#alcohol abuse

[dragonbee259]

It’s been two months, and Wootzie’s campaign has only reached $1,190/$7,000–a little more than a seventh of what they need. I’m begging everyone who sees this to reboot this as many times as possible and tag anyone and everyone you know to help this post spread. Wootzie’s situation is getting worse and worse, and we have no way of knowing when it may become too much for them.

Important

TW: Child & Alcohol Abuse

A mutual of mine, @wootzietoozee, needs to get away from their mother. She is extremely abusive to them in several ways—which I will not disclose here—and Wootzie desperately needs to escape.

This is their video in which they go into more detail about their situation

This is the link to their GoFundMe

The goal is $7,000, but the GoFundMe has only reached $83 so far. Please share this on any and all platforms with any tags you deem necessary for this to reach as many people as possible.

[1343-40]

insane to me to be in love with a guy with the same vices as your drunken dead gambler of a father. does the smell of whiskey when he drapes an arm around your shoulder remind you of pony tracks, buck. does your stomach churn at the increasing frequency with which you see a flash of that flask. are you terrified of looking into his drunken eyes one day and seeing a stranger there

[somebodytolove31]

High to Death

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 14 - Survivors Guilt (Alt.)

Platonic Aragorn x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: After a harsh battle in Bree, Aragorn blames himself for the lost lives.

Warnings/Notes: Lil alcohol abuse and sad Aragorn

Word Count: 1201

  “How many of those drinks do you plan on downing?” You watched in amazement as Aragorn finished his sixth flagon.

  The man beside you, your ranger partner since the two of you both first started out, was not a heavy drinker. At best he had a few ciders and even then he felt it terribly in the morning. Now here he is finishing these drinks off like it was a job and he was being timed.

  Aragorn wiped his mouth with a grimace. Alcohol’s effects on him were slow but once the hill steeped downward there was hardly a second in between his sober and utterly inebriated states. It hadn’t kicked in yet but you had a feeling that time was coming.

  “As many as I can.” He muttered gruffly before waving to the bartender for another. His fingers eagerly reached for the new glass, about to lift it to his lips when your hand grabbed his arm.

  “Take it easy…” You murmured. You expected him to comply, not to suddenly drink as much of the ale as he could. When he finished the whole thing in a few gulps you slapped him on the arm. “What is wrong with you?!”

  You were quite right. The alcohol's effects were beginning to seep in.

  Aragorn stared at you through bleary eyes for a moment, twitching a little. Then he turned away. “I need to forget.” He mumbled. “Just for a while…”

  You tugged his arm again but he refused to look at you. Even your gentle slap to his arm didn’t draw him out of the strange trance he had fallen into, eyes boring a hole into the wooden counter of the bar. Finally you shoved him with your shoulder, snapping him out of it a little.

  “Forget what? What’s going on with you?” You frowned, moving your hand to rest on his back. 

  Earlier today the rangers had taken down a large army of orcs in Bree. You all had arrived halfway through the battle and saved the remaining citizens of the small town. It was Aragorn’s idea to go to the Prancing Pony Tavern afterwards and celebrate victory, but now it was as if he wasn’t even there beside you, more of a shell than a man.

  “We should have gotten here earlier.” Aragorn finally whispered. You could hardly hear him over the loud banter of the bar, but his words clicked in your ears after a few seconds.

  Your thumb rubbed in soft circles against his cloak. “There was nothing we could have done, Aragorn.”

  “There was… If we had run faster.. Traveled lighter… didn’t stop for that stupid, stupid rainstorm, we could have saved so many more lives, y/n…” He rasped, voice starting to become a little incoherent as both the grief and alcohol numbed his mouth, filling it with ash and fluff. “Everyone that died… those poor citizens. They were unprepared and… and we were supposed to save them.” Aragorn was struggling to catch his breath now, fingers digging into your arm as his eyes stung with tears. “We were supposed to save them but we didn’t.”

  You thought back to the attack.

  The orcs were vicious and merciless, killing any citizen they could get their hands on, from the town guards to the young volunteers who had seen far too few winters and could hardly wield a sword. Out on the field you had to make the choice between saving a boy, hardly an adult, or Aragorn. Regardless to say, as much as it hurt, you did in fact choose the latter. You knew Aragorn would be horrified with your choice and angry with you but you couldn’t bear the thought of losing your best friend. 

  He never confronted you on the incident but it was clear now that it was weighing him down heavily. He was bordering on the edge of some sort of panic attack or melt down, air going everywhere but his lungs as his head spun. The alcohol in his system was not helping, making him too unsteady to stand and leave himself.

  So you did the next best thing.

  You dragged him to his feet and–half carrying him–brought him outside.

  The second the cold air hit your skin he broke into sobs in your arms. The weight of the pain and tears made him surprisingly heavy, even for you. So you dragged him once more until the two of you were tucked behind some barrels, just letting him cry into your arms.

  “It should have been me.” Aragorn wept into your chest, fingers clutching your clothing so tightly he was almost ripping it with ragged nails, torn from aiding in burying the dead. His sobs grew more animalistic and raw. Aragorn had an awful habit of punching walls or such when he was distraught like this and his fists were shaking from the force of restraint, trying desperately not to punch you on accident.

  You eventually nudged him in a way that set his energy free and he pounded into the ground a few times before his fists met your torso. It didn’t really hurt. You held him through the whole thing, accepting whatever misplaced throws and globs of tears that fell from his face. What else could you do?

  When the alcohol fully kicked in and all Aragorn could get out was soft whimpers and whines, now sort of rocking back and forth in your arms, you held him tighter. You gently tucked his face into the crook of your neck, raking your fingers through his hair in soothing motions, fingers grazing his scalp. The motion soothed Aragon slightly but it was your words that did the true deed.

  “It is not your fault Aragorn.” You murmured softly to him, feeling him gasp for breath against your skin. “I would always save you… no matter what. You do not need to wish to have given your life for these strangers… what’s done is done. Love what you still have, not mourn what you could’ve.”

  Aragorn whimpered. “But…”

  “But nothing. We saved Bree. Yes, lives were lost, but lives always are.” You whispered. “I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner… and I’m sorry so many died, but beating yourself up over it will not bring them back.”

  Shakily, Aragorn rubbed his red face. Your words, though blunt, were true, he couldn’t deny that. 

  He slowly pulled his face and looked up at you through tear cladden eyes. “Sorry…” He whispered, sounding more like a lost puppy than a ranger.”

  You chuckled a little and shook your head, planting a gentle kiss to the top of his. “Don’t be. Just… let’s just sit here for a while, alright?”

  “...alright.” Aragorn whispered.

  If there was one thing you were not looking forward to, it was dragging a very drunk Aragorn back into the tavern and putting him to bed… as well as what would follow in the morning. For now, you were content with sitting here, curled up behind some barrels with him in your arms. And he seemed to feel the same as the last of his pain faded with a heavy sigh, his head laying back down on your shoulder.

[quecksilvereyes]

oh, sister, I am sorry. your eyes are sunken and your skin is bruised. your lips are chapped, your nailbeds bitten raw. your husband's hand on your waist is a ghost's touch held by the band on your left ring finger and I-

I am dead.

I got on the train, Su. Nevermind your tears, nevermind the plea you could not shape with words, nevermind your fingers on the pulse point of my wrist. "stay", you'd said, as you have always done, dictionary in hand and baby teeth yet lodged in your jaw. "don't go where i cannot."

I step through a wardrobe and you follow, damned be reason. I slay a wolf and you follow, I cling to the little ones and you follow, I am crowned and you follow, I am-

I go past a lamp post, and you follow, damned be dread. I go to a train station and you follow, trembling hands and tender heart. I go, and I go, and I go, and you follow. Sun of my skies. Light of my life.

I go. you stop.

are we too old for stories, now? ten-and-four and ten-and-three, budding bodies and steel bones, we are cast from our home. i hold the little ones until i drown in them. you grip your skirts until no iron can press the shape of your palms from them. and you have ever been, cruelly reasonable and logically callous.

say you, glass shard eyes and rouge-red lips: we are english. we are children. she thinks she has found a magical land in the upstairs wardrobe.

say I, trembling hands and coiling guts: we are narnian. we are monarchs. if she's not mad and she's not lying, then logically she must be telling the truth.

my sister Susan, beautiful as folk tales are and twice as sharp, did you intend every invitation you took for me to twist the knife a godly animal once thrust into my guts? perhaps it was the way your eyes turned blue, or the sound of your laughter losing its bells. perhaps it was just my trembling fingers at the back of your legs, drawing stocking lines where no stockings had ever lain.

the line came out shaking, and you rubbed it off until your skin cried red. the hem of your dress still dripped wet when you left that day, turning on heels too narrow for you to walk in.

do you remember? it took you days to come home, and mother wailed for all of them. you crawled into my bed that night, as you did when we were parents to our little ones, those terrible months. your head on my shoulder, your breath in my ear, I held you until morning.

your mouth in my throat, eyes heavy with sleep, tongue heavy with champagne: we are here now. we must make the best of it. he cannot have all our lives, and all our joys. i wish you would laugh again.

doesn't little lucy, shrieking mouth and tumbling legs, laugh enough for us all?

lucy's manic. if she didn't laugh she'd cry.

i think sometimes, in the parts of my guts that are still a schoolboy, and are mean and cruel to match, that the alcohol makes you softer than the daylight ever could. i do not tell you.

i press my lips to your forehead. i wrap my arms around you. the year between us rings heavy, and when I get up in the morning, you do not follow.

I tried, Su. I did. I applied for university, I saw that girl with that smile. with those eyes. I let you take sections from the paper before I ever touched it, I held the little ones in my arms, and I made coffee in the morning. I sat all my exams.

I smiled when the little ones came back smelling of home.

Aslan's wounds, did I try. but-

I have ever been a thing made for stories. brave the way knights are, bloody knuckles and buckling pride. a horse between my calves, a sword in my hands.

I think, sometimes, that I was born for my sword, for the hollow ringing of my heart when I first held it. a part of me, even then, ten-and-three and soaked to the bone.

such bravery is not made for real world boys and real world taunts. there is a map, I think, from the summits of my knuckles to the jaws of every boy who ever looked at me and bared his teeth.

I am sovereign. I am the skies for your sun to burn in.

I am made wrong, for this england, and I cannot take this life you want. I belong, I think, into myths and legend, the star-studded shards of our home.

so I went on the train, Susan. so I died, and I named what you have chosen. so I banned you from their scorning mouths. so you grip your husband's hand, realest of us all, and you cry. you do not follow.

Forgive me.

[screaming-sparrow]

i forgave everybody, i gave up, i got drunk. (captain jack harkness and his relationship with alcohol)

[whumpypepsigal]

Silent Night (2023): “Help me.”

[avvail]

Hero is an alcoholic and the villain finds the hero on the sidewalk with a bottle of alcohol in his hand, and then the Hero starts to vent to the villain about his issues

“Hero.”

The villain hadn’t meant for such thickness to creep into their voice, but it had. Seeing the hero, such a prized little monument in their city, squeezed in an alleyway with an entire bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand, might do that to anyone.

They shouldn’t have thought anything of it.

Maybe it was a kick to keep him going through the night.

Maybe he would leap to his feet and engage the villain in another breath taking battle. But even in the dim light, they see the unnatural flush on his cheeks. They see the unfocused, glazed look in his eye.

It even takes him far too long to register that his name had been called.

The whiskey bottle clanks against the concrete as he sets it down, but doesn’t unfasten his fingers from the slim neck.

“Villain.”

His voice is shaking. They can sense a slurred drawl creeping effortlessly through each syllable. The villain steps closer. They can almost smell it.

“What are you doing, Hero?”

He languidly nudges the half empty whiskey, as if the answer was obvious.

“Drinking,” he slurs. The villain’s brow pinches.

“Why?”

The hero gulps down another swig. They almost see it hit him, his eyes popping open wearily, before his head lolls lazily so his chin is almost touching his chest. He sucks in a wet breath.

“Why does anyone do anything?” He grumpily groans, struggling to twist his tongue around his own words. He looks as though he barely knows what he’s saying. “Jus’...leave me alone.”

The villain grimaces. They stop in front of them with a pinched brow etched onto their face, and they reach down to pry the bottle from their hands. Surprisingly, he has enough to strength to rip it away. Some liquid sloshes onto the pavement with a wet smack.

“Oi,” he loudly snaps. “That’s mine. Hands off.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” the villain sternly tells him. They can feel this resonating anger consuming their very being. They don’t know why seeing the hero in this state is getting them hot under the collar. Maybe it’s because the hero is doing it to himself.

The only person who should be bringing him pain and misery, was them. Not a bottle of Jameson.

“I’ve only had three bottles,” he huffs, barely stuttering out the words. The villain’s eyebrows raise.

“Three?”

“I like Irish whiskey,” the hero hums.

The villain resists the urge to curse under their breath. They hadn’t ever once thought of the hero as an idiot until now. They yank the bottle from his slipping grip with more force this time, and it pops right out of his hand. They already have an arm lay over his collarbone to prevent him from moving when he attempts to lurch forward in a hasty effort to take it back.

“Hey!” He snaps, barely fighting him off. “S’mine.”

“Why are you drinking yourself to death?”

They don’t ask because they care. The villain hasn’t ever cared; they just don’t want the hero to be easy pickings while he’s out here in this state. He puts up a valiant fight for a drunkard.

“Why do you care?” He hisses, and the villain can smell the warm wood and nutty undertones radiating from the bottle. They make a point of tipping it all out onto the pavement.

The hero fights harder this time, a ragged groan tearing from their throat.

“Fuck you,” he growls, clumsy fingers trying to latch onto their shirt. “Jus’...fuckin’, ruining everything—”

The villain can see tears in his glassy eyes. They wonder whether it’s because he just poured an expensive bottle of Jameson on the floor, but they find their voice softening regardless. Not because they care.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” they ask.

The hero grits his teeth, a soft little huff choking in his throat. It takes mere seconds before the tears begin to roll down their cheeks.

“Twenty two people died on that bridge,” he forces out, sucking in a sharp breath. “It was my fucking fault. Mine.”

They look at them gently.

“Hero, that was months ago,” they whisper. “You know that wasn’t your fault.”

The villain can feel him visibly shaking from under their arm, and they decide to slowly remove it from his collarbone. The hero sways, and he’s clearly fighting off a huge wave of drunken dizziness that slams into him.

“I’m a fucking joke,” he sobs. “I need it.”

“You don’t need to do this,” the villain murmurs. They try to ignore the returning thickness in their throat. “You’re not a joke.”

“Leave me alone,” he groans, head falling limply onto their shoulder. They stiffen. “Please.”

They don’t like the way the hero begs. It isn’t nearly as fun as they had imagined; none of this, seeing the hero broken and miserable, was as fun as they had imagined. They gently cradle him into their side, and slowly heft him off the ground. It takes him a while to even find his feet.

“Come on, Hero,” the villain hums, voice strained. “I’m taking you home.”

He quietly sobs to himself as they do, and the villain realises how much he must have been struggling for months by himself. They take him back home, but it isn’t because they care. Even when they put him in some clean clothes, and make him sip at some water, making sure he lies on his side so he doesn’t throw up.

When the hero is asleep, they stay. But not because they care.

[villainsview]

DILF in Distress

My submission for the @zineofgid 2023 edition, in which Fetch gets his ass handed to him by Jonas.

3.1k words CW: alcohol abuse | intubation | forcefeeding | jennings gag | strappado | open ending | older victim

There was a chill in the air. A thrill of excitement ran down his spine as he walked the length of the long, dark and dank corridor. He pulled a hand through his hair,  straightened his tie, tightened his leather gloves around his wrists, and shrugged off his jacket, hanging it over his arm as he stopped outside the door at the end of the corridor. He tilted his head left and right, the vertebrae in his neck popping softly, before grabbing the door handle and stepping inside.

The smell of blood and sweat lingered in the room. Heavy, muted breathing the only sound, until he flicked a switch. The fluorescent lights buzzed infuriatingly loud, but it was meant to add to the…experience. He smirked as he closed the door behind him with a firm bang, slowly walking towards a wall lined with various tools hanging from hooks and pegs — each more sinister than the last. Among them, a simple clothes hanger, which he hung his jacket on. He put the hanger back, turning around to face his captive as he undid the buttons on his sleeves.

“How’d you sleep…Fetcher?”

The man kneeling in front of him responded with an angered and muted growl. His teeth clenched around the wooden bit that rubbed splinters into his tongue and the corners of his mouth. Pinkish drool mixed with blood dripped uncontrollably past the bit and pooled on the floor between his knees. He flexed his fingers a bit, but only groaned in pain. They were swollen, the ropes around his wrists too tight, tying him to the ceiling, his arms raised painfully behind him. The only way to relieve some of the strain was to lean forward and try to sit up on his knees, but his thighs were lashed to his calves with tightly strapped belts, cutting circulation to his legs too.

Jonas folded back his sleeves past his elbows so they wouldn’t get dirty. It was easy to smudge pure white fabric, so it was an art to keep them perfectly clean, especially in his line of work. 

Especially when he didn’t need anyone to know that he was hiding someone in the basement. 

An expression sprung to his mind. When the cat’s away… But the cat wasn’t away at all. He did not claw his way to the top of the organisation just to be considered a pathetic little mouse who could only dance on the table when the boss went out. No. He was the cat, and when the master left, his claws came out, and all the stinkin’ rats better hide.

And now he’d finally caught the biggest rat, the one that had been a thorn in his side ever since he crawled in from the street. It was supposed to be a one-time job. He’d approached him because he seemed desperate enough to break the law, scraping together every penny to finance his family and a crippling alcohol addiction, taking on more shifts than was legally allowed for a surgeon. He only had to mention his possible reward to recruit him…and then things had snowballed.

He’d somehow earned the boss’ favour just like that. He got away with everything. After all his years of hard work and rising slowly to the top, this man just waltzed in and got everything handed on a silver platter. He wasn’t even under contract, he just occasionally stopped by and got whatever he asked for. Jonas tried to protest it, but the boss never listened. Do this for him and do that for him, arrange transport, deliveries, jailbreaks, and anything else the boss asked for…for him. 

But when Jonas asked something he needed to think about it, he needed to weigh the options, consider the consequences, sleep on it first. Jonas had enough. He didn’t need to sleep on it anymore, he’d plotted his revenge for the past years. He’d dreamed about it many times, and now his dreams were coming to fruition.

The gloves came off. He usually wore them for protection, and secrecy. His knuckles still bruised from the last guy he beat up. It would hurt, but this captive deserved skin-to-skin contact, the authenticity of a real punch. He grabbed at his hair, yanking his head back and forcing him to look up, slapping his cheek with his other hand.

“It’s time to wake up, Fetcher. I brought you something special, just for you.”

He reached for the strap that kept the gag in place and loosened it, pulling it from between his teeth and dropping it on the floor. His captive lunged forward and coughed, dry-heaving a bit before spitting out some blood. Jonas stepped back and watched him, waiting for the moment when he was certain he’d woken up. Finally, he lifted his head and glared at him. His eyes filled with rage and a hunger for blood. Jonas tilted his head, surprised he could still look at him as if he wasn’t the one tied up and locked away.

“You’re so tough,” he said, “it’s been two days and you still look at me like that…”

“When Tito gets back, I hope he keeps you alive so I can kill you myself!”

“Your blood is already on my hands, Fetcher. And I’ll find what breaks you before Mr Rana returns.”

He found some bloody drool on the side of his right hand and slowly licked it off, before approaching a cabinet placed just behind his captive. He didn’t want to resort to this, but it might just be the only way, and perhaps the best way to break him into satisfying little bits. He preferred not to play around with addiction, knowing what kind of damage it could cause, but it was the only thing that was good enough for this victim in particular. 

He glanced at him over his shoulder, knowing he couldn’t see what he was taking from the cabinet; a bottle with a clear liquid.

“Tell me, Fetcher, what was your go-to liquor again?”

“Untie me, and I’ll give you a taste.”

He only chuckled in reply, pouring himself a glass. It could’ve been water, but it had a distinct smell, so he took a careful sip. The liquid burned his throat, in a good way, perhaps a bit too much. He hissed through his teeth, suppressing a cough. He howled, putting the glass back down.

“Do you know what spirytus is?”

“A fire accelerant.”

“I suppose you could use it in that manner too…”

He picked up the bottle, reading the label while moving back to standing in front of his captive. He could see his eyes peering at the bottle suspiciously. They were both experts at torture, so of course they both knew exactly where this was going, yet Jonas just couldn’t help but to draw it out.

“A hundred and ninety-two proof,” he said, “only recently approved for sale in New York State due to the high alcohol content…and to think Siberian pilots used to drink this.”

“Keep that shit away from me.”

“No~”

Jonas grinned, pouring some over his hand before forcing his captive to look up, rubbing the alcohol on his thumb onto his lip, specifically the part where it had split after a satisfying punch. 

His captive hissed in response as the alcohol stung in the wound, and tried to pull his head away, but Jonas didn’t let him. He tried to bite him, but Jonas was just a tad faster.

“Come on,” he said, “you know that never works.”

He pulled the drenched hand through his hair. Not much of the liquid had remained, evaporating quite fast. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He walked back over to the cabinet behind his captive, putting the bottle on top so he had his hands free for the next part. He had to change his captive’s position, and previous experience taught him that those were the exact moments he chose to fight like his life depended on it. 

Every. Single. Time.

He yanked on the loose end of the rope that held up his captive’s arms, which released him immediately. 

His captive unceremoniously fell to the side, grunting in pain as his shoulders were suddenly allowed in a somewhat more natural position. 

Jonas waited a couple of seconds, just to see what he would do, but he bided his time, probably waiting for him to grab him before attempting to strike. Jonas tutted, slowly walking back over, making sure to approach from behind. He stepped on the long end of rope hanging from his wrist binds first, before grabbing a hold of his hair and yanking him back upright.

That was when he seemed to come back to life. First, he tried to yank his hair from his captor’s grip, shaking his head even when it hurt. Then he tried to turn his body away, only to be held back by the rope that Jonas stood on. He smirked to himself, letting his captive struggle for a couple of moments longer, letting him tire himself out.

“You done?”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He readied his bare fist, making sure he had the right grip so he wouldn’t end up breaking his own bones when his knuckles collided with his captive’s skull. The grip on his hair prevented him from falling over after the impact, and it allowed Jonas to tilt his head back to draw out a very satisfying pained groan.

“Don’t worry, I got just the thing to numb your pain,” Jonas said, looking around, “where’d I leave that thing?”

He looked over the tools on the wall, looking for something very specific. Fortunately it was right within reach; a dental retractor with a ratchet mechanism. It was closed now, but once he put it in place it would only be able to open wider and wider… The trick, however, was to get it in in the first place without losing any digits. Jonas knew what human jaws were capable of, especially in a fight for survival, he’d seen it before. It was another reason he rarely took his gloves off, they were a last defence against a toothy deathgrip. 

But not for this captive. He wanted him to feel and taste everything on his hands. The sweat, the alcohol, the blood. Jonas knew it was inevitable when he tried to pry his jaws apart without the usual safety measures, but it made the effort more worth it. Every hiss, every curse, every grip, every yank — it all had a purpose. To lock the new gag between his teeth, without losing any fingers in the process. He did manage to break some skin on his left index finger, but Jonas let him have the win since it allowed him to wrench his jaws just far enough apart to force the gag between them.

He couldn’t pick which was more satisfying. The furious growling, the snap of the buckle, or the clicking of the ratchet as he forced his jaws even further apart. He finally let his captive pull free from his grip, but only so he had his hands free to attend to the cut on his finger. He started by pouring some of the spirytus over his hand. He hissed a bit, trying to decide whether it felt bad or good. He decided to stay on the fence for now, opening a drawer to find a pack of antibiotic paste.

“That really hurt, you know?” he said, tearing the package with his teeth and spitting out the small bit that accidentally got into his mouth, “maybe I should take your teeth out if I have time left over. You’re old enough for dentures, aren’t you?”

He smirked as he listened to the angry growling behind him, paired with ruffling fabric as he picked up his struggle again. Jonas ignored him for now, trying to wrap a bandage around his finger. It wasn’t the greatest, but it would do for now. He swiped the empty wrappers into the drawer and closed it so he could open another one. There was a box with latex gloves. He pulled two out and put them on, the latex snapping threateningly against his wrist. He could feel his captive looking at him, but he wasn’t going to let him know what was about to happen. Besides, he could probably figure it out without having to see.

A third drawer was opened, individual items wrapped in plastic, stolen ages ago. Jonas couldn’t quite remember where they got them from, it was probably in his records somewhere, but for now it didn’t matter. He slowly unwrapped the item, the plastic wrapping crinkling loudly throughout the room.

“You must be so thirsty,” Jonas mused, “don’t worry, once I’m done you can finish the whole bottle.”

There was a thud behind him, he didn’t have to turn around to know his captive had fallen over in a sad attempt to escape. Jonas chuckled as he turned, fingering the item he just unwrapped in his hands. His captive was on his side, numbed fingers trying to reach the knots keeping the rope around his wrists together. But even if he could reach them, he didn’t have the strength to pry them loose.

“Oh my, Fetcher~ I’d almost think you were scared…”

The glare he responded with was still impressive, despite his state, despite his situation. His eyes still spelled murder, the blood trail on his chin expressed a hunger for more. In a different world Jonas could’ve learned a thing or two from him. But they weren’t in that different world. They were right here, right now, and he was so close to breaking him.

He stepped back over to his captive, grabbing him by his hair and pulling him back upright. This part was always a bit tricky, especially when they struggled. It had gone wrong before. Jonas wasn’t sure it would be so bad if it went wrong again this time, it would just be better if it didn’t. More drawn out.

He yanked on his hair again, tilting his head back. The item he unwrapped? A rubber tube. His captive was never going to swallow that spirytus on his own, so he had to bypass the whole swallowing bit altogether. And it was exactly that first bit that was the most complicated. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any lubricant, so pretty much everything was working against him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

“Stop fighting, you know what could happen if I enter your lungs instead,” Jonas said, yanking on his captive’s hair in warning, “and I’m not going to lie, I can’t always tell the difference. You know I never went to medical school, so I’m willing to admit you’re probably better at this kind of stuff than I am.”

The only reply he got was a strangled yell, followed by gagging as he slowly pushed the tube deeper and deeper. He knew he wasn’t being gentle. He wasn’t trying to be at all. The gagging and the resulting laboured breathing were music to his ears…and hey! He was breathing, and it didn’t seem to be coming through the tube.

“Ah. Looks like I still got it,” Jonas said, patting the man on his forehead, “now why don’t we celebrate…with a drink?”

He had to drag his captive back a little, before he was able to reach the bottle of spirytus. He stood on top of the loose end from the ropes around his captive’s wrists again, maintaining a tight grip on his hair to keep him still. He was trying to shake his head an awful lot, making it hard to try and connect the bottle to the end of the tube. Note to self, bring a funnel next time. Some of the clear liquid spilled past the tube, into his mouth and over his face. Judging from the strangled roar it burned his eyes like it burned in Jonas’ wound earlier. Oops. But the bottle was pouring straight into the tube now, so it should be all good.

Slowly, his captive’s struggle subsided, whether he was getting tired or succumbing to the alcohol was unclear. It had been twenty minutes so either was possible. It didn’t really matter anyway. When the bottle was empty Jonas threw it into a corner, breaking it into pieces. He would clean that up later…or perhaps use it. He stopped contemplating the idea when his captive groaned weakly, so he looked back down at him. He wasn’t fully conscious, so he couldn’t tell whether he was broken or not. 

“Isn’t that just so much better?” Jonas said quietly, patting his cheek. A tired glare briefly flashed over the man’s face, but he seemed to be having trouble focussing. Jonas smirked, it seemed he could plan another session for tomorrow. He began pulling out the tube, slowly, savouring his reaction. Every gasp, every retch, every convulsion.

“Hush, try not to vomit, I just had my shoes polished,” Jonas said, before pulling out the last length. His captive coughed, and he heaved, but he kept it all in. It was a struggle, a last desperate attempt for some decency, but a successful one…unfortunately.

Jonas tutted, and shoved him to the floor. He threw the tube in the same corner as the bottle and took off the latex gloves, throwing those after it too. He checked his finger, blood dripping from underneath the bandage and down his arm. He followed the red line down his arm and to his elbow where it slowly soaked into the fold of his sleeve, a bright red stain slowly encroaching on the white fabric surrounding it. He sighed, glaring back down at his captive.

“You just had to have the last laugh, didn’t you, Fetcher?”

He scoffed, picking up his leather gloves and shoving them in his pocket, he took his jacket off the hanger and swung it over his shoulder, a finger hooked around the loop in the collar. He picked up the glass he’d poured himself earlier, smudging it with the blood from his finger and took another swig before giving his captive a last look. He wanted to burn this pathetic image of him in his mind, a mental photograph to cherish forever. A rat, caught in a trap, slowly dying as it continued to squeak and struggle with no one coming to its aid, nor anyone willing to put it out of its misery. He smirked, raising his glass at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow…if you’re still alive by then.”

[izzyspussy]

okay. incoming.

what if 2x4 izzy was drinking so much not JUST to treat his physical pain, not JUST to dull the grief of a permanently disabling injury, not JUST because he was having an identity crisis, not JUST as an extended passive suicide attempt lingering after the first attempt failed, but ALSO. because he could feel himself falling out of love with ed.

now that the evil that they went through together that's was its own kind of horrible affirmation of devotion, now that ed isn't a dead man izzy can mourn the memory of for the rest of his own sad life, now that ed is just a man again - not a god, not a devil, not a ghost... now. NOW after keeping that fire going through all of that shit, now izzy is falling out of love with him. and he doesn't want to feel it happen.

so that's part of why he drinks almost to the grave, and later it's why his "what did he say about me" line is so... Like That. i mean, i love as much as the next guy, but real talk even if you think he can start to bounce back on ed so much so quickly that kind of stuttering cute infatuation type of vibe is still kind of a weird step backwards. he was faking it.

not for stede's benefit, or got ed's if it got back to him, or even to self-comfort with the familiarity of it. he was faking it hoping he could make himself learn how again, like sword play on one leg. if he can just remind himself, if he can just remember, if he can just keep up the habit well enough, maybe he'll stay in love with ed.

[zerosketchdump]

Not from the AU.

This was from a really great RP that I, unfortunately, flaked out on, because RL stuff going on at the time drained my time and ability to write.

In the rp Pip had just turned 21, had just about the shittiest birthday imaginable, and went to go booze it up and do angry karaoke about it. He met Henrietta there who'd had an even worse night and she took him home. They were supposed to patch each other up and commiserate about their shitty family lives. It was supposed to be some really cute/sad hurt comfort rp, but it didn't get that far T-T

Now I forever have a soft spot for Pip/Henrietta

Still really like this adult design for him and really kind of prefer his scars here, but I had to simplify them somewhat for the comic, just for my own sanity.

[air--so--sweet]

CW: Discussions of alcoholism, unhealthy relationships with alcohol, alcohol abuse and a brief mention of drug abuse and addiction.

I think I want to write a better, more fleshed out post on this with more examples but the Umbrellas relationship to alcohol is very interesting to me. Five and Klaus are both clearly alcoholics (Five is just a high functioning one, though it could be argued Klaus is shown to be high finctioning also in season 3) but I think Allison might be too. Or she at least abuses alcohol, she chooses to drink with Klaus, despite the fact he's clearly relapsing in season 2, because her own life is also going to shit at the same time, and in season 3 she's drinking enough to be carrying a hip flask around with her.

But also, while we do see some objection initially in season 2, none of the siblings seen that bothered or concerned by Klaus' drinking in season 3. Or they at least seem less concerned about him drinking than they were about him taking other drugs and being high in season 1. And alcohol addiction has just as much of a capacity for damage and destruction as another other substance. I don't think this is bad writing either, I think their attitudes mirror the attitudes of a lot of society in general. Also, as I mentioned already, Klaus seems to be functioning at level that's pretty standard for him when not drunk, so his drinking probably seems like less of a problem than it actually is. Hell, if you had never watched the rest of the show, you might not realise Klaus is an alcoholic based on season 3 or only catch it because of him drinking the bottles of mouthwash when cleaning the rooms with Stan.

[1d-trashcan]

I know the fandom is in complete shambles and we're all struggling to come to terms with things so here's a free penny for my thoughts.

I will always advocate for the victim, however during the Johnny/Amber trial, Johnny Depp's legal team actually had me believing him for a minute.

I want you to keep that trial in mind.

A televised trial with unprecedented social media coverage and memes that had a lot of us looking past the hard facts that Ambers lawyers presented. He is, without a shadow of a doubt, an abuser. There's an abundance of evidence to support that fact. Yet we chose to believe that Amber was lying. It was a devastating loss for victims of abuse across the globe.

If Liam chose to sue Maya for defemation, I don't doubt that his lawyers would use a similar strategy since Liam is so hugely popular. Yes, he's been getting a huge chunk of hatred since 2022, but one look at the trending topics on Twitter will show you that there's still an immense amount of support lingering, and in the American justice system that might actually be enough for Maya to be convicted of defamation. Just because she did not actively record the abuse in real time. That cannot be allowed to happen again.

I do, however, want to stress how horrific of an illness addiction really is. It turns individuals in active addiction into downright monsters. This does not take away from Maya's experiences, or the experiences of the fans that have come forward. It is simply an explanation.

I am a huge advocate for addicts who choose to seek treatment, choose to be confronted with their past behaviour. True recovery constitutes a lot more than just putting the drink/drugs down. To continue to criticise individuals after they have successfully gone through treatment is extremely harmful.

Studies have shown that 40-60% of addiction patients will relapse. For some of those individuals, it will just be a drink. For others it's a few months, even years of drinking or using in a way that seems sustainable, until the switch is inevitably flicked. For some, the relapse will lead to suicide.

I will continue to condemn Liam's actions, but hope that he finds it in himself to go back to treatment and truly commit to it this time.

Please remember that Liam is a 31 year old man, not the 19 year old with a flashing toothbrush on a twitcam.

We need to stop enabling him.

[green--tea-owo]

me on my way to choose one of my coping mechanisms after the slightest inconvenience:

[friendship-ditch]

Whumptober Day 12 - "Just a little more"

Tauriel x Fem!Reader ✼

Summary: Tauriel drowns her sorrows in alcohol.

Warnings/Notes: Alcohol abuse

Word Count: 1403

  Late nights at the tavern were becoming a habit for Tauriel after her empty-handed return from Erebor. In all honesty she didn’t believe she would return but there was a silent agreement between her and Thranduil that night on the mountain that her banishment was lifted, so she came back home.

  Without her best friend at her side to run through patrols, or the dwarf who could’ve become her lover, Tauriel felt rather empty and alone.

  She was still Captain of the Guard and performed her duties well. Now that Thranduil’s heart had ever so slightly softened and the greater evil tainting their lands vanished, patrols were easier and Mirkwood was safer than ever. But it left her with nothing to do or think about. Mirkwood was home but it didn’t feel that way anymore. She had nothing left to occupy her mind of the traumas that came back in nightmares.

  So Tauriel usually tried her best not to sleep or be alone. She was still both kind and strict but found herself lingering among the other elves rather than with them. Which is how she became a frequent presence at the tavern.

  Every night, almost like clockwork, Tauriel would come in, take a seat at her table in the corner and drink an ale or two–sometimes three if her mind was especially noisy–and watch the other elves. Sometimes she had a companion, sometimes not.

  So when the Captain came in much later than usual and plopped herself down at the actual bar, you were surprised.

  “It’s good to see you.” You started the conversation light, unsure what exactly had set her off so, but not wanting to push it any further. You were half worried when she never came but also half relieved, hoping maybe her night had gone better than usual. “How are you, Tauriel?”

  Tauriel’s eyes stayed trained to the bar in front of her, studying the wood grains like code, nails digging into the sides of her stool. Without looking at you she dug in her pocket and dropped a few coins onto the surface with a clatter.

  “Something strong… please.”

  Okay, so something definitely happened. 

  You got a helping of one of the stronger ales and set it in front of Tauriel. She took it with a silent nod and got to work as though the drink had personally offended her.

  The night wore on and what change Tauriel had in her pocket morphed into empty pints and flasks of assorted alcohol. She never had the same drink twice, instead choosing for just about everything she could to further her inebriated state.

  Once the tavern began to settle down, you got a chance to speak.

  Tauriel’s forehead was smushed into one hand, elbow digging into the bar as she tried to keep herself from collapsing onto it. There were a few more coins by her arm that you glanced at before ignoring.

  “Tauriel… is something going on?” You asked her, leaning down a little to try and get a glimpse of her face.

  The other elf simply turned her head, hiding her face. “You’re the bartender, not my therapist. Get me another ale.” She barked the order though it lacked any real malice. So much for a stern captain, now she was practically begging you for another glass.

  “We have the right not to serve those we think have had too much. You’re approaching that line, Tauriel.” You warned.

  “I’m not that drunk.” 

  Elves had a rather strong alcohol tendency but Tauriel’s voice was no longer as clear as it usually was.

  “You’re getting there.”

  “If you won’t hic get me another ale, I’m leaving.”

  Exasperated, you gave up. If Tauriel wanted to drink herself into oblivion, so be it. If it was this bad then something must’ve happened to her… it was only natural to want to forget.

  So you continued serving her until she was the last one in the bar, now hunched over the table like a ragdoll. Her cheek pressed into the warm wood, eyes fluttering as her head began to spin. She never drank this much and it was wearing her down, but she was too scared to stop, too scared to face the memories.

  “Tauriel…” You lowered down again, resting your chin on the bar from the other side and gazing at the slumped redhead. For a moment you thought she passed out but then she groaned quietly.

  “Just… a little… hic… more…” Tauriel slurred, unable to lift her head without being overcome by dizziness. 

  You shook your head, nudging the empty pint away to see her better. “We’re closing, Tauriel. You have to go home now.”

  “Home…” The word rolled unnaturally off her tongue, her nose wrinkling. “Don’t… have a home…”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Doesn’t… hic… feel like it.”

  Your eyebrows creased in concern and you tilted your head a little. Nearly all of Mirkwood knew what Tauriel had been through during the Battle of The Five Armies… it was one of the reasons you treated her the way you did. Fighting fire with fire only caused it to spread, you tried to be the dousing water. The more you thought about it, it was no wonder Tauriel came to drink herself away every night if she truly didn’t feel at home here any longer.

  “Well… you have somewhere to stay. And you should probably go back there for the night. You’re going to have to nurse a nasty hangover in the morning.” You murmured, resting your hand on her forearm. When she whined softly at the touch you moved your other hand to brush the hair from her eyes.

  Tauriel leaned into your touch like a lost puppy. She never let others see her so weak. Ever. But now here she was, a pathetic mess in your hands.

  “I don’t know… what to do.” Tauriel whimpered weakly. “Can’t… keep doing this… can’t… see him… everywhere…”

  Perhaps your return home would have to wait. You couldn’t just send her away like this…

  You slipped your apron off and sat beside her, listening to her drunken babbling and piecing together what plots you could make out.

  And Tauriel poured her heart out in borderline incoherent rambles, crying to you about… well, everything. Legolas, Kili, her parents, her home, the horrors she’d seen, how she couldn’t save him up on that mountain and how he, a dwarf with so much to look forward to, sacrificed himself for a common, boring Captain of Mirkwood who had nothing for her name.

  The guilt poured off her shoulders like a waterfall until her tears were soaking your shirt and your arms were the only thing keeping her from getting a face full of cold ground.

  Tauriel had long forgotten her need to drink, now battling an upset stomach from consuming so much alcohol. By the time she stopped crying her head was tucked into your neck and her fingers clenched your shirt so tightly her knuckles were white.

  You had one hand rubbing her back, the other tangled in her hair. You waited until she was only whimpering and then spoke.

  “Come home with me.” You murmured softly to her. “I don’t think you should be alone in this state.”

  Tauriel’s response of a whine was not in protest so you took that as a yes.

  You finished closing up and then nearly carried her out of the tavern. The second Tauriel got outside she vomited her guts up into a nearby bush, the intensity bringing her to her knees as she expelled all of the vile liquid she’d just spent hours drinking.

  “There you go… you’re okay.” You murmured softly as you cleaned her face up. Her eyes were teary and red, nose dripping with snot that you wiped off with your sleeve. “Feels better now, right?”

  “...I want to sleep…” Tauriel whined.

  “Then let’s get you home.” You murmured softly in response as you helped her back to her feet. 

  It was a struggle but you eventually got her home and into bed, the poor drunken thing collapsing the second your mattress came into view. Tomorrow would probably suck, at least for her, but for now she was safe and warm.

  She was completely passed out but the slightest smile tinged her lips when your fingers brushed across her cheek. You took that as a sign that laying beside her was an accepted plan.

[aita-blorbos]

(🐻 <- so i can find it later)

AITA for not being there for my son?

(AU stuff. cw for some dated language, alcoholism, and covering up child murder)

So I (M90) slept with my (M, hopefully deceased) business partner back in the late 60s, which resulted in a surprise child, as he was one of those transsexuals. This happened twice before he and his wife adopted a little boy- but that's neither here nor there. His eldest, who I'll call Eggs (M 50-ish) grew up just knowing me as a family friend/uncle, and my own two kids were like a niece and nephew to him.

Neither me or his father told him or his siblings (including my own children) the truth. I don't know if he even knows today.

But Eggs ended up going to prison for manslaughter- along with three of his other friends- and while he was doing his time, five children went missing at the establishment his father and I owned. I was the one who found them. And of course- I didn't want the police or health inspectors on our asses- so I buried the bodies out somewhere upstate.

It was only until later I found out his father had done it. Not just five children, though. He had killed my own daughter back in the late 70s.

I left the company after that and purposefully avoided Eggs- he was the spitting image of his father, I couldn't fucking stand to look at him.

Eventually both his father and later, Eggs, blip off my radar completely. I found his father at some point, the fucking bastard, left him to rot away in his own filth- never found Eggs.

Until last night.

I had gone down to the local bar in town (I'd been going there for longer than I can remember.) and I see a tall looking fellow sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. Now- I'm not the social type- so I sat far away- but it didn't take too long for me to realize that- well- that's my son. He looked like he was fucking rotting, but I could tell by the accent (his father was an immigrant from London)

He really reminded me of his father- we used to go to that bar and drink until we'd get cut off, so we'd go and drink at home- and it was just a sorry sight.

He was only there for a few more minutes until this curly haired boy (he used to work for me) came and had to practically walk him out.

I told my sister about it- she really dug into me about it- insisting I was the asshole- that I had already abandoned one of my sons, but to ignore the other was fucked up of me.

So, TL;DR, i had a son with a man, kept it a secret, and refused to speak to him after i found out his father was a murderer- only to run into him decades later drinking himself into a stupor. My sister thinks I'm the asshole, but I don't think I am.

EDIT: I feel like it's important to mention that Eggs and the boy are married. They get on fine with the community. Plus, I doubt he would've been coherent enough to actually register if I told him anything or not.