#alchole

[yopbot]

I was trying to make some transition slides for a video

[spmazumder]

The £3 Miracle Pill promises to reduce alcohol intake.

Drugs have been hailed for lessening desire.

Having been hailed for helping individuals cut back on their alcohol use, a £3 miracle pill has been dubbed the “Ozempic for drinking”.…

See more

[o0kawaii0o]

More summer vibes!

Same ref link as my zoro post! [x]

[godsfavdarling]

waiting for the day to end

my masterlist, 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, no y/n 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. 

[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.

[that-bitch-kat3]

lily to remus after hes 11 drinks in: remus you are going to kill your liver

remus: my liver has been living rent free in my body for 17 years! its about time it starts pulling it weight

[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."

[dulcetlamb]

[littlefirefly42]

I feel like Sevika was the kind of mom to give Powder a little bit of whiskey every night because she had bad nightmares and the according to Sevika the screaming was annoying (but really it was because she cared about Powder and was trying to help her get through the night the best way she knew how)

Powder would be the kind of mom to wonder aloud if she should just shoot Isha with a tranquilizer to get her to sleep. And then Sevika would hit her lightly on the back of the head and tell her that's a shitty idea (but Sevika knows Jinx is also just trying to help her little girl the best way she knows how and gives Jinx parenting advice)

[flowersintheimpala69]

every time I see someone twinkify dean and say some shit like “he would listen to Taylor swift!” 6 years are taken off my life span.

[loving-delusions]

drew sebastian as vines because i gotta lock in on college work.....

[jacky93sims]

Cocktail Board Functional for The Sims 2

This is a 4to2 conversion from Somik&Severinka, low poly. The board is an array of objects converted from Syboubou Flavie Bar Set. Sims can autonoumsly prepare 10 drinks and then choose among them the ones they like. They will be charged of 100 simoleon (that I think it's fair for 10 cocktails). Found in Party Section. Cocktails are cloned from the game juice so they increase hunger (but I reduced the amount by half). Children cannot use it of course.

DOWNLOAD HERE

[curi0uscreature]

* Song For The Desperate

[godsfavdarling]

waiting for the day to end (pt.2)

my masterlist, 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, no y/n 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.”

[acorpsesbride]

Literally Hellhammer 1 minute before a gig starts

[kacievvbbbb]

something about the fact that Zoro saw s-hawk eyes furrow in effort with a concentrated frown and a little sweat drip down his face and immediately went what is this? who is this fraud?!? Mihawk would never be so human

The fact that there's also this translation is sooo much funnier because this is so much differnet than just calling s-hawk more human as a jab. Mihawk your boy is coming for your throat.