#alcholism tw

[ashintheairlikesnow]

ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

-

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

-

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump  @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

[daphartwood]

[DAPHNE HARTWOOD. 27. CIS WOMAN. SHE/HER] is here! They’ve lived in Asbury Park for [FOUR YEARS] and are originally from [CHICAGO, ILLINOIS]. They are a [MANAGER AT CINEMARK ASBURY 12] and in their downtime love [VISITING PARANORMAL BOOKS & COURISITES] and [GETTING TATTOOS AT BLACK LOTUS TATTOO]. They look a lot like [GRACE VAN DIEN] and live in [MEADOWLARK APARTMENTS]. The song that makes people think of them the most is [TEENAGE DIRTBAG BY WHEATUS]

FULL NAME: Daphne Hartwood

NICKNAMES: Daph, Dee

SEXUALITY & PRONOUNS: Pansexual (She/Her)

ROMANTIC STATUS: Single

BIRTHDAY: April 1st, 1997

ZODIAC: Aries, Virgo Moon

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Hufflepuff with Slytherin tendencies

PETS: Pomeranian puppy named ‘Chewy’

HOMETOWN: Chicago, Illinois

CURRENT LOCATION: Asbury Park, New Jersey

OCCUPATION: Manager at Cinemark Asbury 12

ROOMMATES:  Just Chewy.

PARENTS: Trisha Rivers, Trever Hartwood

TATTOOS & PIERCINGS: tattoo of a small moon on her right wrist, different horror tattoos on her left arm, both ears pierced, and her left ear has an industrial piercing.

MUSIC INSPO: teenage dirtbag -wheatus, bad chem -sabrina carpenter, dirty thoughts -chloe adams, the remedy ( i won't worry) -jason mraz, the kill -thirty seconds to mars, samurai -lupe fiasco, the hell song -sum 41, the drugs -mother mother, flowers -miley cyrus,

BIOGRAPHY

alcoholism tw, bad parenting, child abandonment tw,

Tracy met Trever Hartwood one night while she was attending one of his concerts. Trever was a rock and roll lover to the very core of his heart. While Tracy was a doe eyed beauty with a smile that lit up any room. What was supposed to be a one night stand ended up turning into fourteen years of living with a regret. Much to Trever's dismay, his daughter, Daphne Hartwood entered this world one fine Spring day in 1997.

At first it seemed as though he had begun to turn his life around for his little girl but all of it came crashing down shortly after Daphne's second birthday. Her father couldn't give up life on the road, the music, girls, drugs, and chose to give her up instead. The moment he left her mom had never truly been the same. She was lucky that her mother was a strong person who picked her chin up and refused to ever let her daughter see her cry. Something Daphne admired greatly.

She inherited her father's love for music, as well as all things horror related, and it was certainly something her mother often tried to push back on. She eventually did cave, in hopes of growing a stronger bond with her daughter. When Daphne was fifteen she joined a punk band with a group of friends, offering her skills on the guitar, and she even got her first piercing; it was an industrial, and her mother was beyond pissed. Her mother eventually gave in and allowed the piercings that followed. Daphne was growing up quicker than her mother could keep up with, being the social butterfly she was, she figured it was better to simply go along with most of the stuff she threw her way.

The older Daphne got it became clearer and clearer that her mother was not okay. She began to notice how see how much her mother drank. Even taking care of her mother on mornings she woke up feeling sick. At the age of seventeen, Daphne was forced to move to Miami and finish school off there at an aunt's house while her mother focused on getting back on her two feet.

That never happened and Daphne hasn't seen her mother since. She eventually went back to Chicago in search of her but always came up short in the end and eventually accepted that she just didn't want anything to do with her.

As of four years ago, Daphne settled into Asbury Park, New Jersey. She works as a manager at Cinemark Asbury 12 and she loves it. She things it's one of the coolest jobs, even if she can't remember the last time she's had a free weekend.

HEADCANNONS

loves true crime, horror movies, fantasy, gaming, and overall, Chewy, her dog.

she's always ready to go on an adventure. seriously, she hardly sleeps.

she's always looking for some new friends to party with and do random things with.

constantly blasting some sort of music through her earbuds.

she doesn't really believe in leaving things on bitter terms with exes. she may not get along with all of them but doesn't see the point in wasting energy harboring bitterness towards someone.

she loves pumpkin spice anything all year round.

fully believes there is a man in a blue box traveling throughout space and time.

TATTOOS

[spacemanxpaninis]

Me, looking at antagonists in some of my major works/WIPS:

• mother figure who hurts mc

• mother and to a smaller degree father figure who put mcs in situations because they can’t handle their own shit

• elitist jerk guy who doesn’t handle being snubbed well

• mother figure who hurts mc

• narcissistic pervert with a god complex who lies, cheats, and SAs mc

• misogynist dude trying to oust a competent woman

• female guardian of sorts who basically enslaves one of the mcs

• abusive alcoholic grandfather

Yeah, I have a healthy relationship with my mother and have no history of abuse or assault 😌

[jfashion-confessions]

pretty sure this one jfashion influencer i follow has a drinking problem at least based on her stories or at least a host club problem

.

[edgarwayne]

📝 nathan

Their first impression:

"Wow, that guy at the bar looks more miserable than I feel. Maybe I should talk to him. He's also pretty cute..."

Their current impression:

"I can safely say I love this man with my entire being. I look forward to the day we can actually be together, but his well being comes first...I just wish he saw it that way."

What they like the most about your muse:

He is incredibly kind hearted; he cares deeply for other people and that shows in the way he interacts with others and in the work he does. He also makes Edgar laugh harder than anyone he knows. He's free to be himself and be awkward and weird, because he knows not only will Nathan not judge him, but he might just be worse off than Edgar is.

What they dislike the most about your muse:

How he doesn't value himself or see all the good that's in him. That he continues to do all these harmful things to himself. It's been a month now since he promised to work on bettering himself and his life and he won't let Edgar help him, let him support him. At least that's how it feels to Edgar.

What your muse is for them ( Friend, lover, rival ecc.):

Friend, but wanting for so much more. He relishes in the touches and kisses, but he's longing for when they can truly be together.

A general opinion of their relationship:

Edgar thinks they can bring the best out of each other and support one another in a way they never really had before.

If applicable, something they wish to reveal:

"I'm scared your drinking is going to do irreparable harm, to you, to those in your life. I love you so much, it hurts seeing you still coming by drunk and with markings from one of them."

[who-is-muses]

Where Great Granny Mary was exceedingly strict and proper, her husband Conall was far more lax and forgiving, very much the sweet to her sour. He genuinely cared for his great grandson as well, shielding him from Mary’s resentment for his very existence as best he could. He tried to make Jonathan’s life as happy as it could be in a place like Keeny Manor and its gradually failing farm, often taking him into town with him, teaching him how to read and how to plant seeds, buying him toys and books and candy, letting him play with the few farm animals and the horses Conall raised with a friend, showing him how to get almost any animal to love him, and more.

As Jonathan grew older, however, Conall grew ill tempered, crotchety, and harsh. It genuinely had nothing to do with Jonathan, rather an unfortunately persistent part of his reckless past, but Mary made sure to convince the boy otherwise, to have him believe it was all his fault no matter how much Conall assured him that wasn’t the case. But as time went on, Conall only grew meaner and angrier. He began to snap at Jonathan more frequently, the smallest of things setting off his temper. He ultimately returned to the nasty drinking habit he had sworn to leave behind in Dublin, getting drunk most nights. He never hit Jonathan, however, and continued to try and keep him safe up until his untimely death.

[ask-madam-ruby]

Happy Halloween! Here is a nightmarish post about Ruby! (Here’s some background music to put you in a spooky mood)

Ruby’s biggest regret is not Jess becoming a Gumm-Gumm. Or how much pain and suffer Milo had to go through. It’s not even staying behind as Dictatious fights at Killahead. She regret all those things, but it’s not the biggest.

Her biggest regret is she was forced to kill children. Innocent, human children.

She is a Changeling Spy for Gunmar and the Gumm-Gumms. She has to do anything in her power to make sure things are according to plan. Even if it means murder.

There has been a few times throughout the century that she was forced to kill a child or two. She doesn’t know their names, but she still sees the fear in their eyes when they see her in her troll form. The sound of their screams still rings in her ears. The warm red wetness on her claws. The tears in the children’s eyes before she took their short lives.

Nothing could bring her peace. Not all the alcohol or drugs in the world can numb her. It’s like the souls of the children haunt her daily.

What’s worse is seeing Nika, Dee and Alex and thinking about the children she murdered. She is afraid to hold her children. She knows what her claws can do. But they trust and love her.

The whispers in her ears of children fill her with dread as she holds one of her young children. She always puts on a mask. But deep down.

She regrets.

[strawberista]

⚅— @fangedstories asked: —⚅ ⚅— "۞" —⚅

Muse Introduction Meme

— ★ ⚄ ★ —

⚀ Muse: Silon {From @meadowthorns }

Silon stretched his good arm high over his head and gazed out at the way the morning dusted over the horizon and made everything look just a little hazy. If he weren't in the position he was currently in, maybe he could have even enjoyed it. But as things stood, he was sitting next to a long-dead campfire with no provisions and a long way to go. Nevermind the fact that he had a man tied up like a sack of potatoes and needed to drag the lout for miles into the next town. This was probably one of the most unpleasant jobs that he'd ever taken on, but he had to do what he had to do.

He hadn't gotten too many details — he didn't really need them for a retrieval like this— but he knew this guy owed his employer an awful lot of money. It was a bad position to be in. Knowing groups like this, he was sure the guy was going to be forced to do manual labor for them if he was lucky. He might be killed if he wasn't. And maybe there might have been a part of him that felt bad about that, but he needed a way to survive and the world was cruel. There wasn't any space to have sympathy for the less fortunate right now. He needed money. To eat. To drink. To drink himself so hard he didn't have any dreams or nightmares. Anything to keep the screams of his past from calling after his tattered soul.

Silon stood and went through the trouble kicking through and stomping out the campfire, even knowing that there wasn't anything left to stomp out, then he drug his prisoner up to his feet. He ignored the groan of pain and pleas for mercy, letting them flow in one ear and out the other, and he started making his way back down the path. There was so much about this that he didn't like, and there was still that voice that told him to just be decent and cut the guy loose, cut his losses.

But that really wasn't his business.

"Shut the hell up, damn," he growled as he marched along the road. "Nothing you say is gonna change anything anymore than any other part of this trip. Got it? So can it, asshole."

It was rare for him to be so blessed, but his bickering actually worked, and he was given silence for the remainder of his trip. At least he'd be eating good tonight, in an inn he could afford and with a cup of the cheapest swill in the place. He'd drown himself. And he'd forget. And for one, confused, wonderful night he would be completely oblivious to his pain.

[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

[aethramusings]

dr nicholas shepard divorced his wife , catherine f . chungus on May 3rd , 2020 after a rough divorce in which the custody of their daughter , poppyseed , was given over to miss chungus on August 17th . reasons for the divorce include but were not limited to : alcoholism . alcoholism . alcoholism . low motivational drive secondary to alcoholism . alcoholism . inability to communicate his needs in a healthy manner . they are both gay . alcholo

( very quietly ) wait hold on is shep divorced ,

[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]

[dxncingxnmyown]

It's a reversal of circumstance, to be observed so aptly. In this month, it's Javier who pokes and prods the Princess' silken sweet disposition. But she sees him; sees the habit of drinking to excess, basking in the glow of feeling uninhibited and loose. Did she see the grief he hides behind it, too? Swallowing the lump in his throat, he shakes his head at the mention of family. "I've always been a wee bit of a drunk." Javier answers, frank and with little defense. "My family's grown so accustomed to it. What's a little more self-indulgence?" What Javier doesn't say is that it is his entire family that hurts. And orphans wo hurt? They make allowances for vice, in the name of survivability. "Thank you." He adds, as an afterthought. "I can't recall the last woman to give me grief."

His lips twitch into an amused smile. Valencia wraps her lips around the word as if he's just announced himself an alternative-believer of some foreign religion. Maybe she, unlike Javier, did not come to friendship as easily as she did romance. Or at least, the image of romance. "It will be grand." He assures with a Cheshire cat grin. "We'd make better friends than lovers, I'd think. And in this case, I think it's what we both need." Someone to turn to, someone to listen without conceivable judgement. Naive, perhaps, to put his faith in Simone's grasp. But what else could he do? "You're right. I do not need to feel that way about you. But," he nods in compassion. "It doesn't mean we don't deserve to feel it." At the mention of her lover, he wonders if Valencia hears the lovelorn uncertainty in her voice. "Yet you wish to remain together, then? Unmarried and in love?" It's not the worst idea, by any stretch. "What say he then, in regards to us?" Sighing, he uncrosses his legs. "Too much of a distance, I'm afraid. And it is nearly impossible, to serve two crowns so generously. But who knows?" Javier shrugs. "It's possible love exists even when two are unmarried, and nations away."

❛hmm, no, you do not seem to know your limits, javier.❜ his nonchalance is what catches her attention, and he's not the first to be in utter denial over such habits. such is the way of most, they would never admit to their addictions. valencia perhaps believes he doesn't have a death wish, but she's willing to bet he underestimates the power liquor, or his own dependence on it. a little bit everyday, perhaps seems harmless to most, but in the month she's seen him, it is most certainly harmful. why was she concerned? the princess didn't know, but what is it concern? whatever it was, it compels her to continue this line of topic. another thought crosses her mind the longer she studies him - there's something almost tragic about this man that forces her thoughts his way. perhaps it is concern or curiosity. now that is odd beyond words. ❛your charm is rather excessive, though it cannot be denied it works on most.❜ except for her. ❛let's call it an observation. it appears to me that those around you, your family, perhaps are not as preceptive as they believe themselves to be. if they were, they would agree with me.❜ truly, it's a wonder how has his loved ones not noticed his intake.

his blunt, and rather presumptuous remark causes her to stare for several moments. frankly, valencia herself didn't understand this odd kinship she felt towards this stranger. there's something strangely comforting about his presence, a sincerity in his eyes that she rarely sees in others. ❛friends?❜ she echoes, neither confirming nor denying his words. she didn't have many of them, and none she shared her secrets with ( the ones alistair didn't know of ). none she felt a desire to share with. seeing as valencia reveals her deepest secret, javier truly does have a particular skill. or perhaps it is the knowing that he does have an ulterior motives of knowing her secret. in fact, he almost seems as if he wishes to help her. not that he or anyone could on the matter of alistair. ❛you do not need to feel one way or another for me. we would know what this is.❜ well, that's not entirely true, all that when the viscount has her questioning herself as of late. ❛they do not know, regardless of the fact, it's moot since we do not wish to marry.❜ she did not know what she wanted from alistair. or simply...just him. ❛ahh.❜ her mind runs a list of crown princess, and there's a few of them. ❛you don't believe you two can make it work - rule both nations as spouses?❜

[witchwyfe]

lost in the fire - jhs

I pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x female reader

I précis: you get jealous of your fwb!

I content/warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of almost-drunkenness, language, kissing, allusions to sex, friends with benefits

I word count: 969

There's a pit in your stomach when you see Jake talking to another girl. You don't even know why you agreed to come out with your shared friend group, you're tired from a long week and now pissy because Jake isn't paying you any attention.

She’s pretty, with blond hair and green eyes, a manicured hand dancing up his arm. He laughs at something she says and you grind your teeth, jaw clenched uncomfortably. 

Mickey thought it would be fun to go to club, rather than the usual hangout at the Hard Deck, and everyone else was on board.

Jake's out of uniform tonight, in a satin-y black shirt and well-fitting jeans. You're dying to run your hands down his chest, before yanking his clothes off, but you've kept your distance this evening. You're irritated that he's been avoiding you, even though you specifically told him you didn't want any of your friends to know about your arrangement.

You met Natasha at a hot yoga class and you two became quick friends. Once the two of you were close enough, she introduced you to her squadron. Not even a few hours after she brought you to the Hard Deck and introduced you to all her friends/coworkers, you'd hooked up with Jake in the bathroom. Even though you swore it wouldn’t happen again, it did, a lot.

So it became a regular thing, that you conveniently didn't mention to everyone else. A good old fashioned friends with benefits. He didn’t seem the type to be in a relationship and you weren’t looking for anything serious. 

Problem is, both of you get jealous but neither of you will admit it, or ask for something more.

You take the tequila shot that Natasha slides in front of you, reveling in the burn down your throat. You're one shot past fun, buzzy, tipsy, and entering a pouty, crabby tipsy. You want nothing more to sit at the high top table, with your arms crossed and bottom lip popped out until Jake comes and gives you some attention, but instead you force a smile, and pull Natasha out to dance.

Unbeknownst to you, Jake has had an eye on you all night, and know that you've moved to dance, closer to his perch at the bar, his gaze is locked on your form.

The tight dress you have on accentuates your form and Jake almost wipes drool from his mouth when he see's you dancing against Natasha. Your ass rolls against her front, her hands loosely on your hips. You’re both giggling, your head thrown back against her shoulder. 

Song after song, you dance with Natasha, until you feel like you can no longer stand up on your own, feet aching in your heels. You wobble over to the table, simultaneously jealous and in awe of the way Natasha seems to gracefully strut to the table, even after four tequila shots.

Jake is back at the table, he must’ve lost the woman he was talking to, because she’s nowhere to be found. You’re still sporting a frown though, facial muscles taut. Jake is studying you carefully, but you don’t even notice, reaching for Natasha to ask for another shot.

“Why don’t I get you some water, sweetheart?” He cuts in, hand reaching for you. You step away from his hand, face pulling into a scowl, but following in his direction nevertheless. His hand hovers over your lower back, not actually touching you, but you can still feel the heat from his appendage. 

“I missed you.” He says quietly, once you’re far enough from the table.

You snort, giving him a cold look. “Could’ve fooled me.”

His brows furrow, a pout that you would find cute any other time, tracing his lips. “I don’t understand, I thought we weren’t telling anyone?”

You roll your eyes with a huff, crossing your arms. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Jake.” 

“Then, please, enlighten me, darlin’,” He whines, not a trace of sarcasm in his tone. 

You sigh heavily. “If you missed me so much, like you said, then why were you talking to other girls?” You wonder, eyes narrowed.

“Baby, are you kidding me?!” He exclaims, ignoring the sharp look you give him—whether its from the baby or his volume level, he doesn’t know. “My favorite girl was ignoring me, I—“

“No Jake, I’m not ‘kidding you’.” You snap, abruptly cutting him off. “What the hell am I supposed to think? You spend the whole night, not speaking to me, but you’re fine with talking blondie’s ear off all night? I wasn’t ignoring you, I’m trying not to make it obvious to our friends that we’re sleeping together, but you could at least acknowledge me!”

“Are you jealous?” He blurts, he can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes him, even when he thinks he see’s smoke come out of your ears.

“Shut the fuck up.” You hiss.

“No need to be jealous baby,” He sidles right up to you. “You’re the one I’m goin’ home with, pretty girl.”

“Well she doesn’t know that.” You grumble.

“You’re the only that needs to know it.” He rasps, calloused palms sliding gently over your cheeks, before warm lips land on yours. 

His tongue is practically down your throat when you finally push him off, feigning an appalled expression. Your cheeks warm under his gaze, but you also can’t deny how good it feels to be the only person he’s looking at right now. 

“Take me home then.” You dare, locking your eyes on his. 

“Gladly.” He smirks, sliding his arm around your shoulders. He walks you both by your group, dropping enough cash on the table, to cover all of your drinks, before leading you outside.

If your friends didn’t know before, they definitely do now. 

© witchwyfe 2023. absolutely no reposting, translating, or modifying, even with credit.