#how does alcohol effect

[baldurs-gate-official]

Thinking about how Astarion insisted on staying up to keep watch in the beginning of the game

Yeah, it could be because he needs to go hunt at night without anyone noticing, or because he's keeping an eye out for Cazador/his minions. But... It could also be because he's scared of sleeping/trancing in general?

He's got severe C-PTSD. I have that too. And one of the things I experience from it is a fear of falling asleep.

Sleeping is vulnerability. You're completely defenseless. It's terrifying to fall asleep when you're used to danger! And some abusers will purposefully do things to you when you sleep. I wouldn't put it past Cazador to have done something like that.

It's especially terrifying when you're sleeping somewhere unfamiliar, or as out and open as a forest. With strangers.

Add in the elvish reverie (if we assume Astarion still experiences it as he would if he were alive at his current age)... and he might even be reliving horrible memories every time he tries to rest.

(If you're unfamiliar with elvish trancing/dreaming, I made a post about it and some ways it might affect Astarion as a vampire spawn a while ago)

One of the reasons I think this could be the case is actually the other spawn, specifically what I noticed when we first meet Dalyria and Petras. At first I thought Astarion's eye bags were just a product of being undead. But... Petras, the very human looking spawn, doesn't have that. Dalyria is an elf as well, and like Astarion, she's got some of that tired sleep-deprived purple under and around her eyes.

So all this considered... I think it's very possible that Astarion has a fear of sleeping too. Or at the very least, trouble resting. Him and the other elvish spawn.

It also makes me wonder if he sleeps any better later on in the game. By Act 3 he probably feels more comfortable with you and the group. Sleeping near familiar people (especially people you're very comfortable with, but that's very dependant on your own choices in your game), and having established night time routines can make sleeping feel a little safer.

Plus by that point he's made many new memories he can visit in his reverie. Maybe instead of remembering the terrible things, sometimes he dreams of sun bathing, the first time he bit you or that bear, or any other happy memory he's created since being tadpoled.

Maybe for the first time in centuries, sleeping isn't such a terrible prospect.

#bg3 #astarion #text post #its just something thats been on my mind #my fear of sleep is bad enough that i usually cant fall asleep without pushing myself to the point of passing out #or sometimes i need to take a sedative just to manage it #so i wonder how bad it is for him given that he doesnt have the option of sedation #it makes for some interesting headcanons/ideas though #pretty sure a druidic Tav can offer to put together an herbal tea to help him sleep #what if that sort of thing worked and it became a nightly routine? #i assume he can drink tea given that he can drink alcohol #or if you've romanced him #would sleeping near Tav help? #i know sometimes its easier for me to sleep when im around someone im comfortable with #though sometimes it has the opposite effect and it makes it harder to sleep because i feel like i need to be extra alert to protect them #trauma really does a number on you #act 3 spoilers #bg3 act 3 spoilers #astarion spoilers #bg3 spoilers #q

[piningprecussionist]

Do you hang out with Ramona or Knives much when Scott or Neil aren't around? Ever since your roommate shanked you in the back it seems like you don't have a lot of girlfriends, just bros.

I try to. I want to. They're both so much nicer to hang around, you know? So much less confusing. At least in an uncomfortable manner

And you're right, yeah. Ever since Hollie it's been a lot of Stephen and Joseph and Scott- and with Joseph it's all awkward since he's Hollie's friend. Just a lot of unnecessary bullshit, generally. I don't want all that.

I like hanging out with Ramona, Lisa, Knives... fuck, even Julie at this point, even if she bores me to tear sometimes. I miss feeling light, ya know?

#ramona is just so... wow... you know??? #i mean. jeez. share a little in that perfection you bitch #i say that affectionately. #i seriously love ramona. she's an angel. she deserves so much better than scott #i mean she's not like an angel angel but you understand i hope #and knives is just this little ray of sunshine i want to protect you know? #she talks to me sometimes about how stuoid the whole scott situation is and all i can do is nod in agreement because she's just... right?? #boys are so stupid. i dont know why i let them bother me so much #pine.txt #anon #asks #spto #sp comic #spvtw #kim pine #rp #? #(ooc: ty so so much for the ask! hope this is coherent i am so off kilter rn skfhfjdjd) #(ooc: alcohol seriously does not normally effect me this much idk whats up. maybe im just downing more at a time before breaking???l #(ooc; idk either way hope this is a fair enough response) #spvtwtg #drunk kim

[tj-crochets]

Hey y’all! Weird question time! First, an explanation: - I am allergic to vinegar - vinegar is acetic acid + water - apparently, the human body naturally produces small amounts of acetic acid And now, the question: Could I be slightly allergic to myself????? To the acetic acid??

#the person behind the yarn #tj asks weird questions #medical mention #allergy mention #I am going to be so mad if this is the answer to my health questions #but also if this is the answer to my health questions it's hilarious #I will be talking to my doctor about this next time I see her #but like...this theory is so ridiculous I had to share it? #but it does kind of make sense???? #I do not know enough about human anatomy to know how plausible this is #but vinegar is a histamine liberator so it could be causing mast cell issues without it being a technical allergy #and if that's the case idk if self-produced acetic acid would have the same effect? #but I'm also not sure it functionally matters if it's not an IgE mediated allergy if the situation is eat the thing = allergy symptoms #if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck I'm going to go ahead and say I'm allergic to it #by which I mean it's easier to say I'm allergic to vinegar and alcohol than to explain to people that technically #it's maybe not an allergic reaction because the mechanism that activates it is different. #but the symptoms and treatment are identical.

[gemkun]

he is literally holding a glass of whiskey oh please let him be the kind of man who drinks hard liquor after a rough day to cope. it is the optimal choice of alcohol if he considers his physicality ( ignoring the internal damage ). furthermore , he must be the kind of man who suppresses all his struggles and frustrations and takes to drinking his sorrows. that or he's just not a fan of flamboyant drinks ( see : aventurine being gay with his soulglad ). no , but i do believe he's using alcohol to at least shave the edge of his troubles. especially with the pursuit into the genius society and how pointless it all seems at moments in his career. how he invests his entire being ( in body and in mind ) into the dream but always falls flat. and as a health practitioner , turning to substances isn't uncommon.

#* ✦ 𝐈𝐕. ❮ isms ❯ ⸻ ❝ #* ✦ 𝐕𝐈. ❮ muses ❯ ⸻ ❝ 「 veritas ratio 」 #alcohol tw #my type is just self-destructive geniuses at this point who have a soft spot for short menaces #okay but considering how hard this man works everyday it's no surprise he has some mechanism to cope #and research does point to the benefits of alcohol consumption in being an anxiolytic #the depressant effect is also advantageous in wanting to simmer down from pent up frustrations #i could be completely off the mark here i mean this could be a one off drink #but to turn to whiskey indicates that there's history

[hanzajesthanza]

there are many good and even superb and even life-changing scenes in the witcher books, when asked “favorite scene?” we of course hear the classics — the striga fight, the death of essi daven, geralt leaving ciri outside of brokilon, geralt and ciri reuniting in something more, ciri at kaer morhen, shaerrawedd, ciri at ellander, yennefer and geralt at thanedd, the thanedd coup, the mandrake distillate, the horseshoe, the fish soup, the battle of the bridge, the slaughter of the rats, brisingamen, the ice skating on tarn mira, the stay in beauclair, ciri travelling between worlds, the battle of brenna, the assault on stygga castle, rivia…

but there’s also just the scenes you like that are not so grand or epic or even relevant to the main plot…

i have to have played and reread the conversation and philosophizing between regis and the rest of the company in chapter 7 of baptism of fire at least twenty times by now… and more, in my head

#the audiodrama added a running/bubbling water sound effect which is just so nice #this is like legit my bedtime story like i listen to this when im having an anxiety attack. its very special to me #regis: [describing how his life went horribly wrong and his severe alcoholism led to a stupid death-suicide] | me: oh so cozy… 😴🥱💙💤 #i am making this post because i have repeated the ‘that is to say Me — and my Myth —‘ phrase over and over in my head for the past hour #embody all of your fears… #sit. and think. in silence. | don’t admonish him geralt… #do lustra? #i dont reflect in mirrors… #the emphasis his VA puts on dzień and noc … :) <3 #does the explanation satisfy you my dear milva #UMNA będę. socjologia aktywocja srututucja wilkołacja… #txt

[codgod-moved]

lol i imagine nether alcohol to be like pretty strong compared to overworld alcohol for some reason so the other empires like can’t Handle it well but then jimmy can just drink it fine bc moonshine is really strong too (i think)

just googled it and usually moonshine is abt 40% alcohol but can go as high as 80% so um. yeah jimmy can hold his liquor i guess

#.asks #nptau #tw alcohol #‘how does jimmy even get drunk if he’s a toy’ placebo effect /hj

[dutybcrne]

Albedo cannot get drunk on alcohol whatsoever. The only thing that really does work for him is neurotoxins.

#hc; albedo #//Dude is pretty much immune to effects of more typically lethal doses of poisons. To a LOT of chemicals; really; medicines included #//Usually; he’d get tipsy to drink as a result of them #//One HELLUVA amount is needed to actually be lethal; and even then; by that point; it’s easy to notice #//Would practically need to give him a fully concentrated amount; he’d even wager respective equivalents to alcohol proofs #//Kae to a far lesser extent holds the immunity too; but while he can get drunk off poisons like Bedo #//He WILL have the most wicked fucken hangover and feel like he got trampled by a lawlchurl overall #hc; kaeya #//Whoop #//Gotta add that #//Halfdan & Rethal; in their present day divergences basically have Bedo’s level of toxin tolerance #//Which Dan is SORELY upset abt #//Bc he does love a good drink; what do you MEAN he’s gotta basically poison himself to get the same buzz as before??? #//Bruh imagine how Bedo must have found it out #//Kae I can easily picture it being a Negotiation having inevitably gone South; and him having been poisoned #//And after the church gets traces of wtf knocked him tf out; & telling him he was lucky to still be breathing #//He gets a kick outta realizing the Abyssal energy in him serves for somethin other than offense; would suggest maybe his Vision saved him #//Bedo on the other hand prolly ate smth to test it and Sucrose & Timaeus got to see him sloshed for the first time #//Was very grateful they recorded everything; for references and to get to the root cause #//That or maybe he got poisoned for the sake of getting rid of him too; and thus the two got to see him in such a state

[puesiria]

mizuki cosplay merging all the non lethal drugs into a steven universe real life fusion (those pictures of cosplayers on the verge of death)

#should i tag this as mizuki akiyama 😭 #this is for the she her mizuki supporters (my 3 mutuals who i love with my whole heart) #caption by my cisgender nb boygirl theythem lesbian friend #tengo miopía #effects of alcohol in the human body #girl help how do i caption this its 1am and this isnt even my own tumblr #how does op tag stuff😭😭😄😄 #cosplay #prsk memes

[ereh-emanresu-tresni]

.

#it's so frustrating how long term it is absolutely not but in the immediate term? why tf does alcohol have to be #such a fucking effective painkiller. i can take prescription dose of both ibuprofen and Tylenol together and it won't make a dent #in the kind of headaches a couple drinks will dissolve flawlessly. but ofc it will be back sevenfold the next 3 days and chronically #wreck my liver and brain too lol fuck

[nrth-wind-a]

🍻+ "Have you ever messed up in a past relationship?"

Drunken Confessions II Accepting

Tim took a long sip before he was ready to answer that question.

“I… fucked up really bad, once.” He sighed. Best to just be honest. “I’m not proud of it, obviously, and I’ve since talked about all of this with both of them, but… Tim Drake and Ariana Dzerchenko were dating in high school… and then Robin and Spoiler started to, er…” he winced. “Flirt. Kiss, a few times, while that was going on. I felt awful about it and did my best to end things with Ariana gently; I think she took mercy on me because we hadn’t really had a great relationship to begin with—I had to cancel dates constantly, and my attention was always elsewhere with Robin; I was a pretty crappy boyfriend back then—but it still… sucked—and I still regret that, even now. Both of them deserved better than that."

#[i do not acknowledge the part of that saga where tim wasn't honest ngl] #[i think if dc wasn't cowards they would have had tim be honest with ariana about it] #[i think they actually properly talked and that's why they were able to break up amicably-- not because tim didn't tell her lol] #[like fuck dc lmao ariana deserved better] #[she deserved his honesty and the way i play tim-- he would agree] #[he's stupid and fucks up plenty and he is def an asshole sometimes but he does have very strong morals so...] #[i need dc to stop compromising them bc honestly the better drama to me is what happens if he sticks to the rigid moral compass OR #what effects that rigid moral compass has on how he acts/the relationships he has with people] #[it's more interesting to see a hero fuck up in a morality sense not in a... cheating story] #[idk if i'm explaining this well and these tags are getting long so sldjfksl maybe i'll holler about this in more depth another day lol] #[anyway yeah this is my tim's version of those events] #[bc canon is mine to overrule here lsjdfklsjfklssdljfk] #{answered asks} #{i always make such expensive mistakes} #dementedspeedster #tw: alcohol

[ebaytelemart85]

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[ukrainian-psycho]

boo hoo

#genuinely can’t think of a part of my life that isn’t stressing me out rn #idk what to do with my legal papers idk who to ask I don’t get this system and I worry I’ll be put on hold on work for that #I can’t catch up at work I hate this job #I wanted to be sure I’ll make it to a Halloween party this year but now that I’ve lost a friend idk how #I’ll have to get drunk and hit up that other guy again on snap begging pweeeeease invite me to a Halloween party #which might work but if it does there’s a high chance Kevin will be there and ugh I just #can’t #I just can’t #my family doesn’t talk to me really #so that’s great #and I drink like almost every day and don’t eat on god I consumed more alcohol this month than real food #I ran out of ibuprofen half a month ago and only by some divine intervention I haven’t had a single bad hangover #but also I’m too depressed to get my ass out and buy more ibuprofen so I’m just eating whatever med could have painkilling as a side effect #i sleep like 5 hours a day because my body can’t sleep for more no matter what #and then the gender stupid fucking thing #it’s fine it’s all fine

[xorafe]

cam girl (part eleven)

pairing rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

content warning alcohol use

summary you work two jobs. by day, you’re a maid for the cameron household, where rafe degrades you any chance he can get. by night, you’re a cam girl, hiding your face so nobody can recognize you. when you discover your new subscriber, the filthy-mouthed man obsessively paying you to do everything he can think of, is rafe, you’re not sure what to do next.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

Rafe has never had a hangover this bad. The sharp ache hammering against his temples is relentless.

He feels absolutely fucking finished. Last night, he passed out on whoever hosted the party’s floor, so not only is his head a mess, but his back is sore as fuck.

And the black eye doesn’t feel so good, either.

Even after last night’s aggravating argument with you and the embarrassing drunk texts he sent and this residual hangover from hell, when Rafe gets home in the late morning and finds you curled up in his bed, he feels better.

His head always does this when he’s around you. It’s like the whole world is nothing but fucking noise but with you, the loud turns quiet.

He still doesn’t know how you do that.

Rafe peels his clothes off, takes a hot shower, brushes his teeth and puts on new boxers… and he comes back to see you still passed out on his bed.

You must be exhausted. He feels the usual warm and incomprehensible buzz in his chest when he looks at you, even though he’s mad at you.

Rafe settles in his bed half-naked, slow not to wake you.

He’s half-asleep, fighting the ridiculous urge to turn around and hold you, when he feels you finally shift behind him. He turns to look at you and hates how his first thought is that you look pretty. He’s supposed to be pissed off at you.

He has no idea what the fuck happened last night. Why you made him feel like you’re sick of him all of a sudden.

“Crap,” you whisper as you sit up, realizing where you are and dropping eye contact with him immediately.

“Thought you needed a break from me,” Rafe mutters. “Why are you in my bed?”

He didn’t intend for his words to come out so sharp.

“I didn’t… mean to fall asleep.” You don’t even look at him. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

You’re about to get out of his bed and Rafe is powerless to his impulses like he always is around you. His hand circles your wrist, pulling you back.

You drop to sit on the edge of the bed and he can tell you’re annoyed by the way you look up at the ceiling and sigh. He remains on his back, the pain radiating through him keeping him from sitting up.

“I have work to do,” you say, still refusing to meet his eyes.

“Did we go too long last night?” Rafe asks, needing to know why you’re so cold, why you’re done with him all of a sudden. “Is that why you’re being like this? That shit was your fucking idea.”

That stupid toy you got was what kept him from cumming for so damn long. He was fucking you for ages. Maybe it was much for you. He can’t think of what else could have compelled you to say you want a break.

“I’m obviously tired, Rafe,” you breathe. “In every possible way. Just let me…”

Your words fade into nothing once you look at him. He sees the same concerned expression you wore when you towelled the raindrops off of his face last night.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice soft.

He knows how rough he looks; he saw himself in the mirror this morning. His right eye is covered with an ugly purple splotch that spreads down to his cheekbone. Evidence of the fight he got into last night. He doesn’t want to think about it.

So, he resorts to what he does best and tries to suffocate the feeling with sex.

“You wanna make me feel better?” he asks suggestively, cocking his head. He hopes he has the effect on you that he usually does.

You’re motionless, your eyes still hard on his face. Okay. Now he’s fucking desperate.

“Please?”

Did he really just say that?

The corner of your lips curl up into a small smile. He’s embarrassed, but thank fuck you don’t look angry anymore.

“Are you… begging me?” you ask. Your voice is back to that playful tone he’s used to.

His hand is still curled around your wrist, tense that you’ll try to leave again.

“Come here,” he says.

“How bad do you want me?” you tease. He loathes when you fuck with him like this. But why does he kind of like it, too?

He only says your name in warning, even though he knows he doesn’t have the power here.

It’s so goddamn frustrating. He’s used to you doing what he wants. But after last night, after you mentioned a break, he realized he needs to feel needed by you. You’re the one actually in control here.

“I’m all you think about, right?” you goad him. “According to your text?”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. It’s humiliating how he typed out everything he was feeling last night.

“I was drunk,” he says defensively. Your smile drops and you start to twist your wrist out of his grip. Shit. Wrong thing to say. “But, yeah,” he adds. “You are.”

“You’re only saying that to get laid,” you murmur.

“I’m not,” he admits. He takes a breath. “All I do is… wait until the next time I can see you.”

Rafe’s not looking at you as he stammers his way through his words.

“That’s what you meant last night?” you ask him. He thinks back to the way he had you bent over the table, stupidly saying he’s the one who always has to wait.

He needs to fuck. Now. He can’t take this feelings shit.

Once he finally meets your eyes again, he’s relieved to see that your stare has softened. You turn to move towards him and his muscles immediately lose their tension.

You straddle him and the way your thighs box him in like this feels so fucking good that he forgets he’s hungover.

You start to grind against him and the thrilling promise of satisfaction washes over him, his boxers getting tighter as he gets harder.

“Does this help?” you whisper. He watches you through low lids, his hands on your thighs.

“Yeah, like that,” he groans. “Good girl.”

He slides his hands up to grip your waist and beckons you to lean over so he can kiss you, but you stiffen and reject the advance. Whatever. You must still be kind of pissed off, but he’s not about to stop what’s happening.

You sit up straighter and pull your dress up over your body, tossing it on the floor.

Rafe’s eyes hungrily trail down your body. Every time he sees your body or even just thinks about it, arousal burns through him.

He hates the feeling of you getting off of him, but once he realizes you’re taking off your panties and straddling him to fuck him in reverse cowgirl, his head feels like it’s spinning.

The sight of your bare ass perched on his pelvis is mind-blowing. He feels you pull down his boxers just enough to take his cock out, your hand running up and down his length.

You stroke him to get him fully erect, which barely takes any time. He gets hard for you in seconds.

When you lower onto him, he exhales in pure elation. You’re so wet and tight and soft and the moan you let out when you fill yourself with him is so fucking pretty.

You finally put all your weight on his hips, your hands stabilizing yourself on his knees. It’s heaven the way you squeeze him so damn tight.

You start to rock on him and his eyes drink in the way his cock is burying into you, the way your pussy looks stretched out like this.

Rafe looks over at the mirror mounted on his closet door to watch you arch your back and start to bounce on him. He doesn’t know which vantage point is hotter.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Look how fucking good you look.”

You meet his eyes in the mirror, your lips puckered as you hold back your moans. That look is for him only. He can’t stand the thought of you doing it for another man.

He watches you put your hand on your clit, touching yourself while you ride him. There’s something so fucking hot to him about how you know your body and how you shamelessly chase your own pleasure.

Rafe looks forward again, taking in the way your ass is bouncing on him, the way your back is curved, the way your cunt is clinging to his cock with every recoil.

He feels himself getting to the edge. He shuts his eyes in an attempt to delay it so you’ll get there first. Cumming will remind you of how good this arrangement between you is and you’ll forget this stupid ‘take a break’ idea.

You start to writhe even faster and breathe even quicker. He knows he’ll finish before you at this rate, so he buries his fingertips into your hips and holds you down to stop you from moving anymore.

“Why?” you whine, needy.

“Sit on my face,” he orders.

You lift your hips off of him, his cock popping out of you, glossed with your wetness. You obey and shift back on your knees.

You lower your core onto his mouth. Rafe fucking loves the way you taste. He puts his lips on you, rolling his tongue out over your velvet folds.

When he feels your hot mouth wrap around his cock, he exhales sharply. He sucks and licks you as he revels in the feeling of your tongue flicking up and down his length.

The way you’re pleasing each other at the same time makes his stomach tighten with something he’s still not used to. His body hasn’t ever reacted like this during sex, but it keeps doing this lately with you.

Rafe shoves away the thought.

He hooks his arm around you, dipping two fingers inside and curling them as he eats you out, eager to get you to cum.

Your breath is shaky, your hole tightening around his fingers. The way you looked at him when you told him you needed a break last night flashes through his mind again, pissing him off all over again.

“Nobody else can make you feel like this, hmm?” he mutters, his lips wet from you.

“Rafe…” Your voice is thin.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you tell him.

“And you want a break?” he huffs. “Do I need to fuck some sense into you?”

You’re silent, your mouth sliding up and down his cock, palming him. Frustration rises in him when you don’t answer. He needs the control. He needs to know how badly you want him.

“Do I?” he asks angrily, fingers slipping out of you to slap your ass. Your back arches at the impact, bucking up off of his face. “Do you need to watch me fuck you to get it through your head?”

Rafe pushes through the stiffness of his hangover to press against the backs of your thighs, forcing you to sit up.

“Get on your knees,” he says. “In front of the mirror.”

You groan out of irritation, but you listen to his instructions like the good girl he knows you are.

His eyes remain locked on you as you get up off of him and settle on all fours in front of the mirror on the floor, looking back at him with those beautiful eyes.

Rafe guides himself into you, finding bliss all over again. He lustfully looks at your reflection and sees the necklace he gave you hanging on your neck. It starts to swing as he thrusts into you, a reminder of how you belong to him.

Every plunge into you is fucking perfect. You squeeze his cock so nicely.

When you tighten around him, your breath hitched, he has no chance of stopping himself anymore - he cums at the same time as you, his moan tangling with yours.

Rafe can see stars as you tremble beneath him. He feels you take in everything he has to offer.

“Damn,” he says gruffly. He can’t stop himself from teasing you. “Sleeping and fucking on the clock. You’re looking to get fired.”

You let out a weak laugh and pull away from him. You stand to pick your uniform up off the floor, giving him another view of your hot, quivering body.

“Tell on me, then,” you challenge. You walk to his ensuite, shutting the door behind you. He’s sure that you know he’d never risk letting you get fired and losing this access to you.

Rafe’s heart is racing. How does every time he has sex with you feel better than the last?

He gets back into bed and pulls his cool comforter over his bare body, coming down from the high. He’s needs to figure out why the hell you’re retreating from him. And he’s determined to show you why you shouldn’t.

But with the hangover and lack of rest, Rafe falls asleep before you step back out into his room.

୨ᰔ୧

You couldn’t let Rafe kiss you. You’ll allow that sort of tenderness if, and only if, you’re more than a sex toy to him, and all signs point to that possibility being a big, ugly no.

When you step back into his bedroom to see that he fell asleep, you take a second, just a second, to look at him.

His lips are slightly pursed, his hair a tousled mess. The bruise on his swollen eye looks painful. You wish you knew what happened. You figure you’ll ask him tonight when he inevitably comes over.

As you make your way to the kitchen, the rush from the sex you just had starts to dissipate and you realize you shouldn’t have done it. You have heavy, unavoidable feelings for Rafe. You said you needed a break. Giving into the temptation was stupid.

But the way he was looking at you, holding your wrist… You couldn’t ignore the magnetic pull you seem to have for each other.

The self-destructive hope flares up as you think about what he said today. It rattled you. He thinks about you? He’s always waiting to see you again? It can’t all be sexual, can it?

You’re desperate to know what’s going through his mind.

You begrudgingly accept that because of the time you spent sleeping and having sex with Rafe, you’ll need to stay late to complete all your tasks today.

After finishing up your work in the kitchen an hour later, you head out to the backyard to throw out a few bags.

You give a polite smile to the gardener, who’s standing by the gazebo. Your mind flashes back to what happened when Rafe caught you talking to him.

Rafe’s possessiveness couldn’t possibly be purely sexual. Not after the way he looked at you once you reassured him he was the only man who could touch you.

You drop the bags in the bin and turn to head back inside, but get stopped in your tracks.

“You should be careful.”

You look up to realize the gardener is speaking to you. Your brows furrow in confusion.

“What?” you ask.

“I overheard him talking about you.“

“Sorry?” you repeat.

“The son. I heard him.” Anxiety fills your veins. He wouldn’t know Rafe’s name - he’s just the son of the millionaire you’re all working for.

He heard Rafe say something about you? You decide to play dumb. You have to. You could lose your job.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“He was with his friends out on the balcony a few days ago,” he says. “I was working and I heard him say that he’s… uh, nailing a maid.”

The word seems to make him uncomfortable. You’re so used to Rafe’s vulgarity that you forgot some people blush at a crude word.

Honestly, you expected Rafe to brag to his friends about fucking you. But you didn’t expect a coworker to hear.

You remember watching him through the window that day. Sending him that explicit video. Slowly developing feelings for him when you knew you shouldn’t.

“What, and you think it’s me?” you say with a laugh. Maybe there’s a chance you can convince him that Rafe was lying or that the conversation wasn’t about you.

“People have been talking… Apparently you got caught in the laundry room?” he says.

Shit. All that other maid saw was Rafe in the same room as you. That was it. You didn’t expect to make friends at this job, but this is ridiculous. Do they have nothing better to do but gossip?

You’ve been found out.

“Please don’t… say anything,” you finally say quietly. “I can’t lose this job.”

“I won’t. And I’m not judging,” he says, but he definitely is. You can see it in his expression. “Just wanted to tell you that I heard some… bad stuff.”

“What?” You cross your arms, feigning confidence.

“He told his friends that you’ll do anything he wants you to,” he says. “And that you never say no.”

“Okay,” you say. You’re trying to keep your gaze steady. This is humiliating. But it’s all true and not a surprise. You didn’t expect any better from Rafe.

“And one of them said something like… that’s the type of… um…” He looks nervous again.

“Just say it.”

“The type of… slut you run through then drop when she gets boring.”

This is what finally breaks you. You only nod, trying to seem unaffected.

“What did he say to that?” you ask. You hate that you have a little bit of hope that Rafe would defend you, show a shred of respect for you.

“They all just laughed.”

Your heart sinks.

Of course that’s what Rafe thinks of you. Of course to him, you’re just a whore that he’ll get tired of eventually. You shouldn’t have ever given him the power to disappoint you.

For fuck’s sake, you asked him point blank over text last night if all he wants to do is fuck and he replied with a clear YES.

“Okay,” you say, turning away before he can see the tears welling up in your eyes.

“Sorry. Thought you’d want to know,” he says to your back. “These rich guys are all assholes.”

“Yup,” you reply, walking away.

You don’t even give a fuck about your job anymore. It’d be better if you lost it so you don’t have to see Rafe ever again.

This is fucking agony. You feel so dehumanized.

When you make it home that evening, two hours later than usual, you type a text you mentally drafted on your drive home.

You open the conversation with one of your close friends from college and text her: hey, are there any parties tonight?

Getting drunk and partying is not a healthy way to cope, you know that, but you desperately need to get your mind off of things. Thankfully, your friend responds quickly about a party at a frat house on campus.

After you get ready, you take a cab to the address your friend sent you. It doesn’t take you long to find her and start downing shots.

Your phone buzzes, right on cue. It’s 10 pm, after all. He’s waiting for you on that depraved website where it all began. The text is blurry through your tipsy eyes.

Rafe: where are you?

You finally send him the message you’ve been toiling over, anger and disgust and embarrassment and sadness heavy on your chest.

You: i’m done. this is over. i’m not even a fucking person to you am i

{ read part twelve here }

author’s note: please follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications to get an alert when i post the next part! i honestly never expected this many people following this story; thank you so much! huge shoutout to mysteris-things and annedub for helping me out with my tagging issues lol ilysm 💘

#yay i finished this way earlier than i thought i would #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #obx smut #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron and you #rafe cameron and readef #rafe cameron and y/n

[entirelytoooobsessed]

needy!drunk!gojo satoru x gn reader-based off this post

synopsis: gojo is a lightweight, vowed to sobriety to keep whatever bit of shame he has left to his name. but he really can't help but take a few shots when he sees you doing the same.

warnings: sub gojo, gn dom reader, both reader and gojo are drunk, gojo's a lightweight, handjob, semi-public sex, he cries-like a lot, he also had nipple piercings bc i couldn't help myself, reader's kinda a hoe, feelings, think that's it

The warm press of hands against your hips is what makes you gasp. The soft touch of lips traced over your throat is what makes your head spin.

What a delightful feeling. 

What a human desire. 

“Touch me.” 

The room spins around you, the warm feeling of being held making you sigh, leaning into it. The scent of him, the greedy claiming of his presence in your mind. So selfish. Of him not to think of the effect that this has on you. To not care about the war going on in your mind. 

“Touch me, please?” A whine this time. A meek sound, spilling from his lips, making your body light up in return. 

“Satoru,” He practically purrs at his name on your lips. Pathetic. How easily riled up he is. How easily you’re able to make his knees feel weak. How much he loves the sound of your lips forming his name.

“Mmmm, say it again.”His nose sweeps delicately over your neck, working over a heavy sigh as he tries not to get drunk on the smell of your shampoo. Or more drunk than he already is, that is. 

“Your name?” You mutter slowly. 

“Yeah….” His words have been gradually slurring over the span of the night, with the amount of shots he’s taken, with the amount of drinks he’s had. With the inches of space between you closing until there’s nothing between you but the thin layer of clothing that does nothing to hide the bulge he shamelessly presses against you.

Even so, you know that he's always been far beyond measures of shame, but this is a whole new level, the way he continues to press his body impossibly closer to yours, his broad chest against your shoulders, his hips canting against you. 

You’ve always hated how he’s been taller than you, his incessant teasing when he throws you over his shoulder as you yell and pound on his back. He takes advantage of it all too often.

You don’t mind now.

“Why, Satoru?” Maybe you’re cruel for the teasing, for liking your friend’s reactions all too much. Shivering, nearly violently, throbbing against your lower back. 

He whines, “Sounds so…-so much better when you say it. Makes me wanna just…”

His breath is heavy with the scent of alcohol and you’re still not entirely sure how Shoko and Suguru managed to get him to break his vow of sobriety. Not when you’d seen him turning them down for the first bit of the night.

The next time you saw him he was getting dragged along by you, gulping down whatever liquids you shoved into his hands. 

With his feverish hands tracing up your body and his sinful hips pressing against yours. Muttering about how he wanted you and needed you, whispering about things he'd never have said in the harsh reality of day, but was that not the beauty of getting intoxicated beyond belief?

“Hmm? Just what?” 

He simpers, “Wan’ you to touch me, play with me, like I’m just a toy for you~” He grinds slowly and you wish you could kiss him. Kiss him until he’s breathless and red and can’t remember his own name. Dazed and dizzy and muttering gibberish while loosely gripping onto you. 

You don’t think if you’d even have to kiss him to do that right now, but the taste of his perfectly pink lips would just be an added pleasure to this delectable mix.

But you shouldn’t. And you won’t.

Not because he’s your friend and this will surely be crossing some unspoken line.

Or because it’ll throw off the axis of your entire friend group. You'd never let that stop you before. And you wouldn’t let something like that stop you now. Not when you've clumsily pressed your lips to Shoko’s, high out of your mind and hidden under the blanket of dark nights. Or when you let your hands wander along the lengths of Suguru’s skin, promising to make him feel things he’d never felt before. 

Not because Satoru Gojo is one of your best friends.

But because Satoru Gojo is currently drunk and so are you. And despite the fact that you’re practically drowning in the warmth of alcohol and all that is Satoru Gojo, you want whatever you do with him to mean something-be something. Not just a clumsy night of drunken mistakes and hazy flashes, not something you’ll forget in the morning and agree to never speak of again.

He’s too…important for you to treat him like that. And you’re too selfish to let anything you do to him to mean anything but the fact that he would be yours. But he’s not yours. And you’re not his. And all this thinking is only making a steady ache build behind your temples.

You sigh, twisting around in his arms. Blue eyes blinking back at you, slowly searching over yours and fuck, his lips are so kissable. Pink and plump, trapped between his too white teeth.

“Let’s get you back to Shoko and Suguru, they’ll take you home and make sure you don’t kill yourself.” You’re not entirely sure where they went or why they’ve left the two of you behind, all alone where they'd know neither of you were in the right mind to make good choices.

 “No,” He shakes his head, white hair tossing, ruffled and mussed from a night of clinging to you like this. Far too close for comfort though you still couldn’t bring yourself to pry him off.  “No, n-no, don’t wan’you  to leave…” 

You begin to tug him off either way. He’s not sane enough to make decisions for himself and you don’t think you are either. “C’mon baby, let’s go find your friends.”

He shudders and grips your hand, refusing to move an inch. Tears pool in his eyes and your jaw hardens.

You sigh. You didn’t know why you thought this was a fight you’d win either way. It was a losing game trying to argue with Satoru. His lips wobble and you can feel your resolve withering away by the second. Tearing down every single defence you put up around, being ripped away by him and his stupid tears as if they were paper. 

“Don’t leave.” He whispers and he looks pathetic but you know you’ll give in to him if he asks you to. “Don’t leave me…please.”

You cup his cheek and he purrs, melting into the touch as if he were a cat, pushing into you for more attention. Basking in your attention as you sweep his tears away with your thumb, letting him close his eyes and pull you into the soft cushioning of a booth. 

You feel heady or maybe it’s the alcohol talking. More tears roll down his cheeks, tracking along the slopes of his flushed face. Crystalline and sacred and you realize with a twist in the pit of your stomach that it’s arousing.

The sight of him. His sweat-soaked skin and his eyes big and glassy. And the fragile mask he’s worked so hard to keep up deteriorating beneath your very eyes, each tear breaking and cracking apart the image of the powerful man he claims to be.

A crumpled facade of a God into a something more, something divine and corrupt, something vulnerable and weak and so very human in your arms, falling apart by a mere touch.

Maybe you’re more fucked up than you realized. Maybe you’re just horny. Maybe because it’s him. And he’s Satoru Gojo and everything about him is perfect. Powerful. Transcendent. A God against humans, finally falling apart like this, before you, ready to fall to his knees. Perhaps he was always meant to.

“Don’t wanna be alone…don’t wanna…ngh~” 

His hips thrust up, a whiny gasp working past his lips. He pants as if he’s run a marathon and you want to do such delectably sinful things to him and you’re sure you could do them all and more and he’d only beg and plead for more.

Perhaps…

“Kiss me.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, you wonder if he can hear with how loud it is. “Satoru,”

He whines and grinds and you moan. And it’s a losing battle.

“Shut up,” he insists, hand cupping the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair, almost obsessively. “Shut up and just kiss me.”

“You know we can’t. You-“

“I, am perfectly fine.” His words are a pant, a plea, whispered with a kind of reverence of a worshipper to a god. “Just kiss me, fuck me. Use me,” white eyelashes flutter, blue looking all the bluer rimmed with red and filled with tears. “Use me until you’re bored of me, until there’s nothing left-i don’t care.” He breathes, desperate and pleading and looking like he’s ready to get down on his damn knees on the dirty sticky floor. “Just-please.”

A losing fucking battle. 

Maybe it always was. Trying to keep your hands off him, now, you realized it was like setting a treat on a dogs nose and telling them to wait. A crazy amount self control with the eventual prize just in sight. 

All you can think as you cup his cheeks, flushed and wet from tears, warm against your hands is how fucking pretty he is. How you want him more than you think you’ve ever wanted anything. “Fuck, Satoru,” you mutter and he moans deep and appreciatively and then you’re pulling him in to slide your lips against his.

 And now all you can think about is how much of a dumbass you are for not doing this sooner.

He tastes like alcohol and cigarettes-when he had one you don’t know but you do know that it’s the most intoxicating mix you’ve ever encountered. You feel like you’re floating, high off his taste and his moans; like he’s a drug and you’re the addict, injecting him straight into the vein. 

It's far from elegant and he’s not perfect at it in the way you’d expect from a man as beautiful as him-godhood hasn’t blessed him in every aspect. But he’s desperate and he's eager to take everything you give, mewling against your lips. 

He’s so needy and it's crazy the way it sends you into a sort of reverie. His hands gripping your hips hard, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go, like he’s hoping you’re real and not a apparition of drunken hysteria. He pulls you closer, as if you could get close enough that no one could find where you ended and he started, that you might be able to meld into one.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same sentiment. If you didn’t try your hardest to do the exact same; nails pressing into his skin, making him whine as you tilted his head back and slipped your tongue into his mouth, exploring, feeling, taking, using. 

Just like he told you to do.

He vibrates against you, nearly shaking with choked noises. He mutters soundless words, each and every one swallowed by you as soon as they’re spoken. Pleas and prayers, worships and praises. 

You’d show him what real ascension felt like.

You probably should be embarrassed, or at the very least shameful to be putting on such a show in front of what you know are watching eyes. But you know that Gojo is far past shame at this point and you're too enamoured by the beauty that is Satoru Gojo clinging to you like he’s about to break.

To be honest, you can't find it in yourself to give a shit about any of them. About anything but him, focusing your attention on devouring him whole as he shatters, ready to catch every piece as they fall into your waiting hands. No matter if the shards rip apart your skin and leave you a bloody mangled mess.

You break away first, fighting a smile at his whine as you pull away from him, panting. 

He looks unravelled, messy. His usual flirty facade lost to pleasure. His watery eyes and heartbroken whines gone as well. Overwhelmed by swollen lips and gasps to make up for lost air. A blush like he’s just realized where he is, burying his face into your neck to hide from the probing eyes. To whisper, "You're too good at that, you know?.”

You bark a laugh and he nuzzles into your skin. 

And then you’re redirecting him to your lips again.

In a flurry of hands and lips, messy steps and you’re clumsily stumbling into the bathroom. Quickly, Satoru is shoved against the door, fingers fumbling for the lock.

Your lips find his neck, fluttering a barrage of open-mouthed kisses over the heated skin, dragging your tongue along his thrumming heartbeat. 

He whines and he begs, muttering nonsense that makes it to your ears but not to your head as you hum against him. Slender fingers knit through your hair, holding you close to him, pleading for you to never leave him.

“Touch me, touch me, touch me.” He repeats, slurred and slow, his eyes drooped shut, his voice husky with want, with lust and everything he’s been just barely repressing all this time.

But you've only ever been a slave to his desires.

So you respond in tenfold, nipping and sucking, leaving evidence that you've been here, staking a claim that doesn't exist and maybe never will but for tonight maybe you can play pretend.

Because he keens when your teeth sink into his skin and his back arches, pressing evidence of his wanton yearnings against you like you might devour him whole.

Like he wants you to.

He quieter when he whispers something that could change everything. “Love me?”

Your heart pounds in your chest but you’d never turn him down. 

Fingers deftly undo the buttons on his tight-fitting button up, revealing porcelain-like skin underneath. His nipples are hard and pink and fucking pierced. 

He gasps when you touch them, pinching them between your thumb and forefinger.

And you've never been particularly mean but you can make an exception for the God in front of you, leaving him to tortuous touches all while he throbs and thrusts into nothing but the fabric of his too-tight pants, whining from the stimulation that's all too little.

He's been begging for this all night. Whispering dirty words like a little tease, like a shameless slut.

He got you all riled up and for that you think that he should take his own share of teasing.

For retribution, for your own piece of mind and the pleasure it is to watch him squirm against the wall, eyes squeezed shut and tearstained and begging in small breathless whimpers barely over a whisper.

But you've never been able to resist him long, not then, not now and not ever.

Your hand finally reaches for his waistband, his body shivering with the feeling of your fingers dipping onto hot, untouched skin.

But he stops you.

His hand, large and pale landing over your own in a quick moment of lucidity.

His voice emerged, a whisper of uncertainty and longing. "Y-You'll take care of me?"

You met his vulnerability with a promise because you could never leave him with any less. "Yes," your words a whispered caress, a undying oath in itself, a vow that you'd take beyond this in whatever may happen.

Your lips brush over his ear, his eyes squeezing shut as your hand wraps around him, dragging a ruinous moan from deep in his throat.

"I promise, I will."

And your hand is wrapping around him, hot and wet and hard, all for you. Just for you. And his head is turned off, just sensations and feeling and you.

Just you.

"F-fuck, yes, please," so broken, fragile almost as ironic as it is. "Yes, pl-please, feels so go-good."

He doesn't last long and you don't know if it's from all the teasing you've administered or from how long he's been worked up for.

But you rather like the thought of him being sensitive enough that your voice and a few strokes is enough to bring him to the edge.

To have him pulsing in your hand while his arms wrap around your shoulders, blunt nails scraping into you skin as his hips thrust with reckless abandon.

His body quivering with pleasure as your hand forms a loose hole for him to fuck into, your thumb playing with the sensitive head of his dick.

"Please, please I need it, need it so bad," And he has no right sounding this good, looking this good while fucking into your hand like a goddamn dog. "Need it more than anything."

He always has been one for dramatics.

His head falls back against the wall, throat bobbing with the moan deep in his throat, fuck how the marks of your teeth stand out on the pale skin of his neck. Your lips permanent on his body for now, forever maybe if he'll let you keep replacing them.

"Fuck, Satoru," You free hand threads through his head, pushing his lips to meet yours, messy and slopping as he arches against you, hips thrusting erratically to match your pace. Keening when you nip at him, teeth tugging at his bottom lip, nails scratching at his scalp sending tingles down every part of his body.

He breaks away with a gasp and a cry when and only when he absolutely has to, eyes shining and chest heaving with breaths to fill his burning lungs.

And he's crying. And he's beautiful.

More beautiful than anyone or anything you've ever seen in your life.

"Shit, I'm close, m' so fuckin' close-!"

You’re half out of your mind and you couldn’t feel more sane. Like this was meant to happen-like he was meant to be yours. 

"Don' stop, please don't stop," he gasps, like you'd ever think about it, like you'd could even if you wanted to.

“Satoru,” And he shakes.

“Satoru,” And he sobs.

“Satoru,” And he breaks, head falling back as if in prayer, a finger pushing his chin up, clashing against a higher power he didn't think possible.

“My one and only Satoru.” Soft and sweet and just for him and only him. And he’s gone.

Ropes of cum spurt out, rope after rope, covering your hand and the floor. Covering his thighs and his stomach in a mess.

Everything feels fuzzy and his cheeks are pink. A stupid grin crossing his face as he melts, boneless in your arms. "I love you." He mutters, distantly, foggily.

Perhaps somewhere beneath the haze he thinks that maybe you've said the same back. But he isn't quite sure anymore. He needs to be sure.

Slowly, he's lowered onto the floor into a sitting position. The tile is cold against his bare skin but it's okay because you're still caressing him, holding his face in your hand, thumb wiping at his tears.

"You love me right?"

You leave for moment and a whines at the loss of you pressed against him. Even if it's only for a few seconds he feels lonely and empty without your touch.

But then you're back and you're wiping him down with a wet towel, cleaning off his skin so gently, as if he's made of glass of porcelain, like he something to be cherished and taken care of.

"Hey pretty boy, you good?" He recognizes your voice even throughout the cloud in his mind. He nods and you smile and he's melting all over again.

"Do you love me?"

You roll your eyes and for an awful second he thinks that maybe you're going to say no. But then you're pushing the hair off his forehead and kissing him so fucking gently he thinks he'll cry.

"I do love you Satoru."

And his heart is bursting-he swears it is, it's beating so fast and so hard he's absolutely sure that you can hear it and that the quiet laughs escaping your pretty lips is because you can tell how dumbly in love with you he is.

But that doesn't matter.

Because right now he's normal person and you're a normal person and nothing else will matter but the fact that he's your's now.

"I love you too, y'know?" He mumbles.

You kiss him again, and again, and again. On his forehead and his temples, his cheeks and the tip of his nose and each of his eyelids. You kiss everywhere on his face until his lips are pouted out and he lets out a little whine of frustration.

And then you kiss his lips. Barely a peck, too fast and short for his taste but he doesn't have time to complain as you pull him off the floor.

“C’mon pretty boy, let me bring you home.”

“Mmm,” He doesn’t move, boneless against you. “Will you fuck me again?”

You laugh, soft. “Like I’d be able to resist you.”

#dom reader #sub jujutsu kaisen #dom!reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #sub gojo #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #sub anime #sub gojo smut #sub gojo x reader #sub gojo satoru #sub!gojo #sub!jjk #sub character #sub jjk

[ihrindia]

How does smoking affect Men’s Fertility?

Dr. Saurav Maheshwari

INFERTILITY SPECIALIST Institute of Human Reproduction

The Impact of smoking on the general health and well-being of an individual and its association with various life-threatening cancers are known to all. Many of us are not aware of smoking can affect our fertility. As per the latest data, almost 27 cr. Indians consume tobacco which is out of every 5 Indians

It has been seen that smoking affects almost every system involving the reproductive process in men. Smoking can also affect you at the genetic level. Several studies have shown a decrease in sperm quality as well as quality as seen by a decrease in semen volume, sperm counts, and sperm motility. Another major impact of smoking is the generation of ROS (reactive oxygen species), which increases oxidative stress on the tiny swimmers.

To know more about how Smoking affects Male fertility, Watch the video below by Dr. Saurav Maheshwari

Remember that the best time to quit smoking was the day you started and the second best time is today.

If you are facing any kind of Male infertility, feel free to consult our experts.

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[noellewrxtes]

bruises

please mind the tags before proceeding.

word count: roughly 2.5k

i'm sorry, it is all just under the cut. i won't be posting to ao3 at this time. i know, i apologize.

.

.

.

Two days after he turns twenty years old, Flash receives a text:

Happy bday. Miss u.

And it’s a totally ordinary text, nothing offensive about it except for the fact that it had been sent at all, but it sends Flash down a spiral that Peter doesn’t understand. Which is fair, in its own way. How could he when Flash has gone to great lengths to make sure that he never had enough of the pieces to put that particular puzzle together?

Still, he finds himself unfairly annoyed when Peter tries to chip in with his incomplete knowledge of the situation. “He’s your dad,” Peter insists, stretched out across the couch as he speaks through a mouthful of pizza. “I know you guys don’t, like, get along but of course he was going to text you on your birthday.”

But even that much isn’t right because Flash's father didn’t send him a text for his birthday. He sent him a text two days after his birthday and Flash knows that’s because his father doesn’t actually know when his birthday is, but he doesn’t tell Peter that. He doesn’t tell him that his father has never really acknowledged his birthday before now, either. What he does tell him is, “I don’t want to talk about this,” and it’s as true as any of the dozens of things he doesn’t say so he takes some measure of satisfaction in the fact that at least he’s not lying.

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Flash doesn’t answer but the texts continue—one on Thanksgiving, two on Christmas. Each time, Flash’s mood sours instantly and for days, but when he receives a text on Father’s Day Flash is so angry he nearly breaks his phone in two (no happy fathers day?, the fucking dick) and it’s then that Peter suggests in a nervous voice, “You could try blocking him?”

It’s the obvious solution, Flash knows, but he mumbles out, "What if there's an emergency?" nonetheless. This time he knows he’s lying.

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Flash joins the military not long after he turns twenty-one even though Peter tries to talk him out of it. He has a list of reasons why it’s a bad idea, some based in anti-war sentiments, some based in concern for Flash’s well-being, but none that feel even remotely convincing coming from someone who spends his nights beating street criminals to a pulp because he can.

So Flash enlists despite Peter’s concerns and he’s gone for bootcamp by the time his next birthday rolls around. His father doesn’t text him this year, not on time, not late, not at all, and Flash is so busy doing drills that he almost doesn’t notice. When it does occur to him, he isn’t sure what to think about it. He’s not disappointed, but not really relieved either–he thinks he must be feeling the void, the weight of something that should be there but isn’t. He doesn’t want the texts, but he doesn’t want the silence their absence has left him with either. Mostly he wishes the handful of scattered messages had never existed in the first place.

Peter doesn’t understand this either. When Flash mentions the radio silence a few days later, Peter texts back, that’s good isnt it?

And Flash doesn’t have it in him to explain, doesn’t think he has the words to do so anyway so he just types out, yea, and focuses on his training.

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It’s easy to forget about the texts and the cramped, suffocating house he grew up in amidst the explosions and ricochets of combat. It’s harder to forget about the empty bottles of whiskey that littered his childhood home, though, when they start to take up residence in his barracks.

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Flash returns to New York after a couple of deployments with two more years behind him and two fewer legs beneath him. As with so many other things, he doesn’t tell Peter about this either, but it’s probably the only time he feels guilty about it because Peter finds out when he comes to pick Flash up from the airport. He gazes around the crowd, looking for Flash, only laying eyes on him when he looks down to see Flash in a wheelchair, his legs missing below the knees.

For once he’s lost for words, and all Flash can bring himself to do is quirk his lips uncomfortably and say, “Hey, Petey.”

Peter opens his mouth to greet Flash back then shuts it again.

Flash huffs. “Yeah, sorry,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s probably not the best surprise you’ve ever gotten.”

When Peter finally thinks of something to say, it’s a stammered out, “I mean, are you okay?” and it’s just an absolutely absurd question and there’s no right way to answer it. No, he’s not fine, but the fact that he never really has been kind of makes it all seem like he might be, in a weird, numbed out kind of way, but Flash knows that isn’t fine. That’s just having learned to tolerate it.

So he says, “I mean, I could go for a shot right now,” and even that is a lie in its own way because he says it like a joke, knowing Peter hasn’t seen the way he gets with alcohol these days. But then again, Flash fully intends for Peter to never see the way he gets with alcohol these days.

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Peter resents the distance Flash keeps between them. Flash knows because Peter sometimes tells him he’s too secretive with accusation in his eyes and he sometimes grows frustrated when Flash discusses his parents in only the vaguest terms he can. He resents that Flash didn’t tell him about his legs when it happened, too, and that’s even more fair than the rest of it.

It’s not that Flash doesn’t feel bad about it—Peter is Peter and Flash isn’t so stupid that he doesn’t realize he’s lucky to have him, but that’s really the problem, isn’t it? What happens when Peter doesn’t like the jagged edges that Flash has worked so hard to keep hidden from him? What happens when Peter realizes how fucked up Flash actually is? What happens when he decides it’s too much for him?

Peter saves enough lives as it is. He doesn’t need to be responsible for Flash’s too.

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He makes it a couple of months, at least, before Peter sees Flash really drunk. He begins to understand why they call it ‘wasted’ after that because that’s how it feels: like he’s lost himself in the bottle, traded in his life for the next sip; they call it ‘trashed’ because that’s what it is, throwing pieces of himself into the waste bin with each fresh shot, but then Flash looks down at the stubs of his knees and remembers that it wasn’t the liquor that wasted him, was it? It wasn’t even the war. He was wasted long before any of that, nothing more than the flotsam left behind from a crash he had no fault in.

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The texts keep coming, sporadic and unpredictable, and Flash keeps ignoring them.

“You don’t think he misses you?” his therapist asks one day as Flash scowls down at his phone, a woman the military appointed for him, with kind eyes and sympathetic smiles who Flash can’t bring himself to talk to about anything of significance. He’s thought about it, sure, but it never feels like the right time to drop that bomb on her. If he says it too casually, will she believe him? If he says it too emotionally, will she think he’s putting on an act?

He keeps his silence.

“No, I’m sure he does,” Flash answers honestly. “I mean, he does care.” And he means it when he says it, he knows it’s true somewhere in his gut, because the thing is that he still remembers when he was eleven years old how his father had tried to stop drinking. It didn’t last long, maybe a month at best, but when he fell off the wagon again and downed half a bottle in one night, he had sat on the couch and sobbed broken apologies into Flash’s hair, incoherently drunk. It wasn’t the only time he had tried and failed to overcome his demons, but it was the only time Flash had ever seen him cry.

Harrison Thompson, he knows, cares for his son. He just cares for the liquor more.

“Do you maybe feel guilty for not answering him?” she presses, a probing question designed to gauge what the relationship was like.

This, too, he answers honestly, a dismissive shrug and a, “Not really,” and he lets her extrapolate from that what she will.

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It’s complicated, he’ll never say, because the thing is that fucked up people raise fucked up people raise fucked up people, and Flash knows that his father didn’t have it easy as a kid either. It used to be enough for Flash to feel sorry for him, back when he could see the misery etched into every line of his drunken expressions. He knows better now–consciously, at least–but even though he no longer lets his sympathy justify his father, he still lets it humanize him.

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The day before his twenty-fourth birthday, Flash receives another text but this one is different. It’s long, for starters, and far more pathetic than any of his previous messages have been and it starts with, i know u dont wanna talk 2 me but i want u 2 kno i’m not doing well, and ends with, if u wanna visit or somethin i want 2 see u again at some point.

“Are you gonna visit?” Peter asks him when he relays the rough message to him.

Flash scoffs. “No,” he spits before tossing his phone onto the couch.

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It takes three months and two failed attempts, including one where he slammed on his brakes in the middle of the street, two blocks away from the hospital, and fought desperately to stave off a panic attack, but in the end Flash does go. He hates himself for it, but he does go.

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"They think I have a month, at best," Harrison says to him.

Flash hasn't seen him in close to five years. Maybe that's why it's so easy to notice how much weight he's lost since then. His father was never obese, but he used to have a bulk to him, half-muscle, half-fat buildup from a slowing metabolism. His illness has diminished him down to nothing, hollowed out his cheekbones. He looks brittle, like a thin layer of frost that gives way beneath his windshield wipers in the early winter, like any pressure would cause his entire being to collapse. It’s strange, because Flash has spent most of his life under the weight of the fear that the thought of his father’s presence elicits in him; now, there’s not much of his father left to be afraid of.

"I, uh." Flash shifts where he stands. "That's not a lot of time."

His father shrugs, the bones of his shoulder casting sharp shadows beneath his clothes. "I guess not, no."

They stand in silence for a minute.

"Flash," his father says eventually. "I want you to know..." He clears his throat, takes a deep breath. "I guess, I know I wasn't always a great dad. I was trying to--I don't know, it doesn't matter now." He looks up at Flash with a furrowed brow and never has he sounded more honest than when he says, "I love you. I hope you know that."

Flash digs his hands into his pockets and looks down. "Yeah, I know that," he says.

He wants to say more: that doesn’t make it better, or just not enough, but he learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut and never is he better about following that rule than when he’s faced with the man who taught him.

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 He intends for it to be the last time he ever speaks to his father, but he finds himself sitting in the chair in the corner three weeks later anyway, elbows rested on his knees, fingers interlacing, eyes heavy as he watches Harrison shrink away to nothing. Peter doesn't get why he comes, he knows, and in some ways neither does Flash. All he knows is that somehow, despite everything, he still doesn't have it in him to let Harrison Thompson die alone.

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"My dad used to tell me he wished I was more like you," Flash says after the funeral. "Not just you. Thomas, Darius, Ben. Fucking Gwen. God, he loved her."

"Yeah, your dad was kind of a dick," Peter says with the kind of force that makes Flash wonder how much he's pieced together since they were teens.

Flash feels his stomach knotting as he looks down into his glass of whiskey and he thinks of his dad sobbing apologies into his hair, thinks of every time he bragged to his fellow officers about his son, star of his school's basketball team. He thinks of laying alone in his room, clutching his side, hurting so bad he thought he might be dying and thinking that it was probably for the best if he did.

"I know," he answers, hearing his words slur and hating himself for it but not knowing how to stop, not when some not insignificant part of him doesn't really want to stop. "But he was still my dad."

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There are days when Flash wonders if Peter is aware of how lucky he is to have had May and Ben Parker for the time that he did. He tells him sometimes, and Peter nods his head in agreement and declares that they made for very good parents, but Flash still isn't sure if he really gets it. That he's not just lucky to not have an alcoholic dad or a mother who couldn't be bothered to take him with her when she left. He's not just lucky to have good parents--he's lucky to not have parents that fucked him up before he ever even had a chance, that passed on violence and a craving for something to dull the anger in his bones as his only inheritance.

The growing up is only the half of it; the damage done, Flash knows, is permanent. The effects of growing up under his father's roof haven't left him just because Harrison Thompson is buried. 

He doesn’t think Peter gets it and he doesn’t know how to make him get it, so he says nothing at all and lets Peter resent him for it. It’s easier this way, anyway.

#marvel comicverse #not mcu #technically this is spideyflash #but it is never explicitly stated #so i guess interpret how you like #tw: abuse #tw: substance abuse #tw: alcoholism #tw: emotional trauma #a tale of two heroes #noelle writes #please do note #this work does not actively depict abuse #it does however deal with its after effects #this does handle the relationship that exists between the abuser and the abused #particularly when the abuser was the victim's primary caregiver #due to the way in which this is handled #it will sometimes appear as though the abuser is being sympathized with #my intention is in no way to excuse or justify abuse #and i think i make that clear within the fic #that said #if this is a sensitive topic for you #please feel free to not read #in less heavy news #this is actually a spin off of a fic that some day i may actually finish writing #how do i finish the spin off before the main story you ask? #i'm just horrible that way