#withdrawal //

[sibmakesart]

i rly want to makke robin kind of a foil to sanji, as it is pre-water seven and her place in the crew is , to her, still temporary and precarious

[aceofwhump]

Graceland 3x08

[lucidpast]

Withdrawal Demons (Unknown actors) from The Hobo’s Fever Dream, 1936

[victoriadallonfan]

Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

[neuroticboyfriend]

hate when people talk about addicts in withdrawal seeking meds as if meds are purely optional and they should just be forced to suffer through it. as if it isn't a gnawing and painful and scary experience. as if it doesn't kill people or at the least make them wish they were dead. do you have any idea how taxing even "mild" withdrawal is. there is no sickness like withdrawal sickness.

if someone isnt ready for other options, medicine or otherwise, i am begging you to just let them have drugs. forcing people to be clean isn't "saving them," it's forcing them to suffer and denying them autonomy. you might even be killing them. it's not just a "oh you feel unwell, you'll get over it." people have seizures and fevers. they stop eating, vomit, and get dangerously dehydrated. they experience severe mental health complications, including suicidality.

like ultimately. if you would rather an addict be dead from withdrawal because you couldn't stomach letting them make their own choice about their own body... consider maybe you are being a bad person. even if drugs end up killing them, that is their action to take. their fate should belong to them and you are not meant to be a savior (whether withdrawal would kill them or not). you are one person and can only do so much, without hurting someone else.

disclaimer obviously yes it is good to encourage people towards recovery but forced treatment or denying treatment is not that. forcing someone into withdrawal is definitely not treatment either. that is not at all the same. it's just a human rights violation.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 18 Drugging Alt Prompt

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Commonwealth Era

Warnings: Nonconsensual drugging, withdrawal symptoms

You slid to your knees beside his slumped figure in the back corner of the cell. Jerry and Aaron guarded the door, still wary of how many people had actually been inside the building. It remained unclear what they wanted with Daryl but given his current state, you could be almost certain he didn’t offer it to them. Bruises in various stages of healing covered the right side of his face and neck, disappearing below the collar of his ripped shirt and tattered vest. Dried blood covered him in patches, some from the busted lip and the cut on his cheekbone— another scar — but the rest was either not his or from wounds you could not yet see. 

“Daryl. Hey, Daryl.” You tapped his less injured cheek solidly. “Open your eyes.” And he did— dull, hazy, unfocused blue pools. “Hi. Just had to go and get yourself kidnapped, didn’t you?” You smiled at him, hoping to see recognition flow into his gaze. The archer squinted at you and arched a lazy brow. 

“Yer pretty. Whatcha doin’ in a place like this?” He threw up an arm in a languid gesture toward the grimy cell. 

“It’s me, Daryl. It’s Y/N.” 

“Pretty name fer a pretty girl.” He slurred, walking his fingers up the side of your neck and to your jaw before you took hold of his hand. You turned to the two men behind you, seeking any input. 

“Seems like they used something on him. Drugged him.” Aaron offered, giving you his full attention while he answered but then he turned back to the door. It was still quiet out there but sometimes, those moments were the most dangerous. 

“What do we do if we don’t know what they gave him?” You reached to pull the archer’s hand away from where his fingers were twirling your hair. 

“Wait it out, I guess. Get him checked out as soon as we get back to the Commonwealth.”

“Fuck.” You murmured, startled by Daryl’s lips against your neck. 

“Tha’s not a bad idea.” 

You pulled his hand off your breast, face burning furiously when you caught Jerry grinning. “Not a word.” You warned him.

“Not a word.” Jerry agreed with a chuckle. “Think he can walk?”

“I don’t know. Let me—” This time, you laughed when Daryl shook his hands free of your own and gathered you up against him in the most awkwardly positioned embrace. “Daryl, can you walk?”

“Since ‘fore I’s a year old. Wha’ a silly question.”

You snorted, continuing to try to work yourself free. “I mean right now. This very minute. Can you stand up and walk out of here?”

The archer scoffed and even that sounded drugged. “No ‘cause yer sittin’ on muh legs.” 

You heard Jerry almost lose it behind you and rolled your eyes with a smile. It didn’t appear that Daryl was in any immediate danger from whatever they had used on him to keep him calm and pliable, but you would still feel better with him away from this horrible place. 

“If I move, would you stand up and follow me?”

“I’d follow ya anywhere.” 

That sounded so sincere that you felt a sting in the back of your eyes. You two had been together for years and the man still managed to give you butterflies. He just never tended to do so in front of two of your friends. He was going to be mortified when they teased him later. 

“Okay, let me go and then you can hold my hand while we get out of here, okay?” He released you almost instantly, blue eyes flickering down to your hands and back to your face. “Okay, let’s go.” You offered a hand and he took it, but when he tried to stand, his knees buckled and he sank back to the floor with a pout.

“Legs ain’t workin’.” He noted needlessly, staring at the offending limbs with a curious tilt of his head. 

With a sigh, you turned to Jerry. “Will you?” The man offered you the sweetest smile. 

“You don’t even have to ask, Y/N.” He lowered his gun and positioned it over his shoulder, bending to help haul Daryl to his feet. The archer swayed and almost went down twice, wide eyes studying the figure beside him. “I gotcha, man. It’s all good.” He tried to move forward, but Daryl remained stock still. 

“Yer a big sumbitch, ain’tcha?”

It was Jerry’s turn to helplessly look at you while you smothered a chuckle. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Right behind you.” Jerry swept his arm beneath Daryl’s knees and lifted him. Your partner was going to be beyond embarrassed when he came back to his senses. 

Daryl was actually quiet throughout the journey toward the Commonwealth. You checked on him frequently, ensuring the four of you stopped so you could give him water and hold his hand as promised. 

You knew the drugs were starting to wear off when he stopped reaching for you and started trying to walk on his own. Jerry placed him on his feet but kept a hand close, grabbing his upper arm when his legs gave way. He refused to be carried any longer though. He stumbled on unsure limbs with Jerry practically holding him up. 

You encountered a few groups of walkers, forcing the archer to stand against a tree and let you and the others handle them. When one got too close to your back, you heard the whoosh before the corpse hit the ground with Daryl’s knife in its skull. 

“Hey! You can see straight again!” You teased, handing the blade back to him. He mocked a laugh and then pulled you to his side with his arm over your shoulders, only slightly leaning on you as you walked. He must’ve been tired of Jerry. 

It was after you had made camp for the night that things got bad. 

It started as a headache. 

You awoke alone, which had you nearly hyperventilating and calling out his name frantically while you grabbed your weapons and crawled from the tent. 

“Quiet, woman. Ev’ry walker fer ten miles gonna hear ya.” Daryl hissed from beside the fire. You didn’t explain your reaction. You didn’t have to. Once you settled, he reached out for you with a quiet “c’mere” and pulled you against his side, his lips pressing against your temple. You had been without him for nearly two months.  Others had given up hope but not you. You could feel he was out there. So could Carol. She had wanted to come with you but the kids needed someone there. You promised to bring him home and she believed you. 

“Can’t sleep?” It was a silly thing to ask. But you avoided asking what they had done to him. He would tell you when he was ready. 

“Head’s hurtin’.” He sniffed and threw a couple of sticks into the fire. You hadn’t even noticed he was sweating. His shirt was damp and he had unbuttoned it halfway. You placed a gentle handle against his forehead. 

“Don’t seem to have a fever. You feel okay besides the headache?”

“Mostly.” 

You accepted that with a nod, pulling away from him to get off the ground and onto the fallen log a little further back from the fire. “Come over here, handsome.” When he was close enough, you guided him to sit on the ground between your knees and lean back against your stomach. Petite fingers rubbed gentle circles on his temples, earning a quiet sigh as he began to relax into you. 

“S’gonna get bad.” 

“What is?”

You were glad you asked. Daryl had a lot of experience in withdrawal thanks to Merle. He knew what was happening and prepared you as best he could. But sitting at the mouth of the tent the next night while he writhed and moaned, hands clutching his stomach as if he could claw out the ache. Nothing could prepare you for this. 

“Nothin’ ya can do fer me ‘cept try ta keep water in me, maybe somethin’ mild fer the hurtin’.”

He was stripped down to his boxer briefs, unable to stand the clothes touching his skin. You had tried to give him Tylenol but he had screamed— literally screamed —and swatted the pills from your hand. He did drink some water before the next round of stomach cramps started, then he had vomited it all up.

You sat with one hand on your face and the other lightly on his ankle. He had warned you to stay back as often as you could. That he would lash out. He wouldn’t mean to hurt you but he might. So you stayed close but not as close as you wanted. Your heart yearned to soothe him, to find the bastards that did this to him and kill them all over again. They got a quick death and left your partner here to scream in agony for something he didn’t want. 

“Y/N…” he panted, sitting up only to wrap both arms around his middle. 

Fuck. You moved quickly, grabbed the coffee can you had found on the way. Daryl had told you to grab it and hang onto it when he saw you kick it. He said it’d have some use. 

And while you held the small can in one hand and Daryl’s sweat-slick hair in the other, you knew he was right. The dry heaving was worse than when he was actively emptying his stomach. Watching the already cramping muscles tense and twitch with every failing purge. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” When the retching dissipated, he was left on the bedroll, exhausted and panting but looking at you with clear eyes for the first time in hours. 

“Y/N.” It was a quiet moment, a gentle reprieve. Within heartbeats, he arched with a sharp breath through clenched teeth and curled in on himself once again. You reached to wipe his hair away from his face but he snatched your wrist and shoved you back hard. “Don’ touch me!” 

Your exit from the tent was quick and uncoordinated, tears you had been trying so hard to hold back were cascading down your cheeks. You stumbled to your feet and right into Jerry’s arms. 

“How’s he doing?” The weight of the situation was showing on all of you, even the always optimistic former King’s guard. Right on cue, Daryl let out a guttural scream and something crashed inside the tent. You flinched, closing your eyes. After a moment, you felt large hands take hold of your shoulders, firm but gentle. “It’s not him, Y/N. This isn’t his fault. Or yours.”

“I know.” You whispered as Jerry bent to place a kiss against the crown of your head. 

“Only a few walkers coming around from the noise. Aaron and I got the perimeter, okay? You just focus on taking care of him.” You nodded and started to turn away when he caught your hand. You looked back at him, zeroing in on that gentle smile. “And you. Make sure to take care of you too.”

“I will.” You patted his hand and watched him disappear back into the darkness. You gave yourself a few more minutes before you ducked back into the tent. 

On the fourth day after rescuing Daryl, you awoke at the mouth of the tent. Your hand was still wrapped around his ankle but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t making a sound. You felt fear grip and twist your heart as you crawled into the tent, brushing his hair from his face. He was…sleeping. 

He was still sweating, still curled in on himself, but he was actually sleeping. His face twitched every few seconds and his fingers would flex over his abdomen but he was actually fucking sleeping. You covered your mouth to subdue the sobs, careful to keep as quiet as possible. Leaning forward, you remained silent and simply watched him sleep. After days of screaming, actually begging you to kill him, he was resting. 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there when you heard the crunching twigs and leaves of footsteps approaching at a fast pace. In two seconds, you had your knife and you were crouched at the mouth of the tent, ready to keep anyone or anything from disturbing the archer. Luckily, you were met with the concerned faces of Aaron and Jerry. 

“We didn’t hear him anymore. Is he—” Aaron’s expression of naked fear and barely contained grief nearly brought tears to your eyes. But it fell away the moment you smiled. 

“He’s okay. He made it.”

Jerry had carried Daryl again but he was too out of it to care or even notice. Once back inside the walls of the Commonwealth, you opted for the hospital. You hadn’t been able to keep him properly hydrated during withdrawal and he hadn’t eaten in god knows when. You couldn’t picture taking him home this way. 

He slept through arriving, triage, IV placement, and well into the night. Carol was with you now, holding you tightly while you took a moment to let out all you had been holding in for his sake. 

“It was awful. I couldn’t help him. I just had to sit and…and…and watch. What if he’d died like that?” 

The silver-haired woman held you tighter, rocking gently. “He didn’t. He’s right here and he’ll make a full recovery. Tomi said so. You did that. When everyone else quit on him, you went and got him. Stayed with him. And now he’s here because of you.” When she pulled away, she hooked a finger under your chin and gently guided you to look at her, smiling one of those gentle smiles of hers that seemed to make almost anything better. “Thank you. I knew you’d keep your promise.” 

You nodded and she let you lay against her and rest, slipping out at some point during the night when you were sound asleep, too exhausted to feel her move away or hear her leave. 

When you opened your eyes again, the sun was up. You felt more rested but still run down. You truly couldn’t wait to be home, in your warm bed, and wrapped around Daryl while he recovered. You wiped at your sleep filled eyes while you stood. There were two trays on the bedside table. When had they brought them in? 

You grabbed one and sat down on the chair next to Daryl’s bed, slowly eating the scrambled eggs and sipping the coffee. You had already finished both when he began to stir. You were up in a flash, leaning over him and willing his eyes to open. You needed to see those pretty blue eyes, clear and pain-free. Then, just maybe, you could breathe again. 

It took him a few minutes to actually awaken but his breathing changed, picking up a little before his eyes finally peeled open. They were bloodshot but focused, darting around the room until they settled on you. 

“Y/N.” He breathed. You watched the tension melt out of him. Your heart fluttered and you smiled, tracing his jaw with your fingertips. He knew he was safe just by seeing you. 

“Hey, you. How’re you feeling?” Your hand moved to his hair, smoothing it back away from his face. He hummed in thought, letting his eyes close but only for a brief moment. 

“Like shit.”

“I’m not surprised after what you went through.” You had to stand on your tip-toes to reach but you pressed a kiss to his forehead. Hearing the soft sigh he released warmed you from the inside out. “Tomi says if you eat and keep it down, you can go home.”

He hummed. “Home sounds good. Real good.”

You grabbed the eggs from the tray and sat on the edge of the bed. “What’re we waiting for then?”

“Can feed myself, y’know.” He winced as he adjusted himself to sit up, pulling off the nasal cannula to toss it aside with a huff. 

“Dixon, I will make airplane noises if that's what it takes to get you to eat these eggs.”

“Ain’t gon’ need all tha’.” 

He let you feed him without much of a fight. 

That night, in your little house, you were lying on your back with Daryl’s head on your chest. After helping him with a shower— he swore he could do it himself but was suddenly tired and frail once your t-shirt was tossed into the laundry basket— and a small dinner, he had all but collapsed, exhausted from the ordeal and more than ready to be in his own bed. Dog was curled up at your feet. Daryl didn’t have the heart to kick him off once he saw how much the animal had missed him. 

Everything was right again. 

“I missed you so much.” You ran your fingers through his still damp mane, and he pushed his head into your hand when you began to lightly scratch his scalp. Your partner was truly a cat in human form. “I was terrified when we couldn’t find a trail.”

“Butcha did. Wonder who taught ya that?” 

You tugged lightly at his hair with a snort. You let yourself smile for a moment, sighing when he nuzzled against your chest. “I thought I was gonna lose you out there.”

“Y’ain’t gonna lose me.” He said with a yawn. 

“Better not. I can track now. I’ll find you.”

Now he snorted. “Yer something else, woman.”

“Damn skippy. Better hold onto me, Dixon.”

“Bet yer ass I will.”

[irkimatsu]

@monstrousvoice sent me fanart of Husk in a muzzle: https://www.tiktok.com/@zammyx0/video/7330695414468988166

And it's my favorite form of Husk art, the sort where I'm not sure whether to cry or be horny. Curse how hot this man looks in bondage, despite his unfortunate circumstances...

For fic purposes, though, I went strictly for the crying. Husk is being punished for disobeying Alastor, Reader finds him after a few days, hurt/comfort but mostly hurt ensues. 1.8k words. No sexual content but still emotionally rough, with mentions of alcoholism and withdrawal.

---

“Niffty? Can I ask you something?”

You try not to make any startled movements as the small Sinner slowly turns her head and looks at you with her one large eye. She continues smacking her feather duster at the wall as she looks up at you. “Yeeeees?” she replies cheerfully.

“Have you seen Husk?” you say. “He hasn’t been at the bar for a few days, and no one else knows where he is. Not Charlie, not Vaggie, not Angel…” It’s not unlike Husk to disappear every so often, usually due to errands from Alastor, but it’s not like him to not warn you before vanishing for this long.

“Ohhh.”  Niffty giggles as she turns back to the wall and continues dusting. “Husker is being punished. He was a bad boy.”

“...punished?” Dear god, what did this little gremlin do to your boyfriend?!

“He’s supposed to do what the boss says! That’s the deal!” Niffty continues. “But he said no, so now he’s being punished! Those are the rules!”

“Do you know where he’s being, um… punished?”

“He’s in his room,” Niffty says casually. “He’s not allowed to leave until Alastor isn’t angry at him anymore.”

Alastor is mad at Husk, and now he’s being kept in his room like he’s a naughty child? The more you learn about Husk’s predicament, the less any of it makes sense. “You have a master key so you can do housekeeping, right, Niffty? Is there any way you could let me in there?”

“Nope, not supposed to!” she says. “Supposed to go in there to clean, that’s it! Don’t talk to him, don’t give him anything he asks for, nothing else!” 

“Please, Niffty?” you beg. “I’m worried about him…”

“Hm…” Niffty looks back up at you with her eye, giving no hint as to what on Earth is going on in her head. “Well… he is your bad boy, isn’t he? Maybe if I let you in, you’ll… punish him further?” God, her laughter about that is fucking creepy.

“Um… yeah…” You can’t be more committal about it than that, even if it’s for the sake of seeing Husk.

“Okay, I’ll let you in!” She pulls a key out of her pocket and hands it to you. “Don’t lose that! It works on all the doors in the hotel, so losing it would be very bad. And don’t let Alastor know I lent you that, or see you using it!” Her voice lowers to a menacing pitch. “Make sure you punish that bad boy real good, okay?”

You nod slowly until she turns back to her cleaning tasks, and as soon as her gaze isn’t glued to you, you immediately flee to the stairs.

—

The reek of booze assaults your senses as soon as you open Husk’s door. You don’t know the last time Niffty has cleaned in here, but in that time, the floor has become littered with shattered glass and puddles of drink. You shut the door behind you and gingerly tiptoe around the mess as you look around for your boyfriend.

“Husk?” you call out quietly. Are you in here?”

Another full bottle rolls to the floor and shatters as the lump on the bed starts to squirm.

“Husk…?” you repeat, more concerned than ever, as you approach the bed. You slowly pull the blanket back to reveal Husk curled into a ball, his whole body concealed by his wings. They’re in a terrible state, with feathers pulled out in clumps that left behind bloodstains. His tail is curled around himself, and the plumage on the tip has been equally tattered.

Even more concerningly, now that the blanket is gone, you can see the metal chain tying him to his bedpost.

You gently stroke at his wing, only for him to growl and shrink back from your touch.

“Fuck off…” he groans, his voice muffled by what remains of his feathers.

“Husk, it’s okay. It’s me,” you assure him.

He slowly lifts one of his wings and stares at you with pupils blown wide. Now that you can see his face, you can see the chunk of metal fastened against his mouth with a series of leather straps. Only the extreme sides of his mouth are visible, just enough for you to see sharp teeth bared into a snarl. His only other attire is the metal cuff around his neck for his chain; the rest of his body is exposed, revealing deep claw marks and bald patches all over him.

“Husk!” you cry out in horror. “What happened?!”

“What are ya… doin’ here…?!” he asks in turn. You get the feeling he’d sound a lot angrier if he had the strength to. “Get out of here… he’s gonna... be pissed-” He interrupts himself with a groan and a series of dry heaves. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he grumbles to himself between heaving.

“I’m not leaving you like this,” you insist as you sit beside him on the bed. His body begins to spasm, and his heaving soon turns to sobs. You gently stroke one of his ears, knowing it won’t provide him any meaningful relief, but if there’s any sense of comfort you can give the poor man…

“...drink.” His groaning and mumbling finally manages to form a coherent word. “Haven’t… had a drink.”

Normally, the last thing this man ever needs is more alcohol. But as you put the pieces together, you begin to realize how he got into this state, and how this was done intentionally.

Niffty’s words echo in your mind. “Don’t give him anything he asks for!” All you can see is Husk desperately pleading with his friend for a drink, just one drink, even while both of them know she can’t risk that sort of mercy…

But you don’t owe Alastor any promises. “Where do you keep them?” you ask.

Husk weakly lifts a claw and points, and you follow the trail of glass and puddles he’s indicating to a cabinet pushed against his wall. You open the cabinet, and it’s just as much of a disaster as the floor, its shelves lined with more shattered bottles and puddles. Thankfully, you manage to find a miniature bottle of whiskey that’s survived the carnage. You take the bottle and rush it back to Husk’s side.

“Open it for me?” he asks weakly. You nod at him.

“I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

You position yourself cross legged on the bed, then gently pull Husk’s shaking body into your lap, careful not to touch any of the bloody gashes in his skin. You balance the back of his head against the crook of your arm, then unscrew the cap on the bottle.

“I’ve got you,” you repeat, your voice much softer now, as you position the opening of the bottle against the exposed side of his mouth. “Are you ready?”

You’re not sure if his groaning response is a yes or no. All you can do is take a chance. You slowly tip the bottle up until the contents begin running out. Some of it runs down his chin and stains the panel over his mouth, but some manages to drip to where his tongue can reach. You finally find a position that gets most of the drink into his mouth, and he gulps desperately until the bottle is completely drained. Slowly, his tremors begin to cease, and his breathing becomes much less labored.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice little more than a ghost. “Thank you… thank you…”

Surely that one little bottle won’t be enough to fight his symptoms for long, but you’re not ready to leave his side just yet. You set the bottle down on the sheets and wrap your now-free arm around him to pull him closer to you.

You know you shouldn’t start crying. You’re supposed to be the one comforting him. And yet…

“Hey… doll…” he murmurs as he wipes a tear away with his claw. His paw is still trembling slightly, though not as badly as it was before you got him his drink.

“What happened?” you ask. “Niffty told me Alastor was upset with you, but that’s all I know…”

“She the one who gave you the key?” he asks. You nod in response, and you can just barely see  him smiling behind his muzzle. “So she figured out how to help me after all…”

“She told me I’d be in trouble if Alastor saw me in here,” you say.

“Yeah, you probably will,” he says. “Though I’ll be the one in real shit for accepting your help…”

“Why’s he this upset with you?” you ask.

“Refused his orders,” Husk says simply. “I don’t wanna do what he wants, so he’s drying me up until I’m desperate enough to go through with it. He’s done it to me before, he’ll do it to me again.”

Before? Again? You knew Husk and Alastor’s deal was heavily unbalanced to Husk’s detriment, but before now, you hadn’t fully grasped just how dire Alastor’s treatment could be.

“What is it that he wants you to do?” you ask.

He averts his gaze. “You don’t need to know that,” he says simply. “It’s just something I don’t wanna do. No matter what he does to me.”

“But what if he hurts you even worse if you keep refusing?” you ask. “I don’t want you to have to do something you’d hate! …but if it’s the only way… I couldn’t stand losing you, Husk…”

His next words are so quiet, and the muzzle doesn’t help you hear him any better. “...that’s how I feel about it, doll…”

You hold him in silence for a while, your only movement a continuous light scratch behind his ear. He returns the silence, only responding with a faint purr. As you hold him, you can’t help but look over the injuries to his body and his wings. Did Alastor do this to him?

On closer inspection, you notice that the tips of his claws are caked in dried blood…

“You should go,” he says. “I don’t want you to, but if he finds out…”

“I understand,” you say, trying your hardest not to imagine how badly Husk might be punished for daring to accept comfort in a time like this. “Just… whatever it is that Alastor’s asking you to do… I’ll understand if you do it, okay? I won’t blame you, no matter how awful. I just want you to get out of this…”

“...I can’t,” is all he says in response.

You lift him up so you can kiss the plate separating his mouth from yours; never before have you missed the taste of his alcohol and tobacco so much. He wraps his arms around you and cuddles close, and you can feel his tremors starting to return.

“I can get you another drink before-” you start.

He cuts you off. “Go,” is all he has to say. “Please.”

You kiss his forehead, desperate to feel his warmth somehow, before gently laying him back down on the bed. As soon as you let go of him, he returns to his earlier position, tucked in by his own tattered feathers. You give his wing a few more strokes, and this time he doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t do anything at all.

The only thing you can do now is leave, give Niffty her key back, and hope with everything you have that even Alastor is capable of some level of mercy for the man you love so much.

[angelnumber27]

I dont think some people understand how truly awful and hellish withdrawals from some psych medications are.

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1332

TW: Substance Abuse | Overdose

Anon asked:

Do you have some prompts for a whumpee struggling with substance abuse after some bad things happening in their life, and their friend / caretaker supporting them through it?

A few:

Maybe the caretaker notices erratic behaviour and decides to address it gently. This could lead to a discussion, or even an argument if the whumpee tries to deny it despite the evidence being clear. (Why do they try to deny it? Are they ashamed? Embarrassed? Worried about what people are going to think?)

The caretaker could find out about the abuse when the whumpee hits rock bottom. They could get a call from the hospital/a concerned friend etc. Maybe they haven't heard from the whumpee in a few days, so decide to do a welfare check of sorts. They could get there just in time to witness the whumpee overdosing.

Does the whumpee relapse? Do the caretakers threaten to give up on them?

^ I like the idea of the caretaker saying that in private, but the whumpee accidentally overhears.

During recovery they celebrate small victories - a day sober, three days sober, a week sober etc etc. It becomes tradition to get a cake for every milestone. Maybe at a longer milestone - when the whumpee as gotten much better - it's not until late at night that they realise it's a milestone day. Their only option is to go to a gas station to find a cake, but their only choices are the questionable hotdogs, flowers, a chocolate bar, or even more questionable sushi.

At first the whumpee rejects professional help, but seeing the strain it puts on the caretakers, they decide to seek out a therapist.

Don't forget the withdrawal symptoms.

What kind of coping mechanisms do they put in place? Chewing gum? Knitting? Folding laundry?

On the emotional side - the whumpee has to work very hard to repair the relationships they damaged.

[aceofwhump]

Graceland 3x08

A/N: This is still my absolute favorite scene in all of Graceland and probably my all time favorite whump scene. It's just so damn good. But this was the hardest scene I've ever subtitled i swear to god. There are so many people talking all at once and I'm fairly sure I got some of them wrong but I don't even care anymore. And because these subtitles are crazy here's a quick guide. White is Johnny, yellow is Briggs, teal is Charlie, red is Paige, and green is Jakes.

[agonyalley]

[asherwentmissing]

Honey I need my bedtime stories

Please honey come back

It’s been 20 years ( 2 hours ) honey

[davycoquette]

the summer of our discontent

June, 1996

Ruck took the stairs slowly with his cigarette clenched between his teeth. At the bottom, he shifted his gig bag and backpack on his shoulder and stared into the wet morning fog. 

His life unfurled ahead of him; a flat, unbending, and featureless road.

There was no sidewalk, so he walked in the overgrown bluegrass. He headed west, toward the Styx River, because why the fuck not? It felt as if he had been borne into this world just then, disconnected from the brief and meaningless past before Decatur. He had nothing now but his baggage, which guided him like a migratory instinct toward one of the last places he had been besides home.

The fog simmered away in the heat and he sat on the curb at Crossroads eating a cold gas station breakfast pizza between sips of Grapico. The sun tanned the back of his neck and drops of sweat fell from his jaw onto the sandy asphalt.

At the intersection a man in a sweat-yellowed undershirt that clung to his ribs stopped him to ask for something. His voice was a copperhead hiss and Ruck eyed the calluses on his upturned palms.

“I cain’t understand you,” he said, and left the man mumbling where the four paths met.

In Hurricane he reached the edge of the earth and the air was heavy with salt and damp. He watched the Spanish moss on the cypress trees swing over the Tensaw River then on impulse thumbed his way into the back of a pickup that came shuddering down Bayou Road.

The driver was an old man with eyes as yellow as his few teeth, and his wife, aged indeterminably between forty and seventy, asked Ruck if he didn’t want out before they merged onto 65. He addressed her through the open back glass, and told her no, he’d better sit tight.

At sunset he tilted his head back to gaze up at the weathering steel arches of the Dolly Parton Bridge, then closed his eyes and breathed in the cloying wetland stench.

It was dark when they let him off at the edge of Creola, and he walked south to the La Quinta to book a room with his lawn-keeping money.

His clothes peeled audibly off his skin and he scrubbed them with a bar of handsoap in the bathroom sink after a long shower. He draped them over the rusted balcony railing and smoked a cigarette while he watched one treefrog fuck another one on the fake stucco wall. Voices carried down from the balcony above his, and Ruck left the sliding door open when he went in to drop his towel and fall into bed.

Close to nine in the morning he woke, removed a treefrog from the curtain, fetched his clothes from the balcony, and crushed Adderall on the little table next to the TV set. He got dressed and headed down to the lobby, where he fixed himself coffee and a waffle while his teeth chattered and the blood threatened to burst out of his veins.

Inspired, he walked down to the truck stop after breakfast with the previous day’s clothes souring in his backpack. He wandered the lot in the heatwaves and an old trucker leaned his head out his cab window and said, “You’re ‘bout the meanest lookin’ lizard I ever seen.”

Ruck hauled himself up on the passenger side step to goad the man into a fight, but the Yorkshire terrier in the seat jumped up and bit him the moment his fingers hooked over the edge of the window and the fire was doused from his blood. He dropped a few coins in the payphone outside and summoned a cab while sucking the joint of his finger.

Mobile was a short ride south of the truck stop, but the fare was twenty bucks he couldn’t afford to spend. Outside a musty music store at the fringe of the business district, he set up in the shadow of a live oak growing from the sidewalk and earned a couple bucks playing some Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash. A kid from the University wanted Freebird and Ruck played and sang a while, but the young man rode off on his bike half the song in and the street cleared out.Ruck picked up a late lunch from a mom and pop oyster bar, and sat reading the free classifieds he picked up from a stand outside. There wasn’t much of anything — except that the Greater Gulf State Fair was hiring. On closer inspection, they wanted interns from the college — but he couldn’t see the harm in paying a visit, anyway. Surely the damn fair didn’t intend to run a background check, and anyway, his attention had been good and grabbed by the logo of the cowboy astride a bronc printed in the ad.

[victoriadallonfan]

….Wait a god damn minute, did all of the Major Malfunctions literally name themselves after their trigger events?!

[psychotic-system-culture-is]

Psychotic system culture is approaching all problems with a little help from a friend- only for us, that includes remembering meds, cooperating through withdrawal and rebound psychosis when the script gets messed up, identifying rebound symptoms, and watching our sleep hygeine.

<-w->

[mybodyispeace]

38 hours clean from drugs. i wish people wouldn't romanticise addiction. ive been sat here for nearly 2 days unable to do anything but puke and have the shits, ive had 3 hours sleep because of insomnia and one minute im going from freezing and sweaty to burning alive and goosebumps. my head hurts and the lights too bright for my eyes, my stomach kills and my body feels stiff and sore. i can't eat and im struggling to stay hydrated, my hearts palpatating and all the noises seem so distant and muffled. my body won't stop shaking and i have big bags under my eyes, ive got spots popping up and i constantly need the toilet. it's been one of the hardest things ive ever gone through, ironically it feels like when i overdosed, but i wouldn't change it for the world. within a few weeks all my physical symptoms will be gone and ill be left to heal from the psychological problems my addiction and withdrawal have caused me.