Pairings: alcoholi!toman mikey x reader
Warnings: Angst, Alcohol addiction, emotional dependency, unhealthy coping, toxic emotional patterns, reader in emotional pain
part 2 part 3
You stopped asking when he started drinking.
The first few times, it was easy to blame it on a bad day. On another anniversary. Another graveyard visit. Another memory with Shin, Baji, Emma—just names now, echoing through Mikey’s life like ghosts he can’t outrun.
But it’s not just the bad days anymore.
Now it’s every day.
You come home and find him passed out on the couch, half a bottle of whiskey hanging from his fingers. There’s an untouched bowl of rice you left for him on the table, cold now. The apartment smells like smoke and stale alcohol.
You want to shake him awake. You want to throw the bottle against the wall. You want to scream "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
But you don’t, because you already know the answer.
So instead, you kneel beside him. Gently take the bottle from his hand. Pull the blanket up over his shoulders.
“Mikey,” you whisper. “You promised me last week.”
He doesn’t wake up. maybe he just doesn’t want to.
You met him in the after.
After Shinichiro. After Baji. After Emma. After the light in his eyes was already fading. He wasn’t good at letting people in by then. But for some reason, he let you stay.
And at first, you thought maybe you could be the person who helped him heal. That if you held him long enough, kissed him gently enough, stayed quiet enough, he’d stop hurting.
But grief doesn’t work like that.
And neither does Mikey.
The first time he got drunk in front of you, he kissed you like he was starving. His hands were trembled. His mouth tasted like bitterness and longing. He gripped your waist too tight and whispered “don’t leave me too” like you were already halfway out the door.
You didn’t leave. Not that night. Not any of the nights after. Even when he started drinking in the mornings. Even when the kisses stopped and the yelling started.
Even when he forgot your birthday and couldn’t look you in the eyes after he promised—again—that he’d quit.
You’re still here.
And that’s what makes it hurt the most.
Some days he’s soft. Quiet. Human.
He’ll wake up with a hangover and wordlessly take your hand. He’ll press his forehead to your shoulder and mumble apologies in a voice so small it cracks your chest open.
“I’m trying,” he whispers once. “I just don’t know how to stop.”
And you cry, silently, fingers tangled in his hair.
Because you believe him.
But the bottle always wins. It's always there—lingering. You stop inviting friends over. Stop taking calls when you’re home. It’s easier to make excuses than admit what’s happening.
He’s Mikey. Former leader of Toman. A legend. Untouchable.
But he’s also a man with whiskey on his breath and scars on his heart, trying to drown in silence every single night.
Sometimes you wonder if he even remembers who he used to be.
Sometimes you forget who you used to be, too.
So you go over to his place. Every single day—so much that three quarters of your things were at his place already. So much that you practically lived there to take care of him.
One night, "Mikey?" you open his door to no reply. your eyebrows furrow in concern as you call out his name, looking for him in every room. "Mikey-" you find him in the bathroom, on the floor, bottle clenched in his hand, knuckles white.
He’s not drunk. Not yet, but he’s shaking. Breathing hard. Sweating like he just ran a mile.
“Don’t look at me,” he chokes.
You crouch down beside him anyway.
“Mikey,” you whisper. “Put it down. Please.”
He won’t meet your eyes. “I’m nothing without it. You don’t get it.”
“Mikey, I’m right here,” you snap, but you don't shout. the pain spilling over. “I’ve been holding on and taking care of what’s left of you like it’s worth something—and now you’re telling me you need a bottle more than you need me?”
He finally looks at you.
And the worst part is the look in his eyes: guilt, shame, and something even worse—resignation.
“…Maybe I do.”
Your heart breaks a little.
Not all at once. Just a small crack.
But cracks spread.
You think about leaving.
You pack a bag one morning after he passes out in the bedroom, stinking of gin and anger. You get to the door. You grip the handle.
And then you remember his voice from last week: "Everyone leaves."
You set the bag down and you hate yourself a little for staying but you also love him too much not to.
And that’s the cruelest part of all.
He sees the bag eventually. The bag packed with all of your things which he thought was his bag with alcohol.
One night, in a rare moment of clarity, he says:
“I know I’m killing myself.”
You stay still. Frozen from turning the magazine you were barely looking at to the next page.
“I just… don’t know how else to survive.”
You look at him then. Pale. Tired. A shell of a boy who used to believe he could change the world.
“Then let me help you,” you whisper. “Let me be enough.”
Mikey leans back against the couch, eyes toward the ceiling.
“I don’t think anyone’s enough,” he says softly. “Not even you.”
You cry in the kitchen that night.
Quietly. Into your sleeve. Bent over the sink like it might carry some of the grief away with the water.
You know he loves you but love doesn’t fix everything.
Not when he sees what he does to you. Not when he's makng you cry silently like you don't want him to hear. Not when the pain runs deeper than his veins. Not when he’s still choosing the bottle every time.
And you don’t know how much longer you can hold on before you break, too.
But still—you stay.
Because maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe one day, he’ll wake up and want to live.
And maybe—just maybe—he’ll remember that you were always the one who stayed.
Even when it hurt.
ᯓ★Okay so I'm gonna make a part 2-4(?) of this ehehhe | Masterlist
Sometimes, I wish that my therapist understood that no, I don't need to learn how to "sit with the feelings."
If I started drinking and getting high, it was precisely because I sat with them for so long it started eating me alive.
Like doctor, I'm traumatized and autistic, you can't just tell me to sit with the feelings. IT. WON'T. WORK.
My glass of emotions doesn't empty itself every night. It stays half full. If I keep pouring and pouring, it overflows, and the relapses are so worse than what I would've done if I didn't just try to go through the feelings instead of making it more bearable.
That's the issue I have with most addiction therapy. They think all you ever do is run away. It's like they do see that substance abuse, self-harm, or any form of harmful addiction we pick up to stay the fuck alive. My brain is a hornet nest that everything, every second of every day, pokes with a stick. So excuse me if sometimes I need a time out from it. It's not always "the easy way out". At times, it's the only one that doesn't mean disappearing.
And if it's the thing that keeps my heart beating for a few more hours, it'll have to do.
I tried breathing exercises, medication for anxiety AND cravings, AND neuroleptics that turned my mind into mush, meditation, exercise, going out to walk, vitamin supplements, yoga, stretching, hypnosis, cardiac coherence. Nothing works.
At the end of the day this shit became a full time job I kid you not. How can I live if I spend hours everyday to JUST function ? What if I funtion better while using ?
But there's no options in my case, you're just seen as a lost cause and left to rot because everyone think that you, inevitably, will.
I have to do harm reduction unsupervised on myself to keep goin. That's not fun nor living. I'm exhausted.
Having a drinking problem with ADHD unlocks this fucked up revival of part of your dumb inner child like “hm what if I leave these starbursts in tequila for a week,” when you fully have five pages to write that are due tomorrow night
Just wanted to say that I love all your stories, specially Spaghetti and Red Wine, that I already read twice.
Aaaad I have a prompt: Peter develops an alcohol (or other substance) problem after his aunt May dies. Tony, having taken him in, finds out and tries to help him.
Thank u ❤️❤️❤️
Thank you so much for your kind words and for the prompt! Sincerest apologies that it took sooo long to get to, I've been so uninspired this year! Hope it's okay! :))))
Here it is!
Word count - 1724 words
***
Drowning was backwards, Peter decided.
It was all backwards.
Day in and day out, his lungs burned and he gasped for air. It was unbearable. But as soon as he was drowning, he drew air into his lungs. The burn was quenched with the burn at the back of his throat.
It was only when he wasn’t drowning that he felt most like he was suffocating.
Backwards.
Peter liked drowning.
Spider-Man drowned too but no one knew it. It came with perks - the mask, the reputation, the rapport with the locals that made lying to them all the more easy.
With his mask he was Spider-Man, not Spider-Sixteen-year-old-kid. ‘Man’ as in, over twenty-one.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out how this would benefit him and Peter used to consider himself a genius. He wasn’t so sure now that he’d been consumed by the tides. A genius wouldn’t let this happen.
Sixteen was pretty young to start drinking. Sixteen was pretty young for a lot of things.
Sixteen was pretty young to have lost two parents. Four parents was simply excessive but Peter always had been something of an over achiever. Now he was nothing. He felt nothing under the waves.
He drowned on rooftops. He drowned on top of moving trains, staring up at the clouds swirling over head. He drowned at every chance he could get and when he wasn’t drowning he was thinking of it - thinking how badly he needed it because not drowning was worse. Always worse.
He did it alone. He kept it hidden - safe. Sacred. His dirty little secret.
The only issue with that was he’d never been great at keeping secrets from those he held close to him. But the more he drowned, the further he drifted from them and the easier it was to push them away, squeezing empty bottles in the growing space between himself and everyone else like he was building a wall of glass to hide behind.
Drowning his sorrows - and he had no shortage of those - was a solitary activity. He wanted it to stay that way. People always tried to make him talk and think and do all the things he never wanted to do again.
He didn’t want to think about it. About her. About any of them. About any of his dead.
Tony Stark was perhaps an unfortunate oversight that caused the whole operation to crumble. The man hadn’t factored into the equation for quite some time and Peter barely registered him as a character in his story anymore. He wasn’t an issue.
Tony had been thrown in the deep end and had had a moody, bereaved teenager dumped on his doorstep simply because Peter had thought of no one else to call on the fateful night when the waves descended over him, pushing him so deep he couldn’t escape the current if he tried.
They both stopped pretending either of them had any idea how to navigate the waters together pretty soon after. They skirted around each other to avoid difficult conversations neither of them wanted to have. They hardly ever saw each other anymore, even though Peter was now living with him.
Gone were the days of easy lab sessions after school spent joking and laughing. Peter didn’t laugh anymore and Tony didn’t know what to do with that. So he didn’t do anything.
Tony never questioned his whereabouts. He never got close enough to smell the liquor on his breath. He never pried long enough to realise what he was doing.
Peter never once blamed him for it. It only made it easier to drown in peace.
It was destined to fall apart at some point, though.
Spider-Man had been detrimental to his survival and he continued to be, though he spent less and less time actually active in the suit fighting crime like he had been doing for almost two years prior.
But he still tried now and then. Only, web swinging wasn’t the smartest idea when he was drowning and couldn’t remember the last time he bothered with the frivolities of food.
He didn’t remember trying to swing to the Tower. He didn’t remember not making it to his room. He didn’t remember Tony finding him or how he got him down to the MedBay. He’d never forget the look on his face when he woke up, though.
***
Peter had spent no shortage of time in the MedBay. When he was more active in the suit, he’d been injured on the regular and May and Tony would panic and rush him to the MedBay for Cho to stitch him up. He wondered how she’d try stitch this one up.
Tony was there beside him, his hand covering his mouth. He didn’t look angry, like Peter had expected, but he was disappointed. Wasn’t that supposed to be worse? Peter just didn’t care. He had been caught and he didn’t care. His eyes told him he knew everything there was to know about him. There was no use hiding now.
“You care to explain why your blood alcohol levels were through the roof?” Tony asked when he noticed Peter’s eyes were open.
“Probably the tequila.”
Tony swore under his breath. “I swear to god, Parker, you have some serious explaining to do.”
Peter shrugged.
Tony stood. “You know, I really thought you were better than this.”
Peter stared at him. It was backwards. He was breathing easily but it felt like inhaling fire.
“I just.. what were you thinking?” Tony’s hard stare pierced holes in his chest.
Peter shrugged. “Wasn’t.”
“Clearly! Do you even understand how reckless you’ve been? How stupid..” Tony seethed for minutes, pacing around, waving his finger and ranting about how much Peter had screwed up.
It was like the ferry but worse. But he didn’t tear up like he had then. He didn’t beg for the man’s understanding like he had then. He didn’t tell him he was sorry or that he wanted to be like him like he had then. He didn’t want to be anything. So he didn’t say anything.
Eventually, Tony sighed and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.
“Everyone always said - May always said” - Peter winced - “how alike we are. How much like me you are. And that.. and that always used to make me so proud.” Tony laughed humourlessly. “I’d have never thought that this is what they meant.”
Peter kept watching him, blinking up at him while Tony worked through his anger and disappointment. It was all he could do.
Tony sighed. “Okay.” He nodded, as if steeling himself to say something unpleasant. “Right. I guess.. I guess it’s time.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, he just stared down at the floor, deep in thought.
Peter shifted uncomfortably. “Time?” He asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes, Peter. This was only supposed to be a temporary thing anyway.. and well, we all know I’m not qualified..” Tony rambled. And continued to ramble, talking around what Peter already understood.
Tony was getting rid of him. It was simple. The ship was sinking and Tony was abandoning it to the merciless waves. Peter could drown peacefully now on his own, not worrying about dragging Tony under too. It was better this way.
“Peter?”
“Yeah?”
Tony spread his arms. “Well? Were you even listening?”
Peter shrugged. “S’okay.”
“What?”
“It’s okay. Wherever I go. It’s okay.”
“Okay? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
Peter stared at the wall behind Tony, speaking expressionlessly. “What would you like me to say instead?”
“I don’t.. I don’t know!” Tony ran a hand through his hair. “This is all just..” Tony waved his arms, looking for the right word. He couldn’t.
“Backwards,” Peter said.
Tony looked at him. Peter met his gaze head on. The man was silent, pursing his lips. His eyes were glassy. Tony’s shoulders sagged, he sighed and then slowly sank back into the chair.
“Yeah. That’s.. Yeah. Backwards.”
They didn’t speak for a long time. It could have been hours, days, years. Peter aged an eternity in that silence.
“I just.. Why?” Tony sounded broken.
Peter kept his mouth closed, worried that if he opened it, he’d start screaming and wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Why won’t you talk to me? You know me. You know who I used to be.”
There was pain in his eyes. Peter wondered if it was like looking into a mirror for him - seeing all of his bad choices manifest in the mentee that was supposed to be better than he was.
“Say something.”
Peter had nothing to say. He had a million things to say. He never wanted to speak again. He wanted to dive into the salty depths of despair, sink down and swallow until his lungs stopped burning.
“Peter, if there’s anyone that understands what you’re going through, it’s me. And I’m the last person that’s going to judge. I just want you to tell me.”
His lungs were filling up with water. He didn’t remember how to breathe.
"Just say it.”
“I’m drowning.”
Tony sucked in a breath. Peter waited for him to do something, say something - help him. Tony smiled a sad smile, relieved at the admission.
“Go on,” Tony encouraged gently. Peter’s throat burned. His eyes did too.
“I’m drowning and the only time I don’t feel like I’m drowning is when I drown myself. It’s backwards.”
Tony reached forward and took Peter’s hand, covering it with his own. He didn’t remember the last time he’d touched another person. He looked at their hands.
Tony’s was warm, Peter’s was freezing. Gradually, the warmth seeped into his and the places were their skin was touching reached equilibrium. Balance. Understanding.
“I get it, Peter,” Tony said, so incredibly earnest that the burning overwhelmed him and a single tear spilled down his cheek. “I see you. I understand. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this, okay?” He squeezed his hand. “Together.”
The urge to run and hide was there, to shy away into the dark depths of his mind and push everyone further back from himself. But Tony was a lifeboat. He had been drowning once too and maybe that meant he could be the one that helped him learn to swim.
