#tw substance abuse

[drugsneko]

drug abuse? Noooo, i would never do that the drugs. I love drugs.

[its-simply-just-krys]

anonymous ; found on pinterest

[trishilo]

Loser core

[champbot]

B33 < finalllyyyy finished my beta troll headcaon lineup!! furst things furst, my ask box is open for Beta troll + kids drawing requests!! I need to purractice drawing the sillies

alsooo feel like mentioning, these hc’s are for the early half of the game - I am gonna draw their adult + post game looks because thoseee headcanons are different

like for example!! I hc aradia gaining a lot of weight after no longer inhabiting her robo bod! Eridan being able to express their gender identity in the dream bubbles!

Tbf the art is sort of old, and I already want to update my designs but whatevs

Hcs under the cut…. B33

Here’s my personal headcanons, don’t start shit, if you don’t like, you can make ur own post with ur own hcs BDD

Aradia Medigo - transfem aroace spec

~ Struggles with persistent depression but is recovering slowly

~ Puts on weight after the game

~ ASD

Tavros Nitram - transmasc polysexual

~ bulks up during the game!

~ Legs are prosthetics, he still uses their chair on rougher days

~ anxiety and ptsd, struggles with unhealthy attachments (clearly)

Sollux Captor - nonbinary pan

~ Also ASD + Bipolar

~ Acne scars!!

~ Lisp is from crooked teeth

Karkat Vantas - Nonbinary he/himmer, poly with masc pref

~ Super repressed about gender during the game, Jegbert helps with coming to terms with things

~ Anger issues as a response to traumatic living conditions on alternia

~ Adult him is very fat and hairy :)

Nepeta Leijon - transmasc trixic

~ Comes out during the game

~ ASD and ADHD, cannot mask well

~ Looks tiny and weak but could bench press you (cuz its funny)

Kanaya Maryam - femby lesbian (she wears binders :o

~ total vegan till she goes rainbowdrinker

~ binds regularly, prefers a flat silhouette

~ gender + sexuality relationship is unique due to pansexual being the societies default

Terezi Pyrope - Transfem queer

~ does not shave, ever under any circumstances

~ OCD, has a lotttt of rituals

~ transed her gender pre game due to flarping

Vriska Serket - Transfem lesbian

~ ASPD, doing treatment, symptoms lesson as she gets older

~ has severe scarring on her left side, when she is younger she hides scarring via makeup and long clothes cuz teenage insecurity she grows out of

~ same as terezi, flarping helped her come out, terezi and her are very close cuz of this similarity

Equius Zahhak - Agender asexual

~ hypersexual and sex repulsed

~ ASD, also bad at masking, hence why meowrails get along so well

~ has hyperhydrosis

Gamzee Makara - nonbinary ??????

~ bpd, he tends to split on people accidentally, Karkat is his fp :)

~ disassociates often, memory is poor and has slow processing because his thoughts always feel crowding

~ his abuse of sopor pies is a coping mechanism, helps with his sensory issues

Eridan Ampora - Genderfluid pan

~ definitely was a really obnoxious femboy at one point before coming out

~ a lot of their incel-ness comes from repressing their gender

~ ASD, really bad at reading other people

Feferi Peixes - demigirl pan

~ if kanaya is alternia goth, then Fef definitely is, big into counterculture

~ ASD, hyperempath, way too good at masking except for when she’s overtly excited

~ is a vegan, feels incredibly guilty for feeding her lusus

Anyways…. If you read all that congrats lollll

[meowssile]

its OKAY to not want to recover. its OKAY to enjoy having an addiction or illness. it is YOUR body and so it is ultimately about what you want.

whilst i personally wish i never got addicted to certain things, i now have no want to change it because having an actively fulfilled addiction makes me happy.

it's also okay to want to gain an addiction you don't bodily yet have! you aren't being insensitive to cis addicts. this is about YOU and YOUR body. nobody else.

[rockabully]

adem stop .

instagram

[psych-disability-polls]

For those who have experience with addiction,

*this does not need to mean when it became a fully fledged addiction, just when first became at least a little problematic in your life

[abswrites]

sweat, chapter one - spencer reid

summary: (musician!spencer) spencer reid wants two things in this world. number one: to be a world-famous musician. number two: to kiss his childhood best friend. but the price of fame is higher than either of them expected.

✧˖° author's note: this is part one in what i imagine to be a loooooonggg fic, so buckle up. i write in vignettes, so the story (most likely) won't go chronologically. also, get ready for ANGSTTTT in the later parts.

✧˖° contents/tw: substance abuse, addiction (fame has not been kind to spencer), fem!reader, high school!spencer, high school! reader, lowkey a prologue but shhhhh, not proofread.

✧˖° words: 3.7k

October 12th, 2016 - New York, New York

Sweat.

Slick, salty, sticky sweat.

Spencer couldn’t get his mind off of it if he tried; how it clung to his aching, sluggish body as he moved. It was like he was drowning with every drop that dripped off hollowed cheeks.

He couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Well, that, and scoring some more coke after the show.

Every step was built into his muscle memory at this point. Where he stood on stage, how high he’d raise his hands after the guitar solo, how loud the massive crowd would scream like banshees.

It was getting old. He was getting old.

Physically, he was in the best shape of his life, if you exclude the drinking, the smoking, the snorting, the unprotected fucking. 

He didn’t even need an alarm clock anymore. The pounding in his head worked just fine. But with every puff or snort or swallow, that feeling of light and exuberance faded away that much more. 

So he started drinking doubles.

And look where it got him: lip-syncing in front of 20,000 of his devoted fans.

This was never what he had in mind.

He figured he’d be in his last year of college, studying music with a small gaggle of nerds and a sweet, brown-eyed girl by his side. Mornings spent reading in bed, afternoons spent studying at a coffee shop, and nights filled with laughter and Dungeons and Dragons. Maybe a beer or two if he was feeling wild.

“Thank you all so much for coming out tonight, I love each and every one of you.” He lied, his voice echoing through the entirety of Madison Square Garden, a venue he used to dream of playing with his buddies.

The banshees erupted once more. He tried to ignore his splitting headache.

Just pick a spot and smile. 

His eyes darted along the barricade, a plastic smile etched on his face. He waved, he mouthed “thank you,��� he even winked to a particularly perky redhead. 

But as soon as his eyes landed on the private section in the corner, his smile faltered, but never fell. Not completely, anyways.

A few of his buddies, a few girls he’d fucked, a few more he planned to. All of them clapped and cheered, though, not nearly as enthusiastically as a “best friend” should. Especially on his birthday.

His eyes glanced over to the security guard standing with a clipboard and list of VIPs. Nobody else was in line to get in. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the coke, the heavy bass, the blinding spotlights, or maybe all three. But his heart stopped beating. 

She didn’t come. 

His first thought was anger, like an involuntary reflex. She’s a bitch, anyways. Always holding me back.

But it didn’t take more than a few seconds for him to rethink. When was the last time he’d shown up for her birthday?

When was the last time he’d called?

When was the last time he’d seen her?

When was the last time he knew anything about her life?

A wave of guilt flooded his senses, making his already-erratic heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t believe she never showed. This was the gig he always dreamed about as a kid. A dream he dreamed with her. 

But could he really blame her?

August 2nd, 2007 - Las Vegas, Nevada

“I’m telling you, y/n, it’s gonna happen.” He said, his voice squeaking in a mixture of determination and 16-year-old  excitement. The Vegas sun beat down on him, leaving his lean frame covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his glistening nose.

“Well, I’ll be sure to get tickets when it does.” I said, lazily fanning my own sweat-streaked face with my hand. My t-shirt clung to my torso, parts of the white fabric turning grey and translucent from my wet bathing suit underneath.

The left side of Spencer’s mouth curved upward.

“Promise?”

My expression mimicked his. 

“Promise. But I should at least get discounted tickets,” I chuckled. “You know, some kind of longest-running fan sale.”

Spencer smiled, leaning back against the shitty, cheap, plastic pool chair. A few drops of water clung to the small smattering of chest hair he’d grown over the last six months. I could remember the night he called me about it, excited at the prospect of finally becoming a ‘real man.’

“Please, you’re gonna get a whole VIP section to yourself.” He said. “Well, maybe you’ll have to share it with whoever Avery’s hooking up with at the time.”

A soft snort escaped my nostrils.

“He’s such a horndog.” 

Spencer nodded and shrugged. “Can you blame him?”

I rolled onto my side, facing Spencer as I rested my hand on my palm. 

“Yes, I can.” I teased. “Avery’s got the whole douchebag drummer act down to a science. I just don’t get why so many girls like it.”

“Girls like douchebags.” Spencer said, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“No, we don’t.” I retorted.

“Avery’s track record begs to differ.”

I narrowed my eyes at Spencer, sitting up from the plastic poolside lounger. 

“That’s because Avery’s idea of dating involves flirting, fucking, and running away as soon as there’s an inkling of something serious. 

Spencer chuckled. I wasn’t wrong, after all.

Aside from me, Avery was Spencer’s oldest childhood friend. Born in the same town in the same year, growing up on the same street with the same interests… it was destined to happen. It wasn’t long until they started playing music together in Spencer’s garage or Avery’s basement.

 But while Spencer retreated within himself, embarrassed by the trials and tribulations of puberty, Avery thrived. Every weekend there was another girl, another party, another wild story to share.

He knew that I couldn’t stand him, but it didn’t stop him from idolizing everything he did. Spencer wanted to be cool, just like him.

“Oh come on, he’s not that bad once you get to know him.” Spencer said coyly.

I slid my sunglasses on, turning to sit up and take off my water-stained t-shirt before lying back down on my stomach, letting the intense August sun warm my skin like a heat lamp.

“You’re right. He’s worse.” I said before nuzzling my head against my arms.

Spencer’s eyes dropped from behind his sunglasses, tracing every inch of my exposed back. Every pore, every divot, every curve caught his eye. He felt his heart skip a beat at the sight, trying to ignore the fact that the only thing between him and my breasts was a small string bikini loosely tied atop my shoulder blades.

“He’s just not a relationship kind of guy,” Spencer coughed, forcing himself to look away from my skin, grateful for his polarized sunglasses. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, my head buried beneath my crossed arms. “But the way he does it… it’s sleazy. He gets these girls to ignore their better judgement enough to trust him, gets into their pants, and then shuts them out after.”

Spencer’s smile faded as he registered my words.

“Okay, yeah, that’s not great.” He admitted, rubbing some sweat from the back of his neck.

“It’s hurtful,” I replied. “Which is why I don’t understand why you idolize him so much. You’ve got such a big heart.” 

“I do not.” Spencer protested, as if it was a bad thing to be a gentleman. Ah, teenage masculinity. 

“You called me in tears when you turned Rebecca Flores down.” I quipped back, peeking my head out from behind my arms with a toothy smile. 

Spencer grimaced, his face scrunching up. 

“God, don’t remind me of that,” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I still feel bad.”

I laughed, lifting my head up more. Spencer’s eyes darted across the smattering of freckles across my cheeks - a trademark of a fun summer.

“First of all, she’s gay now,” I giggled. “Second, you cared about her enough to want to avoid hurting her feelings. Sure, I’m sure it sucked for her in the moment, but you did the right thing. The kind thing.  That’s not something you should be embarrassed about.”

Spencer scrunched his mouth up again.

“I guess.”

“I know,” I responded, sitting up to face him, patting him gently on the shoulder. “That's why I like you way more than Avery.”

Spencer’s heartbeat quickened at the touch as he looked into my eyes. He hoped the blush forming on his cheeks could pass for a sunburn.

“Yeah, well,” he started, his lips curving into a bashful smile. “I like you more than Avery, too.”

March 20th, 2009 - Las Vegas, Nevada

To say the waiting was killing us would be the understatement of the century.

For 4 months, Spencer and I had spent every moment dreaming about UCLA. The research programs, the music school, and the idea of getting to explore LA together… it was everything we wanted. It seemed so close yet so far out of reach.

“You gotten anything yet?” Spencer asked, his voice ringing out over the phone. It was shaky and giddy.

“Not yet. We’ve still got 4 minutes.” I said, my voice even shakier. My eyes were glued to the computer screen as I waited for the email to pop up. There was a beat of silence, the dull crackle of the phone filling the void.

“I don’t think I’m gonna get in.” I said, trying to mask the dejection in my voice.

Spencer’s eyes widened as he held the phone closer to his ear. 

“What? Why wouldn’t you?” He asked. 

“Because I’m nowhere near as smart as you.” I mumbled. 

Another beat of silence.

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. Don’t lie to me, Spence.”

“I’m not lyin-”

“Yes, you are.”

There was another beat. 

“I’m coming over.” He said quickly.

“Wait, Spence, don’t-”

The dull buzz of the dead line rang out from the plastic landline on my nightstand. I sighed, setting the phone back on the receiver with a click. 

The silence was maddening. I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my head on them, finding no comfort from the soft fleece of my pajama pants. 

Despite the fact that it was only in the mid-40s outside, I could feel the sticky sheen of sweat clinging to my palms and the back of my neck. My heart was hammering in my chest as I prayed to any god that would listen.

Please let me get in. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. 

Since we were 6 years old and Spencer’s family moved in a few streets over, we’d been inseparable. We played in sprinklers, we rode our bikes, we wrestled for the last bomb pop from the ice cream truck. 

We snickered to one another about the throes of puberty; our first zits, our first armpit hairs. We shushed one another excitedly as we recalled the details of our first kisses. Both were sloppy, wet, and disastrous. But we didn’t care. 

We helped one another get ready for our first and last school dances. I tied his tie and pinned his boutonniere , he slid the corsage on my wrist and zipped up my dress. Our mothers must have snapped a thousand photos of us. We spent the whole night dancing (poorly, I might add) and the early hours of the morning laughing and throwing popcorn into one anothers mouths.

It was that night, hours after the junior prom ended,  that I realized that I may like Spencer. Like, like him. 

At first, the thought mortified me. I cannot like him! He’s like my brother!

But I found myself doodling hearts on the margins of my physics homework every time he’d walk me through the problems. It was hard to focus on calculating velocities when he sat just inches away. Especially when he finally ditched the Axe body spray and started wearing real cologne. 

But now, a little less than a year later, the thought didn’t embarrass me anymore. If anything, it made me sad. I was too chicken-shit to ever make a move, too terrified at the prospect of ruining over a decade of friendship. It was better to bite my tongue until it bled. It was better to fill locked diaries with pages and pages of how nice his hair looked or how handsome his smile was. It was better to think of him late at night, letting my heart race and eyelids flutter as my hand dipped below the loose elastic of my waistband. It was better to imagine the feeling of his lips on my cheek, my neck, my-

No. Enough. Snap out of it. It’s not going to happen. 

I let out a deep sigh, my shoulders slouching as I rubbed my eyes to try and knock some sense into myself. I need to focus on what’s right in front of me. 

Even if it means I won’t see him much after graduation… that this could be the beginning of the end.

The idea of losing him stung worse than any wasp ever could. 

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The sound of small pebbles hitting the window pulled me out of my episode of teenage angst. 

“You know, I’ve got a front door. You should try it some time.” I scoffed, sliding up the windowpane as his long and lanky form bent over to crawl inside.

“This is more fun.” He responded, his dirty converse leaving behind some specks of Nevadan dust as he stepped into my room, his clunky, sticker-covered laptop tucked under his arm. 

I rolled my eyes, eyeing him knowingly. He slipped his shoes off.

“You heard anything yet?” He asked, plopping down on my quilted comforter, resting his laptop on his stomach as he opened it. 

“It’s not 8 yet.” 

“God,” he groaned, clearly impatient. “Can they just hurry up already?”

I sat down next to him, albeit a little timid. Spencer was a genius. He was guaranteed acceptance at any school he wanted. Me, on the other hand…

“Are you still nervous?” He asked, sitting up to face me. His eyes were a little tired, but still warm and kind like always. As I glanced into them, I couldn’t help but think about how much I’d miss seeing them everyday if I didn’t get in. I nodded sheepishly, letting my eyes drop back down to my clasped fingers in my lap. 

“Look at me.” He instructed, his voice firm but quiet.

I did as I was told.

“You’re gonna get in.” 

I started to protest, letting my eyes drop back down to my lap. He pulled my chin, turning my head to face his.

“Look at me.” He repeated. As his long fingers grazed my chin, I felt my heart skip a beat and another sheen of sweat start to form on the back of my neck. I did my best not to gulp nervously like a cartoon character. 

Spencer wasn’t normally one for much physical contact, but I seemed to be the exception. He didn’t ever say anything when I’d hold onto his arm to steady myself on the bus, or when I’d tuck a particularly curly and wild strand of his hair behind his ear. It was this contradiction that left my head spinning when I wracked my brain to figure out if he might like like me back. 

“You’re the smartest girl I know. If they don’t let you in, it’s their loss, not yours. You hear me?”

Still completely dumbfounded by his fingers - which still lingered on my chin - I nodded silently. For a moment, I let my eyes flick down to his lips. His perfect, pink lips. My whole body screamed at me to throw caution to the wind and shove mine against his. But I didn’t let my gaze linger. I couldn’t.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Thanks, Spence.”

Before he could say anything else, the sound of the small cuckoo clock on my dresser filled the room. 

“You ready?” He asked, stifling a nervous, toothy grin. As I turned my head back from the clock, I saw his eyes flick up ever so slightly. 

What had he been looking at?

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I sighed. 

Without another word, Spencer took my hand in his own, squeezing tightly as he opened his laptop and refreshed the page. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

My world blurred as Spencer cheered at the sight of his acceptance letter. He was going. He was really going. With or without me. 

“I’m in!” He laughed, still holding onto my hand tightly. “I’m going to LA!”  

I smiled despite the agonizing feeling of panic building in my chest. 

“I’m so happy for you, Spence.” 

He paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing. 

“What does yours say?” He laughed, still holding onto my hand tightly. 

I pursed my lips uncomfortably.

“I don’t think I can open it.”

He stared at me, his expression falling ever so slightly.

“(Y/N), just open it. You’ll feel better just knowin-”

“No, I wont.” I snapped, my voice nervous and icy as I dropped his hand, standing up from the bed. I ran my fingers through my hair. 

His eyes widened as he recoiled from the echo of my voice. I never snapped at him, even when he really deserved it. 

“Why not?” He asked, standing up next to me, trying to force my eyes to meet his.

I bit my tongue, lamenting the building frustration in my veins. 

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” He said before even thinking about it. “Tell me.”

His gaze was microscopic, looking so far inward I fear he could see right through me. I had to turn around just to gather the courage to speak. 

“It’s just,” I mumbled, wracking my brain for the right words to say. It felt like I was writing my college essay all over again. “I’m gonna be sad if I can’t be with you in the fall.”

I stared anxiously at my window, not daring to turn around and face him. It was silent. I bit my lip, hoping he was just trying to think of the right thing to say.

“Well,” he started, his voice quiet. 

Oh god. This can’t be good.

“Good thing you won’t have to.”

What?

“What?” I snapped my head around. 

There he was, sitting with my computer in his lap, the screen facing me.

Congratulations on your admittance into the UCLA class of  2013!

“Oh my god,” I said, my voice breathy as I yanked the laptop out of his hands in disbelief. Was I dreaming? Was this real? “Oh my god!”

I don’t know whose smile was wider, mine or his. In this moment, it felt as if anything was possible, as cheesy and cliche as that sounds. For the first time in my life, it felt like everything was in the right place. It felt like I was in the right place.

Especially as he wrapped his long arms around me and squeezed. 

“I told you!” He chuckled into my ear, squeezing me tightly. “You can’t get rid of me that eas-”

For the first time in my life, I did something without thinking.

I kissed him.

Almost immediately, he pulled back, his eyes wide and his lips smeared with some of my lip gloss. He stared at me in disbelief, as if my face was a text in a foreign language that he was trying to decipher. I felt my heart sink. 

The shame and embarrassment followed shortly thereafter.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking,” I stuttered out, covering my mouth as if it would undo the massive mess I’d just created. Involuntarily, my eyes darted towards the floor. I couldn’t stand the sight of his face as I imagined the horrified expression contorting his delicate features.

“I don’t know why I did that, I’m-”

I didn’t even get a chance to look into his eyes before it happened.

My senses went into overdrive as I felt his lips smash against mine. 

Needy. Hungry. Desperate. 

Without so much as a thought, my hands found their way into his hair, each finger intertwining with one of his shaggy curls. I pressed my chest against his, allowing myself to stop thinking and just feel. 

His hands snaked their way onto my hips, pulling me closer against him as he leaned back against the bed, almost losing his balance. Each one of his fingers had electricity in it, sending fiery jolts of excitement and pleasure into my stomach. My lips pulled back just enough for a breathy gasp to escape my lips.

His eyes widened ever so slightly.

That was all it took.

Before I even registered the movement, he’d pulled me onto the bed, our heads resting on my pillows as we stared into one another’s eyes before locking our lips together once more.

Maybe it was the teenage hormones, or maybe it was the fact that I was convinced I was dreaming, but I felt like I couldn’t stop myself. His lips felt like velvet against mine; soft and lush. The smell of his cologne - sort of a musky teakwood - fluttered into my nostrils, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flap their wings even harder. 

As I let my senses guide me, the kiss slowed, fading from a fiery fervor to something tender, deep, and loving. A sweet kiss from a sweet boy. 

For a moment, he pulled back his lips, resting his forehead against mine. His wide brown eyes stared into mine, a mixture of excitement, relief, and understanding splayed across his face.  It was the most intimate thing I’d ever experienced. 

“Wait,” He sighed out, clearly a little out of breath. His cheeks were flushed and warm under my fingers. 

“What is it?” I asked, worried I’d done something wrong or that he’d say this was all a huge mistake.

“Are you just kissing me because you got into college?”

My brows furrowed. He mimicked my reaction.

“You know, for a certified genius, you’re kind of an idiot, Spence.” I said, my lips contorting into a wide, toothy grin. I couldn’t help but laugh.

After a moment, he did, too.

“Good,” He chuckled in relief. “Because I don’t think I could keep myself from kissing you again if I tried.”

He pressed his lips against mine again.

Maybe I was right.

Maybe everything is right in the world.

Maybe - no, not maybe… 

I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

so this is quite literally the first fic i've ever posted on this hellsite (but defo not the first one i've written lol) so if you like it pls let me know! also, i'm taking requests. fire away, friends. <333

[akirathedramaqueen]

Stolas: A Gradual Descent to the Bottom of the Bottle

This post analyzes Stolas's situation with alcohol and discusses whether the show effectively represents this systemic issue, and what it implies about real life.

The take is certainly not unique, but I decided to post it anyway to spread awareness about how subtle, seemingly harmless, occasional drinking can seamlessly turn into a full-blown addiction over time.

TW: substance abuse, addiction, alcoholism

Is Stolas an alcoholic?

The answer seems obvious at first. You look at him—all posh, intelligent, and articulate—and you might think, "He doesn’t look like one." You won’t find him, Satan forbid, somewhere under a porch, or truly dependent on the bottle, like drinking during the day—or not absinthe, anyway.

Sure, he drinks sometimes, but it’s fine . . . right? Everyone drinks sometimes. Everyone deserves to feel a bit happier after something bad happens once.

Or twice.

Or thrice . . .

. . . Oh.

Not so obvious anymore, eh?

The real issue here is that the answer is kind of between 'yes' and 'no.' My TL;DR is that the show makes it pretty clear his drinking is becoming problematic, but it’s not quite there yet. And it will become alcoholism soon enough if nothing changes.

I think what we see happening to Stolas right now is an excellent, textbook example of how people end up there. So let’s get into his head, explore where he stands, and what it means for us and for him.

It starts easy

It doesn’t happen in one day. It's not like you get up early one especially glum morning and decide, "Hey, that's a good day to ruin my life!"

It's a vulnerability that makes you susceptible to drinking. Constant pressure. Anxiety. Depression. Trauma.

And you might find yourself wanting to do everything, anything, to get it out of your brain. Not think about it for one evening. Forget.

What a pathetic fucking man!

Her attacking you, whether physically, verbally, in public or private. You, having no one to turn to, having no way to mend it, having to keep up appearances for your kid.

We all have bad days. Bad situations. It’s not to say that one wild night is inevitably going to turn you into an alcoholic. But when you allow the bottle to be your crutch for life, when it becomes a habit to avoid uncomfortable, traumatic events, then . . .

Then it turns into a coping mechanism

You know, it’s . . . it’s simpler. It’s comfortable. Soothing.

You can’t kick her out of the house. You can’t make the man you love love you back. You can’t get a support network because she ostracized you from royal social circles and made a laughing stock out of you.

But you can forget. Forget that one excruciatingly humiliating night. Where not only was all your dirty laundry thrown out on the dance floor for everyone to see, but also, that said romantic interest made it clear it’s only about sex.

You used to have a smoking wife, a kid, you had it all! I hope you didn't give it up so you and him could get it up

Stolas, don't act like what we have is anything but you wanting me to fuck you, okay? You make that really clear all the time.

Forget well enough to fall asleep drunk on the floor among the only living beings who didn't run from you yet. Maybe only just because they are in pots and don't have legs.

And it spirals out of control

Things get gradually worse. Your only lifeline—your . . . uh, romantic interest and daughter—fall out of reach. He finds every reason to avoid you. She hasn't visited you since that LA incident.

Your only power move with a divorce request turns into a lengthy, exhausting proceeding and leads to an assassination attempt. Your—what are you even anymore?—romantic interest pretty much ignores your distress call, or so you think.

You go with a showdown. You can't stand the ambiguity anymore. You want to know whether there's something behind your transactional thing. It's either 'yes' or 'no,' and . . .

It doesn't end too well.

Lastly, you go to a party to try to unwind (or at least be polite, because it's rude to ignore invitations). But your ex's (???) ex acts cruelly, and you don't feel comfortable there. And the wound is still fresh, bleeding . . .

Fuck it, the absinthe won't cut it. Beelzejuice it is then.

And here we are, back to our starting question

Stolas wears a functional alcoholism guise. Or dangerously close to it. Because that's what I believe is going on.

He is still a functional member of society, but he is shown not being capable of processing his trauma without the bottle in hand. And, as things get worse for him, we see the bottle or the glass or any other alcohol container more often on the screen.

For now, he's hanging on, but it's just a matter of a flip switch—the moment when every second of his life will start to feel unbearable without alcohol, simply because there are no other ways to cope.

It's worth noting, though, that Stolas isn't the only character depicted struggling with the urge to drink away his problems.

The most obvious example is Verosika, who is a severe case of alcoholism. We won't delve deep into her character since I want to focus on gradual decline rather than the end result, but we rarely see her without a bottle. There are a couple of scenes where she doesn't hold one, but these moments are situational. She's also been to rehab at least once and only got out because of her reputation.

But there is another character I'd like to dissect, because this will answer the lingering question, "Is there a way out?"

Blitzø, and why he didn't fall victim to this

We saw Blitzø drinking too, at the Bee’s party. To a rather disturbing degree, actually.

But why does no one say he has an alcohol problem, even though he did use alcohol as a coping mechanism? 

Because Blitzø is an example of how the addiction might be prevented and what ultimately makes a difference, a turning point.

To start off, we first see him not in the bar. We see him at home with a pint of melting ice-cream. Dude sugar-bombed himself to sleep . . . after the already mentioned disastrous date with Stolas at Ozzie's, that is.

And then he gets a call from Loona, who asks to pick her up from the party. He has no plans to stay there whatsoever.

But what changed his mind? Pressure did. 

He was pressured by both Loona and an old acquaintance to stop by. (I stress that no one is wrong for this, by the way—he still had the agency to turn the invitation down.) He reluctantly agreed to one drink . . . which we know how ended.

It's much harder to keep it to just one drink when you're sad and alcohol makes you feel better. Nobody wants to be sad.

But with all that said, Blitzø is extremely resilient. In contrast to Stolas—who is strong in his own way but slipping despite all the privilege, magic, and immortality that Blitzø thinks make him invincible—Blitzø never let that one drinking occasion become a habit.

Because he has a support network. However closed off he is, he has his business to take care of, Loona, and M&M. He has things he likes to do and he has people he cares about.

Stolas has all the money in the world, but no friends or activities he could look forward to. He doesn't seem happy with his royal life at all, referring to himself as an owl in a gilded cage.

So the difference is, essentially, this: Blitzø has alternatives and doesn't see alcohol as an outlet. There is a wonderful post from @warblogs17282 which has similar points I make, but also, it shows another angle of Blitzø's relationship with alcohol—his, unfortunately, long history with addiction in family. So that contributes, too.

Is Stolas a lost cause?

Gods, no. But it’s definitely a problem by this point. 

Is he an active alcoholic? Maybe not yet. He isn't Verosika yet. But he is getting there, which I think is the point the show makes.

Alcohol might be a one-time patch on especially rough days, and you might wake up the next day strong and aware enough not to make a habit of it. But the problem is, Stolas already has a habit, and he doesn't have anything to replace it. 

To solve it, he needs just that—a replacement for the bottle. Someone who cares. My hope is that one particular red lizard will share his pint of ice cream and his love. And maybe then, grim days won't be as grim anymore, even when the absinthe stays in the store, or wherever these royals get their alcohol.

Closing note. Why it’s important to talk about this in real life context

Warning: Extreme TMI

I had an alcoholic in the family, and this topic triggers me because, for him, it also started as "no biggie."

He was still functional for years, coming to work regularly. But he was slipping. He drank more, skipped work, and eventually became unbearable for his family—my family, even if not immediate. His wife requested a divorce. He got isolated. He drank even more. Eventually, he got fired because it's not appropriate for a director to skip work and reek of ethanol. The smell was so strong that people couldn't be in the same room with him. He tried other jobs. He aced interviews thanks to 30 years of experience and a solid background. But he got fired again because he couldn't live up to his legacy anymore. At the end, he descended into what you would call full-blown alcoholism.

So, you followed his story, and my question is: Did it start here, when he couldn't help it anymore? Or did it start a couple of years before that, when alcohol became too comfortable as an outlet for struggles?

I've had rough months too—with the war in Ukraine and everything happening with my family—when I realized it became comfortable for me to drink my problems away. Because it works. Because it’s pleasant not to deal with anything, to force your brain to shut up and be happy for one evening.

And it's terrifying to realize I had (thankfully, I don't have anymore for a long time by now) those patterns of thinking: "Jeez, I just want to drink and forget this happened."

Because I saw where it leads. And the farther you go, the harder it becomes to say 'no.'

So please, pay attention to the ones you care about. Pay attention to yourself.

[loozerboykisser]

When shit goes down? In drugs I drown!

[whumpberry-cookie]

do you have prompts for a whumpee abusing substances and being caretaked

Ohh, that will be a challenge for me but I'll do my best!

Addicted Whumpee aftercare

(Cw: various substance abuse, bodily waste, forced hug, strong guilt, suggested séxual attraction)

______________________

Caretaker taking the stuff out of Whumpee's hand in random moments. There is a serious conversation with other teammates. C and W are in the background. W opens the drawer, C takes the bottle from their hand and shut it back.

Caretaker is a big strong bear type. So when Whumpee has some dumb or dangerous idea, they can stop it easily. Balancing on a stair railing? Bear hug, you ain't going anywhere. Running to the bus through te red lights, because they are so jacked? Bear hug. (C:) "Nope. Not doing that". Whumpee just kicks their feet in the air and whines.

(W:) "But I really wannaaaa..." (C:) "Well too damn bad, Whumpee. We don't always get our way."

Whumpee being... well, very aroused. And Caretaker being so done with them. (C:) "I swear, slap me one more time and I'll bite that hand off". (W:) "Heheh. Promise?" (C:) "You weren't into guys before! What happened?!!" (W:) "You are- I'm yoursexual now. Your-" (C:) "You are out of your mind right now, that's what you are"

Manic episodes, panic attacks, hallucinations, anger and derealisation. Stoic Caretaker knows that in this state Whumpee won't let them explain anything. So they just repeat "You are safe. Whumpee. You are safe. It's not real, it's your brain. You are safe".

"I am not qualified to help you with that, Whumpee. I will support you, but you have to go to the proffesional. It has to be your decision".

Caretaker asks Whumpee a lot of questions. About their opinions, visions on life, about their emotions and what caused them. About their dreams, their imagination, their fears. And is very, very insightful about it. Because if Caretaker can help Whumpee process, maybe it will be easier for them to stay in reality.

Caretaker makes sure Whumpee's safe (dresses them up, feeds them, makes sure the doors are locked and sharp objects are hidden) and then locks themselves in their bedroom. It's Caretaker's space to rest and take care of themselves. Listen to music, chat with people, do the work. And Caretaker wouldn't be able to help anyone if they were exhausted or overwhealmed.

There's a lot of nasty, tiring, irritating things. Like whumpee not holding their bladder, vomiting, getting angry and unresponsive, tripping, destroying things. Getting lost in the city, going out without parts of clothing (like barefoot). They have to be forced for safety or fulfilling basic needs like eating. And they feel so ashamed and guilty about it.

Whumpee at some point breaks down and cries so much it's hard for them to breathe (W:) "Caretaker... I'm so sorry... for everything... I don't want you to live like this. I'm disgusting. I'm a nightmare". Caretaker just hugs them in silence. (C:) "We will get through this, Whumpee. I love you. I know you suffer a lot too"

Whumpee's skin shows the effects of addiction. So Caretaker is motivating them for right higiene (C:) "Sit down. No. Sit down here and wait. Just because you're hangover doesn't mean you have to look like a dry resin" (W:) *frowns, as Caretaker starts putting on their face a generous amount of a moisturizing cream* "Ah, colddd.. Stop- uh- I'm not a baby" (C:) "Your lips are bloody cracked. It must hurt. No, stop biting it. Let me grab a lipstick" (W:) "I can do it myself.." (C:) "And still you don't".

Caretaker comes back home late and sees Whumpee passed out on the floor. Picks them up and carries them to bed. Teases them: (C:) "I always wanted to have a kid. I knew I would have to feed and change them. BUT TODDLERS ARE AT LEAST CUTE!" (W:) "Shutt uppp you are so meann so so mean" (C:) "And you are so so stinky! Maybe I should buy you some diapers?" (W:) "Meeaannn... you're a mean persn"

____________________

Here's an interesting interview with a heavily substance abusing girl and her family.

[intrusive-thoughts-only]

All vices are fair game with BPD, how many can you collect?

Now Featuring: Substance Use, Self Harm, Binge Drinking, Sex, Nicotine, Starving Yourself, and so much more!

[dxmdrinker]

I actually like being impulsive. This is so nice. I should do it more often. Alcohol is fun why do I try to stop myself from drinking so often when it’s this nice.

[riality-check]

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.

[aspd-culture]

aspd + probably delusional culture is feeling like some kind of substance abuse will fix you (it definitely wont but can't hurt to try right?) (it definitely can but oh well)

aspd-culture-is

[aghostnamedcalamity]

how does Benjamin do in school?

For the most part, Benjamin does very well in school. He’s pretty intelligent and he’s good at it, but he doesn’t enjoy academics the way Mordecai does.

TW UNDER THE CUT: ADDICTION , DRUG USE , DEATH , SUBSTANCE ABUSE

The only time Benjamin performed poorly in school was when he first started college. His mother passed away just before his first semester and he was struggling with a lot of unresolved issues about her absence in his life and then her premature departure just when they were beginning to connect. After getting caught up with the wrong crowd, he began to use various substances that continuously escalated.

He became addicted to opioids, causing his grades to drop exponentially. This is sort of how Mordecai finds out, and afterward tries to interfere but they had a bit of a falling out due to Benjamin not doing well at the time and angrily confronting him about his lack of loving displays and overall just being a rather emotionless individual; feeling Mordecai was no longer in a place to ‘act like he cared now’.

This is a pretty important event in my headcanon that significantly helps shape Benjamin’s and Mordecai’s relationship as Ben becomes an adult. As emotionless as Mord can be, he really did care and still tried to rise to the occasion when things became serious. Benjamin almost overdoses at one point and this is, by far, the moment Mordecai has shown the most emotions towards him in Benji’s entire life.

He survived the ordeal and Mordecai made sure to get him back on his feet. Mordecai does try to be a bit more vocally supportive after this, making their relationship more comfortable in the long run. Benjamin was able to get back into his schooling and ended up doing very well afterward, eventually becoming a doctor at Barnes Hospital.

This picture is super old and from another ask, but it still stands. I might have to redo it at some point though.