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neonghostlights · 9 months

Note

I saw you got your first request! That’s so sweet and lovely I love your writing :)

I was wondering if maybe I could request something pretty please? Angstyyyy and fluff

what if eddie has substance abuse problems like rockstar!eddie or Eddie needed something to cope with the events of s4 but it’s wrecking him and your relationship and you love him and have tried to help him but is basically like it’s me or the drugs

My second request ever! Thank you so much (: I went with Eddie coping after the events of season four and tried to leave it open to him using either drugs or alcohol. I've watched someone struggle with addiction before so I based it a little off of that.

Warnings: Substance Abuse, Addiction, Rehab, Established Relationship, Intervention, Angst, Fighting, Sad Uncle Wayne, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, 18+ only

Wordcount: 2.2k

Pick And Choose

It started with him being late to everything and then he stopped showing up completely. Phone calls became few and far between. He didn’t even play DnD anymore. Then it was the fighting, the lying, and the stealing.

It all came to a head last weekend when you drove around town looking for Eddie, who had fought with Wayne over his behavior and disappeared without a trace. Steve eventually found him passed out in someone's basement at a party with no memory of how he got there. The fight that took place between the two of you the next morning was the worst you had ever gotten into.

You hadn’t talked to him since then. A week of complete silence on your part. Eddie had called you a few times and left you some unintelligible voicemails that you didn’t respond to.

You had watched Eddie slowly wither into himself. At first, you didn’t allow yourself to believe what you were seeing. The happy and healthy man you knew was decaying right in front of you.

The last six months had been hard on Eddie. From watching Chrissy die, to almost dying in the upside down and then waking up to a town that wanted to lock him away forever.

The charges were dropped and the physical wounds healed but Eddie still wasn’t okay. You knew it, Wayne knew it and your friends knew it too.

You made excuses for Eddie whenever Dustin, Mike or Lucas wanted to see him and he wasn’t answering the phone. But they were starting to pick up that something was wrong. They were smart kids and you couldn’t lie to them forever.

Wayne opened the trailer door for you when you knocked, letting you in silently. He nodded his head towards Eddie’s room, the new one since the old trailer had been destroyed.

“Has he been up at all today?” You asked quietly, not wanting to risk Eddie knowing you were there yet.

Wayne shook his head with a pained look on his face.

You let out a deep sigh, setting your things on the counter.

“Maybe we should call that Harrington boy up here too. Just in case he tries to fight,” Wayne suggested.

You thought for a second. Steve was able to be some of a voice of reason when Eddie went too far but there had also been times when Steve sported a black eye after Eddie lashed out. Steve had already been hit far too many times over the years and had such extreme headaches that you didn't want to risk it.

“I-I think we should just do it. Just us. I don’t want him to feel cornered,” you finally said. “If it goes too far we’ll back off and try again another day.” The thought of having another day with Eddie was wishful. You woke up everyday terrified that you would get a phone call informing you of the inevitable. He could only go on this way for so long.

You grabbed the pamphlets out of your bag and handed one to Wayne. He stared down at it, not opening or reading it, just observing.

A loud bump and crash could be heard coming from Eddie’s room. You looked at Wayne who was still staring at the pamphlet. It was show time.

You sat down on the couch alone. “Wayne?” You asked, breaking him out of his trance.

The man slowly sank down in the recliner across from you.

Eddie’s bedroom door crashed open, hitting the wall and surely adding to the dent that was already there. You watched as he stumbled into the kitchen, sweatpants and t-shirt baggy on his thinning form. When he noticed you on the couch he paused suddenly, swaying slightly.

“What are you doing here?” He croaked, eyes squinted like he couldn’t see you.

“I’m here to talk,” you said, keeping your voice light.

“Come sit down with us, Eddie,” Wayne spoke up, craning his neck to turn and look at his nephew. You could see the slight wince when he took in Eddie’s shape.

“Okay?” Eddie said, dropping down on the couch beside you.

Up close you could see just how bad he had gotten in a week. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed red. His hair hung in lifeless strands surrounding his face. His cheeks were hollow and pale. You just wanted to wrap him up in your arms and heal him with everything you had. But you weren’t a superhero. You didn’t have the powers to fix this.

Eddie looked away when he noticed the look on your face.

“What’s up?” He asked, like this was some sort of friendly neighborhood chit chat. At least he was in a good mood for now.

You took a shaky breath. “I love you, Eddie.”

His eyes softened slightly at this. “ If this is about our fight I don’t really want to talk about it right now,” he said, gesturing towards his uncle who sat with a stoic look on his face.

“We need to talk about it though. I’m worried about you,” you said.

Eddie let out a humorless chuckle. He leaned his head up against the back of the couch. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everyone is fine,” he muttered.

“No. Everyone is not fine. I think you should go get some help,” you informed him in a soft voice.

Eddie’s head snapped up to look at you. “If you’re here because you think you can tell me what to do then you can just leave. I don’t want you here anyways.” His mood changed in a heartbeat when he was like this. The second he felt like he was being criticized he snapped.

You swallowed, trying to fight the harsh sting of his words. You had to remind yourself it wasn’t him talking. He didn’t mean it.

Eddie used to be so full of life. He never would have spoken to you like that before this. Sometimes you wished you could crawl into a time machine just so you can have old Eddie comfort you the way you needed. You’d give anything to hear him tell you everything would be okay again.

You pulled the pamphlet out from under your leg and handed it to him with a shaking hand. “Um, I got you a bed here. They’re ready to take you tonight if you’ll go.”

Eddie snatched the papers out of your hand and ripped them in half without even looking at them. He stood up now, his form trembling with the effort. You wanted to ask him when the last time he ate or drank anything was but now wasn’t the time.

He pointed a finger into your face. “You think you can just show up here after abandoning me for a week and tell me what to do. You just think you are so goddamn perfect all the time. Everything would be fine if you would just shut up and let me do what I want to do.”

You clenched your hands into tight fists, fighting the anger and hurt. The counselor at the facility had told you this might happen. It was very important not to engage in this behavior.

“Eddie,” you said softly, a stark contrast to the tone he had used to speak to you. “We can’t keep doing this. You have to choose either me or the way you’re living. You can’t have both. I can’t sit here and watch you die.” You started to cry then at the thought of this killing him. You turned your head, quickly wiping the tears off of your cheeks.

You could hear Eddie take a trembling breath. “If that’s what you want then go. Get the hell out,” he demanded.

You looked up to him to see his eyes wide, nostrils flared and hands balled up at his side. You weren’t going to get through to him. You weren’t going to be able to save Eddie like you thought.

You stood slowly, giving him the chance to change his mind. He just stood there, staring at you as you went to walk out of his life for good.

A few sniffles had you pausing your journey to the front door. You turned to see Wayne with his head in his hand and his shoulders shaking violently. You had been so caught up in talking to Eddie that you had forgotten that he was even there.

Eddie’s expression crumbled as he watched his uncle sob.

“Wayne,” he stammered, placing a hand on his uncle's shoulder. “Why are you crying?”

“Because I can’t do it anymore, Eddie. I can’t sit here and watch you end up just like your father.”

Eddie winced like he had been struck. “But I’m not like him.”

Wayne looked up at him with red swollen eyes. “You are though. This is exactly like he was. I can't sit here any longer and watch history repeat itself. And watching the way you just spoke to someone you’re supposed to love. That’s exactly how your father spoke to your mother.”

You watched silently, waiting for Eddie to snap back at his uncle or lash out but he never did. He collapsed onto the couch, folding into himself as he wrapped his arms around his waist. He slowly started to rock his body back and forth.

“No,” he denied, looking at you now. “You know I didn’t mean it right. You know I love you. I just don’t feel good.”

Eddie was crying now too. His uncle's words making some sort of breakthrough. It was now or never.

“Then go get help, Eddie.” You approached him slowly, sitting down beside him carefully. “It’s already all set up for you. You just have to go.”

“And how are we going to afford that? I can just get clean here,” he argued.

You shook your head. “No. Don’t worry about the money it’s already taken care of.”

He would blow a fuse if he found out Steve had given you a significant loan to fund Eddie’s treatment. Steve insisted you wouldn’t have to pay him back but you were going to work the rest of your life to make sure he got every penny.

Eddie chewed on his already chapped lips before he took another look at his uncle's tear streaked face and started to nod.

Ninety days came and went in a blur.

Eddie’s room had been cleaned out prior to his arrival home. Anything that wasn’t good for him was tossed out.

You leaned against the side of Wayne’s truck while he went inside to collect Eddie. The warm breeze swept through, warming your skin. It was a beautiful day for Eddie to be free again.

You and Eddie didn’t speak for the first thirty days of his treatment. He was in worse shape than you thought when he first got there. There had been a few times when he almost left. Around day thirty five he called you to let you know that he was okay and that he would be sending you a letter he wrote.

It was a letter of apologies for everything he had done and said since he started using. With promises to get better. He told you that he loved you and he never stopped loving you even when things got rocky. That the addiction made him act that way and he would do anything possible to never hurt you again. You sobbed when you read it. You kept it folded up in your nightstand for when the nights got really lonely and you needed a reminder that Eddie was going to get better. And that he still loved you despite the way things were left.

The glass doors to the facility opened to reveal Wayne with a tall figure following closely behind him. You pushed off the truck to get a better look when he started speed walking towards you.

You didn’t have time to react before you were being lifted off the ground in a tight hug. You melted into his arms, savoring the feeling of him.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Wayne called out as he approached.

Eddie put you down, holding you out at arms length so he could get a good look at you. His skin was no longer sunken in but healthy with a glow. His hair shined in the sunlight. Two brown eyes full of life stared back at you.

Words escaped you. Part of you didn’t expect him to look better. You had expected to still see the sick and crying Eddie you had dropped off three months ago, not the one grinning at you now. The counselors had told you that this wasn’t a cure and he had to work hard for the rest of his life but it was a start to being better.

“Holy shit,” you blurted out.

Eddie's smile turned shy, his hands reaching up to cup your face. He looked at you for a second, making sure what he was about to do was okay. You nodded slightly, leaning in for your lips to meet. Eddie kissed you like he had been away for ninety years and not ninety days.

When you finally broke apart, he whispered into your ear the words you wanted to hear. “Thank you for saving me.”

#tw addiction #tw substance abuse #eddie munson au #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson imagine #eddie stranger things #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x you #eddie munson request

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riality-check · 11 months

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tw for mentions of substance abuse (part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7)

ao3

Steve Harrington has been awake for fifty four hours. With luck, he'll be able to eke out another eighteen. Three days seems to be the sweet spot, even if he only makes it there half the time and, of that half, it only works half the time.

It's better than nothing.

Maybe four days is the sweet spot. Ninety six is close to one hundred, and that seems like a good omen.

Omens don't really matter though. What matters is staying awake.

So, Steve chugs his coffee and walks into the conference room. Coffee isn't enough, not nearly, but it'll do until he gets desperate enough to take something.

He really does try to only take them when he's desperate. It's easier that way, to just do it when he feels like he needs to rather than measuring dosages and remembering times. Hours start to blur around hour forty of being awake.

He walks in, sits down in the chair closest to the door, and is met with a withering glare from Eddie Munson.

Listen. Steve isn't happy about this either, but at least he doesn't look like he stepped in dog shit on the way here. Then again, Steve doesn't have the luxury of ever looking truly unhappy.

Eddie is a rock star. Mean is part of his brand, while mean is the antithesis to Steve's.

Whatever.

"Are you kidding me?" Eddie says, still staring at him, but Steve knows he's not who he's asking.

"He's the best person for the job," Chrissy, Eddie's manager, says.

"We don't need him."

Someone taps Steve's left shoulder. He turns to see Jeff, the lead singer of Corroded Coffin, give him a warm smile.

"Nice to meet you, Steve," he says, and Steve shakes his proffered hand.

"Happy to help," he says, and it's only half a lie.

The drummer and the bassist - Steve would probably be able to remember their names if he wasn't so exhausted - wave their hellos from a few seats away.

"Hi, Steve," Chrissy says.

He takes another swig of his coffee and gives her a little wave in response.

"We don't need a pop singer to write lyrics for us," Eddie says, still not letting this go.

"Yes, you do," Steve says. He sets his coffee cup down on the table and opens the folder he brought with him. "I read through the lyrics of every one of your songs."

"You didn't even listen to them?"

"Would have taken too much time."

That's a lie. Listening, even with the lengthy guitar solos, probably would have taken less time. But Steve needs something to fill the hours when he's supposed to be asleep, and reading, that slow process with its ample, awakening frustration, is the perfect thing.

"You became so much less interesting after your first album," he says. "Every one of your songs talks about the same thing. Conquering evil, killing demons, blah blah blah."

"That's what's in right now," Eddie snaps.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve catches the drummer and Chrissy make the same motion. They pinch the bridges of their noses, clearly frustrated.

Steve sees why Chrissy wanted to talk to him.

"It is," he concedes. "But I also read the lyrics of every song by the bands with top ten hits. They don't talk about it nearly as much. They sing about other stuff. And they don't use an F major chord in every one of their songs."

"We don't-"

"We kinda do, Eddie," the bassist pipes up. "I'm a little sick of playing F."

Eddie takes a breath. Steve takes the opportunity to take a pill.

He found a way to make it less obvious for people who have something to say about it. Steve will take one from his pocket, yawn, cover his mouth, and swallow it dry. Easy peasy. They don't notice, he doesn't have to deal with people who don't get it making comments.

Except when he does, this time, Eddie narrows his eyes. Like he knows what he's doing.

Steve doesn't like that look.

"Have you read my stuff?" He won't ask if Eddie has listened to any of it. He knows the answer is no, if he keeps bringing up genre like that really means anything.

Eddie doesn't respond. He keeps those narrowed eyes trained on Steve and stays silent.

"Didn't think so," he says, and he slides over the thick stack of papers Robin stapled together for him last night. "Here's everything. Read it. Tell me if you like it. I'm only helping you if you give a shit. This goes two ways, and I don't want to waste my time if you think I'm wasting yours."

Eddie doesn't take the stack, but the drummer, sitting next to him, tugs them closer. "Thanks."

"Let me know tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Jeff says, eyebrows raised.

Steve forgets that most people don't actually take advantage of their twenty four hours.

"End of the week," he says instead, and he relaxes when Jeff does.

The drummer starts flipping through the pages while the bassist looks over his shoulder.

"Need anything else from me?" Steve asks Chrissy.

"I don't think so," she says. "I'll call you back to set up a time for Saturday."

He's amazed by the fact that someone as sweet as her works with someone as pretentious as Eddie.

"Sounds good," he says, and he walks out, trying to ignore the feeling of Eddie's eyes on him as he goes through the door.

It only halfway works.

The pill should kick in soon, within a half hour, maybe shorter because of the coffee. Maybe he'll write something. Maybe he'll work on the piano melody he's been tinkering with for the past week. Maybe he'll read the latest book Robin picked up from the library, something interesting enough to be worth the frustration of the moving letters, something that will still fill the time.

He'll make it to seventy two hours. Then he'll crash because his body is a worthless piece of shit, and he hopes this is the half of the time when he doesn't have any goddamn nightmares.

Maybe he should pop another pill, just in case.

#ria writes #tw drugs #tw substance abuse #steve harrington #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #corroded coffin #st #st ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #steddie #steddie ficlet #can you tell i just finished daisy jones and the six?#anyway it gave me worms #so enjoy #pop star steve harrington #rock star eddie munson #dja au

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kitkatscabinet · 7 months

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Whumptober - 03 Withdrawals

Simon Riley x gn! reader

Warnings: mentions of substance abuse, opiate withdrawals, vomit

Simon was concerned, he'd been concerned since the bullet tore through the meat of your thigh. He’d been the one to pull you to cover, it had been his hands staunching the blood flow and it had been him you’d leaned on during physical therapy.

Even when the medics had prescribed opiates for the pain. He’d swallowed his discomfort attempting to keep a close watch over you and your usage. You’d seemed fine, seemingly as off-put as him by having to rely on such addictive substances in order to stave off the pain.

You’d seemed fine.

Your recovery was going well, the doctors, physical therapists and psychologist had all seemed optimistic that you’d be field-ready in near record time.

You’d seemed fine.

How had he failed to notice? He’d seen it before in his father, in Tommy. In hindsight, all the signs had been there. You’d tired more easily, were calmer - lethargic even and your attention span was even shorter than usual. You’d waved it off as the effects of vigorously throwing yourself in training, wanting to get back to your peak physical form.

Simon had ignored the signs, desperately not wanting to admit that another one of his loved ones had succumbed to the addictive effects of prescription drugs. He’d ignored the signs until it was too late, until he’d found you slumped over in a hallway shivering and covered in sweat. You don’t even notice his presence, not even when he hauls you into his arms and starts running down the hallway all the while trying to shake you back into consciousness.

It’s not until he deposits you under the cold spray of a shower that you start to stir, moaning in confusion as you attempt to orient yourself. You try to move but Simon has you locked against his chest, his arms the only thing keeping you from collapsing onto the tiles.

“Wha?” you slur, blinking lethargically as you struggle to keep your eyes open. Vaguely you recognise the voice of the person holding you, but you struggle to make out any of his words. Your head is so heavy, chin resting against your chest, giving you a close-up view of a familiar tattooed arm. “Simon?”

The man grunts his affirmation, one hand moving to sweep the hair from your face. You don’t get to appreciate the gesture for very long before you’re slumping to the side as far as you can within the confines of his arms and emptying the limited contents of your stomach. It burns your oesophagus, choking you as you attempt to breathe through the bile. Tears spill from your eyes from the pain and embarrassment.

Simon doesn’t comment on it though, simply continuing to hold you up and whisper words of encouragement. You’re uncertain as to how long you stay under the cold spray but at some point, you close your eyes only to wake up in another room, a towel around your shoulders as Simon attempts to dry you off.

“You need to get out of these clothes love, can you do that?” Giving it a few seconds of thought you nod, waiting for Simon to reluctantly turn around. It’s a struggle but you manage to wriggle out of your wet shirt and dry your torso enough to slip on the shirt Simon had laid out next to you. It’s a long and tiring process and more than once you’d had to reassure Simon you were still ok.

Though you were quickly forced to admit that you needed help, all of your muscles shaking uncontrollably. “Si, I need help” you quietly admitted. Turning your head to the side in shame, closing your eyes so wouldn’t see his disappointment. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Simon is infinitely respectful, averting his eyes to maintain as much of your modesty as possible.

His touch is gentle, though every slight brush of fingers on your skin burned. He continues to act in silence, bundling you up in what you now recognise as his blanket. It’s enough that the dam finally breaks and you start sobbing earnestly, chest heaving for air as you lay shivering in his bed.

“‘M sorry.” You moan unable to articulate your shame in any other way as you continue to apologise over and over. Simon doesn’t offer a verbal reply but he does take a place by your side, smoothing his hand through your wet hair.

Time becomes meaningless after that and all you know is misery. Your body fluctuates rapidly between hot and cold flushes that have you attempting to escape from the cocoon Simon has you trapped in. Yet the hulking abomination won’t let you move, even as you snap and scream at him. He’s not even phased by the intense nausea, placing a bucket beneath you just in time as your traitorous stomach continues to expel bile even when your stomach is beyond emptied.

He wipes your sweat and hydrates you, taking your hurled abuse stoically, never once blaming you. He maintains his silent vigil, sacrificing his own sleep to watch over your own incredibly broken slumber. Much to your own horror he even escorts you to the bathroom, never more than a few feet away. It’s a new level of mortifying, the entire experience frays your nerves down to nothing. Yet no matter what you throw at him, Simon stays.

“Why are you helping me? You should’ve handed me off to the med bay. ‘Ts not your job to clean up my fuck ups” you whisper. The question comes a few days into the torture, you’ve regained some clarity but the hellish symptoms showed no sign of improving. A few minutes ago you’re pretty sure you’d even called him ‘fuckin cunt’ when he’d refused to give you any sort of medication. He pauses in his movement of using a wet cloth to wipe the sweat from your forehead, barely taking any time to think of a response.

“Do I need a reason?” There’s a heaviness to his words that you don’t quite understand and he doesn’t elaborate. How could he explain to you, the sheer terror that had grasped his heart when he’d found you slumped over? The self-loathing he’d been battling since he’d come to terms with your affliction?

“No… but I’d like one. I’m pretty sure I vomited on you a few times and you didn’t even complain. I’d have decked you for that.” It’s an attempt at a joke but it evidently doesn’t land, his hand stilling in its path as he seemed to have some kind of internal debate.

“I care about you, that’s reason enough.” He offers no further elaboration and you sense that you’d already pushed far enough for the moment.

“Well now I just feel like an arsehole” you mumbled, trying to lighten the mood. Luckily your remark gets a light chuckle from your brooding companion as silence descends once more. A wave of exhaustion suddenly hits you and for once you don’t fight its pull, though you vow the next time you wake to grill Simon even further. Before you fall asleep once more you manage to mutter, “I care enough about you that I’d let you vomit on me too.”

The last thing you hear before the darkness overtakes you is a laugh, the first genuine laugh you’d heard from him in days. It’s a small victory but you take it, allowing yourself to finally feel just a little bit of hope.

#x reader #cod mw x reader #cod simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod ghost #whumptober #tw withdrawal #tw substance abuse

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daydreamerwonderkid · 7 months

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The idea that Bruce would actually drug Jason to "condition him" into "not being a murderer" by making him feel terror at his own heartbeat elevating is such a disgusting and absolutely abhorrent thought that I just flat out refuse to accept it as canon.

I'm not even coming at this from a Good Dad!Bruce angle. I just genuinely cannot accept the idea that Bruce would do something so fucking disgusting to any of his children. Especially to the child he is most estranged from who also btw has a traumatic history related to drug addiction and abuse that Bruce is fully aware of and has been aware of since when he first met Jason.

Bruce has never been a perfect father, and I am absolutely down for him even being a bad one. I love complicated and messy relationships in fiction and Bruce being a messy bitch is definitely up there in one of my fave chatacter portrayals of all time.

But my fucking god. Idk what they are going for with this, but I am personally hoping alongside everyone else that this is Zur and not Bruce.

Because if it is Bruce ... holy fucking shit, my guy.

DC canon is already a joke, but dude this is not my Bruce. This is a fucked up imposter wearing Bruce's skin and DC is making a parade out of dragging his corpse around like the world's sickest show pony.

#gotham war #bruce wayne #jason todd #gotham war spoilers #vent post #tw drugs #tw substance abuse #tw drug mention #dreamer talks #im just in a mood #i saw those panels and i just ...#i feel sick to my stomach #shit is fucked

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fairycosmos · 5 months

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What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you posting about drinking when you have previously discussed dealing with alcohol abuse? Why are you even drinking?

apologies for real but i genuinely encourage you to unfollow me or disengage from my content if that upsets you. like i know in an ideal world we're all able to confront and defeat our issues head on but it is just not the case for me plus i've been raised in an environment where this behaviour is entirely normalised and encouraged anyway so it's a lot more complex than whatever you're imagining it to be. seriously unfollow, i honestly understand having to disengage if it's in any way uncomfortable or triggering for you

#anon #tw substance abuse

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selarina · 9 months

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I love you so (I'll eat you whole)

→ Kuroo Tetsurou x Fem!Reader

Summary: Two individuals caught in a repetitive cycle of phone calls and conversations, each blaming the other for their constant and inescapable interaction.

Or as Tom Wambsgans once said, "I love you but you kill me, and I kill you.

Content Warning: Toxic Relationship, Rough Sex, Heavy Angst, Dubious Consent, Swearing, Emotional Hurt, Allusions to Substance Abuse, Jealousy, Smut, Mentions of Cheating, Power Dynamics, Spit Kink, Cunnilingus, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Post-Break Up, Dom Kuroo Tetsurou, Switch Kuroo Tetsurou, Switch Reader, Crying, Dacryphilia, Unresolved Emotional Turmoil, MINORS DNI

Word Count: 3.3k words

Author's Note: This is possibly the most toxic, and filthy thing I have written. And will likely be the last. Enjoy.

Read on AO3

"If anything this is your fucking fault."

"What the fuck? You're the one who called me," you say, and it irritates him how you can be this nonchalant. How he's the one up and carding his hand through his hair and you're just sitting, your hands and mind focused on a fucking cigarette.

"You fucking picked up. Yo—You could have just not."

You turn, your brows cinched, your eyes seething and it almost makes him happy, and that thought alone is enough to make him feel a bit sick.

"You are the one who called me," you say, accentuating every single word of that sentence.

"You always pick up. You could just not," he's repeating what he said and he thinks he could repeat it a thousand times and you still wouldn't understand.

"You're the one who's always calling. I do — Just stop."

Maybe he should, he thinks but it’s a fleeting thought. "I can't, and you know it," he says, his voice soft and a bit hoarse.

He sits down on the bed now, too tired to keep standing through this. His hand runs through his hair, he thinks anymore of this and he'll go bald — by stress or through pure frustration.

"You know it," he says, his voice comes out softer this time and you can tell he's tired.

He looks up to you, and he can tell you're tired. Tired of him trying to fix this, whatever you two would call it, but not tired enough to end it on your own. He supposes that in a way he's nothing but a hypocrite — how can he expect this from you when he won't do it himself?

Your hands come up, the cigarette finally abandoned and your fingers run through his hair, and it reminds him of the last summer before college started. Your hands would card through his, just like this. You were gentler back then, treating him like a delicate doll, now you card through his hair like he's yours, still a doll but fervently yours through time.

"I know," you say, your voice comes off hushed. "I know, baby."

And just like that he sinks. Into your shoulder, and into your life. Once again. All over again.

He smiles as his hands loop around your naked waist. You flinch ever so slightly at his cold hand, and just for a moment he thinks that maybe he should take his hands off, find his discarded shirt, and his car keys, and never return.

But then he thinks of how it feels to sink into you like this, like he could fit all of himself right next to you. You're the missing piece of his puzzle. Or maybe he is yours, he can't tell anymore.

Your hands keep moving against his hair, back and forth, and back and forth. Sometimes it moves sideways, but it's been long enough for him to figure out a pattern so he nips at your neck, slowly but harshly, his teeth sink in as he pulls against your skin.

You groan deeply, he feels it against the hand that sits on your waist. His hands tighten, he already knows that you won't pull away, but he can't help but pull you into him every single time because he knows this is fleeting, and he's grasping onto you while you're a dimly lit lantern that's waiting— no, palpitationing and aching to be set free.

Your hands are still gentle, even as he's pulling against your skin, you don't tighten into his hair. You never have, and so he kisses over the now visible bruise, and he's happy he can leave at least this on you. It makes him think that maybe all of this is not as fleeting as he thought. You carry the bruises for at least a week he realizes — all the love bites and the handprints.

He pulls back, his eyes narrow and you notice they're tinged with red, as though he cried but you know he didn't, you would've felt it. You look into your shoulders and still see no residual of tears.

His eyes stare back into yours when you look back up. They're muddled with a mix of frustration and just desire.

And for the first time today, your eyes show emotion. Other than pure fucking horniness, you feel love, it's a distant love, it's a love that doesn't exist but you feel it in this moment.

You draw yourself closer to him, and in one swift move, your lips are on his. You want to take this slow, like back in high school, when you treated each other with care and a brewing hint of fear, because you didn't want to break him and he didn't want to break you.

You can't help but internally laugh at how you both have failed, so miserably at that.

You want to take it slow, but you fear Kuroo may have different plans. He starts nipping at your lips, and tries and tries to swallow you whole. You fight against it, but eventually, as always you give in, almost feeling blissful as you give in.

His arms bruise against your hip as he pulls you onto his lap, your thighs lodging themselves onto his thigh.

You pull back, "Are you in love with her?"

This time he really laughs, "Like you'd ever let me."

"I'm not stopping you," you say. Almost offended, but mostly relieved. You're really not stopping him.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say, you aren't stopping him. In fact, the last time he called you, freshly broken up with his girlfriend, all because she knew — she knew you were the only one for his fucked up self, and she left. You told him to go back, to apologize, to make things right and he begged to stay, to sink into your arms, and you let him because you could try to hide it all you want but his eyes could convince you to do anything for him if you didn't look away, and that night he held your face in place, and there was nowhere else to look.

"I could never. I would never not love you. Fuck, I'm so in love with you it's driving me insane," he groans, and he means it.

You softly whimper at his confession and slowly melt in his arms, arms going around his shoulders as you hug him flush. He kisses the crevice of your neck, as his hands trace down back to your waist.

He puts a soft pressure that's enough to encourage you to do more. You move against him, softly but with each grind, he puts more force into it, and it has you whimpering into his neck.

"I hated that you started seeing her. I hated that she thinks she has the right to touch you" You moan.

"Yeah, baby? How much?" He groans too, because your moving knee is moving against his crotch.

"So much," you moan, the jealous fury consumes you, and consequently consumes him. You remember how she hung onto him in their latest Instagram picture and you pull your hands in tighter around his shoulders.

You find solace in the fact that it's deleted. Gone. And the thought of that makes you sick. Somewhere down there, you know you're a terrible person. But also, somewhere down there, you feel like a teenage girl. Like the same teenage girl that met and fell for Tetsurou and all his odd charm, the same teenage girl that just won't let go, and you've long since known what happens to teenage girls in an adult world.

And then you pull back, and his eyes look up, a bit frantic, as his hands soften. He looks into your eyes, seeing if you want to back away, maybe this is the one time the two of you back away from each other.

But you've been here, and you've thought this one too many times to believe it, so you smile and push him back against the bed, with no force at all, but he knows as much to comply.

You don't waste much time, you pull his pants down, along with his underwear as your hands start moving up and down his cock.

He groans, "Baby, please. Can you—" He's cut off by another groan as his hand comes to hide his face with his forearms.

You stop all at once, and he wants to die. You lean down, one hand still stroking his cock, and the other coming up. You take his hand covering his face and pull it above him, and he looks at your face, and you think you'll never see devotion like this, not from any man, not from any disciple to their God.

You don't hide your smile, it's anything but triumphant, it's sad really. Because you'll never find this anywhere else, not even with him, no matter how much you try and try again. He's not the same as you once were.

You move your hand away, cruelty on your part, as you fiddle with your bra instead as he lies in front of you, helpless as he watches and pleads with his eyes. It almost makes you want to never give in like you should get up instead, take your carefully folded clothes against the chair, and put your clothes on as you tell him to leave before you come back from your cigarette run.

But you don't, instead your bra snaps apart and you give in completely, no turning back after this.

But you didn't look down at him through all this, and somewhere in between your contemplation and fiddling. Kuroo Tetsurou decided that he's had enough of this. He wants—no, he needs more. He's strung up and he's never been more close to bursting through the streams.

And so he reaches for your waist as soon as your bra snaps apart. Your breasts barely get a second to breathe before he's coming up and lifting you off the bed and off of him, depositing you knees-first onto the cold tile of your room.

You look up, ready to snap at him but you look up and he's standing. His cock hovering right above your face. Hard.

He gives you no warning before he smacks the meat of your cheek with his cock. A few heavy smacks hit your lips. The message is clear now as you part your lips, finally fully completely, and ardently giving into him.

As your mouth encloses his cock, trying and trying to reach the hilt of his pubes. He realizes he has missed this the most out of all things. He has missed a show of devotion from you, something stronger than a mere Instagram caption. Something as vile as this — you choking on his cock while still looking at him starry-eyed, and for a second he could fool himself into believing it's all okay. Like you love him as you always have, and the worst part is, you think you do, you think it is he who has changed.

He doesn't get to dwell on this, not when you're like this. You may be on the floor, but with you, like this, he feels so much beneath you in the basest way describable.

You pull away, your eyes teary and your lips swollen. "Come for me," you say, your voice hoarse but still commanding, and who was he to deny your command? So, like a mere disciple, he comes.

He's catching his breath as he looks down, holding his heavy cock in one hand.

His hands come to your lips, knowing you have swallowed. You never do, not until you show him. Your mouth opens up, and he bends and spits into your mouth.

His hands come to the side of your cheeks as he slaps twice consecutively. And then you swallow.

Seconds pass and the two remain as you are, trying to regain your breath. His hands come to wipe your tears, as his palm comes to caress your cheek and for the first time in 5 years, you softly lean into it.

Tetsurou thinks he could cry, so he comes down to you, sits face to face, and says, "I love you. So much."

There are tears, they haven't flown yet but you see it in his eyes and you hate it. You look away, but his hands come to bring your eyes back to him, he starts leaning in for a kiss, slowly this time like you wanted.

He softly nips against your lower lip, with no force this time. Taking his time as he moves his hand across your waist, and through your hair.

Your hair, though, is tangled and stops his hands in your hair and when he pulls, it pulls your head down with his hand.

"Fucking — Ouch!" You hit his hand away, as your hand comes to soothe your scalp.

"I'm so sorry, baby." He says, sincerely but then he starts chuckling.

You frown, but can't help but smile when you see the soft dents in his cheeks. You think they're less defined now, back in high school, they were like craters of the moon, hollow enough to hold water, you would tease. Now you think it would spill right out, holding perhaps two drops at most.

"Are you still seeing him?" He says, but he's sheepish and he looks away. He asked you this last time, actually — he threatened you to keep seeing him, as he kept fucking you that night — he told you to see him, that he would never compare.

Only Tetsurou knows they were empty words, from an empty man.

"Yeah," you say. But it barely matters to you, or the "him" Tetsurou is so worried about. "He" is your friend before he's your... well, more than friends, less than lovers, whatever you may call that.

"Didn't take you for one to cheat," Kuroo says before he could stop himself.

"I would never," you say, a sudden surge of anger emerging, fighting against your weariness. "You know I would not," you say.

He does. You think you would break up with the person and go ahead and fuck them far before you would cheat on them. Kuroo thinks you're lovely and cruel like that, but mostly lovely.

You know you would only do that because you hated the burden of one's pain, the guilt of causing that pain. You've seen how it tore your family apart, no matter how much they tried. You groan internally, no point in picking at closed wounds.

"He's not my boyfriend, Kuroo," you say.

"You told me he was," he says, his brows cinching.

"I never did," you say. He pauses and laughs cynically. Well, you're always careful with what you say and show, aren't you?

"You never told me he wasn't either," he says.

"Makes no difference," you say.

"Yeah," he agrees. He came here, thinking you had a boyfriend. You let him in, knowing he had broken up with his girlfriend a while ago. You must be a better person, right?

Looking into your eyes, he can't help but feel the need to disagree. You're kind and you're cruel, all at the same time somehow. But he's no less, so he forgoes the guilt in almost a swift minute, as he pulls you by your legs as lays you down on the cold floor.

You hiss as your back hits the floor. Kuroo's hand sweeps both of yours as he pulls it up above your head.

"Don't see him," he says. "I don't—" he pauses before he sighs. "Don't see him," he can't help but just repeat what he said.

"I'll consider it," you say.

You won't, you decide at that moment. You'll leave Kuroo and you'll continue fucking your friend, and this will all be over because one day you'll wake up as a brand new person, and you'll find that you have the ability to love someone other than Kuroo Tetsurou.

You think he sees right through all of this as he starts removing your underwear, which soon after, joins his pile of clothes lying idle on the floor.

His hands cup your cunt, and his middle finger toying with your sore clit. You hiss, and he notices. He hasn't fucked you since he last saw you 2 months ago, so he knows. He knows. He thinks back to the clothes of men he saw, the ones you were folding away as you had just finished drying them when he arrived. You insisted that you will finish folding and placing them first. Not wanting to delay fucking you any further, he complied. Maybe he was too lost in his desire to get you like this, eyes half-lidded with tiredness and desire, but he missed the slew of clothing items that seemed like they belonged to a man.

The shift in his eyes with the newfound presence of iciness in his eyes starts getting to you, as you shrivel in, and start moving as his continued pressure builds.

You try to go quiet, without the support of your hands, as you notice you're the only one making noise. He's just looking at you, not a single word coming from his mouth.

His fingers slip in, and he pumps in and out as you struggle more and more to keep quiet, and somewhere in between you give up. Moaning loud enough to know you might get a frustrating call from your neighbor.

He doesn't let you come though, and you don't know if this is comeuppance for not making him come before, or if this is frustration with your friend who's been getting the privilege to fuck you into your mattress all the while Tetsurou continued to drown himself in alcohol.

He stops his ministrations, moving back, facing your open legs on his knees. He pulls your leg apart, lining his cock with your hole, Kuroo let out a breath as he slowly pushes himself in.

It's not a tough fit, what with you already dripping all over yourself for him.

Those first few seconds always felt so fucking good, blowing his mind each time, and before you could even take the warning, he dragged his cock almost fully out of you and then pushed back in, quickly and harshly.

After a few quick and intense thrusts, he picked up a brutal pace, forcing her to take him as deep as possible each time, and each time he moved out and back in, you moaned louder, tears dripping out of your eyes as he watched you in your basest form. He thinks he's never loved you more, knowing he couldn't be more wrong.

“Was he as good as me, baby?” Kuroo growls, to cover up the fact that it's a plea. He needs to know. It would kill him if he doesn't hear it from you, he thinks.

He continues fucking into you so harshly that you kept scooting further up the floor. “Tell me, baby. Please."

You look into his eyes, and worry when you see your watery eyes, match his own.

"No one," you moan. "No one is as good as you."

He thinks he can finally breathe now. "Good girl," he says, a soft smile on his face, his pace slows down as he bends down to kiss your forehead.

You can't help but smile, just a little.

He comes back up and picks up his pace. He thinks that he could do anything to you right now, and you would accept it like the good girl you were.

His girl, he can't help but think wistfully.

He bends down again and starts kissing you, softly and harshly all at once, before he comes into you.

You don't let him go, even when he's done, and lying next to you on the cold floor. His eyes flit to the discarded clothes. He doesn't want to, but he thinks he should reach for them. See how you would react, and think of what happens from there but as he moves he finds his hand held softly in your grip. He could get out of it, and you know that.

He grips your hand. He understands.

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ut-poppy-askblog · 2 months

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What goes on inside those eyes?

Happy valentine's day, everybody!

#undertale #undertale au #undertale oc #ask poppy 2 #ot cadence #ut cadence #cyan soul #red soul #purple soul #green soul #orange soul #blue soul #valentines day #tw substance abuse #tw death

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benzodolli3 · 5 months

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𝓘 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓭, 𝓘 𝓪𝓶 𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓹. 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝔂𝓹𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓱𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓮 ⚰︎

#tw drugs #dr0gs #drugblr #coke lines #drvgs #drugcore #c0ke #cokegirls #c0caine #girls who do lines #tw substance abuse #cocaine kate #pale grunge #2010 indie #grunge

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criminalmindsgonewrong · 10 months

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spencer: i said 'no' to drugs but they wouldn't listen

#tw substance abuse #criminal minds #criminal minds gone wrong #incorrect criminal minds quotes #spencer reid

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riality-check · 10 months

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a continuation of this post. tw substance abuse. next part here. part 4 here. part 5 here. part 6 here. part 7 here.

ao3

The only person to whom Eddie breaks his promises is himself.

If he says he'll help someone, he'll help them. If he says he'll call someone, he'll call them. If he says he'll be there, he'll be there.

If he tells himself he won't be stupid on tour, he’ll try cocaine for the first time right after the second show.

He's always been like that. Always found it easy to lie and cheat and bend when it comes to himself. It's easier still when it's his self control, ever-fragile. And it's not like this is his first time with anything. He's been drinking beer to help him fall asleep since he was sixteen.

But the tour and the coke and the people and all the other stuff they have make it so easy to get so much worse.

He tells himself he keeps it together for work. He always gets back on the bus (Archie carries him) and gets up on time (Jeff wakes him up) and keeps it together onstage (Gareth yells at him because he comes in late for one song, every show).

He tells himself that so long as he's fine onstage, he can do whatever offstage. He tells himself that so long as he keeps only taking the dexies and the coke and other uppers, that it's not a problem. He tells himself that so long as he avoids the downers - except for alcohol because refusing drinks is a dick move - that he's not his parents.

Coke isn't a problem. Heroin is.

Eddie thinks back to track marks and sores and unseeing eyes every time someone offers him heroin. It's enough to keep him from taking it.

It's not a problem that he usually stays up for two days before he crashes. It's not a problem that most times, someone has to wake him up a half hour before soundcheck. It's not a problem that he needs a bump before he goes out onstage, and even then, he'll still crash right after the show.

It feels good. Being up all the time, talking and playing and moving, always moving, feels good. It’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? This is what rock stars do. He’s doing it right. He’s doing everything right.

It's not a problem. He's fine.

Until he gets backstage when they finish up in Indianapolis and Wayne is there in the green room, sitting on the couch that Eddie wants nothing more than to flop onto and pass out.

He doesn't, though. He walks over, grips the armrest with both of his shaking hands, and leans forward to take some of the weight off his feet.

God, he's tired.

"Wayne!" he grins. "How are you? Did you like the show? I wish I knew you were coming, I would've got you a good seat. Did you-"

As he talks, he watches as Wayne's face falls from a smile to something neutral to something angry.

And when he finally shuts up, Wayne says, "You're a mess."

"Excuse me?"

"Eddie, you're a mess," Wayne says. "I don't think you can stand right now without holding onto the couch."

Eddie wants to prove him wrong, but he doesn't think he'll be able to.

"So what?" he says instead.

"So what?" Wayne repeats. "What are you taking?"

"Nothing that'll kill me."

"Everything can kill you, boy, even sugar. What are you on?"

Eddie sniffs, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"Coke, then," Wayne says, like it’s obvious, like it’s something nasty.

"What do you care?" Eddie says. He starts pacing, hands flying wildly. If he keeps moving, he doesn't seem unsteady, right? "I'm happy. I'm living my dream. I'm doing what I love. Who cares if I'm having a little fun while I'm doing it?"

"This ain’t fun."

"Yes, it is."

Wayne sighs. "You're gonna hurt yourself or someone else if you don't stop. What if you were driving, and-"

"I have people who do that for me," Eddie says, finally feeling like he's starting to win.

"Do you let them?"

Eddie stops moving, almost toppling over when he does so. "What?"

"Do you let them drive you?" Wayne asks. "Because I don't think you do. You've never let anyone do anything for you when you could do it yourself, and I don't think that's changed."

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.

"I think you're scared. I think this all happened too fast, and you're scared because you don't think you deserve it. So you're trying to make that true."

"That's bullshit."

"If you keep it up," Wayne says slowly, like he's talking to a child, "this is gonna kill you, and it is gonna be ugly."

"I'll have a closed casket funeral," Eddie snaps.

"You won't be around to have any say!" Wayne barks.

Eddie jumps back. Wayne has never raised his voice at him, not even when Eddie was a total brat of a teenager.

"It's rehab," he continues softly. "When this tour ends."

"Or what?"

"There is no or," Wayne says. "I buried my mama, your mama, two of my cousins, and my uncle because of this. I'm not losing you to the same stupidity."

Eddie takes a breath.

"I know you're grown, but I'm not losing you," Wayne says, standing up and wrapping him in a hug.

Eddie clings to him. He has about fifty different protests on the tip of his tongue about how he's a grown adult, how he's fine, how Wayne has no right to tell him what to do.

They all lose credibility as he stands, holding on to his uncle and sobbing like he's nine years old again.

He goes to rehab the morning after the last show. He gets clean, quits everything except the cigarettes because Eddie needs to break every promise to himself, just a little, if he wants them to stick a lot.

#ria writes #dja au #eddie munson #wayne munson #st #st ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #tw drugs #tw substance abuse

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