#alcohol and drug abuse

[giggibaloggio]

you can find me here if you need

[muzgozjeb]

[ink-the-artist]

truly not trying to detract from the very russian art of the generational trauma wolves, and i know the colors are from the ussr + russia flags, but it also spoke to me as a hispanic person. especially w respect to misogyny and how machismo tears families apart, and how trauma that comes from outside the family units gets repeated/expressed within the family unit. idk.

absolutely it applies to more than just russians, im glad it speaks to other ppl :)

[loonadelfly]

>Do coke for 50 hours in a row

>Stay awake for 2 days

>Have the most fucked up nosebleed of your life and almost OD

>drink wine and repeat

[neuroticboyfriend]

don't know how to put this into words that make sense but addiction feels like a really long train ride. you just get farther and farther from home. you know you have to go back. you know the farther out you go the more time, money, and energy it'll take to get home. you know you have things to do at home. you have people you miss and hobbies to do and things to take care of. but you're already so far out. so you just keep going and telling yourself it's better to never look back. you try to find comfort and joy gazing out the window at all the new places and scenes, but you really just keep getting more lost. nothing is familiar anymore - except for the train. except for the mother fucking train.

you know every nook and cranny of that god damn train, but nothing about yourself or your future or what you really want out of life. and the worst part is, if you don't turn around, one day you'll hit the end of the line. but there will be no train back. you'll never go home again. you'll never go anywhere again.

[devilboycomic]

The prettiest sinner 🌼

[try-set-me-on-fire]

The Parable of the Drunken Man

A short tale about Robert Nash and the devil himself, part of a longer tale that has not yet been written

The drunken man is already drunk when he stumbles up to the liquor store, which he probably should have figured out meant trouble, big trouble, should have been able to see the walls of the hole he’d dug for himself. But it's a sunny day — five o’clock nowhere, oh how deep, oh how deep — and he’s not thinking about much besides getting through the glass push door with the little jingle bell on the top. He makes it up all the steps and only stumbles once, bangs his hip on the railing fucking ow. He makes it through the door too, jingle jingle, hey, just like Christmas, that’s coming up, it’s getting cold. Ice box inside is cold, the big fridges are cold, he could grab some Fitgers like his daddy drank but they shuttered their doors in ‘72 and his dad was in the ground pretty soon after — the hole, the hole — and anyway what’s beer gonna do. The drunken man needs something from one of the shelves up behind the counter, warm in its bottle, strong as paint stripper. And the clerk knows him — can’t you hear the shovel — and he doesn’t even really have to ask, just points and the bottle comes to him, presto magic. And then the drunken man pats his pockets and there’s nothing in this one, nothing in that one, not in his coat, not in his jeans, empty empty empty.

“I’m good for it,” he says, “You know I am, come on.”

“Sorry, Bobby,” the clerk says, and to his credit his eyes are sad.

When the stranger says “I can cover for you,” only a step from his side the drunken man is surprised. He didn’t think anyone else was in the store. He didn’t hear the bell jingle jingle. And this guy, this stranger, he’s in a suit, a real nice suit, nothing like piss poor piss drunk pissed off clientele that usually graces these fluorescent lit halls. But the drunken man wants his drink so he shrugs.

“Sure. Mighty kind of you. I owe you one.”

The stranger has a smile that’s real wide. His teeth are all straight. “Do you now? And what might that be?”

The drunken man glances at the shelf behind the counter. “$17.95.”

That stranger makes a sound that must be a laugh because the drunken man doesn’t know what else it would be. “That’s not a very interesting deal, Bobby.”

If he stays out too long there’s people who’re gonna be mad at him, can’t he fucking wrap this up? The drunken man glances at the clerk. The bottle is there in his hand. “What do you have in mind?” He wonders for a moment what the stranger will ask, what he might be willing to give. He’s not that desperate. He has some Johnny Walker at home, he’s pretty sure. It’ll be harder to get to it around Marcy, but he could manage. If this is a sex thing, he can just say no.

The stranger shrugs. “What would you give for a drink, right now?”

The drunken man’s shoulders shiver a bit, he’s not sure why. It’s what he’d just been thinking, but, whatever, coincidence. “I- I don’t know.”

“Would you give up your apartment? Your whole floor?”

The drunken man laughs. “I don’t own my whole floor, man, I don’t even own my fucking apartment.” They’d owned the house but the medical bills had stacked up and up and up and the drunken man had dug down and down and down until the difference had been too great to ever balance out again.

All those teeth. “But would you give it? All the people in it? Trade them, right here and now?”

The drunken man is just kind of annoyed. This guy, this out of towner, fucking with him. “Sure. Yeah, and the whole rest of the building, too.”

“Now there’s a deal,” the stranger laughs again, slaps the drunken man hard enough on the back it hurts, it bruises, it’s yellow on his shoulder when he goes to work on Monday and no one even bats an eyelash that’s he’s fucked himself up in some new little way. He hands the clerk a handful of cash — more than $17.95 it seems to the drunken man’s eyes — and the clerk hands over the bottle with uneasy eye contact and then the drunken man leaves, goes home, swigs once twice in the parking lot before heading up to the roof and stashing the bottle and heading back downstairs and in to his wife and his daughter and his son, cheeks red from the cold and other things, and he wasn’t too late — too late, oh he’s too late — and they all eat dinner together.

Exactly one month later, the building goes up in flames. He’s drunk on the roof. He was high in an empty room, with a space heater plugged into the wall. The hole is deep and he doesn’t even have the grace to die at the bottom of it, next to the tiny bodies of his children, next to burnt living corpse of his wife. And now he’s sleeping in a motel his brother paid for but he’s not sleeping there, he’s trying to drink himself to death in the parking lot out back when he sees the stranger again, in the nice suit, still all his straight teeth showing.

“Was it you?” The drunken man hollers. “Was it you? Did you do this? Did you make this happen?” He’s throwing the bottle, he’s grabbing the front of that too nice suit and the guy is just smiling, just fucking grinning, big and pleased as a cat with all the cream.

“You were always gonna burn that building, Bobby,” he says, and his tone of voice, there’s something about it that’s true, there’s something about it that’s impossible not to believe. “That’s how that night was always going to go.”

“Then what- then why-”

“You just gave me permission to collect.” The drunken man hadn’t thought the stranger was taller than him, but he leers down at him now.

Like Bobby knows he was telling the truth, he knows he’s not talking about, whatever, an insurance payout. “What did I- what did I give you?”

“Souls, Bobby. You traded all their souls. And for such a grand prize.” And the stranger held up his hand, and in it was a bottle of Devil’s Springs, 151 proof.

The motel day shift front desk girl finds him there in the morning, half frozen, laying in a mess of broken glass.

[my-journey-to-recovery]

[kevindelreyy]

Delorazepam I'm delay

[dreamwatch]

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Prompt: Pride | Word Count: 1031 | Rating: M | CW: Alcohol/drug abuse, driving under the influence, car accident | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Eddie Munson, Gareth Stranger Things, past Steddie, Eddie is a very bad boy, possibly downright unlikeable, ambiguous ending

“Eddie, don’t.”

“Come on, man.” 

“Don’t be stupid, Eddie!”

He’s not listening, not tonight. Tonight he has a calling from on high. Tonight he has places to be, a person to see. A person to touch.

Tonight he’s driving

He climbs into the car, his beautiful Ferrari bought with the spoils of fame. There are three cars in his garage, but this is the fastest. This is the one he wants to be in tonight. It’s a racer, meant for speed, a rocket ship of possibilities. 

There are voices behind him, the band arguing amongst themselves. Maybe they’re shouting at him, but he’s not listening. He’s only had a two or three vodkas, and coke doesn’t have the same effect on him as it used to, back when he was a kid and all this was new to them. The pills were nothing, just something to keep him awake, something to chill him out. But he’s older now and those things aren’t new anymore. Booze and drugs are supplements, part of the regime, part of his five a day. It’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything.

It’s Gareth that follows him, climbing in beside him a second before Eddie turns the key in the ignition and the car roars to life.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing, man? Come back inside.”

“Get out.”

“I’m not—”

“Get out!”

Gareth buckles his seat belt tight and glares at him.

“Fine,” Eddie spits at him. “Fuck you then.”

He revs the engine repeatedly, the vibration like electricity through his body. It only goads him on. He slams his foot to the pedal and the car streaks out of his garage and onto the streets.

The city is magical at night, blinding lights, a stratospheric glimmer of colour. He knows if he was walking out on the road it would be quiet, there’d be no sound, just the occasional car speeding past on the empty streets, just like he is now. There’s music in the car, a blasting thump of drums and bass and he feels his foot drop on the accelerator; he doesn’t look at the speedometer because he doesn’t care. Part of him wishes he’d taken the bike, his black Yamaha that barely gets ridden anymore, then Gareth would still be back at the house with Jeff and Matt and their girlfriends, and not with him shouting for him to slow down. 

“—wait till tomorrow. Nothing will have changed. Let’s just go back, you can talk to him tomorrow, okay?”

Eddie doesn’t like to be ignored, doesn’t like his calls going unanswered. So no, actually, it won’t wait. He wants him tonight. Deserves to have Steve tonight.

“Eddie, slow down.”

“No.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie! It’s red!”

It’s a challenge, him against the stop light, him against the cross traffic. The road is empty, he knows it will be fine, Gareth just worries too much. He always has. Cocky until he’s not, that’s Gareth. If nothing else it will be a good lesson for him. Eddie didn’t want him here so he can consider this his punishment. 

Eddie floors the gas pedal, the engine butter smooth as it gives him the speed he wants, and he howls out of the open window as he flies through the stop light, laughing into the hot summer night.

Gareth is heaving in deep breaths beside him and it only makes him laugh more, he can barely hear himself over the sound of the engine and the music. 

The Ferrari speeds over the freeway and he feels like he’s flying. He feels like he’s free, and when the fuck was the last time he felt like that? His face is everywhere, his every second accounted for, every moment of his life planned. Stand here, wear this, do what we tell you, say what we tell you. He just needs a moment to fly.

Gareth is on the phone, but the engine noise and music drown out whatever he’s saying. Eddie doesn’t really care. He can call Jeff, he can call Wayne, fuck, call the cops for all he cares. What are they going to do? He’s Eddie fucking Munson.

He lifts his foot of the gas just a little, just enough so that when he floors it again he can feel it. It’s like warp speed, he’s Han Solo and Gareth is Chewbacca and the laughter fires through him again, the utter absurdity of it all. He loves his life.

He hates everything.

When he checks on Gareth he looks like he’s going to be sick, and there’s no fucking way he’s going to be sick in his Ferrari, so he lays off the gas. Gareth hangs his head out of his own window, the wind blowing his hair back. It’s warm out tonight, it just makes everything headier. Makes his need feel deeper.

He needs Steve. It’s in his head now, can’t sleep, can’t sleep, can’t sleep, can’t be without Steve. That there, that’s the heart of it, he doesn’t know how to be without him. Can’t get his head around him leaving, can’t comprehend why he’d walk out on this. They had everything, Eddie gave him everything, and he threw it back at him. Like, how fucking dare he work, go out on the road, make money for them? They were fine, they had a system, it worked for him, it worked for Steve, he’d have said if didn’t. It was Robin getting in Steve’s head again, telling him this wasn’t normal, ‘it’s not a relationship if you’re never together, Steve’, and when did she become such a meddling cunt? 

He drops his foot on the accelerator.

It’s not instant. The streaks of light are lining the road, leading him to heaven, and then it’s the light polluted sky he sees, the distant glimmer of weak stars filling the windscreen. He thinks Gareth is screaming beside him, but Eddie’s not scared. He feels like he’s floating, feels the hot night air whip around him, feels the dizzying spin of the car, his own fairground ride in the sky. The strips of white lining the asphalt rise up to meet him. 

He never feels the hit.

Yes it's essentially Blinding Lights by The Weeknd, but this prompt was fighting me so hard and I've spent days trying to make another story work and it just wasn't. Then this came on, and yes I may have looped it for half an hour while I wrote, but I competed the prompt!

@the-unforgivenn

[muzgozjeb]

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Hunter (Corporate AU)

- one of Rex's personal bodyguards

- chronically lonely

- slightly more socially adjusted but still treated like shit

(more lore under the cut, cw for themes of drug use/addiction)

- Hunter's childhood years/teens are mostly unchanged here, but instead of bouncing directly to organized crime after gang #3, he ends up alone for some time

- no friends, plenty of enemies, and in a really bad mental place, Hunter started taking one-off jobs as a drug mule to stay afloat. One job resulted in him getting paid with the product he was running, and at that point he was close enough to rock bottom that he said what the hell

- this started a destructive eleven-month cycle of him saying "never again", fighting with himself about it, and then having a shit day and cracking. The periods of self-argument got shorter and shorter with each time he caved

- he met Rex outside a bar purely coincidentally. They wound up having a one-night-stand (Hunter just wanted to sleep somewhere warm)

- later, Rex found him passed out in an alley and called an ambulance for him. In the hospital, he offered to pay the bill if Hunter came to work for him

- he made him get clean before officially taking the job (one of the only decent things he's done). Since then, Hunter's taken up nicotine and drinking as a legal substitution

- Rex isn't the most moral CEO. His bodyguards are there to protect him, yes, but they also act as enforcers and collectors

- he saved Hunter mostly for selfish reasons. He got rebuffed during their first encounter and liked the idea of taking back that control. Plus, having a guard dog who owed him everything sounded very appealing

- anyways my skrunkly boy looks cute all dressed up

[loonadelfly]

Fucking high on cocaine and doing skincare my God I love my liife

[buttery-chaos]

this means I rly like you 💖

[paingoes]

Destroyer Bonus - Glow

something lighter after the last update 

@pumpkin-spice-whump sent an ask game about “best memories” w paris and delta and it made me sad because yeah there arent many! but there are a few. heres one of the softer ones. ft. drunk!Delta

(Content: living weapon whumpee, dehumanization, touch starved, implied physical abuse, alcohol, power imbalances, war mention, passing drugs mention)

“What do you mean they surrendered?” Paris’s phone charms clicked together as he paced up and down the hall. “When? Just now?”

Delta listened at the other end of the hall, taking careful notice of the silent pauses that marked it as a phone argument, not a normal argument. The former always disappointed him. He liked hearing both sides so he could figure out who to root for.

“Well what the fuck did I come here for then?” Paris’s voice was more whiny than angry this time. “We already unpacked!”

Most of the ship’s cargo had been emptied to set up a new base camp, most of the soldiers already occupied with its assembly. The relative vacancy of the ship made all sound echo within it.

He heard Paris curse, the call ending abruptly, and the footsteps approaching. Delta peeked out of the alcove he’d been hiding out in.

“Not on?” He mouthed.

Paris jumped back in surprise, but recovered quickly. He rolled his eyes.

“No, we’re not on,” he said. “I didn’t call you, did I?” 

Paris shooed him away, even though he’d been there first. He was barely looking at him, all his attention still absorbed in the broken screen.

“Go to your room.”

He went to his room.

~

That was fine. He was never unhappy about cancellations. Even before his little moral doubts had started nagging at him, the work was hard on his body, even harder on his brain. He didn’t mind going back to his room. It meant he wouldn’t have to do anything today — and he was always so grateful for any rest.

He stared at the book he’d been reading until the room had grown so dark he could not see the pages. When he finally came to, it was pitch black outside the windows. He didn’t know how much time had passed. There came a knocking from out in the hallway.

The only light that came through to him was a thin line of orange beneath the door. Shadows crossed over it. He heard giggling, faintly. He didn’t bother to turn the lamp on before he opened it.

Sierra stood in the doorway, one hand flying to her mouth coyly as if to conceal her smile. She was flanked by her other handmaidens. Without the standard coifs and corsets, they were almost unrecognizable. They were dressed all in white, though the fabric of the gowns was frayed and torn at the edges. Their hair was undone in loose, messy curls.

“Hi Delta,” Sierra waved, then covered her mouth again in faux shyness. “We’re having a party, cause like, there’s nothing else to do here. We were wondering if you wanted to come out?”

He blinked, his head still foggy as he was emerging from the fantasy novel. He stared back at her tiredly and did not even consider the offer.

“I’m not allowed to leave the ship,” he said.

Sierra shook her head, smiling wider.

“Already asked. His Majesty said it’s alright.”

She slipped on the title, or she was being mean. Delta wasn’t convinced either way.

“He wouldn’t say that.”

She held up a small slip of paper.

𝒮𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒹𝑜 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈.

                                       𝒫𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓈 ♡

~

He went to tell Simon he was leaving, just to cover all his bases, but found his office empty. It was a total ghost ship. The girls hadn’t been lying. It seemed like everyone onboard had gone out to the encampment. 

There seemed no better use for it, if they weren’t going to be fighting, if they weren’t leaving until tomorrow. 

He followed them down the ramp, dressed more casually than he usually did for any “party” occasion, but still done up in the way they had liked. He didn’t argue.

He began to regret the easiness with which he had followed them as they walked past the groups of soldiers. He did not actually want to be near any of them if they were getting loaded, or even if they weren’t. They were too rough, too entitled. They thought he had to answer to them — and though he didn’t, he did not have the boldness to correct them. Not that they would’ve listened anyway.

But Sierra did not stop at the main camp, though some of the girls did peel off to see all the commotion. She led Delta and the others out on the knoll. 

There was a crop of trees surrounding a stone pit. He watched her struggle to start a fire there before finally offering to do it himself, igniting the wood with electricity until it caught flame. He blushed at the cheers he got for that. It was nothing.

They had only taken him out as a toy. He had no misconceptions about that. He sat down in the spot where they’d indicated, keeping his posture straight so as not to throw off their machinations.

They talked amongst themselves while they worked. He caught the edges of their conversations, found none of it especially relevant but entertaining enough. It was more entertaining the more drinks they slipped into his hand. The girls seemed to get the same rebellious thrill out of his drunkenness that he got out of being drunk. Martino would’ve killed him if he knew. He drank in spite of, or maybe because of this.

He liked the way the night air felt against his skin. He was grateful to have experienced it before they made the return trip. As large as the ship was, it could easily become claustrophobic after enough time spent in deep space. It made him crazy, sometimes.

He flinched at the abruptness of the contact, then gradually relaxed underneath it. He was so unused to gentle touch. As the maid’s hand moved through his hair and down along his neck, he had to stop himself from leaning into it. It was hard for him to recognize anything as want, but in this, he came close. The touch was fleeting. It never lasted long.

They braided flowers into his hair, stopping every few minutes to check their progress. 

He hadn’t realized Sierra had left until she reappeared. In the dark, their silhouettes all looked the same. She came back over the promenade. Paris tread casually beside her.

Delta tensed a bit, fearing Sierra’s permit had not actually been all-inclusive, that he was not actually supposed to be outside. But Paris didn’t look very shocked to see him. He tousled his hair absently as he passed behind him, made no other acknowledgment.

As usual, he followed Paris’s voice before any other sound. He couldn’t keep himself from listening in on their conversation, even if he wanted to. 

“-not like it’s real. You’d know if it was.”

“It isn’t, though. I’ve always known it’s not real, that doesn’t make it any-“

“My brother used to get those. They gave him Ativan for it.”

“I tried that already.”

Another flower was braided into Delta’s hair. All the stars were out. The music carried over from the main camp, not deafening the way it must have been at its source, but pleasantly muted by the distance. 

~

Paris held the bottle in his periphery, shaking it gently, like a lure. Delta took it. The prince’s attention immediately left him, did not wait to see his reaction. An offer, then, not an order. Delta drank it anyway.

It was only when Paris sat down by the other side of the fire that Delta noticed the laurel wreath woven into his hair. He’d never seen it before, did not know where he had found it. 

“Hi,” Delta said, already very drunk.

“Hey,” Paris shrugged, more sober than he normally was this time of night. 

Sierra was laying down on the other side of them, playing on her phone. There was no way she had a signal out here. She was feeding a virtual cat with blue pellets, watching the status bar go up.

“Do you remember when the Emperor first got you?” 

He said the Emperor, instead of my father. Delta tried to remember if he’d ever said the word dad. At most, he would call him the old man, but it was stark and without any playfulness. It was accurate. The Emperor had been old, even when the two of them were just children. Too old not to have a succession plan.

Before Delta could respond, one of the maids snapped her fingers by his face. He turned around.

“Stay like that,” she said before blinding him with the camera’s flash. He stayed like that, holding still as she took a few more. The only experience he’d had with cameras was in clinical settings. He held the same indifferent expression he’d been coached to wear, which to be fair, was not very different from how he normally looked.

“Delete those,” Paris said without much passion. It was against protocol, but it was clear he didn’t really care either way. He turned his attention back to Delta. “That trick with the dragon. Can you still do it?”

He couldn’t believe he even remembered that. Delta had found it insanely gaudy at the time, even more so as his tastes had developed. He realized, a bit sadly, that the purchase anniversary was coming up. He wondered if they’d send a card. 

“No.” Delta shook his head. It’d been a party trick, never repeated. “I couldn’t do it in the dark, anyway.”

At that same instant, the fireworks went off in the distance. Paris flinched, moving both hands protectively to the back of his skull like he anticipated an attack from behind. When none came, and there was only red and purple across the sky, his expression changed from embarrassment to annoyance and then eventually relief. The fireworks weren’t from their camp. They’d come from across the river. Not his responsibility.

Nobody else seemed to see him flinch, so Delta pretended not to either. His attention drifted back to the fireworks alone. 

They were impressive for what they were. Nothing compared to the sheer shock and awe of the campaigns that could have just as easily lit up the sky that night. He could have spent all night trying to stop the bleeding from his mouth, the numb static in his hands. He was glad they’d surrendered. He knew that this was how he was meant to be used, what the Emperor had intended. The threat of destruction was almost more powerful than the carnage itself. He wished it could play out this way more often, without anyone actually having to die.

The case clanked noisily to the ground. Sierra knelt over top of it with her hands on her hips, before giddily prying off the lid.

The interior was bright with all the different paints held inside of it. They were some algae derivative, bioluminescent, glow-in-the-dark.

Sierra licked the tip of her paint brush. Her other hand moved to take Paris’s. He offered it without resistance, about as used to being handled by her as Delta was. Well, not quite as much.

In thin lines, she traced shapes over the back of his hand and along his wrists. She scooted closer to him to drag the brush along his cheekbone.

Delta hadn’t realized until then just how much the two of them resembled each other. Pale skin, light gold hair. But she looked more alive than he did. Paris took the brush from her.

As he watched Paris paint the dahlia in careful strokes along her cheek, Delta was overcome with the sense that none of them belonged here. 

It passed quickly, the way it always did. It had to.

He startled a bit as Paris caught him looking. He couldn’t exactly hide his staring in the dark, both his eyes shining like headlights. He hadn’t meant to stare.

Paris quirked one eyebrow at him. He uncurled his hand, waiting a second. When he was met with no resistance, he finished the gesture, curling the fingers back inward. Here.

Delta arranged himself carefully in front of him, offering his wrist. Paris took it, readjusting his arm to have a better angle at the canvas. Like before, he was almost overwhelmed by the touch, so unused to any softness that he thought he might’ve just lost sensation.

The paint was more cool than he’d been expecting, like river clay. Pale green. Paris made the first marks with his fingers. They were loose ferns and vines. Soon after he switched back to the brush. It moved in smooth, tickling arcs. The old lines were cleaned up. New ones were drawn on more precisely.

Sierra had marked Paris in the traditional style, mostly roses and spirals along his veins. He’d done hers in the same way. The marks Paris left on Delta’s skin were different. He did not understand why they looked so familiar. After a few drunken seconds, he recognized them. He’d seen them scrawled out along the columns of the Imperial churches. They were bind runes. Protective sigils.

He flinched as his chin was tilted back up. 

“Not gonna hurt you,” Paris said.

He was embarrassed that his flinch reflex had gotten so overactive, though frankly it was Paris’s fault. He didn’t sound annoyed though, or even particularly surprised. He had to have known it just as well.

Delta closed his eyes. The brush tip was slick against his face and not altogether unpleasant. Oddly gentle.

After a few strokes, Paris clicked his tongue in disappointment, “You’re already glowing.”

It was true. The glow wouldn’t stand out on him the way it would on the others. If anything, the paint might’ve blotted out the light from his freckles. But the color would show. He still wanted it.

Paris painted a few more lines beneath his eyes. His eyebrows were knit in concentration; he was taking this more seriously than he needed to. Even without seeing them, Delta could feel just how tight and tidy the lines were. It was a collection of five point stars.

While they’d been working, the other maids had done themselves up just the same, their practiced hands moving much quicker. The patterns they had drawn along their arms seemed to come to life as they moved amongst the flickering shadows.

Delta settled back against the tree. He finished out the last of the bottle. His skin felt strange and newly exposed, like the brush had cut him open. It’d still felt nice at the time.

He was drifting off. Everything was fading out into a pleasant haze. All he could focus on were the golden embers and the way they drifted upwards into the black sky.

“You kept him up past his bedtime,” he heard Paris chiding. It sounded like it was coming from very far away. Sierra giggled a bit in response, not unkindly.

“Can I���?” His own voice faded out. He asked out of politeness, but he did not feel it was something he had much control over anymore.

“You’re good.”

Delta fell asleep right there on the grass, wrapped up in the strange glow of night.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[alexthebordercollie]

TW: SENSITIVE TOPIC MENTION So umm... I mean this as politely as I can. But is the H! Ford blog borderline sexual or something? The recent posts gave a lot of whiplash, like the DEVIANTART kind. The art is nice in certain ways, but it's not going to tread into SA territory right???

First off, the "DEVIANTART" insult, uncalled for. But should make this super clear.

Hand of God is a horror AU about domestic abuse and intimate partner violence.

This does include allusions to SA. The blog on tumblr isn't likely to get more graphic than what's been shown, but the Hand of God fic on ao3 is already tagged with these elements. I've shared links to the ao3 fic before and thought this element of HoG had been fairly upfront I appologize if I didn't make that clear enough for people.

If SA is a triggering subject that's understandable, in that case HoG may not be for you. I honestly didn't initially expect the in character blog to pick up so much traction so quickly so had been fairly committed to keeping it in character but since it's been getting bigger I'll make sure everything is tagged so people who don't want to see those parts can filter them out.

There have been clues prior to the recent abuse cycle I posted from H that hint at this. He was aggressive with Pyronica for exposing his bare arms to people. There's a morbid joke made about it but H has a complicated relationship to his body that comes from years of abuse. He also sometimes behaves in a sexualized fashion as a way of taking back some sense of ownership of his sexuality, which is a common trauma response for SA survivors.

I know there's plenty of Billford stuff that depicts dubious consent scenarios that are framed as hot or funny. HoG shows how these things affect H as a character. The damage it does to him. The most recent posts show him having a manic episode after an intense exchange with his partner. He gets these not too infrequently from their sexual exchanges because these exchanges often involve a lot of intense BDSM and no aftercare. Consent is usually ambiguous because the power imbalance makes it so H can't really say no to his partner. Bill also often uses sex as a way to emotionally manipulate Ford.

The blog obviously isn't going to be all these kinds of posts because abuse isn't a constant state of 11. There are peace periods, and there are periods of love bombing. There are still going to be posts of H acting normal and talking about the more "mundane" parts of his life. These bouts of intensity I plan to space out and break up with more light-hearted posts intended to cool things back down. Abuse victims are not defined by their abuse and depictions of abuse should still strive to show these characters as full people and not just a series of bad things that happen to them.

His relationship with D is completely asexual. He finds a lot of comfort and catharsis in showing D the kind of gentle intimate affection H needs but isn't getting from his own partner. Using D as a sort of proxy to fulfill those needs for safety and comfort. A lot of the crossover fic concepts for these characters are very overtly about trauma recovery and how these two and their contrasting trauma responses help each other, and sometimes how they hurt each other unintentionally due to behaviors they have minimal control over.

It's two very damaged people huddling together for warmth. Neither knows how to help the other, but they care about each other and can connect in ways they can't easily with other people.

To list anything else about HoG that may be triggering,

H experiences both manic and depressive episodes. He has been conditioned to behave in violent ways by Bill. He experiences a kind of body dysmorphia that comes from feeling like his body doesn't belong to him, which is sometimes expressed in contrasting ways. He's a severe alcoholic and is regularly abused using illicit substances. It's gotten to the point he's just used to it as part of his life. He often turns to various drugs of his own accord when looking for escapism. H has lost most of his friends and family, and Bill isolates him from people who might be able to offer him a support network outside their relationship. Bill tolerates D because D also worships Bill. H also experiences splitting a common symptom of BPD and NPD. H expresses a lot of the symptoms of NPD. H sees himself as fundamentally poisonous on some level. He engages in a lot of self-destructive behaviors. Bill has convinced him he's a monster, that he's unlovable, that only Bill could ever love him unconditionally.

I repeat, this is a horror AU about domestic violence.

List of upsetting subject matter contained in HoG. None of these things are meant to be held as romantic. This ship is abuse. Ford Pines is being abused.