#cw alcoholism

[dreamwatch]

Know When To Hold 'em

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #17 - Prompt: This One's For You | Word Count: 999 | Rating: T | CW: death of a parent, depression, grief, referenced drug abuse, alcoholism | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Wayne Munson, Eddie needs a hug, protective Steve, hurt/comfort

I'm sorry. :(

The first time it happened totally out of the blue.

It was their first big show in Indy, their home show, and of course Wayne wanted to be there, as much out of curiosity as anything. He didn’t hear a thing; Steve gave him a set of ear plugs and it was like he’d been handed a pot of gold. “I could have done with these years ago.” But he saw everything and he talked about that show to anyone that would listen, and a few that wouldn’t.

Eddie was over the goddamn moon about it so he told the audience, “My Uncle Wayne’s here tonight, everyone say 'hi Uncle Wayne!'” and five thousand people just— did it. Because Eddie asked them to. Even through the ear plugs Wayne heard it. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen the old man blush before.

So it became a thing completely by accident. If Wayne was there they played The Gambler as the last song of the encore; like the flag at Buckingham Palace telling everyone the Queen was home: Uncle Wayne was in the house. The fans latched onto it straight away, and it was one of only a couple of songs that Eddie would sing. Wayne didn’t see the band play often but it didn’t matter where they were, the moment that song started up the crowd went wild; the roar of “Hi Uncle Wayne!” rolling through the audience before everyone sang along. And Wayne there at the edge of the stage shaking his head, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Eddie was in Germany when Wayne died. 

‘The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep’, sang The Gambler, and that’s exactly what he did. Wayne would have got a kick out of that.

Breaking the news to Eddie was the most painful thing Steve’s ever had to do.

Tonight is their first night back after a two month hiatus. It feels too soon, but there are contracts, missed shows, obligations, and there’s only so much their manager can do to keep the label, promoters and lawyers away. 

Eddie’s dead eyed and lethargic; he’s started drinking again, Steve discreetly hid his pain medication when he noticed the bottle emptying faster than it should have. He sleeps with a belly full of Ambien and spends his day wrapped in Zoloft. Neither help.

But the show must go on, right? 

Despite everything, the grief, the fog of depression, when he walks out onto the stage he’s a supernova, the brightest of lights in the deepest of darks. He’s fucking dazzling. 

The crowd at the Market Square Arena are on fire, they explode when the band run on stage but Steve doesn’t miss the extra noise when Eddie gets out there. Eddie loosens up as the gig goes on, and by the end, when they take a bow together, he looks like a different man to the shell thats been haunting their home. 

There will be a crash later. Steve is already prepared for it.

The band come off drenched with sweat. Steve can see the pinched expression on Eddie’s face, the exertion after all this time lying around like a ghost has taken its toll on a body that has seen better days. But he still smiles at Steve as he hands off the guitar to his tech, his Sweetheart, only brought out for the encores now. 

“Was it okay?” Eddie asks him, towelling the sweat from his face.

“You were amazing,” is all Steve can manage right there, but he’s buzzing inside and there’s more he wants to say. But that’s for later, when it’s just them.

The band are handing off instruments, roadies scurrying around, breakdown already underway. There’s a lot happening, and you know, Steve’s hearing isn’t that great these days but there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight. He sees the little commotion over Eddie’s shoulder, the way people halt, ears pricking up like labradors. Jeff turns to Steve with wide eyes and Matt has stopped in his tracks. And then he sees the exact moment Eddie picks up on it, the furrowed brow, the soft tilt of the head.

The crowd are singing Wayne’s song.

Everyone stops. Roadies stand there like marionettes with their strings cut.

And Eddie…

He looks devastated, his hand flying up to his mouth like he’s trying to bury a sob, stopping the grief from breaking containment.

Steve can see the band over Eddie’s shoulder, heads nodding before they’re grabbing guitars back from their techs. He knows what they’re going to do, but there’s no way Eddie is up to it, they have to know that. Jeff slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, pulls him in, knocking his forehead against Eddie’s. And then Matty does it, Matty who doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body, but Gareth is long gone, already running back onto the stage, crowd cheering at the sight of him, before Matty and Jeff follow him out. And they pick up where the crowd are and they play. Eddie usually sings it, but Jeff takes it tonight. 

Steve grabs Eddie’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “C’mon,” he says, pulling Eddie toward the side of the stage.

Steve loved Wayne, so fucking much. And maybe with all the help and care Eddie needed afterward, still needs, maybe Steve didn’t get a chance to grieve properly. He feels the ache in his chest, before he notices the calloused fingers wiping his tears away.

“He loved you, Steve.” He can’t reply, just nods, and Eddie holds him like he should be holding Eddie. And then he’s gone, out on to the stage, back with his band. No guitar, just sharing a mic with Jeff and joining as much as the tears will allow. And then the music cuts, Matty and Gareth joining them at the mic, and it’s just voices, nineteen thousand and four. Corroded Coffin, arms slung across shoulders, singing Wayne’s song. 

Singing to Wayne.

Yeah... I went there.

So, I had this idea months ago and parked it because I didn't know what to do with it. And then this prompt came along and BOOM!

[cobaltcreations]

Me and my partner @the-good-ol-art-corner collaborated on this AWESOME poster for one of our favorite Bendy Aus @toontiedterror by @dictatortirah !! I am in LOVE with how it came out and I am so excited to see how this story and world develops!!

I put so many details into this, it is absolutely silly, but I had a swell time doing them. Those headshots on the missing posters belong to the staff from our own Bendy project @howdy-folks-its-showtime and we didn't even intend to make two versions. But I put so much into the background... I just had to make a version without the foreground to show it off <3

[yournewlodger]

A post about Edward Nygma and touch.

[feelo-fick]

I WANT ENDLESS BLISS!!!

HALF-AWAKE, HALF-DEAD, HALF-LIFE CRISIS

ALL NATURAL POMEGRANATE PULP.

FERMENTED TO PERFECTION, SAVOUR YOUR SAVIOR.

Q: What's your favourite food? A: THE ALE THEY SERVE AT THE TAVERN!

other versions : )

[steviewashere]

Birthday Blues

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Abuse, Brief Mention of Child Abuse, Brief Mention of Financial Abuse, Brief Mention of Secondary Original Character Death Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Stepdad, Steve Harrington Has a Good Mom, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Emotional Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Mom is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Birthday, Steve Harrington is Loved, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending

Based on my own experience with my stepdad and uh...yeah, that's it, basically. Be kind, I guess? 🤷‍♂️

Also on Ao3 because this shit is long.

🫂————————🫂 He thought his twentieth birthday would come with more fanfare. Maybe not the whole calvary. But something simple. A cake, maybe. A card, possibly. Even just a simple “Happy Birthday.” That would’ve sufficed.

And the problem isn’t with his friends. No. They’ve sent him messages over the walkie since the clock hit midnight on June 29th. Made plans for the next few days. Promised birthday gifts tonight. He wondered if everything was supposed to be a surprise: the gifts and cake and plans. But Robin had already reached out, promised him that she already spoke with everybody, made sure to tell them how he doesn’t like surprises; not after Vecna, not after his ankle had been grabbed.

The issue is with his mom’s boyfriend. His ‘stepdad.’

Nobody really knows much about him. Not really. Nothing above: “He’s an asshole. I don't like him.” Which is…a way to make an impression. But he doesn’t really enjoy talking about him.

The boyfriend came into the picture when Steve was seven. When he was naive and confused about the world around him. When he was used to it just being him and his mom for a while. His birth dad had passed on really young—nothing that could’ve been prevented, but it wasn’t any sort of accident, and Steve doesn’t like talking about it; so he just doesn’t. But the boyfriend came along after so much nothing. After a life half-lived.

He was kind, at first. Interested. Capable. Made Steve’s mom happy. Took her out for dates—which left Steve with a babysitter; then on his lonesome when he turned thirteen—he bought her things, promised the moon, was at her beck and call. He even cared about Steve. Introduced him to the world of Spiderman comic books and baseball games and driving with the windows down. Had been there for home baseball games, Steve’s first piano recital, and for the first handful of birthday parties. He helped, when there was nothing. He helped, even when they had everything.

Then came the alcohol.

Steve remembers it clear as day. The vacation they all took together. They’d taken a plane from Indianapolis to Seattle. And it was sort of cool, Steve figured. The hotel with the indoor pool and the double-wide beds and the really nice view over the tops of tall apartment buildings. It was the first of many trips; one of the last Steve went on. What came with the nice hotel, though, was a bar and grill down at the lobby.

And sure, it was a time for celebration. Of sorts. They were heading out for Disneyland, Steve had been wide awake since the night before, his mom had bought them matching shirts so that nobody got lost. It was ideal, fun, what say you. But then the boyfriend came upstairs, a cup of something sticky in his hand, and a glaze to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“We’re celebrating,” he had slurred, “it’s alright, just for the night. Let’s have some fun.”

It didn’t stop there, though. Steve hadn’t known why at first. But then came the arguments over the next couple months after that decision. When the recycling bin was full of more beer bottles than empty containers of yogurt. When Richard was slurring his words earlier and earlier in the evening. When he’d sleep a good amount of the day, try and right himself from work, barely talk to anybody when he came back, and already had a bottle in hand by the time conversations started. The arguments were unrelenting, though. He could hear them through the floor of his bedroom: “Laura!”, “Richard.”. A few tense moments would pass after Laura, Steve’s mom, would say that name. Steve would leave his bed, in all the right spaces to make sure it didn’t creak, and settle himself by his bedroom door—where he could open it a crack just to hear, just to know, in case something happened and he had to go down there. Then, she’d speak again. Quiet and wet and calm, “I wish you would stop. If not for me, do it for Steven.”

Steve would hold his breath. Waiting. His mom never called him that, not unless he was in trouble, not unless she was serious. And his stomach turned at the thought of it. She’d call him Stevie otherwise, all soft and sweet and soaking—akin to the sugary butter at the bottom of a freshly made cinnamon roll. He liked that. He loved her. He loved Richard, despite all of this.

Until, finally, Richard spoke. “Is that supposed to make me care?” He questioned with ire. “He isn’t mine,” he eventually spat. And then he stormed to their bedroom—downstairs on the first floor, just off of the living room—slammed the door.

His mom wept that night, Steve could relay if asked. And he had been too tied up in his own awful sadness to go downstairs and comfort her. It wasn’t the last time. Wasn’t the last slammed door, or argument, or soft cry; for either of them. At least Mom loves me, he had thought, at least she’s mine.

With the alcohol and that understanding of absent love and those arguments, Steve would instigate them, too. He’d pick fights if only to get Richard to leave the house quicker. He’d scream and spit and stomp his feet, if only to get time alone. He’d even get fussy with his mom. Because if he could be an ass, get them both to be angry at him, maybe Richard would stay off of her for a little while. Maybe he wouldn’t drink so early. Maybe he’d have to have a conversation about “Steve’s antics.” It only made him more distant. It only made him angrier.

And with all of that in mind, he stopped the birthday celebrations. He stopped caring. He stopped saying “I love you,” when Steve went to bed. He stopped being a dad.

Because Steve wasn’t his. And he wanted to make sure the whole world knew it.

In comes his twentieth birthday, though. And he thought, maybe, that Richard would care. That he’d do something similar to when Steve was a kid. Make pancakes and wake him up with a soft knock to his door and sing the birthday song. He supposed, though, that that was all so foolish. That he wasn’t a little kid, so why would Richard do any of that? Maybe to prove himself, that’s something. Maybe care at all.

His mom had said something at midnight. Then again at nine in the morning. Then again over scrambled eggs and bacon. Made plans. Ushered a card full of cash and the Duran Duran album he didn’t have yet, Notorious, on cassette into his hands. He thanked her, kissed the top of her head, and put his things away upstairs. Richard still had said nothing. In fact, he was snoring through the wall. And the evidence of his latest binge had been scattered across the kitchen countertops before making it to the recycling bin; Steve should know, he had to put them in there and his hands came away smelling of cheap beer—it’s not even the good stuff, how can he drink this shit, he asked himself.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sure, his chest caved in something funny. And his throat sort of went dry. He went to his car, though. And he drove off to where Robin had told him to go. To Eddie’s new double-wide trailer, a damn replica of his old one on the outside. Where everybody was already parked and waiting. Hanging out outside, sodas and…beer in hand.

He took a steadying breath and forced his way over to them. Let them shout ‘Happy Birthday’ at him. And then he took a seat by Eddie. He was in a pair of loose black basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and barefoot. His hair was piled up. And he was drinking. 

“Hey baby,” Eddie greeted. He leaned over the side of the sofa they were on, dug around in what Steve assumed was a cooler, and held out a weeping beer can. “Technically, it’s not legal, but I’m not going to tell anybody.”

Steve eyed it for a few long seconds. Enough that Eddie’s hand wavered, the beer threatening to fall to the floor. He looked back up. “No—uh—no, I don’t want that. Can…I’m going to sound like a dick, but can I make a request?”

Eddie put the beer away with a sidelong glance. He furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. Of course you can make a request.”

“Can we put the beer away? I don’t…It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Another odd glance to Steve, Eddie gave. His mouth pinched. He swished his near empty can in his hand. How many has he had, Steve wondered briefly, some weird pulse of panic in his belly. “Sure,” Eddie agreed slowly. “You going cold turkey or something? Could’a sworn you had one the other day when I saw you?”

He watches Eddie stand up briefly, pour out his beer over the side of the porch, and then place it in a clear garbage bag that’s been tied to the railing. There’s already three or four beer cans in there—Steve knows that’s what they are, they all say Miller and the cans the kids have are bright red or green. He looks back to Eddie’s face when he settles down again, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, hair falling loosely from his bun, sweat on his brow, sweat or beer on his upper lip.

“I just don’t want people drinking today, please.” And he feels kind of silly. Having to explain himself.

But Eddie’s hand curls down from the back of the couch, dangling loose at the back of Steve’s neck. Fingers trailing over the top notches of his spine. “You got it, sugar. I’ll have Robs put it away inside, okay?” Steve nods loosely, lets Eddie holler out, and relaxes into his side.

The rest of the day went by pretty smoothly. There were gifts: hairspray from Dustin, some artwork from Will, a new basketball from Lucas, matching shirts from Robin, a book he’d asked for from Eddie, and cards from the others who couldn’t find something in time or afford anything. He’s thankful for it all because it’s more than he expected. And there’s cake, his favorite, German chocolate with Ferrero Rocher candies on the borders; “Nance and I made it,” Robin explained and he gave her a knowing look.

It was all so normal. So good. So sweet.

Just like it had been last year. Even the year before that. And the years prior, when it was his mom and Tommy and Carol and Nancy. And the years before that, when it was Richard and his mom.

He really wants to cry about it.

When the party dwindles down, it’s just him and Eddie. Eddie’s putting out the last of the recycling and cleaning up some dishes, to which he adamantly refused to let Steve help with. And so Steve takes advantage, using the new phone.

He dials his house number and waits as it rings for his mom to pick up.

“Harrington household, Laura speaking,” she greets, her voice…nasally. Unusually so.

“Hey Mom,” he greets back, “it’s…Well, you know it’s Steve. Just called to…wanted to check-in. How’s everything going?”

She shuffles on the other end. Clears her throat. Sniffs. “He’s not going to say it, Stevie, I’m sorry,” she says, voice unreasonably apologetic. “I tried to get him to at least call this number you gave me, you know for your Eddie friend. And he…he just scoffed at me. Said some things, you know how he is.”

“Oh,” he mutters. His voice must do something weird, because Eddie’s slowing his wash on the dishes, leaning further into the counter edge to look at Steve. “Are you okay?”

“It’s the usual, Stevie. It’s just—“ She sighs, a great heaving thing. “—Just the usual. He’s already out to the store. Took the last bit of my cash for it; he spent all his own. Left me here with microwaved leftovers. Might turn in early.”

“I can give back the bit of cash you gave—“

“No,” she rushes. “No, Stevie. That’s your money. If it came back to me, he’d probably take it anyway. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just…If your friend can let you, I think you should stay the night there. Richard’s…he’s got the whiskey out from the den. Just stay with Eddie for now. I’ll take you out tomorrow for cake, okay? We’ll make a little date out of it. Just us. Like it was…Like it was before.”

He stands still for a moment. The phone cradled in his hands by his ear. Her words ringing out so loud, yet so soft. He really wants to cry about it.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters in his silence, “I’m sorry he ruined this for you.” She shuffles again. Probably got one arm wrapped around her waist, stepping to the side in her slippers. Like she always does when she has to call her sister about…him. She sighs again. “I’d leave him if I could. God, Steve. I would create whole galaxies for just us to live in if I could. I wish I knew how to fix this. I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he whispers, utterly broken. “’T’s alright. We’ll do cake tomorrow, yeah? I’ll pay for us to get milkshakes for old times sake, right? Like…” He swallows. Murmurs, “Like before.”

Just off to the side, Eddie’s inched closer. The dishes completely abandoned now. Steve doesn’t want to look at him, thinks he’ll break down if he does. But his body heat is welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm hug.

“Like before,” she echoes. Sniffs. “Just heard the car outside. I’ll…Call me in the morning, okay? I’ll let you know how tonight went. I love you, Stevie. I love you, don’t forget that.”

He takes a breath, it stutters like the skip over a scratch on a record. “I love you, too,” he breathes out. “Be safe,” he murmurs, “you have the address if you need to get away. Or…call me if you need me to get you.”

“I’ll be okay,” she mutters, a wisp of a smile to her voice. “Now, you go have fun. Tell Eddie I said hi. And that…Tell him I say thank you for keeping you.”

They share their goodbyes almost hastily. Right as her words fall through the receiver, the front door seems to open, and the phone is hung up before he can chance anything else. The dial tone is blearing in his ears. He keeps the phone cradled close, like maybe she’ll reach a hand out through the speaker and caress his face. Kind of wants her to.

And he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself from crying. Trembling where he stands. Tears streaking hot and fast down his cheeks, over his jaw. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s a near damn thing.

“Baby?” Eddie calls softly. He takes a hesitant step forward. And he’s closer than Steve thought. Right at his left side. His hands reach out and take the phone from Steve, hanging it back up. He wraps his palms over Steve’s biceps, barely turning him. “Sweetheart?” He calls out again, softer this time. Bending down just a little to make them stare at each other. He moves up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs working over the tears. “’S everything alright?”

He sobs something little at that. Closing his eyes so he can’t see Eddie. “He’s so selfish,” he manages to cry out, “Why doesn’t he care?”

“Who, sweetheart? Who’s ass do I need to…” Steve finally stares back. And whatever it is that’s there, Eddie seems to understand. “Oh,” he coos, “oh baby.” In a flurry of movement, Steve is pulled in tight and close. Haphazardly dragged back to the sofa and plopped down almost unceremoniously, if Eddie weren’t holding him so carefully. There’s a palm at the center of his back and one on his head. Both of them firm and welcomed and warm.

“He—Just—He just doesn’t,” Steve hiccups between breaths, “Never—Never cared.”

Eddie shushes him gently. Leans back against the armrest behind him, and pulls Steve on top. His face is tucked into Eddie’s left shoulder, where it’s awkwardly stuffed between the armrest and the backing, and he just cries.

There haven’t been a lot of moments where Steve’s cried over this. Maybe once or twice when he was in high school, but that’s about it. Otherwise, he was getting it out through anger or ignoring it altogether or trying to talk it out with his mom. So many conversations and so many arguments and so much just shoved inside his chest. He thinks if he weren’t getting it out right now, soaking the fabric of Eddie’s white shirt, he’d probably burst at the seams, maybe teeter, fall right off the deep end into something murky and thick. He’d probably die from it. Have a heart attack, maybe, like his dad did.

When there’s nothing more to cry out, he just breathes hot and heavy and choking over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, fingers petting through Steve’s hair, “we’ve got nowhere to be right now, okay? You can fall apart here, I’ll still catch you.”

He sniffs. “I just…I just want him to love me,” Steve admits quietly, “To think of me as his kid and to want to do better and to just be somebody I wanna be around.” His arms wrap snuggly around Eddie’s waist, pushing himself further into the hold of their bodies.

“Can I ask something?” Eddie asks gently.

“You just did,” Steve murmurs, voice crackling with the joke. It’s almost hollow coming out of his mouth.

But Eddie snorts anyway. “Okay…Fine. Two questions. Does this have anything to do with the whole beer thing earlier?”

Steve stiffens, brain fighting to find an excuse, but he figures it’s best to just be honest. Even as shameful as it seems to be some days. “Yeah,” he sighs, giving in. Swallows harshly, his jugular moving over Eddie’s shoulder, the sharp outline of the joint against his neck. “Yeah, it does. He drinks like everyday. Sometimes he…some days he doesn’t, claims he’s stopping for good, says he won’t pick it back up. But then he’s doing it the next day and I—“ He shrugs where he can move. “I just don’t get it, I guess. And I…I try so hard to not think of him badly, y’know? He’s probably got shit he’s working through. But it’s almost everyday, Eddie. He’s almost always drunk. Always arguing with my mom. I can hear him through the floor of my room,” he admits. “I want to feel bad, but the way he treats me—the way he treats my mom—“

“How does he treat you? Just focus on you right now, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a harsh sigh through his nose. He can’t bring himself to pull his head up, to look Eddie in the eyes. “I want to feel bad,” he repeats slowly. “But he’s so awful. He’s not a good person when he’s drunk, Eddie. He just riles me up, argues with me, tears me back down. That sort of shit.” Steve shifts, rolling his head over onto Eddie’s chest. The depth of his breath under Steve’s ear.

“He told me to go fuck myself the other night,” Steve murmurs, “I don’t know why, but that like…It solidified in me the fact that he doesn’t love me. I don’t know why I expected him to tell me happy birthday today. Why he’d choose this year out of ‘em all to finally be the person I expected him to be. Just my stupid brain, I guess.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Hands petting over where they rest. “It’s okay to be disappointed, Steve,” he carefully states. “You wanted the best for him and he let you down, tore you apart in the process. You needed him to be your dad and he’s made no effort, it’s not…You’re not stupid for wanting that love.”

“He used to be so nice, Eds. I used to love him. I want to love him, but he makes it so hard. God, that makes me sound like such a terrible person, to admit something like that out loud.”

“No, Stevie,” Eddie immediately says. “You’re not a bad person for wanting to love somebody. And you’re not a bad person for refusing yourself to love them. He’s hurt you, Steve. And you’re allowed to feel how you need to.

“And…” Eddie’s hands clasp over the middle of Steve’s back. Heavy and sure. “From experience,” he musters, “with my dad, sometimes you just gotta let go of that love. Sometimes you just gotta tell yourself that it’s not possible. Because…honestly, in some ways, it is impossible. My dad had every opportunity, and yet he chose alcohol and drugs and crime over me.

“I miss who he was…Before my mom died. I miss his laugh and his hugs and our inside jokes. Miss the way he used to play guitar and the late night drives we’d go on. I miss when he taught me good things, like catching lightning bugs in our palms and how to make a good smash burger and how to tell entertaining stories.

“I don’t miss him now, though,” Eddie confesses quietly. The words almost lost in Steve’s hair. “He hurt me in irreparable ways. Mentally and…and physically. But what got me through the worst of it, before I came here, was knowing there were other people out there who’d love me. Who love me and continue despite who I am or what I’ve experienced. Like Wayne. And my grandma, at the time. My friends; Corroded Coffin especially.

“I could spend a million lifetimes unloved by my dad, but at least it’s the real love I was surrounded by. Sometimes people are so damaged that they like it, they like the cracks they can trace and the anger in their blood, they almost enjoy it—they usually don’t get better. My dad was that way. Even when he quit the couple times he did, he always found his way back to that alcohol, those drugs.” Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the notches of Steve’s spine. His breath a little heavier, a bit raspier. And Steve is absorbing the words. “Sometimes people want to get better and they don’t know how. And that’s when help is needed, outsourced hands, intervention, that kinda shit.”

“We’ve tried,” Steve breathes heavily. “My mom and I have tried so damn hard, Eddie.”

“What’s he usually say in response to that help?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath. Sighs, “That he doesn’t want it.” He slowly brings his left hand to Eddie’s chest, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “I wish he’d want it. I—He was my dad for a little while. Now I just live with a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Eddie murmurs, “for what it’s worth. I’m sorry you’re going through this. That you’re still going through this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Stevie. Things don’t have to be this way.”

“It has to be fine,” Steve mutters, “there’s no other way right now. I can’t leave my mom. And my mom can’t leave him. And he won’t stop.”

Eddie takes a careful breath. “You can leave, though. Steve, you’re an adult, you can go,” he softly states.

“I’m not leaving my mom,” Steve snaps lightly. He sniffs, the last of those tears and snot receding. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I just can’t do that to her, Eds. She wouldn’t do it to me. I’m not gonna do it to her.”

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, “then, look at me, sweetheart.” Slowly, careful of the slight tension in his neck, Steve raises his head and stares down at Eddie. There are tear tracks on Eddie’s cheeks. A sheen to his eyes. And Steve begins to reach up, but Eddie holds him down tightly. “You, Steve Harrington, are loved by people who want to do right by you. You, Steve, will have love in so many corners of your life. The love that Dick has isn’t for you and it definitely isn’t for your mom.

“I love you, you hear me? And Wayne does. Hopper does. There, that’s two dads. Your mom loves you, too. She loves you with her whole soul. And you’ve got your friends, Robin and Dustin especially. And you’ll have more, Stevie,” Eddie explains gently, his fingers going back to trace along the edges of Steve’s spine. “I can’t fix things, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure how things turn around. But they will some day. I know it because I lived it. We can’t figure it out right now, but we’ll find our way some time down the line. Focus on the people you’ve got right now, though, Stevie. Not him. He ain’t worth a rat’s ass.”

Steve snorts wetly. His lips tremble and his eyes ache something fierce. He’ll cry forever at this rate, but at least Eddie’s hands move to his cheek, at least he wipes the tears away. “I love you, too,” he breathes. “And I’m sorry that you have to know all this shit. That you had to go through that.”

“I’ll figure out a way to know how to get you through it, too,” Eddie murmurs, smiling softly, his eyes moments away from leaking. “But you’re loved. He ain’t worth it. Don’t go searching for something you ain’t gonna find.”

He drops his head back down and burrows under Eddie’s chin. At least he found this. “When I’m ready to go, will you have space for me?”

“Always and forever,” Eddie rushes to answer. “Remember, baby? You fall and I catch you. You come knocking on my door, I’m gonna answer it. And if you climb in bed with me, I’ll hold you close and never let go.”

Steve nods gently, pushing himself in further. He sighs. “Thank you,” he mutters. Eddie squeezes him in. “My mom said hi and thank you, by the way. Remind me to call her in the morning? I wanna make sure I get her before he wakes up.”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “now let’s get ourselves to bed before we fall asleep on this couch. Gotta be comfortable, don’t we?”

He huffs. “But you’re comfy.”

Eddie snorts. “I love you and I don’t want you to be sore. Come to bed with me?”

Steve wriggles. “Okay,” he relents. “Because I love you and I also don’t want you to be sore.”

And, he supposes, because he's loved.

🫂————————🫂 Sorry if this sucked, I wrote this with a raging migraine and have no grasp on how shit it is. Whoops.

[scarecrowmax]

I'm rereading the hunger games books and something just dawned on me

In book 1 Katniss mentions that in the 73 previous years of games District 12 has only had 2 victors, Haymitch and one other who has already died

Only mentors can seal deals with sponsors according to Effie in book 1

They weren't just at a bigger disadvantage for being a poor all but forgotten about district. They literally had no one to fight for them outside the arena during the games if they didn't have a living mentor.

Haymitch won in the 50th but it's not stated when the other victor won or when they died, how many years did 12 just not have anyone at all? How many years were they worse off than having a mentor so far in the bottle that he couldn't help them?

[notkingyet2]

Jopson doing his best to help his mother through withdrawal, doing everything right, taking care of her tenderly and with compassion... and it doesn't save her.

Crozier overcoming his own weaknesses, confronting withdrawal head-on, coming up with a rescue plan even when command says its unnecessary, shepherding his men out of the trapped ships onto the ice over land literally shouldering the burden alongside them to pull the sledges remembering all their names where they came from so desperate to rescue as many of them as he can, treating even the mutineers with forgiveness and compassion... and it doesn't save them.

[sdv-confessions]

the following confession was submitted off anon:

----

My headcanons for Shane

- He's 30 years old at the start of the game

- His parents are rich, his mother died when he was 17

- He was a popular kid at high school and a lot of people had a crush on him. It intensified once he went to college.

- He probably studied economics or administration, to please his father

- His father owns a very big company, but it's not Joja

- Shane wanted to be a professional gridball player, he was always good at it. He told his father and he went nuts.

- That's why Shane left home to go live with his best friend and cousin, Jas' father.

- Shane dropped college and had to stop playing gridball.

- He had a lot of romantic relationships with both women and men, never dated a non-binary for not having the opportunity.

- He was 25 when the accident that unalived Jas' parents happened. She was 3.

- He started visiting Marnie every summer from when he was 12, that's when his father started getting abusive (to him and his mother)

- His father was never a great father and his mom just let it happen, he cared for her, but he felt/feels betrayed

- He started drinking at 14, after a party he went with some friends

- He started smoking after moving to the Valley

- He stopped smoking an year before farmer arrived, because Jas was complaining of the smell constantly, but he couldn't quit drinking.

- He blames himself for dropping college. "Life would have been so much easier"

I think this are all for now

----

[numberonecodwomenfan]

Mama’s Boy

my first writing on this account!! im actually pretty proud of this, despite the fact that i wrote it on my phone in probably 2 hrs lol.

TW for mentions of alcoholism and guns

König’s mother taught him to shoot. Before he even thought of joining the military, back when he was simply Edie’s boy- “the tall one, not the blond,”- from down the street. No one in the small town of Heugraben bothered with his all-too-common name. There were probably three Lukases from down the street, and he had yet to think of using his middle name, so Edith’s boy he became.

Edith was a small, stocky woman, with dark hair that had begun to gray at the roots. Her calloused hands guided König’s fingers to wrap around the trigger of the BB gun he had received for his twelfth birthday. He had been asking for one- his father would take him on hunting trips when he was sober enough to care, and König, young, naïve König, still held out hope that the man would return one day. He wanted to be able to impress his father with his marksmanship.

Edith had finally relented, and after a lengthy safety lecture that König barely paid attention to in his vibrating excitement, Edith set up some of Cristoph’s old practice targets in their vast backyard.

“Your hands are shaking, little prince,” she chastised, and reached out to steady him.

“Sorry, Mama.”

“No need for that,” Edith scoffed. She maneuvered König’s arms to the proper position and flicked the safety off. “Hold it up so the butt is against your shoulder,” Edith said. König received an admonishing flick to the back of the head when he giggled at her phrasing.

“Ow!” König turned to his mother with a pout. “If you keep flicking me like that, I’ll have a hole in my head!”

“Hm, maybe if you did I could finally dig around in there and get the cobwebs out,” Edith knocked on the crown of König’s head with her knuckles. He grumbled under his breath and Edith chuckled. “Alright, enough of that. Hold the end of the gun against your shoulder.” König did so, and Edith nodded. “Now look down the barrel of it. See the bump at the end? That’s the sight. That’s how you aim.”

König squeezed his left eye shut and pointed the sight at the target. His vision was a little blurry up this close, but he didn’t mention it.

“Now what?” He asked quietly.

“Now you line up the shot, and shoot.”

König tightened his grip on the gun, aimed, and hesitantly pulled the trigger. The sound startled him a bit and he stumbled back into his mother’s chest.

“Good job, Lukas!” Edith planted a kiss on top of König’s head (though she had to pull him down by the shoulders to do so) and clapped him on the shoulder. “Look- you hit it.”

König looked, and sure enough, he hit the target. Not a bullseye, but he hit it. A grin spread across his face, all crooked teeth and chubby cheeks, and he turned around to his mother.

“Papa’s gonna be so surprised when he comes back- he’ll finally let me help him on his hunting trips!”

Edith’s smile pinched and she took in a deep sigh. “Of course he will, my little prince.” She patted König’s shoulder and tried not to let her smile waver, lest she ruin König’s hope.

His brothers were older- they knew Cristoph wouldn’t come back. König, sweet, shy, wide-eyed and cherub-cheeked, in all his childlike innocence, couldn’t possibly imagine such a thing.

But of course, Papa never came back, as papas tend to do. Edith’s graying roots became salt-and-pepper, and the bags under her eyes deepened. König grew into his body, shooting up like a beanstalk even more than he had already, and by seventeen he had reached a mammoth six feet nine inches.

He had finally realized that being Lukas G. was frustrating, so suddenly, he was König. His middle name was fitting, as he certainly looked the part of a king- a towering, broad boy, with a crown of red hair, courtesy of Cristoph’s genes. His baby fat had mostly sloughed off, replaced by muscle, but his Oma still pinched his chubby cheeks as he said his goodbyes. He leaned down, nearly doubling over, so she could kiss him on the forehead.

“Stay safe, little prince,” she said with a smile.

“I will. I promise,” König shouldered his duffel bag and turned to his mother.

“Don’t go growing up on me while you’re gone,” Edith choked out through tears, “Come back for Hanukkah. And call, or write- I need to hear from you, okay?”

“I know, Mama. I will, I promise. I promise.” König hugged his mother as tightly as he dared. “I love you,” he said, face pressed against her hair.

“I love you too. So, so much,” she sighed, “now go.” Edith pulled away and shooed König off, into the military truck where his future laid.

[dreamwatch]

The Last Song

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #31 - Prompt: Your Song | Word Count: 996 | Rating: T | CW: referenced alcoholism, mental health issues | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: mild angst with a happy ending, future fic, the band is a family, reflection, Eddie’s had a rough year

Eddie’s not sure what wakes him. He turns awkwardly onto his side, head on his arm, watching the tops of the trees rustle, light twinkling through the branches. It’s warm, like it is all year round in Los Angeles, hard to tell one season from the next.

The bedroom door clicks open, the sound of bare feet on bare floors as Steve approaches the bed. He sits on the edge, his hand already reaching out for Eddie.

“You look tired. You want me to call them? Tell ‘em you’re not coming?”

He is tired. Not the kind that feels earned, from hard work or hard play, the kind that seeps into your bones and sets up home there, the kind sleep doesn’t cure. The warmth of the sun and the comforter, of Steve’s hand on his skin, will pull him back to sleep if he stays.

“No, I promised them, I should go today.”

“They won’t mind if you don’t.”

“I’ll mind.”

So he showers carefully, dresses slowly, and allows Steve to drive him to the studio. 

The boys are at the mixing desk playing back some of their tracks that have already been recorded. It’s been a struggle, this album, over a year with a record label breathing down their necks, turning the screw, piling on the pressure as the time in the studio drags on.

And that’s on him.

The thing about fucking up when you’re in the public eye is they never let you forget. It’s like a bad report card (and fuck knows he had plenty of those in his time), it hangs there over everything no matter what you achieve. One trip to rehab and they never let you forget it.

He hasn’t had a drink in three years. He deals with it, has good support, puts in the work. But there are other things in play, things from his childhood, things from Hawkins, Upside Down things, and they’re fucking insidious. There’s no twelve step programme for that. He tried therapy years ago; he said probably ten words about his mom, five about his dad, and fuck all about things that go bump in the night. It was pointless.

His mind and his body and his soul are being held together with bandaids. The band have been beyond supportive; they’ve had their hard times over the years but they never leave anyone untethered, it’s just not how they roll, you know? They’ve given him time, kept the heat from him as much as they can. And he loves them for it.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Gareth says, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Poison’s fourth best album,” he replies, laughing at their looks of disgust.

“Fuck, dude, no.” Matty scowls like he’s been physically wounded. “We’re not bringing that neon juju shit into this sacred studio of metal.” He stands and takes Eddie in a hug. “Fucking good to see you man,” he says lowering his voice, and Eddie squeezes him back tightly.

The thing about them is they don’t have to hide; there’s no shame in struggling, they’re long past all that shit. So it’s comforting to be back here, the studio feels like home.

“So what are we doing?”

Jeff spins on his chair. “Last track of the album. Drums and bass are locked in so those lazy fuckers are done.” Matt and Gareth protest but Jeff ignores them. “Just you and me now, man.”

Something hits him, something about the wording of that. Just you and me now. It’s always Matt and Jeff or Eddie and Gareth, but it’s the two of them out front every night. Jeff who all but told him to fuck off when he auditioned with Wayne’s shitty acoustic. Jeff who gave them their name. Jeff who held him over hotel toilet bowls while he emptied his stomach, telling him he was okay. 

It’s funny how they’re all pieces of a puzzle but the parts fit together whichever way you place them.

Eddie settles on the stool, grabbing his guitar. “Okay, so Defeat the Darkness, right?”

Jeff taps the edge of his guitar. “Actually, we’ve changed it up. I’ll play you what we have, and…” Jeff shoots a look to the control room, Matt and Gareth watching them keenly, “we’ll go from there.”

“Sure.” It’s not what he prepared for. And okay, he hasn’t been around but changing the track list without telling him? That’s not cool. But he’s a pro, and he doesn’t want to fight, so he gives a thumbs up.

The track comes through, and he doesn’t recognise it. They had a couple of maybes they cut, but this isn’t one of them. It’s fast and messy, the floor toms heavy in the mix, Matt’s bass reverberates in his ears. It’s almost punk. The guide vocal and guitar part come in and—

Oh.

Jeff cocks his head. “You recognise this?” he asks, clearly amused.

He hears those words, those stupid fucking words they wrote in Gareth’s garage, Jeff and Eddie on their own because Gareth and Matt were watching the Dukes of Hazzard and even back then Eddie wasn’t giving one flying fuck about Daisy Duke. So they wrote a song. And they laughed until they cried, because it was awful, and stupid, and hilarious. 

Eddies doesn’t really know why he’s crying, maybe because it’s just been an awful fucking year and he’s raw with pain. But it’s not sadness, or not entirely. It was so fucking innocent then, so simple. This singular point in time where life was, well not perfect, he’d lost his mom, he was poor, but everything else was so rich. And sometimes he yearns for those days, without contracts and lawyers and commitments.

“It’s been good, right?” Jeff says smiling, like he knows exactly what Eddie’s thinking. Maybe he does.

All these years, four stupid kids who wanted to be rich and famous. Still friends, still killing it.

“Yeah,” Eddie smiles. “It’s been really good.”

Okay so the song they wrote was called Fuck Hawkins, and I wrote lyrics but ran out of words. I’ll save it for another time!

I can’t believe it’s over, it’s been a blast! ❤️🤘🏻

[princelylove]

Hello Your Highness!!! It’s been a while from me and I am extremely apologetic. I’ve had the thought of Leone and his addictions stuck in my mind. How does life with him go by with him being an alcoholic? Is there anything he may do while inebriated that he wouldn’t do sober? I love your writing and I’d love to hear what you think about this.

I'll forgive you, this once.

Life with an alcoholic is always going to be hard, especially if you love them. They say things they do not mean, they do things they usually wouldn't do. Alcohol is one of those things that depend on the person. Some people are whiny drunks, some people get really bitchy, some people want to fuck the can it came in, some people look at a stranger twice their size and think 'Yeah I'd win that.' Who knows.

Leone is addicted to harming himself. He just cannot stop. He tries, but he always ends up relapsing, no matter his support system. He always tells himself it could be worse, he could've went for something way harder, but a vice is still a vice, and alcohol hurts him just as much as he craves.

Leone is a crybaby when he's drunk. It's free humiliation. He weeps over the smallest of things- Guido told him to fuck off earlier when he asked for a slice of the pizza they ordered, and he was clearly joking because he still cut it for Leone, but Leone just can't stop. Everyone's so mean to him. Weird guy.

He'll work himself into a fit every time he's inebriated. There's always something to sob over. It's too bright in this room. You looked at him funny the other day. You hate him. He kidnapped you. You like Guido more. You like Narancia more. You think he's annoying. You didn't like the movie he put on. You think the music he listens to is stupid. The oven beeped. There's a bird outside and life is beautiful and maybe he shouldn't kill himself. The doorbell rang. There's a commercial on the television about puppies dying and needing a home. He's a weak man.

It really depends on why he's drinking- sometimes he just cries the whole time, sometimes he desperately wants you to manhandle him and turn him into a whore. It really depends. He's a bit moody, you can't really tell if he's going to cling or if he's going to hide from you beforehand. It's usual for him to both hide and hover, but the touching is new. Some days you may not even see him, other days you can't get him off of you. Arms around your waist, head on your shoulder, buried into your neck. He loooves you, why can't you love him, he's so obsessed with you....

He'll just zone out thinking about you taking him, sometimes. Drink in hand, staring at your face while you talk to him about- God, he has no idea. He just can't stop thinking about you inside of him. If you don't have the proper tools for it, he'd buy you one. A pretty one, with a nice harness, in whatever color you wanted. He'd take a pretty pink strap-on with a bow at the base if that's what you were into. Oh, yeah, sure, he can cook later...

He'd never actually be so clingy with you when he's sober. 'Sober.' He doesn't deserve to touch you, he doesn't deserve to be near you, but it's like his hands move on their own. They never go where they want to go- your waist, your hips, your legs... but they do grab quite a bit. He feels a sort of shame even when he's drunk, but he's genuinely just trying to be as close as possible. He wants your bodies to merge so he can never let you go. He's not being handsy- handsy would be if he groped you, or moved your clothes- he's just being touchy because he loves you.

None of that is really bad, is it? He's not really making moves, because Leone hates himself too much to really go for it. He could grope you, he could force something, but he's never going to. It's always just hugs and shoving his face into you, he doesn't even kiss. Or inhale too much. Maybe just a little.

The issue is when you take it away from him, because he's a giant mush and nothing gets done when he's just making a mess of himself all day.

His hangovers are pretty bad. Usually he makes a 'cure' for himself in the morning and deals with the consequences, but usually that just means another, smaller glass. So resourceful. If he doesn't have any, he gets bitter, and alllll of the hard work he put in to make you believe he's genuinely a mush is getting washed down the drain.

It's probably the first time he outright insults you or tells you to shut up. His head hurts, beat it. Of course he regrets such a thing later- you're divine, he never should've spoken to you like that, but he'll do it again the second he hasn't had a drink in a while. What a worthless, spineless bastard that doesn't deserve you. Maybe he should hurt himself in other ways.

Just kidding, that man is never letting himself run out of wine. The real issue is his lack of consideration for anyone but himself. It's selfish to get absolutely wasted every day and pawn the responsibility of an entire human being onto somebody else. An entire human being, that's probably scared out of their mind, doesn't know where anything is, and probably hates him for what he's done. God. He doesn't deserve grace, of course he always ends up in a pile on the floor. A man of his caliber should never be near good things- he doesn't deserve the clean up. Just toss him in the trash, where he belongs. Ohh, that's too much to put on you, he'll do it himself.

It's nearly impossible to get anything done without him. It's unfair to Guido- who VOICES that it's not fair to him- to put all the housework on him because he wanted a drinky drink. Guido didn't ask for a whole other person! This is such bullshit! He's a busy guy, do your part of the chore chart, dude! They've got a ton of jobs to do- he's not working two different repo jobs in a day just to come home to a sink full of dishes and no spoons left. Grow up, dude.

Leone's darling can make themself useful and help out, but it'd just make him feel worse. Of course you're picking up after him now. He's such a burden.

When he sobers up enough, he'll fix everything without a word, and pretend nothing happened.

[clerichs-xi]

in a self-destructive mood, aren't we?

klaus often struggled with alcoholism before losing his memory in order to suppress pretty much all his feelings and memories. obviously, he hasn't struggled with it much as of late due to the aforementioned memory loss, but he still enjoys a good drink every now and then :)

(my oc klaus for my original yet to be named story!)

[ravenlynclemens]

dirty

[kadextra]

thinks about q!max asking q!bad to prescribe him a medicine for pain relief & q!bad throwing him a beer to drink… thinks about q!bad downing huge amounts of beer and wine lately…

[losertwink]

stardew valley headcannons (part one!)

im going to start occasionally posting batches of my stardew valley headcannons because god i love stardew valley and i must share!

cw: mentions of homophobic family, alcohol, and alcoholism

sebastian is wasian! his dad (robin's ex) is asian.

demetrius is autistic

maru gets a lot of silk presses, which is why her hair is straight. her hair is a bit damaged as a result.

if the farmer does not marry haley or alex, they choose to get together to be each other's beards (companions)

in relation to the last one, haley and emily's parents are homophobic & alex is afraid to come out to his grandparents due to them being "old-fashioned", which is why they choose to become each other's beards

Pam started drinking more heavily after her husband died

[justjanusthings]