#alcohol abuse

[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

[phyrestartr]

Sacrosanct | Adrian Tepes x M!Reader | (PT.1)

W/C: 3.8k C/W: mentions of emotional abuse, blood and gore, canon-typical violence, religion, religious abuse, religious themes, death, mentions of death, depression, alcohol abuse Tags: PLOT!, SFW, eventual NSFW/sexual themes, drama, repressed romantic feelings, slow-ish burn, childhood friends, starts s4 (eventually moving into nocturne), mutual pining, angst and drama, hurt/comfort, reader is kind of an ass lol

Note: soz if there are any spelling/grammar errors---I have been tweaking this so much and I'm so tired of it so I'm just posting the first part to get over it lol o(--( hope it's fun to read!!

1. A Man Amongst the Ghosts

Isolation was an unkind thing. Whispered secrets, foul howls and the like plagued the afflicted's everyday, wrenching away all hope of peace. The dolls, ones made in fits of lonely mania, kept Alucard some sort of company until those humans wandered through, filling in the emptiness that Trevor and Sypha once filled themselves; Taka and Sumi never could replace a Speaker and a Belmont, but the attempt was appreciated. 

Until their humanity showed. Their hatred of vampires, their distrust of anyone beyond themselves, their desperation—all reflected in dark, stone eyes as they loomed above him like the grim reaper, ready to take their pound of flesh from the bloodline that'd evaded Hell for so long. Yet what the two did not know, and what Death had always known, was that Alucard decided to live. 

But what's the point? That disease of a question never was to be answered. His mother would no doubt remind him of how precious and sacred life was, how he simply needed to seek out a spark of inspiration to once again find meaning, but how was one supposed to see meaning in the meaningless? Alucard didn't have an answer. Adrian didn't, either. 

Maybe I just need to wait for a surprise, he lamented. Another world-ending threat, or something. Maybe I could start one myself. I've nothing better to do, anyway. 

The dhampir sighed as he walked up the steps. Then, in the mouth of the great building, he paused; before him stood a figure, cloaked and still, facing the castle stairs. 

“Oh, God,” he breathed, rubbing his eyes, “not another one.” Surely, there was a way to cleanse the castle. Surely, there was a way to remove the spirits of his past, the ones who came and went as they pleased while Alucard watched on and suffocated. Surely, everyday life didn't need to be so—

His trance snapped at a sound. The castle made noises, but it didn’t scuff leather soles against stone, nor did it kick rubble out of its way to make room for hollow, echoing footsteps. Any noise the place made was slow and languid, like it was straining with each and every attempt to haunt its inhabitant; however, those footfalls were brisk and quick and so much like his mother's when she was in a rush. 

But that wasn't Lisa Tepes. It was an intruder—a real one. A man amongst ghosts.

A distant door closed, and Alucard exploded into movement.

Magic fuelled his steps, hurtling him forth in smears of vibrant crimson as he pursued the whisper of a heart beating. Whoever had tried their luck sounded calm, unbothered. Alucard was eager to change that.

The dhampir burst into the lab. A sharp yelp harmonized with the slamming of the door. Another shout was cut short the moment Alucard grabbed the stranger by the throat and pinned them to the wall with a resounding thud.

“Do you have a death wish?” He growled over whatever the stranger tried to say. 

A pause. Then, the threat was answered with a laugh, something sardonic and bitter. 

“A death wish?” They—he—scoffed, clawing at the gloved hand keeping him pinned. “Is that meant to intimidate me, you stupid, blood-sucking beast?” 

Alucard squeezed harder, earning a sharp whimper from the intruder. “It should scare you very much, yes.” 

“Wait,” he squawked. 

“Why should I?” Alucard snapped. “If I don't, you'll take from this place, won't you?” 

The stranger’s pawing turned into thrashing. 

Alucard continued, “If I don't, you’ll return and attempt to kill me. Worse, you could kill me the second I—”

“Adrian.” 

His grip weakened. 

The stranger gasped in lungfuls of air before hastily pulling back his hood. His face—your face—illuminated in the gentle morning light. 

Your gazes held for a long, long moment, one that might have gone on forever, one that might have only been a delusional second, but it was…familiar. Secretive and special, like when you lifted sweets from town and shared them underneath a table in the library.

“Don’t tell Miss Lisa,” you whispered, eyes glimmering with mirth despite your serious disposition. 

Adrian huffed and took a sweet roll from the basket. “I wouldn’t dream of it. She’ll be completely cross if she finds out.”

You nodded, and the pact was formed. “We must make sure we wash our hands afterwards,” you added as you ripped a roll in half and nibbled on the frayed edge. “I, too, will be cross if we get sugar on the books.” 

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

You turned your nose away like a pompous brat, and Adrian laughed.

His grip loosened more, and your pulse started to slow against his gloved fingertips. 

“You,” Alucard said slowly, sluggishly. “Why?”

“I’ve come to do the work your worthless self has refused to do, you brute,” you sneered.

Alucard released you and watched you collapse. You rubbed your throat, hand shaking.

“I forgot how much of an asshole you were, alchemist.”

You glared up at him through tear-coated lashes. 

“I've never forgotten how much of a spoiled brat you were, Adrian.” 

“Alucard,” the dhampir corrected. 

“What?”

The blonde turned away and wandered to where he'd seen you puttering. “They call me ‘Alucard,’ now.”

You scoffed. “The opposite of Dracula, yes, of course, how very dramatic of you.” He heard you drag yourself back up to your feet. “It's a stupid name.”

“So is ‘(Name)’.” 

“Oh, fuck off. If you're going to insult me, at least make it worthwhile.” 

You stepped up beside him, straightening out your clothes and fixing your disheveled hair. Alucard glimpsed flashes of light-coloured markings against your skin before they vanished beneath your clothes. He had no mind to wonder what they meant, but he did find them pretty.

“What are you doing here?” He sighed, suddenly so, so defeated. “This isn't your home.”

You sucked your teeth. “It was, once.”

“Not anymore.”

“Your mother said I'd always be welcome.” You picked books off the floor and set them on the cracked desk. “‘Always’ hasn't ended just because she's passed.” 

Alucard's face twisted. “Don't speak of her. You have no right.”

“She was my mentor,” you said offhandedly. You threw a few more books onto the table. “I mourn her, too.”

“Yet you weren’t there when—”

“Neither were you.” 

The cold left Alucard's veins, exposing his raw nerves to the needling truths he had shunned in favour of shutting down, disappearing into the numbness of winter. What right did you have to remind him? What right did you have to reappear and give him grief? 

Thorns punctured the backs of his eyes. Alucard held his head and staggered back. He needed wine, and badly. 

“Just—don't touch anything,” he grumbled as he turned away, ignoring whatever it was you hissed back at him. The man didn't have the energy to start a losing war with you.

—

Time passed. Alucard ignored you. He even forgot you resided under the same roof as him unless he stumbled upon you in the kitchen or engine room. You kept to yourself for the most part, and he kept to himself. It wasn't horrible. 

You were horrible, however. You were nothing short of an entitled menace to society and, more personally, to Alucard himself. Still, somehow, Lisa had liked you enough to give you a room, and Dracula had found you promising enough to let you stay in that room, much to their only child's chagrin.

“‘He has nowhere else to go,’” Alucard muttered aloud, echoing the words his mother spoke back then. “‘He's alone.’” He stared up at the cellar's ceiling before taking a long drink of wine. “‘I'm sure he'll be your friend.’”

He thought of Sumi and Taka. He thought of Trevor and Sypha. He thought of empty shadows. And when he couldn't stand the thoughts any longer, he drank, and decided the castle was too small for all those ghosts and two living men, that it wasn’t allowed to be anything but cold and painful and lonely. Bonds, people, just made life agony. 

Alucard rubbed his eyes. His shoulders trembled from a heavy inhale. 

He needs to leave.

Resolve sobered him. Alucard stormed out of the cellar like he was about to face his father again, like his life was on the line along with humanity’s fate. In a way, it was; if he didn't deal with the nightmarish imp sullying his home, he'd be no use to humanity, he'd be in no position to be sober enough to ever do anything besides mourn and cry, and that couldn't last forever. 

The lab doors came into view with the quiet shuffling of odds and ends before he threw the doors open, and stepped inside with purpose. 

“You,” Alucard commanded. “You're to get out of my castle immediately lest I—”

He slowed to a halt and took the space in; the lab was warmly lit, and it no longer reeked of blood, sweat and magic, but instead of herbs and wood; a majority of the room was cleaned, or at least straightened out, and many of the books and equipment had been returned to their rightful places; what was left of the floors, walls and furniture were free of most filth, too. It almost seemed to masquerade as a home again.

You were even on the second floor, staring out the largest window with a cup of tea in your hand—a calming sight Alucard had taken in plenty of times in the past.

“You're cleaning,” Alucard said as he approached you. 

“Astute observation, vampire.” You sipped your tea as you stared out at the vast sea of green cedar. “I'm surprised you live.” 

“Tch. Not even Dracula could kill me,” Alucard huffed. “Wine doesn't stand a chance.” 

“I'm not so sure. That horrible stench coming off of you suggests you're already a walking corpse.” 

“So you came back to play the part of maid?” Alucard asked instead of biting back. 

Your nose twitched with the threat of a snarl. “Someone has to clean up this fucking mess and it's surely not going to be you.” 

“Well, I—”

“No, shut up.” You collapsed into a nearby armchair with a sigh. “You don't get to defend yourself.”

Alucard scoffed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “I was going to sort things out.” 

“Before or after you drank yourself to near-death?” 

“You're still as miserable as I remember.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I think I'm much more miserable now.” Your gaze dropped. “This house is a mess.” 

Alucard scoffed, hackles rising. “Of course, it's the house you worry about.” 

You frowned. “Someone has to.” 

“Are you ever going to learn how to be pleasant?”

“I wasn't made to be pleasant; I was made to be exceptional.”

The dhampir laughed, earning a hot glare. “You mean by those mad heretics that attempted to open the gates of Hell over and over? Is that meant to be ‘exceptional’?” 

The muscles of your jaw tensed, and Alucard thought he heard the grind of teeth. Your family, whoever they were, were a weak spot for you. He knew that well.

“Fuck you,” you uttered like a pagan curse. “You've no idea what I've endured, what my makers were like.”

“My father is Dracula,” Alucard said, “he tried to kill me, killed thousands of humans, tried to end the world—”

“Yet you still live, and the world is still in-fucking-tact, isn't it? Maybe not your world, but the one that matters most.” You glowered out the window as you stood. “As far as I see it, you're rather lucky.” 

“Lucky?” He repeated, an edge of hysteria lifting his voice. “Really, you'd call this lucky?”

“It could have been a lot fucking worse.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“You wish.” 

You turned sharply and abandoned him. Alucard listened to your brisk footfalls disappear behind a collage of distant bookcases, some broken, some intact. The rifling and shuffling of wood and paper took over not too long after he lost sight of you. You'd so easily gone back to work. 

He's always been that way, Alucard remembered. Would rather putter about instead of dealing with people. His mother had never been anti-social. His father was, however. Maybe your shared distaste and skepticism about humans was what bonded you. Maybe humans made you so jaded, too. Maybe, in another world, they'd have made Alucard the same. 

He wandered after you, following phantom footsteps until the dull clapping of book covers became clear. You were mumbling under your breath, exasperated and annoyed as always with the one-sided argument you engaged in. It was another common sight; Alucard recalled finding you bickering with the air far too often in your shared younger days. Lisa never had an explanation for her son, but she had words of comfort to explain your quirk. 

I thought you didn’t remember your parents, Alucard wanted to say, but that look on your face, the one that stirred something in his chest and ate everything in his veins, snuffed out whatever flame of confidence he thought to face you with. 

–

Alucard let you be for a long while. He didn't know how long, per se, but at least…a while. Some time. Maybe a week or two. A month? Hard to tell.

When did I kill those two? He wondered dryly as he wandered back from yet another trip to the river. Feels like centuries ago…maybe longer. Is this what Father felt in that long, miserable life of his, until he met Mother? He didn't want to dwell on it long.

Instead, he dwelled on the man standing before the skewered warnings at the castle's front door. 

He could see your foot tapping and shifting to and fro—toe, heel, toe, heel—the same way you had as a younger teen. Alucard hated it, especially when your hard leather soles clacked against the hardwood like a woodpecker knocking on a tree. 

Alucard snorted. Woodpecker. That summed you up nicely.

“What are you smiling about, vampire?” You snapped. Alucard thought venom might shoot from your eyes or flame might spew from your mouth.

“Why are you staring at…those?” He asked instead. 

Your expression weakened into something a bit more innoxious. “I'm wondering why you needed them,” you said, turning to the gruesome display. “And if I should summon them again to kill them myself for whatever they've done.” 

Alucard couldn't look away from you. “‘For what they’ve done,’” he echoed, voice weak. “What makes you think they’ve done anything at all?”

“Adrian Tepes would not skewer someone if they weren't as damnable as the fucking night beasts staked in their company,” you decided, pointed words acrid with something intense.

A weak warmth spread across Alucard’s skin. The feeling tried to go deeper, back to somewhere long forgotten, but he didn’t allow it. How could he, after so many had taken that sacred place for granted?

“Oh.” The dhampir cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I see.”

Your eyes flicked to him and pinned him in place. Yet, a moment later, your brows lost their creased tension while your stare abandoned its edge in favour of something kinder—or perhaps less lethal—as you gave him a quick once-over before your stare ultimately landed on the bare skin peeking out from beneath his jacket. 

Your eyebrows raised a little, smoothing out your chronic resting bitch face, and your eyes lidded so slightly. Alucard fought the urge to pull his jacket closed while at the same time resisting the impulse to throw his jacket off. You still did strange things to him.

“Where is your shirt?” You asked. 

Alucard cleared his throat. “I, ah. It's…complicated.” 

One of your brows quirked as you turned to face him, arms crossed. “I highly doubt that.”

Alucard could not find it in himself to admit his melancholy stopped him from doing anything—merely speaking such a thing into the world would be too much to bear.

“Fine,” you scoffed. “Then what's that scar?” 

“My father,” he said. “He—well. We had a disagreement, you could say.” 

You winced. “Dracula must have been far gone to hurt you.”

Alucard flickered a smile. “He was.”

Your lips parted, then sealed again, but you didn't look away. Alucard saw sparks of the you he used to find comfort in with the way you beheld him; you wore that thoughtful, gentle look whenever Adrian found himself in trouble or in pain. It warmed him to know you might not have changed much in that way.

Before your old friend could admire you much more, you turned and straightened out your cuffs with a neat, crisp flourish. “Well, that’s a shame. I quite liked your father.”

“I know.” 

Alucard couldn't find anything more to say. Yet you still stayed put as though you held out hope for him to say something more. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t, and you were not known for having the patience of a saint.

Helpless, Alucard watched you disappear into the gaping mouth of the castle doorway. It was strange, he thought, how your silhouette seemed to meld with the shadows as soon as you stepped out of the sun. Then again, he was slightly out of his mind. 

Instead of following after you, he braved a glance at the rotting faces of Taka and Sumi. “He’s been here much longer than you two,” he murmured, eyes casting back to the ground. “And he hasn’t tried to trick me, kill me, or fuck me. Maybe this is how bonds are meant to forge.” A long, heavy sigh left him. “I don’t know.” 

Eventually, he found himself wandering the halls, his sad, half-filled pail sloshing beside him and occasionally spilling onto the hardwood. You'd yell at him for it, probably spew something about ruining the already battle-ruined floors, but the punishment didn’t seem too harrowing; at least he'd have company.

Then, he heard a noise, and followed it like a fool following a premonition. However, his quest actually had a prize at the end: you, messing about with pipes in the boiler room set beside the engine room. Your hands were speckled and smeared with grease and other shiny residue, yet your clothes were as clean as they could be with your shirt tucked properly and sleeves rolled up to reveal a stretch of skin marked with faint, blue sigils.

He stepped forward when you tried to twist a piece of pipe free with just your fingertips. Gently, he brushed your hand aside before gripping the measure of pipe and yanking it free with a single, easy motion. 

“You could have asked,” Alucard said, holding the pipe out for you. “Instead of ominously vanishing into the castle, I mean.”

Your nose scrunched as you took the piece with a dirtied rag and set it aside. “You seemed too busy wandering around, looking like a dejected donkey holding a bucket, and, last I checked, mules don't make for great conversation.”

Alucard set the bucket to the side. “Well, I'd rather champion the removal of pipes so you may keep your delicate, frail hands clean. Seems better than being a sad donkey, at the very least.” 

“Hm. You already need a dozen baths, I suppose, so this can't be too uncouth for you,” you said, leaning away from him and looking over some schematics. 

“Oh, well perhaps I should go bathe rather than help you, then.” 

“Ah-ah,” you scolded. “Your fate is sealed. Remove the next two pieces, vampire.” 

Alucard rolled his eyes but did as he was told, much to his chagrin; he'd rather have running, hot water again than constantly wandering to the river day by day, of course, but he'd have to survive a short stint of servitude under your cruel, critical rule for that to happen. It wouldn't have been worth it if he hadn’t been hoping for petty banter and a chance to ask questions. 

“Those markings,” he said, “I've been wondering about them.” 

“Hm.” 

“Care to explain?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Will you?”

You turned away, and Alucard stifled a sigh. Wonderful first attempt at an actual conversation. Almost as tactful as Belmont. He grimaced. God, please make me into anything but Belmont.

“Alchemical sigils,” you said, striking through Alucard’s thoughts. 

The dhampir's mind whirled for a snap. “Really,” he said. “I suppose I should have recognized them.” 

You hummed in maybe annoyance or agreement before turning back to the machine. “They're lesser-known. Most present-day alchemists are forgemasters, besides. They've little need for incantations when they've their chosen tools.”

Alucard leaned down to peer over your shoulder at whatever you were scrutinizing in the boiler. “Hm. Then your markings are a tool of sorts?” He wondered.

You frowned. “A curse may be more accurate.��� 

Alucard glanced at you again, then to the back of your neck when another symbol—a familiar thing, one that looked like a star of sorts—caught his attention, and sparked a machination of curiosity and alarms in his mind. “A curse.”

Your hand clapped over the mark, and you turned to him, sharp and quick like you were expecting to parry.

Alucard raised a hand to surrender. “I didn't mean to—”

“Quiet,” you snapped. The word twisted strangely, like a distortion rippling in water before calming again. “Do not expect more from me than that which I give you. Do you understand?” Alucard nodded, and you seemed to calm. “Good. Now, just shut up and do as I say, yes? No more questions.” 

No more questions. Your demand only piqued his curiosity.

After helping you with what would become a lengthy, gruelling project, Alucard found his way to the rickety Belmont vault and wandered through aisles upon aisles of books. A worried sickness curled in his stomach and chest; last time he'd been down there, he'd brought two others with him.

He shook his head. Focus. You need a book about alchemy. Old alchemy, no less. 

There were plenty of books to choose from, but Alucard was quick to realize alchemy was not the core of your mystery, but the root; it was something related to it, something that used alchemical symbols and other sigils born from similar knowledge. 

And finding a hexagram etched into the crumbling spine of an old, leather book gave him a solid start. 

“Hm. Ars Goetia,” Alucard said aloud, tongue thoughtful with every syllable.

As though something answered him, the air hummed. It buzzed with life, reverberating with something kinetic and physical, like the bone-rattling depth of a choir. Books shuddered, earth shifted, debris fluttered from the roof—then, it all receded, drifting away like a midnight yawn and leaving nothing but a dissonant, distant ring in its wake. 

“Well,” Alucard exhaled, “that was interesting.” He sat himself in a mostly-intact chair, and opened the book. “I wonder if that was meant to ward me away. I suppose time will tell.”

---

Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment your thoughts or if you'd like to be tagged for the next part :'D

[somebodytolove31]

High to Death

[dragonbee259]

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.

[allthecanadianpolitics]

The Nunavut government is calling for proposals on suicide prevention initiatives and alcohol and drug prevention funding programs, to address the mental health crisis the territory is facing.  There's more than $3.3 million available. Blake Skinner, a mental health specialist with the Department of Health, says the government is open to innovative ideas and approaches.  Skinner said the department has previously funded after-school programs and projects that address food insecurity.

Continue Reading

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[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.

[thererisesaredstar]

A drunken father is the family's grief! (1955)

[screaming-sparrow]

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

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for trying to get my headmate to not remember his ex-wife?

Our host (???, 40ish) is an alcoholic divorced cop me and my headmates have all been trying to stop from killing himself or completely ruining his life. My job is to alert him to dangers he might not know or remember (he drank so much he forgot his entire life. By the way) and he keeps running into things that remind him of his ex wife he's been divorced from for six years, so I am trying to employ some misdirect so he doesn't remember her. For example, he has a letter from her in his ledger that I told him in no uncertain terms not to read and that yeah, it scares him, and he shouldn't read it AND HE READ IT. AND HE PASSED OUT. And then later we went to a church! And there was a broken stained glass window of the historical/religious figure he projects his ex wife onto (don't ask) and one of my headmates TOLD HIM TO GIVE HER FIGURINES?????? He only gets hurt when he remembers!!!! And I know the dream is coming, and I doubt he can handle that. So AITA for trying to keep our host safe?

[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.”

[cobra-creampuff]

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.