This poll is referring to Benadryl Allergy, an allergy/antihistamine medication sold in the US, usually in the form of pink pills or capsules. The active ingredient is dipenhydramine. In other countries, the name Benadryl refers to other medications with different active ingredients. Answer only based on the form found in the US.
Does benadryl (dipenhydramine) make you drowsy?
Yes, extremely drowsy
Yes, moderately drowsy
Only mildly drowsy
No, it doesn't affect my energy/alertness
No, it makes me more energetic/alert
Benadryl's effects on me have varied
I've never taken this medicine/not recently enough to remember/I don't know
Voting ended onJun 11, 2025
Anon has seen jokes along the lines of "benadryl: because you can't sneeze when you're in a coma" and heard of people taking it in order to fall asleep, but benadryl has never made anon even a little bit drowsy, even when they've taken larger doses, and they're curious about how common that is.
While every medication does affect people differently, pollmonger wonders if anon is from the UK, where benadryl contains acrivastine instead of dipenhydramine.
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We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.
as a gamer, i don't think crunching for game studios is bad at all. almost all games i've played where that's common are some of the best games released. i think it's something developers sign up for.
Let's set aside for a moment how callous and entitled that statement could sound to others. That's probably not how you feel or what you meant, but that's very much how it comes across. We're setting it aside. Here's why you, as a gamer, should care about how bad crunch is for us as developers.
First, you say that almost all great games you've played were crunched for. Sure, that's probably true. But consider - how many of the games you thought were bad were also crunched for? The answer is, unfortunately, even more of them. And of the vast number of games you never played? Crunch across the board there too. Crunch comes in when there is more work to do than there is time remaining. Which do you think has more problems near release - games that are firing on all cylinders or games that are a huge mess? It's the messes that crunch the hardest because the messes have the most work to do. Because crunch is so pervasive across the board, it means that crunch is mostly irrelevant to the quality of the resulting game. If anything, the amount of needed crunch is more highly correlated to a game being bad than being good.
Next, consider the tradeoffs of crunch. For as long as I can remember, a large number of developers leave the game industry for other careers after around five years. Crunch is a large part of this - we're burning people out by overworking them. We're killing our social relationships and our health, people can't take it, so they quit for greener pastures. But this isn't just about the dev's perspective. Let me bring it back to why this should matter to the gamer. By burning all of these developers out, we're also nuking all of the potential awesome games, features, content, and technology that these developers could have built once they leveled up. Every time a gamer complains that a new game "is just more of the same" and laments not seeing new or innovative things, consider the numbers of younger devs permanently lost to the crunch monster. That's where a huge amount of innovation is going - it's leaving the industry because we burned them out.
What crunch does for you, my gamer, is it indicates a lack of game quality due to problems during development. It consumes the futures of developers who could have gone on to innovate and come up with really cool stuff. It masquerades as "passion" for work that ends up taking a huge toll on people you've never met. The best games are the best games in spite of crunch, not because of it.
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When you’re left alone with Dr. Victoria Siebert, the poised, commanding psychiatrist whose presence makes your heart race, restraint is impossible. What starts as teasing glances and subtle touches quickly escalates into something far more intense.
Read on AO3
can be read as catherine or victoria :)
𝑼𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍
The office was unnervingly quiet at this hour. The kind of silence that made the hum of the fluorescent lights sound almost oppressive, buzzing in your skull, refusing to be ignored. You tapped aimlessly at your keyboard, half-finished sentences littering the screen, but nothing was sinking in. Every few seconds, your gaze slid to the clock, or the door, or anywhere that wasn’t the blank report in front of you.
You weren’t restless because of the work. You were restless because of her.
Victoria Siebert.
Even when she wasn’t physically there, she lingered like smoke after a fire. The ghost of her perfume clung to your skin from earlier in the day, heady spice and something darker, more intoxicating, like the kind of scent designed to drag you under. The memory of her voice was smooth and deliberate, every word an incision that cut through you like a live current.
So when the sharp echo of heels clicked down the hall, your pulse instantly betrayed you. Fast, shallow, impossible to ignore.
She appeared in the doorway, framed by the harsh office lighting. Her arms were folded across her chest, her head tilted just enough to signal amusement, and her mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t soft at all. It was the kind of smile that stripped you bare before she’d even spoken.
“You’re still here,” she drawled, her voice a velvet blade. “Tell me—are you actually working, or just hiding from me?”
Heat spread up your throat. You stared at the glowing screen, pretending to type, fingers twitching against the keys. The movement gave you away, of course. She noticed everything.
Her laugh was soft, low, mocking. She pushed off the doorway and crossed the room, each step slow and deliberate, the sound of her heels filling the silence until it seemed like the whole office was echoing with her. By the time she reached you, her perfume was inescapable, wrapping around you until every breath was hers.
Her hand grazed your shoulder as she passed, just a brush of her fingers, but your entire body jerked at the touch.
“You’ve been at this desk all day,” she murmured, her voice sliding over your skin like silk and steel at once. She circled behind you, the sound of her heels punctuating the silence. “And yet…” She trailed off, her tone amused, as if she’d already read every thought in your head. “You’re squirming.”
When she returned to your side, she didn’t stand. She perched on the edge of your desk, as though it belonged to her, as though you belonged to her. Her thigh brushed your arm lightly, the friction of fabric sparking heat along your skin. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed her legs, her gaze never leaving yours.
“Relax.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, more command than suggestion.
Your muscles betrayed you, stiffening instead of obeying. Her eyes glittered at the reaction. She reached down, her nails grazing lightly along your forearm before sliding down to your hand. The scrape was delicate, almost teasing, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
“Tense little thing,” she murmured, her words brushing your ear as she leaned closer. “I think I know exactly what you need.”
Her lips grazed your temple, not even planting a kiss, more the ghost of one, before she pulled back. Her fingers curled over the back of your chair and tipped it slowly, guiding you to lean into it, her control subtle but undeniable.
“You’re wound so tight,” she said, nails dragging lightly up your thigh, higher and higher, stopping just shy of where you ached for her. “I can feel it humming in you. All this nervous energy, bottled up. It’s not work that has you restless, is it?”
Your chest rose sharply. You couldn’t answer, not properly, not with her hand so close.
“Pathetic,” she whispered, her smirk slicing through you as her hand withdrew, only to press firmly against your jaw, forcing you to look at her. Her nails bit lightly into your cheek, anchoring you in place. “You can’t even sit in a chair next to me without dripping. Can you?”
Your throat bobbed. “I—”
“No excuses.” The command was sharp, final. “Answer me. Do you like me touching you?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
“Good girl.”
Her hand slid from your jaw to your hip, firm and unrelenting, dragging you forward until your knees parted slightly. Then she shifted, positioning herself closer, pressing the length of her thigh between yours. The fabric of her trousers was smooth but unyielding, firm against your heat.
The first press of contact made you gasp, your hips jerking forward instinctively.
She laughed softly, cruelly. “Already? God, you’re desperate. I’ve barely touched you, and you’re soaking through your panties.”
Her hand gripped your jaw again, forcing your gaze to hers. “Don’t look away from me,” she warned, her tone sharp enough to cut. “I want to see the exact moment you break.”
Her other hand pressed hard into your hip, dragging you down against her thigh, guiding the angle. The pressure was immediate, unbearable, exactly where you needed it most.
“Move.”
The single word detonated in you. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, hips rolling against her thigh. The friction was devastating. The rough drag of her trousers against your clit through your panties, the steady grip of her hand forcing your pace. You whimpered, clutching at the desk for balance.
“That’s it,” she purred, the mocking lilt still there. “Rub that needy little clit on me. Show me how badly you want it.”
Her grip tightened, slowing your rhythm to a deliberate grind. Each roll of your hips was deeper, slower, maddening. Every dragged-out second pushed you further toward the edge without letting you tumble over.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear. “Grinding like a needy slut, soaking me. Do you even hear yourself? All those pathetic little noises. That’s the sound of my control.”
A broken moan slipped from your throat. She smirked.
“Say it,” she demanded. “Say you belong to me.”
“I—I belong to you,” you gasped, your body quivering under her hold.
“Louder.” Her nails bit into your hip.
“I belong to you!”
Her eyes darkened with satisfaction. “Good girl. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop until you’ve made a mess of my clothes.”
Your movements grew frantic, desperate, the rough drag of her thigh sending shockwaves through you. Every second tightened the coil in your stomach until it was unbearable.
“Already shaking?” she taunted. “You’re really going to finish for me just from this? From my thigh?” She chuckled darkly. “Pathetic. You’ll take whatever I give you and beg for more, won’t you?”
“Yes, Victoria,” you choked out, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
Her laugh was low, victorious. “That’s it. That’s my good little slut. Now finish. Cum all over me like the needy toy you are.”
The command tore the last of your control away. Your orgasm hit hard, violent, your hips jerking helplessly against her thigh as you cried out. She held you steady, forcing you to grind through every pulse, every spasm, until you were trembling and boneless in her hold.
“That’s it,” she murmured, dragging her nails down your thigh. “So messy. So perfect. All mine.”
You collapsed against her chest, chest heaving, body weak. But she didn’t let go. Her hand slid higher, pressing firmly against the soaked fabric between your legs.
Her smirk was merciless. “You thought that was it?” She pressed one finger against your clit through the drenched material, dragging it slowly, teasingly. You whimpered, still oversensitive.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” she purred, lips brushing your ear again. “We’re not finished. I’ve barely begun.”
Her fingers never left your thigh as she eased you back against the leather of her chair, tugging you until you were spread over her lap. Your body still twitched with aftershocks, every nerve ending sparking and raw. You opened your mouth to protest, to beg for a breath, but she pressed two fingers to your lips and shook her head.
“Shh,” she soothed, voice still low but softer now, almost coaxing. “I know, baby. You’re trembling. You’ve already been so good for me.” She pulled her hand away, dragging her thumb over your damp bottom lip. “But you can give me more, can’t you? You can take more.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp anymore. It was velvet, warm, like she was coaxing you into something inevitable. And god, you wanted to.
“I’ll help you through it,” she whispered, sliding her hand beneath your skirt, fingers tracing the edge of your panties. The touch was featherlight, teasing, as if she was giving your body a chance to breathe. “I’ll make it feel so good. You’ll come undone all over my fingers, and I’ll hold you while you shake. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nodded before the word even formed.
“That’s my girl,” she murmured, and the praise burned hotter than her teasing had. She hooked two fingers into your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside. The air against your swollen skin made you jolt, another reminder of how sensitive you already were.
“Look at you,” she cooed. “So wet it’s dripping down your thighs. That’s all for me, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you breathed, the word fractured.
Her smile softened, still sinful but edged with approval. “Good. Open wider for me.”
You obeyed, thighs spreading over her lap, back arching against the leather chair. She slid two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, coating herself in your slick before pressing against your entrance.
The stretch made you gasp, your body tightening reflexively, but she soothed you with a kiss to your jaw. “Easy,” she murmured, easing one finger in. “That’s it. Breathe, baby. You’re doing so well.”
Her finger curled inside you, dragging over that spot that made your vision blur. Your hips twitched without permission, and she chuckled softly.
“See? Your body knows me already. Knows exactly where I’ll touch to make you fall apart again.”
She added the second finger, slow, deliberate, and your whole body seized up, overstimulation threatening to overwhelm. Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, but she caught your face in her free hand, thumb stroking your cheek.
“Look at me,” she commanded, gentle but firm. “You can take it. You’re perfect when you take it.”
Her rhythm stayed steady, curling deep inside you, her palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. Your whimpers filled the office, sharp little sounds that she devoured with hungry eyes.
“That’s it,” she praised, voice low and constant. “You’re opening up for me. You’re so fucking beautiful when you lose yourself like this. My perfect girl, giving me every sound, every drop.”
Your walls clenched tight around her fingers, and she kissed your temple, murmuring encouragements between every thrust.
“You’re going to come for me again. You can do it. I want you to. Give me every bit of it. That’s it, sweethearts. Let go.”
The orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, tearing a ragged cry from your throat. Your hips bucked against her hand, every muscle shaking from the effort of holding on, of surrendering to the overwhelming flood. She held you through it, her fingers never stopping, her other hand cradling your face so you had no choice but to see the satisfaction in her eyes.
“That’s my good girl,” she murmured, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “You did so well for me. I could watch you fall apart like that forever.”
Your body was still trembling, oversensitive and flushed, but you couldn’t stop staring at her. Her dark hair framed her face in dishevelled strands now, lips swollen from biting them as she watched you recover. She looked unfairly composed, even after wringing you out, and something inside you tightened at the thought of undoing her in return.
Before she could guide you again, you slid off her lap, sinking to your knees on the office floor. The leather chair creaked under her as she leaned forward in surprise.
“What are you doing?” she asked, voice husky, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion.
You placed your hands on her thighs, thumbs stroking the firm muscle beneath her skirt. “Returning the favour,” you murmured, kissing the inside of her knee.
Her smirk twitched, her voice softening with a warning edge. “Careful, sweetheart. You think you can handle me?”
You smiled up at her, bolder now. “I think I can make you fall apart just like you did to me.”
The sharp breath she drew betrayed her, even as she shook her head like she was still in charge. “Confident little thing, aren’t you?”
But when you slid your hands higher, pushing her skirt up to her hips, her thighs parted without hesitation. Her lacy underwear was already damp, a dark patch spreading across the delicate fabric. The sight made your stomach flip with desire.
“You’re wet,” you teased softly, pressing a kiss just above the damp spot. “Were you getting off on watching me fall apart?”
Her hand shot down, fingers curling into your hair with a sharp tug. “Don’t get cocky.” But her voice cracked halfway, betraying her, and it made you grin.
You licked slowly up the damp lace, savouring the way she shuddered above you. “You taste like you’ve been waiting,” you whispered, sliding her panties aside.
Her composure cracked further the second your tongue found her. She let out a low, guttural moan, hips twitching against your mouth. Her grip on your hair tightened, guiding you with shaky insistence, though you could feel her restraint faltering.
“That’s—ah—good,” she gasped, trying to smother the sound with her hand against her mouth. “Fuck, don’t stop.”
You wrapped your arms around her thighs to hold her still, tongue working in long, deliberate strokes that made her legs tremble. Every time you pressed harder, circled slower, she gasped louder, her control slipping piece by piece.
“Look at you,” you murmured against her, lips slick with her arousal. “So desperate already.”
Her head fell back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. “I’m not—” she tried, but her voice broke on a whimper as your tongue flicked her clit just right.
“Oh, you are,” you whispered, and dove back in, sucking hard until she cried out.
Her thighs clamped around your head, trying to pull you closer. Her hand trembled in your hair, the once-firm grip loosening as her strength ebbed with each shuddering breath.
“Fuck—don’t you dare stop,” she begged, her voice breaking now, the cool authority gone. “Please. Please, I need—”
The word please falling from her lips made you smirk against her. You slid one finger inside her, curling up gently, and she nearly came undone instantly, bucking against your hand with a desperate sob.
“Shh,” you soothed, echoing her own words from earlier, though your tone dripped with playful confidence. “I’ll help you through it. You can take it. You’re perfect when you take it.”
Her body convulsed around your tongue and fingers, sharp cries filling the office as the orgasm tore through her. She clutched at the armrests, then at your shoulders, like she couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go.
When she finally came down, her chest heaving, hair sticking to her damp temples, she looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. For the first time, she wasn’t composed or smug. She was undone. Raw, needy, vulnerable.
You kissed her inner thigh softly, grinning up at her. “Told you I could handle you.”
She laughed weakly, breathless, running a trembling hand through your hair. “Cocky little thing,” she whispered, her smile edged with pride. “But god, you’re dangerous.”
Victoria slumped back against the chair, fingers still tangled in your hair, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes, dark and smouldering, watched you with a mixture of amusement, pride, and something more vulnerable you hadn’t seen before.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured, voice husky, running a trembling hand down your arm. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
You grinned, brushing your lips against her knee, teasing, playful. “I think I have some idea.”
Her smirk returned, slow and dangerous, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her chest was still heaving, her composure only partially restored.
“Careful,” she warned, though the warning lacked its usual bite. “One day, I might just decide to take back control in a way you won’t forget.”
You chuckled softly, letting your hands drift over her thighs, tracing the lingering heat beneath her clothes. “I’ll be ready for you,” you teased. “Or maybe I’ll get first say next time.”
Victoria’s lips twitched in a half-smile, her eyes darkening again with that familiar, predatory glint. “Next time, huh?” she murmured. “Don’t think this ends here. You’ve stirred something in me… something that won’t let me forget this.”
You leaned back, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, watching her chest rise and fall. Even now, even after everything, she still radiated control. Though you could see the cracks, the places where she’d lost it to you.
“Good,” you whispered, a smile playing on your lips. “I like it when you lose a little.”
Her laughter was low, throaty, and for a moment, she let herself sink into it. “Don’t get used to it,” she said, though the tension had left her voice, replaced by something softer, almost intimate. “But… maybe next time, we’ll see who really takes charge.”
The air between you was thick, electric, lingering with heat and unspoken promises. Neither of you moved to leave. Neither of you wanted to. The office lights hummed above, but the world outside had vanished. All that remained was the shared understanding that this was far from over, and that next time, the game would continue.
And with that, the two of you sat, close and untangled, breathing together, a charged silence holding the weight of everything unsaid.
