#diistortion

"JESUS FUCK--"

He's not going to admit that he squeaked like a startled frog over that. Ahem.

"Thanks for blowing my fucking eardrums out, dickhead."

|| A wonderful skeb commission I got from @diistortion! Was so delightfully surprised by the result 🥰 Thanks so much for this Luke, you made my boy look so pretty 💕 ||

Little Christmas picture of Michael and @diistortion! Accidentally Commissioned from the amazing gemini!

                                    ⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆   𝐛𝐞  𝐦𝐲  𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞?

how i feel getting THIS SHIT DUMPED ON ME

"No no - keep going. I want CRYSTAL CLEAR DETAIL."

borrowed image from @diistortion, their art their post their property.

drunken confessions | always accepting!

Alastor would find Husk with a near empty bottle of rye clutched in a white knuckled grip. He flinched. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, tried to find a fixed point on the paisley wallpaper.

The question hung in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid. You promised me you'd stay. Why did you lie?

His fingers twitched against the neck of the bottle, knuckles gone white. The rye was almost gone, just a finger left, warm and spiteful at the bottom. He'd been nursing it for the better part of an hour, trying to drown something that refused to stay dead.

Husk's head swam. The room tilted and swayed like the deck of a ship, and for a sickening moment he was back there in the mud, in the rain, with the shells whistling overhead. He blinked hard, and the speakeasy swam back into focus. Cheap wallpaper. A dusty phonograph in the corner that hadn't played in years. And Alastor's shoes. Polished. Impossibly clean.

"I... I didn't.. I-" The words came out thick, slurred at the edges. He stared at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. The tremors had started again. Or maybe they'd never stopped. "I couldn't help myself."

It was a lie. Alastor probably knew it too. He could have helped himself. He'd chosen not to. He'd chosen the bottle because it was better than having to think straight. The memories clawed at the edges of his mind anyway. The bottle wasn't working fast enough tonight.

Artillery. The way the ground shook under his feet and made your teeth rattle in your skull and you couldn't tell if the ringing in your ears was the shells or just your own blood screaming. He remembers Jenkins, that kid, crying for his mother with half his face gone. O'Brian, who'd stepped out of the trench to relieve himself and caught a bullet between the eyes before he could even zip his trousers. The goddamn trench fever that took more of them than the Germans ever did. Men shivering in the mud, burning up one minute and freezing the next, until they just… stopped.

Husk took a long, shuddering drink. The rye burned. It wasn't enough.

"Why do you even care?" His voice came out gruff. Almost a growl. Then finally he lifted his gaze, and the sight of Alastor standing there. All clean, and proper and pressed. Made something ugly twist in his chest. "You don't own me."

The words were a reflex. A knife he threw because he didn't know what else to do with his hands. He watched Alastor's face for a reaction and found none, which was worse than anger would have been. Anger he could fight. This quiet… this patience… it made him feel like a specimen under glass.

"You gonna lecture me again?" Husk's lip curled. The bottle sloshed as he gestured with it. "About Freud or some shit?"

His laugh came out broken. Hollow. It died quick.

Husk tipped the bottle back. Empty. He stared at it. Then at his hands. Then somewhere past Alastor's shoulder, at nothing at all. The numbness was supposed to come. That was why he drank. Not for the warmth. The bottle never warmed you. It just made you cold enough not to feel the rest of it.

But tonight, he was just drunk. And tired. And so goddamn tired of being tired. He set the bottle down. It made a hollow sound against the wood. Husk's throat tightened. He took another swig just to feel something burn.

The room spun a little. Or maybe that was just him. Husk slumped back against the booth, the cracked leather cold through his shirt. He hadn't shaved in days. He knew what he looked like. Knew what he smelled like. Knew exactly what Alastor was seeing: a man who'd crawled back into the bottle and pulled the cork in after him.

He closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was kinder than the judgment in Alastor's silence.

"You should leave," Husk muttered. "Go back to your radio show. Your adoring listeners. They're waiting for you to tell 'em something cheerful. Something with a... a happy ending."