old grown adult 6岁小号->6 year old kid 我还在学习啊！->I'm still learning!! 想吃早饭-> wantsto eat breakfast

面包+土豆+火腿+白菜->bread+potato+ham+cabbage 水->water

translation：抱抱->huggy

know this might imply that i think grandpa is mom's dadbut some people call their father- in-law dad so i guess it's really up to interpretation. i've been thinking about what side that grandpa is on for many days, still haven't figured out anything. but i do think mom hates grandpa in some way

still think my way of drawing MM's face is off... (still too tumblr sexyman) maybe next time i'll try giving him a interesting head shape like the rest of the characters

#jack stauber's opal #opal jack stauber #jack stauber #jack stauber fanart #opal wine mom #opal mirror man #opal grandpa #opal claire #tw body horror #tw scars #tw drug addiction mention #tw alcoholism mention

[ghost-of-you]

I found this reaction to 5sos5 and it provided a new perspective on what the album could be about: https://youtu.be/OELCdhmi2io?si=3kLmP0fP2S3-VSWB

Wait wait wait I'm sorry but having shit like caramel be about the color of some hard licors and the comedown of getting sober is kinda mind-blowing. You add that to tracks like ydgtp and red line and tears and bloodhound even bleach and efyts and have that be about you fighting yourself and themes like addiction and alcoholism actually adds a whole new layer of interpretations about the songs. I think you can actually contextualize most of the song on the album around this and OH MY GOD. I'm legit staring at the wall trying to formulate something more coherent but he legit broke me. The whole motif of running around in circles trying to chase something you cant find anymore applied to trying to find the person you felt like you were when drinking or getting high was fun and made you feel good but now every time you crash, you crash harder so you try to stay away but you keep relapsing is actually fascinating. And it works? "When I lived between the bars" "it's hard to fake when I'm not faded" "I guess that's why I'm always high" "all my friends are up in mars... another lonely night" the entirety of bloodhound??? Like legit I'm sitting here 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 thank you so much for sending this, will be thinking about it forever.

#dude efyts applied to addiction is actually an amazing interpretation #OH MY GOD #i will be sitting here with the thoughts #should i trigger warn this? #i dont know how to if i have to #tw alcoholism mention #tw addiction mention #i guess? #i was asked #anon 😌 #rambling about the albums

[xx-rememberthepast-xx]

#aesthetic #edgy #aesthetic edit #edit #vibes #dark #alcohol #alcoholism #tw alcohol mention #tw alcoholism mention #tw alcohol #tw alcoholism #sad #depressing #honestly i don't know what aesthetic this is this is just my life motto #this how imna be when im legal #gon fuck and drink my pain away #lol #ig this is #traumacore #??? because the mention of needing therapy???

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

Solar Flare, watching Blood Moon and Monty interacting: I need alcohol to function after this interaction. Monty’s a mom, Monty might be my mother by association, my dad is a maniac who made kids with a gator apparently. I need a drink

Moon: Drinking isn’t a coping mechanism.

Solar Flare: Have you met my family? We don’t talk about our feelings, we bottle them up. Alcohol is about to become a coping mechanism.

#five nights at freddy's #fnaf #sun and moon show #sams #fnaf solar flare #fnaf bloodmoon #montgomery gator #fnaf moon #incorrect sun and moon show quotes #incorrect sams quotes #incorrect fnaf quotes #incorrect quotes #source: my brain #welcome to the work queue #tw alcohol mention #tw alcoholism mention

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 3)

previous // next // story index

__________

Beth-Anne has never liked hospitals.

She guesses no one really likes them, if they're being honest. Hospitals aren't exactly the most cheerful or fun places on Earth. Sure, they're arguably places of healing, but they're also places of suffering and loss, and in her life, bad hospital experiences have outweighed good ones.

Still, she's not the sort of person to let her feelings overpower her common sense and judgment. She may not care for doctors and hospitals, but she won't deny the necessity of them, and tonight — today? — is one of those times when she has to concede the usefulness of the medical establishment.

She gets up from the hard plastic chair she'd been sitting on and moves across the room to look out the window. The view below is of the hospital parking lot, with orange-hued lights making everything glow weirdly amid the softly falling snow. When had it started snowing? Illuminated by the amber lights, the snowflakes look surreal, like something from a dream.

This whole night has been like a bad dream.

She presses her palms flat against the window. The glass is cool, and so she leans in and touches her forehead against it too. The cold soothes the ache of tiredness that's taken up residence behind her eyebrows. She thinks about the two hours of sleep she'd gotten earlier, and knows she won't get any more until the sun is high over the horizon again.

When we're safe at home, I'll sleep then.

Nikolai will be coming home with her, once they let him out of the hospital. The two of them had reached that decision fairly quickly. He didn't want to go back to his own house, which was fine with her because she wouldn't have been comfortable leaving him alone there anyway, and he said he didn't want to stay with his parents either because they wouldn't understand what he was going through.

That was fair, Beth-Anne supposed. Elena and Mikhail probably wouldn't get it. They'd no doubt be perplexed by the enormity of Nikolai's distress, and they wouldn't grasp why he needed to go to the hospital in the middle of the night if he wasn't sick. Nikolai's parents are good, kind people, but emotional intelligence is not among their strengths. They're stoic and unsentimental, and not the sort of people to whom Beth-Anne would easily entrust the care of someone as fragile as Nikolai is right now, even if he is their son.

As for Beth-Anne, she's been accused of being pragmatic too, but she likes to think her practicality is tempered by some degree of sensitivity and emotional awareness. She recognized almost straight away that Nikolai was perilously close to a breaking point and that she couldn't help him on her own, at least not in the short term.

When she first arrived at his house and saw the state he was in, she knew he'd need some professional intervention. She hadn't wanted to ambush him with the idea, though, or force him into it. Instead, for the first several minutes, she'd simply sat there in the front hallway with him, holding him and letting him cry. She didn't ask questions. She didn't talk much at all, except to murmur reassuring words into his unkempt hair, to let him know he was safe and that she'd take care of him.

When his tears finally slowed to a trickle, she gave him a hand up and guided him into the downstairs bathroom. He sat on the little wooden bench in the corner and gazed at nothing while she fetched fresh towels from the linen cupboard and started running a hot bath. She left the bathroom door open while she ran upstairs to his bedroom to grab clean, warm clothes for him, and her heart was racing with anxiety the entire time he was out of her sight even though she was gone all of two minutes.

The tub was sufficiently filled by the time she returned. She shut off the taps and then tested the temperature of the bathwater with her wrist. It was perhaps a little hotter than most people would prefer, but she'd seen Nikolai wander out of a locker room shower on more than one occasion with his skin pink from the heat, so she surmised that he'd likely find it just right.

She gestured in the direction of the tub. "There you go. It's all yours."

He stared at her blankly, as if he hadn't understood.

"Nikolai," she said gently. "Bath."

He blinked. "Oh. Right."

Despite his eventual acknowledgement, he didn't move. When Beth-Anne reminded him that he needed to undress, he plucked feebly at the hem of his t-shirt as if he had no idea how to get it off. He peered up at her with watery, pleading eyes, and she realized she would have to help him.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said. "Lift your arms."

He did as she instructed, raising his arms as gracefully as he would if he were dancing or performing an artistic sequence on the ice. Beth-Anne couldn't articulate exactly why, but observing the fluid motion hurt her a little inside. His body knew that movement; knew it so well that maybe it didn't require conscious thought any more. She wondered if he would continue to move that way for the rest of his life, a beautiful and effortless dancer even when no one was watching.

She pulled the grungy t-shirt off him, and the spell in her mind was broken as much by the sour odour of dried sweat as it was by his bemused mumble of, "You're going to see me naked."

"I've seen naked men before," she told him, matter-of-fact. "They're nothing to get excited about. Now, come on. Shorts and underpants next, and then socks."

She steadied him as he limped the few steps from the bench to the tub and climbed awkwardly into it. He sank down into the hot water with a little noise that was half moan and half sigh. He closed his eyes. "This feels good on my leg."

"We should've put some Epsom salts in there, shouldn't we?" she said. "Do you think you can manage washing yourself?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Okay. Just tell me if you need anything."

"Are you going to stay in here with me?" he asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

She settled on the floor with her back to the tub to offer him some small measure of privacy. For the next several minutes, she did her best to relax, listening to the sloshes and drips of water behind her and trying to convince herself that everything would be all right.

Will it be, though? a little voice somewhere in the back of her mind taunted. Nothing's ever going to be the same after this.

No, it wouldn't be the same. Neither Nikolai's life nor hers could go back to the way it had been before the disastrous event at the Four Continents, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be okay. Stan is fond of saying that change isn't inherently good or bad. "Change is inevitable," he'd often tell her. "But it's just change. The goodness or badness of it comes from how you respond to it, not from the situation itself."

She trusts Stan, and over the years she's come to realize this precept, like so many other pieces of advice he's given her, is true for the most part. She's seen many times that the decisions she makes in response to something have a direct effect not only on the outcome, but on how she personally feels about it.

She's not perfect, though, and sometimes her responses to change aren't particularly rational. When she thought about Anya and the changes she'd wrought on poor Nikolai's already dramatically altered life, for instance, her brain was overtaken by anger strong enough to make her want to put her fist through a wall.

Get your mind off that, she told herself. She's terrified by her own anger, but evidently no amount of self-admonishment was enough in that particular moment to sway her from fuming as she sat there on Nikolai's bathroom floor.

What had been going through Anya's head? Had she really believed it was fine to just leave Nikolai alone? She must have recognized that he needed help, yet she'd apparently decided to abandon him anyway.

And how long had she been gone? The last time Beth-Anne was at the house had been three days ago, and all indications had pointed to Anya's presence then. Beth-Anne had noticed two sets of dishes still on the table, uncleared from breakfast, and there'd been a sleek pair of high-heeled black leather boots and a long red wool coat by the front door. The coat and boots were missing now.

It occurred to her that while she'd been upstairs in the bedroom she hadn't seen any of Anya's things there either. On top of the dresser on the left hand side, she'd spotted men's deodorant, Calvin Klein cologne, a blue mug bearing the phrase 'Number One Cat Dad', and a green camouflage glasses case she recognized as Nikolai's. The right-hand side of the dresser was conspicuously bare.

She's not coming back, Beth-Anne realized.

Why hadn't Nikolai said anything? They'd spoken on the phone every day since her previous visit, but he hadn't mentioned anything about Anya leaving. Then again, maybe there hadn’t been anything to mention. Maybe Anya had still been there until a few hours ago.

But, that wouldn't explain...

Nikolai's voice inserted itself into her musings. "Beth-Anne?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Ready to get out?"

"Not yet," he said. "Can you help me wash my hair?"

He was perfectly capable of washing his own hair, but she obliged his request nevertheless, because she figured he probably wanted the human contact and she couldn't bring herself to deny him.

Once his hair was clean, she helped him out of the tub and handed him a towel. He dried himself off, and then she bundled him up in sweatpants, a hoodie and thick socks.

"Are you warmer now?" She picked up a wide-toothed comb from the counter next to the sink and began to run it through his damp hair. It smelled of peaches from the shampoo they'd used. Probably Anya's, she thought, not that it matters. it's not as if she's here to use it herself.

"Yeah, thanks," he said. "My knee's really hurting, though."

"What happened?" she asked. "It didn't seem that bad last time I was here."

He lowered his eyes. "I fell. On the stairs."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she momentarily stopped combing. "What? How?"

"Anya..." he began, but paused and swallowed convulsively several times. 'My crutches were upstairs. I asked Anya to bring them down before she left, but I don't know if she forgot, or if she ignored me. Going down the stairs is easy without them because I can just sort of, you know... scoot down on my bum, but going up is a lot more difficult, and..." He gave a little shrug, as if the rest of the story was self-explanatory.

It was. Beth-Anne could easily infer what had happened. He'd attempted to go upstairs to get the crutches himself, stumbled or lost his footing somehow, and fell down God alone knew how many of the fourteen steps leading to the second floor. She guessed he'd been too scared to try again, which meant he'd been restricted to the downstairs portion of the house, which in turn meant that he couldn't access his dresser or closet or the walk-in shower in the upstairs bathroom that he could get into without help.

Judging by the fact that he hadn't changed his clothes since she'd last seen him and that he’d looked and smelled like he hadn't washed in a while, Beth-Anne concluded Anya hadn't made her exit that afternoon or evening. She'd left three days ago.

Three days. Jesus-fucking-Christ.

Beth-Anne was furious, but she couldn't let her anger show on her face. The last thing she wanted was for Nikolai to jump to the wrong conclusion that she was angry with him.

"Why didn't you tell someone?" she asked.

"I thought she'd come back, and I... I didn't want to bother anyone with it."

"You're never a bother." She brushed back the lock of damp hair that had flopped across one of his eyebrows. "You could've told me. You could've called Ginger or your sister or Stan. Ginger and Natalya both would've been here in a heartbeat for you. I would have too, if only you'd asked."

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke on the last syllable.

"You don't need to be sorry."

He shook his head. "I can't get anything right lately. I'm disappointing everyone, and..." The rest of the sentence was lost in tears, which he swiped at fiercely with the back of his hand.

"You're not disappointing me." She knelt so that she was on his eye level, where he was seated on the bench. "I love you, and I'm very proud of you, no matter what."

"But I can't... I mean, you know what the doctors said. I'm never going to compete again."

"Sweetheart, look at me for a second." She reached up to touch his face, carefully wiping away tears with her thumb. "That doesn't matter."

"But—"

"You matter," she said. "Everything else is secondary. Nothing that happens in our lives is going to change how I feel."

"You said you'd be with me as long as I wanted you to."

"I did, and I meant it. It's just as true now as it was when I said it the first time. Maybe even more so, actually," she told him. "You remember what you said you wanted?"

He sniffled, and then whispered, "Forever."

"Forever," she agreed. "We know what that means, don't we? You're going to be stuck with me for a long time, so try to stop worrying about it, okay?"

"Okay," he said.

She pulled some toilet paper off the roll and passed it to him so he could wipe his eyes and blow his nose. He reminded her of a little kid, with his wide eyes and messy hair, and only his fingers poking out from the cuffs of his too-long sweatshirt sleeves.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, wanting to steer the conversation into less weighty territory. "If you are, I'll make you something. Then, maybe we can go and have your knee seen to."

"At this hour?" he said.

"The emergency department is open twenty-four hours a day."

"Can you make me peanut butter toast?"

"You and your peanut butter toast." She smiled. "Of course I can make you that. Then, will you let me take you to get checked out?"

"Yeah," he acquiesced. "I don't want to go to the hospital, but I'm really uncomfortable, and the only thing we've got here is ibuprofen. Maybe if we go there, the doctors can give me something stronger."

That's one of the problems with doctors, she grumbles to herself, as she steps away from the coolness of the hospital room's window. They're far too willing to give you something stronger. Their first instinct is to fill you full of drugs, mask the pain, numb your body and your mind so you'll forget it and stop complaining. Fucking dangerous bastards.

Except, people don't forget. Not really. All those chemicals are only a temporary measure.

She goes back to her chair, but she doesn't sit. Standing next to the bed, she looks down at Nikolai who is curled on his side, sound asleep. A nurse or care assistant came in at some point and put a pillow between his knees — to help relieve pressure, they explained — and Nikolai hadn't even stirred. That was a result of the medication, of course. He isn't normally a heavy sleeper.

She studies his face, serene and untroubled in repose. The visible tension in his neck and jaw seems to have disappeared, and the tiny permanent crease between his eyebrows looks mostly smoothed out. She's glad he's resting, even if his sleep is induced by painkillers and an anti-anxiety pill.

Initially, she and Nikolai had both balked at what the emergency room doctor referred to as "mental health medications." When the doctor started talking about suicide intervention and mental health evaluations and a possible referral to a psychologist or psychiatrist. Beth-Anne could tell Nikolai immediately regretted admitting to the man that his injured leg wasn't the only thing that was bothering him.

"I think it would be in your best interest," the doctor said.

"No. I don't want that," Nikolai said, and Beth-Anne was gratified to see a spark of emotion in him that wasn't sadness or defeat. He was clinging to her hand for dear life and it was obvious to her that he was scared, but he was fighting for himself and, in her mind, that was a good sign. "I'm exhausted and in pain. I don't want to talk about my problems to a stranger, and I... I'm not going to hurt myself. I just want to sleep."

The doctor's lips thinned into a disapproving line, but then he sighed and said, "All right. I can give you something for pain, and something to help you sleep, but I would like to admit you to the hospital for observation for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. And I think we need some imaging on that knee in the morning."

In the end, Nikolai agreed, although he was clearly not happy about having to spend the rest of the night and possibly the entire next day in the hospital. He was even less happy when the doctor informed Beth-Anne that she could accompany him to his room but would then have to leave, since visitors weren't allowed to stay the night.

"She promised she wouldn't leave me," Nikolai protested. "She has to stay."

"I don't make the rules, I'm afraid," the doctor said. "Ma'am, you will have to leave, and—"

"Like hell I'm leaving," Beth-Anne cut the annoying man off. "As long as Nikolai is here, I'm here."

"I don't think—" the doctor began.

"Look," Beth-Anne gave the doctor what she hoped was her best intimidating glare. "You want to keep him for observation, right? I know how it works around here at night. They don't observe shit, because they're all too busy watching reruns of Golden Girls and doing crossword puzzles at the nurses' station while most of the patients are sleeping. So, if you really want to observe him, leave the job to someone who actually gives a fuck."

"Ma'am, I understand that you're concerned about your son, but—"

She didn't bother to correct him about her and Nikolai's relationship. He probably wouldn't have paid attention anyway.

"You're damn right about that," she said. "A hell of a lot more concerned than anybody else around here. So, go ahead. Try to make me leave if you really want to, but I'm telling you right now, if I'm not here and something happens to my boy on your watch, there's going to be major hell to pay."

The doctor was quiet for a handful of seconds, and appeared to be taking a measure of her, maybe trying to figure out whether she needed his so-called mental health medication more than Nikolai did.

At last, he said, "Very well. We'll make an exception. Just this one time."

"Thank you," Beth-Anne said. "I'm glad you're able to see it my way."

A man around Nikolai's age, outfitted in burgundy scrubs and impossibly white sneakers escorted them into the wide elevator, up to the fifth floor, and into what would be Nikolai's room for the night. It was pretty much what Beth-Anne expected; scuffed white linoleum floors, yellowish-beige walls reminiscent of the shade of cat vomit, a tall, narrow bed with a pitifully thin blanket, and a chair that looked as if it was designed specifically to make people squirm after five minutes of sitting in it.

She'd seen enough rooms like this to last her a lifetime, and the memories made her shudder. She suppressed them as quickly as she could. The last thing she needed was to start thinking about Jason or her father or grandmother. She told herself she could fall apart later. This was not the time.

A nurse arrived just as the man in the burgundy scrubs was leaving. She was young too, perhaps in her early thirties, with gorgeous dark skin and her hair done up in dozens of intricate little braids. She reminded Beth-Anne of one of her former lovers, and Beth-Anne immediately felt reassured by the other woman's presence, ridiculous as that was.

The nurse's ID badge identified her as Peace Adebayo. The woman's name was Peace. Inexplicably, Beth-Anne felt the urge to cry.

Nikolai was not nearly as impressed with the beautifully-named Peace. He whined about having to put on the hospital gown she gave him, and whined even more when she fitted a brace around his knee exactly like the one he'd had to wear after his initial injury. Then, as Peace was settling him into bed, he complained about the scratchy blanket and grumbled his speculation that they'd probably serve runny eggs and weak tea for breakfast.

"You're hard to please, Mr. Pavlenko," the nurse commented, her delivery more amused than admonishing.

"He's usually not like this," Beth-Anne said. "He's actually very sweet."

Nikolai scowled. "I'm not in the mood to be sweet right now, and a hard bed and bad food aren't going to convince me to be any sweeter."

Any other time, Beth-Anne might've scolded him for making such a fuss, but this time she was inclined to be indulgent. "I don't think there's much we can do about the bed, but maybe if we ask really nicely, Stan or Ginger will sneak you a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in the morning," She added in a stage whisper. "Don't tell the nurse."

Peace looked like she was trying not to laugh, but Nikolai appeared to have missed the humour. "Are you going to call them?" he asked. "Ginger and Stan?"

"I will," Beth-Anne said. "When the sun comes up."

"And my parents?"

"If you want me to."

"Yes, and my sister, please."

It wasn't lost on her that he hadn't included Anya in the list of people he wanted her to call. In an ideal world, it should have been Anya here at the hospital with her husband, but unfortunately, they did not live in an ideal world. It was probably just as well, Beth-Anne supposed, because she didn't think she could trust herself to be civil when it came to Nikolai's wife. In fact, she'd like nothing more than to metaphorically rip the younger woman to shreds, so perhaps it was better if Anya didn't come anywhere near.

She held Nikolai's hand while Peace gave him a shot of something in his upper arm.

"That should take effect in five to ten minutes," she said. "I need to see to other patients now, but if you need anything, you can press the call button and someone will come around."

Beth-Anne nodded and thanked her.

In reality, it'd taken less than five minutes for whatever had been in Peace's needle to take effect. Nikolai was asleep before Beth-Anne even had the chance to tell him goodnight, and then she was left alone with her thoughts.

Never a good thing, being left alone with my thoughts.

She sat in the plastic chair for nearly an hour, holding Nikolai's hand while he slept because even in sleep his fingers were locked around hers. It was only when he rolled over that he let go of her, freeing her to get up and pace the room.

That's what she's doing again now, walking back and forth from the bed to the window. She glances at the time display on her fitness tracker. The luminescent numbers declare that it's 4:37 a.m.

Only another hour, and then I can call Stan.

A notoriously early riser, Stan wouldn't mind a call from her at half-past five in the morning. It certainly won't be the first time she's phoned him at that hour, and she suspects it won't be the last.

Stan isn't a hugger, but the sound of his voice often feels like a hug to her. The lyrical cadence of his Czech-accented English and his calm, confident tone feel like the emotional equivalent of a lullaby and a blanket and the knowledge of being warm and safe indoors while a winter storm rages outside. She needs that right now, because despite how composed she may seem on the outside, she's a stormy mess on the inside. She needs to be anchored, and if anyone can do that, it's Stan Kovac.

From the day they'd met, he'd been an anchor for her in both big and small ways, and he'd never given up on her, even when it seemed almost everyone else had.

It was Stan who rescued her, saved her from herself during the darkest period of her life. After Jason died, after her accident, after she'd ruined her skating career and everything was going so horribly wrong, Stan was the one who was there for her. He'd listened to her, advocated for her, and applied enough tough love to push her off the path of self-destruction she'd been on and back to the straight-and-narrow.

He'd even encouraged her to reconcile with her mother, although that was one subject on which he would never persuade her to agree. That bitch had wanted to pull the plug on her own son, and Beth-Anne vowed she would never forgive her for that.

The fact that Jason had passed anyway was not the point. He'd deserved the chance to fight until he couldn't fight any more, and the idea that his only parent didn't want to grant him that chance, however slim it might've been, was something Beth-Anne could not overlook. Perhaps if she'd wanted to show him mercy and kindness, Beth-Anne would've understood, but the twisted expression of disgust on Claudia Jones's face had held no compassion in it.

"The sooner you pull the plug, the sooner he goes to hell," Claudia had said, and Beth-Anne hated her. She'd never hated anyone before that, and the white-hot rage that rose like a tidal wave inside her made her wish she didn't hate Claudia either. That kind of emotion was too powerful to control.

So, instead of controlling it, she tried to dull it with alcohol. That worked for a short time, until she got blind drunk one afternoon and rode her bicycle off a bridge.

It was a small country footbridge with a flimsy rope railing that wasn't enough to impede the trajectory of Beth-Anne and her bike. To this day, she's not sure if she really meant to do it. She can't remember if riding over the edge had been her plan all along, or if she'd changed her mind at the last second but was too late to stop herself.

The drop to the stream below the bridge wasn't far, perhaps three metres, but the water in the stream was low from lack of rain that summer, and she'd been going at speed. She landed on the rocks, and the world around her went mercifully black.

When she woke up, she was in the hospital and Stan was with her. He barely left her side for the first few days, and when he did have to go, he made sure somebody else she trusted was there. His wife, or one of Beth-Anne's friends from the rink.

He never called Claudia, because he knew.

Beth-Anne returns to her chair, and this time she lowers herself into it instead of turning and going back to the window. There's a twinge of discomfort in her hip. Sitting down might not make it better, but more walking will definitely make it worse, so she resolves to rest for a while.

Nikolai shifts position in his sleep. He whimpers a little and stretches out his hand reflexively. Beth-Anne catches it in hers.

"I'm here," she says, even though she's fairly certain he's too out of it to really hear her.

Nikolai, I swear I won't let what happened to me happen to you.

Hatred, bitterness, anger, grief, guilt, fear... they're all a toxin to the soul if they're not kept in check. Even one of them can destroy a person from the inside if it grows too strong. And she should know. They've all tried to poison her.

Beth-Anne understands that she can't choose anything for Nikolai, can't tell him what to think or how to feel, but one thing she can do is support him. She can remind him that he doesn't have to tackle any problem on his own, and maybe if he doesn't lose sight of that, he won't stray down the same treacherous road that she did.

#writing #the art of redemption #theartofredemption #beth-anne jones #nikolai pavlenko #tw suicide mention #tw alcoholism mention #tw mental health #tw hospital #tw injury #stargazersims

[amongmoths666]

Ok, genuine question for people doing vent art (not only talking about drawings/edits but writing, making and any type of artistic expression) do you feel like it has helped you and is it something you would recommend? I'm currently looking for coping mechanisms and an outlet to release my negative emotions that does not include SH or drinking myself into oblivion lmao

#vent art #gen q #actually mentally ill #actuallymentallyill #mental health #coping mechanisms #tw alcoholism mention #actually neurodivergent #nd #sam's rambles #venting #ventcore

[megafawna-permhiatus]

some silly girls i drew up today! working on a bunny bunny comic as we speak (ooooh crazy stuff) so i wanted to finalize these babe's designs for once wynnie meets them in the story. will probably scan and release the first couple comic pages by the end of next week! planning on setting up a section of the neocities page for it as well.

#.art #bunny bunny #mari (oc) #belle (oc) #abeline (oc) #mother superior/señora anne (oc) #laura (oc) #oc tag #nuns #tw catholicism #tw alcoholism mention #tw gambling #character designs #furry art #character designing #character design #furry #furry designs #mexican artist #trans artist #traditional art #traditional sketch #pencil sketches #pencil sketch

[nicksancheez]

status: closed 

 location: Providence Peak Memorial 

 for: @gabrielaxricci​

 He was laying in the hospital bed. There were bright lights beating down on him and the man's head was killing him. The rush of blood was pouring out of his ear. Was it his ear or head? Nick had no idea. He just wanted the pain to stop. Why didn't it stop? The constant pain was becoming unbearable. Doctors were standing above him. Flashlights shining in his eyes. The shouting. It was too loud. Make it stop. Nick just wanted it all to stop. "I want Gabi." He yelled at first, Nick took a deep breath and then let out a frustrated groan when the Surgeons tried to work on him "Get off of me!" Though it was no use, the Surgeons just kept telling him to lay still. He didn't want too. Right now, right now Nick just wanted his wife and daughter. Fuck. Violet. Where was Violet? His mind was running a million miles per minute and his heart was beating out of his chest. "Sir. Sargent Sanchez, youve been in a car accident. What are you on Sargent?" He heard someone ask him and Nick closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration "I want Gabi. Where's my wife?" He questioned, his voice becoming louder and the man let out a cry when they pushed him back down into the bed "No! Get off of me. I need my wife. I need her. I need my wife and daughter. I just want Violet. Where is she?" He questioned, Nick’s voice all choked up, he let out another sob and as soon as he squeezed his eyes shut the Sargent opened opened them, his wife was standing with the team of Surgeons "Gabi?" Nick coughed, but then shook his head “They won’t take me to Violet. Why can’t I see her? Where is she?” The man was still out of it, he looked at his wife “Gab. Please. We can--, we can make this right.” His voice was all choked up again and Nick looked at her, he was high. High on drugs and alcohol that he had been taking all throughout the day, Nick looked at her “Gabriela?” 

#&*nicholas sanchez/ every single day is a new chance so try again; threads. #(gabriela ricci.) #tw blood mention #tw drug addiction mention #tw alcoholism mention #ok lets just say he's in the hospital and that he has his beard the man has no gifs #i hope this is okay! if i need to change anything pls lmk!

[mywingsareonwheels]

Ugh, that thing Russell Lewis does...

... of dropping in devastating or revealing character information in off-hand bits of dialogue or the info on a tombstone you see for one second or this this that and the other. Right up until the final episode.

Some of the things that are really blink-and-you’ll-miss-it the first time around if you’re not careful:-

Bright lost his daughter. While way posher than most of the characters he’s still not from quite as upper class a background as his wife (who cheated on him at least once, though they weathered it). Her nickname for him means “tiger”. He doesn’t seem to have fit in comfortably at any point with anyone, perhaps indeed until he starts to bond more closely with Fred and Morse in the last 2-3 series.

Win was stalwartly in London for at least part of the Blitz. She once met a guy with a foot fetish who flirted with her and she’s still tolerantly amused decades later.

Constance was less than 20 when she had Morse. (AAAAAAAH.) (Everything about her marriage to Cyril sounds horrifying frankly.)

Max is gay and has a lost love (“and one was fond of me” / ”the one that got away”)

Fred grew up without indoor plumbing and generally in fairly intense poverty, he and Charlie at least (presumably Billy and I suspect their mother too) were physically abused by their father (who was an alcoholic).

Also on Fred: he was already an anti-fascist in the 1930s including when it meant joining with one of his colleagues (Sgt Vimes, who Sam was probably named after) against the rest. (Frankly Fred is the king of the “devastating info that is easily missed”, and that last point regards some moderately obscure knowledge to decode but it’s solid once you have that.)

Jakes’s non-Blenheim Vale background was very poor too, given his familiarity with the “Never-Neverland” of the kind of housing estate that replaced the kind of slum that Fred grew up in.

Dorothea has had a fricking epic past doing war correspondence etc..

Sam was bullied at school and didn’t tell his father because he was worried about how he would react.

Jim was brought up by his apparently rather obnoxious and judgemental grandmother, which might explain the desperate need to fit in and get on at all costs, as well as the extremely skilled peacemaking at times. He might have been in the navy before the police, though that’s a bit more uncertain.

Trewlove went to a posh enough school to have serious chess-playing as a thing. (She’s definitely the only person at the station with a comparable class background to Bright’s.)

And so on; I know I’ve missed out plenty of things here and especially I know there’s some info about Win that’s on the tip of my brain and I can’t quite remember. (I think she’s from Blackpool originally, e.g. and misses the sea? And did some war work outside London?) I weirdly couldn’t think of anything significant that’s not already foregrounded about Joan, Box, Fancy, or Monica; help me out here lovelies. :-) 

This is on top of eveeeeerything about Morse, which is far more foregrounded but even he has things dropped in very casually sometimes.

Goodness they’re all so messy and I love them all so very very much. <3 (Though also: I so very much wish that Lewis gave just *more* to his women characters. I have the obvious reservations about Joan’s arc (I *like* Strange, but... hmmmmmmmmmm), and the obvious wishing that Monica and Trewlove especially had had far far more to do.)

#itv endeavour #tw child death mention #tw child abuse mention #tw alcoholism mention #reginald bright #win thursday #constance morse #max debryn #fred thursday #peter jakes #dorothea frazil #sam thursday #jim strange #shirley trewlove #endeavour morse #endeavour s9 #endeavour spoilers #russell lewis

[the-bee-graveyard]

Something that pisses me off is when my mom will be like "I don't want to have to live with an alcoholic again. That was hell." Which sure. Fine. I get that. But then she'll get mad at me for having continuing symptoms of mental illness and expressing that? And expressing problems that won't go away.

So it's like..what do you want me to do? You don't want me to drink but you're mad every time I talk about how depressed and traumatized I am so like???? What am I supposed to do then? Die???

Like me drinking is a way to get me off of her back. It's not like I'm wrecking shit or destroying the house or whatever. She shouldn't care.

Sorry for venting I'm just a little annoyed rn. (And kinda tipsy)

Never apologise for venting! I’m sorry I couldn’t respond sooner, term ending lots of work blah blah blah.

I understand where your mom is coming from. I know how hard it is to watch people you love deal with alcoholism. And I also know she’s going about it completely the wrong way and it’s totally not fair to you.

Almost every alcoholic I’ve ever met used alcohol as a way to attempt to cope with mental illness. If she’s not going to let you cope and talk through your feelings in healthy ways she’s just going to make the problem worse.

She clearly cares about you if she wants you to stop drinking, but that doesn’t mean she automatically gets a free pass if she’s been treating you wrong. You guys seem to be stuck in this corner where her trauma from alcohol is keeping you from recovering from your own. She’s part of the problem and she needs to recognise that if she truly wants to help you.

You are always more then welcome to come to me if you ever need to talk about your feelings in a healthy way instead of drinking. I am always here’s for you❤️

#asks #the 🧚fae🧚 tag #tw alcoholism #tw alcoholism mention

[ask-the-celestial-family]

Hey harvest bloody why are you two fighting?

This idiot won’t stop hiding things from me! -Harvest Moon💕

And this asshole is hiding stuff from everyone! Apparently he had a fucking drinking problem too that he never fucking thought to tell me about! -Blood Moon❤️

You didn’t need to fucking know! You kept Eclipse a secret for two weeks! -Harvest Moon!

#kill lunar au #fnaf harvest moon #fnaf bloodmoon #fnaf eclipse #harvest moon answers #blood moon answers #tw fighting mention #tw cursing #tw alcohol mention #tw alcoholism mention

[sunlitmcgee]

in honor of women's day, I'm channeling my inner ww2 era stay at home housewife who's been beaten daily by her husband and has hence forth turned to the bottle to cope with the news of her son's death on the front lines. #feminism

#tw abuse mention #tw alcoholism mention #sorry Im having a rough one #happy day 2 women #ily women sorry I'm just sad rn #gime a minute. i will get better