#alcohol withdrawal tw

[team-sifm]

@skidqrow continued from here

Making a soft sound of understanding, Gwenn almost smiled, but thought better of it. Levity was all well and good, and certainly put some of her other patients at ease, but the physician got the feeling it wasn’t the right time for that. Still, her fluffy feline ears twitched with the emotion. Long, deep blue curls were swept up in a bun, while her bangs framed her face. Rather than regulation pants, she wore a loose skirt with her uniform jacket, while her black gloves were thicker than standard. (They were also textured, to help on days when her hands couldn't keep hold of things on their own; even now, her grip was weaker than most.) Her equally fluffy tail was curled around a hip to rest in her lap. Smile lines suggested she did so often, although her pale blue eyes were slightly shadowed by tiredness.

Extending a hand rather than salute, given that being in a wheelchair didn’t really lend itself to the proper execution, the Faunus spoke gently genially in reply. “If you’d like to be formal about it, I’m Gwenneth Hestia Fraldarius, a Major and the Senior Medical Officer in the Atlesian Military.” Here, the feline lost the battle with her smile, expression cheeky for just a moment. “But my friends — and pretty much everyone else — just call me Gwenn. Also, if it matters, I was part of Winter’s Team back at Atlas Academy.” (Not completely a lie.) Once she was sure her introduction had registered, the Huntress continued. “I sought you out because I’ve been assigned to keep an eye on your recovery.” They both knew who the assignment had come from. “And while I’m supposed to be assisting and guiding you, I have no intention of telling you how to recover, or physically intervening unless absolutely necessary.

"Recovery is your process; you know what works and what doesn’t. All I’m going to do,” her scroll appeared from her pocket, the press of a button applying her signature to two prescriptions, “is send you the prescriptions for meds for your headaches, and for the nausea you’re no doubt also experiencing.” Which would require Qrow volunteering his number; although the file Gwenn had been given listed it, along with a wealth of other information, she made it a habit to not intrude farther than was necessary. “I’m not going to interfere with your life more than I absolutely have to, in order to work with you to find the best treatment for your symptoms. Also, I’m not a psychiatrist,” no matter that she performed that function for Winter, and sometimes James, “so I won’t be prying, and you don’t have to do anything other than be honest about whether the meds are helping or not.”

A pause, then Gwenn blushed sheepishly.

“…Sorry for dumping all this on you at once.”

[ein-schnee-sturm]

"What would you say is your happiest memory?" || from Qrow to Willow

Blinking, Willow sipped at her water for a moment, mulling her friend’s question over. (Making friends? At her age? She would’ve thought such a thing preposterous and improbable, before they all arrived in the desert.) Swallowing, the owl hummed thoughtfully, ear feathers twitching a bit. “…It feels — selfish, but…

“My happiest memory is of my sixteenth birthday. Normally, I would’ve started familiarizing myself with Myrtenaster, for the year until I took it with me to the Academy; it’s been a tradition in my mother’s family for centuries. Instead, Papa had convinced Mama to let me design my own weapon, with the understanding that I would still pass down Myrtenaster to my oldest as per tradition.”

Pausing, she drank more water, bitterly wishing it were something stronger for a moment. Shoving away the impulse, the Faunus continued. “I was — so proud of my swords… but I never got to use them, and for all I know, they may’ve been sold long before Atlas came crashing down.”

If she were bitter, it was understandable.

@skidqrow

[fatefought]

@incaensio sent: “ why are you looking at me like that? ”  katniss + haymitch

regardless of restrictions of materials and goods, there always seems to be more layers to be thrown onto haymitch abernathy. and no matter, he's always cold. the girl's ma says it's normal, but he doesn't believe it. but it's neither here nor there ; he dually wants to always argue nowadays while also doesn't have the energy anymore. so he floats like an aged phantom, but with none of the privacy of one. but for someone who hates being corraled and told what to do, the man from twelve sure does follow his sleeved schedule like an obedient mutt. which is why he's in the training center, and currently observing the girl.

he used to see her daddy in her often. in appearance, it's significantly more striking. but sometimes in softness, she can match. the girl's ma said she used to be more of a temperament for sweetness. it's hard for haymitch to picture. in fact, the unprompted information caused an eye roll. the mentor and mentee are a pair of shadows, and it's hard to picture her like primrose or their daddy. same as he cannot remember the living being of haymitch abernathy that existed before the second quarter quell.

arms remains crossed his chest, but ears perk up as the girl speaks to him. he all but huffs, in the gruffness that he exerts. " just ponderin' where all this was when ya were trainin' for ya'r games. " it's a lie. but words are easier than talking about something deeper like her before the loss of her daddy ; it's easier than acknowledging the guilt of seeing a seam kid turn into a killing machine. ( bury that, the mockingjay being practical on the field is better for the rebellion after all ! ) " that's all mason thoug' right ? i can recognize that technique. ya got a longs'ways to go thoug'. "

[fatefought]

it goes without saying, delly cartwright is a good person - especially when compared to the likes of haymitch abernathy. because while guilt radiates off her like the warm that projects off of burning coals, he will never be the fire burning to keep the house comfortable type. he doesn't feel guilty for delly in the same way he doesn't feel he's betrayed the girl. now when it comes to the boy ? the same cannot be said. " don't fuckin' apologize, " he begins, hand goes to the bridge of his nose and his head shakes. he can't deal with this: the crumbling emotions of someone sugarcoated.

he knows it's not a townie thing as they all have their inclinations to be assholes. but it doesn't surprise the victor that this is the company peeta likes to keep. " stand by h'wat ya wanted to say. ya said it alre'dy. no point in takin' it back now. " he's never been good at pep talks, though he's also taken every step to avoid learning. but he's a feral animal of a person, and he snarls with his teeth. he's not one to stop an argument because it's the sensible thing to do. either someone walks away, or fists come up. and when it comes to the latter, he's long stopped fighting back. other victors - the girl especially as of most recently - have long dealt some impressive blows to the withering man.

" there's not much ya can do, kid. h'wat can ya feasibly do ? ya'r just some townie from twelve. stay 'live long enough and maybe ya'll get a chance to see the boy 'gain. "

What did Delly want from Haymitch? She didn't know. Maybe she was looking for someone that missed Peeta as much as she did. Maybe she wanted to make someone else feel bad to take away some of the pain she was feeling. But that wasn't how Delly was. For a moment she felt like she was watching herself from somewhere else and she couldn't quite believe that she was treating another person like this. More tears fell, but more so from the guilt she was suddenly feeling. Maybe Haymitch was right and things with Peeta hadn't been the same since his win. Maybe he hadn't told her things, probably to protect her, but still all the same there were things she didn't know and she didn't want to have to face that. Delly had treated Haymitch with respect before because he was important to Peeta. What would Peeta say if he saw her now?

But still, even with the guilt she was still angry. But was that anger really at Haymitch, or was it at the people who had left him behind? Was that Haymitch that did that or was it someone else? She felt lost and afraid and she didn't know what to do to make it better. How could she make it better? "I don't know," she finally admitted, looking up to meet Haymitch's eyes. "I just...I miss him and I'm scared. I'm sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you...I just...I don't know what to do."

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

-

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

[ikamigami]

If Sun was addicted to alcohol, then I think it says something that he seems to be breaking it on his own with a little encouragement from Earth by getting himself to try other drinks, even if he might be having symptoms as interpreted

You're absolutely right, dear anon.

And I also think that he won't drink again I just said that I wouldn't be surprised if he did..

But what I was and am worried about the most is Sun's mental state.. which became worse because of drinking..

This is what I was repeating over and over again that people who suffer from mental disorders shouldn't drink alcohol because it worsens the symptoms..

And from what I've seen Sun is in a worse mental state than he ever was - I mean he isn't fully detached from reality again (yet) but at this point who knows when it'll happen and if it'll happen I'm worried that Sun will do something to himself this time..

And what's not helping is the fact that no one is aware of Sun having depressive psychosis.. including Sun himself..

That's why I'm worried and that's why it was making me upset whenever people were saying that I'm not treating it seriously and all that stuff.. cause I do..

But you're right and that's good that Sun is trying his best to find other drinks he may like so he won't be drinking alcohol ^^

Thank you for pointing this out to me ^^

[fatefought]

haymitch likes hazelle when she's fiery. it amuses him in a way that one might get when teasing a friend. sure, usually that might mean lightly poking one's companion and the circumstances here were not unlike he was the one who personally causes that brutal gash in her arm. still, he can't completely hide a shit eating grin. it's only the fact that he cares about hawthorne that makes him wipe it off. " well clearly ya usin' that ma sternness right 'bout now, " he shrugs. okay, he's done now. ( okay, he's done for now. )

he's notoriously irritable from the strict, harsh, rehabilitation treatment in thirteen. any tact he's had left, which has never been a lot, feels like it's evaporated. haymitch abernathy can't blame it on that though. he's been emotionally shut off for twenty-some odd years. even if it's a relief that she's here, it's hard to navigate simply acknowledging that. ( and maybe he's also reeling from the situation with the boy. ) it's nice though ... to see hazelle in thirteen with his own common-seam, dark eyes. now's not the time or place to say it though.

" well i guess i didn't know ya were goin' be the picked. not that ain't surprised me much, given ya were apparently the girl's aunt, " he offers, like it's somehow suppose to soften the blow. he didn't know hazelle hawthorne was going to be called during the reaping. " what good woulda it done, haze ? " haymitch soon counters. " it was better this way. the more people who woulda known, the more ways it coulda gone wrong. and i wasn't goin' to tell ya where everythin' is bugged, that woulda been a fuckin' shit show. "

Maybe he's trying to compliment her in his own bizarre, but purely Haymitch way. She's angry at him, though, and it shows in the daggers she immediately throws his way. The exhaustion she's felt over the last few days is slowly but surely weeding its way out of her body, and while she might not have the strength to fully go toe to toe with this man (honestly, she doesn't think he has the strength for that either), Hazelle is more than willing to get the answers she rightfully deserves. "I'm serious, Haymitch." As serious as she can be in this circumstance because at the end of the day, it's all a little ridiculous. Days ago she'd been nearly ripped to shreds by mutated monkeys in an arena created solely to kill her, and now she's found herself hiding out in an underground secret district that's supposed to have been obliterated almost a century ago? Had anyone told this series of events to the Hazelle of three months ago, she'd likely pass out from shock.

But she's here now, alive, and Haymitch has some explaining to do in regards to how. There are a million and one questions she has for him — about the history of Thirteen, about the rebel cause itself, about whether or not they're truly safe here — but only one leaves her. "Did you know this entire time?" It's maybe what hurts the most, the notion that he'd been in on the plan to get the tributes out of the arena and hadn't told her. Maybe then she'd at least have had more of a sense of self preservation, because even though she'd resigned herself to trying to survive, deep down she never truly thought she could. It may have very well been the difference between life and death for her, and his keeping this enormous plan from her hurts in ways Hazelle can hardly describe. "You knew of the plan to get us out of the arena. You knew I had a chance to live and you said nothing."

[welcomefortune]

I have so many thoughts as someone who grew up with an alcoholic about Aegon and his relationship to alcohol and how it affects his actions.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

putting one more Cinderglass drabble request in your askbox (i am so sorry for the spam but i’ve been thinking about them nonstop aghfsk). again, feel free to ignore this!

i‘d love to see Sarah help Lex work through a panic attack or a traumatic flashback! maybe either so that he doesn’t have to drown himself in alcohol about it or she’s helping and calming him down while he’s drunk

Wildefire Masterlist

cw: alcoholism, emeto, hallucinations, withdrawals

He'd been sober for thirty seven hours.

Not long at all, really, but it was something, and he was trying, and it was fine.

Well, it was fine for thirty seven hours.

Outright quitting was the only thing Lex dared to do. Trying to just cut back wouldn't work, because what was cutting back? He didn't keep track of how much he drank anymore, he just drank until he felt like it was enough. Even just trying to regulate himself to one a day seemed risky business. Would he be able to stop, once he started?

He didn't want to find out.

Lex didn't tell Sarah, didn't want her saying it was a bad idea or insisting on staying with him. It was a rough ride ahead, and he didn't want to somehow hurt her in the throes of his panic or sickness. He... He didn't want her to see him like that.

So he locked himself in his room, told her not to bother him this week, that he'd be busy. The safehouse was old and decrepit but huge, and his room had a small bathroom attached, something he was doubly grateful for now.

He stocked his room with water bottles. It was impossible not to think of Sarah whenever he looked at their plastic cases now, Sarah staying up until early daylight, because she was worried. That was good. He could use his guilt there as a reminder; a reason to hold out.

He sipped at them and stared at the wall, every light in the room on, the old radio Sarah had gotten for him positioned at the foot of his bed. She'd given him a battered CD case with it, packed full of a few dozen discs. A Guns n Roses album was currently in, playing just loud enough to pull his thoughts.

She's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories

By now, Lex was pretty good at doing nothing, letting himself sink into the thankfulness that nothing was being done to him. Even a year after the Tower and weeks free of Uriah, the talent hadn't faded. Day one turned into night, and he didn't dare fall asleep. Just swapped one CD for another and let his mind cling to the lyrics.

Too late, my time has come

Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time

It was around hour twenty two that the headache started, and it only got worse from there. Not long after that, Lex was clinging to the toilet bowl, heaving up the half-dozen water bottles he'd drank throughout the day, his head swimming, the pit in his stomach insisting couldn't he just do this later? Would it hurt to have one drink, to get rid of this shitty feeling?

No. All or nothing.

He moved the radio to the bed, putting his ear to the speaker, trying to drown out everything else. The album came to an end, and he replaced it with another, as quick as he could without scratching the disc with his stupid metal fingers.

Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile

The girl with the kaleidoscope eyes

Fuck. He just needed to hold out, just for a few days, and this would be over. A little self control, and maybe he could call himself worthy of the people here. Not a loose end. Not an ex-enemy or a liability. Something better.

Lex wrapped the sheets around himself, held the pillow over his head to try and ease the pounding in his skull with the pressure. It didn't help. He almost fell asleep, but the nausea pulled at his stomach and his skin was crawling and too hot, and then he was throwing off the blankets; stripping down to his boxers in an effort to ease the heat.

Exhausted but unable to find sleep, he sat with his back against the cool wall and sipped water, trying to find the lyrics again and hold them.

I don't really want to stop the show

But I thought you might like to know

That the singer's gonna sing a song

And he wants you all to sing along

It didn't help, it wasn't enough. His own body was fighting him, roiling nausea and sickness insisting all he needed was one drink and it could all go away, it could all be okay (fray, gray, stay).

The radio hummed as the CD came to an end, a few seconds passing before the album began again.

What would you think if I sang out of tune?

Would you stand up and walk out on me?

At long last, his own exhaustion was catching up to him, and he dragged himself back onto the bed, the heavy feeling in his chest spreading to his eyes and mind, as the music faded to a buzz and sleep overcame him.

He woke in the Tower.

It was impossible, he knew it was, but the fear seized him all the same, the crushing weight of walls he couldn't escape, the knowledge that this time, there would be no one to free him; this time he was here for good.

And the floor was wrong and Lex knew there was never music, but he fucking knew where he was.

He sat up, wincing at the sharp pain that rang through his skull at the movement, forcing down rising nausea. No one here cared if he was sick, if he was hurt, they'd hurt him more anyway, they'd do what it took to keep him down, keep him in line. He wrapped his arms

(Arms? It's wrong, stop, you aren't---)

around himself, squeezing his torso with a pressure that wasn't comforting. He felt shaky, blurred, weak. Had they drugged him?

(just one drink and this all goes away)

He tried to reach for the techniques he'd used to get through the days, tried to remember the things he'd done to stay sane, to stay alive, but any useful memory fell through his hands like sand, leaving nothing but the shadows, the nightmares (snares, glares, spares).

He knew what happened here, in his cell (hell). He knew what was waiting to spring on him at any moment, what would surely come for him if he let his guard down (drown), if he fell asleep, if he---

"Morning, scum."

Lex froze as the door swung open. Morning? But it was so dark, but it was always dark, the light never hits you here, and when it does there are worse things waiting---

"I knew you'd come crawling back. This is where you belong, it's home."

He could hear the voice clear as day, but couldn't see its owner. It didn't sound like Wade. It almost sounded like...

"Alexei. Did you really think you could hide from me?"

Uriah Fox stood over the bed, a smug smile plastered on his face.

"No," Lex choked out. "Y-you can't--"

"You always knew it would end this way."

(Fray, pray, stray)

He climbed onto the bed, straddling Lex, easily pinning him despite being so much smaller, despite Lex being so much stronger, and he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe---

"Lex."

The pressure in his chest faded, and he gasped for air, squinting into the dim light, unable to make out anything. A hand fell onto his shoulder, giving it a light shake, and he flinched back.

"Sorry."

Sarah? He forced himself to breathe deeply, ease his eyes open. Her silhouette was blurry above him, and it was only then that he realized he was crying.

He brushed the tears away hastily with the back of his hand. "You... You should go," he managed to say.

She sighed. "I'm sorry if I scared you, I just... I heard you... screaming. Not loud or anything, but..." She tapped her earlobe. "Can't get much past these."

He swallowed, trying to push himself into a seated position, but his shoulders shook, his stomach twisting, and he fell back onto the pillow.

"Lex..." She bit her lip. "You could've told me. You know you don't have to do this alone."

He almost laughed out loud at that. What other way was there? It was his body, his choices, his mistakes. He'd drowned himself for too long, hoping it could save him, knowing it never would. He was reaping his rewards. No one else should have to deal with the mess that was him.

"I'm not your problem," he murmured, letting his eyes close again. What could she do, besides be there to fill the silence when music wasn't enough? Besides grounding him and telling him it wasn't real, he wasn't there?

"You're not a problem, Lex," she said, her voice serious. Tired. How late was it? Even trying to be fucking better, he was still screwing up her life.

"I just want you to take care of yourself, okay?" She kicked at an empty water bottle. "Is this the best way? I'm glad you're trying, I am, but don't you think it'll be easier on you if you come downstairs and hang out?"

He didn't want any of them to see him like this. "What good would that do?"

"Distract you, for one. For another, it'll be easier to remember meals. When's the last time you've eaten something?"

He sank further onto the bed, his gut twisting again at the thought of food. "I don't know."

"And have you been drinking anything besides water?"

"No, that's--that's the whole point, I'm not---"

"That's not what I meant. Electrolytes? A protein shake, maybe?"

"No," he answered after a moment.

She dropped her eyes, a grimace tugging at her mouth though she seemed to be trying to hold it back.

"Do you not think I can do this?"

"I think you're punishing yourself," Sarah said. "And I think you should stop."

Was he? His head spun almost too much to think about it. This wasn't self-inflicted punishment, it was cause and effect. It was something he had to get through if he ever wanted to move past the Tower.

"It'll be over soon," he muttered, and he hoped he was right.

She dipped her head, pressing her lips together tightly, and pushed off of the bed, moving to sit cross-legged on the floor.

"Sarah..."

"Look, I don't wanna push your boundaries, but I can't leave you like this. It's not safe."

"It'll get worse from here."

"Which is why I'm staying." She gave him a stern look. "If you want to be alone, I'll leave, but I'll be right outside your door."

Lex clenched his jaw. "I'll be fine."

"You're detoxing. You're already feverish. What if you start seizing up?"

"Then I've already dug my own grave."

"Lex." Her expression darkened. "You can't keep doing this."

"This is the only time--"

"Not this. Self-destructing. You..." She did grimace then, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You keep hurting yourself, and I can't keep watching."

He pressed his cheek further into the pillow, knees drawing to his chest. "Then why do you?" he said. "Why haven't you thrown me out yet?"

The words came out too angry. Accusatory. His own fault. Any filter he had was lessened by the pain in his head and the nausea and the fucking exhaustion. He didn't want her to throw him out, he... he needed her. Not in some bullshit emotional way, but as a reminder that there were still good things. Things worth fighting for, worth living for.

"I'd never throw you out," Sarah said, her expression turning to something that bordered playful. "I like you too much for that, you know. I just..." She exhaled through her nose, pushed soft dark hair over her shoulder. "I want you to try, okay? Can you agree to try to do what's best for yourself? To stop taking the harder path just because?"

Could he? Even if he wanted to? The harder path was what he was used to. Less traveled, less trapped. Suffering for a goal was a habit. Muscle memory.

Would the path to freedom be as clear if there was no pain to pave it?

Still, something in her voice pulled Lex to nod against the pillow. "I'll try."

Her smile shifted to something more genuine. "That's all I'm asking." She began to push herself up. "I'll, uh... I'll be in the hall then. You are eating breakfast in the morning, mister."

"You... You don't have to do that," he started.

"Do what? Bring you food? Or stand guard? I already said I'm not leaving you alone--"

"You don't have to stay in the hall." Lex swallowed (followed), and it took him a second to form the words. "You can stay here. If you... If you want to."

Her expression softened. "Yeah. I do."

She found a spare pillow and blanket in the room's closet and began to settle down on the floor beside him, picking out a new CD to start the music playing again.

While we're on the subject, could we change the subject now

"I'm here if you need me."

"I know." I need you.

It was a paradox. The easier path to recovery, to a clear head, to control being the more difficult one. Because it was untravelled. Because he almost felt he didn't deserve it, that he should bear the punishment for his own vices.

But even if the path was unchartered, he had a guide. For once, he didn't have to walk it alone.

oh, and we carried it all so well

•°•°•

Tag List:

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing , @bloodinkandashes , @fleur-alise , @whumpy-daydreams , @whumpwillow , @honeycollectswhump , @snakebites-and-ink

[aubrittigan]

Hell yeah kept it down to 2.5 drinks today.

[fatefought]

unlike him, katniss is quiet. unlike himself within the moment, it isn't out of character for her. ramblings of a shadow of a man left him. was it a means to get everything out ? no, people shouldn't read that deep into it. haymitch abernathy isn't deep like that. ( or at least, he'll take that mentality to wherever his inevitable grave may lay. ) but guilt and anger - and physical pain - make him rot away, causing necrosis of whatever soul he has left after all this time. he despises caring. if time could cease and turn around, he would do anything to hold his family and minerva closer to his chest. but if anything good came from the events of twenty-five years ago, it's that next to nothing could really hurt him anymore. there's a comfort in numbness. being emotional was fucking gross. yet here he was now, void no longer avoidable like someone took a jackhammer to it. and sharing a room with the lady meant any stray moments of feeling were dealt with by facing a wall in his own forcefield of silence.

the girl avoids looking at him. oftentimes, he feels the gears that crank in her mind must of been manufactured in the same place his are. but right now ? it's difficult to gauge where she's at. he used to have fun with drawing silence out of the boy or the lady. but the girl's ? it's impactful, and he hates it. he'd rather brace for impact. she could add a matching scar. katniss has [maybe] gotten some sleep since their last interaction. maybe her claws are heightened and sharpened this time. visceral anger doesn't terrify him. haymitch would rather know what goes on in the girl's mind. sooner they get this over with, the sooner they can at least work alongside each other. let him be ignorable again once snow melts, or at least once the boy finds himself here in district thirteen.

and then she's speaking. the girl doesn't want to kill him, phen-fucking-omenal. in another scenario, he might even laugh at her words and their sheer broodiness. the delivery is funny. but they're not at that place at the moment. ignore that technically they never actually are. " there ya go, shocking' every'ne about how the boy's somehow the likable one, " he shrugs. arms are back to being cross. it's a pitiful attempt at subduing anymore shivers, at least in everdeen's presence. is there something nipping at him ? ( if you say he's embarrassed, he might glare daggers at anyone foolish enough to insinuate such a thing about him. )

earpiece settles itself nicely on his chest. and as quickly as haymitch's arms became crossed, they uncross. the tech ends up in his left hand, fist closes around it. like everything in this district, it's weirdly cold. shoulders shrug once more and lips purse for a moment. " ya won't get much complainin' from me, sweetheart. consider me out of ya're ear in eight, " abernathy begins. the boy goes without saying. haymitch will honor his word. regardless of what some may think, he always liked the boy. well fuck, he much preferred peeta to the girl. " so do ya want me to put in a good word for the cappies in the control room or someb'dy who 'as never seen the sun ? because they ain't gonna let ya go in without anyb'dy in ya're head. " he looks at her expectantly. if somebody randomly walked by and overheard, they might assume he's trying to do right by her. ( no probably not - he's making an assholey point. ) apologies aside, he's still haymitch abernathy. and despite what katniss everdeen thinks, her old mentor is still one of her better bets.

it’s been over a month since they’ve had time and place and opportunity to be alone together; looking at haymitch, now, she thinks it may as well have been longer. he looks like shit is an understatement — they’ve dried him cold turkey, which is the worst way of doing (she had allowed her mother to ramble about this one night, when lilian thought she was asleep), and everything about him tells that. his face also tells that she had, indeed, already done some damage, but that’s haymitch, and she doesn’t think that a new scar is something that bothers him, unless it is a reminder of his failure (and she hopes it is. she hopes that he stays awake at night or it stings when he showers and he feels sick when he thinks that he’s left peeta behind).

haymitch gives her some confirmation of that, but it’s different from what she’s gotten around here; here, people say their apologies for her sake, because she's obviously losing it, but haymitch is different. he knew peeta, he cared — cares? — for him, beyond the joined at the hip act he had been partly masterminded. she feels her face growing hot, and visibly flinches, avoiding her mentor's gaze at the thought of how deeply selfish she is — even while peeta is in pain, she had thought of needing him, not only of making sure he was here, safe and sound (not that she didn't think of that; whenever she was paralyzed in pain these days, it was because she couldn't bear to think of what could be happening with him, the horrible things they must have already done to him). he goes further, and throws her fault back in her face, and that doesn't make her want to lift her gaze because fuck, she knows. if she had fought harder and made them stay in the room, interviews be damned, maybe they'd have been captured, or shot dead together and, either way, it would just have been better).

he's not fucking done, though. pointing towards her is what makes her raise her gaze, face into its normal scowl, though it melts as he speaks. for the first time, he's acknowledging things, and he even gives her the apology she spoke of, and that's surprisingly enough, coming from haymitch; she had felt resentful of being used by others, but he had been the one to lie and manipulate her to this moment, so this should count for something. does it? she can barely tell, only that haymitch infuriates her the normal amount he has for a year now. "i ain't wanna kill you." she speaks for the first time since he's started his seemingly never ending monologue — the most she's seen him speak; considering this and the time they've discussed the tape, she's surprised to realize haymitch can be a rambler when he's attempting honesty — and she is glad her voice is firm, not that of a whiny teenager like she has felt oftentimes with him. "the shakin' will do it for me." it's a cruel dig, she knows it; he knows she knows the effect the withdrawal can have, because she had been keen to keep several bottles of booze in her house and deliver it to him to keep that from happening.

but it also answers that no, she does not like him, nor should he expect her to trust him anytime soon. "i have plenty of people here to do this without you." it's a bluff. no one here knows her, beyond what they've projected onto her, and most of them — the ones who has seen her not live up to that expectation — don't like her; all their help would be to subdue her into the place intended. she knows this, and haymitch knows this too. "i will endure you for peeta. because he's still alive, and you gotta put some worth into your word that he will be safe." she raises her hand, and pushes the earpiece into his chest; there's no force there, she doesn’t intend to hurt him, only to fight him from worming his way further into her existence. "but peeta's not at eight. i ain't need to listen to you yammerin' in my ear there."

[ein-schnee-sturm]

@skidqrow continued from here

Taking a deep breath, the Schnee Matriarch — Duchess von Adalbrecht, some still called her, no matter how many times she asked them to stop — exhaled slowly, the feathers that replaced Human ears twitching. “I’m sorry, Qrow,” Willow eventually sighed, rubbing her temples and unintentionally displacing her large sun hat in the process. “I shouldn’t have snapped, it was uncalled for.” (Irritation, from withdrawal and the heat.)

Fixing her hat, glad that it provided her at least some protection, the blue-eyed woman continued. “I may have not known you and my child’s friends for long, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Ruby isn’t your niece.” Though frank, the Snowy Owl Faunus’ words were soft; no need to antagonize him, and it wasn’t her secret to tell. “You have similar face and eye shapes, you speak with similar cadence, that sort of thing.”

She tried to smile, but didn’t quite manage it.

[fatefought]

@seasaltsurvivor sent: [ 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 ] ― sender and receiver see a shadow move out the corner of their eye (Haymitch)

haymitch abernathy had kept the necklace safe. the same cannot be said about his former mentee who is rotting away in the capitol. but hey, at least finnick odair's jewelry didn't burn a hole in his pocket and disappear. the man from four had made it very apparent that it had value to the former capitol darling. he hadn't pressed on about it. it was none of abernathy's business. the older man should have given it back sooner, probably day three of this all when haymitch was no longer on hold. the rebels had ran him out from his quarters to the control room as soon as possible though.

lilian everdeen is the one who ends up telling the victor where he can find finnick. ( she also expresses regret in his treatment, and he doesn't know how to process that. ) so here he is, seeing odair look sunken in ways he'd never witnessed. he's still a handsome little peacock, but he looks miserable. " damn, this wasn't the big warm welcome i was expectin', " he jokes while placing the necklace into the other's palm. " a promise is a promise though. "

it's late, almost 2300 here in district thirteen. he should be asleep given that he needs to be up in about six hours. instead, he'd roamed over towards the med-wing during quiet hours. it seems finnick odair had the same idea though. in the corner of his eye, he sees movement. gaze flashes that way, not subtly at all. whatever it was, it's no longer on the side of the hallway visible to them. fuck, he'd just thought he'd gotten over the weird vision bullshit. maybe he does need to sleep ?

[damallarky]

Ok. So I got my Rook’s backstory planned out guys.

His name is Renan. He’s a Mage and a traveling musician who busks in and around Minrathous. Rook is his stage name.

He is the brother of my canon Inquisitor, Aisling Lavellan. There are five siblings in total. Ren is the oldest, and Aisling is the middle child.

His surname isn’t Lavellan, though. Gotta see what the names are in DA:V.

More under the cut!

His father was a former circle mage and his mother was a Dalish hunter.

Morag, Ren’s father, was part of a team of four mages given special permission from their circle to study ancient elven ruins to “further enhance Chantry understanding of Thedas and its history.” Jokes on them because the four Templars that were assigned to babysit the group were all mage sympathizers (one was in a relationship with one of the mages in the group, one had a mage sister who he cared about deeply, the youngest Templar was a good friend of Morag's and the last one just didn't care lol) so they basically let him get married and have kids while he was still technically doing what he set out to do.

The family traveled a lot from ruin to ruin. At some point, the group is called back to return to the Circle, but everyone decides to lie and say Morag "died" so he can stay with his family.

The good times don't last, though. Eventually, word gets out that there is an apostate running around, and Templars are sent to bring Morag back. During the process, their parents are killed, and the kids get separated, with Ren being caught by slavers and sold to Tevinter and the rest of his siblings being adopted into Clan Lavellan.

(Consequently, the reason Aisling begged to go to the conclave was because she was hoping she’d find Ren there, not realizing he never made it to a circle.)

Ren spends four years as a slave. His master's wife notices that he has a lovely singing voice and a talent for music, so she teaches him how to play the lute, harp, harpsichord, flute, and anything else she wants him to. He enjoys it because he loves music, but he knows that he is basically being kept as a pet to show off when the mood strikes.

(This is also when he meets the spirit Hope, who ends up taking the form of a Rook. She is also the inspiration behind Ren's stage name.)

At seventeen, he had a clandestine affair with his master's daughter, who was the same age as him. I think they were friends, and they cared about each other, but their relationship was more about teenage lust and Ren's cockiness than anything else. There was also maybe a little bit of a power imbalance that Ren doesn't really consider until much, much later in life. When his master's wife finds out, she is furious and orders Ren whipped within an inch of his life. He probably would have died had the daughter not begged her father to intervene. Ren is sent off to work with the rest of the household slaves. The other slaves were delighted to learn that the golden boy wasn't so golden after all, and they made his life hell.

Nine months later, Ren is summoned by his master. He learns that he has gotten his master's daughter pregnant. On her request, Ren is given his freedom on the condition that he takes the child (a boy) and never speaks a word of it to anyone.

He accepts and leaves a free man. He names his son Morag, Mor for short, after his father.

Except now he's a kid with a kid, with no money and nowhere to go in a country that actively treats his people like chattel. He's scared, and as a result, he does many things he is not proud of, things that he ends up regretting later in life, like drinking heavily and not being as good of a father to Mor as he should have been.

To support himself and his son, Ren becomes a musician and plays at bars and brothels, wherever he can get work. While busking, he meets an elven woman named Leena. Their relationship is difficult at first, but eventually, Ren decides to get his shit together, and the two eventually fall in love.

They get married, and after a while, they have their daughter, Esana. At some point, they both join the Shadow Dragons. During a mission, Leena is badly wounded and later dies of an infection. This almost causes Ren to fall off the bandwagon and back into his addiction. He, through great effort, manages to stop himself for the sake of his children who need him. The withdrawals were horrible, and it was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, but he did it because he loves his kids so much, and he wants to be a good father to them.

This is why he only drinks water, juice, or wine occasionally.

He still works for the Shadow Dragons, and now his son is beginning to work for them, too, despite the fact that Ren would rather he not put himself in danger.

More Facts

Ren is either 36 or 38, depending on how long it's been since Inquisition.

That would make Mor either 19 or 21.

Whatever the case, Esana is 13.

Mor is a mage like both of his parents. He fights more like a rogue, however. Veil ranger perhaps?

Esana's magic hasn't awakened (yet) but recently she has been having nightmares of monsters wanting her to "let them in".

Ren is a Dreamer like his father! He finds the Fade slightly annoying.

Mor was originally going to be revealed later in my Rook's story, which is why he didn't show up in my Rook's prologue fic.

Ren uses humor so he doesn't have to think about his emotions. It drives Hope nuts.

Hope is the GOAT of the bunch. Mor probably wouldn't have survived to young adulthood had it not been for Hope.

Hope is still relatively new to the whole "not being an actual spirit" thing. Like Cole, she still feels fairly compelled to provide hope to those who need it. Except now, she also eats mice and steals shiny things.

Esana unfortunately inherited her father's lack of self-preservation.

Esana and Mor are close despite their age difference. Mor is the best big brother.

Ren and Solas are going to drive each other insane. Especially once it's revealed just who the Inquisitor is. Ren and Solas will eventually find they have a lot in common and will both help each other heal in the end.

Idk where it will go in the actual game, but for now, I'm deciding that Ren and Solas will become very dear to one another. Bestie-in-Laws.

The family sitcom is called My Brother-in-Law the Dread Wolf.

Ren is very jealous of Solas's Dread Wolf form. Solas delights in this fact.

I also do not know who Ren is going to romance. I have never struggled so hard to make that choice.

[incorrectquotesideas-deactivated]

Person A: Do you want a beer? I’m paying.

Person B, going through the restaurant’s menu: No. Ugh, where’s the good stuff?

Person A, half jokingly: I thought you were an alcoholic.

Person B: Exactly. I’d need at least, like, four beers — without food — to get slightly buzzed, and my stomach can’t fit over 2 beers in it. I’m small. I’ll have a rum, neat.

[angstfactory]

@roman-werewolfy

Once the night had wrapped up and the people began to say their goodbyes one-by-one, Neylani had stayed an extra couple hours to talk with the few that lingered while they assisted in cleanup. The woman wasn't even aware of how tense she'd been all night, until she climbed behind the wheel of her SUV and closed the door. That exhale was loud, as her shoulders physically sagged and she closed her eyes. While it was all happening, it'd all been so easy to play pretend and like everything was perfectly fine -- Kara's birthday, even -- as other things preoccupied her. Like that concern in the back of her mind, where she was just waiting for something bad to occur all over again and hopefully, this time, she would be ready.

And Roman. Neylani had originally thought, pushing the man to come out and enjoy himself as best he could with the rest of them, would be good for him. Until she remembered-- it was at a winery. And she had already committed to going.

Despite being tired -- her feet ached, her throat felt dry, her mind wished to just shut off for a moment's peace -- and that fog making it extremely difficult to see through, Ney made the trek back out to Deadman Acres to check on Roman first. He'd been on his own all night now and even though she had already gone through the trailer to toss out any drop of alcohol she could find, there was always the fear she might have missed some. Or he got his hands on it from somewhere. Hopefully, he would be sound asleep. As she parked, though, Neylani barely had a foot on the ground before she understood immediately something was wrong. "Roman!" the sheriff barked, going to yank the door open and rush inside to where she found the older wolf hunched over the toilet, hacking his guts up. Her own twisted in concern and sympathy, as she quickly came to his side to check on him with a cup of water. "Roman," she wiped sweat from his brow and tried to put the cup to his lips, "take a drink.. you need some water.." He was going through withdrawals. She knew the classic signs-- they dealt with this at the station often enough. He needed to stay hydrated.