#Trigger warning for poor/unhealthy coping mechanisms

[omg-itsmoon]

Spoiler Alert

So let's get one thing straight: Rowan's death in 6th year is very upsetting. But I think that JC failed to include a proper depiction of the sheer impact the death of your own best friend can have on you. Therefore, I came up with a few headcannons on how Okami reacts and copes. Well, coping isn't really a good word to use here.

First of all, Okami is already small, to say the least. So when Okami stopped eating due to her intense grief and stress, she grew even thinner, her blood pressure dropping to almost dangerous levels.

Penny was also devastated, but she had much healthier coping mechanisms than Okami did. She was there for Okami and the others.

Merula and Ismelda obviously stopped bothering Okami like they usually did. Instead, they helped (forced) Okami to take better care of herself. Can you blame them? The girl had straight up stopped sleeping, only fueling herself with coffee and wide-eye potions.

Okami also tried to stay inside her dorm for the time being, but McGonagall wouldn't allow it, for safety reasons (and not to mention to keep Okami's mental health in check.)

Talbott eventually pitched in as well, practically following Okami around (not to be confused with stalking, as Merula and Ismelda practically were doing) to make sure she was functioning properly. And if she wasn't, he would put a stop to whatever she was doing beforehand to make her rest.

Merula and Ismelda eventually confronted her, demanding that she slows down and puts her health first before anything else. Okami took it the wrong way, and thought she was being yelled at/scolded. She became very stressed, which led her to fainting right in front of the two Slytherins.

Tldr: When Rowan died, Okami did NOT have good coping mechanisms. In fact, she was practically mentally (and physically) deteriorating.

[twola]

Passerine : Chapter 4

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Green-scarved attackers leave you and Arthur in a precarious place - forced to address the impasse between you.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Told you it wouldn't be a year between updates :)

But seriously - I love hearing from you guys - that really helped push me to get this out more timely.

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You wipe your brow against the heat. If you thought Clemens was hot, Shady Belle was goddamn sweltering. The nape of your neck was never dry, and the ends of your hair curled around your face from the humidity.

“Hey there.” 

You look up from the tub of dishes you were scrubbing behind Pearson’s wagon. Susan has finally given you some leeway, and the tub was dragged to a shady spot to give you at least a little bit of a reprieve from the heat.

But not much.

“Hey.”

Arthur stands in front of you, heaving a heavy sack of corn off his shoulder to the dirt below. He grunts slightly, circling his shoulder, before righting his hat and moving closer into your personal space.

“How’re you feelin’ this morning?” He asks, dipping his hands into the water quickly and shaking the wetness from his fingers. He stuffs his hand into his satchel and grabs his worn leather riding gloves, pulling them on.

“Same as yesterday. Hot and fat.” You respond, sighing as you roll your shoulders with a near-imperceptible wince. Your gaze settles on the tub of dirty dishes in front of you.

That gets a small smile out of him. A silence settles between the two of you as he wriggles his fingers on one hand, the leather sticking and whining with each stretch of his digits.

“How’s your shoulder?” You nod up to him, still not making eye contact.

“Feelin’ fine, you ain’t gotta worry about me.” He nods, intently staring at the soapy water in front of you.

You frown before looking back in the tub as well.

It’s a strange space you’re in right now. Your stomach is swollen up and your back starting to sway. You still had a couple of months before the child’s arrival. You’ve had to shed your layers even further from Clemens, where an old cotton shift is nearly all you can fit in at this point. Tilly and Mary Beth were working on a few dresses for you, but they weren’t done yet.

“You was up early.” He says, searching for words to continue the conversation - unfortunately, it wasn’t going well.

“Ain’t sleeping much these days.”

Arthur simply murmurs in response.

Up in the room of that old plantation house, Arthur’s bedroll remains on the floor, to which you complained, but he would hear none of you sleeping on the ground in your condition.

Sharing a bed was never brought up. It was a canyon between the two of you - the more your belly grew, the more you withdrew from him. You didn’t talk about it. About the baby. About the future. Arthur was unfortunately relegated to watch you grow and not address any of it. He didn’t know what to do - were you going to stay this way until the day you gave birth?

“I’m sure Abigail is grateful to John and you and Dutch for bringing Jack back.” You whisper quietly, looking at the boy running around the old abandoned fountain, an unfortunate breeding pit for mosquitos.

“Maybe John will step up after this.” Arthur eyes the shadow behind Jack.

John sits in the decrepit gazebo, carving what looks like a child’s toy in his hand. It was comical in some ways, fearsome looking, scarred John, working on a toy for his son. Finally, after so long, it seems that he is starting to acknowledge the poor boy - having gone through some kind of terror when he was taken.

He and Abigail hadn’t yelled at each other in a day - there’s a secret wager among the girls about how long it is that is going to last.

Karen bet the high end, having kept the knowledge that Abigail was in John’s room this morning to herself.

You breathe out heavily through your knows and let a low groan out, one hand on your lower back swayed under the weight of the child growing within.

He wants to reach out and touch you. He almost does, for a moment, spread his hand out over your belly, to try and feel for movement. He wants to pull your chemise up and press against your bare skin. He wants to worship your changing body.

But every time he tries to bring up the baby, you shut down. That darkness under your eyes returns. This chasm widens.

He steps one step closer, his hand moving to his gun belt, as was apt to happen in times of discomfort.

“Y’ want to go into town? I’ll take you.”

Your eyes move back to the dishes, and you fish the next dirty one from the tub.

“Not really. I’m fine.”

Arthur frowns but acquiesces. He bids you a good day before heading out to the hitching post, off to head back into town to meet Trelawney to discuss the next job.

-

Your spry gelding has been woefully neglected, you being unable to ride the way you want. He stands bored amongst the other horses, listless while you can’t give him a good run.

“Kieran.”

The poor boy almost drops his coffee, fear alight in his eyes for a moment. “Y-yes ma’am? Does Mr. Morgan need anythin’?”

“What, Arthur? No. I’m asking for a favor.”

“O-oh! Of course! What d’ya need?”

“It’s been a while since my boy’s had a hard ride… obviously I can’t-” you motion to your abdomen.

“Oh, oh! A-absolutely. I can take ‘im out for a ride.”

“Well I was wondering if I could come along… maybe just to get out of camp and watch you run him in the field. I’m so bored here.” You sigh. 

“You sure that Arthur ain’t gonna come after us?” Kieran asks concernedly.

“I’m sure it ain’t any of Arthur’s business. Besides, it won’t be like we’re going far. Maybe on the other side of that old battlefield near the Braithewaite’s land. Plenty of room out there.” You scowl, offended that Kieran insinuated you needed Arthur’s permission to function. God, you were pregnant, not an invalid.

Kieran looks hurriedly to the ground before quickly shuffling over toward your horse, who finally picks up his head and whinnies excitedly as his reins are untied from the hitching post.

You follow, smiling and brushing down your horse’s mane, whispering sweet affections to him as Kieran adjusts the saddle. After a few moments, he steps back to allow you to get yourself up on the horse.

Okay, maybe you were a bit invalid right now.

“Uh, can you… help me a bit?” 

Kieran blazes red for a moment before nodding, awkwardly placing his hands on your waist and helping heave you up on the horse’s rump. He climbs into the saddle and meekly leads the two of you toward the old battlefield and the road toward Braithwaite Manor. 

After a slow, hot walk to the open meadow, the two of you finally reach it. He quietly helps you slide off the horse’s rump and into the long grass of the meadow, where you take a few steps to stand under the shade of a tree.

Kieran then digs his spurs into your gelding’s side and the horse bolts, rearing before galloping off through the meadow. You lean against the tree, idly rubbing your hand over your growing stomach as you watch Kieran ride your horse hard, getting a good run out of him. It’s a good half hour of circling the meadow at various speeds before they slowly plod back to you.

“Ah, there’s my boy!” You pat his mane affectionately as your gelding pants, satisfied. Kieran leans on the pommel with one arm, smiling for once.

“He’s a good boy. I can make sure I take ‘im out every couple days for a run-” The man frowns slightly again, “with your permission, of course, ma’am.”

You nearly roll your eyes at him. 

“First, you’re doin’ me a favor, stop calling me ma’am. Second-”

A gunshot cracks far too close to you and your gelding rears, screeching as Kieran tries to calm him. You’ve stumbled back a few steps, clutching at your belly with one hand.

“Kieran Duffy, you’re a goddamn dead man!” 

Cold steel is pressed between your shoulder blades and your stomach drops to your feet.

One, two, three, four armed men encircle you and Kieran, who hushes your gelding. For a moment, his hand hovers over the gun on his hip, but you groan in pain as the barrel of a repeater digs into your back. A large hand clamps down on your arm roughly.

Two men muscle their way over to your horse and proceed to drag Kieran down from him, his face slamming against the red Lemoyne dirt.  The men start to kick at the adopted Van der Linde, and the unfortunate man tries to curl up in a fetal position but it is of no help. His gasps and moans of pain start to fill the air, overpowering the cicadas in the humid afternoon.

You just stare at the green scarves around their necks and bite your lip hard enough to make yourself bleed.

“C’mon, Colm’s waiting.”

-

The ropes chafe around your wrists as the O’Driscoll pushes you forward. You try your damndest not to stumble, and it is some small mercy that your wrists are bound in front of you as compared to behind you. Your dress, the old short-sleeved shift, is now dirty beyond any salvation and covered in horse hair and mud. Your captors were kind enough to place you on a horse sitting up, as compared to slinging you over the horse’s rump as they did to Kieran.

“This boy you’re associating with here… he’s done some real wrongs against us. Gotta assume that you have too if you’re with him.” The man grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

A few hours of riding later, you’re out of the swamps before the men stop, guiding their horses off the northward road and into a small wooded glade as the hills start to rise. You vaguely recognize the area - it's not too far from Clemens, near the state line with New Hanover. The four men that found you had a campsite set up just off the road.

Kieran tries to muscle in between you and the O’Driscoll, his hands bound behind him, bruises blooming bright across his face. 

“She ain’t got nothin to -” 

Kieran’s plea is cut short with the sickening wet sound of blood bursting from his nose as the butt of a revolver whips across his face. He crumbles to the ground as you gasp. You stoop down to try to reach him, and as he rolls into a seated position, the blood from his face drips all over your dress as he coughs. You try to stymie the blood with the hem of your skirt but with your wrists bound, you just end up getting it all over yourself and him.

“Pretty sure I didn’t ask you, y’dumb sack of shit.”

Kieran gets yanked away from you, whimpering, and dragged further from the campfire back toward the woodline by two of the other men, rough and tumble and dirty. You’re pulled up roughly by your arm as your captor sizes you up. He pauses as you recapture your balance.

“You-you're that girl from up in Cumberland that ol’ Donal dragged back in-” The O’Driscoll sneers with recognition, “Said your cunny was one of the tightest one’s he’d plowed-” 

You recoil in revulsion, a physical reaction to the man’s reference to your assault. His coy and callous words about the rape that haunts you each and every day. The man’s eyes dart down to your abdomen, and your hands shoot up to cover it as if to hide your pregnancy from him.

“You got a damn O’Driscoll in your belly!” He howls in laughter, pointing at the child that grows within you.

Something deep and ancient and animalistic within you snaps like a leather whip. Suddenly this child in your belly wasn’t a burden. Suddenly the circumstances of its beginning didn’t matter. Suddenly, this raggedy outlaw in front of you was threatening your child. You scowl, your hands protectively over your stomach, the child agitated within, kicking at you as your blood rises. Righteous anger, for the first time since your ordeal, courses through your veins.

“My baby ain't no O’Driscoll,” You hiss, your bound hands clenching in rage, “This baby is Arthur Morgan’s - ‘nd he’s gonna come and skin you alive.” 

The hot anger sizzling through your blood, you know, would match Arthur’s. You can see, in your mind’s eye, your lover coming in, guns blazing, ready to tear anyone who threatens you and your child limb from limb.

A flash of something crosses the O’Driscoll’s face. Maybe fear, maybe recognition. His haughty smirk falls. Annoyed, he yanks you forward and forces you to your knees as you yell obscenities at him. Your hands are then bound behind you and the ropes threaded through the spokes of the wagon wheel you are forced to sit against.

The soft crackles of the fire ten feet away and the chirp of the crickets are foreboding in your gut - and for good reason. 

Kieran’s screams echo through the night and are a sound you will never forget.

-

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her? How th’ hell do you lose a pregnant woman?” Arthur stomps through the front door of the plantation house with Sadie trailing behind. 

“I ain't babysittin’ her Arthur - I’m just sayin’ I haven't seen her since this mornin’.”

“Arthur-” Dutch calls from the stairs, “Come up here, son - we have to talk. Missus Adler, will you excuse us?”

Arthur lets out a long breath through his nose. “Comin’-” he yells up to Dutch, and turns to Sadie, “Will you go find her? She’s been a goddamn hellcat with how angry gets nowadays.”

Sadie rolls her eyes, “Gosh Arthur, I wonder why.”

Arthur waves his hand at Sadie dismissively as he bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He moves through the room where Dutch has stored his gramophone and the camp funds to find the older man out on the balcony. 

Dutch smokes a cigar, looking out on the decrepit fountain in the front of the manor below. He holds another one in his fingers, offering it to Arthur as he comes closer. Arthur grunts and takes the cigar, pulling a box of matches out of his satchel with the other hand.

Dutch motions toward the skyline of Saint Denis in the distance, barely visible over the cypress trees in the swamp. “Now… the trolley bus station…” The cigar’s end glows red between his fingers, “I went down there… I took a look at it… I think we can hit it.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow as he lights his cigar, puffing it to get it lit before holding it between his fingers, “I ain’t never robbed in a city before,” he replies with uncertainty.

Dutch smirks with that boisterous smile that Arthur has known for years. “Yeah, well you leave the planning to me, You’ll ride with me?”

“Always.”

Dutch grabs Arthur’s shoulder to reassure him. “Gonna get enough to get on a boat. Raise that kid o’yours on a mango farm, with no worries in the world.”

Arthur frowns, at both the mention of the baby and this harebrained idea of going to Tahiti of all places. Dutch senses his trepidation.

Dutch sighs, looking out over the balcony as a plume of smoke drifting upwards. He squints up the road leading toward Scarlett Meadows, placing his hands on the worn railing, “What the–”

Mary Beth’s scream cuts through the quiet.

-

Sadie Adler is quite unperturbed by the blood spattered all over her blouse. Frankly, she seems quite comfortable partly drenched in the lifeblood of O’Dricolls - doling out her divine justice for the wrongs hoisted upon her.

Arthur, however, is mad as a grizzly bear. 

“The last time I saw her she was with ‘im.” Sadie nods at poor Kieran’s headless body, where Javier and Bill hoist him up for burial outside of camp. Orville Swanson seems suddenly quite sober as he holds the decapitated head, slowly trailing the other two.

Arthur grinds his teeth so hard that most of the state could probably hear him. Scowling, he surveys the carnage outside the old house before stalking toward the horses, some of them having broken their hitches and darted further into the woods.

“Charles!” Arthur barks, “Missus Adler.”

Sadie nods, shouldering her rifle. Charles joins in, trotting from where he had just thrown a corpse into the bayou to follow the other two over to the horses from the old plantation house.

John Marston leads Old Boy out of the woods and swings up on him, leading the half-bred to where the other three horses have gathered.

“Marston.” 

“You helped me get my son back. I ain’t… Ain’t gonna stand by watchin’ you try to get yours back.`` John adjusts the strap of his repeater across his chest. 

Arthur simply grunts, too aggravated to show any thanks. He digs his spurs into his horse’s side, and with a high whinny, Arthur urges the mare into a gallop as they leave the plantation. Taima, Bob, and Old Boy fall in line.

He grips his revolver hard, standing in his saddle as the mare runs blisteringly fast up the road, through the old battlefields, and north into Scarlett Meadows.

-

The shouts and yells and gunshots have you huddling against the wagon wheel, your arms scream in pain as you try to tug at your bindings, your knees drawn up close to try and shield your belly from whoever is rolling in on your captors. Was it more O’Driscolls? Was it Lemoyne Raiders? 

A pair of boots sidle up in front of you. You look up in fear, your heart racing, and a gasp escapes your mouth as you stare up at the owner of said boots.

Arthur stands in front of the wagon, his whole body heaving with labored breaths. Blood is spattered up the side of his face, his hands tightly around a shotgun, still cocked and smoking from its obvious use.

“Darlin’-” 

Overwhelmed, you moan and start to collapse forward. He moves with a speed that betrays how wound up he still is from the fight, throwing his shotgun to the ground and catching you, whipping out his knife from its sheath and cutting the ropes that bind your arms.

Immediately, he heaves you up in his arms as if you were nothing as he stands up from his knee. With his arms looped behind your back and under your knees, he crushes you to himself for a moment.

“Are you hurt? What’s all this blood?” Arthur frets, looking over your bloodstained shift, eyes darting over your belly, searching for a possible injury where it was coming from.

Instead of answering you throw your arms around his neck, burying your head into his collarbone. 

“Sweetheart, y’gotta tell me-”

“The blood is Kieran’s,” You croak, “Ain’t mine… I’m alrigh’... we’re alrigh’.” You trail off and then begin to weep into Arthur’s shirt.

You can almost hear his jaw clench. A darkness shrouds his face as he carries you back into the campsite, shot up and full of bodies. You turn to see the carnage.

Sadie continues to loot the bodies of the fallen O’Driscolls, kicking each one as she finishes for good measure. Charles walks Arthur’s mare and Taima from the woodline where they had ditched the horses. 

Arthur’s shotgun is picked up from the ground. Clutching once more at Arthur’s shirt, you make eye contact with John Marston, who stares back at you with an unreadable expression.

-

The door latches behind you - at least as much as it can physically latch, and silence finally falls in this old room, the oil lamp throwing yellow-orange light and casting shadows around the room. The floorboards creak under the heavy footfall of Arthur’s boots as he moves toward the center of the room, one by one taking the weapons off of his person.

A repeater was laid against the table. A rifle balanced on his clothing chest. He shrugs off his bloodstained brown leather jacket and tosses it to the floor before looking back up at you. The simmering vein of anger in his blood seems to have been assuaged on the ride back, where he clutched you in his arm tight enough that the devil himself would have to pry you from his grasp.

“Y’sure you're okay? Y’sure all that blood ain't yours?”

You nod, trying to stave off the tears that threaten to fall from your eyes, failing miserably as your chin quivers and your lips purse. Arthur yanks his hat off and lets it drop on the table as he closes the distance between you. 

“Sweetheart-”

His hands reach toward you, but you immediately grab him by the wrists before he has a chance to pull you into his embrace. Pulling his hands downward, you place them broadly across your belly, his eyes widening as he spreads his fingers out over the swell. You place your own hands over his, pressing against them so he can feel the movement beneath your skin.

His cornflower-blue eyes track up to yours, and with a shuddering sob, the wall you’d been building between yourself and him finally crumbles.

“I-it’s yours-,” your voice cracks as tears freely flow down your face, “It’s yours, Arthur. This baby is yours and mine a-and-”

He removes one hand from your belly and pulls you into his warm embrace, kissing the top of your head gently as he traces soft circles on your skin with the remaining hand.

“Always was, darlin’.” The timbres of his low voice are comforting as you weep into his work shirt. “Like I told ya - that child is mine. I'm gonna be its pa.”

You sob harder into his warmth, your fingers tightening in the fabric as you clutch at him. One of his hands finds your lower back and gently rubs circles in soothing motions. 

“No.. no I mean…He… didn’t, he didn’t-” you stutter, hiccuping.

“Y’ain’t gotta say anything bout him-” Arthur cups the back of your head, trying to prevent you from going down that road.

“I- I don’t know why it was stuck in my head. Like I couldn’t think it was possible that it wasn’t his… but - but he ain’t, it’s not…”

“Sweetheart-”

“He didn’t finish in me. It - it was only once and he didn’t finish in me.” You spit out, as if the words were venom in your mouth. You squeeze your eyes shut against your body's physical reaction: a shudder of revulsion as past scenes invade your mind again. But speaking it aloud, getting it out in the open, there was something freeing about it.

Arthur clutches you to him, tucking his chin against the crown of your head.

“N-None of them O’Driscolls touched me.” You whimper into his chest.

You feel his arms tighten around you, as he breathes in to seemingly center himself again, the rage from before threatening to lash out once again.

“I’m still gonna hunt down every one of them and -” He snarls lowly before you bury your face into his chest, 

“Don’t. Don’t - don’t leave me. I need you here.”

He breathes out slowly, calming himself down before he cups the back of your head. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

After a moment to collect yourself, you look up at him, one of your hands tracing up his broad chest, his neck, your fingers weaving through his short beard.

“Arthur,” you sniffle, rubbing at your wet cheek with the back of your other hand.

“You don’t gotta do anythin’.” He interjects, his thumb catching your jaw before wiping the opposite cheek.

Your brow crinkles and you step up on your toes and press your lips to his forcefully, which he meets your fervor almost immediately.

You open your mouth to him and he groans lowly, drawing you even closer in his embrace, awkward with the swell of your child between you. 

He draws away from your lips slowly, and his hands trace up your body to cup your cheeks gently - far too gently for a gunslinging outlaw. 

“What d’ya want, sweetheart?” His low voice rumbles before he presses his lips to your forehead. You let out a breath and lean into him, reaching up on your toes to press your lips against his again, arms wound around his torso. Your belly presses against his, preventing you from melting fully into his arms.

The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. 

“Will you touch me?”

So long ago, you had timidly asked him that in front of a campfire in West Elizabeth. You had begged him, pleaded, to have him take away the pain and memory of your ordeal. To have the last person who touched you do it out of love, not power and control.

Arthur smiles, like the morning sunrise, and draws you up for another kiss.

“Ain’t nothin’ I'd like more to do.”

There are several more moments of kissing, the wet sounds of mouths meeting the only sound in the room before Arthur bends to pick you up, hooking his arm beneath your knee and carrying you to the rickety old bed, laying you down gently with a kiss to your forehead.

“I ain’t… I’ve never done this with someone in your… condition.” Arthur stutters sheepishly as he slides one of his suspenders down his arms.

You smile and reach up to grab the other suspender and peel it downward. “I’ll be okay. Just be gentle.”

The cotton straps swing by his side as he leans over to take his boots off, they clunk to the floor heavily as he tosses them away. He leans over you and works your boots off, tossing them to the floor in a pile near his own.

Hands move slowly - gently, with purpose. His shirt falls to the floor. Your bloodstained skirt follows. The ruined blouse. They all pile on the floorboards until your lace-trimmed chemise is all that covers your body. You give a lopsided grin as he reaches toward your neckline. 

“What?” He grins, tracing up to one shoulder and pushing the strap down your bicep.

“Reckon I look a little different since the last time we did this.”

The cotton is peeled downward, exposing your swollen breast and darkened nipple. 

“Reckon you’re even more beautiful now.” He drawls before fully leaning over you and pressing his lips against the top of your breast, and you mewl in response, your sensitivity so heightened as he works his way down, letting his tongue lave over your nipple. You arch your back, chasing the feeling, whimpering as his lips close around your nipple and gently suck upon it for a moment.

Your fingers weave into his hair, and you yelp as he sucks harder, yanking on his hair in overstimulation. His mouth pops off your nipple as he rears up immediately, concern alight in his eyes.

“S’okay - just a little sensitive.” You ruffle his hair affectionately as he whispers an apology, sheepish as he leans up to kiss you quickly, his grip on you not nearly as strong. 

“C’mon now,” you pull your chemise over your head, tossing it over the bed and moving one of his hands to your hip to push down your drawers. Arthur’s breath stutters as his hand traces back up your thigh as you kick the bloomers off, some of his earlier fear and reticence leaving him. 

“Christ,” he breathes against your skin as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, “Yer so beautiful like this.”

His large hand dips between your legs and you whimper as you spread them to grant access. His fingers immediately part your folds and it’s only half a moment before he finds that little nub of your pleasure, circling it with his finger as you begin to mewl softly, your eyes fluttering closed as he leans over you.

You stutter in gasping notes, needy whines filling the room as he touches you. He rumbles his assent, pleased, “It’s been killin’ me not to touch you.”

“Really?” You breathe, and he takes the opportunity to slide his thick trigger finger into your cunt, and your back arches in response.

“Course- you, you’re,” he stops and groans in your ear as he pulls his finger out, near dripping with your essence, “You’re the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, carrying’ my child.”

“Yours.” You croon in response.

He agrees with a smirk, knowing he’s finally helped pull you from the abyss of denial, “Mine. Just like you, yer my girl.”

Arthur slides his finger back in. You gasp, high and flighty, blushing and needy. Your hands clutch at the old sheet laid out on the bed. 

His other hand brushes a few strands of your hair from your forehead, tucking them behind your ear. He smiles, dangerously fond, and leans over to press his lips to yours and smothers the noises of your pleasure.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the wet squelching of his hand, gently, slowly thrusting in and out between your spread legs. When he moves to hold himself above you again, he runs his gaze up and down your body - your bite-swollen lips, your heaving bosom - darkened nipples spit-slicked in the evening light.

The roundness of your belly where his child grows. 

By the time his gaze returns to your face, he finds you waiting. Your eyes open wide and searching for his. 

“Arthur.”

“Mm?” He nods, drawing his finger out from your body. You grab at his wrist to ground yourself.

“I want you.” 

Arthur smiles in response, pressing a kiss to your forehead as you lay on his bed. He stands up to his full height from where he leaned over you and unbuttons his pants, pushing down both them and the short drawers he had taken to wearing in the Lemoyne heat. After the fabric reaches his saddle-hewn thighs, it falls to the ground, pooling at his feet, leaving all six feet of him bare for you to see.

His hefty cock stands at attention, darkened with blood and wet at the tip. A testament to his reciprocated want.

“Here, turn over,” Arthur helps you to roll onto your side, facing the wall, and he slides into the bed next to you, its old wood creaking with the weight and movement. Arthur holds a hand tightly to your hip as you lay on your side away from him, squeezing affectionately as he settles in.

Flushed against your back, even with you large with child, Arthur dominates you, his arm curling up and over your torso. He’s warm and strong and hard against you.

“You tell me if anythin’ doesn’t feed good, alrigh’?” He rumbles into your ear as his hand, having moved down to your thigh, pulls your leg backward and over his own hip.

You nod vigorously, unable to articulate any words as you feel him guide his cock between your legs, tucking it between your folds and giving a few languid, gentle thrusts to coat himself in your slick. You grab at the hand spread out over your thigh and interlace your fingers; he squeezes your hand in response.

Arthur grits his teeth as pulls his hips back, the head of his cock catching on your opening. He presses inward, his hardened flesh pushing through the rim of your cunt. You gasp in return, feeling the first inches of him enter your body. 

He leans up on one elbow and presses his lips to your temple as you whimper.

“Okay?” He whispers, remaining still, only half buried in your warmth.

You whine a little and wiggle your hips, he groans as another inch of him slips in. He presses forward, fully sheathing himself in you, and you whimper again, cunt stuffed full of him.

He allows you time to accommodate him - the dual pressure of him and the child pressing on your hips is nearly painful in a way that you can’t get enough. You tip your head back, breathing out as your whole body presses back against his - even swollen with child, you feel small against him. All muscle and corded arms and his broad chest-

Arthur gives an experimental, shallow thrust of his hips. His cock halfway leaves you before pushing into you again. The whimpering escaping your mouth escalates into a moan, and he curls his body over yours, his stubble against your cheek, and you can feel him smile against you.

“There’s my girl.”

He does it again. And again, and again, until he is throwing his hips against yours, panting wildly in your ear as he fills your cunt over and over.

Arthur’s hand moves from under yours on your thigh to cradle your belly and the life growing within. You feel fit to burst - the fondness overflowing from your heart at his gesture, the rhythmic slapping of his skin against yours, the filling and emptying of your core with all of him - it is only moments before you stutter out a breathy jumble of words.

“M’ gonna-ngh- Arth… Arthur, I’m gonn-”

He holds himself still, a feat in itself, and rubs at your clit with two fingers, leaving you a gasping, shuddering mess as he works an orgasm out of you.

“There we go, there’s my girl.” He whispers again in your ear as you shudder and shake and gasp, his cock still buried to the hilt within you. As you come down from your high, he gently pulls out, laying on his back and grunting as he takes himself in hand, pumping his cock until he breathes out heavily, coming all over his belly as he finds his pleasure.

You lay still for a few moments more, recovering and catching your breath. You feel Arthur unwind himself from you and get up from the rickety bed. With some measure of difficulty, you turn yourself around, facing the room instead of the wall. One of your hands subconsciously begins drawing small circles on your stomach as you watch Arthur wipe his own clean of his spend with an old bandana.

Arthur tosses the soiled bandana to the ground. He goes to reach for a fresh union suit before you make a sound of disapproval.

“Come sleep with me.” You plead, and the smile he gives you in return assuages all fears as he drops the union suit and takes the last few steps between the bed and where he stood.

With a bit of finagling, he slides into bed and pulls the old blanket over the two of you.

He returns to you as you wind your arms around his neck, your naked bodies pressed against each other, the swell of your child between you. One of his hands rests on your belly, and for the first time in months, you fall asleep at peace.

[yanderes-galore]

Oh WOW You have a lot of hazbin hotel requests! I'm excited for each one of them ^^

If you don't mind, I'll add one more! May I request some hcs for Lucifer with maid! Darling? Preferably romantic. He's a king of hell, has a mansion and his wife left him so... he'll definetely cling to some poor maid who just pitied him

Welp... You've become the unhealthy coping mechanism.

@okchijt gave me some ideas to write this and force me out of writer's block ^^

Yandere! Lucifer with Maid! Darling

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Female Darling, Obsession, Clingy behavior, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Unhealthy coping, Controlling behavior, Delusional behavior, Forced relationship.

Lucifer in this series always seems to be in a poor mental state.

He seems to yearn for attention and clearly just... isn't the same after Lilith left him.

You, a maid, are unfortunately left to pick up the pieces.

There's times you feel like you aren't a maid around him.

Lucifer is the King of Hell, you should be disposable to him.

However, he never treats you in such a way.

You're less a maid and more of an... emotional support companion.

Such a thing no doubt started when you saw him crying one night in his chambers.

Feeling it is your duty, you enter and sit beside him.

You let him sob and rant to you, occasionally giving encouraging words.

You didn't think much of it.

Keeping your king happy was the job of a maid.

Although... To him?

You meant everything.

You're his personal maid now, one ordered to never leave his side.

It doesn't matter where he goes.

You always come with him.

He could be meeting with the Angels, meeting with the Seven Deadly Sins, or even visiting his daughter at the Hotel.

You're always by his side.

Many don't think much of it.

Why would they question it?

It makes sense the King of Hell would have an assistant of some sort.

You're a pretty demon, always attached to his hip.

Many think you're just there to serve.

In fact, you see it that way.

However, Lucifer in his delusional mind, may see this as bonding.

Like your partners.

Pretty soon, Lucifer doesn't even like you doing your job.

He has other servants, you shouldn't get your hands too dirty anymore.

You keep trying to do your job, not used to all the attention.

Yet Lucifer pulls you back and cuts you off, saying he can take care of it.

He hates seeing you overworked and would rather want you to take care of him emotionally.

You could be cleaning, doing laundry, cooking... Typical maid stuff.

But Lucifer always offers to do it himself, or makes another servant do it.

His obsessive and clingy behavior towards you makes him swap your roles.

He wants to coddle you, He wants to take care of you and show you how much he cares.

This was obviously not what you signed up for.

You're showered in gratitude and affection no matter what you did.

Lucifer just thinks you're adorable.

He gives you gifts, vacations, fancy food and treats...

He spoils you.

You're a mere maid compared to him, but you're given all this stuff.

It's not hard to tell why he's doing this, though.

He's clearly having a hard time coping with his wife leaving him.

In you, he sees a replacement.

You're a new companion he can spoil and care for.

A pretty girl for him to coddle and love.

Many may just see you as his maid.

Yet in private, at his mansion, he barely even lets you work anymore.

He has grande dinners prepared and he sits you next to him.

He tries to feed you, often treating these little events as dinner dates.

He even tries to take you out places, again, seeing them as dates.

You could be doing something as mundane as cleaning a vase, only for Lucifer to praise you like you made peace in Hell.

He loves you, it's obvious.

You may not even love him back, but that doesn't stop him.

He's delusional, seeing you as his new wife.

This time, if he gives you all he has, maybe you won't leave.

He lost his first wife, but... not you.

Maybe you'll come around... right?

You may be indifferent now, but that must mean you need more dates.

You're forced to comply due to your job.

You see this as a job... He sees this as a relationship.

He'll even slowly get you used to ruling!

He'll take you to meetings, listen to your opinion...

You'll be a perfect ruler of Hell.

He may not be fully over Lilith...

But... You make everything easier.

You've made everything better.

Maybe... He can let go.

In his eyes, because you helped him, you're perfect together...

He's even picked out a ring... He can't wait to show you... He can't wait to make you his.

[archive-doll]

dog!ghost, the touched-craved puppy.

requests are still open! forgive the grammar.

trigger warning for homelessness, and eating disorders due to being poor. Abusive childhood. Unhealthy coping mechanisms. Mention of a knife fight - scar on his face. Mention of food. I think that's all?

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

It can go so many ways; I truly think for hybrid's au, the type of species you are can influence some traits of your personality, not in a cliché manner, but more for little mannerisms and so on.

In my troubled mind, he is a cane corso, no doubt about it. A massif dog, a beast of nature even for his kind - the ground trembled beneath his feet, no matter what shape he was in. In a way, he reminds me of Cerberus, the mythological dog from hell. I think he hides behind it, protects himself from society, and slides into that role.

He definitely does not like other people. He's a stray, hardened by his tragic childhood, and then he got recruited by the military.

In this alternative universe, he does not search for it. Actually, he's content with doing odd jobs and haunting the streets of whatever city he lives in at that time. He probably moves around a lot for work; maybe like he does illegal jobs in construction for the season, lives on some boat as a fisherman, and doesn't see the earth for weeks on end. Simon doesn't want a house, a place to come to because it reminds him of the one he lost, the one that has been stolen from him - tarnished by his deadbeat dad.

He doesn't want to mingle with normal people. He is a ghost and has been long before becoming a soldier.

So, he avoids Manchester at all costs, the city reminds him of too much pain, and too much loss, and he still hasn't overcome the grief that came with his childhood years.

But, one day, he works in a little village close to one of these stupid military bases, and goes eat not too far from whatever building he is currently working on, and there are soldiers there. Simon doesn't care and doesn't look. He just knows from past experience they are loud and obnoxious.

Keep in mind, the man is huge - square and broad all over from years of physical jobs. Black ears puff from his hair, twitching at every sound, one missing a patch of flesh from an old knife fight. Sharp fangs poking from his thin mouth catch the light and the eyes, pushing against his lips into a gore curl. Most turn around when they see him, the scars and consequences of his home life, adding to the imposing and threatening aura he has from being a massive breed.

So, he's eating a bland meal, never putting much money into pretty much anything even for his basic survival, until there is a shadow that towers over him. Over him. He keeps on eating his raw meat, with cold peas, thinking it's one of his colleagues or one girl that's stupid enough to come close. But, no.

It's a blond woman, face unwavering when they lock eyes, in some civvies clothes but he knows anyway. Simon always knows. She's military. From the way her shoulders sit straight to how her hands are steady at her side to her analytical stare. She smells like powder and something he can recognize that most soldiers have - a reek of metal. Blood.

She talks and gives him a nice speech, but he doesn't care much. All he hears is a good job, something about training and going to other countries, and a warm meal he won't have to waste money on.

His plastic bag is thrown into the trashcan as he follows behind her, dirty blond hair unruly as he wipes his mouth with the back of his paw. Military life will be good for him. It will keep his mind busy, days too. And he will do what he is good at, made for. Hunting.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A few years later, Ghost comes around again. The building is crippling away, and he's behind two of his colleagues, a black mask covering the bottom half of his face and sunglasses on. Johnny, his loud and obnoxious sergeant, finds them hilarious. Ghost doesn't care much - except he does.

Johnny is his friend. Kyle, the calmer and more subdued, but startlingly smart man is, too. Even the older man who easily strides at his rhythm, Price, he could consider him one of his mates. They are in this stupid village and go together to eat outside the base, which isn't so stupid anymore. It's remotely a place he feels comfortable in.

They stand in the little shop that sells sandwiches and good meals that keep his belly warm for the rest of his day when they come around, at the back of the waiting line. You have cat's hair on your jeans, white strands easily noticed on the dark denim that seems melted along the curves of your thighs. He knows he is staring, Johnny tells him about that more often than not.

But Simon cannot look away. You are here, with some earphones on, uncaring of the world around you, of everyone passing by that fills the shop - with heart-shattering eyes. And this time, instead of finally staring at the gorgeous creature there, Simon pays for their meal.

Actually, he pushes rudely some bills into the lady's hand behind the counter and points to them with a tilt of his head.

Johnny is snorting half of his brain through his nose, but he waits in front of the shop. He doesn't know it yet, but Simon is not a stray anymore. Neither is exactly a Ghost.

Not when they step towards him, a little embarrassed, and ask him if they can offer him coffee. Not when they sit around an atrociously small table outside a coffee shop, sharing their meal, and he feels his broken tail wag behind him, seeing their cheeks swell with food.

@archive-doll all rights reserved. reposting or modifying, including translating or use on AI is not permitted. original characters are not my own but the stories and writing are.

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Including Sunlight

When Skies Are Gray, Chapter 4

Series Masterlist             Next Chapter

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around. 

warnings: swearing, fluff, Frank having unhealthy coping mechanisms

a/n: I'm so sorry that this update is late, everyone! I've had a wacky month and it has completely thrown me off. Huge shout out to @xxdrixx for reminding me (again XD) to post what I'd written, and to my loves @madschiavelique and @gracethyomen for helping me plot the upcoming angst arc!!!

w/c: 5.9k

You hadn’t known Frank for very long, but that didn’t stop him from becoming a necessary fixture in your life. Needing Frank was similar to needing light, or fresh air. Sure, you could go without it for a bit, but it would drastically reduce the quality of your life. 

Two days into his “business trip” (which you assumed was a cover for some illegal shenanigans because what sort of freelance construction worker has business trips), you were missing Frank something awful, and it seemed like Max was too. Though you’d tried your best to stick to the existing routine Frank had explained to you, the dog would get mopey in the evenings, laying his head on your lap with a dramatic sigh as he stared longingly towards the door. 

Frank hadn’t so much as sent an emoji since his departure, a fact that highlighted his already glaring absence. You had no idea if he was even alive, but you refused to go down that path knowing you’d never make it out of that endless anxiety spiral. Hoping not to bother him while he was away, you’d refrained from reaching out. Until Max’s heavy sighs were too much for you to bear. 

“I’ll see what I can do, buddy.” You promised, pulling out your phone and taking a picture of his pouting face. 

Sending Max’s sulking portrait off to your stoic neighbor, you included a message. 

You: I think he misses you. Hope you made it safely. ❤️

You were about to set your phone down, not expecting him to respond, but your phone buzzed immediately. 

Frank: Sorry, bud. He behaving for you?

You: He’s being a perfect gentleman. Please come back to us in one piece. 

Frank: Cross my heart. 

Smiling at the fluttery sensation in your chest, you set your phone down and resumed petting the pitbull taking up residence on your lap. 

Come back to us. A poor imitation of your melodic voice played throughout his brain on a loop as he got settled in the motel and began recon. It had been hours since you’d texted him and Frank couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not that he could ever stop thinking of you; the only thing that had kept him going through the bland, cross-state drive was the knowledge that he had you to return to.

And didn’t that terrify him. The knowledge that he had forged a connection valuable enough to anchor him on bad days should have triggered his factory reset. Cut all ties, change home and job, never look back. But you made him weak–sapping the resolve out of him with your doe eyes and intoxicating personality. He’d never be able to leave you like that, even if his proximity to you would get you killed.

Gritting his teeth, he began disassembling his rifle for the umpteenth time, hoping the familiar rhythm would provide an opportunity for his mind to claw its way out of the paranoid spiral it was currently parachuting down. Because it would do him no good to imagine the ways this could all fall apart. The high that your genuine care ignited in him was a hard one to shake, and he craved your affection more than any drug. 

Frank was no stranger to being forgotten, hell, most days he wished for it. Disappearing into the shadows made his work easier and it had helped him prevent situations like this, like you, in the past. Yet here he was, three states away, feeling desired and significant because of four little sentences of fucking text. You were a goddamn miracle. 

Placing the final piece of his weapon back into its place, he drew his hands towards himself, examining them. Given the nature of his work, both legal and less than, the skin was rough and littered with impressive callouses. Streaks of gun oil, dirt, and general grime lingered on the pads of his fingers and under his nails, a testament to the indelicacy of his job. How could he allow himself to touch you with these hands?

How could the universe allow him to indulge in something so pure, after what he’d done? 

He’d given you his name, his real one, but there was no way you knew the extent of his crimes against the people in your city–if you did, you’d surely never speak to him again. Before meeting you, he’d never questioned his choices. Wiping the murderous, sex-trafficking and drug-dealing scum from the face of the Earth was his purpose, and he lived it with pride. Pulling the trigger, releasing bullet after bullet into the chest of some criminal douchebag, it was the only reason he had the energy to keep going after the loss of his family. 

But the violence, that he’d made peace with, it separated him from the rest of society, kept him from forming attachments with people as delicate as you. Not to mention, you valued an honesty he couldn’t provide, and a stable relationship would require it…not that he was intending on pursuing that with you. Right?

Sighing wearily, he pinched the bridge of his nose, heart pummeling his ribcage. You deserved to know the truth about who he was and what he’d done, but Frank wasn’t sure he possessed the courage to break that news to you, to risk losing you forever. 

Shifting uneasily on the fraying wicker chair, Frank studied a chip in the faux wood of the table he was seated at. Rubbing a thumb over the exposed plastic, he pondered his next move. His short recon session had verified Madani’s hunch that the arms dealers operated after dark, like most criminals, but sitting around the dingy motel room until then was a one-way ticket to insanity. 

As if his body was pitying his moment of unprecedented indecision, his stomach growled ferociously. Fuck, he could use a decent meal and a hot cup of coffee. Plucking his keys and handgun from the nightstand, he shoved his arms into a black canvas jacket before braving the outside world. 

Digging your glove-covered fingers into the laminated dough, you folded it over itself a few times before placing it back in its designated proofing bin to rise. Taking another lump of the yeasted mixture into your grasp, you savored the pleasant cushiony feeling beneath your hands as you worked, the slightly fermented smell of raw bread swirling around the kitchen as you flipped the mass. 

Your heart thumped serenely as you kneaded the dough at a steady pace, creating a beautiful rhythm you were more than familiar with. It was music, of a sort; the pulse in your ears acting as the bass while the cacophony of rattling spice jars and cracking eggshells composed unique melodies unlike anything else. 

Life was complicated, but food was simple. Customizing pastries and generating new recipes was an outlet for any emotion you could dream of. Tugging at the strands of dough helped soothe the tension in your shoulders, a symptom of the intense restlessness you’d been feeling since Frank left. Though his text had confirmed that he was alive, you couldn’t help but wallow in a feeling of gut-wrenching regret as you lived without him. If something happened to him out there, you’d never be able to tell him–

Shaking your head fiercely to clear the anxious thoughts from your mind, you raced to the walk-in, once again pouring your jittery energy into a recipe rather than letting your composure erode into nothing. Stabilizing the precarious tower of ingredients you’d stacked with your chin, you tread cautiously over to a clean station, unceremoniously dumping the contents onto the steel bench before popping your head out to the front. 

“Stace, you want somethin’ to eat?” You called to the girl, who was currently standing by the register on her phone. 

“What are you making?” She barely lifted her head with the question and her ambivalence made you snort. 

“Oh, you know, same old.”

With a small shrug, Stacy nodded. “Sure, why not.” 

Grinning, you ducked back into the kitchen and popped the lid off of the industrial blender, quickly whipping up two vibrantly colored and impeccably garnished bowls for the pair of you. Passing a spoon to Stacy, you smiled as she dug in eagerly.

“What, you didn’t eat breakfast this morning?” You giggled, reveling in the way her eyes lit up as she ate. 

“Had a feeling you’d be cooking up a storm today.” Stacy replied, tilting her head at you knowingly. “You tend to do that when you’re mopey, and I’m never opposed to a free meal.”

Rolling your eyes, you huffed in defiance. “I’m not ‘mopey’.” 

“No?” Your dark-haired friend smirked. “That’s why you’re staring at that stupid bowl like it killed your family?” 

Ignoring her pointed look, you angled the bowl slightly differently before pulling out your phone. 

“It’s a pretty meal. I wanted to take a picture.” You reasoned, snapping a few photos of the deep violet mixture. 

“To send to lover boy?” Stacy snorted, wiggling her eyebrows at you. 

“No! I mean, maybe, I guess. I mean—“ You spluttered and Stacy laughed boisterously. “Shut up!!” Pouting, you shoved your phone back into the pocket of your apron and stuck a spoon into your breakfast. 

“C’mon, princess, don’t let my teasing interrupt your pitiful flirting attempts. I’m sure he wants to hear from you.” Stacy’s expression was nonchalant, as always, but her gaze softened when your shoulders slumped. “I’m serious. He’s like, embarrassingly into you.” 

“I think you might be confused about which of us is ‘embarrassingly into’ the other.” You whined, burying your face in your hands. 

“Oh you’re pathetically head over heels for him too, that’s why you have no game.” 

Scoffing, you shoved at her shoulder. “You know what, I don’t need to be insulted like this. Get out of my kitchen.”

“It’s not insulting, it’s true!” She chuckled, eating the remaining few bites of her food as you struggled to force her out the double doors. 

“Out, out, out!” You panted, finally getting her across the threshold. 

The whoosh of air from the batwing doors blew stray hairs from your face, giving you pause. Did it matter why you reached out to him? He seemed to appreciate it…

“Fuck it.” 

Frank turned the cheap off-white mug in his hands, letting the quickly fading warmth seep through the material and into his palms as he looked out the streaky window. A gray hue had settled over the rural town he was camped out in, courtesy of the building storm on the horizon. The clouds mimicked his mental state, growing darker by the minute as the world remained stagnant. 

A low buzz caught his attention, his hand shooting out to stop his phone from vibrating off of the table. Flicking the screen open, his heart swelled with affection, like a ray of sunshine peeking through the barrier in the sky. 

You: *image* It’s official, I’m becoming a hipster. I was more concerned about this photo than eating my breakfast.

Not attempting to hide his smile, Frank shoved his empty cup aside to free his thumbs. 

Frank: Well, it looks so good, I might have to forgive you. What is it?

You: A smoothie bowl, very easy to make and quite tasty.

Frank: Never had one of those before. Looks good though, sunshine.

You: Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll make you one sometime.

Frank inhaled deeply, imagining that you were nearby and he could smell your soft vanilla soap. The thought of you cooking for him upon his return warmed his heart while simultaneously cracking it in two. He missed you dearly. Drawing his forearms into his chest, he took a picture of his own food, frowning at the grainy quality of the picture as it sent.

Frank: It ain’t as pretty as yours, but I’m eating breakfast myself.

The remnants of a stack of bland pancakes and some tough bacon paled in comparison to the gorgeous, speckled smoothie thing you’d sent him. Why it was in a bowl and not a cup, he wasn’t sure, but clearly you knew what you were doing so who was he to judge? A few seconds passed and Frank briefly wondered if he’d said something wrong. Before he could preemptively apologize, another bubble appeared on the screen.

You: Glad you are able to feed yourself without my help. I was starting to wonder…

Frank: Oh shut up, you goof. I do miss your cooking though.

You: Just my cooking?

His fingers hovered over the glass display, his brain scrambling for a response that didn’t reveal just how gone he was for you. In the end, he couldn’t find one.

Frank: Not just your cooking, honey. I have some work to do, but take care of yourself and Max for me, will you? 

You: Of course, Frankie. Have a good day :)

Frank: You too, sunshine.

Clicking the power button on his phone, Frank flipped it over, settling his head against his rough hands and massaging his forehead. Coward.

The shrill ringing of his alarm shattered the remnants of his uneasy slumber. Whipping his arm out from under the sheets, he stopped the piercing noise with a frustrated growl. Sitting up was a process, thanks to the new bullet wounds in his shoulder and hip—a true testament to how sideways yesterday night had gone. Madani’s brief had implied that this would be a cut and dry operation. Get in, confirm the sale, contact her team, leave. He’d been given strict orders to not shoot unless absolutely necessary. 

Which was a great plan, in theory. Frank was more than on board with it, even if the whole “no shooting” thing lengthened the process. If it kept him on Madani’s good side, and still managed to get him home before Lisa’s birthday, he could live with it. 

Apparently, the rookie member of Madani’s team was not so thrilled with Frank “stealing” so much of the glory. After Frank’s recon session and subsequent confirmation of the sale, the former Marine was about to call for backup when a scrawny 20-something kid darted into the dark warehouse after the arms dealers, holding nothing but a goddamn glock. Anticipating bloodshed, Frank was grumbling and sprinting after him before the gunshots started. 

Pulling the kid out by the straps of his ill-fitting bullet-proof vest was a task Frank managed by the skin of his teeth, procuring two moderate injuries in the process. Of course, the knowledge that the FBI was on their tail sent the arms dealers into a frenzy. Frank was sure they’d crossed state lines before Madani was even done screaming. Honestly, he half expected the poor woman to have steam coming out of her ears–she’d cussed at the kid with words even Frank considered impolite. 

Not that he could blame her, he was fuming all the same, especially when Madani had explained that he wasn’t off the hook for the mission and should head back to the motel to await further instructions. As if he was reliving it, the conversation that followed played in his head on a loop, their screaming match echoing off the walls of his brain. 

“For fuck’s SAKE, Madani, I did what you wanted–why should I be punished for the stupidity of this asshole?”

“Oh, he’ll be dealt with, believe me. But the agreement was to get Roshev and Miller into my custody. Not give my team a half-assed warning and head back to New York scot free.”

“Half-assed–you’re fucking joking. I had to ditch the objective to rescue YOUR DAMN AGENT.”

“Go back to your room, Frank. I won’t ask again.”

“You’re not–”

“That’s an ORDER, Castle.”

So here he was: waking up on a shitty mattress, his skin and hair still streaked with dirt and blood (because the crappy water pressure and freezing temperature had infuriated him to the point that he’d cut his shower short after cleaning his wounds), in pain and in desperate need of a better cup of coffee than anyone around here was capable of brewing. 

On top of that, it was his dead daughter’s 18th birthday–a fact that hung over him like a cloud of poisonous gas, slowly squeezing the air from his lungs, and he was powerless to stop it. He wanted to scream, to cry, to grieve for her, to do something, anything–but instead he was fucking stuck here, beneath Madani’s thumb until she tired of him. 

It was naive to think that he’d be home today, maybe drinking coffee that you had made specifically for him, bringing flowers to the cemetery, taking Max for a walk, trying to have a quiet day in Lisa’s memory instead of waiting around to deal with two scumbags who got paid to arm other criminals. He should have just shot them.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a rough hand, he stalked to the bathroom to clean up–given that a man covered in blood would probably scare the poor waitress at the diner down the street shitless. As he was rubbing a towel through his hair, his phone buzzed–presumably with a curt message from Madani about something else he’d done wrong. Groaning internally, he braced himself for another argument, but it never came. 

Instead, his phone had an unopened message from you. Flicking open the home screen, he felt a weight fall off his shoulders as he pulled up the photo you’d attached. 

It was a beautiful picture of you holding a basket of vibrantly colored cherries in the midst of some sort of farmer’s market. Your delicate features were highlighted by an array of pinks and oranges, courtesy of the sunrise in the background. Your smile was bright, your eyes sparkling as you beamed at the camera. 

Your first message was a simple explanation of your morning activities. 

You: It’s market day! I bought these gorgeous cherries to make some tarts. I’ll save you one ;)

As he was rereading the message, allowing his general irritation to fade as thoughts of you flooded his brain, his phone vibrated again. 

You: Thinking of you today. I’m just a text away if you need anything ❤️

Sinking down onto the motel bed, his throat constricted as he processed the sentiment. He was surprised that you remembered today was hard for him, even more so that you offered to be a line of support. But that was exactly who you were, wasn’t it? Someone who cared so deeply for the people around her, and for some fucking reason that included Frank. 

Typing and retyping a response to you, Frank blew out a breath. He felt almost…jittery. 

Frank: Thanks, sunshine. That means a lot. I’m looking forward to that cherry tart when I get back. 

You: I’ll make you as many as you want, Frankie. 

Lips twitching, he imagined you whirling around your kitchen in one of your signature patterned dresses making him a special batch of pastries. His heart squeezed painfully; your absence was taking a toll on him that he had not expected. Before he could consider his next message to you, Madani’s number flashed on the screen, indicating an incoming call. Lips curling into a silent snarl, he answered. 

“What, Madani?” He rumbled out.

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.” Her response wasn’t meant to dig under his skin, she simply meant it as a superficial jab, but the inclusion of the pet name he associated with you ignited a white hot anger in his gut, feral and hungry. 

“The fuck do you want,” He bit out. 

“Watch your tone, Castle. Remember who owes whom a favor here.”

Rolling his eyes, he brought out a more polite tone. “Yes, ma’am.”  

She huffed across the line, “Fuck you too. We found them. I’ll send the coordinates now.” 

“Lookin’ forward to it.” He ended the call.

Stretching your legs as best you could beneath the hefty pitbull, you sighed. 

It had been hours since Frank’s last text and you were not handling it well–the image of the little typing bubble on his side of the text chain haunting your every moment. Logically, the presence of those three flashing dots just meant he had started to type something and then forgot or had something else to attend to, but that knowledge didn’t quell the anxiety growing in your chest. 

He was out there, doing god knows what, on his daughter’s 18th birthday, presumably alone and hurting–and there was nothing you could do but wait. And cook him a lasagna of course. Which you had, giving your apartment the pleasant aroma of onions, tomatoes, and ricotta cheese as the dish baked. 

Your consciousness vibrated with the tenacity of an anxious chihuahua, listless with boredom and concern about your sweetheart of a neighbor. Squirming out from under Max’s head, you chuckled as the sleepy pitbull huffed in annoyance. “Sorry, bubba. I need to move around.”

In the final 30 minutes that you lasagna baked, you managed to throw together some simple pastry dough and pull out the small basket of cherries from your fridge. Popping one of the scarlet fruits into your mouth, you began to pluck the remaining stems off before removing their pits. Once they’d been sufficiently prepped, and your hands were adequately smattered with droplets of maroon fruit juice, you dumped them unceremoniously into a pot to create a compote. It didn’t necessarily pair well with lasagna, but you’d promised Frank a cherry pastry. 

Originally, you’d considered making him a cherry basil frangipane, identical to the ones you’d stacked in the bakery’s display case that morning. But, after the day he’d probably had, you figured he’d want something…less intricate. The compliment you’d given him during his first visit to the cafe still held true–Frank was simple and honest. He wasn’t difficult to please, but fancy words and expensive ingredients alone wouldn’t cut it. The food had to be good. So, you pulled out all the stops, making a recipe that you hadn’t made since you lived with Leo: cherry turnovers. 

Unlike your wonderful neighbor, the majority of patrons in the city needed a reason besides quality to continue giving you business. Elaborately decorated pastries and unique flavor profiles were what kept the cafe in business, so you hadn’t tried selling a modest dessert like these since your first few weeks at the Rainy Day Bakery. It was familiar, comforting even. You hoped it would bring Frank similar satisfaction. 

Trading the bubbling lasagna for a tray of triangle-shaped pastries, you brushed your hands on your hips. Re-covering the pasta dish, you hurriedly cleaned your kitchen, wiping away the traces of flour and sugar that inevitably dusted your countertops after you baked. As you rinsed out the mixing bowl, a high-pitched whimper popped the bubble of silence surrounding your apartment. Sitting rigidly by the door to your apartment, Max’s dark eyes pleaded with you. 

“Gosh, you’re right, bud! It is dinner time. I’m sorry, I got carried away. Let’s go get you set up, huh?” 

Snatching Frank’s spare key from your counter, you attached Max’s thick leash to his collar and jogged him back to his apartment, adding an extra handful of kibble as an apology for making him wait. Stroking his short fur a few times, you slipped the key into your pocket, scurrying back over to your apartment to grab the turnovers before they caught fire and reduced the building to ashes. 

Carefully balancing the pastries and lasagna in your hands, you marched back over to Frank’s apartment. Pretty soon, and with only one close call, the food was lined up on Frank’s countertop to cool. Brushing your hands together, you admired your handiwork. 

“Please tell me ya haven’t been sittin’ here with the door open all night.” 

The gruff voice behind you made you jump in shock. Whirling around, your fear morphed into pure joy as you took in the ruggedly handsome man before you.

“Shit, Frankie! You snuck up on me.” You practically squealed, rushing to hug him in greeting. He grunted as you slammed against him, hissing as you squeezed your arms around his hips. Eyes widening in realization, you started to pull back. “Oh fuck, you’re hurt, aren’t you? I’m so sorry, I–” 

Before you could unwrap your arms from his body, his broad hands splayed across your back, muscular arms tugging you back against his firm chest. 

“‘M fine, honey.” Came Frank’s soothing rumble. You felt him press a kiss to your crown before he buried his face in your hair. “Missed you like crazy, sunshine.” His voice was soft, as if he didn’t want you to hear the darling confession. 

“God, I missed you too, Frankie.” You chuckled, your eyes prickling with tears, your body in awe of your own honesty. With his stubbled chin atop your head and his thick arms around your waist, you felt entirely sheltered by his body. He’d created a bubble of safety and serenity for you, as he always did. 

Remaining in his arms, you shifted out from under his head to examine him. Though you’d felt it across your scalp, his beard was noticeably overgrown and in need of a trim. His hair greasy and mussed, streaked with grime, just like his face. The skin of his face was tinged red, with blush or sunburn you weren’t quite sure, and the bags under his eyes were deep. In spite of yourself, your bottom lip stuck out, brow pinching in concern. Bringing a hand up to cradle his face, you stroked a thumb gently over his cheek, careful to avoid the sizeable bruise across it. 

“Oh sweetheart. What did they do to you?” You asked quietly, feeling choked up as the hulking man nuzzled into your touch, his eyes falling shut with a weary sigh. 

“It’s nothin’.” He murmured, his words worn out—as if he’d spoken them so many times they’d lost all meaning. 

“Then it shouldn’t take long to get you cleaned up.” You smiled, the gesture not making it to your eyes. Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed a kiss to his prickly cheek before unwinding his arms from your waist. He started to retract his arms, to tuck them against his sides, but you caught his fingers with yours, grasping his hands tenderly. “Come sit, sweetheart. You must be exhausted.” 

The poor man didn’t argue. Instead, he let you tug him to the couch and sit him down, his lips twitching with fond amusement when you tucked a blanket around his shoulders. “This ain’t mine.” 

You shrugged, the hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. “I redecorated.” 

“I was barely gone three days.” Frank snorted, rolling his eyes at you. 

Poorly stifling a smile as you pretended to be annoyed, you spoke as though it was obvious why you’d done it. “Your apartment is freezing, Frank. Did you want me and Max to get hypothermia while you were gone?” 

He huffed a laugh. “Still bossy.” Letting his head tip back to meet the spine of the couch, his eyes fluttered shut. Your cool touch manifested on his cheek once again. 

“Do you have a first aid kit, Frankie?” 

“Under the bathroom sink.” He answered, his words slurred ever so slightly with fatigue. He received a slight squeeze of his arm in response, your warm fingers leaving a lasting imprint on his skin. 

A year ago, he would never have let himself have this—a moment of peace. Time to let his guard down, to trust someone else to ease his pain. But the combination of his aching body, his heavy eyelids, and your fussing nature had him letting go of a tension he’d held for years, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Soft footsteps alerted him to your presence. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear you shuffle into a crouch, your chest positioned at his knees. 

Stifling a groan, he straightened his posture, wincing slightly as the motion tugged on his day old stitches. His eyes immediately focused on your adorable form in front of him, your own gaze roaming over the various bruises covering his visible skin. Dipping a washcloth into a small bowl of water, you gently lifted his wrist, washing away the dried blood on his knuckles. As you worked, a small river of dirty water–tinged pink from his scarlet blood–dripped down his fingers and onto your dress. 

He watched the trio of droplets fall, time slowing as if to highlight the moment that reignited his anxiety. Splashing across the multicolored fabric, the liquid seeped into your skirt, staining it as you held his hand. Your kindness was endless, and his presence was tarnishing it, ruining it, ruining you. 

Jerking his hand backwards, he cradled it close to his chest. “Lemme do this. I’m gettin’ blood on your pretty dress, sunshine.” He started to stand but you shook your head, gently pushing him back into the cushion and taking his hand in your grasp once again. 

Looking directly into his eyes with an intensity that you always seemed to carry, your lips curved into a small smile. “Frank, it’s just a dress, sweetheart. I promise it’s ok. Let me help you?” With your free hand, you stroked a wayward strand of his hair off of his clammy forehead.

Despite the fact that your gaze conveyed your desire to continue patching him up regardless of his answer, your tone was stilted–giving him the option to deny your help. 

“You’re too sweet for your own damn good, you know.” He sighed, letting his arm go limp in your grip to let you finish what you’d started. 

“Well, you’re too stoic for yours. Makes us quite a pair, doesn’t it?” Your eyes glimmered roguishly, your smirk encouraging him to roll his eyes. 

“Whatever you say, sunshine.” He snorted, knowing full well that you were right. 

You made quick work of tidying up the split skin across his knuckles, moving on to the bruised skin of his cheeks. 

“Didn’t know you were growing this out, Frankie.” You quipped, tugging gently on the untamed curls of his beard. 

His lips twitched, revealing a glimpse of his teeth as he smiled. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it. Whaddya think?” 

Making a great show of shuffling back to study his face, you tapped your chin. “I like it.” 

“You do? Last time it was this long, everyone thought I was some sort of hipster.” 

Shrugging, you focused your eyes back on the cloth in your hand. “I always like how you look, Frankie.” 

Frank’s breath caught in his throat, unable to quite make it to his lungs. Thankfully, he could blame his lack of response on the fact that you were rinsing the injuries on his face, rather than his own lack of emotional intelligence. 

Eventually, you heaved out a breath, looking at him with a raised brow. “Did you want me to look at whatever’s bothering you here?” You asked, gesturing to his hip. 

“If I told ya I have no idea what you mean, would ya call me on it?” He grumbles, not quite sure how he’d feel revealing that much of himself to you. 

You thought for a minute. Nodding once, you answered. “I’d roll my eyes, but respect your desire for privacy.” 

Swallowing thickly, he huffed a nervous laugh. “Fair enough.” With two fingers, he tugged his loose shirt up and over his head, not bothering to disguise his grimace as he rotated his injured shoulder. Pulling the waistband of his pants down an inch, he suddenly felt a surge of fear, not sure how you’d react to seeing his array of scars. 

Inhaling sharply, you traced around his stitches with a finger. “Oh, Frank.” 

“It’s—“

“It’s not nothing.” Taking his hands again, your intensity returned. “You mean something to me. Seeing you hurt…it’s never nothing, ok? Not to me.”

A lump formed in his throat, he nodded as he tried to swallow it down. “Sorry.” 

“No apology necessary,” You squeezed his hands, placing a tender kiss on the raw knuckles of his right hand before grabbing a roll of bandages from your pile of supplies. “I’m not upset that you’re hurt. I just don’t want you to be afraid to lean on someone else for a change.” 

You dressed his larger wounds in contemplative silence, your soft skin a welcome change to the rough contact he was used to. 

“How’d ya learn to patch people up, sunshine? Playin’ nurse for other neighborhood menaces behind my back?” 

You giggled. “You’re my only patient currently. Cross my heart. I’ve just gotten used to first aid after injuring myself my whole life.” 

Bringing a hand up to cup your cheek, Frank’s brow furrowed. “Injurin’ yourself? What do you mean?” 

Eyes widening in realization, you shook your head. “Not intentionally! I’ve just been a klutz for as long as I can remember.” Chuckling sheepishly, you added, “Takes a toll every once in a while.” 

Laughing with relief, he traced a finger along your jaw as he withdrew his hand from your face. “Ah, gotcha. Christ, had me scared there, pretty girl.” 

Your face flushed with heat at the new pet name. You tied off the fresh bandages and stood up. “You should be good to go, unless you’ve got any other areas that need to be looked at?” 

Blushing as his mind traveled to less innocent places, he shook his head. “I’m fine, honey. Thank you. Really.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” You winked at him, heading to the kitchen to dispose of the dirty water and trash. As you rinsed the last of the grime from the bowl you’d used, Frank moaned behind you. 

“Holy shit.” His words were mumbled around a mouthful of pastry, the other half of a cherry turnover in his hand. Swallowing with another horrifically attractive noise, he lifted the dessert in a gesture. “Did you make these?” 

“Yes, but they were for after dinner!” You scolded, your smile completely betraying your feigned annoyance. “Cherry turnovers. Do you like them?”

“No, they’re awful.” Frank deadpanned, shoving the rest of the pastry into his mouth ungracefully. You giggled, uncovering the lasagna before he could reach for another turnover. 

“Would you like some actual food, you heathen?” You asked through stray laughs. 

“You made me a lasagna?” 

“Thought you might want some comfort food today. So I made two of my favorites.” 

“Thank you,” Frank spoke your name gravely, as if it was a prayer. “God, sunshine, I dunno what to say.” Your heart ached as his voice cracked around the words.

“You don’t need to say anything, handsome. Just eat, so you can rest soon, yah?” 

Frank couldn’t help but let the tension he’d been carrying for days roll off his back like droplets of water, his eyes crinkling with fondness as you puttered around his kitchen as if you had it memorized. You plated two hearty servings of lasagna and took a seat next to him, handing him a fork. 

“I’m glad you made it back safely.” You smiled, your gaze more timid than he’d ever seen it. 

“Me too, sunshine.” After placing a kiss on your forehead, he speared the fork into the food on his plate, taking a massive bite. 

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.” Frank groaned, beaming at you. 

Laughing brightly, you took a bite of your own, overjoyed to have Frank to eat with again. 

Thanks for reading! As always, comments and reblogs are incredibly appreciated.

Taglist: @cheshirecat484@xxdrix@smhnxdiii@mattmurdocksstarlight@danzer8705

[applesfallingfromblondehair]

🐝 okay so I’m gonna share some more things at a later point but for now; CAN WE ALL JUST TALK ABOUT *HOW* MUCH ROSS IS STRUGGLING? Like, I am really angry with him right now after the whole “Beginner’s luck?” thing but our poor baby is really not taking care of himself and has VERY unhealthy coping mechanisms. Literally broke my heart when I read just how much weight he has lost!

Ross really isn't doing very well 😭 I forgot to add a trigger warning for that in this chapter notes, I should definitely put it in there thank you for reminding me 🥲

He's going to be okay eventually because I can't resist a happy ending, but we're still a long way away from it 😭

[genesisofutopia]

Behold that vow, like the sun in the sky.

This is a sideblog! My main is @sporkkles-irl so if you see that url pop up sometime in your notifications hey!!! That’s me!!!

This blog is slightly canon divergent! I will be taking Sunday's mental health and state of mind a lot more seriously.

Warnings for this blog's content include heavy religious themes, cults, and child abuse, plus all of the gnarly consequences such things result in, including self-harm, suicidal ideation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and addiction.

This blog contains portrayals of extremely poor mental health.

This blog's content includes dreamcore and liminal spaces, which might be visually unnerving to some.

RULES.

This is an 18+ space! Minors, please don't interact.

I’m a bit selective with who I choose to rp with, but not private or mutuals only. Don’t be afraid to interact!

That said I will prioritize my friends and mutuals over those I’m less familiar with.

I’m physically incapable of being anything less than lit to semi-lit, so don’t feel bad if you can’t match length! As long as you give me something to work with, we’re good!

This blog is relatively low-activity! I’ll reply when I have the time and want to.

AUs, OCs, crossovers, duplicates, etc. are all totally okay with me, but please message me about it beforehand since I’d like to know your character/universe more.

There is currently no established “canon” plot for this blog. That might change, though!

I am open to shipping! Please discuss with me first before moving in with a ship. Also, expect slow-burn just because of the kind of animal Sunday is...

I will try to tag all sensitive material and am more than willing to accommodate any triggers you have. I expect the same of anyone I interact with. I tag with the format of ( #trigger, #trigger tw ).

If you're a terf, proshipper and/or a zionist, I do not want to roleplay with you! See yourself out. You will be blocked upon interaction or discovery.

Sunday / Robin shippers will ALSO be blocked!

MUN.

Hello, my name’s Halogen/Sporks!

I’m 19!

I have 4+ years of RP experience.

I use he/him, bot/botself, zap/zapself, 🧪/🧪self and 🌟/🌟self! (If you’re unsure how to use neopronouns just take your best guess, it’s not that big of a deal to me.)

All art used is either from the source itself, official art, my own art or art I have explicit permission to use

There's always a paradise that needs to be built.

[drgyana]

How Stress Affects Your Heart Health and Ways to Reduce It

Stress is an unavoidable part of life, but when left unchecked, it can have significant consequences on your heart health. From increasing blood pressure to triggering unhealthy behaviors, the link between stress and cardiovascular problems is well-documented. Consulting the best cardiology doctor in Bhubaneswar can help you manage stress-related heart risks effectively.

How Stress Impacts Heart Health

Stress triggers a chain reaction in your body that directly affects the heart:

Increased Heart Rate and Blood Pressure Stress prompts the release of adrenaline, which causes your heart rate to spike and raises your blood pressure. Prolonged exposure to these conditions can strain the heart and arteries.

Inflammation in Blood Vessels Chronic stress can lead to inflammation, making it harder for blood to flow smoothly. This increases the risk of blockages, potentially causing heart attacks or strokes.

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms Stress often leads to habits like overeating, smoking, or drinking, which further harm the heart. A sedentary lifestyle and poor diet can amplify these risks.

Signs of Stress-Related Heart Issues

It’s important to recognize early warning signs to seek timely help. Common symptoms include:

Chest pain or tightness.

Palpitations or irregular heartbeats.

Unexplained fatigue.

Shortness of breath.

If you experience any of these symptoms, consult a specialist promptly to evaluate your heart health.

Effective Ways to Reduce Stress

Taking steps to manage stress not only protects your heart but also improves overall well-being.

Adopt a Heart-Healthy Diet Eating nutrient-rich foods like fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and lean proteins can help your body cope better with stress. Avoid excessive caffeine, sugar, and processed foods.

Engage in Regular Physical Activity Exercises like walking, yoga, or cycling can lower stress hormones and improve cardiovascular health. Aim for at least 30 minutes of moderate activity daily.

Practice Relaxation Techniques Breathing exercises, meditation, or mindfulness can help calm your mind and reduce stress. These practices are simple yet effective tools for improving mental clarity.

Maintain Healthy Social Connections Spending quality time with loved ones or joining a support group can provide emotional relief. Positive relationships act as a buffer against stress.

Seek Professional Guidance For persistent stress, consider speaking with a therapist or counselor. They can equip you with tools to manage anxiety and emotional strain.

Final Thoughts

Stress is an inevitable part of life, but it doesn’t have to compromise your heart health. By understanding its effects and adopting effective coping strategies, you can protect yourself from potential risks. Prioritize your well-being and take proactive steps to reduce stress.For expert care and personalized advice, consult Dr. Gyana Ranjan Nayak, recognized as the best cardiology doctor in Bhubaneswar. Your heart deserves the best care possible.

[icedmatchatae]

Glimpse of Us | KTH (Series)

Pairing: Problematic Idol Taehyung x Grad Student Reader

Genre: Idol AU, Ex-Childhood Best Friends into—, Angst (Hello, welcome to my angst central), Fluff (mainly in the flashbacks), Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Summary: BTS's V has been living a lavished and successful lifestyle, but underneath all of that, Kim Taehyung is far from the perfect image the media and fans made him out to be. All he wants is to relive the feelings of happiness and purpose in his life, but how can he when he left behind those memories years ago? The same memories, he hopes to see a glimpse of.

Warning: TRIGGERS - Mentions of Drugs/Drugs use, alcohol consumption, violence (fighting), toxic relationships, unhealthy coping mechanisms, infidelity, unrequited love?, mentions of depression and anxiety, brief mentions of social anxiety (oc somewhat has it), descriptions of panic attacks, mentions of death/minor character deaths, descriptions of therapy/scenes within therapy sessions, a ton of flashbacks, financial instability, buckets of crying, the slowest fucking burn you'll ever come across, sexual content (but not too sexy bc this isn’t a naughty fic >:-|) poor OC is caught up in a lot of mess and all she wants is to have a better life,  tae is a bit of a dick and a walking red flag but he just wants to be better :--(, they're both sad in their own ways, each chapter will have their own warnings and they will be presented at the beginning of the chapter

Word Count: TBD (21 chapter total)

Update Schedule: There is none! Posts are sporadic, but I do try to post at least twice a month…however, if I’m busy, I will keep you posted on a possible time frame.

A/N: A little bit inspired by Glimpse of Us by Joji because I couldn't get the song out of my damn head and it’s my top song of 2022 😭. I made my own spin to it, let’s see how well I execute it lol I’ve been preparing this for a while. This is my biggest project yet! I’ve been planning this since the summer even if I’m not done writing the whole thing I’m kinda nervous about posting this

I’ll also cross-posted this originally on AO3 as well! Enjoy~~~

Chapter List

I. Finding Happiness

II. The Story of You and Me

III. Blue

IV. Everything We Didn't Say

V. Same Old, Different New

VI. Why I Love You

VII. The True Reality

VIII. Please Don’t Break It

IX. Hear Me Out

X. You’re All I Need (Coming Soon)

All rights reserved for ©️ icedmatchatae 2023 (｡●́‿●̀｡)

[cerebralinvasion]

cold, soft, warm.

trigger warning: graphic self harm

summary: reader is having a tough night and stumbles across dazai, the two lament, and enjoy a bittersweet night together

pairing: dazai x reader 

words: 1k

you shivered pressing the cold blade against your arm. you paused, not quite ready to dig in. but after sucking in a deep breath you did what you always did. cut. the sharp bite caused your body to spasm once more. no matter how many times you did this it seemed you never got used to the feeling. the soft flesh parted easily. it was like a hot knife to butter. and the red spilled out. warm and thick. pouring over the sides of your arms and onto the bed below. meeting the other parts of the sheet that had long since been stained a muddy red. tears slipped down your face and your mouth formed a shaky grin. the hollowing feeling that had been gnawing at you twisted. and was replaced by a sick enjoyment. the implicit urge to feel pain, to suffer. because that in itself is better than nothing.

it hurt. less on the outside than on the inside. but that’s okay. the tears felt comfortable on your cheeks. when was the last time you’d cried? it had to be weeks, or months. but maybe it was yesterday? you couldn’t recall. though to you it seemed you hadn’t felt a thing in years. but that didn’t matter. because you feel now. it hurt, and it hurt beautifully. the smell of iron lingered in the air.

the blood was dried now. the liquid had formed itself into ugly black blotches across your arm. stiff and uncomfortable. you scratched at them. watching as the flakes fell below you. you kept peeling off the blood until you opened the wounds again. and more blood spilled out. once again dripping across your arm and to below you. it wasn’t a surprise, but you always had a hard time telling when the wound had sat for long enough. to predict when you could clean off your arm and allow the scars to settle. it had clearly not been long enough.

sighing you pushed yourself up from where you rested on the bed and grabbed a roll of gauze. you layered the bandage around your arm three times before you decided that was good enough. you shoved your phone and keys in your pocket before awkwardly shuffling out the door.

the night air was crisp when you left your apartment. the one generously provided by the armed detective agency that you probably weren’t grateful enough for. the metal clang was deafening as your steps pounded down the stairs. it had to be past three in the morning. what were you doing? you should go back to your room. you shouldn’t do anything stupid. you should just go to sleep and hope you wake up feeling better in the morning.

but you knew that wouldn’t happen. it never did. if it did, then every day wouldn’t be worse than the last. if it did you probably wouldn’t slit your wrist in an attempt to have some semblance of normalcy. but you did. and things didn’t get better. so you continued your way down the steps.

you don’t know where you’re off to. you didn’t know where you were headed until you arrived. a bar. of course. you figured that you shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. unhealthy coping mechanisms are all you seem to know.

approaching the familiar counter you slump down on one of the stools. it’s empty. as expected for this time of night. the usual bartender was methodically wiping at the smudges of a glass. he didn’t ask what you wanted. he knew it might be a while of hanging around before you even ordered anything. he always was patient with you. it was nice.

“wow, not even gonna say hi?” 

you whipped your head around in the direction of the noise. you were sure it was empty just a second ago. but then again, you weren’t really paying that close attention. it was very possible you had just missed the presence.

“oh… hey dazai.” 

you tried your best to force a smile onto your face. it was awkward and didn’t fit. a poor attempt at covering the underlying sadness. obviously it didn’t work. dazai slid into the seat next to you.

“you're looking lively.” his voice dripped with sarcasm.

“your bandages. they're fresh.” you spoke bluntly. pointing to the clean bandages peeking out from behind his clothing.

“so are yours.” the fake smile slipped off his face. he stared you dead in the eyes as he spoke. because you wearing clean bandages could only mean one thing. and you knew what that meant. and he knew. and you knew he knew.

you grinned. a hollow smile. a cold and empty, misshapen expression. a look more associated with the shadow that you were than any functioning human.

“guess we’re matching then.” 

dazai’s cold expression stayed for only a moment longer before that too gave way to a broad, boyish grin. his smile seemed so much more real than yours. but you knew it wasn’t. maybe it was the fact that you were particularly drained tonight. or maybe he’s just more practiced at the skill of faking normality than you. but under the yellow light of the bar, he almost looked human. almost. at the very least, he looked more human than you.

“well how about that? two empty shells. matching empty shells.”

“sounds like a good enough reason to toast to me.” you grinned at the bartender and like that he was pouring out the same drinks you and dazai got each time you came here. the regular, so to speak.

your heart was still cold by the end of the night. abandoned and empty. but leaning into him, you found dazai’s hair was soft. comforting in fact. you picked up the glass taking a drawn out sip of alcohol. allowing the liquor to warm your insides. you weren’t happy. he wasn't happy. and both of you would probably never be. but maybe that was okay. because when you pressed this close to dazai. maybe that was good enough for you. 

[local-fanfic-addict]

The Never-Ending Echo

Part One | Next>

Destiny Forsaken angst. Can be read as a self-insert, but was written with an OC. Not an X reader. If anything, it's a vent since I'm still not over what they did to Cayde.

Inspiration: Jungle - Emma Louise

Trigger warning - Obsession of revenge, major character death, unhealthy coping mechanisms, general angst.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vlairyn-3 had given and received condolences, donned dark colors, as you were supposed to, and stood before the long silver slab covered by the Vanguard’s flag; smooth satin and gold that molded to match the curves of Cayde’s body as he lay unmoving, and yet the concept of his death lay beyond her immediate grasp. She wished he was simply sleeping, his face obscured by the banner as if it were a blanket, how easy it was for her to fall into such thoughts until the fatal echo of a gunshot rang in her head again, as it had been doing since she had returned with his body in her arms. 

It pulled her thoughts back to that moment when all she could hear were her own footsteps sprinting down the metal hallways of the Prison of Elders, her ghost keeping stride next to her as the faint sounds of a battle could be heard getting closer from below them. The tell-tale sign of destroyed light flooded her senses seconds afterwards, blinding her with a sudden burst of loss as the energy faded into nothingness between one breath and the next. Cayde's ghost was gone and he was alone. 

The silence that followed was jarring as Vlairyn took the last jump onto the floor below them and her feet carried her to the final door, having to pry it open with her hands before she could actually move through the threshold. Coolant rushing through her artificial veins, heart racing, she only had time to register the piercing shot of Ace as it rested in the hands of the hooded Prince of the Reef, not Cayde’s.

Without thought she drew her own gun upon him with a scream and emptied its clip with reckless abandon despite his immediate exit via transmat. The empty weapon then fell from her hands with a metallic clang and she slid down onto her knees before the wounded Exo in front of her, almost too afraid to touch him in any capacity until he reached for her.

Wires were detached, sending small sparks up from their tips. Metal was bent and mangled, and his eyes flickered with each racking cough that flooded his lungs, the gaping bullet hole that sat in the center of his chest just adding to the growing panic that the Exo could feel swell within her. 

“How’s… How’s my hair?” 

Her audio processors nearly missed his question, of all the things for him to say to her and he leads with a joke about his nonexistent hair. It should have been a good sign, but she could see the damage done to his body as she took up his head in her autumn colored hands, the ring of the gunshot still fresh in the forefront of her mind. 

“Speechless. Typical.” He chuckled, followed by another set of coughing. 

“I’m sorry Cayde, I’m just- I- Goldie! Please!“ Vlairyn couldn’t find her words as she averted her gaze from him, a shuddering breath escaping her lips as she called for her Ghost.

“I’m sorry, Vlairyn. There’s nothing- I can’t do anything…” Goldie’s voice was small and sad as he hovered over the Vanguard, the beams of his light scanning his body but to no avail. 

“Okay. Okay look at me Cayde, we’re gonna get you out of here, we’ll get you back to the Tower. You have to hold on, alright?” There was no use trying to hide the panic in her voice as she lifted his upper body onto her lap, cradling him in her arms. 

“You have to stay awake. Think of your job! You hate it so much, would you really want some other poor hunter to have it if you die?” There was a joke in there somewhere, some attempt to get him to focus on her and to do anything but close his eyes. 

He laughed. It was strained and made him cough, but he did focus on her, his hand grabbing her upper arm for stability as if he was going to sit up.

“You’re- you’re right, they’d probably… give it to you and- and I couldn’t do that to my…” He didn’t finish his sentence as another fit of coughing overtook him. His breathing was getting worse, short gasps in between metallic coughs. It was Vlairyns only hope to send a message to the Tower and keep Cayde awake long enough to get back, but they both knew that fixing an Exo this badly wounded was… impossible.

“Listen Val. This… This ain’t on you, okay? This… is what I get… for- for playing nice.” His laugh, however pained, still came through his fading voice. His labored breathing became even more shallow.

“Cayde I can’t lose you, you have to fight it, please. Cayde I-“

“It’s okay, I- I know.” He cut her off, his grip on her arm tightening. “It’ll be- be alright. You tell Zavala… and Ikora…. The Vanguard is the best bet… I ever…. Lost.”

“Cayde no, please!” Vlairyn shook him by the shoulders gently, but she could already see that the lights of his eyes were gone, dull and dark as he lay in her arms. 

The solar flare that overtook her was epic in proportions, acting on the unrestrained scream that left her body as his body lay unresponsive. The light was brilliant, gold and orange flames licking at the metal of the ceiling and floor alike until it was red-hot and sizzling, practically melting around her. 

She was pulled back to the present by the overwhelming feeling of heat spreading through her body, the memory of his death consuming her thoughts to the point where it called up her solar light on its own. His last words, the light literally draining from his eyes, and the echo of the gunshot that killed him all swam in her mind's eye. His own gun, now in the hands of his murderer. She wouldn’t stand for it. 

She resigned herself to stay in her mourning clothes, blue was all she had as opposed to the standard black, but it fit her. She moved slowly around his body, keeping to the back of the room as other Guardians gave their respects and condolences to his fireteam, her processors picking up bits of the Vanguards conversation until she heard that name again.

Uldren Sov

She could hear her fan growing louder as it worked to cool the red hot rage that immediately rose within her at the mention of his name. She would hunt him down to the ends of the reef and beyond. Make him feel the same pain. Anything to see him dead.

She advanced upon the two remaining Vanguard with glowing eyes. She didn’t care who saw her, or what kind of person she looked like at that moment. Her anger could be felt radiating off of her in waves, hot and stifling as her solar light seemed to condense into her feelings and bring them out into the world in a physical aura.

“Uldren Sov is mine.” Her words caused a visible show of golden flames to consume her eyes for a split second before she was gone, gun slung over her shoulder and mind overwhelmed by the burning sensation of rage that was ever fueled by her solar light, by the Traveler’s gift; the echo of Ace never ending in her mind.

The Traveler would help her see this through, for she had faith in him and the power he granted her.

[yanderes-galore]

First of many. Here we go.

Angel Dust (Platonic)

Your prompts

2

28

61

Sure! These prompts give mental breakdown vibes so... that's exactly what you're getting, lol (Or at least it's what I'm aiming for-)

Yandere! Platonic! Angel Dust Prompts 2, 28, 61

"It's an honor for someone such as me to take you in and love you!"

"Do you know how hard it is to wear a facade? Just to get people to like you?"

"Being alone is worse than you hating me."

Pairing: Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Emotional Manipulation, Mental breakdown, Drinking/Intoxication, Clingy behavior, Poor mental health, Drugs mention, Stalking, Possessive behavior, Projecting trauma, Unhealthy friendship, Swearing, Mature themes, Angst, Overly affectionate behavior, Dubious turned forced companionship.

Since you became a Sinner and entered the Hotel, you were close with Angel Dust. At first you found him a bit jarring and crude. Eventually, however, you managed to become a support system for the both of you.

Naturally you knew about Angel's job. He worked for the Overlord Valentino and said Overlord overworks and... Hurts him. The thought made your blood boil, but it wasn't like you could pick successful fights with an Overlord as a Sinner.

Angel appreciated the sentiment, even if he had to hold you back from attacking his boss.

The issue with Angel's job was his behavior due to it. He was often self destructive, ranting and venting with you and Husk over a strong drink. He's often stressed... But you're always there to help.

In fact, it seems you became a coping mechanism for Angel. With you, he feels like he doesn't have to drown himself in alcohol and drugs. Even Husk notices how calm yet clingy Angel is when you enter the room.

He's always playful with you, a smile on his face when you show concern. You care so much about him.... Angel isn't sure what he'd do without you.

Which is why when you push him away... He nearly breaks.

It's his toxic trait, he's too selfish when it comes to you. However what Sinner or Demon isn't selfish? He's allowed to have nice things, isn't he?

Angel had a tendency to be... Possessive. You are one of the only ones to care for him like this. Which... Makes him follow you around... And be a bit manipulative.

He's allowed to have you... Right?

So who are you to deny him his comfort?

Angel wasn't in his right mind when you chose to distance yourself from him. He had recently come back to the Hotel from a job at Val's studio. He already wasn't pleasant before he had a few drinks.

Yet when he called your name in a needy tone, you didn't come. Why? Well... It seems you noticed you were becoming an unhealthy coping mechanism for him. You knew it wasn't healthy.

But Angel wasn't going to just let you ignore him... Not after all he's gone through.

He didn't care how unhealthy it was. Angel knew he needed you. You helped him get rid of the pain.

Like an addict to a drug... He needed to stay beside you to forget about Val.

"It's an honor for someone such as me to take you in and love you!" Angel yells, his voice in a hiss. "Do you know how in demand I am!? You're lucky I give this much care to you!"

Angel knew deep down he was corrupted. Every sinner was, especially someone like him whose always around Valentino of all people. As much as he hated to admit it... He was acting the same way Valentino acts around him towards you.

"Are you just going to ignore me...?" Angel seethes, laughing softly when you back away from him. "Really now? You act all sweet then abandon me in my darkest moments...."

"I don't mean to, Angel-" You frown. "You've just... This has all been unhealthy lately and-"

"We might need a break?" Angel clicks his tongue, glaring at you. Despite this... You still see a certain softness in his eyes. "Hell no. Healthy? When is any relationship healthy in Hell?"

Angel Dust steps closer, wrapping himself around you in an attempt to feel your warmth. You can tell he's drunk and it appears ranting to Husk didn't work. You push your friend a bit, but he tightens his grip with an annoyed groan.

"Do you know how hard it is to wear a facade? Just to get people to like you!?"Angel growls, "I'm so fucking tired of playing these games!"

"Angel, please! You're a mess...!" You plead, unable to pry the demon off you as you fall onto the couch.

"With you, I don't have to play pretend!" Angel cries out, grip unrelenting. He's in a haze... Unable to think properly. "I can be myself..." You feel his grip loosen... "I don't have to act with you, I don't need to play a role... I just get to have your comfort."

You frown when he slips off you a bit, leaning against you as tears spill down his cheeks. He hated being vulnerable... But he felt he could do that with you. Which is why...

"You can't leave me alone!" Angel sobs, "You can hate me if you want... I don't care...."

He looks you in the eyes... You can see the hurt in his gaze. You don't want to encourage him. However... You find yourself giving into his emotional manipulation.

He really has learned from the best at it.

"Being alone is worse than you hating me." Angel admit, pulling himself closer against you. He perks up when you embrace him... Hiding the grin on his face.

"I don't hate you...." You whisper, the demon watching you closely with watery eyes. "I just wish... You had an easier way to cope."

"You're better than any drink or drug, doll." Angel winks, grinning softly. Even if you were just friends... He was always so affectionate. "Not sure what I'd do without you...."

You stay silent as Angel busies himself with holding you. Truthfully, he'd rather die again than give you up. Part of him feels bad for using you...

Yet he's used to it. Perhaps he's learned more from Val than most think...

"You should feel lucky to have me...."

[astaroth1357]

How about the brothers + diavolo reacting to an mc that smokes cigarettes, but only when stressed out? I hope this ask doesn't make you feel uncomfortable. 🙂

So this is interesting for me because I'm actually an asthmatic and cigarette smoke is one of my triggers. Naturally, that means I'm not the biggest fan of smoking (because I like breathing air) but I'm going to try not to turn this into a straight PSA. I assume if you smoke, you already know what's up and if you don’t, you're probably not considering it and leave things at that. I imagine what you want is the characters' perspectives and not mine, so I'll do my best to give that to you here. I hope you like it!

An MC Who's a Stress Smoker

Lucifer

Not the biggest fan of their habit, but mostly due to smell. Actually needing that bit of stress relief - he totally gets.

After he found out that they smoke he set a lot of ground rules: "No smoking in the House; No smoking at RAD; No smoking in uniform" yadi-yadi-yada… but he never straight up banned them from doing it.

If he catches the MC out smoking, he'll usually keep his distance until they've finished (and ideally changed clothes) before calling them in to ask what's wrong.

If they can't keep to the rules, that's when he's going to start having a problem. Cigarette/cigar smoke gives him a headache and he really can’t tolerate it for long…

If they start smoking in places they're not supposed to, then he will try to ban them cold turkey so better stay mindful about it. It wouldn’t take many slip ups unfortunately…

 

Mammon

Yeah… I know some people HC that Mammon smokes too. I wouldn't go that far, but I'll say he's most likely done it before.

Mammon picked up smoking for a century or so from his trips to the human world (humans freaking loved tobacco for some reason) but eventually stopped because the smell annoyed Lucifer and it has some weird effects on Diavolo…

When he caught the MC smoking on their balcony the first time, he was a little surprised because he didn't peg them for the type, but throwing stones in glass houses and all that… Who is he to judge?

Mammon actually likes to stick around during their outdoor smoke sessions. It's a pretty relaxing, dare say intimate, affair. He'll grab a cigarette himself and just let them vent about whatever's bothering them. Zero judgment about it all.

He will warn the MC about Lucifer’s dislike of the smell though… They have to be careful or he'll start getting on their case, you know?

Leviathan 

Smoking is fairly common among badass characters in anime so it's not like he has a super negative image of it to start with, anyway. 🤷‍♀️

Surprisingly understanding of their coping mechanism, I mean, this man has made a life out of his own.

If he sees that they’re out smoking he may pop out to go ask what's up. He won't be much bothered by the smoke unless they blow it right in his face or something (which is a little rude anyway).

Will be a little disappointed that the MC only does it to calm down and they're not actually some kind of secret badass (or maybe they are, I dunno) but he gets the need to have some kind of grounding more than most.

Isn't nearly as bothered by the smell as Lucifer, but not about to jump in and join them like Mammon… He's pretty down the middle about it.

 

Satan

Though he can't fault them for looking for relief, he's done enough research into human health that he really can’t condone this method…

Satan, bless his black soul, is going to be the nag of the family. He will bring up how unhealthy smoking is and he will urge them to try and find a different habit.

To be fair, he did the same to Mammon too - but to a lesser extent because demon bodies can cope with the toxins a lot better. Since the MC is human, he feels a lot of urgency… it comes from a good place.

The MC should expect to have to hide from Satan if they’re out smoking because he will crash their de-stressing with a mini-lecture. He won't go as far as to take the cigarette from their hands, but he will ask them to put it out.

He's not blind to their feelings, though. If they’re smoking, he'll ask what's wrong and how he can help so they can just stop for the night. If they do want to quit, then he's more than willing to support them through the transition. He won't leave them high and dry, but he will make his thoughts known. Be aware of that.

 

Asmodeus 

Uh, don't they know what smoking does to your skin? Your teeth?? Oh no, honey, you gotta try something else!

Yeah like Satan, Asmo isn't a huge fan but unlike Satan he's mostly worried about the physical damages alone. Poor guy can't understand why someone would actively do something with those negative effects when there are much healthier options!

He will pretty much be on a mission to give them other stress relief outlets like massages, bathes, music, meditation, or whatever else he can think of. He'll keep throwing stuff at a wall until it sticks. 🤷‍♀️

Again, it comes from a good place (albeit a somewhat more shallow one) but he cares deeply about them and always wants them to always look their best.

Unfortunately, Asmo's not even coming near them if he sees them smoking. He knows secondhand is a thing and he wouldn’t risk it, but he may call them or text them while they're out there to see what's wrong.

 

Beelzebub 

Beel's pretty easygoing one way or another so I see him accepting the MC's choice with little judgment. Their life and all.

Being an athlete, I also can imagine he may have a bit of knowledge about why it's not good for you but he won’t hammer it in like Satan. He might remind them once or twice if they start coughing because he worries… but that’s about it.

If there's anything he's going to be sad about, though, it's if their smoking habit starts to diminish their sense of taste… There’s so many foods he wants to share with them, he hopes they can enjoy it all… 😥

If Beel sees them out smoking, he'll pull a Levi and just come out to see what's wrong. He may not stay long because he doesn’t want to breathe in too much secondhand (still an athlete and all) but he'll still check in on them… Such a sweet guy.

 

Belphegor 

The smell did take some getting used to, but he used to nap around Mammon all the time so it's not like it's unfamiliar. He can adapt.

Really can't give two shits on whether or not their habit is healthy for them. In the long term, that may bite him in the ass, but that’s also kind of Sloth's whole deal so…

More or less would treat them the exact same way, smoking or not, because that doesn't much affect him or his chances to cuddle them.

If there's anything that is going to bother him, it might be coughing when he's trying to sleep... But that won't be a serious concern unless it gets BAD.

If Belphie sees them out smoking, he'll ask what's wrong… but also if they want to just come inside and sleep the problem off. He's trying to help… in his own way. 🤷‍♀️

 

Diavolo 

Daddy Devil smoked and you can't convince me otherwise.

The smell of cigarettes and cigars kind of give Diavolo a knee-jerk familiar reaction - like when you smell a food or soap that you associate with your childhood. It may not be a good smell or one you even like, but you're drawn to it anyway for the memories.

Doesn't matter how many times the MC has changed clothes or how long they scrub their body for, he can still smell it on them and it's like hitting a lightswitch in his brain - he knows that smell and it's oddly comforting…

Diavolo is going to hover around them a lot. Expect a lot of hugs or just standing a bit too close so he can get a good whiff. Lucifer is going to be utterly confused by his actions but Barbs knows what's up.

The MC is strictly forbidden by Lucifer to smoke anywhere near Diavolo, but that’s hardly going to matter. He can pick up when they've done it recently and he'll ask what's wrong… probably while hugging them because he's looking for that comfort too.

[martimweek]

RULES & FAQ

What kind of works do you accept for the week?  Anything goes! Fic, art, cosplay, anything audio or visual that has to do with martim and one of the prompts for the day is very welcome. That said, we won’t, under any circumstances, accept entries which depict rape, any type of noncon or dubcon, unhealthy relationship dynamics, incest, pedophilia, etc. This is non-negotiable. Any work promoting racist, transphobic, ableist, etc. ideas won't be accepted. Depicting difficult themes is still alright, although we do ask for it to be appropriately tagged on AO3 (trigger warnings, possible disturbing or heavy themes, e.g. dealing with trauma or such).

How do I enter my submission, then? Just post it on Twitter, Tumblr or AO3 (details of how the AO3 submissions are going to work will come later). Tag us (@/martimweek on both Tumblr and Twitter) and we will reblog your work! We will also track #martimweek2021, so remember to add it in the tags. 

Prompts have different colours. What does that mean?  That’s Lew’s (@twinliches) creative choice. Obviously, some prompts are nsfw, plain and simple. However, we’re leaving the prompts to your interpretation. For example, Monday’s prompt “first time” can be about Tim and Martin’s first time doing anything, like tap dancing. Go wild.

Does it have to focus on martim?  Well, yes. Relationship between Tim and Martin should be central to the submission. It can be explored as romantic or platonic, but it should be at the very centre of the work. We have a prompt for the OG Archival staff, in which you can explore martim in relation to Jon and/or Sasha!

Do I have to do every day if I want to participate? No! You can do one piece for one day and that’s it. You can do multiple things for the same day, just different prompt. 

Who are the organisers of this week? It was born in a wee server, and is now being modded by Zuza @hotjonrights, Lew @twinliches, Lizzie @babyyodablackwood and Cia @mcwebby. 

Where can I direct any further questions? This blog! Otherwise, feel free to message the mods. 

What do you consider an "unhealthy relationship dynamic"? As originally stated in the first answer, depiction of difficult themes is permitted. While "unhealthy" without proper explanation and examples might have been rightly confusing in some aspects, what we, as organisers, meant was that we won't accept any work that centers around difficult themes such as abuse in a fetishistic way. For example, a fic centered around jealousy, poor coping mechanisms or arguments is fine as long as there is understanding of the difference between fetishism and exploration. E.g. a character can experience bad thoughts/emotions and can even act in unhealthy ways, the point its that its explored and not used for shock value/fetish. To expand further, let's say Martin being mean to Tim and cutting him off because he is jealous is an unhealthy and unfair coping mechanism on his part, but once the author writes the part where Tim confronts him/asks him what's wrong/etc. and they talk it through then it's fine. But if the author writes it as resulting in an argument that leads to physical violence/abuse/noncon/etc. then it becomes a completely different thing. Any works that break these rules will not be reblogged here or accepted into the AO3 collection as part of the week. Moreover, expanding on what falls under "unhealthy": big age gaps, teacher/student type of dynamics (which is to say: one party holds an unequal and overwhelming amount of power over the other and exploits it). Additionally, we will not accept Elias/any of the archival staff or Peter/any of the archival staff as minor ships. post edited: 12/01/2021

[maariarogers]

what if i’m someone i don’t want around? (excerpt)

Pairing: Seojun x Sujin Summary: Seojun, now an idol, met with an unexpected but familiar face in his new dietitian nutritionist, Kang Sujin. Though they started off rocky during this reunion, they eventually decided best to work together as best as they could. Sujin struggles with her inner demons, and Seojun encounter new ones. During one of the worser nights, both of them seemed to collide. Timeline: Future-fic. Based on this AU. Midway through the plot — an excerpt.

TRIGGER WARNING: Unhealthy coping mechanism, PTSD, abuse mention tw.

.

“What’s your problem?” Seojun doesn’t mean to sound like he does. Which is cruel, demanding, cold. He can’t help it though. She’s been - off, the whole night. Meaner. Which, well, he doesn’t really care for most of the time. It’s become a staple of who she is since he’d known her, all those years ago, and she’d only grown to become more direct ever since they met again.

But to yell at some poor intern girl just because she bumped into her?

Seojun has never tolerated bullies. Couldn’t. Not after what happened to Seyeon.

“Did you throw your manners into the trash?” He demands again, straight through his teeth. Sujin is looking at him with those piercing blank eyes, looking almost like she could muster the courage to become just as angry - but she doesn’t. She looks a little empty, instead. Hollow. “The intern apologised. You didn’t have to yell at her.”

“Right,” She somehow says - her tone clipped. Short. “It’s my fault.”

Seojun says nothing to that. Yeah, it is, he wants to scoff. Wants to roll his eyes and probably scold at her some more. If that had been Gowoon, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Hell, if it’d been Lim Juyeong, the mess that the guy is, (like really, what is Heegyeong-noona and Lim Jugyeong doing with their little brother anyways? Why does Seojun always end up feeling like a babysitter?), he would’ve gotten an earful.

But with Kang Sujin — whatever piece of mind he’d like to give vanish away when he remembers that night. Cheap store-bought beers and her hands trembling when she’s holding the can. I didn’t want to be like my parents. I don’t want to be angry or look away and pretend that something bad isn’t happening. I want - to be good.

He opens his mouth, about to ask if she’s okay, until—

“You should hit me.”

Seojun snaps his eyes straight to her face.

The emptiness from before is replaced now, quite horribly, with this layers of - determination. But not the good kind. No. Maybe it isn’t determination at all. Desperation, he could almost hear something in him echoing the word back. She’s desperate - to be hit? Seojun feels something inside him drops.

“What the—”

“Come on,” Sujin comes closer, her eyes growing wide. Insistent. She’s crazy, he thinks in that split second, backing away. “Hit me.”

“Oi, Kang Sujin—”

“What!” She yells then, her voice echoing in that small pantry he manages to drag her in. She’s pushing against him now. Tiny hands in her stupid gloves knocking against his chest. “You’re not man enough? Think I can’t hit you right back? Hit me!”

She’s fucking crazy, Seojun thinks again, this time with more force behind it rather than a simple shock. He grasps at her shoulders - it’s easy, since she’s still small even after all these years, and he towers over her like it’s nothing. But her arms are still flailing, still punching him and shoving.

He shouts back, “Kang Sujin!”

“What,” this time when she snaps right back at him, glaring, it’s as if Seojun’s momentarily back at their school, confronting her in that small space between the class building — all red brick, and hot anger. Although he’s not sure now from where the anger really comes from: his, or hers. “Aren’t you Han Seojun the mad dog? How many gangs have you beaten up in high school, huh? You’ve become weak now? You’re a coward?”

“Kang Sujin, stop,” his voice wavers. Is he terrified? Maybe. Of what - he’s not sure. Not her, not specifically. But the implication behind it. The invitation to be hurt. He’s - seen this somewhere, he thinks.

Maybe it’s in Suho, when he steps into that traffic ages ago.

“Why? Why should I?!” She yells back, her voice bouncing off the walls. Seojun can see a few people and peers peering in. He glares, and they scurry off. “I yelled at the poor girl. She just bumped into me, and I tore her down. I didn’t care about her. I deserve to be punished. I’m horrible.”

“That’s not—”

“I deserve to be hit,” the traces of red in her eyes are brightened now. Enhanced. Seojun can see tears prickling by her eyelashes. Her teeth are clattering together - she’s trembling again. She’s so small and angry and trembling, like a dog shivering from the rain. Seojun feels an ache in him. He doesn’t what it is.

“C-come on ... Come on, Han Seojun—” She grasps his hand.

Brings it to her face.

Seojun could only watch, wide-eyed somehow. Stupid.

Like he’s still stumbling over his Korean alphabets, like he’s that fifth-grader who still wets his bed. Stupid.

“You know you want to. Remember what I did to Jugyeong?” She says again, stubborn. Yes, he does remember. How could he have forgotten? But it’s also so long ago. So many things have happened since. And, moreover, he also remembers her, whispering when she thought he couldn’t hear, Jugyeong was my friend too. “I exposed her. When she trusted me. Did you know that? She trusted me with her bare-face and I told the whole school. That was me.”

“Stop, Kang Sujin.”

“Hit me. Punch me.” He realises, suddenly, that he’s had the hand that she’s holding curled into a fist. Fuck, Seojun curses under his breath, wanting to pull it away, but Sujin’s grip is tighter. Her voice breaks. “C-come on. I deserve it. I’m horrible. I was a bad friend. A bad person. I was— please just hit me.”

“No.” His answer comes resolute, strong.

That seems to switch something inside of her. In an instant, she yells again, coming at him. “Coward!” She shouts, high-pitched, kicking and clawing, but Seojun’s quicker. Years on the street still has him fast on his feet, and he snatches her from the back, pinning her arms to the side.

She’s yelling still, fighting. Her legs are thrashing about. Seojun avoids the bang of her skull, and he shouts too — just so she would hear. Just so she would know.

“I won’t hit you.”

“FUCKING COWARD!”

“Fuck, Sujin—”

“You’re a fucking coward. You think I can’t take you?!”

She probably could. Leave a scratch or two. It’d be bloodied. But that won’t do - and, anyways. What’s the point? Rather than a fight, he just - ... well, he doesn’t know what he wants, but not this. Those nights when he could finally convince her to stay for dinner, maybe. Or those few times when he made her smile, and he feels a little less lonely. And he knows he made her feel the same.

I want to be good, she told him.

He slides down against the door where her struggling has taken him, with Kang Sujin still in his arms. He doesn’t let up. He knows he couldn’t. She’s still fighting against the hold, but it seems as if she knows she’s lost it when they both are on the ground.

Seojun can’t see her face, but she shakes.

He breathes, heavy, and forces out again. “I won’t hit you. Ever.”

Slowly, yet all at once, Seojun hears a wretched sob. Sujin hangs her head, the tips of her black hair touching the knuckles where his hands clutched together across her chest. Seojun lays his head against the door. He sighs.

“Not even back then.” The back of the school. The Lim Jugyeong Bare-face Article. He was angry, yes. But he thinks he doesn’t think he would ever — “So, stop asking me to do it already, will you?”

Sujin is silent, crying.

The sound of it — Seojun doesn’t think he could ever forget. The inhale gasps, the way she holds in her voice, but it leaks in these broken notes anyway, resonating in the air. And all he could hear besides is the slow buzzing of the refrigerator. He’s still holding on to her, staring at the back of her head.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he somehow finds himself saying. He leans forward - kisses the top of that circle where the roots of her hair meet, before he just rests his forehead against it. Waits. Breathes. “I forgive you.”

Sujin shakes some more, weeping.

.

A/N: I still have a vague timeline for this AU, but this scene has been playing in my mind. I’m planning to put the title as “Mail Delivery Failed: Returning Message To Sender” because I really wanted to explore about both of their heartbreaks from pining and/or loving Suho and Jugyeong respectively, even if it’d been about eight years ago in this AU, but yeah. We’ll see.

Thanks for reading!

[panicinart]

More Brahms headcanons about : his childhood, some LGBTQ+ stuff and general things

Honestly it's probably more rambling then headcanons?? But I'm just in the mood and write down what i think, i try to keep some kind of order but i can't promise anything.

Trigger warning for: homophobia,sexism, smoking marijuana (as medicine), movie typical violence (nothing in detail it's just mentioned), mention of suicide

🧸Were gonna start juicy with the homophobia his parents curb stomped him with.

🧸His parents were more of an old school couple and with that they pushed their believes into him, mostly it was on accident because that's how they grew up with (small mention just because it was a internalized thing it doesn't excuse their behavior)but a lot of Brahms anger and frustration got built because of it.

🧸From an early age they told him that cleaning and cooking was women's stuff, even if he wanted to help a girl or woman to clean up the smallest of messes his parents stopped him. That combined with him being spoiled rotten didn't really mash well, very fast he thought that everyone is here to serve him especially if they act/look/are female/feminine.

🧸When a same sex couple kissed in front of the family, Brahms parents got really shocked and acted like an animal got shot right in their eyesight. If they were women Ms. and Mrs. heelshire just down played it and told Brahms that they were just really good friends.

🧸The tryd to shield him from any non straight romantic relationships. And told him anything that is not being cis and straight is not normal, it wasn't even like "oh non cishets are weird and bad don't interact with them", they sayd it in a more sly and sneaky way often times not even realizing what's coming out of their mouth.

🧸Of course they couldn't shield him for long, Brahms managed to get his fingers on poems and stories about same sex love (he really liked sapphos works)

🧸After reading a particular gay story and later on meeting a boy he really liked questions quickly came, a lot of those questions couldn't been answered by his family or they just sayd the same things over and over again. The answers fuild his frustration and anger more which later on got mixed with confusion.

🧸One day he told his mother that the boy he met was really cute and he wanted to kiss him. He was kind of disassociating when he sayd that. His mother was really fucking shocked, her sentences scrambling and not making any sense out of panic. While his father just sat there and kinda gave him up.

🧸His mom suppressed any urges that aren't the cishet norm and also started the whole thing how touching himself is a sin and against God, believing that his longing to be hugged and kissed by a boy is because of sexual need and perverse desires

🧸After the fire everything got worse, not only did they suppress and stunted his healthy growth and exploration of his own identity, now they just suppress his whole existence.

🧸His father became more distance and needed to over think it all, while his mom was either non existent or emotionally and mentally abusive stunting him even more.

🧸There was one night were Brahms had a meltdown because he REALLY wanted to be kissed by the same sex, the years before he kinda managed to ignore it but this night was the worst. So his dad went to him and had some chitchat. It basically boils down to him saying he may not approve to his attraction to the same sex he is still his son and he loves and cares for him.

🧸The whole night was spent with talking about the whole thing and also the birds and bees since his mom also didn't teach anything about it. Even if the info was minimal at least Brahms has something to work with.

🧸When Brahms was around 20 Ms. and Mrs. Heelshire started to get nanny's, I will not go into detail of the many nanny's but I can say with each new person he learned something new about himself and his identity.

🧸Also around that age but probably also when he was younger he started to age regress as a coping mechanism, he couldn't really control it and just fell into that mindset for a REALLY long time.

🧸The most important nanny for his development was agender. When Ms. and Mrs. Heelshire hired them they looked more feminine and traditional not knowing about their identity.

🧸To keep it short they were everything Brahms parents told him to stay away. They were headstrong, dressed in gothic and punk clothes, smoked marijuana to deal with their mental health problems, were open about their sexuality ect.

🧸By watching them Brahms learnd a lot, he found out what multi gender attracted sexualitys were and quickly connected with omnisexual

🧸He also learned what age regressing is and was so intrigued with neopronounce finding some kind of comfort in them

🧸He thought a lot about neopronounce and one day dollsef popped out of his mouth when he age regressed. Toyself also came along much later, but since then he secretly spoke in third person and always used neopronounce.

🧸He was still very bitter about it and made him very aggressive in bad days

🧸Brahms develop a crush FAST and since everything came all of a sudden, he had a meltdown about it

🧸After he gathered himself up he decided to show himself and it was chaos

🧸Everything went wrong were it can get wrong. The whole thing ended up with Brahms letting all his frustration,anger and confusion out on the poor nanny

🧸He was a mess afterwards and sobbed for DAYS

🧸After all this Brahms became violent against his parents especially his mom, the nanny's also didn't survive long because no one was like his lovely nanny he had before

🧸When Greta came into his live he was star struck, he finally found someone to love and kinda fell into an unhealthy obsession and went delusional on their relationship

(🧸He also had the hots for malcolm but ssssshhhhh, the internalized homophobia still going strong)

🧸So when Greta left he was at a really bad live point. I heard that in the boy 2 Brahms killed himself after Greta left wich, we ignore that like royalty. But I like to think he tryd it, but ended up surviving the attempt and now has a scar on his body. He is very ashamed of it.