#TW: alcholism

[scottishaccentsareawesome]

Tony(after getting sober): If you quit drinking, you're about to lose the best excuse you've had in your life, which is "I'm really sorry about last night, I was just so drunk." That is a 'Get Out of Jail-Free' card that you don't even realize you have until you lose it. I can never say that anymore. I can never be like "I'm really sorry about last night, I was just so drunk." Now I have to be like, "I'm really sorry about last night - it's just that I'm mean and loud...it probably will happen again."

[godsfavdarling]

waiting for the day to end (pt.1)

part 2

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader summary: You and Spencer come back to his apartment, and your boyfriend’s drunken state brings old wounds to the surface. words: 2,3k warnings: angst, panic attack, drunk Spencer, mentions reader's ex-bf who was an alcoholic a/n: I'm imagining later seasons Spence but I am not gonna yuck anybody's yum!

You smoothly place the keys in the lock of his apartment and quickly turn them twice to unlock the door. The dark room abruptly brightens when you flick the light switch on.

Spencer, who has been leaning against the wall near you, stumbles into the room right behind you.

The door slams shut behind him, the thud reverberating through the room.

You flinch, spinning around at the jarring sound.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbles, a bit unsteady.

He throws himself onto the armchair with a heavy sigh, his head lolling back as he closes his eyes.

You murmur under your breath, “I’ll get you some water,” and head toward the kitchen, your heels clacking against the floor. 

In the quiet, you take a few deep breaths to steady yourself before filling two glasses of water. 

When you bring them back, you hand one to Spencer, urging him to drink. He gulps it down immediately, nearly draining the glass in one go.

You’ve never really seen him like this.

Spencer rarely—almost never—drinks. But tonight, it’s obvious just how far gone he is. He’s coherent enough to hold himself up, and his words still make sense, but you can tell he isn’t fully present. 

He was already fading hours ago, just an hour into dinner at Rossi's when his team had convinced him to relax and celebrate Garcia’s birthday with a few drinks.

Now, he’s staring off into space, eyes glassy, a faint smile still lingering from whatever joke had last drifted through his mind. You swallow, feeling the anxiety tug at you.

You felt it early on. But you tried to ignore it.

Spencer was different. 

He was responsible and careful. He liked being sober and in control. He was someone who avoided excess.

He was not a drunk. 

You knew all this and tried to stay rational. 

After his third drink, though, all that rationality flew out the window. With the last gulp of his third drink, you decided to excuse yourself, claiming you weren't feeling well, and spent most of the evening outside. The poker game was so intense that no one really questioned you or bothered to check on you.

You had thought, knowing Spencer’s sharp observation skills, that he would come find you shortly and ask what was wrong. He always did. He could always tell when something was off and always wanted to know. But tonight, he didn’t.

You waited, each minute stretching longer than the last, hoping he’d realize and come find you, that he’d be his usual self. But as the laughter and clinking glasses carried on from inside, you realized he was somewhere you couldn’t reach him tonight.

As you watched him now, slouched in the armchair with you far away from him sitting on the edge of the couch, your heart ached. 

This wasn’t the Spencer you knew. He was lost in his thoughts, barely acknowledging your presence. You handed him your glass of water, and he took it with a mumbled "thanks", sipping it more slowly this time.

“Spencer, are you okay?” you finally asked, unable to keep the concern out of your voice.

He looked up at you, his eyes a bit clearer but still distant. “Yeah, just... tired,” he replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You nodded, but the anxiety still sat inside you.

Stop!

Spencer is not him! 

He is nothing like him!

You keep staring at him, fidgeting with your fingers and the hem of your black velvet dress, feeling helpless as you try to guess what he wants. 

Is he going to stay here for a while? Does he need more water? Is he going to shower, or maybe just head to bed?

Finally, Spencer glances up, his gaze focusing on you as if for the first time tonight. His brows knit together as he notices the anxious look in your eyes. 

"What’s wrong?" he asks, his voice soft but tinged with confusion.

You swallow, feeling a rush of emotions you’ve been holding back all evening. He’s looking at you now, really looking, like he usually does, but something about his unsteady, drunken state makes you hesitate. 

He’s here, yet somehow not fully here, and you’re not sure how to answer.

You force a smile, shrugging as if it’s nothing, but your heart pounds. "Just… tired, I guess."

Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver, and you know he sees through your answer, even in his state. 

Now he sees. 

He’s silent, watching you with a slight frown like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. The quiet stretches between you, heavy and thick.

You glance away, twisting the hem of your dress tighter. 

"Maybe you should get some rest," you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. You try to keep the tremor out, but it’s there. A lot of it.

He’s never seen you like this—not this vulnerable, this close to tears. You’ve not been dating that long. A lot of things are still unknown, unsaid, unshared and the toxic, drunk but highly functioning, unpredictable boyfriends have not yet come out in any conversation.

"I’ll be fine," Spencer mutters, rubbing his face with one hand as he sinks further into the chair.

His words are gentle, but they’re not the reassurance you’re aching for. 

You wish he’d tell you he’d never do this again, that he understands why this is hard for you. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you, distant and hazy.

A lump forms in your throat as the silence presses down on you. You stand up, needing some distance, and force a tight smile. "I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll go… take a walk or something."

As you turn to leave, Spencer reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice soft but unsteady. "It’s like 2 AM. You’re not going anywhere alone."

You stop, frozen, a tightness forming in your chest. You want to say it’s fine, that you just need space, but the words feel like they’re stuck in your throat. Instead, he continues, unaware of how badly his presence is affecting you right now.

“Let’s take a walk together. It’ll help,” he offers, his voice tinged with concern, though still a little slurred.

You turn sharply, frustration and something darker bubbling up in your chest. “No!” you snap, louder than you intended, the word echoing in the quiet room. You instantly regret it, but the hurt is too raw, too overwhelming. You try to swallow the sudden surge of emotion, but it’s too much.

You finally realize that his hand in on your arm, and the realization hits like a cold wave. You feel an intense rush of discomfort. You don’t want him near you right now. 

The feeling of his fingers on your skin, even though they’re meant to comfort, feels wrong.

You can’t breathe. You can’t handle his touch, not like this, not after everything that’s happened. You jerk away, backing up, your heart hammering.

Without a word, you turn and storm toward the bathroom. You lock the door behind you and lean against it for a second, trying to steady your breath. 

The walls feel like they’re closing in, the anger and fear swirling inside you until you can hardly tell the difference between the two.

It’s not his fault, you think, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside your chest.

He’s just drunk, he’ll be sober soon, but... why does it still feel so wrong?

You press your hands to your face, feeling the tears already starting to form.

I’m not that person anymore. I’m not going to let this take me back. I can’t let it.

Your thoughts race, but you force yourself to focus, turning the shower on. The sound of the water helps. 

You quickly but clumsily step out of the dress and underwear, leaving them in a heap on the tiles. 

You step under the hot spray, closing your eyes, letting the warmth soothe the tension in your muscles.

Just wash it off, just wash it off, you tell yourself as if the water could cleanse more than just your skin.

You’re lost in the sensation of the water for long minutes when there’s a gentle knock on the bathroom door. 

You freeze. Your heart skipping a beat.

“Hey… uh… I really need to pee,” Spencer calls out, his voice even softer than before.

You swallow, fighting the panic rising in your throat, and quickly shut off the water. You wrap a towel around your body and open the door just enough for you to slip past him. Without a word, you go into the bedroom and gracelessly put on one of the shirts you left in his drawer.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow everything will be fine, you think, climbing into bed, curling up under the covers. 

You just want this day to end. You need it to end.

Then it hits you—you’re in his bed.

You stand up and then sit again on the edge.

You should go home. You should be in your own bed. You want to get up, gather your things, get dressed, and leave, but you're paralyzed. You're overwhelmed. You can’t breathe. You can’t move.

Then Spencer walks into the room, his gaze landing on you. As if he can read the turmoil in your mind, he says softly, "It's late. Stay here tonight. Take the bed. I’ll take the couch."

You don’t say anything, unable to find the words.

He pauses, watching you for a moment, before quietly pulling his pajamas from the closet and heading into the bathroom.

You just need to sleep. You’ll sleep it off, and when you wake up, things will make sense again. Maybe Spencer will apologize. 

Apologize for what?

He didn’t do anything wrong.

He’ll be sober. Everything will go back to normal.

But sleep doesn’t come. The bed feels cold, and the silence in the room is suffocating. You can’t shake the thoughts in your head.

What if he doesn’t remember?

What if he won’t leave it and you’ll have to explain and he’ll be angry?

Why are you angry?

Why are you upset?

Just as you're about to give up on sleep altogether, you hear the soft creak of the door opening. Spencer slips into the room quietly, his footsteps hesitant. He walks to the bed, sitting down beside you without saying anything at first.

"Are you asleep?" he asks quietly, his voice gentle, almost too careful. You feel his gaze on you, even though you’re facing the window, your back to him.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t want to talk to him right now. You don’t want to explain why everything feels broken. You don’t want him to ask.

But you can feel him there, his presence. 

Finally, he speaks again, his voice low but steady. “Please... can we talk? I don't wanna go to bed with you upset and angry.”

You don’t move, staring into the dark. You wish you could say the right thing. You wish you could fix it, but all you feel is a dull ache in your chest, and the thought that maybe nothing will ever be the same again.

Spencer’s hand reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he hesitates for a moment before gently moving toward you. "Hey, I—" His voice cracks, and you can hear the sorrow in it, the regret, the helplessness.

But as his arms come closer, something inside you recoils. You can’t have him near you right now. Not like this. Not when everything feels so wrong.

You flinch, turning away from him instinctively, the words coming out before you even have a chance to stop them. “Please don’t touch me.”

The words hang between you like a heavyweight. 

Spencer freezes, his hand hovering in mid-air, and for a second, everything is still. You can hear his breathing — shallow, uneven — as if he’s trying to understand, trying to process what just happened.

You don’t want him to feel hurt, but you can’t help it. You feel exposed, vulnerable, like a raw nerve, and his touch, even if it's meant to comfort, feels suffocating.

“Okay,” Spencer finally says, his voice small, resigned. He pulls his hand back slowly, as though giving you space to breathe. 

You don’t look at him. You can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice distant now, like he’s trying to find his footing again. “I just... I’m not sure what happened. I know hurt you. I don’t know how but I’m sorry.”

The silence lingers, thick and uncomfortable, wrapping itself around both of you. Spencer hesitates for a long moment, unsure of what to do or say next. You can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t lift yours. 

Finally, he clears his throat softly.

“I’ll... I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” he says, his voice gentle and careful like he’s trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

“It’s okay. If you want to talk... or anything... just come and tell me. I’ll be here.”

You don’t say anything. You still don’t look at him. But you can hear the sincerity in his voice, the aching honesty of it.

If only his words, his willingness to be there even when you’ve pushed him away could make things better.

But you don’t answer him, because you don’t have the strength to. You don’t know what to say.

Spencer sighs quietly, almost like a final surrender, and then you hear his footsteps moving away from you.

The door opens and closes softly behind him, and you’re left alone in the silence of the room once more.

Spencer’s words echo in your mind, but they don’t bring comfort. Not yet. 

[djmanemihi]

This was my entry for one of the Shonen Jump World Wide Manga contests four years ago. Basically my first real attempt at professional manga using 100% digital artwork. I’ve come a long way since then I feel but I’m still super proud of it. Didn’t really get a lot of attention back then on my now-defunct accounts. So….blazing.

1/4

[deadsetobsessions]

Alley Drunk!Danny pt.5

If Danny hadn’t thought about quitting and going to rehab before, he’s definitely going to do it now.

It had been one of those days. Danny had sluggishly managed to usher Jason to school- pulling himself together for their walk to the building, because he wasn’t stupid and this was still Gotham- before going home and relapsing. He knew, going into the first bottle, that he was going to regret it. But he still hadn’t felt the buzz, so he went out to get more.

“Just one. I can stop after, if I want to.”

Spoiler: he could not, actually, stop if he wanted to. Because he didn’t want to, which was the whole problem.

So, one bottle became two, two became three, three became six, and by the time the sun slipped below the horizon, Danny had a pile of bottles scattered around the couch and an intense look of self hatred set upon his brow. He was buzzed, but his stupid ghost biology refused to absorb anymore alcohol.

“Stop brooding, Danny. It’ll hurt your brain.” Jazz said, a hint of worry around her joking insult. “You’re forgetting something important.”

“Wha-?” He mumbled out back at the haze of her-hah- ghost.

The door clicked open. Danny whipped his head to wards the door, snarl on his face and ready to lunge at the intruder, when he came face to face with a scuffed up Jason.

They froze simultaneously, but before Danny could do anything, Jason’s hands tightened on the door knob. The kid’s eyes darted to the floor, where the bottles laid, and back up at Danny’s face. What he found there must not have been good, because he took a step back.

It was fear.

Danny felt his heart drop and his throat go dry. The self hatred doubled in size and weight, but he smacked it down in favor of scrambling for the words- anything- to fix the damage his stupidity and addiction caused.

“Jason.” He said, voice raspy. Had he been screaming again? Good start, good- nope. Never mind, Jason is using the door to shield himself now. Danny glanced outside and-

“Oh. I- I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” He turned back to Jason, who eyed him warily. “I- I forgot to pick you, didn’t I.”

“…I can walk back by myself.” The hesitant but full of bravado reply made Danny’s ghostly obsession to protect rear its head.

“Still. I’m… I’m sorry, Jason.”

Jason evaluated him, noticeably eyeing his open hands and purposefully lax posture, before stepping inside. He doesn’t close the door behind him- clearly leaving it as an option just in case he needed to bolt. Danny stood up slowly. Jason watched him, and his hands. His smaller hands- Ancients, Danny was scaring a kid- curled up into fists.

“What… how did you get hurt?”

“Got mugged.”

“Are you okay? No- wait,” Danny flooded his liver and blood stream with ectoplasm, and his head instantly cleared. Ah, the agony of being coherent.

Danny subtly shook his head to clear his thoughts. Focus.

“Of course you’re not.” Danny stepped away from the incriminating bottles, slowing to a stop once more as Jason shifted backwards like he was either going to spring at Danny or bolt out the door. “Why don’t we get you patched up? And you can tell me about your day. That I missed, when I forgot to pick you up and that I’m really really sorry for.”

Danny held his breath as Jason considered it. “Are ya drunk?” Jason asked, tilting his shoulder to slide his Wonder Woman backpack down, hand clutching at the opposite strap. A good bludgeoning weapon, even if Danny would rather be electro shocked to death again before he ever hurt Jason.

“No.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, scoffing as he looked down again. Danny recognized the motion, a bolt of heavy nostalgia slamming into his chest as he remembered another red-head doing the same thing when he tried to bullshit his way out of something.

“I was buzzed but… I’m a meta. Alcohol doesn’t exactly affect me. I had to drink a lot to even get buzzed, and it’s gone now.”

“Y’er a meta?” Jason straightened, not completely losing the vigilance, but less tense.

“Yes. I’m completely sober right now, I promise.”

Jason stared at him, inhaled, and relaxed. “You better be.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Whatever.”

——

Danny placed the bandages over Jason’s cuts.

“I am so, so sorry I didn’t pick you up.”

Jason shoved at his shoulder, grumbling “I c’n do it myself.”

“I know. You don’t have to, though.”

The kid looked away for a moment before softly admitting, “I was… worried. Cuz, I thought somethin’ happened.”

Danny swallowed the lump in his throat. Jason slipped more into his alley accent the more upset he got these days, having learned some of the local accents at his new school and regularly swapping those out instead of sticking with his alley accent.

“Thank you. For worrying about me. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

Point. From the mouth of babes came the painful truth, right?

“No. I’m not. But I will be. I’ll go to rehab, Jason. I don’t want to forget picking you up again.”

“Whatever.” Danny hid a smile as Jason ducked his head, looking endearingly like a grumpy duckling. Like, Jazz, when their parents made those blueberry ectoplasm pancakes she liked but thought they’d forgotten that she liked.

“And thank you, Jason, for coming back alive. I- I should have been there, but I’m so glad that you’re okay.”

“I want waffles and ice cream for dinner.”

“Yeah, we can do that.”

“Wow, you musta felt real bad if you’re letting me eat that for dinner.”

Danny grinned down at the head of black hair (with their red roots once more poking out) and ruffled Jason’s head. “I let you eat like five chili dogs in one go. This should not be surprising. But I’ll let you skip the veggies today too.”

“… No, I want the veggies too.”

Danny let out a bark of bright laughter.

Yeah, there’s no way he’s ever risking Jason looking at him like that again. The kid looked like he thought Danny would come swinging at him, despite their previous meetings where he had, perhaps and with plausible deniability, swung for Jason, but never against him.

That night, after he tucked Jason into bed, Danny signed up for rehab. As a matter of fact, Jazz’s words coming into mind, Danny also signed up for therapy. For him and Jason. Yeah.

——

Off camera, they talked about why Jason react to bottles and hands the way he does, and why he’s so scared whenever Danny slips back into his addiction. I’m just rlly too tired to write it.

——

Danny, who thought his addiction wasn’t that serious and that he could stop anytime because he stopped for Jason: I’m cured!

Also Danny: drinks as soon as Jason goes to school

Danny was one hundred percent using Jason as a crutch and when he felt like Jason was safe, he slipped back to his habits. The only reason Danny’s not dead- well, deader than he normally would be- is because ghost biology makes it so that alcohol is cycled through quicker. Like the Flash, but less fast? Anyways, he had enough to make him lose track of time and forget important things (Jason) and that’s what addiction can do to you, amongst other things.

Jason might seem calm but that’s actually a combo of his go to trauma response (fight) and his experience of 1) being on the streets and 2) living with a previous drunkard coming into play. Also, you might be like what kind of kid wants to eat veggies? And to that I answer: KIDS THAT NEVER HAD ENOUGH TO EAT. I would have killed for a veggie stir fry with a lot of chicken back as a kid lol

On a lighter note, the whole time they’re having this interaction, I kind of imagined it as two chickens just kind of dancing around each other.

[guardian-angle22]

911 lone star -> prelude to Judd's struggles

[the-epic-amphinomus]

”Amphinomus…”

-@the-true-telemachus

Telemachus.

[quackity-rp-blog]

***-***-**** >> Alaska: You’re alive?

***-***-**** >> Alaska: You better FUCKING explain right now

***-***-**** >> Alaska: I ALMOST SHOT MYSELF, ALASKA.

-@schlatt-is-president

Alaska >> ***-***-***: "I'm so sorry Oves."

Alaska >> ***-***-***: "We're horrible for each other, I wanted you to move on."

Alaska >> ***-***-***: "But I haven't. I can't stop drinking. I've started smoking our supply. I can't take it."

[starkerobsession]

Peter’s purity and innocence turns Tony on more than anything and he hates himself for it. The guilt overwhelms him to the point where he drinks and drinks to take his mind off the guilt but then finds himself having even dirtier thoughts about the boy in his drunken state, that most nights he ends up wanking to videos of Peter on his couch with a bottle in his hand, and passing out soon after. And then the next morning, the guilt eats away at him so he does it all over again, becoming a vicious cycle.

[ytcomments-archive]

[myrxellabaratheon]

I might sound extremely European, but I don’t think Stolas is an alcoholic

After years and years of fandoms i realized there is a deep difference between “American-alcoholism” and “European-alcoholism” and a normal amount of alcohol for an European person is seen as borderline alcoholic behavior for Americans. (Like we could have this very same discussion when talking about Game of thrones to say something - or honestly real life to a certain extent).

But I’ll only focus on Stolas because I’m seeing this used as a trope in many, many fics and it’s something which I wouldn’t say “bothers” me, but makes me really uncomfortable.

Now, let’s focus on the occasions in which we see Stolas drink.

1) The “not divorced” party

2) After “Ozzie’s” (off-screen but heavily implied in the “day after” sequence)

3) Apology Tour

To these instances we can add a couple of implied ones

1) Ozzie’s at the restaurant when he orders wine

2) Apology Tour in the first scene where a glass of wine is showed on the table by Stolas while he’s chilling by the pool

Now, if we focus on the first three instances, two of them are parties, social situations in which people would normally drink just for the sake to get drunk (especially if they are not having a great time but want to fit it, something Stolas suffered his entire life!), and the third situation is right after things went incredibly shitty with the man he’s in love with!

As for the others two, ordering wine at Ozzie’s is a way to A try to get Blitzø’s attention and B get himself out of an uncomfortable situation with the waiter; and the beginning of Apology Tour is just another reiteration of the situation in The Circus (post breakup).

And even if the only moment he’s shown to be absolutely plastered is in Apology Tour and generally alcoholics drink to the point to completely forget themselves. Not to mention that we are talking about a universe in which heroin (AKA the most addictive substance ever) barely cures an headache! (source: Unhappy Campers)

Alcohol isn’t that addictive and I’d dare say in the Hellaverse wine could equal water?! Not to mention that it’s implied that powerful/royal demons have fastened healing which would clean their systems from alcohol as well.

Confirmed alcoholics in the show (such as Verosika) drink Beezlejuice instead of human alcohol which I suspect is stronger than absinthe. (And anyhow it’s only Blitzø who ends up completely drunk, not Bee, and I somehow imagine Goetia’s biology being closer to Sins’ than lower hellborns).

I don’t want to police anyone in their fanfics, but just express my opinion on the matter since I just think the term alcoholic is generally thrown too easily around.

* we can discuss Stolas has other issues which should be addressed when it comes to addictions (such as the random amount of Happy Pills he ingests) but simply alcohol isn’t one of those

[pedroshotwifey]

To the Flame chapter 13

Series masterlist

Pairing: Dark!Javier Peña x afab!reader

Chapter w/c: 2.9k

Chapter warnings: physical abuse, mental abuse, manipulation, non consensual piv sex, non consensual vaginal fingering, degradation, alcoholism, panic attacks, fluff at the beginning, hurt/no comfort, non consensual makeout session, suicidal thoughts, self hate

Chapter Summary: Javi does something he won't be able to take back.

A/N: Hey, babes. This is the first chapter in which Javi takes the reader in a non consensual way. This time won't be super in depth, but the next times will be. It hit very close to home for me and was difficult to write, but I'm glad I got it down. It's a pretty tough chapter regardless, and I hope that you keep my warning in mind <3

*****

You wake up to a soft hammering sound coming from the kitchen. It’s faint as you start to come around, pulling the sheets up to your eyes to guard yourself from the sun pouring in through the window. You don’t remember coming to the bed last night. Javi must have carried you in, you realize after a moment. 

The thought of Javi taking care of you again makes you smile, and you realize that the sound must be him working on the tiles or cabinets you had asked him about. You smile and stretch out, deciding you may as well get up. You pull the blanket from your body and let the light bathe you for a moment as you slowly open your eyes and adjust to the brightness. You stay there for a moment, enjoying the peaceful feeling that’s settled within you this morning. 

After a few minutes pass, you hear a small crash come from the front of the apartment, waking you up from the half-asleep state you’d fallen back into. You sigh and slide out of bed, pulling on one of Javi’s tees that had been piled on the floor since he seems to have stripped you to your underwear when he tucked you in bed last night. You quickly move to the kitchen, a bit worried about whatever that sound had been.

“Javi?” You call his name as you reach the doorway and find him crouched over what looks like a broken tile. He pops up quickly and holds a hand out to stop you. 

“Careful, sweetheart,” he gently warns. “Dropped a damn tile.” 

You nod and take a step back after reaching to hand him the broom that was propped in the corner closest to you. He thanks you and begins gathering the pieces into the dustpan. He’s quick to get it all and dump it into the trash can, doing one more scan of the floor before turning back to you. A smile spreads across his face as he crosses back to you. 

“Well don’t you look gorgeous in my shirt,” he marvels as he embraces you. You giggle into his chest and let him gently sway you as you bask in his warmth. 

“What would you like to do today, bebita?” 

You shrug. “Whatever you want.” 

He chuckles quietly and plants a kiss on your head. “Well, I mostly just planned on getting some stuff done around the apartment today.” 

So that’s what you do. It’s honestly the best day you’ve had in weeks. You didn’t do much but sit and talk with Javi while he hung cabinets and put tile down, but you couldn’t have been happier. It was like everything clicked back into place and nothing had ever gone wrong. 

By the time the two of you were getting ready for bed, you were brimming with contentment. You cooked one of your favorite dishes for dinner, and the two of you laughed over a bottle of wine before snuggling up together in bed and going to sleep to buzzed conversation. 

You’d fallen asleep to Javi’s strong arms wrapped around you, but when you wake up in the middle of the night, you’re alone in bed. You jump awake, startled by a crash from the kitchen. It’s louder than the one from this morning. Or maybe yesterday morning. You’re not sure what time it is. You’re more concerned about what the hell Javi might be doing and if he may have hurt himself. 

You pull yourself out of bed and slip on a shirt before padding out to the hallway. You get an odd sense of deja-vu as you creep into the kitchen the same way you had this morning. This time, though, there’s a strange feeling rolling through your stomach. You’re not sure why, but it’s enough to make you almost nauseous. 

“Javi?” You meekly call his name as you round the corner to find him sitting at the small table. There’s an ashtray in front of him as well as a glass of whiskey. You know it’s whiskey because of the empty and shattered bottle laying carelessly on the ground by his chair. He doesn’t have the lights on, the only bit of light coming from the streetlamps beneath the small window. 

He doesn’t even look at you as you walk toward him, taking slow and careful steps. There’s panic already starting to rise within you. You’ve never seen him act this way—like he’s not really there with you. He doesn’t acknowledge your presence, just as unbothered with you as he is the broken bottle on the floor. 

As you reach the table, you can almost smell the stench of the alcohol emanating from him. Ignoring your dry mouth, you gently place your hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, but he still doesn’t turn to look at you. Instead, he raises his glass to his lips and downs the last bit of whiskey at the bottom. 

“J-Javi?” 

This time, he turns his head just slightly, not exactly looking at you, but at least letting you know that he knows you’re there and speaking. 

“Why don’ you grab me another bottle, sweetheart,” Javi slurs lazily as he lets his head loll to rest on your hand. Your heart squeezes at the sound of his voice. As long as you’ve known him, he’s never drunk this heavily. Sure, he’s been picking up more beer as of late, but this is a whole new level for him. 

“No, Javi, I think you’ve had enough.” You mean for it to sound assertive, but it comes out quiet and sounds more like a suggestion. 

He spins fully now to look into your eyes, though his stare is much less imposing than usual. There’s instead a glassy and distant look to them. 

“An’ did I fuckin’ ask you?” 

You flinch back slightly at the ferocity of his words. He ignores it and pushes out of his chair and then passes you to get to the alcohol cabinet. He throws open the cupboard door, letting it slam against the back of another, and snatches another full bottle of whiskey as you jump again at the sound. You take a step back this time as he brushes past and sits back down. He starts to pry the top off of the bottle and you spring into action. You can’t let him have more. It’s on you now if he drinks too much. 

You wrap both of your hands around it and try to take it from him, but he only holds on tighter. You’re so tired and disoriented already, you really don’t want this to be an issue. 

“Javi, please let go, you’ve had enough.” It comes out a bit stronger this time, and it gives you a bit of confidence to see something flash in his eyes. In an instant, he lets go of the bottle. 

You sigh as he stands back up. “Thank you—” 

Your eyes widen in terror as you watch raise his hand and rear it back. It almost happens in slow motion, the twist of your stomach and the way your breathing shallows. Everything in your head empties and is instead replaced by fear and confusion. Your heart drops and you try to get out of the way, but he brings his palm down across your cheek before you can. You yelp and stagger back, dropping the whiskey in the process. 

There’s a loud thunk at your feet as you cradle your cheek and drop yourself to the floor, shuffling away from Javi as quickly as you can. You’re not even crying yet, just shaking uncontrollably. You get all the way to the wall before you stop and look up at Javi, who has already taken a seat again and popped open the dropped whiskey. You feel the tears fall now, letting you see him clearly instead of through the blur. Faintly, you think you hear him murmur something along the lines of “shut you up last time”, and it causes a sharp twinge from somewhere deep inside of you.

You think you might be hyperventilating, because you feel light and everything still seems to happen too slow. You don’t understand. You didn’t do anything. Why would he do that? 

“Don’ look at me like that,” Javi’s too-casual voice comes from in front of you. You realize you zoned out as you let your eyes focus again to see him looking down at you from the table. “‘S your fuckin’ fault.” 

Your head shakes. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything. 

“N-no—” 

“Got a call from Steve today,” he goes on, ignoring you. “Told me his wife was concerned about a bruise she thought she saw on your face,” he motions to his own face with a lazy finger before grabbing the bottle again.

You think you might throw up. 

“Told him it was a shadow. Don’t think he believed me.” He stands back up now, walking toward you. You heave an audible sob as you back as far as you can into the wall, and you come to an awful realization. You’re fucking terrified of him right now. He has a look in his eyes that you’ve never seen before, one that can’t guarantee anything good. He’s watching you like you’re prey, like you’re something he wants to inflict pain upon. 

“Please stop,” you breathe. You can barely even hear it, so you know that he can’t. Your eyes screw shut, unable to watch this nightmare as he gets closer. You want to bolt, but you’re glued to your spot on the floor. Even though you can’t see it, you can sense him crouch down in front of you. 

“Look at me.” 

You shake your head, ignoring the tremble of your lips as your tears trail over them. 

“Look at me!” 

Your eyes snap open to find his face only about an inch from yours. You stare into his eyes, trying your best to keep them from closing again. His breath reeks of whiskey as it fans across your wet face. He doesn’t say anything, like he’s waiting for you to speak first. You know you should choose your words carefully, but you can’t. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, because you have no idea what else to say. 

The corners of his lips tug down as his eyes narrow. “Are you?” 

You let your eyelids flutter as you try to breathe normally. You can’t. So you nod, your head feeling heavy as you do so. You just want to lay down. The stinging on your cheek has climbed up your temple and is making your head pound.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, the words not really yours. They just spill from your tongue. They feel too heavy and too light at the same time, just like the rest of you. 

“Yeah? You want to kiss and make up? Make everything okay again?” His words are so taunting, dripping with condescension.

You just watch him, wishing the ground would swallow you up and let you go back to sleep in a quiet place. His hand comes up slowly to grab your chin in a manner so gentle that it makes you sob again even as you let your chin rest in his palm. You don’t dare take it away, and you honestly don’t think you really want to. The touch is comforting even if it is coming from him—or rather, this version of him. You refuse to acknowledge the fact that this man is still your husband. No, this is someone else. Some other person trapped inside of him that will go away eventually. Your Javi wouldn’t be so cruel. 

But you do nothing as that other person leans forward and slots your tear-soaked lips with his. You do nothing as he deepens it and slips his foul tongue into your mouth. Nothing as he grabs you and pulls you to him, nothing as he lowers you down to the floor and lets his body drape over yours, nothing as he carefully holds you and defiles your mouth with his. 

You focus on the fact that you can check out, not having to pay attention to the tears that keep crawling down your cheeks or the fact that the weight of your husband’s body suddenly feels so wrong. You can just focus on the numbness surrounding you, offering you an escape from the pain in your heart and mind. Just until this is over, until he’s had his fill of your lips against his.

You let him kiss you until your lips are swollen and all you can taste is him. Until you hear the unbuckling of his belt. 

You come back to reality, heart pounding as you squeal and struggle against him, pushing his chest and kicking your legs as his touch turns aggressive. He keeps his mouth over yours, muffling your cries and pleas as he holds you down, not caring about the force that is bound to set bruises upon your flesh. You’re trying to scream, trying to scramble away from him. Pure terror throbs in your veins, your heart aching with the rate of which it pumps it through your body. 

No, he wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t hurt you in this way. This is too much, even for whatever stranger is on top of you right now. Thinning tears streak down your face and get caught where Javi is smothering your lips in a rough show of dominance, letting you taste the panic and fear that cause them.

You feel like you can’t breathe, everything is too much. You scream so hard that your throat burns along with your eyes and lungs, but it’s a feeble attempt because Javi’s mouth catches it the second it breaches your swollen lips. You want to hurt him. You want to fucking kick him and claw him and hold him down and make him feel helpless and useless and scared. 

You’ve never in your life had a thought like that, but right now, there is not a single regret as the evil thoughts race through your brain. With every fiber of your being, you want him to feel the way you feel right now. 

But you can’t. So you just cry. And shake. And let your body go limp in defeat as he shoves your panties down your thighs. And hate yourself so damn much that you wish you could die. You don’t know where the hate comes from, but it completely envelops you and you feel a tug deep inside you that tells you that you deserve it. So you listen. 

You let yourself brew on that as he uncovers your mouth and kisses your chin and neck, as he brings his hand down to shove two fingers inside of you. You can’t make any sound. You wish you could. Inside you’re screaming, you’re crying for help and yelling at yourself to just fucking do something, but you can’t, and you don’t know why. You hate yourself for it. You’ve never felt so fucking helpless as you do now, breathing shallow breaths instead of using your voice while you have the chance. 

Tears scald your cheeks as breathless whimpers tumble from your bruised lips with every pump of his fingers. He chuckles against your neck as your eyes squeeze shut. You try not to think at all as he pulls his fingers back and clumsily lines his cock up with your entrance a few seconds later. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. 

You repeat it like a silent mantra as he pushes in, the stretch painful with no prep. He doesn’t even hesitate as you try one more time to get away, weakly pushing at his chest and using your feet to scramble back. He holds you in place and thrusts in, grunting into your ear as he fully sheaths himself. 

Breathe, breathe, breathe…

“Stop,” you hear yourself softly protest. It’s so weak, though. Like everything else. You don’t even know how you said it. 

“Jus’ fucking shut up for a second,” Javi breathes. “You’re fine, you want this, slut. ‘S what you were so damn desperate for.” 

You might nod. You’re not sure, but your head moves, so you think that’s what it might be doing. Another betrayal from your own body.

Javi finds a good pace to keep up and continues to nip at your jaw. And you let him. Your stomach churns with every grunt and groan that lands on your skin, but you let him, because there’s nothing else you can do. You let him take you for what feels like hours, until he spills inside of you and lifts himself from your numb body. 

He walks away for a while, and you stare at the ceiling until he comes back. Your lips are dry. It’s an odd thing to notice out of everything, but your lips are dry despite your tears coating them. You don’t lick them, though, because you don’t want to taste the whiskey on your skin or the salty taste of your vulnerability. 

You close your eyes as he stands over you, not able to bear looking him in the eye. He walks away again, and you keep your eyes shut like you’re trying to go to sleep. You know you can’t, but you feel better focusing on that than letting your brain wander anywhere else. You keep crying and trembling, because there’s nothing you can do about that either. Nothing feels real, but you’re not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. 

You flinch hard when Javi comes back later to pick you up and take you to bed. Again, you let him. You know he knows you’re not asleep, but you pretend anyway. You let him lay you down, scared and torn apart from the inside, and this time, you do try to sleep. But it doesn’t come for a long, miserable time.

*****

Alright, where are we at on this?

Taglist:  @corazondebeskar @yorksgirl @nerdieforpedro @axshadows @melaninmommy @survivingandenduring @kewwrites @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff  @callachloe @missladym1981 @sofiparallel @koshkaj-blog @sheepdogchick3 @movievillainess721 @jessie8605 @casa-boiardi @justlulu @iamsherlocked-1998 @hjzghi-b @solarecI1spe

Please let me know if you would like to be added or removed from the taglist!

[lordkuntfuck]

Okay as fucked up as this is gonna sound I need a scenerio where the 118 fail to save a child from a burning building, because it would royally fuck them all up and it would be, yes deverstating, but also really super interesting

Like first off you have Bobby, who, as we know, lost his own children to a fire. So just imagine how triggering it would be for him. Like I'd actually cry if I had to see him deal with not being able to save a child from a building fire again. But I'm a masochist, so I'd wanna see him fully spiral, like Athena has to smack the whisky bottle out of his hand to stop him relapsing kinda spiral

Then there's Chimney who hasn't actually been a father that long, like Jee-Yun is still really young, and now him and Maddie have got another kid on the way too. Like out of all the 118 he's the only one who hasn't lost a child and I think it would really mess up his perception of his own abilities to keep his kids safe. He also lost Kevin (and almost Albert) to fire so i think he would become extremely paranoid that like the universe is trying to tell him something.

Hen is difficult because I'm basing this off of the child dying in the fire and not for medical reasons (which i think would fuck her up more, like if the kid died because she couldn't administer care fast enough or something). But i think it would make sense if Hen was helping the parents of the kid when they recieve the news and I think having to keep treating them while their life is collapsing in on itself would destroy her just as much, and she'd blame herself for not being able to help more.

I think Eddie would completely shut down. Obviously this kid would remind him of Chris and if this is set while Chris is still in texas then Eddie isn't even able to go home and check that Chris is alright which would terrify him. But also on the way back to the station i think Eddie would be the only one not actively sobbing, like he'd be crying but in the sort of dissociative, not even realises hes crying, sort of way. I don't think he'd break down until he was at home by himself, looking around at his empty house, wishing he could just give his son a hug.

Then there's Buck. Buck would be inconsolable. I'm imaging it being him that found the kid but couldn't get to them in time (or something). He would never be able to forgive himself for not saving that child. The others would tell him it's not his fault but he just can't believe them. If only he'd done this, if only he'd don't that. It would consume him. I think he'd lose his sense of self, I love him but i wanna see him completely break.

It would have to be everyone helping each other, being there for each other. I think to begin with they'd all try to deal with it themselves but that was never going to work. Eventually they all band together be there for one another, so they can keep fighting, keep living, despite the trauma. Like they always do.

(I also think Maddie should be the one to take the call because holy shit that would be fucked up for her to deal with after everything she's been through)

[godsfavdarling]

waiting for the day to end (pt.2)

part 1

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader summary: You wake up and regret everything that has happened. words: 2,3k warnings: angst, hurt, comfort, crying, mentions reader's ex-bf who was an alcoholic a/n: i feel like what spencer is saying is a bit messy and repetitive but i wanted him to say a lot. sorry. and thank you for all the love on part 1! means the world!

Your eyes flutter open, heavy and reluctant. The dim light of the room makes you squint. 

For a moment, you lie there, caught in the haze between sleep and waking, the unfamiliar surroundings pulling at your senses. 

The bed beneath you feels wrong—not yours, too soft in some places, too firm in others.

You blink slowly, the shadows in the room shifting into focus. It’s Spencer’s bedroom. 

Memories from the night before make their way into your mind, and you let out a slow, shaky breath.

Your body feels heavy, weighed down by restless, uncomfortable sleep. 

Your limbs ache from lying in the same position too long, and there’s a dull pressure at the base of your skull, a reminder of how little rest you truly got. 

You roll onto your side, but it doesn’t help. The discomfort isn’t just physical.

You close your eyes again, just for a moment, letting the stillness settle over you. 

Last night feels like a bad dream, hazy and disjointed, but the details are there, sharp enough to sting.

Spencer, drunk. 

You, spiraling. 

The way he looked at you, worried but still so gentle, so Spencer.

A wave of embarrassment washes over you, hot and suffocating. You feel stupid now. He’d had a few too many drinks, sure, but he didn’t do anything wrong. 

He wasn’t like your ex—he didn’t yell, didn’t lash out. He’d been careful with you even when he wasn’t himself.

But you were everything but careful. You were being a bitch.

And now Spencer is probably planning how to easily get rid of you.

You press your palms against your face, groaning softly into the quiet room. 

Why couldn’t you just let it go? Why couldn’t you just let him be human for one night without dragging your past into it?

This is over. 

The thought strikes like a shard of glass, sharp and unyielding. Spencer wouldn’t want to be with someone so stupid, so irrational. Someone who couldn’t let go of her past long enough to see the difference.

Your eyes dart around the room and then you remember—he didn’t sleep here. You were alone. And you had taken his bed.

Shame twists in your stomach. 

He’d been drunk and exhausted, and you made him sleep on the couch. The image of his long limbs curled up awkwardly there, trying to get comfortable, makes you want to bury yourself under the covers and disappear.

Your unreasonable anger and spiraling anxiety had turned the night into a nightmare—not just for you (not that it mattered) but for Spencer, too. 

He hadn’t done anything to deserve that. He’d been patient, sweet even, despite how drunk he was. And yet, you’d let your emotions take over, let them ruin everything.

You clench the sheets in your fists, the fabric twisting under your grip as guilt settles like a stone in your chest. 

Why couldn’t you just stop? Why did you have to make everything so much harder?

You shift under the covers, staring at the ceiling as the thought creeps in—you need to find Spencer. You need to apologize. The longer you wait, the worse it will feel, and you already feel like you’re drowning in guilt.

Let’s get this over with.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you hesitate for a moment, your bare feet brushing against the cold floor. 

What if he doesn’t want to hear it? What if last night was too much?

You push the thoughts away, standing slowly. You owe him this, no matter how awkward or painful it might be.

You open the bedroom door carefully, wincing as the hinge creaks slightly. Stepping into the quiet apartment, you glance toward the couch, half expecting him to still be asleep. But he isn’t.

Spencer is lying there, his back to you, a book in his hands. His legs are stretched out, his socked feet resting on the armrest. 

You pause, watching him silently. His fingers trail lightly over the edges of the pages, caressing them before he turns each one with a practiced, gentle flick.

For a moment, you forget why you came out here. 

The sight of him, calm and focused, is mesmerizing. The lines of tension you’d seen in his face last night are gone now, replaced by something softer.

“Hi,” you say softly, not wanting to startle him.

Spencer turns his head, his curls shifting slightly as he looks over his shoulder. 

His face lights up with a gentle smile, one that somehow makes you feel both better and worse. 

“Hi,” he replies, closing the book and sitting up, making space as if inviting you closer.

You walk over slowly, your steps hesitant, and sink into the armchair he’d been sitting in last night. The memory flickers in your mind—his drunken sigh, the wave of your anxiety.

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence.

You look at him, studying his face. There’s something in his expression, a flicker of hesitation. You can tell how much he wants to say, but he stops himself, holding back, letting you decide where this is going to go.

Why is he being so sweet? 

You ruined everything, and he isn’t even mad. Or maybe he is, and he’s just really good at pretending. The thought twists in your chest, making it hard to breathe. 

Better to get this over with.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can second-guess yourself. “For last night. For... all of it.”

Spencer shakes his head almost immediately, his voice soft. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You let out a laugh, sharp and bitter. “Of course there is. I got mad for nothing. I was being stupid and irrational, and all you did was have fun with your friends. And then I—” your voice cracks, but you press on, “my stupid brain decided to punish you for it because once, a long time ago, there was an idiot who hurt me. And now you’re paying for it. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.”

The words tumble out in a rush, your voice climbing as the floodgates open. 

You know you’re rambling, but you can’t seem to stop yourself. “I shouldn’t have made last night about me, and I shouldn’t have freaked out, and I—”

“Stop,” Spencer says gently, his voice cutting through your spiral. He leans forward slightly, his hand hovering over yours as if he wants to comfort you. 

But then he hesitates, his hand pulling back as if he’s remembering how you pulled away from him last night. Twice.

You notice it. You notice everything—the hesitation, the way his fingers falter mid-air before retreating. And it breaks you.

Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them, blurring your vision as they spill over. You cover your face with trembling hands, trying to muffle the sob that escapes.

Spencer watches you quietly for a moment, his brow furrowed with concern. Then, with a slow exhale, he speaks, his voice calm but firm.

“Look,” he starts, his tone gentle but insistent, “I’m not mad. I’m not. I know things got... messy last night, but that’s not something I’m going to hold against you. I wish I knew what happened so I could understand.”

He shifts in his seat, his eyes never leaving you.

His voice comes softly, almost hesitant as if he’s afraid of pushing you too far. “Can you tell me what happened?”

You freeze for a moment, your breath catching. His question isn’t forceful, but it feels like a gentle nudge toward something you’ve been keeping locked away.

His eyes meet yours, full of patience and quiet encouragement, and it’s enough to loosen the knot in your chest.

“It’s stupid,” you whisper, trying to dismiss it, but Spencer doesn’t let you.

“It’s not,” he says firmly but kindly. “If it’s hurting you, it’s not stupid.”

You take a shaky breath, your fingers nervously playing with the hem of your sleeve. “My ex…he used to drink a lot. And when he did, he wasn’t—he wasn’t a good person. I spent years walking on eggshells around him, trying to predict what mood he’d be in when he was drunk. And he was drunk a lot.”

Spencer’s expression softens even more if that’s possible. He doesn’t interrupt, just lets you speak.

“It’s been years, but last night…I don’t know. Seeing you like that, even though I knew you’d never hurt me, it just…it felt like I was right back there again. Like I couldn’t breathe.” Your voice cracks, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again.

“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “I wish I’d known. I never would’ve—”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “It’s not your fault, Spencer. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my own stupid brain.”

“It’s not stupid,” he counters gently, "Your feelings aren’t stupid. What you went through—what you’re still dealing with—it’s valid. And I’m never going to hurt you. Never. And I’m not angry with you. I am not upset at all. How you felt last night wasn’t wrong or stupid or irrational.”

He lets the words hang in the air, giving you a moment to absorb them before continuing, his voice softening. “I care about you. And that means I’m here, even when things get difficult. Even when you’re upset. Even when you’re not making sense to yourself. I’m here.”

He pauses, his gaze searching yours, like he’s looking for any sign that the words are getting through. “Please don’t think this is about you doing something wrong. You’re not wrong. I’m not mad.”

You wipe your eyes, still trying to steady your breathing, and you look at him, your voice barely a whisper. “You’re not?”

He looks at you, genuinely confused. “Why would I be mad?” he asks softly, leaning forward just a little.

You can’t help but feel the weight of his sincerity, but it doesn’t quite make sense to you yet.

He continues, his voice steady, but with an edge of regret.

“What you are feeling isn’t wrong,” Spencer repeats, “You had every right to feel how you felt. I should’ve been more careful, I should’ve been more aware of how much I was drinking. I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable.”

His eyes are full of genuine remorse as he looks at you. “I never meant for that to happen. I got reckless last night, and that’s on me. I’m sorry for that. But I swear to you, it’ll never happen again.”

He pauses, letting the silence settle for a moment, before he adds, “You deserve to feel safe with me. You deserve to feel like you can trust me. And I’ll make sure that’s the case, from now on.”

You glance at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to stop drinking because of me.”

Spencer shakes his head with a small, reassuring smile. “I don’t even like it,” he says softly. “Last night was just…” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “Everyone was celebrating, and I thought…maybe for once, I’d loosen up, try to be part of it. But honestly, I didn’t even enjoy it. I don’t need it.”

His gaze locks with yours, earnest and steady. “I’d much rather make sure you’re okay than ever drink again. That’s what matters to me.”

As Spencer speaks, his words wrapping around you like a blanket, the tears you’ve been holding back start to spill over again. 

This time, they come in heavy, silent waves, each drop carrying the weight of everything you’ve been trying to hold in.

You can't stop the sobs, your shoulders shaking with the effort to breathe.

Spencer watches you, his heart breaking at the sight. Without a word, he shifts closer, but he hesitates, unsure if you’ll let him. 

“Can I…?” he starts quietly, his voice trembling slightly, “Can I hug you?”

His gaze is full of uncertainty, but it’s also full of care. He’s giving you the space to decide.

You can see the yearning in his eyes — the desire to offer you comfort, to take away just a fraction of the pain and frustration you’re feeling.

You laugh through the tears, a small, shaky sound, but it’s enough to break some of the tension in the air.

Your voice comes out in a whisper, “Yeah, you can hug me.”

Spencer doesn’t waste a second. He sits carefully on the edge of the armchair, making sure not to crowd you, then gently pulls you into his arms. 

It’s a soft, tentative hug at first as if he’s giving you the room to pull away if you need to. 

But you don’t.

He holds you close, with just the right amount of pressure, like he’s trying to hold you together without suffocating you.

Your forehead rests against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding you.

His shirt, soft but slightly wrinkled, brushes against your cheek, the faint scent of his laundry detergent still lingering. Your tears seep into the fabric, darkening small patches, but Spencer doesn’t seem to notice—or care.

You can feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath your temple, steady and calm, a stark contrast to yours. His touch is neither too tight nor too loose, just enough to remind you that he’s there and he is letting you crumble safely in his embrace.

His chin rests lightly on the top of your head, and he whispers, his voice hushed and warm, “I’ve got you, okay? I’m here.”

There’s a tenderness in his touch, in the way his hand moves to the back of your head, smoothing over your hair, like he’s trying to calm the storm inside you. 

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m not mad at you. And I never will be.”

[djmanemihi]

Read from right to left.

[batmanfruitloops]

do either jo or edward drink? how is that like for them / what are their feelings on alcohol if they avoid it?

Jo would have tried it as a young adult mostly out of curiosity and somewhat out of rebellion. He wouldn't care much for it though. He is also still struggling with his faith so it's not really worth the feeling of guilt to keep trying alcohol.

Ed grew up with an alcoholic father, he'd never want to touch the stuff. It brings back horrible memories. Not only that, but he's terrified of the person he might become if he ever tried it. He never wants to be anything like his father. Even without the trauma, he'd still hate the effects. He'd hate losing any control over himself.

-Fluffy

[wicked-shrike]

look at my baby, his name is spoon hes an alcoholic dont worry hes been going to regular AA meetings