#plane accident cw

[beholdingslut]

tiktok accounts about famous aviation accidents NEED to stop finding their way to my fyp when i get enough of that at work

[koszmarnybudyn]

Disturbing imagery ahead (tentacles, blood like splaters, inhuman smiling faces etc.)

What if Willy won?

[kristybluebird]

20 years later RGU

[occasionallythreeowls]

for the ask game, 9 + 13 for whatever fic(s) of your choice :)

Let's see, how about

she sleeps below (so down you go)

(aka, what would happen if only Van survived the crash? Bad things. Bad bad things.)

9. Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

The fic had an alternate ending: while driving her mother home from a bar, Van has a panic attack at the wheel and crashes. Her mother dies, Van survives (again), and having another instance of stupid, improbable, absurd survival (and the fact that she now has no one left to take care of) causes Van to break. After this, Van makes her way north to the wilderness, chasing her ghosts into oblivion. Ultimately, I went with a much more immediate, grim and violent ending. But hey, at least Van's happy. Her mind is shattered beyond repair, but she's happy.

13. What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

I don't necessarily listen to anything in particular while I write. That being said, there are two songs that I think of for this fic: Exit Music (For a Film) by Radiohead, and Growing Poppies by Alec Lambert.

Thanks for the ask!

[harbingrs]

Video of the day: Unstable Aircraft Design?! The Incredible Story of China Eastern flight 583 (or, a cautionary tale on why you should fasten your seatbelt whenever you're sitting down on a plane)

Chances are that anything you're flying in today is more pitch stable than the MD-11, but it's definitely better safe than sorry.

Video thumbnail description: An MD-11 passenger airliner with China Eastern Airlines livery, obviously photoshopped with a 'wiggly' distortion effect. Text reads ROLLERCOASTER AT 33,000 FEET!

Sponsored segment timecodes: 6:35 - 8:00 (it's BetterHelp so skip it)

Under the read more:

Video 'spoilers'

Content warnings

Accessibility notes

Comment highlights

Content warnings: The plane doesn't crash, but many passengers are injured and several killed during a rollercoaster-style cycle of flying to recover from an issue. The video is simulated and doesn't show passengers or injuries.

Accessibility: Video is well-narrated with accurate captions. Some animated diagrams are used to illustrate plane design and engineering, but are described in narration. A few definitions of terminology are shown visually, but are also summarised verbally.

Highlights from the comments:

From user @.djmech3871: I remember this very well. I was a World Airways 31:51 mechanic on the MD-11 and after this incident we had to install a mechanical lock on the flap/slat handle. RIP to the two people who died.

From user @.randallhunt9170: It was this and other peculiarities that eventually relegated the MD-11 to cargo work only.

From user @.jackdbur: MD tried many "New" things to make sales many of their ideas were badly engineered and executed, much of this is due to how the company was organised, Management > bean counters > engineering. Thin push rods to lock baggage doors what could go wrong, those big bolts holding the engines on we can go a size down and save some money, & this one let's make this airliner unstable as to see what happens.

From user @.Wolfeson28

Exactly. My first thought when I heard that was: why on earth would you want the slats to always default to the retracted or the extended position? What you want in the event of the system failing is for the flaps and slats to stay in whichever position they're already in! This is so befuddling in that it's almost the same problem that contributed to the crash of American 191 in Chicago - the plane didn't have a mechanical system to lock the slats in place, so when the hydraulics on the left wing were compromised, those slats retracted under the air load and the wing ended up stalling. In the same vein, the unusually high speeds and reduced stability mentioned earlier directly contributed to the crashes of FedEx flights 14 (Newark) and 80 (Narita). The more I learn about the DC/MD-10/11 series of planes, the more I can't help feeling they're almost as bad as their reputations make them seem.

From user @.kenoliver8913:

And compounded by some poor ergonomic design. Keyboards and important levers/switches should be spaced far enough apart you can never hit one while operating the other. Think about if you were trying to punch numbers into that keyboard as you hit a little real turbulence …

From user @.grantcivyt

This thread is why there appears so little innovation in commercial aviation. Safety is important but so is experimentation.

From user @.sparkyy0007 All fail safe systems must be designed to fail to a predictable default position, either extended or retracted. In the case of a flap system failure, a flap remaining in some undefined position could cause complete loss of roll control by becoming an unintentional aileron. Flaps fully extended fail-safe position allows a reasonable landing speed and the ability to synchronize the working flaps to the fail-safe to maintain roll stability.

From user @.akchuck100: My wife was in management at the Hospital in Anchorage when this happened. It was called a 'CODE External" over the hospital wide speakers. That meant that there were a large number of casualties coming into the hospital from outside the hospital (as opposed to a code internal, casualties from an 'In Hospital' emergency'). The emergency plan was designed for emergencies like a plane crash at the airport in town. The expectation was that employees would rush to the hospital to give help within 20 minutes or so. However, even though Providence Alaska Medical Center was the closest Hospital and because of the distance from the incident over the Aleutian Islands, it was still another 6 hours before the first casualties were expected to arrive at the hospital. There were 150, non-English speaking Chinese nationals who needed medical help. Great praise should go to not only the hospital personnel who rushed into work and then waited for the emergency to arrive, but to the passengers and crew who dealt with the victims for A LONG F-ING TIME before they could get real medical help. Also, great appreciation should go to all the employees of every Chinese restaurant in town (especially 'Charlies Bakery') who supplied VOLUNTEER translators to the hospital at a moments notice.

[steddieas-shegoes]

hate to remember you like this

for @steddieholidaydrabbles prompt 'angst with a happy ending' rated m wc: 1000 cw: mention of car accident, medical emergency, temporary amnesia tags: post-break up, assumed unrequited feelings, getting back together

------------------------------

"Eddie, it's Steve."

Robin's words echoed in his head as he boarded the plane.

He left Steve three years ago because Steve told him to go, told him that if his dreams were so big that he couldn't stay then he had to leave and not come back.

Steve refused to talk to him since, refused to visit when all the kids came to his shows, refused to show up to Christmas at Wayne's.

So he shouldn't be on this flight to see Steve.

But Robin had insisted that Steve asked for him, and Eddie couldn't ignore the immediate need to be there for him.

Despite time, distance, and the constant feelings of regret mixed with heartbreak and anger, he still only wanted Steve.

He didn't know what happened, just that Steve had been in a medically induced coma for over 24 hours and the moment he woke up, he was begging for someone to get Eddie.

Robin had mentioned that he didn't seem to have all of his memories, but didn't tell him any details on which memories he may be missing.

He sat in his seat and hoped that whatever he was walking into would be closure for his heart.

--------------------------------

The kids were all sitting in the waiting room when he arrived at the hospital.

The moment Will saw him, hell broke loose.

"Who called you?" he asked.

"Robin. Are they letting people back?" Eddie asked.

"You shouldn't be here," Will said.

Eddie looked at his stance and couldn't help but smile. Will had grown incredibly protective of Steve after Eddie left, much to everyone's surprise.

"He asked for me. I promised I'd come if he ever needed me."

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"Room 186. He was awake a little while ago, but they're only letting two people in at a time and Robin and Joyce have been with him for the last hour."

"Thanks."

Room 186 wasn't far down the hall. He could hear Joyce's motherly tone fussing while Robin sounded like she was rambling to herself.

When he walked into the room, his breath caught in his throat.

Steve was bruised, and half of his head was wrapped in bandages that looked like they needed to be changed.

But he gave Eddie a soft smile.

A smile he didn't deserve.

"Baby, tell Joyce to stop worrying herself to death over me. I'm fine."

Baby.

Robin and Joyce glanced over at Eddie, waiting for his reaction.

"I got it from here, Joyce," Eddie smiled at her and Robin, understanding coming over him swiftly.

"Alright, Eddie's got ya for a bit, but I'll be in the waiting room if you need me," Robin said, patting Steve's hand.

She gave Eddie a death glare on her way out of the room, silently suggesting that he would need a room at the hospital if he dared to hurt Steve in any way.

He sat down next to Steve, taking in his injuries.

"What took you so long?" Steve asked him, pouting slightly.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Got caught up with the band."

"But it's Wednesday. You don't have practice on Wednesdays."

Eddie sighed.

"Stevie, what year is it?" Had no one checked him for a concussion at any point in the last 12 hours?

"1988."

"It's 1991. You remember my band made it?" Eddie was going to get murdered by Robin for ruining whatever fantasy Steve's mind had settled on.

"What? But-" Steve's brows drew together as he tried to work through his own thoughts and memories. "You guys made it?"

"Yeah, we did."

They sat in silence while Steve processed.

Eddie felt the moment his memory started to come back, the room suddenly going cold.

"You left."

"Steve-"

"You left me," his voice broke, much like it had the night he screamed at Eddie as he walked out the door.

"I did."

"Why'd you come?"

"You asked me to. I'll always come when you ask."

Steve looked at him, his eyes heavy from whatever cocktail of drugs were flowing through his system, glassy with unshed tears.

"Then why did you leave?"

"You asked me to."

"I wanted you to stay. I always wanted you to stay."

"I wanted you to come with me."

They were both tense, Eddie's hands curled into fists against his thighs and Steve's body curling in on itself, preparing for a fight Eddie wasn't going to give him.

"I couldn't."

"I know."

"So, you'll leave again and I'll stay?" Steve asked, choking back a wet sound that Eddie recognized as a sob.

"I'll be here as long as you need me."

Steve searched his face.

"Why now?"

"Because you asked. Because I know what it's like to leave you and I know it's not worth missing you." Eddie gulped. "Because I love you too much to walk away from you again. Not unless it's what you want."

"I never want that."

"Then I'll be right here," Eddie reached for his hand, holding it gently in his own.

"You can't, though. You made it, Eds."

"I'll figure it out. We'll figure it out. Okay?"

Steve stayed silent for a while, but didn't pull his hand away.

"You'll stay while we figure it out?" he finally asked.

"Yeah. As long as it takes."

"Seal it with a kiss?" Steve asked, the way he did when he asked for Eddie to promise that he'd take out the trash, or stop at the store, or love him always.

Eddie leaned in and pressed his lips to Steve's.

Steve smiled as he pulled away.

"First thing to figure out: a new car."

"You totaled it?"

"She was good to me for so long. Unfortunately, she took things worse than I did."

Hard to believe looking at how swollen and bruised most of Steve was.

But they sat and talked through his plans for another car, something he could take on longer road trips to visit all the kids at school, see a few of Eddie's shows.

They'd figure it out.

[translatemunson]

devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes • ttfd

chapter one of the tortured firefighters department

masterlist | next chapter

cw: fem!reader, afab!reader, description of clothes, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol, proofread by my bye-lingual ass (let me know if i forgot anything)

You knocked on the white door again, not sure why you feel nervous about all of this. It’s just a small get-together at one of your coworker’s houses. For sure it’s better than spending another night in the library, writing your thesis, but it kinda makes you nervous.

So this is what life looks like when away from the screens that raised you?

From the East Coast all the way to LA to get your PhD, the city of angels was no more than a stranger on the window. Before moving, you had worked on the 9-1-1 call center for your region because the shift’s schedule could actually fit your undergrad and master’s schedule — also the money was enough to survive, and you could check your notes on slow shifts. But once after a massive power outage, your superior thought your desk was too small for your brain.

Not that you were a bad dispatcher — your responses and action times were above average, actually —, but he’d seen how you managed the data influx, pinning all the accidents, teams on call and reported issues on the white board and shouting directions for quicker routes and delay problems. After that, you’d spend more time helping fixing turnaround times and implementing some sort of algorithm and protocols for when the next disaster hits. At some point, they transferred you to Florida during the hurricane season because of your reputation — that spread like a wildfire, believe you or not.

You lasted enough to finish your master’s degree and hop on a plane to LA, for your PhD in dynamical systems theory. You had a job offer, leaving your 9-1-1 days behind for some small desk and endless boring demands. It didn’t last much, though, because, after eight months, it made you miss the adrenaline rush and large income of data from the 9-1-1.

That’s how you ended up at the Los Angeles 9-1-1 call center in Metro, always happy to jump on some calls and help other dispatchers with logistics and patterns. Nobody warned you about tsunamis or earthquakes, but you knew you could manage them just like a pro — if they ever happened again, which was a matter of time.

“Hey! I was starting to think you would bail on me!” Maddie opened the door, the genuine happiness glow irradiating and making her smile almost unbearable. “Please, come in.”

“Got caught up in traffic. Who knew the logistics mastermind would be stuck in a casual traffic jam?” You gave her the flowers you bought and held the brownie pan with both hands. “Hope I’m not too late.”

“Oh no, you arrived just in time! Here, let me take care of this,” she took the pan from your hands and motioned to the living room. “Make yourself at home. And thanks for the flowers!”

“Our last guest, finally!” Howard, aka Chim, Maddie’s boyfriend, left his place on the counter to greet you. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the voice!”

“Hope I didn’t disappoint you.” You hugged him, your extroverted persona finally happy to be in a room with real people, and not just some endless phone calls and work talk. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s ok, those guys are too busy with their games to notice we are a little behind schedule. But Jee is getting hangry” He pointed to the couch, where three adults, one child and one baby were too busy with the TV screen to notice your arrival.

“I guess the kid’s table is full tonight.”

“Hey, we’ve heard that!” One of them screamed from the couch, not bothering to look in your direction. He raised his arm, the tattoos across his skin showing against his white skin, in protest.

“Nice crowd.” You followed Maddie into the kitchen, Chim’s voice in the background saying it was the last race.

“I’m so glad you’re here. Water, juice or some alcohol?” She offered while reaching for the glasses. “Oh, Chim made some Margaritas.”

“I’d love one of those, thank you.” You fixed your green dress, somehow feeling overdressed. Not exactly your fault, when Maddie invited you for dinner, you visualized all the scenarios in your mind. Afraid of looking lazy, you went for a flowy green dress and a batch of brownies, to show some appreciation.

Between Margarita sips and after work gossip — because, nowadays, your work schedules mostly were off sync —, you helped Maddie setting the table and dishes. And, as expected, one race became four, with Chim playing the commentator. Maddie took the chance to show you the houses they were applying for, making good use of Jee’s quiet bedroom to talk.

“Are the others not good enough or just too expensive?” She had been talking about house scouting for weeks, and even helped you find a new place while doing so.

“You’d be impressed to see the final price of those houses once you track all the problems.” She played with her hair. “How’ve you been doing?”

“My thesis is starting to follow me like an unwanted ghost, and work has been— no, not gonna jinx it. Moving has been a pain in the ass, but thanks for telling me about that loft. The rent is actually acceptable and the view is amazing!”

“Glad it worked for you! And don’t thank me, actually it was—”

“Hey, Mads, we’re just waiting for you two.” The tall blue eyed guy stood in the hallway and gave the door a weak tap. Oh, tattoo guy, you noticed. “Chim is destroying the dumplings Albert made and Jee is not happy with being left out of the girls reunion. You better hurry up.”

“We are right behind you, Buck.” She said, bringing you with her to the dining table.

After some quick introductions — Albert, Chim’s half-brother; Eddie and his son Christopher, and Buck, Maddie’s little brother —, you indulged in some dumplings and pork ramen. Albert was experimenting with Korean cuisine, talking about opening a restaurant and finally having enough money to move out to his own place.

“Well, I think you should do it. I’d be happy to order this every day,” you said, pointing your chopsticks to the almost empty bowl.

“Thanks– sorry, what is your name again?”

“Everyone just call me Brains.” The nickname stuck since your first major catastrophe at the call center job — and maybe a little because of your bachelor.

“Wait, I think I’ve met you before.” Eddie announced and looked at Chris. “You went to his school a few weeks ago to talk about pursuing math in college, right?”

“I did a small presentation, yeah. My professor asked me for a favor since his kids are students there, but he had a full schedule. I had a nice time with the kiddos.”

“She is super smart!” Chris shared, in his own words, a little about your presentation. Talking to the younger ones about advanced math proved to be a challenge, but once you showed them all the cool things math made possible, you had their attention.

“Why are you working on the 9-1-1 instead of, I don’t know, teaching in college?” Buck inquired, beer in hand.

“Would you believe me if I said I have an adrenaline addiction and I can’t stay away from trouble?” You pressed your lips together and shook your head.

“Oh, he would, because he was addicted to—”

Maddie slapped Chimney on the arm. “Hey, there’s two kids in the room.” 

And all eyes were on Chris, who was too busy with his noodles to notice, and Jee, playing with her bites of veggies. You laughed, leaving your empty cup on the table, and reaching for the last dumpling.

“I guess we are all addicted to something,” you stared at Buck's blue eyes and took a bite. “Maybe once I get my PhD, I’ll go full professor and find some adrenaline on handing out really hard exams. But the chances are very low.”

“You should try being part of LAFD, you might like it,” Albert suggested.

“I can barely carry my boxes upstairs, being that physical isn’t for me.” The admission made you shyly smile, because you were definitely hinting that firefighters were strong. “Math, on the other hand…”

“Please, don’t give her any more ideas! Since Brains started working with us, the dispatching process changed for the better.” Maddie brought her hands together and begged in a joking tone.

A few Margaritas and some dessert later, you were helping Maddie with the dishes while Albert played with Christopher, and Buck was holding Jee so she wouldn’t throw a tantrum. Chim asked Eddie to help with a few construction questions, feeling like he was missing some important topics while house scouting.

“I think I’m done for the night,” you told her as you closed the cabinet door. “Thanks for the invite, Maddie. You were right, I needed a break.”

“I know when I see someone on the verge of burnout.” You looked at her, the tequila making the simple action of laughing much more easier. “Let me know when you’re settled at your new place so I can get you a housewarming gift.”

“Oh please, don’t bother, Maddie. I’m sure you’re too busy with Jee and moving matters.”

“Sure you don’t want some ramen for tomorrow? Albert may be a good cook, but he has no idea of the measurements.”

“You’re sick of the smell, right?”

“A little.” She smirked.

“I guess I won’t have to worry about lunch tomorrow.” 

“Make two, Mads!” Buck approached the kitchen counter. “Leaving already, Brains?”

“Yeah, gonna finish moving to my new place tomorrow.” Maddie left the blue tupperware in front of you. “Thanks, I’ll bring it to you next wednesday.”

“Can I get more brownies?”

“Anything for my favorite dispatcher.” You looked around, opting for a quick goodbye. “It was nice to meet y’all. Again, thanks for the invite, Maddie.”

“Nice to meet you too, Brains,” Buck said, getting closer. “Hope to speak to you soon, dispatcher Brains.”

“I hope we don’t, firefighter Buckley.” You teased him. “Have a good night, guys.”

You left Maddie’s place, drove to your new place, opened the door for an empty apartment, stored the ramen in the fridge, climbed up the stairs and fell face first into your bed, shoes and all. 

If you didn’t know Maddie, you’d say she had second intentions with that dinner. 

author's note: hi guys! chapters will be short because it helps me keep the momentum with the writing (and keep the impostor's syndrome away from my efforts). also yeah i'm using TTFD as an acronym bc i choose a whole ass long title for the fic. huge shout out to my love my bestie my soulmate @munsonsreputation for always supporting me (love you kaaaay). also hi casey welcome to the 9-1-1 fandom, thank you for the endless edits on tiktok haha. i guess i see y'all next week...

[fayeofthenightingale]

I've decided to contribute to the Miguel nation even though I was almost a year late

I present to you…. Brother's best friend! Miguel! A drabble…. (Might turn this into a full fic idk)

Cw: Brother's best friend trope, grammatical errors, fem reader, possibly OOC Miguel, this is more like a flashback really since it's focus is more on Miggy and reader's childhood, this is kinda long wth 😭

Bbf! Miguel who has been friends with your brother since middle school, would often play in your brother's room when they were younger. As typical boys do, they'd play video games. He doesn't mind when you want to join them. He finds it endearing whenever you try to put your stuffed animals on the Legos they built, claiming they're people or something like that.

Bbf! Miguel who defends little you whenever some mean kids try to bully you, is taller than the average kid, making him intimidating. When this happens, he stands behind the bullies, towering over them with a menacing glare and arms folded. All he has to do is say something like "scram" or "leave," and the kids your age run away. Then, when you're feeling sad or upset, he treats you to ice cream to cheer you up.

Bbf! Miguel who helps you pull pranks on your brother, sometimes he’d be surprised you were able to pull off a bit extreme pranks but he’d be happy to do it for shits and giggles.

Bbf! Miguel who helps patch up your wounds whenever you have a little accident in the midst of pulling a prank on your brother all while speaking to you in the gentlest of ways to calm you down. "can you get up? no? All alright I'll carry you then” Your eleven-year-old mind panics when he easily carries you.

Bbf! Miguel who defends you against your older brother, Leo, gets into an argument whenever he can, Leo’s older, and can handle himself, while you are 4 almost 5 years younger than them and therefore helps you whenever he can, it’s just not fair sometimes.

He stood by the side of Leo’s room, witnessing the fight between you and your brother, 13-year-old Leo yelling at you for breaking his model aeroplane. “I Told you not to come in here without my permission!” Leo huffed, “I’m sorry! I-I just want to look at it” You defended yourself but Leo wasn’t having it,” Well now look at it! It’s broken!” little you are almost on the brink of tears, that’s when he stepped in. “come on now, the wing is the only one that’s broken, I’m sure we can fix it,” he said, trying to cool down the argument, Your brother stormed out of his room to cool off leaving you with Miguel “Are you okay Chiquita?” he asked and you shook your head a small sniffle escaped you as you try to justify yourself “I didn’t mean it” little you murmured as you look up at him with teary eyes, he sighed as he took the broken plane and its wing “hey, it’s okay yeah? Leo just needs to cool off, with the help of a super glue I’m sure we can fix this” he reassured you with a little ruffle on your head and grabbed the super glue to fix the broken model plane with his best friend’s little sister.

Bbf! Miguel got his heart broken for the first time because the girl he’s been crushing didn’t like him back because he was “too nerdy” for her liking, Leo brought it up during dinner when your mom asked how your day went and you were saddened for him, who wouldn’t like Miguel? He’s kind, understanding, and funny, he may be too intimidating because of his more-than-average height but that’s his outside appearance! He’s really sweet on the inside… wait…. Why are you thinking like that about him? Nevermind that.

Bbf! Miguel showed up the next day at your house since he and Leo needed to finish a project that’s due tomorrow, eyes puffy and a bit dishevelled from crying, you felt bad despite your brother calling him out that he looks like shit. Miguel didn’t deserve this, so you, the ever loving little sister of his best friend decided to go buy something for him.

Bbf! Miguel who walked out of your house to head home since the project they’ve been working on is finished, “Miguel!” you called out to him with a small paper bag in hand, you catch up to him panting heavily, have you been running? You held out the small paper “Umm.... I’m sorry about what happened yesterday… Leo told me… I mean he told mom when she asked how our day went” you rumbled, you were too busy making sure the treat in your hand stayed warm that you haven’t thought about what to say to him! “… anyways theseareforyouIhopeyoufeelbetter'' you said rather too quickly and before he could say anything you ran away and inside your house too flustered to face him, he took a peek inside the bag and a small smile was painted on his lips, warm empanadas from his favourite store, oh how sweet of you…

Bbf! Miguel who's taken the rejection to heart, maybe much of a nerd after all and that needed to change, so day by day he changed himself, no longer wearing those thick-framed glasses instead he opted for contact lenses, the baggy shirt that has corny science jokes were now nowhere to be seen and he's even doing a little workout to build his tall lanky body, of course, this was never unnoticed to you, who wouldn't notice your brother's best friend slowly gaining muscle and lean body type? You're happy for him of course but a part of you hoped that he did it because he wanted to and not because he's pressured by society's views of him, you like the nerd him? he's cute!

Bbf! Miguel who's never seen you so down in the dumps before, usually your beams and silliness can rival the sun itself but now you're gloomier than the night sky. He asked your brother about it and he didn't expect the reason for your sudden gloominess.

“Ah, she's just upset because no one gave her a Valentine's gift” your brother nonchalantly said as he played on his computer, his series of curses from losing the game was blurred out and in his peripheral vision, he only saw you, without saying any word he left your brother's room and approached you. You can hear the low vibrato of his voice as he approaches you “Hey” he greeted and sat down beside you “You okay?” he asked with his usual gentleness and you looked at him “I don't know… do I look okay?” you mumbled sassily which took him aback but sighed “I… I don't even know why I'm upset, it's just a silly day, it's not even a holiday! it's just a stupid day to have an excuse to ask your crush out or chow down chocolates” you mumbled bitterly, really it's a childish thing to be upset about something small like this, but Miguel didn't think so, no, he’s been there and he knows how it feels, Miguel didn't say anything but pats your head gently, his way to console you.

Bbf! Miguel who had surprised you on a random Friday afternoon with a box of your favourite chocolate and a pink coloured rose “Here” he said as he handed you the gifts, your eyes widened in surprise but took them “What's with this?” you asked but he shrugged in response “For you” he didn't show but it was amusing to him (and kinda cute) to see the sparkle in your eyes shine although it was short-lived “you didn't have to do this you know?” you mumbled, as much as you appreciated his effort you didn't want him to do that out of pity, again your brother's best friend shrugged “It’s not out of pity, it's for you, pink roses for appreciation" and that got you thinking “appreciation? for what? what did I do?” you asked him genuinely curious as to why “just existing, we've known each other for years-�� “but I'm not your best friend” you cut him off “who said you have to be my best friend for me to show you my appreciation?” he asked you and in turn you weren't able to say anything, too surprised to utter a single word. He called your name softly, “I appreciate you, not because you're Leo's sister, but my friend, one of the closest, as embarrassing as it sounds but I cannot deny the truth, you have a certain charm I'm drawn to, you make me smile easily, you understand me, and don't tell Leo about this but at least with you I'm slightly more comfortable” he said with a small smile.

Before you could say anything Leo called out Miguel's name and he left right after, a hand on your chest to ease the beating of your heart and butterflies on your stomach. And in that moment, you realized you had fallen for your brother's best friend.

----

Omg why is posting stuff online so anxiety inducing?! Anyways Likes and reblogs are highly appreciated! If you have feed backs I'm more than eager to hear them (just be kind please) 🩷

[steviewashere]

Birthday Blues

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Abuse, Brief Mention of Child Abuse, Brief Mention of Financial Abuse, Brief Mention of Secondary Original Character Death Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Stepdad, Steve Harrington Has a Good Mom, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Emotional Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Mom is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Birthday, Steve Harrington is Loved, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending

Based on my own experience with my stepdad and uh...yeah, that's it, basically. Be kind, I guess? 🤷‍♂️

Also on Ao3 because this shit is long.

🫂————————🫂 He thought his twentieth birthday would come with more fanfare. Maybe not the whole calvary. But something simple. A cake, maybe. A card, possibly. Even just a simple “Happy Birthday.” That would’ve sufficed.

And the problem isn’t with his friends. No. They’ve sent him messages over the walkie since the clock hit midnight on June 29th. Made plans for the next few days. Promised birthday gifts tonight. He wondered if everything was supposed to be a surprise: the gifts and cake and plans. But Robin had already reached out, promised him that she already spoke with everybody, made sure to tell them how he doesn’t like surprises; not after Vecna, not after his ankle had been grabbed.

The issue is with his mom’s boyfriend. His ‘stepdad.’

Nobody really knows much about him. Not really. Nothing above: “He’s an asshole. I don't like him.” Which is…a way to make an impression. But he doesn’t really enjoy talking about him.

The boyfriend came into the picture when Steve was seven. When he was naive and confused about the world around him. When he was used to it just being him and his mom for a while. His birth dad had passed on really young—nothing that could’ve been prevented, but it wasn’t any sort of accident, and Steve doesn’t like talking about it; so he just doesn’t. But the boyfriend came along after so much nothing. After a life half-lived.

He was kind, at first. Interested. Capable. Made Steve’s mom happy. Took her out for dates—which left Steve with a babysitter; then on his lonesome when he turned thirteen—he bought her things, promised the moon, was at her beck and call. He even cared about Steve. Introduced him to the world of Spiderman comic books and baseball games and driving with the windows down. Had been there for home baseball games, Steve’s first piano recital, and for the first handful of birthday parties. He helped, when there was nothing. He helped, even when they had everything.

Then came the alcohol.

Steve remembers it clear as day. The vacation they all took together. They’d taken a plane from Indianapolis to Seattle. And it was sort of cool, Steve figured. The hotel with the indoor pool and the double-wide beds and the really nice view over the tops of tall apartment buildings. It was the first of many trips; one of the last Steve went on. What came with the nice hotel, though, was a bar and grill down at the lobby.

And sure, it was a time for celebration. Of sorts. They were heading out for Disneyland, Steve had been wide awake since the night before, his mom had bought them matching shirts so that nobody got lost. It was ideal, fun, what say you. But then the boyfriend came upstairs, a cup of something sticky in his hand, and a glaze to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“We’re celebrating,” he had slurred, “it’s alright, just for the night. Let’s have some fun.”

It didn’t stop there, though. Steve hadn’t known why at first. But then came the arguments over the next couple months after that decision. When the recycling bin was full of more beer bottles than empty containers of yogurt. When Richard was slurring his words earlier and earlier in the evening. When he’d sleep a good amount of the day, try and right himself from work, barely talk to anybody when he came back, and already had a bottle in hand by the time conversations started. The arguments were unrelenting, though. He could hear them through the floor of his bedroom: “Laura!”, “Richard.”. A few tense moments would pass after Laura, Steve’s mom, would say that name. Steve would leave his bed, in all the right spaces to make sure it didn’t creak, and settle himself by his bedroom door—where he could open it a crack just to hear, just to know, in case something happened and he had to go down there. Then, she’d speak again. Quiet and wet and calm, “I wish you would stop. If not for me, do it for Steven.”

Steve would hold his breath. Waiting. His mom never called him that, not unless he was in trouble, not unless she was serious. And his stomach turned at the thought of it. She’d call him Stevie otherwise, all soft and sweet and soaking—akin to the sugary butter at the bottom of a freshly made cinnamon roll. He liked that. He loved her. He loved Richard, despite all of this.

Until, finally, Richard spoke. “Is that supposed to make me care?” He questioned with ire. “He isn’t mine,” he eventually spat. And then he stormed to their bedroom—downstairs on the first floor, just off of the living room—slammed the door.

His mom wept that night, Steve could relay if asked. And he had been too tied up in his own awful sadness to go downstairs and comfort her. It wasn’t the last time. Wasn’t the last slammed door, or argument, or soft cry; for either of them. At least Mom loves me, he had thought, at least she’s mine.

With the alcohol and that understanding of absent love and those arguments, Steve would instigate them, too. He’d pick fights if only to get Richard to leave the house quicker. He’d scream and spit and stomp his feet, if only to get time alone. He’d even get fussy with his mom. Because if he could be an ass, get them both to be angry at him, maybe Richard would stay off of her for a little while. Maybe he wouldn’t drink so early. Maybe he’d have to have a conversation about “Steve’s antics.” It only made him more distant. It only made him angrier.

And with all of that in mind, he stopped the birthday celebrations. He stopped caring. He stopped saying “I love you,” when Steve went to bed. He stopped being a dad.

Because Steve wasn’t his. And he wanted to make sure the whole world knew it.

In comes his twentieth birthday, though. And he thought, maybe, that Richard would care. That he’d do something similar to when Steve was a kid. Make pancakes and wake him up with a soft knock to his door and sing the birthday song. He supposed, though, that that was all so foolish. That he wasn’t a little kid, so why would Richard do any of that? Maybe to prove himself, that’s something. Maybe care at all.

His mom had said something at midnight. Then again at nine in the morning. Then again over scrambled eggs and bacon. Made plans. Ushered a card full of cash and the Duran Duran album he didn’t have yet, Notorious, on cassette into his hands. He thanked her, kissed the top of her head, and put his things away upstairs. Richard still had said nothing. In fact, he was snoring through the wall. And the evidence of his latest binge had been scattered across the kitchen countertops before making it to the recycling bin; Steve should know, he had to put them in there and his hands came away smelling of cheap beer—it’s not even the good stuff, how can he drink this shit, he asked himself.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sure, his chest caved in something funny. And his throat sort of went dry. He went to his car, though. And he drove off to where Robin had told him to go. To Eddie’s new double-wide trailer, a damn replica of his old one on the outside. Where everybody was already parked and waiting. Hanging out outside, sodas and…beer in hand.

He took a steadying breath and forced his way over to them. Let them shout ‘Happy Birthday’ at him. And then he took a seat by Eddie. He was in a pair of loose black basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and barefoot. His hair was piled up. And he was drinking. 

“Hey baby,” Eddie greeted. He leaned over the side of the sofa they were on, dug around in what Steve assumed was a cooler, and held out a weeping beer can. “Technically, it’s not legal, but I’m not going to tell anybody.”

Steve eyed it for a few long seconds. Enough that Eddie’s hand wavered, the beer threatening to fall to the floor. He looked back up. “No—uh—no, I don’t want that. Can…I’m going to sound like a dick, but can I make a request?”

Eddie put the beer away with a sidelong glance. He furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. Of course you can make a request.”

“Can we put the beer away? I don’t…It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Another odd glance to Steve, Eddie gave. His mouth pinched. He swished his near empty can in his hand. How many has he had, Steve wondered briefly, some weird pulse of panic in his belly. “Sure,” Eddie agreed slowly. “You going cold turkey or something? Could’a sworn you had one the other day when I saw you?”

He watches Eddie stand up briefly, pour out his beer over the side of the porch, and then place it in a clear garbage bag that’s been tied to the railing. There’s already three or four beer cans in there—Steve knows that’s what they are, they all say Miller and the cans the kids have are bright red or green. He looks back to Eddie’s face when he settles down again, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, hair falling loosely from his bun, sweat on his brow, sweat or beer on his upper lip.

“I just don’t want people drinking today, please.” And he feels kind of silly. Having to explain himself.

But Eddie’s hand curls down from the back of the couch, dangling loose at the back of Steve’s neck. Fingers trailing over the top notches of his spine. “You got it, sugar. I’ll have Robs put it away inside, okay?” Steve nods loosely, lets Eddie holler out, and relaxes into his side.

The rest of the day went by pretty smoothly. There were gifts: hairspray from Dustin, some artwork from Will, a new basketball from Lucas, matching shirts from Robin, a book he’d asked for from Eddie, and cards from the others who couldn’t find something in time or afford anything. He’s thankful for it all because it’s more than he expected. And there’s cake, his favorite, German chocolate with Ferrero Rocher candies on the borders; “Nance and I made it,” Robin explained and he gave her a knowing look.

It was all so normal. So good. So sweet.

Just like it had been last year. Even the year before that. And the years prior, when it was his mom and Tommy and Carol and Nancy. And the years before that, when it was Richard and his mom.

He really wants to cry about it.

When the party dwindles down, it’s just him and Eddie. Eddie’s putting out the last of the recycling and cleaning up some dishes, to which he adamantly refused to let Steve help with. And so Steve takes advantage, using the new phone.

He dials his house number and waits as it rings for his mom to pick up.

“Harrington household, Laura speaking,” she greets, her voice…nasally. Unusually so.

“Hey Mom,” he greets back, “it’s…Well, you know it’s Steve. Just called to…wanted to check-in. How’s everything going?”

She shuffles on the other end. Clears her throat. Sniffs. “He’s not going to say it, Stevie, I’m sorry,” she says, voice unreasonably apologetic. “I tried to get him to at least call this number you gave me, you know for your Eddie friend. And he…he just scoffed at me. Said some things, you know how he is.”

“Oh,” he mutters. His voice must do something weird, because Eddie’s slowing his wash on the dishes, leaning further into the counter edge to look at Steve. “Are you okay?”

“It’s the usual, Stevie. It’s just—“ She sighs, a great heaving thing. “—Just the usual. He’s already out to the store. Took the last bit of my cash for it; he spent all his own. Left me here with microwaved leftovers. Might turn in early.”

“I can give back the bit of cash you gave—“

“No,” she rushes. “No, Stevie. That’s your money. If it came back to me, he’d probably take it anyway. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just…If your friend can let you, I think you should stay the night there. Richard’s…he’s got the whiskey out from the den. Just stay with Eddie for now. I’ll take you out tomorrow for cake, okay? We’ll make a little date out of it. Just us. Like it was…Like it was before.”

He stands still for a moment. The phone cradled in his hands by his ear. Her words ringing out so loud, yet so soft. He really wants to cry about it.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters in his silence, “I’m sorry he ruined this for you.” She shuffles again. Probably got one arm wrapped around her waist, stepping to the side in her slippers. Like she always does when she has to call her sister about…him. She sighs again. “I’d leave him if I could. God, Steve. I would create whole galaxies for just us to live in if I could. I wish I knew how to fix this. I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he whispers, utterly broken. “’T’s alright. We’ll do cake tomorrow, yeah? I’ll pay for us to get milkshakes for old times sake, right? Like…” He swallows. Murmurs, “Like before.”

Just off to the side, Eddie’s inched closer. The dishes completely abandoned now. Steve doesn’t want to look at him, thinks he’ll break down if he does. But his body heat is welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm hug.

“Like before,” she echoes. Sniffs. “Just heard the car outside. I’ll…Call me in the morning, okay? I’ll let you know how tonight went. I love you, Stevie. I love you, don’t forget that.”

He takes a breath, it stutters like the skip over a scratch on a record. “I love you, too,” he breathes out. “Be safe,” he murmurs, “you have the address if you need to get away. Or…call me if you need me to get you.”

“I’ll be okay,” she mutters, a wisp of a smile to her voice. “Now, you go have fun. Tell Eddie I said hi. And that…Tell him I say thank you for keeping you.”

They share their goodbyes almost hastily. Right as her words fall through the receiver, the front door seems to open, and the phone is hung up before he can chance anything else. The dial tone is blearing in his ears. He keeps the phone cradled close, like maybe she’ll reach a hand out through the speaker and caress his face. Kind of wants her to.

And he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself from crying. Trembling where he stands. Tears streaking hot and fast down his cheeks, over his jaw. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s a near damn thing.

“Baby?” Eddie calls softly. He takes a hesitant step forward. And he’s closer than Steve thought. Right at his left side. His hands reach out and take the phone from Steve, hanging it back up. He wraps his palms over Steve’s biceps, barely turning him. “Sweetheart?” He calls out again, softer this time. Bending down just a little to make them stare at each other. He moves up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs working over the tears. “’S everything alright?”

He sobs something little at that. Closing his eyes so he can’t see Eddie. “He’s so selfish,” he manages to cry out, “Why doesn’t he care?”

“Who, sweetheart? Who’s ass do I need to…” Steve finally stares back. And whatever it is that’s there, Eddie seems to understand. “Oh,” he coos, “oh baby.” In a flurry of movement, Steve is pulled in tight and close. Haphazardly dragged back to the sofa and plopped down almost unceremoniously, if Eddie weren’t holding him so carefully. There’s a palm at the center of his back and one on his head. Both of them firm and welcomed and warm.

“He—Just—He just doesn’t,” Steve hiccups between breaths, “Never—Never cared.”

Eddie shushes him gently. Leans back against the armrest behind him, and pulls Steve on top. His face is tucked into Eddie’s left shoulder, where it’s awkwardly stuffed between the armrest and the backing, and he just cries.

There haven’t been a lot of moments where Steve’s cried over this. Maybe once or twice when he was in high school, but that’s about it. Otherwise, he was getting it out through anger or ignoring it altogether or trying to talk it out with his mom. So many conversations and so many arguments and so much just shoved inside his chest. He thinks if he weren’t getting it out right now, soaking the fabric of Eddie’s white shirt, he’d probably burst at the seams, maybe teeter, fall right off the deep end into something murky and thick. He’d probably die from it. Have a heart attack, maybe, like his dad did.

When there’s nothing more to cry out, he just breathes hot and heavy and choking over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, fingers petting through Steve’s hair, “we’ve got nowhere to be right now, okay? You can fall apart here, I’ll still catch you.”

He sniffs. “I just…I just want him to love me,” Steve admits quietly, “To think of me as his kid and to want to do better and to just be somebody I wanna be around.” His arms wrap snuggly around Eddie’s waist, pushing himself further into the hold of their bodies.

“Can I ask something?” Eddie asks gently.

“You just did,” Steve murmurs, voice crackling with the joke. It’s almost hollow coming out of his mouth.

But Eddie snorts anyway. “Okay…Fine. Two questions. Does this have anything to do with the whole beer thing earlier?”

Steve stiffens, brain fighting to find an excuse, but he figures it’s best to just be honest. Even as shameful as it seems to be some days. “Yeah,” he sighs, giving in. Swallows harshly, his jugular moving over Eddie’s shoulder, the sharp outline of the joint against his neck. “Yeah, it does. He drinks like everyday. Sometimes he…some days he doesn’t, claims he’s stopping for good, says he won’t pick it back up. But then he’s doing it the next day and I—“ He shrugs where he can move. “I just don’t get it, I guess. And I…I try so hard to not think of him badly, y’know? He’s probably got shit he’s working through. But it’s almost everyday, Eddie. He’s almost always drunk. Always arguing with my mom. I can hear him through the floor of my room,” he admits. “I want to feel bad, but the way he treats me—the way he treats my mom—“

“How does he treat you? Just focus on you right now, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a harsh sigh through his nose. He can’t bring himself to pull his head up, to look Eddie in the eyes. “I want to feel bad,” he repeats slowly. “But he’s so awful. He’s not a good person when he’s drunk, Eddie. He just riles me up, argues with me, tears me back down. That sort of shit.” Steve shifts, rolling his head over onto Eddie’s chest. The depth of his breath under Steve’s ear.

“He told me to go fuck myself the other night,” Steve murmurs, “I don’t know why, but that like…It solidified in me the fact that he doesn’t love me. I don’t know why I expected him to tell me happy birthday today. Why he’d choose this year out of ‘em all to finally be the person I expected him to be. Just my stupid brain, I guess.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Hands petting over where they rest. “It’s okay to be disappointed, Steve,” he carefully states. “You wanted the best for him and he let you down, tore you apart in the process. You needed him to be your dad and he’s made no effort, it’s not…You’re not stupid for wanting that love.”

“He used to be so nice, Eds. I used to love him. I want to love him, but he makes it so hard. God, that makes me sound like such a terrible person, to admit something like that out loud.”

“No, Stevie,” Eddie immediately says. “You’re not a bad person for wanting to love somebody. And you’re not a bad person for refusing yourself to love them. He’s hurt you, Steve. And you’re allowed to feel how you need to.

“And…” Eddie’s hands clasp over the middle of Steve’s back. Heavy and sure. “From experience,” he musters, “with my dad, sometimes you just gotta let go of that love. Sometimes you just gotta tell yourself that it’s not possible. Because…honestly, in some ways, it is impossible. My dad had every opportunity, and yet he chose alcohol and drugs and crime over me.

“I miss who he was…Before my mom died. I miss his laugh and his hugs and our inside jokes. Miss the way he used to play guitar and the late night drives we’d go on. I miss when he taught me good things, like catching lightning bugs in our palms and how to make a good smash burger and how to tell entertaining stories.

“I don’t miss him now, though,” Eddie confesses quietly. The words almost lost in Steve’s hair. “He hurt me in irreparable ways. Mentally and…and physically. But what got me through the worst of it, before I came here, was knowing there were other people out there who’d love me. Who love me and continue despite who I am or what I’ve experienced. Like Wayne. And my grandma, at the time. My friends; Corroded Coffin especially.

“I could spend a million lifetimes unloved by my dad, but at least it’s the real love I was surrounded by. Sometimes people are so damaged that they like it, they like the cracks they can trace and the anger in their blood, they almost enjoy it—they usually don’t get better. My dad was that way. Even when he quit the couple times he did, he always found his way back to that alcohol, those drugs.” Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the notches of Steve’s spine. His breath a little heavier, a bit raspier. And Steve is absorbing the words. “Sometimes people want to get better and they don’t know how. And that’s when help is needed, outsourced hands, intervention, that kinda shit.”

“We’ve tried,” Steve breathes heavily. “My mom and I have tried so damn hard, Eddie.”

“What’s he usually say in response to that help?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath. Sighs, “That he doesn’t want it.” He slowly brings his left hand to Eddie’s chest, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “I wish he’d want it. I—He was my dad for a little while. Now I just live with a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Eddie murmurs, “for what it’s worth. I’m sorry you’re going through this. That you’re still going through this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Stevie. Things don’t have to be this way.”

“It has to be fine,” Steve mutters, “there’s no other way right now. I can’t leave my mom. And my mom can’t leave him. And he won’t stop.”

Eddie takes a careful breath. “You can leave, though. Steve, you’re an adult, you can go,” he softly states.

“I’m not leaving my mom,” Steve snaps lightly. He sniffs, the last of those tears and snot receding. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I just can’t do that to her, Eds. She wouldn’t do it to me. I’m not gonna do it to her.”

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, “then, look at me, sweetheart.” Slowly, careful of the slight tension in his neck, Steve raises his head and stares down at Eddie. There are tear tracks on Eddie’s cheeks. A sheen to his eyes. And Steve begins to reach up, but Eddie holds him down tightly. “You, Steve Harrington, are loved by people who want to do right by you. You, Steve, will have love in so many corners of your life. The love that Dick has isn’t for you and it definitely isn’t for your mom.

“I love you, you hear me? And Wayne does. Hopper does. There, that’s two dads. Your mom loves you, too. She loves you with her whole soul. And you’ve got your friends, Robin and Dustin especially. And you’ll have more, Stevie,” Eddie explains gently, his fingers going back to trace along the edges of Steve’s spine. “I can’t fix things, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure how things turn around. But they will some day. I know it because I lived it. We can’t figure it out right now, but we’ll find our way some time down the line. Focus on the people you’ve got right now, though, Stevie. Not him. He ain’t worth a rat’s ass.”

Steve snorts wetly. His lips tremble and his eyes ache something fierce. He’ll cry forever at this rate, but at least Eddie’s hands move to his cheek, at least he wipes the tears away. “I love you, too,” he breathes. “And I’m sorry that you have to know all this shit. That you had to go through that.”

“I’ll figure out a way to know how to get you through it, too,” Eddie murmurs, smiling softly, his eyes moments away from leaking. “But you’re loved. He ain’t worth it. Don’t go searching for something you ain’t gonna find.”

He drops his head back down and burrows under Eddie’s chin. At least he found this. “When I’m ready to go, will you have space for me?”

“Always and forever,” Eddie rushes to answer. “Remember, baby? You fall and I catch you. You come knocking on my door, I’m gonna answer it. And if you climb in bed with me, I’ll hold you close and never let go.”

Steve nods gently, pushing himself in further. He sighs. “Thank you,” he mutters. Eddie squeezes him in. “My mom said hi and thank you, by the way. Remind me to call her in the morning? I wanna make sure I get her before he wakes up.”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “now let’s get ourselves to bed before we fall asleep on this couch. Gotta be comfortable, don’t we?”

He huffs. “But you’re comfy.”

Eddie snorts. “I love you and I don’t want you to be sore. Come to bed with me?”

Steve wriggles. “Okay,” he relents. “Because I love you and I also don’t want you to be sore.”

And, he supposes, because he's loved.

🫂————————🫂 Sorry if this sucked, I wrote this with a raging migraine and have no grasp on how shit it is. Whoops.

[egginround]

Thaw

Gale wrestles insecurity in an intimate moment with Tav. Gale x GN!Reader - CW: None.

For all his flowery words, Gale feels tongue-tied when you're near. Even the traitorous air from his lungs rushes out to greet you as you step into his tent, a bright shine in your eyes as if he's ever earned the right to be looked at like that. A phantom of a touch as you brush the wisps of hair from his face, a startingly natural slip of your hand into his. Not even his endless years of study could catalogue the swell of magic in his blood - it's moments like these that have him spellbound.

Your hands leave a delicious trail of warmth up his skin. His shoulders, his arms, the sides of his body. Not one inch is left untouched, not under your curious hands. As the two of you lie together, a sinking chill starts to frost over in his mind, a nagging guilt that claws into the back of his head. He takes a shuddering breath and wrestles it down as your touches whisper over him. A voice hissing sick poison - telling him he has done nothing to earn this, that you will leave at his next mistake - floods into his thoughts. His breathing quickens but not for pleasure. As his eyes dart across the tent, hands starting to tremble as if to cast Misty Step, he feels ready to escape - and yet he can't.

It is impossible to tear his gaze from yours once you see him.

Shivers dot the back of his neck, but still he cannot look away. All the brilliance of the morning dawn could not compare to the way you peer up at him. Your gaze seems to burn his very soul - past the bravado, the confidence. The heat radiating off your palms sinks deep into his chest, flooding his every vein, and threatens to choke him as it washes up his throat. His tongue, usually well-practised from his propensity towards verbosity, suddenly feels large and foolish in his mouth as he struggles to free a coherent sentence. He can only hold your hand to his chest just as he did all those months ago. It feels poetic in some way. Again, he is at your mercy, pleading, desperate, aching for you to understand him in a way he cannot trust himself to say.

He hopes that somehow you will understand the depth of his feelings for you. Even the Astral Plane seems insufficient. Shifting, you slide into a more comfortable position and lay across him, your cheek resting on his shoulder as if his orb doesn't thrum a stuttering beat. As if your fingertips would not melt away his sickening mortal flesh, and there he would lay - stripped to mere bone and gasping for breath all the same.

The same fingertips reach to tease the wrinkles from his brow, and he snaps out of his reverie. They tangle themselves in his hair before tracing a near-scorching path down his cheek, ghosting over the corner of his lips and oh, it must certainly be the orb that lurches so in his chest. Again, he endeavours to loosen a word from his lips, but - ever the tactician - you read him before he has the chance.

As Mystra's Chosen, Gale had tasted the highs and lows of all the Weave could offer. The electrifying sensation of power, the soul-piercing loneliness without it. The endless weeks where he locked himself away has left him brittle as ice when confronted with the mortifying idea of being known to another. So much of his heart has wasted away in his chase for the cold wisps of Mystra's perfect favour.

He grunts as your nails accidently scratch his skin, the pain bringing him back to the moment, and your cheeks faintly colour in embarrassment. A hoarse chuckle is all he can let out as he finally reaches out to you fully. He thinks he'll take the blistering warmth of your mortal touch any day.

Author Notes: I thought it'd be interesting to write a Gale situation where he doesn't fucking talk LOL. Much love for our rizzard (who i am convinced is actually a sorceror ahaha) - maybe one day I'll write something actually happening instead of lovesick fools. I might expand this when I post on ao3 hmmm.

[irisintheafterglow]

hi iris i hope u have been well!!

wanted to request a little fluff/mutual pining moment between Satoru and reader who's also an instructor but they only ever get to see eachother during exchange events/higher up meetings/a mission every now and then (it's not for a lack of wanting to pursue eachother but neither of them have put in the effort bc they're both have commitment issues and deem themselves unworthy of trying) i think it would be soooo cute and i'm just dying to see Satoru and reader's students tease them about their VERY obvious chemistry... and hopefully something finally coming out of it in the end :-)

hehe thank u so much and as always you're the best!!

i hate accidents, except when we went from friends to this!

wc: 2.6k

cw/tags: coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, reader and gojo have no idea what they're doing, swearing, mentions of drinking, fluffy fluffy fluff

note: hi anon! thank you so much for the ask, hope you like it!! i definitely got a little carried away writing it just because it's such a cute premise lol

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated !!

A piece of paper slides inconspicuously into your peripheral vision and it takes all of your willpower not to smirk. With equal nonchalance, you carefully peek under the ripped corner of the meeting agenda and can’t help smiling at the message scrawled on it. 

We’re drinking after this (not optional). 

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye and see him leaning back in his office chair, arms crossed and looking like he’d rather be dipping his limbs in molten lava. Even with his blindfold, you can see the boredom in his expression and you bite your tongue to keep from laughing. His inability to appear professional was going to be the death of you both. 

“Gojo, are you listening?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” he says with blatant dishonesty that makes you bite your bottom lip and carefully observe the dusty ceiling tiles. “I was just in…deep thought.” He tastes the last two words like philosophies to be pondered and it suddenly becomes much harder to continue to have a blank expression. Their first mistake was picking a verbal fight with him. 

“Deep thought about what?” Their second mistake was letting him keep talking.  

“Ah, you know, the usual things.” You can feel his attention flick to you for a moment and it gives him a wave of confidence to continue to be a little pest at a meeting neither of you wanted to be attending. It was his favorite pastime, after all, to get you to smile at his shenanigans despite the bullshit you were hearing. “The meaning of life, the wonders of love,” he begins before his volume drops so that only you could hear it, “Why this couldn’t have been a fucking email–”

“What was that?” You suppress a snort into your fist and take a sip of water, hoping the other meeting attendees couldn’t see that you were tearing up from trying not to laugh. The angry-faced higher up scowls at him, catching the biting tone but not his words. Satoru merely smiles innocently, like every utterance was of the purest and most amicable intentions. 

“Nothing,” he sings and you cough into your sleeve to hide a laugh. The other higher ups with their ugly suits and balding heads look at you curiously, but all you can see is Satoru’s shit-eating grin from beside you. “I’m just worried for you, is all.” The higher-up at the front of the room scoffs, still believing the show. 

“Worried? For me?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, his brows drawn in fake concern. “I just know you don’t have a lot of time left on this plane and, well, wonder why you’re choosing to spend it here,” he states with a vague gesture around the musty room. An embarrassing noise of amusement escapes from your throat and you try in vain to regain your composure, only to fall into a fit of uncontrollable coughing. Satisfied with his achievement, he abruptly stands from his chair and pulls yours away from the desk. “My work here is finished. We’re leaving.” His finger gently taps your shoulder twice and you obey, standing and heading for the door while he pushes in your chair behind you. The official at the front of the room has turned beet-red.

“The arrogance of you two–”

“We’re done here. If you say anything important, Ijichi will tell me. I doubt the possibility, though,” Satoru states with finality, opening the door for you and shooting the room of stunned officials one last smirk. Too lazy to walk through the winding halls or take the snail-paced elevator, a flick of your wrist opens a portal into an alley on the side of the building. Your colleague lets out a whistle of approval as your shoes cross from dirty carpet to asphalt, finally taking in fresh air after hours of sitting in the stale conference room. The moon shines in all of its winter glory and you shiver against the welcome chill, comforted by the chatter of the city’s nightlife. “Still up for that drink?”

“As long as you’re buying it,” you reply. “I’m gonna call the kids first and let them know I’m out.”

“Tell them I say hi,” he says without missing a beat, leaning against a nearby wall to wait for you to finish. Utahime picks up after two rings. 

“Hello? Ah, you’re finally done. That’s great!” Your coworker’s voice temporarily becomes muffled while she answers questions of who she’s talking to, followed by a chorus of your name imploring you to come back. “Everyone, say hi!” Your beloved students greet you enthusiastically and you smile at their enthusiasm. “Will you be on your way soon?”

“In a little,” you say, slightly sheepish as your eyes flick over to the man behind you. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

“You’re going by yourself?” 

“Not exactly,” you answer slowly and the realization hits Utahime as she breaks out into a lecture on how Satoru isn’t good enough for you. “Easy, easy. It’s just a drink, nothing else.” Your whispered attempts to placate your friend’s indignance prove futile and you settle for letting her get all of her complaints out. 

“He’s a no-good playboy with a rock for a brain and a chatterbox of a mouth, you idiot,” she concludes after her lengthy rant. “I don’t want you getting hurt because he’s too scared to make any commitments.”

“I’m not making any commitments either, Utahime,” you remind her and you can imagine her rolling her eyes from the other side of the line. “It’s just a drink,” you reiterate, but you still hear her grunt of disapproval. “I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

“Mhmm,” she responds skeptically. “Don’t do anything dumb.” 

“Love you too, Utahime,” you laugh, hanging up the phone and sticking it back in your pocket. “Alright, let’s go,” you call to Satoru, who eagerly pushes off the wall and drags you out of the alley. “We haven’t eaten, so we’re getting dinner too.” 

“Whatever you want,” he grins. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t harbor some sort of romantic affections toward Satoru, but you were also resigned to the fact that you’d never act on it. He was the most powerful human being on the planet; how could you be worthy of loving such a man? Still, in times like this, where it was just the two of you walking hand-in-hand to who knows where, your mind tended to drift into thoughts of what could be if you weren’t in this line of work. It would be nice to love him, that’s all. Yeah, it’d be really nice to love him. 

You couldn’t explain any of this to your students the next morning, though, when they interrogated you on who you were with the entire night. When you let his name slip, the shock in the room was palpable. 

“See, I knew you guys had a thing for each other!” Miwa points her sword at you accusingly, far more fired up than you’d ever seen her before. “I thought I was the only one who noticed how he looked at you!”

“There is nothing of the sort, so I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you counter, pushing the sheathed blade to the side. Your other students fight back with full force. 

“It’s so obvious that he likes you,” Mai says, like it’s an insult. “Teasing you all the time? Making excuses to crash your meetings?”

“Bringing you lunch if he’s within a fifty mile radius of our campus,” Nishimiya adds and her classmates nod in agreement. “Do you know how many times I’ve caught him trying to surprise you by air?”

“That could be just part of a working relationship,” you argue, but they’re relentless. “How would you know anything about his intentions? Maybe he’s just being nice!”

“I believe his intentions with you are, indeed, romantic,” Kamo reiterates and you groan, hiding your burning face in your hands. “I can’t say I don’t see the vision. You’re a powerful duo.”

“Your marriage would make the brass shit themselves,” Mai muses with a cynical glint in her eye. “Can you imagine having a baby that can send Hollow Purple through a portal?”  

“Oh, their children would be so beautiful,” Miwa squeals and it’s like waterfalls of sweat come rushing from your forehead.

“Alright, alright. Let’s not talk about marriage or babies, please,” you cut in, quick to nip that conversation in the bud. You can’t tell if it’s the weather making your palms clammy or the unending tirade of comments about your dating life. “We can change the topic of conversation now,” you say in an attempt to get the heat off of you for a little bit. “Todo, how’s that idol you like so much doing?” It’s a good idea, initially, but the thought of you and Satoru together seemed to be brainwashed over your students.

“She’s wonderful, just as the two of you in love is a wonderful sight.” Todo can’t seem to help himself as he announces his enthusiasm for your romantic endeavors, teleporting across the room and swapping positions with his classmates from claps of pure excitement. Mechamaru provides a single thumbs-up when you look to him for support, and you pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers.

“I think it’s cute how you act like you hate him and then can’t seem to stay away during events like this. Love is so complex,” Miwa sighs, resting her chin on her hand and staring off dreamily. You scoff, hoping they can’t tell how fast your heart rate has picked up. “I wish I were in love.”

“It’s not love. If anything, it’s just admiration. Yeah, it’s just admiration,” you conclude and you’re met with skeptical stares. 

“Yeah, admiration of his hot bod,” Miwa mutters and you open a portal without thinking, allowing some fat drops of rain from who knows where to fall on her head. It was a common form of discipline, summoning portals to unruly weather conditions, and your students sit up a little straighter in understanding. “Fine, okay, okay. I’m done.”

“You sure? If you’re not done, I’m gonna send you to the Amazon again.”

“Yes, fine. I’m done, I promise.”

“Done with what?” You stiffen, mentally kicking yourself for not registering his presence sooner. Had he not taken up your entire attention, you would have sent Miwa to South America for the gasp of excitement she let out when Satoru appeared. It seemed that none of you knew he was listening until he leaned against the doorframe, all six feet of height taking up the entire space. He was wearing his signature shit-eating grin that made you want to choke him with his own blindfold. “You gossiping in here?”

“Nope, just going over strategy,” you lie straight to his face and he hums, not believing you for a second. “Shouldn’t you be doing that, too? With your own students?” You stand and attempt to push him out of the room, only to find him completely immovable. His hand covers yours, lacing your fingers together in a way that makes you a little dizzy. 

“All in good time,” he says carefreely, as if the action with your hands was second-nature. “For now, can I steal you away for a moment? It won’t take long.” You can practically hear the waggling eyebrows from your students and nod, unable to form a biting response because of the crashing trains of thought in your mind. His hand remains holding yours as he all but pulls you outside, finally dropping it when the excited chatter of your students has subsided. “You okay? You seem a little frazzled,” he asks once you’re far enough from any eavesdropping attempts.

“Yeah, my kids are just being a little…funny, today,” you exhale, trying to hide your unease with a nervous giggle. “You know them; they love to make up their own little stories.” He raises his eyebrows in amusement, matching your pace as you walk down a random outdoor corridor of the Tokyo campus. 

“Mine have actually been doing the same thing,” he confesses after a brief moment of awkward silence. “Making speculations, drawing connections. Seems to be a good exercise in pattern-recognition.” You know he means it as a joke, but all you can think about is Miwa’s comment on admiring Satoru’s ‘hot bod.’ Had his students picked up on your behavior, too?

“What are some of these connections they’re drawing?”

“Connections about my behavior around…hmm,” his voice trails off and the corner of his mouth turns down into a frown, like he was unhappy with his students’ observations. “They’ve noticed things about the way I, well,” he stammers and for the first time, you witness Gojo Satoru get tongue-tied. “Somethings that they’ve seen and heard and–”

“Satoru.” You halt both of your strides and cross your arms defensively over your chest, slightly uncomfortable from Satoru’s inability to express himself when he would otherwise be talking your ear off. “What is this about?”

“My students know I like you,” he states bluntly and your heartbeat momentarily stops pounding in your ears. His students know that he what? “And they also theorize,” he stops to clear his throat, adjusting his collar and avoiding your eyes, “that you may reciprocate the same feelings.” Any words that you can form get caught in your throat, an odd mixture of happiness, shock, and pure dread stirring around in your brain. All you could do is blink at him, dumbly, while he shifts between the balls of his feet. “Please, say something.”

“You like me,” you repeat, tasting the words like a fancy wine you’ve never tried before breaking out into the widest smile you’ve ever felt. “Holy shit, you like me?”

“You’re smiling,” he states, still trying to process what was happening. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Holy shit, you like me!” Your voice raises on its own and you take a step back in surprise, covering your face with your hands to try and contain your emotions. “What the fuck, Satoru?”

“Yeah, that’s,” he mumbles as he watches you celebrate, “that’s how I’m feeling too.” 

“Wait, so what do we do now?” 

“I have no idea. I didn’t expect to get this far,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck and combing his fingers through his hair. “I was waiting for you to slap me and tell me to go to hell.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I didn’t think you liked me back,” he sputters and the joy in both you and Satoru’s chests finally breaks loose in a fit of unending laughter. “Holy shit, I was so worried for nothing.”

“They’re gonna be so excited when we get back, they won’t be able to focus on the Exchange Event.”

“I don’t think I can focus on the Exchange Event.”

“Then we can postpone it!” You both flinch as a voice that was definitely not one of yours calls from behind a nearby wall, followed by a terrified oh, shit! as Satoru goes barreling around the corner and drags out the culprits by the collars of their shirts. Yuuji, the pink-haired student from Tokyo, and Miwa both try to explain themselves as they dangle weightlessly from Satoru’s hands. “Gojo, sir, we swear we weren’t trying to–”

“Hold on,” you pause Yuuji’s explanation, sensing some extra energy signatures that weren’t succeeding at hiding themselves. “Come out now, or I’m opening the portal to the Arctic,” you command in the open air and watch the leaves rustle as the rest of the Tokyo and Kyoto students fall from a nearby tree. “It’s rude to eavesdrop,” you chuckle as Nishimiya picks a few branches from Mai’s hair. “Go clean yourselves up and then we can begin the games.”

“You free this weekend after the games to go someplace?” Satoru whispers in your ear once all of the students are gone. “I need a break from the prying eyes of teenagers.”

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[whumplump]

Day 6 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: car accident / plane crash / shipwreck

CW: immortal whumpee, stoic whumpee, implied character death, flashbacks

Whumpee looked in the mirror and felt several things. This time, however, they came all at once, one after the other.

Once, excruciating pain throughout the body, especially in the legs. Ah, the legs... They couldn't move them. They were broken. The bones cracked beneath the skin like saltine crackers.

In another case, dizziness, a constant shaking in the head, an illness so strong that it caused nausea and almost caused vomiting. But there was no time to vomit before the pressure injured the brain inside the skull and caused death.

In the latter case, the cold, muscle pain, both from the effort to swim and from the reduced temperature of the wind and water. Sinking them up to the neck, until it covers their entire body. The burning in the lungs... The lack of air... And as always, then came the darkness.

Whumpee shook their head, trying to shake the memories away. Caretaker appeared at the bathroom door, looking at them worriedly.

Whumpee took three pills for their stomach pain and swallowed them all at once, without the aid of water. Caretaker was startled.

"You shouldn't take so many at once," they said, "you might overdose, you might even die!"

Whumpee gave a sarcastic laugh. "If only it were that easy.”

Caretaker always said those same words. The day was repeating itself again. This maddening loop where, at the end of the day, Whumpee always died, but at the same time... never really died.

They passed Caretaker with a deliberate shoulder bump.

"I wonder how many times I'll have to die before the drug overdose is the next thing to kill me!”

[juchily]

Shauna Shipman x Artist Reader thoughts

cw: nothing, pretty much just fluffy stuff

thinking about being the person who does the photography for Wiskayok's soccer teams (JV, men's, women's), and you have the biggest crush on the girls.

You're an artist, you know beauty, you see it everywhere.

So of course you can't stop yourself from doing some sketches of the girls while they practice... admiring their form and physique in your little sketchbook.

You've become a regular. Obviously because you're just waiting to take photos for the school newspaper... Totally because of that...

You're favourite one of them to draw is Shauna. She's solid with muscle in the arms and legs, her abs are defined but rounded, her frustratingly ethereal permanent pout, those big brown eyes, her standoffish personality. It's captivating to you.

You get invited on the trip to Nationals when the girls win to take the photos, besides, Lottie's dad can afford it.

When you crash, well, turns out your science skills and the anatomy skills that piggyback off of those pay off when you're faced with the plane crashing.

You have a vivid imagination. But in a million years? Never this.

You're more than faithful to help out with the wounded, but you get pretty damn seclusive, and you don't write or draw as much in your notebook.

When you all find the cabin you end up sleeping up in the attic because at night you run hot.

Only for Shauna to accidently mix up your journals/notebooks one dark and sleepy night and come across your sketches of the team, specifically her, and all the praise you've written, your admiring words towards her physique and skill.

She has half a head to register it, reading all the words. Words she's been waiting to hear all her life, words she's just frothing at the mouth for. Looks she's tearing at the soil for, to break free from that coffin that has her dug alive under the shadow of something she can't beat.

She carefully puts your journal back, keeping in mind the pages that praise her teammates and hold their images as well.

She doesn't fall asleep that night. Spending her time just gazing at your sleeping body in the light of the moon that reflects off the singular window in the attic onto your form.

She's a lot nicer to you after that night. You don't quite understand why she offers to take your chores, or give you some of her scraps. Or why she sneaks glances at you and starts to hang off of Jackie's side less.

Although you do notice an interesting smudge of a dried liquid, like water, that's burnt into the middle of the page with one of your sketches of Shauna Shipman with your words and thoughts on the girl.

You figure it must have just been some sweat from your hand, and close your notebook. Ready to start a new day of surviving in the summer wilderness you've found yourself in.

Send reqs for c.ai bots or short blurbs✌️

[namazunomegami]

Atonement

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: How can you cleanse yourself from the sin that has been tainting you since your attempt to escape? The answer is easy: walk on barefoot for him, suffer some misery, risk your health for him, open yourself up for him and you can earn his forgiveness.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, toxic and complicated dynamics, religious symbolism, porn with feelings, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising, gaslighting, m!receiving oral, fingering, non-consensual edging, good old unprotected sex + creampie

WC: 5.3k

Credits: my lovely @notveryrussian who worked so hard to get this fic proofreaded. Ngl they deserve all the praise and respect because we lost literal pages from the already edited draft because windows is crap and they had to start over again. Take one big break darl, you deserve it 💕

Song rec: mythical creature by pregnant whale pain was my main inspiration during writing but i think tumblr dot com is not ready yet to listen to an unknown hungarian avantgarde metal band while reading porn lmao. Maybe i'll drop the acoustic version later.

A/N: Here is part 1 in case if you missed it. I think you need to know what happened to completely understand the buildup and have a general idea about their relationship. This fic is probably my fave I’ve written so far, a special lil brainchild of mine. These two are living in my mind rent free with all their lore and they'll never let me go.

Reblogs are greatly appreciated 💕

Minors don't interact unless you want me to stand outside your house at 3 am with a pitchfork

It was very hard to explain to your family what happened to you. The worry which they approached you with, especially Mimiko and Nanako just stirred a weird sense of guilt in your chest. The twins even offered to help you out with chores, eagerly telling you to rest, let your body heal. Your heart shattered to pieces in that moment, weeping endlessly with fat, salty tears. Your precious darling girls, so considerate of you, so caring, their hearts filled with everlasting gratitude. And you wanted to leave them. You felt like a piece of shit of a parental figure, obviously.

Days passed as if nothing had ever happened. Even in your private moments with Geto, the issue was never brought up. He took care of your wounds, of course, but your escape attempt wasn’t a topic of conversation at all. You swept it under the rug.

Which means it was only a question of time until he was going to wield it against you.

“Leave the scabs alone.” he reprimands you softly, dragging your wrist away from them. The hot water softened your scars, making them itchy, easy to pick away at them. But Geto is so thoughtful for looking after you like some kind of crazy mother hen, right? Even sitting in the tub behind you.

He takes hold of the edge, stepping out of the tub swiftly. The water suddenly drops around you, goosebumps dot your skin from the sudden touch of the moistened air as he hides that broad, sun-kissed form of his beneath a bathrobe. You ache for a bit of peace, a bit of me-time, but since the so-called “accident”, he just couldn’t stop himself from keeping an eye on you constantly.

Your hand dances along the surface of the water, bunching the bubbles together into various shapes, like they’re islands. Like you’re a young god, decorating the plane you’ve created. But his outstretched palm appearing in your vision disturbs your creative process.

“Come, I’ll take the stitches out.”

Compared to when your wound was sutured, cutting out the thread is a relatively quick process. Especially with his competency. The tweezer lifts and holds the knot, as he severs the thread with a pair of scissors and pulls it from your flesh before he moving on to the next. It’s uncomfortable, not in a way that it hurts, but it makes your skin crawl and your bones bend. An overall disgusting feeling. But when it’s over, it does feel better. And knowing him, you wonder if it’s purposeful or not.

“Must you make it painful?” you complain, thumb pressing down on the closed, marred skin. For the wrong reasons though, but you can freely complain.

“I didn’t intend to hurt you.” his voice is soft like silk, but not without a sharp edge in it, slowly unfurling, like the jaws of a venus flytrap. “I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”

You glare at him, your eyes piercing him like a dagger.

“Me? I wanted to teach you a lesson.”

This… was a bit too far, you must admit.

You storm out of the bathroom, like you could get away from the conversation.

“Go on, speak.” his words echo through the walls of the bedroom, making your movements halt immediately. You glance up at the window, faced with his reflection as he leans against the doorframe. “What should I learn from you? That you’re not afraid to run? To put your life in unnecessary danger?”

A long sigh leaves through your nostrils.

“If it comforts you, then yes, I realized that I had made a dumb decision.”

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s standing right behind you. Looming over you, shrouding you like an evil trickster spirit.

“I must admit I enjoyed your little attempt…” his palms are heavy on your shoulders, just like his words echoing close to shell of your ear. “Catching you, watching your resolves crumble, the raw terror plastered on your face…” the way his voice caresses you is just like the way he would hold a blade right against your throat, pressing down on the pulsing veins that could be cut open so easily. Like needles slowly being inserted into your ear canals. Eventually it softens, getting more serious and chiding. “But you did scare me. Have you ever thought about what would’ve happened if I didn’t go after you?”

You’d die, you would definitely die. Bleeding out amidst the leaves and grass, letting the frosty night bite you tense and weak. All alone in the dark.

Hold on…

You wouldn’t be injured if he hadn’t frightened you in the first place.

Did he just… no, it can’t be.

He slowly walks away from you, and you hear the bed creak under his weight. The choking feeling finally lifts from your throat. You turn towards one of the incense burners, already filled, it merely needs to be lit. But you do it slowly, just for the sake of appearing busy, to not feel obligated to carry on with the conversation.

But you should make peace with him before he does. He’ll make you face all of your mistakes and their consequences, if not outright making you suffer because of them. Rub all of them into your face until you have no choice but to plead for forgiveness.

It’s not easy, but you open your mouth. The scent of sandalwood lowers your guards, helping you be honest and brings forth the thoughts you’ve been trying to hide for a long time.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. And I wonder even more about that if we’ll fail before reaching our goal. Fail spectacularly. Because we want to do the impossible.”

“What is exactly the right thing? Being selfless? Forgetting all about our grudges and letting the world trample all over us? Or being selfish and crushing anyone under our feet to keep each other safe?”

Like an elastic band being strained for far too long, you snap. Luckily, the bronze lid of the incense burner holds out under your grasp.

“It’s too fucking late for moral arguments! Can’t you speak to me more directly for once? Instead of hiding behind your… carefully crafted scenarios that only prove your point.”

You should have avoided looking at him. At your serpent, who made you sin, who was cursed alongside you, your serpent who devoured your beloved Adam. You yearned for the remains, sitting in the bottomless pit of his stomach.

But you swore those remains spoke to you, through layers of flesh, scales, and deception. Soft and calm like a light summer breeze.

“Do you have doubts about me, darling? Are you giving up on me?”

The question breaks you, evaporating all of your anger and resentment in a flash. Devoid of any playful tone or hidden meanings, so raw that it takes hold of your heart and squeezes it so tight that it couldn’t possibly beat anymore.

You know how he twists the truth, striking right into the softest parts of you. He feeds you poison – yet you swallow it right down every single time.

“Faith has no zenith, my dear.” you answer, low and sweet, like you wanted to comfort him. The lid on the incense burner closes, giving you enough time to build up the courage to approach him. You weave your words carefully, in such fashion that it can be interpreted in multiple ways. If he switched just one little word, he’d immediately gain more insight into what’s really been weighing on your heart. “There’s no such peak we can reach on which we can stagnate forever. Faith sometimes wavers, sometimes we question our beliefs. Sometimes we’re unsure if our prayers are heard.” you get down on your knees before him, taking his hand into yours, giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “But I do want to have faith in you.”

His features visibly soften. Heavy lids close in relief, and you feel his thumb brushing along your knuckles.

This is your chance! Go on, there’s no time more perfect than this to try to convince him.

“We should really get away from the temple.” you start with an almost resigned sigh, but your excitement soon starts to show. “Just for a few days. Manami will handle the followers while we leave for the countryside, or an island. We can bring the girls even.”

A faint glimmer in his eyes tells you his answer is going to disappoint you.

“They don’t know about the girls, but they certainly know about you.” he reminds you sternly. “The higher ups want us dead and the last time I offered to protect someone, they ended up getting killed.”

His voice is faint, almost shaky. He rarely talks about the death of Riko. And if he ever brings her up in a conversation, you know he means it.

The heavy lid above his eyes drops, violet irises hiding behind his lashes, averted from you. The words coming out of him are barely above a whisper, like his lips are made from lead, like forming the words is a tiring task because they’re so heavy, and filled with something violently torturing him.

“This is a risk I’m not willing to take again. Not even for you. Especially for you.”

You feel something pooling on your waterline. Translucent pearls of tears appear so involuntarily when you see him like this. Sometimes you do want to hurt him, but when you see him in pain, it torments you even worse.

“I’m not asking you to take risks for me. I never did. But you should take some for you. You could use some respite.” you lace your fingers with his. It brings you a strange kind of comfort how your hand just loses itself in his, but it’s yours that looks more lively and powerful. Like it’s you what keeps him together. As if without you he would shatter into pieces. “You take on an awful lot of responsibilities, I think sometimes more than you’re capable of handling.”

Affection sweeps through his features as he caresses your head, from the roots of your strands to the thick bone of your jaw. A lonely thumb brushing along from your cheekbone to the lobe of your ear. And there’s nothing you can do, only stare at him, wide-eyed with reverence, like he’s an ethereal being.

“This is not your cross to bear.”

He wanted to ease your concerns, but you’re much more stubborn than that. You won’t stand there, at a safe distance, watching him drag himself to his Calvary, whipped and crowned with thorns. You’ll push through the crowd, smash them to bits just to reach him and offer your veil to wipe his face. A thousand times, as many times as he needs.

“Of course it is, what do you expect from me? Unlike…” No, don’t say names, do not compare yourself to certain figures in your past and the way they treated him. “I’m worried about you, for no other reason than I genuinely care about you. That’s why I want you to put our plans to aside - let’s unwind a little, recharge. Before all of this drives us insane.”

He deliberately avoids answering, your concern grows and grows like vicious vine. Is this too much to ask for? A small moment of normalcy can’t be granted to you? What are the two of you really? Idols of worship, if not gods at this point because your sheep do regard you as such. But can’t gods long for a visit amongst mortals? Can’t they shed their divine status? You could, but maybe, before he’d let you leave, he’ll feed you pomegranate seeds.

Would you eat them again? Of course you would. Even if you fight and snarl a little beforehand. Because love is the death of duty, and of a peaceful mind, of comprehensive decisions. Love is so mystified, shrouded in the illusion of an immortalized existence, just like death. Love is, indeed, death.

Your palms cup his face, his skin radiates warmth through you. The warmth of the evening sun that makes the sky bleed with the prettiest colors you can imagine. Your touch slowly encourages him to look into your eyes, finding a strange kind of determination and care mixed with your obvious worry. A Magdalene dwells within your gaze, who already washed her prophet’s feet with tears and dried them with her hair before he starts his last journey to Golgotha.

“I told you a million times, if you fall too deep into your misery, when you feel like you can’t come back to the surface on your own, let me know, so I can pull you out. Or let me know so I can go after you. And we’ll drown together.”

All those little pacts and vows you made during the years echo through you. Even the first one, the most ancient of them all, when it was still easy to hide your concerns behind your techniques.

I’ll keep an eye on you.

It’ll keep an eye on you.

You lean closer, foreheads and the tips of your noses touching. Eyes closing in almost perfect synchronicity.

“Promise me, Suguru. Promise me again.”

You wait and wait, until his warm breath brushes your skin like fine silk, like a feather.

“I promise.”

You sigh in relief. It hurts, it hurts so much. There’s so much place in your heart for him to dwell in. He owns it and he won’t give it back. Ever.

You only wanted a chaste kiss, but a special type of hunger wakes deep below your navel. You taste his words, you swallow them down, nipping them from his lips. You look for the rest of them, his thoughts that hadn’t been formed into words yet, the rest of the sentence, you search for it with your tongue inside his mouth.

You grab onto the sheets, trying to push yourself up. Like you could overpower him, like you could battle against him. To have him laid out on the mattress, defeated. But he stops your advances with a palm resting on your shoulder, gently pushing you away.

“You’re not healed yet.” he whispers, truly concerned.

“Then I’ll be on top, I don’t care.” you oppose breathily, your fingers trying to pry his robe open.

“The cut on your hand could re-open if we’re not careful.”

Oh, how you adore him when he’s so tender with you, but now, this is the last thing you want. You want to bare your teeth and go right for the throat.

“Then you’ll stitch me up again.” There’s a playful edge in your voice, and you kiss him again with the same curve of a smile while he lets you crawl on top of him.

And he smiles against you too, delighted by your eagerness. You, trying to eat him up, digest him - he’s just enjoying you and the feast you’re having. Taking everything from you. He only wants to capture you, to cage you in his hold. He’s kneading your flesh leisurely and humming into your mouth contently, almost lazily.

In the crooks of his body, you find your religion.

The sharp line of his jaw, the tendons of his neck, the hollow caverns around his collarbone. But your mouth carefully avoids the scars slashing through his chest, after all those years, it still pains him when the lightly coloured, textured skin gets touched. As if these lips of yours and your aimlessly trailing fingers were the same blades, penetrating the flesh again and again.

There’s not a morsel of him that you weren’t intimately familiar with. In a way that rivals how much you know about yourself. And what you know even better is that how can you venerate them, dote on them, adore, and idolize with such devotion you could anger all deities created by man and make them scream blasphemy on you.

You take his cock in your hand, teasingly working your palms around him. Pumping it, stroking your thumb along the underside to make his breath hitch. His dick grows beneath your hands, getting harder and heavier. The first beads of precum get smeared along the length by your skillful fingers.

“You know you don’t have to- “but you cut him off while settling between his legs.

“Just relax and let me do all the work.” your response comes out a bit more deadpan than planned. “You deserve it once in a while.”

And with that, you wrap your lips around him, enveloping him in warmth and wetness, your tongue slowly swirling around the head. His thighs twitch, more precum oozes into your waiting mouth as the muscle between your teeth works eagerly. You give him a few, gentle sucks, slurping up the mixture of your own saliva and his arousal. Between ragged breaths, he reminds you to breathe through your nose as you take more and more of his length. You relax your jaw, your fingers tense around the base of his cock and you’re trying as hard as you can to defeat the urge to gag. When you fit all of him inside your mouth, you empty your lungs and give him a harder suck, hard enough to make you cheeks hollow and his chest heave. As your free hand is occupied with kneading his balls between your fingers and knuckles, a moan bursts out of him.

The sound boosts your confidence, filling you with a wicked kind of playfulness. The kind of wicked that makes you pull back your tongue a little, as to not keep your teeth hidden. You drag them along his sensitive, pulsing underside, balancing the pressure between pleasure and pain. Like you could prove to him that you’re ready to bite back, that this is the only moment when he can’t control you, that he shouldn’t underestimate you.

And just as if he could read your thoughts, his hand goes for your head, fingers getting lost between your strands. But he’s not as cruel as to push you down on him, instead he guides you, increases the rhythm that you’re working with. Steady and firm, but not too fast. You earn yourself his praises, soft curses pitched higher than his normal voice.

This is what real worship looks like.

When you feel the muscles in his thighs and stomach tensing up, you stop. You emerge from the space between his legs, wiping your lips clean and admiring your work. All that flushed skin blooming in pink on his chest and face. You move, trying to get into a new position, settling your calves right next to hips. You start aligning yourself with his cock to finally start grinding on him.

He sits up and traps you with an arm coiling around your waist.

“Since when were you so reckless?”

His hand creeps around the apex of your thighs. A finger barely brushes along your slit. By adding another digit, he spreads your folds, finding hot, smooth, slippery flesh.

“I would’ve prepped myself.” that’s all you can say in your defense.

Fingertips circle your hole, applying a bit of pressure, checking how much you’ve loosened up. He invades you slowly as your lungs empty, the hardened skin on his fingers stroking and massaging your sweet spots before he starts working you open.

You wrap your arms around him, slowly undoing his bun to have something to grab onto as you jolt, as your bones melt, as your brows furrow in bliss. The moans coming from you are breathy and tender, and you hide them in his strands. He twists his fingers inside you, stretching your warm muscles further, making your back arch and you press your hardened nipples to his chest. Your essence engulfs his knuckles, clear and sticky like honey.

The heel of his palm settles right against your clit and you shamelessly grind on it. Your mewls pass over his ears as he’s nuzzling into the crook of your neck, nipping at the skin of a faint scar. But you resist giving in, you stop him, telling him that’s enough, but in reality you just want your control back. Take back the lead and revel in it.

And somehow he obeys, laying back into the sheets.

You slip out of your robe, showing yourself fully. The bruises on your skin can finally bathe in the dim lamplight, painting the complexion of your sides, shoulders, and upper arm in different shades of blue and purple, like paint on bare canvas. Like the night sky carrying storm clouds, like you’re rotting, decomposing. You find a twisted, perverted joy in the fact that he must be seeing them for the whole time.

“Slowly, slowly.” he murmurs softly as you’re pushing the head of his cock inside you. “There’s no need to rush.” Trimmed nails trail up and down from the flesh of your thighs to your bruised sides. Tender and slow like a ghost, goosebumps pepper your skin from the tickling feeling. “I’m already yours.” He purrs and your heart flutters.

And there’s so, so much pride in you that only you can render him to this state. Too powerful for the world to bear him, capable to burn this plane to ruins, defying the barriers between a mortal and a god - or something way worse than that. Maybe you should receive twice the respect from your herd, for being the only person who can enslave him in this way, that only you can have this sort of power over him. Only you can overthrow him. Because you’re just too dear to him, too close to his burning heart.

Maybe it’s your time to warn him. Tame him like the monster he is.

You move with your own rhythm. His hand caged between your fingers and pressed down against the sheets. You give him no other choice but to venerate you back and he does, with pleased, low rumbles coming from his throat. Only a singular hand is allowed to roam your form freely. On your back tracing the shallow line where your spine lies beneath skin and flesh, wandering towards the inner part of your thighs, then to your stomach and chest. And you reward him with a prayer of your own, encapsulated in deep, long sighs.

But you’re too trusting of him. You let your guard down too easily.

You’re holding onto his kneecaps, leaning towards them a little, allowing every inch of you to be seen. You want to give him a show, but your knees are too worn and tired.

He takes hold of your hips, helping you guide yourself along his length. His pelvis moves along with you in synced rhythm. Your teeth are pressing down on the soft skin of your lips, but you can’t keep your whimpers in. You’re getting close, your muscles and nerves are st tight and pulsing, your walls are pressing down on his length. His name mindlessly slips out of your mouth.

Maybe you can say you love him before you shatter.

But his fingers clench around you, strong and firm, stopping your movements. Lifting your hips up so high that his cock is barely inside, robbing you from your incoming orgasm.

You’re shocked, eyes staring into the nothingness, open wide. Your stomach drops, stirring up all kinds of feelings dwelling in you. A chill races down your vertebrae as you glance down at him.

“Suguru..?” Your voice is weak, shaky.

Fear courses through your being, primordial and all-consuming.

And when he speaks to you it’s all dark, shrouded in malevolence.

“You forgot one thing, darling. After I brought you back from the forest.”

No, no, no, he can’t do this to you! He can’t hold your orgasm hostage for the sake of toying with you! You should puncture his flesh your nails, scratch him, tear him up, but you can only grit your teeth. Your features twist from bliss to rage.

“You…” boiling anger swims through your voice. It’s like it’s not even your voice - more like a hiss, a growl.

There’s an undecipherable mixture of pity and amusement in his eyes. He twitches inside you but you’re too upset to notice.

“Apologize.” he sneers - almost commands.

His words cause anger to bubble up in you.

“Oh, you piece of shit…!” you seethe, but sob and moan when he slams you back on his cock, stretching you around his length again. Wanting to quench your rage with the sensation you crave the most right now.

“I hope, for your sake, I don’t have to repeat myself.”

It doesn’t matter how much you try to squirm, fuss and wriggle, he forces you still. His behaviour frustrates you to no end when you’re so desperate for a bit of friction, the horribly hollow and burning feeling of your lost peak torturing you seemingly endlessly. To the point where you’re too tired to put up a fight, when you’re teetering on the edge of breaking. You know you must swallow your pride, you have let him have it his way.

“I… I’m sorry.” you apologize meekly, teary-eyed, your voice a pathetic mewl. He finally starts lifting you up and easing you down, building you up slowly. But it’s not enough. You need more but he won’t give it to you just yet.

“You do?” he asks you in a way that it cuts deep into your marrow. It’s not even close to a loving tease – no, he’s outright mocking you.

Vicious bastard. You should grab his throat and squeeze the air out of him.

“Yes, I do!” you cry out without thinking. “I’m sorry for running away from you.” you push the words out through your whimpers. He increases the pace, making you yelp and shake, you end up closing your eyes reflexively. He robbed you from the sensation for so long that you became sensitive, it’s easier to make a mess out of you. Your face is red with shame, so much so you can’t look him in the eyes. The humiliation is like an invisible rope tightening around your neck.

“Promise you’ll never do that to me again.”

He pushes your hips further along his length this time, shifting you a bit towards his thighs. Creating a perfect angle, he uncovers a sweet spot inside you that makes you almost incapable of forming coherent words. And he eats the sight right up.

“…I promise… I promise...” you manage to get your answer out in the form of a choked hiccup. Your vision blurs. Everything is too intense for you to handle. You swear that the very shape of you could dissolve at any given moment.

Faith is desperate. Gods are hungry for despair. So they deliberately make you suffer and only then reveal themselves to you.

His fingers dig into your waist so hard it burns. You feel the world shift with you and then you collide with the sheets. Your bruised back ripples with pain. You’re unsure if he did it out of spite or not. You don’t know if he’ll completely shatter your dignity, or if he’s fine with just enforcing the feeling that you can never be above him, that you can never defeat him.

His weight on top of you is overwhelming. The midnight dark locks of his hair spread around you like spilled ink. And through the thick fog of your mind, too far gone in twisted, masochistic pleasure, you lock your legs around his waist. You don’t want him to go away. You might as well cease to exist if he does.

“And what do we say when we apologize?”

The soft plea coming from you is more instinctual rather than deliberate.

“Forgive me.”

You ache for him to move, you’re starved for the incoming high. Like a ravenous beast, all devouring. When he finally gives it to you, his thrusts make you feel possessed, make your back arch, your head falls back into the pillow as if you were offering your neck to him (maybe one day he won’t be able to resist the urge and will bite down on the jugular, through your trachea, putting you out of your misery) - you don’t dare to beg for anything else.

Maybe just for a little blood. A mark he can wear, just like you wear your bruises. Your nails somehow acquire a will of their own, your scratches have him excited and pleased.

His fingers meander around your jaw, gently coaxing you into letting him guide your gazes to meet again.

He’s imitating you, admiring his work like you did with him. And what he sees is a being stripped from any likeness of a dignified human being. With eyes so blown he can see the bottommost pits of Hell in them.

And he’s satisfied, rewarding you with a soft kiss on your temple.

“I forgive you.”

Your release crashes over you like a tide, submerging you, burning you to cinders on the inside. Tearing you apart. And when he collapses on top you after filling you to the brim, you feel like a festering wound.

He’s a disease, miasma, a flesh-eating parasite crawling inside you.

“You’re…” you huff. “You’re awful.”

“I know. But you love me all the same.”

You wonder what you should have done to earn a different outcome, but you give up soon. Looks like he already had plans for your atonement in mind. After all, gods are impatient creatures. They’re dependent on your reverence and servitude. And you’ve waited for too long to make things right.

Why, why, why - it echoes inside your head.

But if you think about it… he’s your serpent. The vilest, most horrendous creature created by God. The one who charmed you, tempted you with sin and has now sunken his fangs into you. Of course he did, and instead of trying to heal from his venomous bite, you want to catch him - to find out his reasons, to prove to him that you didn’t deserve that.

And yet you could never, ever prove him wrong. Your serpent will always think it was right to bite. It’s in his nature afterall.

“Is your hand alright?”

He makes it up to you with spoiling you again. He cleans your wounds so sweetly, so thoughtfully, looks after you in a way that nobody could, which confuses you even further.

He cherishes you, destroys himself for the sake of keeping you safe - not like it’s a choice, but a must - just like a mother would. He scolds you, reminds you not to make the same mistake again, collars you, keeps you on a tight leash, only loosening it (just a little) when he succeeded at making you play by his rules, just like a father would.

And somehow, he excels at both. Way better than those two ever did when it came to you.

You wish your glare could pierce right through his skull when you hand the empty glass back to him. You don’t have it in you to play nice. You don’t even attempt hide that you’re sulking, he probably finds it funny - adorable even.

“Go to hell.” you spit and lay back into the sheets, your bruised back facing him.

“Oh, darling…” he coos, but the surface level sweetness of his tone hides a sharp edge of condescendence. He crawls into bed, right behind you, caging you in his embrace, forcing you to feel the warmth of his body. The warmth that you’re so used to, the one you can’t sleep without it. Nobody has ever made you feel this safe, and the fact makes your heart ache and your stomach twist.

“If there’s a Hell, I’ll see you there.”

[wri0thesley]

(cw: yandere)

one of jing yuan's greatest qualities is his patience.

the title of general is, perhaps, one that brings to mind war-torn battles and a mantra of 'living whilst one can'. but though many jing yuan has known in his life no longer exist on any mortal plane, jing yuan himself remains stalwart in the face of the ticking clock. he lets people think of him as lazy; lets them think that he has softened with age, become too peaceful and too comfortable.

that is not true. he thinks. he plans.

and for the past who-knows-how-long, his plans and his thoughts have revolved around you. a distraction from the mundanity of his duties; somebody to think about, to dwell on, to imagine on long lonely nights--

with you, patience will pay off. you, too, have written him off - he is always kind to you, always has time for a smile and a quiet word or two though you think yourself beneath his notice. he has worked slowly out of you tidbits of your life - a bird lured forth by breadcrumbs. through half-lidded eyes and a quiet smile, he has taken in every item of clothing you wear to work and how it unfastens. that your eyes are ringed with dark shadows on tuesdays - monday is the publication day of your favourite periodical, and you stay up late to read it. you always stare longingly at mimi as if you want to pet it (there is a keychain dangling off your work bag in the shape of a simple cat; you have a weakness for soft, cute things. jing yuan thinks you rather soft and cute yourself). the route you take, to get to

things he can use. a starskiff accident on your way home, meaning you must stay at work overnight (he is only too quick to offer his office - the dozing general with a huge leonine pet has many places to rest, after all). when you wake in the early morning to see him crouched beside you, you take a great gasp in, eyes widening in surprise, and you lean away from his broad form.

"my apologies," he says, pulling back. "i quite forgot about you."

a careful lie, designed to put you at ease. this has proven to him - not quite yet. your piece on the chessboard is not ready for capture by his own at this precise moment in time.

that's alright.

he can wait.

[mangled-by-disuse]

#you guys are so weird and obsessed #do you understand that I'm talking about women and their FREEWILL in their sexual behaviour right?

"... And in this context, I can't possibly see how the limitations of free will (sorry, FREEWILL) for a minority of women might be a relevant topic."

buddy friendo pal a thing does not need to be a universal experience to be a relevant one. Rape and coercion affect enough women (AND men, why is it always the pro life crowd who assume reproductive rights are a Women Only Zone) to make "nobody forces you to have sex" a comically out of touch statement.

This is WHY people bring up rape, coercion, and mothers who are underage or otherwise not able to give meaningful consent. Not because we think they're the majority of reason birth control and abortion are needed, but because if any of those cases exist, then "just don't have sex then" ceases to function as an argument to reduce reproductive healthcare access. I'm not actually fighting for reproductive rights for my own hedonistic lifestyle, there's a very real chance I'm infertile and also I actually was celibate for a good number of years. My investment in reproductive rights is that birth control and abortion have always been part of society because THEY ARE NEEDED, and if they're only needed for a minority of people, so the fuck what? You need the infrastructure in place for people who have no other recourse, as well as for people who took necessary precautions but found themselves in an unpredictable situation. Even if I agreed with you that celibacy was a necessary precaution, you still need a backstop for when precautions fail.

(also may I present to you the radical notion that free will doesn't stop at the bedroom door, and people should also have the free will to use the tools at their disposal to mitigate risk. Or to provide them. you know, because free will )

Anyway, point is: I'm not obsessed with rape, you're literally the one who made an argument based on "all sex is freely entered into".

also to be clear this is not the biggest issue with your argument it's just the most obviously silly one

waiting for a politician to asssert your "bodily autonomy" "reproductive freedom" or whatever lingo those people use those days is CRAZY because literally no one forces you to have sex with anyone

You are de facto "free from sex" by your own very decision to not engage in sexual activity with anyone

What you guys actually want is "sex without reproductive consequence" access. This is a better term to objectively convey what you want.

But I get why some of you may be uncomfortable with it because it debunks the feminist ideal of being in "control" of their sexuality. Truth is many of you are not any more sexually disciplined than men. You want to have accesss to casual sex as much as they do. Just without the risk of pregnancy. That's why it's so funny to see (radical) feminist screech about how men are too sex obsessed...and then turn around begging to upkeep birth control & abortion : if you guys weren't obsessed with accessing to sex you wouldn't make those cause the crux of your movement. You love & need sex as much as those moids.

And by enabling casual you de facto allows to mediocre men fancying acess to women's body. Which somehow pisses you off because "how dare mediocre men think they deserve access to female body for sex??!" right? But you can't whine about the consequences of a cause you cherish.

And yes, more & more feminist are speaking up in favor of celibacy and more against sexual liberation, which is good. But the fact a significant portion of them still get veeeery uncomfortable if not angry when (non feminist) women argue that celibacy is actually a form of birth control and that "reproductive control" is irrelevant to the access to chemical substances or procedures altering your reproductive system. This behavior makes me believe this whole "vive la celibacy" is nothing but a posture and that self proclaimed feminist are aren't as much interested toppling the status quo as they pretend to be.