#THE WEIGHT GAIN AND ANXIETY IS NOT WORTH IT

[lucienarcheron]

I love waiting 3 months to get an appointment with a doctor for them to tell me "everything looks fine" and "there isn't anything else I can suggest if you don't want to go on this specific medication" super fucken helpful 👍🏼👍🏼

[emchante]

when the silence breaks

part 1 | masterlist | requesting rules

summary: after a painful night at the club, the days that followed are filled with silence and heartache. that is, until a late-night knock at your door comes from a drenched and regretful yet determined max verstappen.

NOTE: no warnings are really needed, all you need to know is this is a part 2, and it’s just angst with a happy ending/ hurt+comfort.

w.c: 2.1k

a/n: part 2 to the max angst, this was written for the lovely @inevesgf again of course; but there was a few requests for a part 2 from you guys so here it is! i hope you all enjoy the ending, and let me know your thoughts on this via reblog, comments or asks! reminder that requests are open if you guys have any ideas.

it’s been a few days since the incident at the club, and the emotional toll has weighed on you heavily. every time your phone buzzes, you always look over in hope that one of the notifications are from max, but it’s never him.

the silence was deafening.

you’ve spent the past few days in a haze, constantly replaying the night at the club in your head, each time you remember what was said you feel a shot through your chest, negative emotions overtaking you.

tonight you’re having a night in, blanket wrapped around your shoulders on the sofa as you try to distract yourself with one of your favourite films. it doesn’t do much to help though, because it doesn’t take long for memories of max to come flooding in; it was his favourite movie too.

you end up barely paying attention, the tv merely acting as a background light. the sounds of rain battering against the window only adds to the melancholy atmosphere.

you realised you were gaining nothing from this, so you’re about to give up on the film when a sudden knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. with furrowed brows you glance over to the clock, which lets you know it’s just past eleven. you debate in your mind if it’s worth even answering— who knocks on someone’s door at this time of night?

but against your better judgement, you hesitantly make your way to the front door. your heart is pounding, anxiety running through your body as your hand shakily reaches for the handle. looking around, you realise you have nothing to protect yourself with, should this be a scary encounter.

you were ready to be met with horrors at the other side of the door, but you weren’t expecting to be met with the sight of a soaked max verstappen. he’s drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead from the rain, and his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. despite his disheveled appearance, there’s a mix of determination and regret in his eyes.

you hadn’t even noticed the bunch of flowers he was holding until he shuffled them in his hands, and only then did they catch your eye. your eyes widened in shock, seeing that he had bought you your favourite flowers. “i know they’re a little.. worse for wear,” he awkwardly coughed out, holding them out for you.

you took them from his grasp, muttering a thank you as you held them to your chest. your eyes fitted over max again, watching as he anxiously moved from balancing his weight on one foot to another.

for a moment, neither of you speaks another word. the silence is thick, and there’s words on the tip of both your tongues, but you don’t dare speak first, and it seems like he doesn’t either.

the intensity of his gaze is what’s keeping you grounded, not letting your thoughts get the better of you. you can’t seem to break eye contact with him, and it seems like an eternity before your body finally moves; and you signal for him to come inside as you step to the side.

max nods at you, taking one step inside before he turns his head turns to look at you. his presence is overwhelming, your back against the wall as you continue to stare up at him. you gulp at the proximity, letting out a shaky breath before you tell him to head into the living room.

your words break him out of whatever trance he was in, and he lets out a low hum as he follows your instructions. you close the front door as he walks away, letting out a deep sigh before turning around, walking into the living room as you try to calm your nerves down.

you’re stood at the doorframe of the living room, leaning against it as you wait for him to take a seat on the sofa. but it never happens, max simply doing a 180 to face you. the tension is palpable, the air thick with unresolved emotions.

it’s silent for a few moments before max is the first one to speak up. “i’m sorry,” is all he manages to get out, his voice low yet hoarse. it’s only now that he’s inside and out of the rain you can actually see it— he’s been crying. it the hoarse voice wasn’t a giveaway, his eyes were red and his cheeks were flushed— and it was obvious it wasn’t just raindrops rolling down his cheeks.

you sigh, shaking your head at him. “max, you don’t need to apologise, it’s my fault we’re in this mess,” you told him, eyes trained on the wooden flooring beneath your feet. swallowing hard, you felt tears stinging at the back of your eyes as you let out a shaky breath. a sad smile paints itself upon your lips as you finally meet eye contact with him again. “you don’t have to feel the same way, max. i shouldn’t have said anything about my feelings that night, especially when i was far from sober.”

max’s eyes widen in surprise, your response far different from what he was expecting. it takes a couple of moments before his brain finally connects the dots; that you’re under the impression he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. panic flashes across his features as he quickly shakes his head at you. “no, no, that’s not what i meant,” he begins to explain himself, stepping closer to where you are in the doorframe. “i didn’t come to tell you that i don’t love you.”

your gaze is casted upon the floor again, not having it in yourself to look at him. your heart aches as you try to keep your composure, “max, really— it’s fine,” you insist, despite the tremble in your voice. “i don’t need you to reassure me you love me in a different way, i know it’s platonic.” you tell him, eyes closing when you see his feet fall into your eyesight.

max feels a wave of desperation wash over him as he hears how hurt you are, the defeat evident in your voice. he reaches out, gently grabbing onto your forearm as he pulls at it, uncrossing your folded arms. he gives your arm a squeeze and instinctively you look up at him. you can see the distress in his eyes, his confidence he has every other day is non-existent at this moment in time.

you go to take your arm back, but max’s grip is firm, a contrast to the soft “stop” he let’s out in return. the desperation in his voice captivates you, and you find yourself listening to him, and what he has to say.

just a moment ago you could see the distress in his eyes, but now— now, they were clouded with too many emotions to read, especially in your current state. the seconds feel like hours, the silence between you both almost suffocating. you want to stand your ground, tell him to let you go, let him know he doesn’t need to say what you already know— but the words are stuck in your throat, tangled with the fear you’re feeling.

max opens his mouth before shutting it again, his jaw clenched as he tries to make sense of his thoughts and he wants to say. “i… i need you to listen to me,” he finally says, his own voice trembling. he lets go of your arm, and instead of stepping back, he takes another step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours.

your heart races as you look up at him, the space between you both slowly becoming non-existent, aswell as the fierce eye contact felt like it was going to kill you. “max.. if you’re going to say you don’t feel the same, you don’t have to—“

“that’s not it!” he lets out desperately, shaking his head sharply as he interrupts you. he runs a hand through his damp hair, his frustration evident. he’s never been the best with his words, never the type to open up to you about feelings such as infatuation or love, his emotions were always a touchy topic. you can tell he’s wrestling with his thoughts, trying to get the truth out to you.

“i was scared,” he admits, his voice rough with emotion. “i’ve been scared of messing this up, of losing you, and that fear—“ he stops himself for a moment, inhaling deeply and tries to gather himself. “that fear made me push you away, and i shut myself off. and i regret it, i regret it so much, because it gave off the impression i didn’t care, or that i didn’t feel the same.”

your breath hitches, your heart rate quickening as you process what he just told you. the pounding in your ears from your heartbeat was almost too much to bare, but you pushed through because you needed to know what he was going to say. “then why..?” you trail off shakily, allowing max to explain himself.

max met your gaze again, and this time the emotions in his eyes were clear and unmistakable, and it caused a deep warmth to heat up your cheeks. “because i do love you,” he confesses so quietly, you wondered if you made it up until you continues to talk, “and that terrified me. it still does to an extent. but the thought of losing you is so much worse.”

your breath catches in your throat as you take in everything he said, allowing max’s words to sink in. you’ve spent so long hoping and dreaming for this moment, in so many different scenarios— but never did you imagine this specific one.

“i love you,” he repeats, his voice still quiet, scared as if the words are going to do more damage than he had caused previously.

you know you heard him right when he repeated it, and it didn’t do anything to slower your heartbeat, rather it made it pound even harder. without thinking, you move a little closer, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, searching for the tiniest bit of proof to help you realise this is all real, and not some sick dream. his skin is warm beneath your touch, and that simple feeling sends a rush through your veins.

“max,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer, like a question, like a thousand emotions wrapped up in one word.

max doesn’t wait any longer. in one swift motion, he closes the distance between you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you against him. there’s a brief moment where both of you hesitate, breath mingling in the tiny space between you, eyes locked onto one another for confirmation.

then, with a soft, almost desperate sound, his lips crash onto yours. the kiss is everything, months of pent-up emotion, of hope, longing and — especially the past few nights — fear, all rolled into one. it’s messy, passionate and perfect in its on way. his hands don’t stop moving, going from gripping your waist, tangling in your hair to then cradling your face, like he’s afraid you might disappear once his touch leaves you.

you kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring everything you’ve felt— every ounce of love, every moment of doubt, every fear of rejection— into that kiss. the world around you fades; the only thing that exists at this very moment is max. the feeling of him, the taste of him and the overwhelming relief of finally, finally having him close.

you finally pull apart from one another, gasping for air as your foreheads rest against each other, the both of you breathing heavily. his hands move back to their position on your waist, thumbs circling your sides as if he’s trying to ground himself in the moment.

“god, i’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips.

a small smile tugs at your lips as you nod against him, your voice still shaky, “me too,” you admit, just as breathless.

for a moment neither of you say anything else. you just stand there, holding each other, basking in the warmth of the moment. it’s not the picture perfect confession you’d imagined, but it’s real, and that’s all that mattered.

max finally pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes. “i’m sorry,” he whispers softly, his hand moving to your cheek as his thumb strokes it. “for everything. especially for how i acted at the club.”

you shake your head, your heart swelling with many emotions— love, relief and forgiveness, to name a few. “it’s okay,” you mutter back breathlessly, leaning to place a soft kiss against his lips, sealing your words with the simple act. “we’ll figure stuff out, and we’ll work on it.”

and with that, the night ends not with the bitter taste of regret, but with sweet promise of something new, something real and something worth fighting for.

[scientia-rex]

I made that post about how smoking is bad—actually, no, I’ve made two relatively popular posts about how smoking is bad for you. Raises your chances of dying from multiple factors including heart disease and stroke in addition to lung (and mouth, throat, and bladder) cancer.

I am always so baffled by the responses going “well I could die from something else!” Yes. You could. Statistically speaking, you will most likely die of heart disease, stroke, or cancer, if you live in the US. Your average life expectancy is somewhere around 78 for women, 76 for men. Many people die younger than that, for a lot of reasons. Many of my patients have illnesses that will shorten their lives. I hate to split it into “fault,” as if there’s some kind of perfect way to live a blameless life. (There isn’t.) The numbers, however, are both clear and pitiless. People who smoke are more likely to die younger than they otherwise might have.

Medicine is a numbers game. My job is not to psychically predict exactly what will punch your ticket and when. It is to improve your odds. I want you to both live as long a life as possible but also as high-quality a life as possible. I want for you to live a life you enjoy.

It’s that simple; it’s not sinister. I’m not out here going “I’ll tell them not to smoke so they can have LESS FUN before getting hit by a bus at 30!”

Because smoking isn’t actually fun. What it is, is a very quick (and faster = more addictive) reduction in physical feedback systems that heighten anxiety. Withdrawal of an unpleasant stimulus is rewarding. (Technically, it’s a negative reward; the negative doesn’t refer to a moral judgment, but the addition or subtraction of a stimulus.) Something that is very rewarding very fast will be very addictive. It’s why crack cocaine is also so addictive—it is also a very fast and very potent reward. It’s also why benzodiazepines like Xanax are so addictive to so many people; it’s a slower peak blood level but the removal of severe anxiety is profoundly rewarding.

So smoking can make you feel better when you do it. But your body will try to fix any broken signals. It doesn’t just want to be able to signal to you when you need to feel stressed: it has to be able to signal you, or your long-ago ancestors would have been eaten by predators. So it ramps up the signaling. Now you’re not smoking because you feel better than baseline; you’re smoking to get back to baseline.

That’s why quitting sucks. When you quit smoking, all of the sudden your body’s signals of stress that got dialed up to 11 to overcome the nicotine are just out there at full blast, making you feel scared and jittery and irritable. It’s why when you quit benzos (or daily alcohol) cold turkey you can get life-threatening seizures. It’s why when you stop alcohol you’re likely to have sleep disruptions that can persist for weeks to months.

That’s why things that help reduce the suckage can help. Nicotine patches, lozenges, or gum. Chantix. Wellbutrin. Slowly stepping down the nicotine level on your vape. Eating more, eating things you like. (I would 1000% rather have a patient be fat than be smoking. I know other people will be shittier to you if you gain weight. Living is worth it.) Being kind to yourself helps you quit smoking. You need to recognize that “quitting smoking you” is not your baseline you. It is you with an invisible illness that will take weeks to months to get over.

And sometimes you can’t face that hump right now. But if you want to maximize your odds of the longest and healthiest possible life, knowing that any number of terrible things can happen to you at any time, making the effort—over and over again, if you need to—is the best shot you have.

There are a couple of conditions where smoking does markedly reduce symptoms. The well-known ones are schizophrenia and Crohn’s disease. If you feel not just better, but better like this is a medication for you, like you poop blood or hear things without it, talk to your primary care provider, because there are other medicines that might be safer and/or more effective for you. The landscape around pharmaceutical research has shifted dramatically over the last 30 years. We have more options than we’ve ever had before. Maybe this doesn’t have to be the expensive, dangerous medication that half-works for you. And if what you’re self-medicating is your anxiety, nicotine is a pretty crappy medication for that, because it doesn’t fix you; it changes your baseline to an even shittier place.

You have bodily autonomy. You can make your own choices. I will never go to a patient’s house and slap the cigarette out of their hand. But if what you want is the longest and healthiest possible life, smoking makes your odds worse.

The number of people who think that I, as a doctor, would be unaware of how profoundly unfair bodily health can be amazes me. It’s like the first Father Brown story, where Father Brown is explaining to the villain that someone whose main job is to hear about all of the terrible sins people have to confess cannot remain naive. My job is watching people age, or filling out their death certificates. One or the other. I prefer watching them age, but everyone will die. Someday my doctor will be filling out my death certificate. I’ve removed one potential contributing factor from that line—maybe I’ll get diabetes, maybe I’ll get cancer, maybe I’ll have a workplace accident, but “smoking” isn’t going to be on that line anymore. That’s the best I can do. I can’t psychically predict my own death, either; just play the numbers, try to do my best, and hope.

[stvrnioloslvt]

stripes and polo's pt.2 - Matt Sturniolo

genre: fluff / t.w: none / pt.1 here

—★—

previously... "what are you talking about, that's my best friend..." but even as he tried to hide his blush, it was clear that behind his hand there was a big smile plastered on his face.

matt paced restless around his room, nervously gnawing at his nails as he waited for you to come back. just an hour before, right as the stream ended, he had blurted out to chris how he wanted to ask you out, but also how he was afraid to fuck everything up. was it worth to lose a friend if it meant he could gain a lover? what if it all failed miserably, would he be left with nothing in his hands?

he sighed as he shot a glance at the clock: you had been out for hours with your friend, and as much as he was glad that you had someone else outside of the triplets, he was also growing more and more impatient by the second. and, even though he was trying to push it down, jealousy was also starting to become a problem. were you not happy anymore with spending time with him?

"matt, dude, stop. y're going to draw a hole if you keep walking back and forth like a fuckin' maniac." matt whipped his head around, his blue eyes meeting chris's. his brother stood there, leaning lazily on the door, looking at him sympathetically.

"i feel like i'm going insane."

"yeah. cause you are. just go do somethin' else, you've got nothing to worry about."

"i can't-"

the noise of the lock turning caught both of the boys' attention. matt stopped mid-sentence, glancing back at chris with a look of terror in his eyes. as your footsteps grew closer, chris mouthed a quick "you've got this", then flew up the stairs. matt felt his heart racing, beating furiously in his ribcage. a shaky breath escaped his mouth as he heard you knocking on his door.

"matt? you up?"

"yeah, come in." your hands grabbed the knob, twisting lightly and entering the room.

matt sat at his desk, apparently looking for some random file on his computer. his leg bounced up and down in a quick rhythm, his back tense as a trunk. your gaze fell on the hand holding the mouse, observing how his pinky was shaking. no matter how hard he tried to cover it up, it was clear as the day that anxiety was eating him alive.

you went up to him, your hands falling gently on his shoulders, massaging him softly. "matt, what's wrong?"

chills ran down his body at your soft tone of voice, your words leaking with worry. he took one last breath, finally turning around to face you. his eyes darted quickly between your face and his polo, brows furrowed lightly as he thought of something.

"matt, love, what's wrong? you're scaring me." he sighed one last time, running his hand through his hair and on his face, finally pushing himself up. you waited patiently for him to speak, to mutter even so just a word, anything.

"how was the hangout? you had fun?"

confused by the sudden question, you replied with a whispered "yeah". what was happening? why was he being so weird? did you do something wrong?

"matt please just tell me what's wron-"

"i'm in trouble."

your heart dropped at his sentence, breath catching in your throat. "what do you mean? just tell me please, i can't stand watching you like this. swear i'll help you out, whatever it is-"

"i love you."

you stopped in your tracks, speechless. did you hear that wrong?

"i'm sorry i don't think i heard it right, what did you just say?"

"i love you. i'm so sorry, i tried so hard to hold it back but i can't anymore, and i totally understand if you don't want to keep being my friend cause things would be awkward and shit but-"

"i love you too."

matt's mouth hanged open, forming a funny "o" shape. with shaky hands, you slowly wrapped your hands around his neck, resting there. you giggled nervously, shifting your weight from one leg to another.

"i also held it back all this time. if only i knew sooner..."

"wait, you're serious? like, you actually like me? for real?"

instead of replying, you inched closer to him, your lips brushing together briefly. you heard matt inhaling harshly, holding his breath. you stopped there for a moment, lips barely touching. then, you kissed him.

matt's arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you closer. your hands dipped in his hair, swimming in his soft locks.

you pulled back, resting your forehead against his as you both caught your breath; you both laughed as euphoria run through your veins.

"well, that was crazy. told you there was nothing to worry about." both your heads whipped towards the door, where chris was holding up his phone and taking pictures of you. "see? now we have the pictures of your first kiss for the wedding. i should become a professional wingman, would totally rock it."

you looked at him with the same look of someone who just saw an alien, then exclaimed: "chris what the actual fuck."

"nah but i can actually see it: do you, matt sturniolo, pinky promise to love and cherish your girlfriend till the end of times?"

"fuck off chris-"

"pinky promise."

© stvrnioloslvt

hello everyone! hope you liked it, I'm sorry if it feels too rushed but I've been super fucking occupied for the last weeks. currently surviving on caffeine (definitely do not recommend btw).

thinking about writing a couple more fics (both for matt and chris, both smut) before introducing an au I've been thinking about lately... stay tuned!

pictures © pinterest

taglist: @matthewsroses <3

(if you wanna be added to the taglist just comment down below, please also specify if you wanna be tagged just for that particular fic or if you want to be part of a general taglist. thank you!)

love you all,

- bree <3

[dancingtotuyo]

11. up from the dust, inconceivable love

Woman | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Chapter Summary: Ellie learns the truth. Your family gains a member.

Tags: Joel Miller X Female Reader. Age Gap (13/14 years). HBO Characters. Mostly cannon compliant for show & game. Timeline is changed.

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy related things, angst, hurt & comfort and no comfort?, self worth issues, canon violence, anger, child birth, spoilers for TLOU 2 (we’re entering the timeline that starts to burrow things for part 2 of the game)

Notes: huge thank you to my constants, my rocks @ramblers-lets-get-ramblinand @janaispunk for beta reading and letting me yell and scream and break their hearts.

If you have checked out Before, I would encourage you to do so for more backstory on our dear reader! The final part is out now!

Words: 5352

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Playlist

“What do you think of Peace?” You ask, propped up in bed, hand over your swollen stomach. You’ve gained more weight this time, probably because you’re not in the throes of grief. 

“I mean, I’m a fan. I hope everyone is.” Joel says, trimming his facial hair with the bathroom door wide open. 

You bite your lip, admiring the expanse of his bare back. If getting out of bed wasn’t an event, you would be behind him right now, kissing his shoulders. 

“No, as a name for a girl,” you say. Joel turns around looking at you like he’s contemplating checking you into a psychiatric ward if those still existed. “A middle name, not a first name.” 

Joel sets his trimmers down, leaning in the doorway shirtless. “And what would her first name be?” 

“Willow.”

Joel furrows his brow stepping into your bedroom, your shared bedroom. “Darlin, I know we live in a commune, but we’re not hippies.”

“You bring me wildflowers and we walk barefoot through the fields. I wouldn’t be so sure.” You can’t help but laugh. Joel cracks a smile. “Do you have suggestions then?”

“Thought about naming Sarah- Katherine.”

You make a face. You know one too many Kates and Katies even in Jackson.

“It’s not a bad name,” Joel chuckles. 

“Neither is Willow.��

“Is this your way of telling me you’re a hippie?”

“Would you leave if I said yes?”

Joel shrugs “I don’t know, but I knocked you up so I guess I have to stay.” He crawls into the bed. His head is level with your stomach as he watches for movement. 

You roll your eyes. “How romantic.”

He grins up at you and then his eyes are back on your belly. He rests a hand at the top, staring, waiting in wonderment. Neither of you can believe this is all real. Your baby moves around all the time, kicking your bladder and lungs, signifying life. A life you did not think would make it. 

You thread your fingers through Joel’s soft brown hair. The outline of a foot appears and then disappears. Joel’s eyes sparkle and he kisses the same spot. He’s soft and gentle. In these moments, all your anxieties are carried away like leaves on an autumn breeze. This is your peace. 

“What other names did you have picked out for Carter?”

You bite your lip. “We didn’t have any other boys' names.”

“And if he’d been a girl?” He’s still enthralled with your stomach as if there’s been an enchantment cast over it. 

“Sarah.”

His head snaps up. 

“Tommy and I talked about her a lot when I was pregnant. She was on my mind… being a part of Sarah’s life made me realize I wanted a family… even in this world where I had no right to do so.”

You keep playing with his hair. His eyes go glassy making you wonder what memory is playing behind his eyes. You stay like that until Joel is ready to talk. Eventually, he sits up, clearing his throat. His lips touch yours. 

“What about Willa?”

You tilt your head to the side. You don’t really see how it’s any different than Willow, but you’re not going to bring that up. “I like it.” 

“And Miles for a boy.” His smile returns. He doesn’t tell you that he’s positive you’re having a girl.

“Miles is an old man's name!”

“Good, then he’ll grow to be an old man.”

You take in a sharp breath. It’s just an offhand comment, but it carries so much weight. It’s a stark reminder of the heaviness of the world, and the twinge of guilt you feel bringing another child into it. 

Joel takes your hand, kissing your palm. You see it in his eyes too. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’tve-”

“It’s okay.” Your fingers comb through his hair. He leans into your touch. His grays are more noticeable than they were a year ago, but the brown still outnumbers them. 

“Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” he asks.

“I don’t know… I- I haven’t really let myself think about it until today.” It's true. The fact of the matter is you’re within a month of your due date. You and Joel are so close to welcoming this baby into the world and are wildly unprepared. 

“We’re getting close… We need a crib.” 

“The one I used for Carter is in the attic.”

“I can bring it down in the morning.”

“I need to get some baby clothes. I traded all of Carter’s.” 

“Looks like we have a bunch of work to do, Mama,” Joel smiles, kissing your forehead. He still hasn't told you about the swaddles and onesies tucked in the back of his drawer, but it seems you’re finally ready for them.

You cock your head to the side, contemplating the nickname. There’s a mix of emotions with it. You’re already a mother. Joel is a father, but this is a life you’re bringing in together. It’s uncharted territory for both of you. Sarah’s mom was out the door before she was six months old. Neither of you have done this part with a partner before. 

A sharp knock on the front door pulls your mind from its wandering. Joel’s brow furrows, rolling out of the bed. People don’t knock on your door often. They usually barrel right in, unless it’s bad. Your stomach drops. 

Joel is out of the bedroom, shrugging on a shirt. Dina’s voice calls through your home. “Hello?” She sounds worried, desperate. 

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. It takes more time to stand these days. If you try too quickly, your head rushes making you feel dizzy. 

“Dina? What’s wrong?” Joel’s at the bottom of the stairs now, but his voice carries. You have to stop at the top of the stairs to catch your breath. 

“Ellie is gone.”

You freeze, grabbing the railing for stability. “What?”

Joel turns around, worry etched in his face. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know. She mentioned something about the Fireflies and a hospital, but she wouldn’t talk to me.” You make out the flicker of hurt in Dina’s face. Those two tell each other everything, or most things. You’re not sure Ellie has told her about her immunity. You all keep that one pretty close to your chests. 

“Shit,” Joel mumbles. He glances between you at his back and the front door in front of him. You see the push and pull. He needs to go after her. He needs to be here for you. 

His eyes settle on you. Your hand settles on top of your swollen belly. He’s looking for permission. You want to give it, but what if he’s needed here before he gets back. 

“She’s been off lately. I don’t know why. She won’t talk to me.” Dina seems to sense the silent conversation going on. “I can go after her, but-“

“No, I need to go.” Joel swings back toward the teenager, both hands placed on his hips. You try to bite back the panic rising inside you. He’ll be fine. They’ll both be fine. “Do you know when she left?”

“Probably sometime before the sun came up. Shimmer isn’t in the stable.” 

Joel lets out a ragged sigh, hands running over his face. You try to keep the tears away, your hormones making it difficult. 

“Will you let Maria know I’m going after her? I need to pack.” 

Dina nods, her eyes flickering up to you before she’s gone in a flash of dark curls. Joel turns around, hand resting on the banister at the bottom of the stairs. You swallow and walk back into the bedroom. 

It’s silent at first, nothing but the sounds of draws opening and closing and the soft slaps of his leather saddle bags. You sit in silence at the edge of your bed, chewing on your lip as you watch him. Ellie needs him. It echoes on repeat in your brain. 

“I can probably catch her. We’ll be back in two weeks if I don’t.”

You stare down at your ever growing belly. You could easily be pregnant when he returns, but what if you’re not? You’re fairly certain you’ll have this baby sooner rather than later, but Ellie needs him too.

“Why does she want to go back to Salt Lake?”

Joel freezes for a second, like he’s contemplating his answer. It sets an uneasy feeling in your bones. “I don’t know. Maybe she thinks some of the Fireflies are still there? That this whole cure business is still an option?”

You nod, thoughts drifting to her face when you looked at her blood a couple months ago. She looked desperate. You hadn’t seen her like that before. It was almost unnerving, like the need to be needed by humanity had returned tenfold. It made you wonder if you’d been there for her enough these past few months.

“I have to go after her.”

There’s a desperation you don’t quite recognize in Joel’s eyes, sending a thread of dread through your body. Is he leaving something out? Not telling you something? You nod, biting your lip. “I know.”

He lays his hand on your bump, fingers stretching out over it. “We’ve got time.”

You nod. “Hurry back, and be safe, okay?”

Joel kisses your forehead. “Always.”

He rides out thirty minutes later. 

You try to stay busy while they’re gone, cleaning the clinic and the house thrice over as the nesting and anxiety sets in. You ask Tommy to get the crib out of the attic as you prep the corner of your bedroom for the baby, wiping it free from the dust and cobwebs. 

Maria hosts a small get together for you pulling together some semblance of a baby shower, something you hadn’t had with Carter. It's nice, but you feel like they skirt around the questions nagging in their brains. Where did Ellie and Joel go? Will they be back in time? You don’t have answers. You have the same fucking question. Will they be back? 

The braxton hicks kick up, so much so you think you’re in labor ten days after Joel rides out. The fear that courses through your body is so paralyzing that you just lay in bed. Your body tenses with the memory’s of Carter’s labor. It’s not the physical pain of it, but the emotional rollercoaster you went through, alone. You’re not supposed to do this alone this time.  

Then, the contractions stop with no explanation and you fall into a restless sleep. You miss Joel, his warmth and comfort. His unspoken love that fills the room. You’re becoming more comfortable with the idea of it. 

You miss Ellie too, worried about what she’s going through. Providing it’s still vacant, Salt Lake won’t hold any answer for her. What lengths will she go to? How many miles will she travel in search of answers you believe don’t exist? How will she handle reality? 

You see the differences in Carter too. In his mind, Ellie and Joel have always been here. Two weeks without them feels like a lifetime to him, and to you. 

On day twelve, your front door flies open as you come down the stairs. Ellie bursts through looking frantic and frazzled. Her short cropped hair sticks up in certain places. Dirt smudges her forehead. You’re too relieved to see her to worry about her appearance. If anything, it’s expected after two weeks of travel, but your relief is short lived. 

“Did you know?” She yells. The door stays wide open behind her, rage flaming in her eyes. 

“What?” 

“Did you know?”

“Know what?” You step toward her, reaching out, but she backs away like a wild animal.

“He killed them! All of them!” 

“Killed who? Ellie, take a deep breath.”

“Joel! He killed the fireflies! They had a cure!”

Your breath catches. It’s not that Joel has killed people. You know about the years he spent as a raider. You know the cost of surviving in this world, but this isn’t the story you have been told about Salt Lake. When you asked him why she would go back, he lied. He knew. Knew the story hadn’t lined up in Ellie’s mind. 

“So he lied to you too!”

“Ellie!” Joel is stern as his frame fills your doorway. 

She spins around, the week of silence she spent next to him on the road back, wrath bubbling over and focused on him. “Tell her! Tell her, Joel!” She steps toward him. “Tell her what you did!” She shoves against his shoulders. 

“Ellie…” He repeats her name, softer this time. 

“Don’t do that!” She turns back to you, tears streaming down her cheeks. “They were going to make a cure from me, and you stopped them! You slaughtered them!”

“They were going to kill you!”

Your eyes widen, and it makes sense. Why Joel hasn’t talked about it. Why he needed to go after her. Why Ellie feels so useless. She’d been promised the cure. He’d taken that from her with a facade of an excuse.

“You should have let them!” Ellie screams until she pushes past him, rushing out of your house. 

Joel lets out a sigh, defeat evident across his features. You can’t even enjoy their homecoming, their safety, your head spinning too much. 

Joel shuts the door behind him, stepping closer like he’s expecting an embrace, but you step back, a mother’s anger building in your bones. He looks surprised. “Sweetheart…”

“You lied to her.”

“I protected her.” Joel’s eyes narrow. He’s tired and irritable. Neither of you expected a fight to ensue the moment he got home. “And I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“You’ve watched her struggle with this for years!” 

“They were going to kill her!”

“Have you listened to anything she’s said?” 

You almost don’t recognize the Joel in front of you. He looks like a shell of the assured, warm man you know. You wonder if this is the version of Joel Tommy used to speak of. The one Joel has told you about during those late night chats when you spilled the depths of yourselves to each other, or you thought you had. The one who floated through his days, barely living. 

“I couldn’t lose her!” 

“Except you did!”

Joel straightens, shoulders setting in denial. “She’s alive! That’s what matters.”

“You’re missing the point!”

“You’re saying I should have let them go ahead with it! Let them cut open her head for a cure you don’t believe is possible!” 

Fire blazes in Joel's eyes. You see it. There’s no rationalizing with him about this. In his eyes, there were no choices to be made. He did the only thing. It doesn’t matter what else he has to sacrifice, she’s alive and that’s all that matters. “That’s not-”

He scoffs, cutting you off. You see the pain and hurt ripple through his body, causing him to step back from you. “Sure sounds like it.”

“Joel!”

“Don’t.” He yanks the front door open. “I can’t be here right now.” 

He disappears across the threshold in the blink of an eye leaving you with a mountain to process and a growing tension across your stomach.

Joel knows he’s in the wrong. He knows he shouldn’t have lied to Ellie, held the truth from you. He’s a grown man, of course he knows what’s right and wrong, but that admittance doesn’t do anything to calm him. He needs to get out. Out of the house. Out of the walls into the open. It doesn’t matter that he just came from two weeks out there. 

He sneaks over the wall with more ease than he should be able. Instantly, he feels the tightening in his chest begin to ease. He paces the outside of the wall like a caged animal, the series of events reeling through his mind. He doesn’t realize how much he’s been pushing it back since they left Salt Lake. Her words, her pleas, over and over. She’d given him every opportunity to tell her the truth and he kept the lie going. 

There was no cure. The words he’d utter to her after they found that couple, one dead the other infected while out on patrol. 

He’d almost told her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t risk it.  

His pacing becomes more frantic as he remembers the fear he felt at the thought of losing Ellie, the fear that pushed him into wiping away every firefly that crossed his path. The same fear that put lies in his mouth before he had time to think, that kept him from telling her the truth. He knew this would happen one day, but hadn’t been enough. He’d kept it from everyone, including you. 

Tell me, she had pleaded with him, begged him and he still felt the pull to replace his lie with another. 

She’d had to poke and prod to get the words from his mouth. Had to threaten to leave before she got the truth. That hurt almost as much as the fallout. Everyone thought he was a better man than he actually was. Ellie, you, himself, but when it came down to it. He failed that test. Good men don’t make someone threaten to leave to get the truth. 

I’ll go back, but we’re done.

Joel wears a path in the fresh grass beneath his feet, letting the spring chill take over when the sun sets, leaving him in darkness. Ellie had kept her word. He’d never heard her stay quiet for so long. The loss had begun to settle in with her riding next to him. 

Joel’s muscles ache from two weeks out on the road. He misses you and Carter. He hasn’t even touched you yet. Will you let him? 

Getting over the wall from the outside proves more difficult than it had the first time. Which is a good thing, but had Joel feeling every one of his 59 years. Embarrassment creeps over his cheeks with each step toward your home. The one he shares with you, but he feels like a guest as he climbs the steps. He doesn’t catch a glimpse of you or Carter or anyone else through the windows. 

The house is silent when he enters, no signs of life except for the faint buzzing of light bulbs. His brow furrows. You wouldn’t have left the lights on if you weren’t home. Then a faint sound comes from upstairs, movement at the very least. He follows it, placing his hand on the closed bedroom door before cracking it open. 

Soft groans come from behind the cracked bathroom door followed by a whispered curse. Maria's voice follows. Joel’s throat drops into his stomach. His boots echo off the wood floor as he crosses the room. “Sweetheart?” he calls, staying on his side of the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Joel? Get in here,” you groan out. 

It sends some reassurance through him to hear you so clearly before he swings the door open. His eyes go wide at the sight of you in the tub, sweat staining your skin as Maria kneels next to you. “Shit, are you?”

“Make yourself useful and hold my hand.” 

He nods, kneeling beside you. Maria stands, grabbing a few instruments from the bathroom sink, she gives Joel a look that lets him know you’re near the end of labor. Your baby will be here in minutes. It sends a rush through him. “I’m sorry, Darlin.”

You grab onto his hand tightly. It’s wet from the bathwater sloshing around you as you fight to get comfortable. It’s a useless pursuit, but it doesn’t keep you from trying. “Can we do the apologizing later? I’m kinda busy at the moment.” 

“Yes,” Joel takes a deep breath, his heart pounding in his ears. He squares his shoulders next to you, giving an air of assurance you know he doesn’t have. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

“I think you missed most of it.”

“Not that you’ve had much to miss,” Maria says, stern. She pissed at him, which is more than fair given everything. You’d had some time to explain what happened. “We tried to find you. Her labor progressed pretty quick.”

“Speaking of which-” You let out a gasp, face twisting in pain. “I think the baby is crowning.”

“She must be in a hurry,” Joel says. 

“She?” 

“Just a hunch.” Joel smiles, kissing your head.

For the next few minutes, the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Your fight never happened because there’s only one thing on your minds, bringing your baby into the world. The world goes silent again, but not in a bad way. A way that makes you feel at peace, Joel’s warm hand in yours. It doesn’t take long until she announces her arrival with a fiery scream once Maria pulls her out of the water. 

You hold her close, tears of relief gathering in your eyes. Joel leans in, his forehead pressed to your temple, arms wrapping around you and your daughter as she pulls air into her lungs. 

“You did great, Sweetheart.” He whispers into your hair as he kisses your cheek, cupping your daughter’s head. “She’s beautiful.”

Your eyes flicker between him and your newborn. It’s the moment you’ve been envisioning for months, the one you thought you’d get with Gabe when Carter was born. A little piece of you mends. Your child soothes against your skin. 

After you’re both cleaned up, Joel helps you into bed, then settles beside you. She sleeps in your arms, tiny fist clenched around one of Joel’s fingers still curled up in your softest bath towel. You brush her cheek softly. 

“I believe we decided on Willa Peace?”

“Did we?” You tilt your head to the side, a grin verging on your lips. “I thought we weren’t hippies.”

Joel shrugs, tracing your shoulders. “I had a lot of time to think about it the past couple of weeks.”

“Joel…”

Dirt still traces over his face. He hasn’t had time to clean off since he got back. You catch the faint smell of sweat on his clothes and skin. “I know.”

“I would have done the same thing to save her. You know what I think about cures.” You keep your gaze on your child. It only reminds you what you brought her into. “You lied to her over and over when she needed the truth.”

“I was trying to protect her.”

“I wish you would’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“This only works if we’re open with each other.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are.” You bite your lip. “I’m going to need some time with this one.”

Joel nods, arm wrapping around you. “I know.”

You lean into him, enjoying the quietness that surrounds the three of you.

“Willa Peace Miller,” You smile. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah.” Joel hums beside you. “Can’t believe she’s actually here.” 

“And we’re both okay.”

He nods, and neither of you can tear your eyes away from the precious little being in your arms. You hang on every rise and fall of her chest, everything micro movements, the soft flutter of her eyes that never quite open. It all feels so fragile, so sacred. 

You remember similar moments with Carter. When the grief and the world got too loud, you would lay on the floor or bed with him on your chest asleep. The weight of his small body was a tether that kept you from flying away. 

Even in this moment, as your heart inexplicitly expands, you feel that thread of fear winding itself through your body. Another person to love and protect. Another person to keep from the jaws of the world. Another person you can’t bear to lose. 

“You know,” you say, pulling Joel’s attention. “If you were ever gonna pull those baby clothes and blankets out of your drawer, now would be the time.”

His brow furrows and then eases with realization. “How long have you known they were there?”

You let out a soft chuckle. “I washed them the next time you went out on patrol. I wasn’t going to leave those filthy things in your drawer.”

“You were going through my things, I see.”

“Next time don’t try to hide something in your drawer from the person who washes your clothes.” 

Joel laughs, easing out of the bed to fetch the items from the drawer. “Got it, I’ll be sneakier next time.”

“Can you get the onesie with the yellow flowers?” You bite back a smile. He doesn’t know how you often pulled the drawer open and just gazed upon the items. It helped you visualize it all even when the fear threatened to take over. Another child, and here she was. You’d been most drawn to the little yellow flowers. 

Joel laughs, grabbing the onsie and the swaddle with little yellow flowers to match. You’re gentle with her as you work the small article of clothing over her tiny body. It’s a bit baggy, but you can’t complain. It just means she can wear it for longer. She sleeps through all the jostling as if she’s fully absorbed her middle name. 

She’s settled back into your arms when a soft tap echoes on your door. “Mommy?” Carter’s voice comes through muffled. 

“You can come in.”

The door flies open as your son bursts through the door, grin spread wide on his face. Ellie stands behind him, looking like the space might envelope her.

 “Aunt Maria said I have a baby sister.” 

“You want to meet her?” you ask. 

Carter nods eagerly, dashing toward your bed. Joel catches him before he can jump onto the bed beside you and potentially on you. 

“Daddy!” Carter’s eyes go wide. He hasn’t seen Joel in almost two weeks. 

Joel laughs, arms tightening around the boy. “Hey, bud.”

Your eyes meet Ellie’s. Her eyes are red, bags deep underneath. You motion her next to you. She hesitates before sliding onto the bed beside you. She’s timid, keeping to the edge, eyes flicking over you and Willa. 

“You can get closer.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I never got to hug you earlier.” 

She looks down, eyes scanning over your comforter like she’s reliving her homecoming. Once she’s close enough, your arm slips around her shoulders, tugging her close. She nuzzles into your side like a child seeking comfort. “You’re alright?” she asks.

“Yeah… we both are.” You say, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“But I’m still sorry you’re going through this.”

Ellie seems to sink into your further, eyes pinned to Willa. She doesn’t answer you. She doesn’t look at Joel as he sinks next to you with Carter, but you feel her tense when he does. 

“What’s her name?” Ellie asks. 

“Willa,” you reply. 

“Baby Willa.” Carter grins proudly. 

And the five of you sit there together in silence. You try to push it out of your head that it’s the last time you all might be together for a while. Even now, you feel the underlying anger rolling through Ellie’s body. This is a wound that’s been festering. It’s going to take time to heal. 

Eventually, Ellie slips from your side without a word to leave. She’s barely out the door when Joel goes after her. 

“Ellie,” Joel says, catching her on the front porch.

Her head whips around, expression set in stone. “I’m here for them, not you.” She keeps her voice low to not be overheard by nosy neighbors. “They’re my family. Do you understand?” 

Joel’s apology catches in his throat. He’s been apologizing the whole way back from Salt Lake. He knows there’s nothing he can say to rush this process. He made a decision, and these are his consequences. “Yeah… I got it.”

“Good.” 

She doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else.  

The bed is empty next to you, the sheets cool to the touch. Your eyes blink open. Cool moonlight shines through the window. You glance at the bathroom door. No light shines through the crease. Joel’s name is on your lips, interrupted by his voice. 

“Do you like the butterflies?” 

You turn to your side. Joel sits next to the crib, talking to Willa. She’s awake, moonlight reflecting off her big eyes. She’s content and still. 

“Your big sister liked butterflies. When they come out in the summertime, I feel her around me.”

She stares at Joel, mesmerized by his voice. Your eyes float upward to the mobile Joel made. He hadn’t explained it to you, but you already knew. Sarah had pinned them all throughout their Austin home. You keep one stuck to the window above the kitchen sink. There’s one tucked in his nightstand drawer. 

“I think she sent you to me.” He lets it sit there, contemplating the weight and depth of what he said. “I think she sent you to me, your momma, Ellie, I suppose she’s your big sister too, Carter. All of you.

“Her name was Sarah. She would have loved you.” He chuckles. “She used to ask me for a baby brother or sister. I didn’t know your momma yet… Well, I guess I did, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

You stifle a laugh unsuccessfully. Joel’s eyes lock on yours. He smiles, shooting you a wink. He looks younger under the moonlight, more at ease. The creases in his skin are less apparent. 

“Your momma, she’s quite a bit younger than me.” The smile stays pinned to his face. “It’s not so creepy now- least that’s what she tells me- but it would’ve been then, and I was a decent fella back before the world went to shit. Besides, between you and me.” He leans closer to Willa’s ear, but his eyes are still on you. “Your momma had a pretty big crush on me back then.”

You groan, heat flushing your cheeks. It shouldn’t be embarrassing, but it is. You chuck his pillow at him. Joel catches it, laughing. It’s the kind that sits deep in one’s chest and bubbles up with the purest kind of joy. You can’t help but smile. 

He slowly stands, grunting as he does. You hear the familiar pop of his joints. He leans into the crib. You notice Willa’s eyes have fallen shut. “I love you, my little wildflower.” He kisses her cheek before falling back into bed next to you. 

His arm wraps around your waist. Pulling you close, he steals a kiss on your forehead. “I’m getting too old to sit on the floor like that.”

“You’re getting too old to have a newborn, yet here we are.” Your fingers run through his hair. 

“Still can’t believe she’s here… you’re both healthy.”

“Neither can I.” You glance back at the crib. She’s just a few days old and already, you can’t imagine life without her. 

Tears well at the corner of your eyes. Your heart has grown so much. You thought you couldn’t open it to more people, yet here you are. The you of 4 years ago would be too terrified of losing this life to give it a chance, the price of pain too high. Yet here you are, embracing it, taking that risk, because this is living, and the love and belonging far outweigh the potential for pain even as it grows with every passing day. You fell into the trap,and it’s a crowded one, but it’s a happy one. 

Joel kisses your cheek. “You should get some sleep before she wakes up hungry.” 

“Mmm,” you hum as his hands move soothingly over your back. “Someone not named Willa woke me up.”

Joel chuckles. “I’m sorry, Sweetheart.”

But even now you feel your eyelids getting heavier. 

“Did you mean what you said?”

“About?”

You let your eyes fall shut as Joel massages out a knot in your back. You lean into it. “About Sarah sending us to you.”

“I did.” He kisses your forehead. 

Taglist: @pedrotonin @amyispxnk @joeldjarin @ilovepedro @justagalwhowrites

@missladym1981 @jessthebaker @annieispunk @ashleyfilm @moel-jiller

@eloquentdreamer @lizzie-cakes @hiroikegawa

[pedroshotwifey]

Ahoy Hottie! 💜🥩💜 you know I gotta do it to ‘em…

#9 & chubby!Frankie x f!reader 🥩 or just a plain ol’ fat frankie… I’m not picky.

Beefro👌🥩💜

Hey, Beefro! I can't tell you how excited I was to see this request! Hopefully I did fat Frankie justice 😘

Good 'n' Deep

Pairing: Fat!Frankie x f!reader

Word Count: 2.6k (oops 😅)

Tags/warnings: finger fucking, oral, multiple orgasms, piv sex, slight overstimulation, soft dom frankie, mentions of weigh gain, dirty talk, smut, fluff, idiots in love, manhandling, frankie being a fucking unit

Summary: Fat Frankie can't be sated.

*****

You get home late. And feeling awful. 

It was supposed to be date night with your husband, but the boss kept you in for overtime. You know Frankie doesn’t mind, and reassured you about forty times that it’s not your fault, but you still hate to skip it. But as he says, you always go out on Fridays, and the two of you have plenty of Fridays to make up for this one. 

It’s not much, but you did pick up dinner at Frankie’s favorite fast food place on your way home. He doesn’t know yet, and you’re excited to at least surprise him with that. It’s a bit on the expensive side, but definitely worth it—both in the sense that it’s fucking delicious, but also that you’ll be able to see Frankie excited. 

“Babe,” you call into the dark house as you toe your shoes off. You smile when you hear Frankie’s quick footfall coming right for you. He wraps you in a hug as soon as he gets to you, engulfing you in his warmth and immediately relieving some of your stress. 

He leans down and kisses you gently, but only for a second because he’s suddenly very distracted by a certain smell. 

“Ohhh, baby,” he groans, hands already reaching for the paper bag in your hand. “You’re the fuckin’ best.” 

He plants a kiss on your head as you giggle. “You’re welcome, baby.”  

You both walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table, pulling your food out of the bags. Frankie looks excited, just as you’d hoped he would be. He looks so good right now, wearing his gray sweatpants, his standard oil cap (which you swear he has separation anxiety with), and an old, white tank. There’s a ketchup stain on the front from about a year ago that just never came out in the wash. You also notice that it’s gotten a good bit tighter since then—definitely one of those shirts that Frankie keeps trying to convince himself that fits. 

You won’t burst his bubble or anything, but he’ll need to try a bit harder, because there’s no way he’s fooling anyone. A sliver of his pudgy tummy peeks out from the bottom of the tank that used to cover him completely. The fabric hugs him tightly, probably just on the side of not being painful even though it’s being stretched to its limit. It used to hang loosely on him, but he’s gained a good bit of weight since the two of you have been together. You smile to yourself at that, glad to see him looking so happy and taken care of. 

He groans as he takes the first bite of his burger. 

“Fuck, thank you again, baby,” he says through a mouthful of food. You nod at him, mouth full as well. 

The two of you talk about your days as you devour your food, you finishing quicker than Frankie but staying at the table while he finishes his other burger and large fry. He tells you that his day went pretty good. All the guys showed up at work and there wasn’t an issue to keep them on the job for longer than necessary. 

You wait until he finishes his last fry before you start to pick up the trash. You take his cap off of his head as you walk by him so you can brush his hair back and place a gentle kiss on top of his head. He smiles warmly at you when you put his cap back on and move to throw the trash away. You glance at the clock, biting your lip as you decide there’s probably a bit of time to do something before you go to sleep. 

“You want to watch a movie, Frank?” 

He hms thoughtfully as you walk back toward him. “Maybe, " he says. 

You move to pass where he’s still sitting at the table, but you’re quickly stopped and pulled into his lap, both of your legs draped over his thighs. You yelp and wrap your arms around his neck for stability. 

“Think I’d rather have a snack though,” he says through a grin as he rubs the side of his face against yours. He then rotates your body so that you’re leaning against his back.  

“Frankie, honey,” you giggle despite catching his meaning. “You just ate!” 

You turn and poke his full stomach to prove your point, but he only grunts and holds you tighter.

“I’m feeling greedy,” he rasps into your ear as he grinds his hardening length into your ass. “Need my dessert.” 

You shiver, lust staring to cloud your head. Leave it to this man to want to fuck you after a huge meal. He doesn’t wait for you to respond as he lifts your shirt up and you raise your arms for him to tug it off. Your bra is next, discarded on the floor next to you within seconds. 

You give in—which isn’t very hard—and let yourself relax into him. You moan and he leans down to lick up the side of your neck, his beefy hand traveling even lower to worm itself beneath the band of your panties. He finds your clit quickly and immediately starts to rub circles just the way you like. Your hips buck a bit as you crane your neck to devour his plush lips with yours. 

“Mm-Frankie,” you whimper against him as your thighs begin to tremble. You feel him smirk against you in return but say nothing. All you can focus on is the building of your orgasm, that addicting feeling tugging deep inside of you with a promise for more. 

He lets his fingers slip down to your hole and gather the slick there before bringing it back up to create a smooth movement atop your bud, his hand moving faster and faster until the coil snaps and you’re crying out and convulsing on top of him. His other hand wraps around you to stop your thighs from closing, forcing you to prolong your pleasure as he keeps up his slowing movements.

You’re panting when you come down to your high, practically drooling with the back of your head planted on Frankie’s shoulder. You’re not sure when that happened, you leaning back and clutching his forearms so tightly that there’ll be nail marks when you let him go. 

He chuckles darkly as you release him from your clawing grip, trying to calm your breathing. You’re only slightly aware of him helping you off of his lap to stand. He takes your hand and leads you to the bedroom. You must only be in there for a half-second before he’s pushing you down on your back and dragging you until your ass is basically hanging off the edge of the bed. 

“Frankie!” You screech his name at all the movement, the way he’s man-handling you. He only smiles cheekily through the grunt he lets out as he gets down on his knees in front of your cunt to kiss the inside of your thigh. 

“Sorry, hermosa,” he coos. Though he’s very obviously not that sorry because he goes right to practically ripping your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t even bother yelping or reprimanding him this time. You know that he’s determined now, and Frankie Morales doesn’t relent until he gets what he wants.

He’s back at your cunt—in your cunt—before you can blink. You scream as he burrows the entire lower half of his face into your soaked folds and grasps your legs over his shoulders. Your hands fly to his hair, knocking his cap off in the process of getting to his thick, soft curls between your fingers. He moans sharply as you tug, unintentionally forcing him closer to you. You don’t worry too much, you know he loves it. He once told you that he would die a happy man if you ever got tired of him and chose to suffocate him in your sweet pussy. 

He licks and sucks at a furious pace, completely skipping a buildup and going right to the action. It’s unbelievable to you how quickly he manages to make you come sometimes. You yell his name as he eats you out like he’s mad at you. It’s so fucking good, this blinding pleasure making your entire body shake and your blood run firey hot. And you know he loves it just as much as you do.

You start to fall limp again, sweat covering your entire body as he keeps drinking you up. You hiss, your body bucking as you pull on his hair again to try to get him off of you. You’re about to tell him you need a break, but then he suddenly has a finger gliding into your hole, and then two, and you don’t get the chance as your second orgasm melds into your third. He finger-fucks you at an inhuman pace, almost hurting your poor pussy with how hard he shoves them into you as he sucks harshly on your clit. The sounds are obscene even through the blood you hear pumping in your ears. 

He starts to slow after you ride out your third high, though you’re not sure if it’s because he’s taking pity on you or if he genuinely just can’t handle not being inside you for another second. You assume it’s the latter as you listen to the sound of his clothes being tugged off, one arm thrown over your eyes as you try to collect yourself. 

“God, you look fucking gorgeous, baby,” Frankie groans as he admires your limp, sweat-slicked body. 

You lift your arm to find him between your messy thighs again, this time standing over you. Despite the three fucking orgasms he just gifted you, you feel your cunt clench at the sight of him standing so imposingly in front of you. He’s so fucking big and intimidating. He’s stripped all the way, as naked as you now, letting you see every inch of his gorgeous damn body. 

He watches you with a gaze that tells you he’s in the mood to pound you through the damn mattress. You find yourself excited, despite already being sore, as he takes a step forward and lines up his blunt tip with your slippery hole. You whimper and grip the sheets as he starts to make shallow thrusts to push in, stretching you despite your excessive preparation and the amount of times he’s had you before. 

He moans right along with you, gripping your hips and pulling you onto him. Your eyes roll back and your mouth drops open once he’s fully seated and breathing heavily above you. 

“Fucking christ, baby. You’re so fucking tight,” he accentuates the last word by pulling out slightly and thrusting hard back into you, making your back arch when he slams into that spot deep inside of you. 

He starts at a slow but forceful pace, making you see stars every time he pushes himself in. You watch him with hooded eyes, admiring how gorgeous he looks when his own eyes close and his lips part. His pelvis comes flush with your ass each time and he uses the opportunity to grind into you, rubbing your walls in a way that makes you want to cry. Actually, you think you are. It’s only now that you feel tears start to leak down your ruddy cheeks.

Frankie must have opened his eyes at some point while you were lost in your head, because he’s suddenly letting out a breathy laugh and using one hand to thumb away the tears. Your toes curl at the gentle touch compared with the brutal treatment of your cunt.

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos. “I know it’s a lot.” 

God, he feels so good leaning over you. You want him closer—need him closer. 

“F-Frankie,” you manage to get out. “N-Need you closer.” 

He smirks at you and thrusts a bit faster, pushing you up the bed and leaning over you to kiss you deeply. One hand stays on your hip as the other cradles your face, keeping you where he wants as he devours your lips in a messy kiss. You wrap your arms and legs around his broad body, smiling a bit when they don’t wrap around him all the way. You love when he overwhelms you like this, completely trapping you under him as he pummels into you. He’s barely even pulling out now, just slapping his hips to yours as fast as he can as he whines and moans into your mouth. The grip he has on your hip is crushing, but it feels good because it’s him. 

The coil is tightening once again within you, making everything go hazy as you focus solely on how he edges you closer and closer with every slam of his cockhead against your cervix. 

He’s getting frantic, too. You can tell by the way he loses control of the kiss and his thrusts get even shorter. 

“F-Frankie,” you mumble into his lips. “M-More.” 

He picks up the pace yet again, making you scream when he hits a spot that you didn’t even know existed. You jolt against him, startled but the burst of pleasure that sparks through you. 

“M-More,” you beg him again, panting so hard you think you might pass out. You need more. More of him inside you, on top of you. You need everything to be filled with him until there’s no room for anything else. 

“‘M so close, baby,” he whines to you. 

“Frankie, please!” 

He growls against you and tugs back, slipping out of you with a lewd squelch. You don’t have time to cry out from the loss though, because he’s back in an instant to grab you and flip you over on your stomach. Then he’s over you again, slamming back into you with a single thrust. You’re forced to stay flat, your hands scrambling for purchase in front of you until he drapes himself completely over you, threading your fingers through his so he can use them as leverage to fuck deep into you. 

“Better?” He grunts out, almost angrily. He’s so heavy above you, using all of the force he has to nail you into the bed in furious ruts, the entire thing moving with each pound into you. You can’t respond though, finding your voice trapped in your throat as you convulse around him. You’ve never come this hard in your life, even with him. It’s what you wished for—to be so overwhelmed that everything else is purely pushed from you. It’s all static right now, your brain, your body. You think you may scream his name, but it might have been a bunch of gibberish.

“This what you need?” he asks as he fucks furiously down into you. To be fucked good—hmng—good an’ deep?” 

You use what’s left of your fried brain to nod beneath him, practically drooling onto the bed sheets. 

“F’kn deep,” you slur, half-delirious. 

You let him continue to pound into you until grunts loudly beside your ear and you feel his cum spurting into you. It makes you moan again, the way he keeps fucking it deeper and deeper into you. You quiver and he groans as he starts to come down himself, joining you once again in the real world. Your ears are still ringing and your entire body feels like you got tossed off of a mountain and possibly into a bit of lava, but you find yourself laughing once Frankie untagles your fingers and rolls to the side, taking you with him. 

He starts to laugh with you, neither of you saying a word but knowing exactly what the other is thinking. Which is something along the lines of ‘holy shit’. Despite your sweaty bodies, you sink back into him and let him hold you close, both of you stuck in giggling fits and sharing little kisses until you fall asleep a minute later.

*****

Want to read more requests or submit your own? Check this out!

[virtualreader]

silver blade

deanwinchesterxfem!reader

summary: reader heroically kills a shapeshifter to save Dean, but not without getting hurt in the process. When the blood covering the reader's hands, nearly triggers a panic attack, Dean is quick to comfort her.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: gore, not natural creatures (if u know, u know), anxiety, panic attack, blood, grotesque killing, wounds, emotional shock. could be read as romantic or platonic.

a/n: i live for hurt/comfort fics. also, i thrive on feedback, so don't think twice and send me some! constructive criticism is also welcomed!

"Dammit, Dean," you cursed under your breath as you tried calling Dean, only to be sent straight to voicemail once again. To say you were exasperated was an understatement. You couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that was starting to creep up on you. “Where the hell are you, guys?”

As little as a single missed call was enough to seed concern within you. One—they had probably walked into a crowded bar. Two—Dean had most likely found a chick worth flirting with. Nine in the span of two hours? Nine voicemail messages and no sign neither of the brothers were still alive? Now that was downright worrisome.

You slid the combination 11-02-83 into the lock, and it opened immediately with a subdued click. You had been with the Winchesters long enough to have figured out the access code to the weapons compartment. Nonetheless, you were still finding your feet in the supernatural world, not having ever seen any of the creatures you read about.

With one hand, you scrambled to lift the bottom of the trunk, gaining access to the secret compartment John had built in the '67 Impala Dean insisted on nicknaming baby.

If there was anything you had a grasp of, it was lore beyond doubt. Therefore, you sifted meticulously through the vast array of weapons until you finally laid your eyes on the one you had been seeking—a glistening silver knife, ornately engraved. Legend has it both silver bullets and silver-bladed weapons were lethal to shapeshifters, the very creature Sam and Dean were after.

As you became aware of your scarce fighting skills, you hesitated for a moment and second-guessed your brash decision to defy the blunt order to stay in the motel the Winchesters had given you. Instead of backing down and following said instructions, you headed towards the nearest sewer cleanout driven and determined, and trawled the cover aside with great effort.

With the silver knife in hand, you descended into the sewers, climbing down the rank, rusty ladder, diligently making it to the bottom. You jumped off onto the ground, which you found to be swamped with turbid water. Or at least that was what you hoped the muddy puddles soaking your feet up to the socks were.

The air was humid, and the sewer halls were silent except for the rhythmic dripping of leak drops splashing on the concrete. You took a deep, shaky breath, wondering how Sam and Dean managed to remain level-headed during hunts, especially given the unforeseen aftermath.

You were undoubtedly scared—terrified even. You bore in mind all the plausible deadly outcomes facing a creature as powerful as a shapeshifter entailed. Yet, not even that did withhold you from sacrificing your own safety for the sake of the two boys who had become your family over the past year.

You were willing to pay your weight in blood if it was their lives at stake. Without them by your side, life would only be reduced to a meaningless solitary existence. So you might as well devote yourself to wrestling them from the peril you sensed they were in.

You crept through the dark, dank sewers, your grip on the silver knife tightening with each step, refraining it from slipping from your moist trembling hands. You couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was watching you, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce at any moment.

The stench was overwhelming, and you had to cover your nose with your free hand to avoid gagging. But you knew that giving up was not an option. You had come too far to turn back at this point.

You dropped your gaze to the concrete beneath your feet, scrutinizing the ground in search of any signs indicating Sam and Dean’s whereabouts.

One, two, three blood droplets stained the cement and left behind a vague trail. It was a somewhat chilling sight, and your thoughts immediately went to the possibility of the guys being wounded.

Barely a few feet before you laid a mucilaginous shred of skin. Next to it was a clump of dark hair, matted and tangled, still attached to its corresponding patch of torn skin. You shuddered at the realization that those gruesome remnants irrefutably belonged to the shapeshifter.

Faint grunts died out in the distance. It sounded human, and you recognized them as Dean’s. You tensed up, gripping the small bladed weapon steady in your hand.

With an adrenaline rush pumping through your veins, you crept towards the direction of the sound. The grunts grew louder, and you could now hear the pained sounds of Dean's voice as clear as day. Your heart leaped into your throat, and you picked up the pace, sprinting through the dark corridors.

You skidded to a stop as you came upon the scene. Eyes narrowed and brows raised, you did your utmost to wrap your head around the commotion you witnessed before you.

Sam laid sprawled on the floor, his mouth stuffed with a smudge rag. There was sweat and blood coating his face and clothes and his chest inflated and deflated frantically as he struggled against the plastic flange restraining his wrists.

Your attention then turned to Dean, who was pressed against the wall with his body tense with pain and fear. There was another loud thud, the broad creature gripping Dean's jacket collar tossed him onto the ground, the sound echoing throughout the sewer's hallways. Dean gasped in pain, and your heart sank even further at the sight of his helplessness.

“Y/n…get outta...here...” he spoke falteringly in a hushed tone when he registered your presence.

You followed his gaze, and your eyes locked with the shapeshifter's dusky ones. The creature’s features were practically indistinguishable under the dim light seeping through the storm drains, yet the illumination was sufficient for you to discern its current shape.

It was not human, you acknowledged that fact in its entirety. But it sure resembled a person, and not just any person. The shapeshifter, whose eyes were currently fixated on your unnerved shaky figure, had taken on Sam's form with such accuracy it left you utterly bewildered, propelling your mind into an insurmountable surge of confusion.

Its gaze was intense, almost otherworldly, and it seemed to be studying you with a cold detachment that sent shivers down your spine. The shapeshifter seemed to be waiting for your next move, but you froze, clueless as to how to act in the face of his defiant demeanor. And with each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to engulf you in a tidal and paralyzing wave of haze and dread.

You felt compelled to pin your hopes on your self-reliance in order to beat the creature down. After mustering all your courage, you leaped to Dean’s defense. Without hesitation, you charged forward, brandishing the silver knife that you had retrieved from the Impala's weapons compartment.

The smug laugh of the shapeshifter only fueled your determination to protect the brothers at any cost. You saw red. With a swift motion, you plunged the blade into the shapeshifter's chest, slicing and carving it wide open out of fury, and it let out a bloodcurdling screech as it fell to the ground, lifeless.

What seemed blatant moments ago became now an incertitude, as you saw what appeared to be Sam's inanimate body on the concrete. Even if the real Sam drew breath a stone's throw away from you, growing ever more relieved as Dean aided in freeing him from the restraints, the thought of having killed the younger Winchester brother eclipsed your brain.

“I’d never peg you as the stabbing type,” joked Dean trying to alleviate the tension in the atmosphere as he helped Sam to get up, earning a sheepish 'thank you' from the younger brother. He then turned his attention to you. “Jeez, y/n, white paint has more color than your face.”

You took a step backward staring down to your hands, absolutely unable to hear what Dean was saying, let alone fathom it out. Blood was all you saw, blood drenching your hands from the very fingertips all the way up to your elbow.

When your only response to his jokes was silence, Dean began to realize that something was off. In a desperate attempt to get you to snap out of your distressed paralysis, he grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you slightly.

You looked at him, trying to discern his worried features through your foggy vision. You felt trapped inside your own mind, unable to break free from the suffocating weight of your thoughts.

"Everything's spinning, De," you muttered as you managed to loosen the knot that had formed in your throat. "Please, make it stop.”

"I promise you—your head is the only thing spinning right now," he said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. "You did good, y/n/n. You saved my ass back there."

Your usually regular and calmed breathing pattern developed into a shallow, rapid one. You could feel your heart hammering at great speed in your chest, which caused the veins in your neck to throb and made you feel rather light-headed.

"Hey, hey, hey. I've got you. I've got you," Dean whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace not willing to let you fall when he saw you swaying, and losing balance. "Just listen to my heartbeat, okay?"

You hummed in response, utterly unable to voice your distress. You could hear and feel the wallop of his heart, forcefully rapid yet steady and calming, along with the resounding sounds of his voice inside his chest. You clung to him for dear life, feeling his strong arms around you as you kept a white-knuckled grip on his plain flannel.

"That's it. Just focus on that," he reassured you, rubbing his hand up and down your back, your breathing gradually returning to its even pattern. "You're safe now. It's over."

As soon as you were out of the sewer, Dean ushered you to the Impala opening the door for you to enter the back passenger seat. As much as he loved baby, getting her bloodstained was not a problem as long as he got you safe and comfy.

The ride lasted hardly ten minutes, although to your clouded senses it felt everlasting. You made a futile attempt to divert your attention from the dry blood coating your hands to the sparse traffic outside, before your mind was dragged into the abysmal hole of anguish that the earlier incident had dug into your psyche one more time.

Throughout the ride, Sam kept asking if you were okay every now and then, displaying a genuine concern for your well-being. He knew how traumatic the experience must have been for you and wanted to make sure you were coping. His kind words and comforting presence helped soothe your frazzled nerves, even if only slightly.

Truth was you were far from okay. You were grappling with a multitude of emotions that were threatening to consume you, and the weight of your thoughts felt suffocating.

Meanwhile, Dean would occasionally shoot glances your way through the rear-view mirror, silently checking on you to make sure you were holding up. Despite his tough exterior and being kind of rough around the edges, he was quick to show his caring and nurturing side when it came to you.

The car rolled down the highway, the engine humming softly as Dean expertly downshifted gears, slowly bringing the vehicle to a smooth stop in the motel's parking lot.

You stumbled out of the car, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Dean rushed to your side, supporting you with a hand on your back.

"Easy there, champ," he said, concern lacing his voice. "Let's get you cleaned up and patched up, yeah?"

You nodded weakly, grateful for his support. It was then that you noticed the large gash on your forearm, which must have been incurred during the prior wrestling. How could you have missed it before?

The keys clattered as Sam unlocked the door to your assigned room, pushing it open gently. The three of you entered the motel's bedroom, steps heavy as your energy was depleted.

While Sam tended to his own injuries, Dean took you to the bathroom, where he turned on the tap and began to gently wash away the blood that coated your hands and arms. The touch of his fingers was soothing, and you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of relief as the water washed away the evidence of the shapeshifter's blood.

In spite of his sarcastic jokes, you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean was mad. And he had every right to be.

You looked up at him, feeling guilty for disobeying orders and putting yourself in danger. The instructions were clear—stay safe and focus on research. They had let you take charge of the investigation duty reluctantly, let alone get fully involved in the hunting business. But you found it impossible to resist the urge, you couldn’t stay in the motel doing nothing knowing they could be in trouble.

Notwithstanding the potential fallout, Dean didn't scold you. Instead, he patiently led you to the toilet, he retrieved the newly restocked first aid kit and gently placed it on the countertop.

“I'm sorry,” you said in a whisper. "You weren't answering my calls. I got worried sick. I'm sorry."

Dean leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"No need to be, sweetheart," he said softly, tossing his resentment for your disobedient behaviour to the back of his mind. "As much as I hate to admit this, you did what had to be done. You saved us back there."

He proceeded to tend to your wound, his touch light and careful as he cleaned and bandaged the gash on your forearm. You couldn't help but feel grateful for his presence, for his unwavering support and understanding.

As he finished up, he looked up at you with a small empathetic smile.

"You wanna crash in my room tonight?" he asked. "I promise to keep the nightmares away."

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

The knowledge that he was there with you, ready to support you through thick and thin, was a comforting thought. With Dean by your side, you knew you could get through anything.

[kennastromboli]

i'm right here, baby - c.s

in which ~ harper attempts to end her life and chris saves her before it's too late (happy ending!)

warnings ~ self harm, ed, death threats, mentions of death, hospitals, needles, anxiety, (whatever triggers)

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

chris was never a boyfriend who ignored your own thoughts and feelings, instead he'd think your own was better than his.

for example, he said he wanted to have a steak dinner, but that didn't strike your fancy, so he told nick to turn the grill off and save the steak for later.

or, when he didn't want taylor swift but remembered you're a huge fan, so he told matt to turn on "long live"

but today, you thought of the worst.

what if, he was only doing this to make you happy?

no, thats stupid.

scrolling on the comments of your latest instagram post of you and the triplets at the beach, your heart dropped, all filled with "kill yourself ugly bitch" or "i can see your bones"

you've had major body issues since that one kid on playground said you looked like santa claus at 8 years old, after suffering an eating disorder your freshmen year, and the aftermath, familes telling you to gain weight, you did, but they still told you to.

a few days later, the death threats keep on getting worse, you told chris that you could ignore it, but really, you were refusing help, which lead you to sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, looking at your prescripted meds for depression.

you open the orange capsule, looking at the blue 200 mg tablets, wondering,

is it worth it? really?

without heasiation, you consume all of them, at first, you felt fine and stood up,

then blacked out.

chris found your unconscious body and started sobbing, screaming for matt and nick, the hurt in his voice was unbearable, all of their voices at that moment were unbearable.

nick struggles to call the ambulance as he's shaking, matt helps him as chris looks at the orange bottle, with nothing in it now.

the paramedics rush in, taking you away, all three of them quickly follow.

you were rushed in as the doctors hook up the machines, chris couldn't even bare to see his girl like this, thinking of the worst.

the doctors don't know if you're going to make it, by all the pills you've took.

chris cries as the doctors try to console him, he doesn't want to lose his girlfriend, he really doesn't.

the doctors say that they can do life shock to see if you'd wake up.

chris nods, his vision blurry from his tears.

the doctor preforms life shock as chris holds your hand

"c'mon harper..." he mumbles

the room went silent, thinkng you didn't make it

suddenly, your eyes flutter open, IV's in both arms, vitals, heart monitor, breathing tube, what the hell happened?

chris smiles widely as he kisses your head, "baby,"

you regain consciousness, "where, where am i?"

chris takes a deep breath, "you almost died."

hearing that makes your heart drop,

"you scared us baby, i thought you were going to die in front of me."

no words said by you, you move over so he can sit on the bed, you pat a spot for him, and he sits there, carefully wrapping you in his embrace

"i'm sorry.." you choke out

"no no no, don't be sorry, you should've told me sooner though,"

he sighs

"and always remember,"

he leans in and whispers,

"i'm right here baby."

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

a/n: tysm for reading! i upload fluff for fun, and i'm planning on making a couple of oneshots.

kiss kiss, makenna

tags!

@24kmar @cherib3lla @bratzforchris

[bessiejoan]

Astrology: How trauma lives in the body via Mars signs

Warning - Content may be triggering. Reach out to those who love you and medical professionals when you need.

Aries Mars - Headaches, migraines, rapid heart rate, physical burn out and poor eye sight. Sudden outburst of anger and risk taking behaviour. May have an urge to carry a weapon as protection. Exercise, laughter and childhoid nostalgia can be healing.

Taurus Mars - Neck pain, throat conditions and infliction of the voice. Negatively affects the self worth. Healthy relationship with food and love is healing.

Gemini Mars - Hands and arms can feel shakey. Nervousness and tingles in the body. Hormonal deregulation. Trauma may be sibling related or occurred during teenage years. Ruled by Mercury, so self talk and words directly influence the body. Working with the hands can be healing, such as drawing, writing, video games and touch therapy. Strenuous physical exercise can be triggering, as the heart races the mind may experience this sensation as anxiety causing the mind to race faster. Therefore, relaxation exercises may be more therapeutic.

Cancer Mars - Can suffer from stomach problems, breast pain, lack of energy and digestive issues. Gaining weight and water retention around the stomach. Ruled by the moon, so the wellbeing and safety of the moon sign will have a direct affect on the body. Trauma within the body is likely to be family related or passed down from the maternal line. Water is healing. Swim in it, bath in it, drink it.

Leo Mars - Back pain, chest pain, heart pain. Inflicted solar plexus, causing the chest to cave inwards in an attempt to protect the heart and soul. Ruled by the sun, the self worth and life force directly affect the physical. Trauma within the body may be related to the Father or passed down through the paternal line. The sun, summertime, creativity and warmth is healing.

Virgo Mars - Nervousness in the body and hormonal deregulation. Unexplained illness or diseases. Feeling "dirty" or tainted. Ruled by Mercury, so self talk is absorbed by the body. It is important to keep the mind as healthy as the body. Physical injuries may occur as the body is pushed to be strong and healthy despite the mind.

Libra Mars - Lower back pain, ulsers and poor kidney health. Trauma may be relationship related or was a great injustices due to power dynamics. Witholds anger in the body. Believes they have rejected the feeling of anger, but they actually just suppress it.

Scorpio Mars - May manifest as sexual dysfunction, pain during sex or inflicting self-harm. Truama could have been deeply psychological. Can be prone to anger outbursts, which is triggered by their fear of being attacked or betrayed. The body may feel overwhelmed with emotion and pain. There is a strong need to re-gain strength and power. Exploring sexuality and the subconscious is empowering and deeply healing.

Sagittarius Mars - Truama can manifest physically as weight gain and discomfort in their thighs and hips. Ruled by Jupiter, the body heals when there is connection to spirituality, freedom and joy. Travelling can be physically healing.

Capricorn Mars - Restricting food, overeating, excessive exercise or burning their body out through work. Immensely self critical of the body. Aches in the bones and suffering skin conditions or scars. At times it may feel as if the skeleton wants to escape the body. Trauma is linked to the Father or people in positions of power.

Aquarius Mars - The body can feel alien or unusual to the person. Sudden disconnection to the physical self. Sudden outburst of emotions or anger. Trauma within the body may be linked to those in positions of power or social groups. Embracing their uniqueness is healing. May change their appearance or physical presentation suddenly as a way to re-establish ownership of the body.

Pisces Mars - Struggling to connect to the body and can disassociate. Pain in the feet. Difficulty feeling grounded and connected to the earth. Dance is healing and empowering.

You can also look at where Pluto is in the corresponding house, eg. Pluto in 12th = Mars in Pisces

[es-draws]

Have you had any luck coming out to someone who isnt into this fetish? Im honestly really scared to open up about it to my gf. Has anyone ever been accepting of it?

Yes, actually. I introduced this to my partner ,and she's shocked me with how supportive she's been.

My partner was always thin, albeit with a naturally curvy figure. Despite that, she always suffered from a lot of self-confidence issues around her size and weight. I discovered that her ex had shamed her for being "too fat," and it made her really self-conscious about her size. I was really worried that telling her about my kink would only reinforce to her that she was fat, and make her feel even worse about herself. Instead I made sure to constantly remind her how sexy I found her, no matter her size. And I reinforced to her that her worth was not tied to being thin, and she was deserving and worthy of love just for who she was.

Eventually, when we were more comfortable talking about our kinks, I told her I had a belly fetish. She literally said "Wait, you mean I could gain weight and you'd still find me sexy? Are you literally perfect?"

I explained more about feedism to her, although I made sure she knew that I didn't want or expect her to gain. But I think knowing how I felt made her a lot more comfortable in her body. She always loved food and eating, and over the past six months she's gained naturally just through enjoying food. She used to hover around 125 lbs. Today she's probably closer to 150.

Honestly though, what surprises me most is how much she's gotten into the kink herself. She'll tease me by pointing out how tight her pants are, or how she's spilling out of her bras. She loves to comment on how thick and round her ass is, and how much it bounces and jiggles. She's even gotten comfortable showing off her belly, which has in fact gotten noticeably rounder and softer. She's started saying things like "look how much bigger and softer you're making me" and "I love how much I'm growing for you." The ultimate dream was hearing her say that me touching her belly was starting to get her turned on too.

Don't get me wrong, it's not all perfect. She still suffers from a lot of anxiety about her size. She doesn't really want to gain more, and when we're not in bed she feels guilty about looking bigger. But she's told me she doesn't want to worry about her weight anymore. She told me how much my support has helped her overcome her anxiety. It's obvious she feels so much better about herself now. And overall I feel really, really lucky.

So yeah, I absolutely think you can share this fetish with someone who doesn't have it themself. If my partner and I can do it, I think anyone can too.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for getting a total permanent disability discharge on my loan and leaving my cosigner father fully responsible ?

background: in fall 2020 I started college. not directly out of high school because of mental and physical health problems but a year later. this was community college, but I was very financially unprepared. i honestly didn’t know anything about how student loans or paying for college worked. but the year I spent at home was very stressful as my parents always told me “get a job, go to school, or move out” and all options were extremely difficult for me physically and mentally. I tried to explain this to them for years but they never really listened so I felt backed into a corner. We are also not very well off and my parents have never been able to set aside a “college fund” for any of us and expect us to financially handle ourselves, because there wasn’t much other choice. I got some federal loans and some grants but it ended up not being enough, and I didn’t realize that until halfway into my first semester. I spent a lot of time panicking, feeling suicidal, really unsure what to do and didn’t really know where to even start resolving the situation, all exacerbated by a severe untreated anxiety disorder. Eventually my dad agreed to cosign an $8k private loan. Fast forward to fall 2021 and I had to drop out, because of financial, medical and emotional reasons. I once again (due to a different mistake) didn’t have the funds to continue the semester and this time we absolutely could not afford another loan. In January 2022, my disabilities became more severe and now I could not attend school even if I had the means, let alone participate in gainful employment. Federal loans were on pause but that did not apply to the $8k loan, which is now over $10k due to interest. It has absolutely made my familys financial situation worse and made me suicidal. I am applying for SSI but always knowing i’ll have this massive loan hanging over my head makes life feel not worth living. if I didn’t have this loan (and if my federal TPD gets accepted) I would feel a massive weight lifted off my shoulders. I don’t know if I gain much from taking this loan I cannot pay and putting it solely on my fathers shoulders will help anything…but it does make the end of the tunnel look a little brighter. WIBTA?

What are these acronyms?

[shallowseeker]

DEAN: *is all watery-eyed and weird when cas dies the first time*

CAS: *returns and is very, very Cranky (TM) and yelling at everyone*

Instead of being happy, relieved, or appreciative of one another's fighting spirit outright, they fall into a pattern of fighting and banter. They're full of fear, fatalism, and their own discordant Hail-Mary-style ideas.

And they disagree with each other. Their fear, in general, manifests in being short with one another and hilariously calling each other's plans stupid.

They're very immature and ill-equipped to handle caring about each other, basically. It's kinda cute.

They could say "thank you," or "I'm glad you're okay." Instead? Cas flies out of the gate, bossily laying into them about needing to be more careful. Later, he arrives at the hospital and calls the plan of fighting Lucifer stupid.

When Dean responds that Cas's plan is even stupider, Cas tells Dean that he wasn't worth rebelling for at all because he's a failure and should shut the Hell up.

Glorious.

There's so much Weird tension getting in the way of what should be a renewed brother-in-arms-friendship. It should be simple, a hearty hug between friends, some thuds on the back—you know, a simple "we made it, brother!" style of camaraderie.

Instead, they're weird about it.

///

And while Dean is usuallyweird (he's a weird, word-vomitey guy at heart), he's being epically weird in 5x03.

I'd say he's being even weirder than Cas is at times, and not just about his nervousness surrounding personal space.

It's everything.

It's even played for laughs a little bit. Cas says a lot of weird shit to the cop, and then somehow gains the cop's trust anyway.

Right after this, the cop calls Dean out, but not Cas.

"Uh, no, Kolchak."

In the end, Cas winds up having the advantage in this bizarre exchange. In a surprise twist, the officer has responded better to Cas's frank honesty than to Dean's sarcasm and indirectness.

///

But anyway, it's no wonder Dean's being odd. Man's Hella stressed.

Per the conversation with Sam at the end of 5x01, Dean is barely hanging in there. "He's trying." But he's also feeling the weight of his own fatalism. "I'll fight, but we haven't got a snowball's chance in Hell of winning."

And I personally think he's still anxious post-Cas's first death.

That's a frightening thing to contend with, that one of your strongest, "seemingly invincible" Superman allies can die. It rocks the tenuous stability beneath your feet, so to speak.

Here's the strangest thing: Cas asks Dean to go on a mission with him. But even after Cas straight-up tells Dean no angel would dare harm him, Dean assumes that they're both going to die anyway.

...

I think this speaks to Dean's issues focusing. His anxiety must be through the roof, because he's usually so good at hanging on to details like that.

There's also his guilt surrounding Cas facing Raphael alone the first time. And it's coming out this way.

This time, he's automatically cast himself in the role of being there alongside Cas, dying alongside him.

It's not until later that his denial falls away and the truth catches up to him, that Cas means to die alone:

Cas repeats himself, that the archangel wouldn't dare harm Dean:

This is not a revelation.

Cas told him as such right off the bat. But like in the scene with Chuck, Dean's brain prefers to dive straight into denial.

It's interesting for a character like Dean. He's VERY used to losing people, but with Cas, there's a creeping denial and disappointment clouding the whole thing.

There's probably already a crush there... it's coming out in watery eyes and hilarious ADHD-word vomit (Thelma-Louise, fussing about personal space and then getting into his personal space, Bert-n-Ernie-are-gay, last night on earth) because Dean doesn't know what to do with it.

He doesn't know how to handle the confusing mix of feelings. He had a lot of them when Cas died the first time. Now, where can that energy even go?

The face journey he goes on as he realizes Cas is expecting to die... again.

It's a little sad, tbh.

///

And then later, when they face off against Raphael, facing him together as Raphael enters "their" kitchen, Dean's fears all come out as jokes and banter again.

It's his preferred defense mechanism against strong emotions. He's worried, but he can't show it.

///

Another thing.

I think it's neat that they're squatting in this cute, dilapidated house.

Raphael appears in a kitchen, recreating the circumstances of Cas's first death in Chuck's kitchen.

Some other cute details about the house they're chosen. Dean has his usual cooler, but here he's put it near the hearth of the home, one of his motifs. He acts as bait, drawing Raphael nearer while Cas moves to attack him.

But the specter of the hearth is still meaningful.

And while Dean distracts Raphael, they lure him deeper into the home, a space they're controlling together.

And still, they banter. Cause they're immature and adorable.

DEAN: "Don't look at me it was his idea."

Aside// The lantern and the beer bottles.

Here, we get another glimpse of their symbols. For Cas, it's this dark lantern on the table; it's been on the table "with him"on his side" since the very beginning of squatting in this house.

It symbolizes both Cas himself and this concept of Dean waiting for him. "Where have you been?"

The fact that this lantern is OUT is a callback to Cas's death, and a nod to his current fatalism.

///

Actually, the house they're squatting in IS pretty cute. The table they sit at together is cute. Here we have the two of them, mutually aching over their absent fathers... and reeling over the painful, complicated brokenness and betrayals with their respective brothers (Raphael, Sam).

The inside of this house is "dead and dusty," but there's new growth just peeking into the window. Greenness. Renewal.

This living room, where they're spending time together, also contains important Dean-Cas symbols: empty chairs, lanterns, and an unlit hearth.

While the two of them are trying desperately to fix their respective families, they're automatically carving out their own living space together, instinctually, almost without knowing or trying.

It's also funny that we see some of the strife that will color their relationship. It looks like Dean wound up doing a lot of waiting around, and he's irritated about it.

Note the prominently lit empty Cas-chair. While Cas runs off to do his suicidal Heaven errands, Dean waits up for him in a room with a hearth and a conspicuously placed lantern.

Cas appears in front of the stairs. Later, these stairs will be prominently lit by the only lit lantern in the entire house.

///

Here we go. Dean and Cas return to face off against Raphael in the house they've come to bond in—in a home they control. Now, the stairs are highlighted by a homey, welcoming light.

It's the only lantern on.

It leads upstairs to the bedroom, or it's a nod to "Heaven" if you prefer that reading.

But it seems to me that this light is conspicuous like, despite the storm and the power outage, these two are carrying a secret torch for each other, a nascent longing to cobble a life together.

Raphael's pyrotechnics are exploding all the lights except this one, after all. Perhaps the lighted stairs represent them as a Heaven-Earth unit, Heaven + home, the one who guards the door + and the one who lights the hearth:

///

And goodness, some of these images are lovely.

Raphael breaks the window, letting the storm into the little nook they'd carved for themselves.

The lantern and the beer bottle.

That's their table!

It's funny. It's almost like they instinctively gravitate to trying to fix/rebuild a home when they're together. They naturally want to fall into this weird... rhythm of life.

It's maybe a bit spooky for them, it maybe unnerves them, and they don't know what to do with that. They've both got so much baggage with their respective families that they mostly try to ignore it, and they get pissy and short with each other as a result of ignoring it and circling this...

...confusing thing.

[charmedreincarnation]

Hi charm I just one time say you’re one of the sweetest blog ever. Thank you for always taking the time to answer our asks and dms and always providing us with amazing challenges and advice! I used your three day challenge and I am now living my dream life, I am forever greatful 🌤

I used your three day challenge but two day ago something very bad happened and I dmed you. You said you were manifesting something at the time so you’ll just also affirm for me since it wouldn’t take much energy. I got in the void two days later. I don’t even know if you did affirm for me, but I trust you as a blogger and well this is Loa so my assumption hardened to fact and it worked. I came back to say thank you but your dms are now mutuals only so I’m sending this ask instead ❤️

Also I see you’re getting so much hate which is so dumb because if anons were actually nice and not entities they would realize most bloggers don’t mind helping us if we ask nicely. Anons aren’t just mean to you charm theyre cunts to everyone and on behalf of them to all bloggers I apologize! the community truly doesn’t deserve you guys, and you guys help so much with your posts and positivity! You guys also lend us so much of your time which you don’t have to! I know I’m sure not staying on tumblr or making a void blog. I’m gonna be selfish and live my life and anons should be grateful some people choose to stick the hell around for their annoying asses (myself included) LOOOL

Anyways I manifested

-stunning beauty and being skinny

-never gaining weight

-lucky girl syndrome

-wealthy family

-living in the suburbs of New York

-going to private school

-being the it girl

-confidence

-having all As

-never struggling with school

-being an amazing volleyball player

-perfect self concept

-never being afraid to defend people I care about

-bad bitch energy

-simps and admirers

-always receiving money

-master of the void state

I also want to add I had bad circumstances. I was bullied because I was poor&ugly, and I had adhd and anxiety so I struggled in school. That all just made me want it more. If going through that means you get to find the void and live better and easier than those born with the privilege don’t falter and persist. It’s worth, and I’m forever happy and grateful now.

Omgg periodt, I love this for you !! But seriously don’t thank me you had to do all the work I promise, so don’t sell yourself short!! And yes I heavily agree,with your last paragraph! you’re gonna keep living your best life and you deserve it, we all do🫶🫶🫶

[headless-angel-writes]

Summary: Simon Snow is beginning to find his place in the Salisbury family, although he still has a hard time accepting his role. During a visit to his grandmother, Lady Ruth, he receives an unexpected gift

Carry On Countdown 2024: Something Old

Words: 1544

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60854995

@carryon-countdown

Simon

As I ride the Underground, feeling warm despite it being November, my thoughts drift to how much my life has changed.

Sunday lunches at Lady Ruth's—my grandmother, though I still struggle to call her that—have become a routine. Every Sunday, Baz and I visit her and Jamie for lunch. A few hours later, we have tea together, and she never lets us leave without sending us home with a week’s worth of meals.

"Honestly, it’s not necessary, ma’am. Simon and I manage just fine," Baz tries to protest.

"You’re both far too skinny," she replies, piling food into numerous containers. "Besides, it’s better for you to eat my homemade meals than live on takeaway and instant noodles."

Although Baz and I have tried to refuse, Lady Ruth always gets her way. Jamie just watches us with a resigned expression, as though he’s already lost the same battle long ago. I think I’m gaining a bit of weight. Even Baz has put on some, and the sharpness of his hipbones has softened. He looks better than ever. Meanwhile, I’ve just developed more weight around my waist and a larger chest. (Baz loves it, though—I swear he can’t keep his hands off me. I only pretend to mind, just a little.)

I suppose it’s a good change. I used to starve every summer… and then eat myself sick on the first day at Watford.

The point is, Lady Ruth cares about us. A lot. Obviously, she cares about me the most—I’m her first grandchild. So, the fact that she occasionally wants to see just me isn’t so strange. And yet, I can’t help but feel nervous. This doesn’t feel like any other family meal.

Why does she want to see me alone? Is it because of the time I accidentally broke a couple of ornaments with my wings? Jamie laughed and said he’d broken them as a child once, too, by throwing a ball. Lady Ruth just said, more amused than annoyed:

"I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree that is your uncle."

Then she fixed everything with a simple spell.

Maybe she doesn’t want to see me anymore and is just too elegant to tell me by text. Should I have brought flowers? Baz always insists on not showing up empty-handed. My wings, folded neatly under my coat like origami, twitch slightly. I start biting my nails, an unpleasant habit but better than when I used to calm my anxiety with my sword. I’m so distracted that I almost miss my stop.

Standing in front of the imposing Salisbury mansion—with its elegance, pristine gardens, and smoke rising from the chimney—I think again that I should have brought flowers.

It’s too late for that now. Not as though I can conjure them magically… not anymore, at least. Once, the mere thought of it might have caused a cascade of flowers to bloom in my hands and fall in colourful showers onto the manicured grass.

I shake off any nostalgia for my lost magic before taking a deep breath and knocking on the door. Whatever Lady Ruth wants to tell me, I’ll face it as the Salisbury I was always meant to be.

Before I can knock, the door swings open, and Lady Ruth is there. It’s like she’s been waiting, peeking through the peephole. Today, she’s wearing a Halloween jumper and yoga trousers. I’m relieved it’s not a formal lunch.

"Simon, darling, right on time," she says with a smile, guiding me inside. The air is filled with the scent of cooking meat, something sweet in the oven, and burning wood. I feel a little calmer.

"Hello, Lady... uh, Grandmother." I still struggle with it, but she doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She leads me to the sitting room, and I follow in silence. Inside, it’s warm and inviting, like a hug. I like this room: though it’s elegant and full of valuable antiques, it feels like a lived-in home. Not like Baz’s house, which felt more like a museum. Lady Ruth picks her usual armchair, where a blanket and a book rest. She gestures for me to sit.

Before doing so, I remove my coat and let my wings stretch out. I’m glad to be part of a magical family that doesn’t judge me for my extra dragon parts.

"Good to see you didn’t knock anything over this time," she says, like I’m a child learning to behave.

I smile sheepishly, my wings twitching slightly.

"I can’t promise everything will stay intact for long."

She laughs lightly, and I smile back.

"You’re lucky to be as charming as your mother and that my restoration spells are excellent, young man."

She pauses, as she always does when she mentions my mother (another word I struggle to say).

The house smells different—not the usual scent of her meals. I can’t quite place it, but it’s not what I’m used to. Maybe it’s some new spices. My stomach growls loudly.

"The food’s almost ready, but it needs a bit longer in the oven," she says.

I nod in response. We sit in silence, the kind that should feel comfortable but, for some reason, feels odd. I rest my hands in my lap, unsure what to do with them, and try to shrink myself. It’s still strange to think of this as my home, too. I feel like I should say something, but she speaks first.

"Simon," she begins, breaking the silence. "There’s something I’d like to give you."

Lady Ruth retrieves a small box from a bookshelf and holds it out to me. My heart races. What is that? Why is she giving it to me?

"For me?" I ask, trying to sound neutral, but my voice betrays my curiosity.

Her smile holds a world of secrets.

"Open it, darling."

I do. The box is lighter than I imagined, with an “R” engraved in the wood and a chipped corner. Inside is a wedding ring—a simple yet elegant gold band with a small crest engraved on it. The Salisbury family crest. My heart leaps into my throat.

"This ring…" I can’t say it aloud. Luckily, Lady Ruth finishes the sentence for me.

"It was your grandfather’s wedding ring, yes. I still have mine tucked away in my jewellery box," she adds. "Sometimes, it even gets me a free drink at the club, you know."

I want to laugh and cry simultaneously—at the image of my grandmother charming men and at the significance of holding this piece of family history.

"It’s beautiful," I say, sincerely.

It feels too precious to remove from the box, so I simply stare at it, overwhelmed by its physical and emotional weight. She sits beside me on the sofa, placing her hand over mine, which rests on the box.

"When Andrew died," she begins, her voice tinged with sadness, "I didn’t want them to bury him with it. I thought that wearing it around my neck would let me keep a part of him with me. I even planned to be buried with both rings in my hands."

Tears sting my eyes, and hers glisten, too. Her hand tightens around mine.

"You wanted…" I trail off.

"I thought," she continues, "that now I have you, this ring would look better on a pale, long finger than in the withered hands of an old woman. A finger like Baz’s, for instance."

My cheeks burn so hot the tears on my face practically evaporate. A ring on Baz’s finger? I’ve thought about it before—I know I want to spend the rest of my life (all my lives) with him—but the idea of marriage is terrifying.

"No, I can’t take something like this. It’s too much for someone like me. Besides, I don’t think I’m ready to marry. And neither is Baz."

Her cheeks are damp, but her eyes are smiling.

"Yes, you can. You’re part of this family, Simon Snow." She lifts the ring from the box and holds it on her palm. "And this is just a ring. It only carries the meaning you choose to give it."

"Even so, wouldn’t it be better if Jamie had it?" I try to argue.

"He thinks it’s a good idea to give it to you, too. It was a joint decision. Look, I’m not pressuring you to marry, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But if you ask me, I’d very much like to attend a wedding soon."

My cheeks feel warm again, and I’m sure they’re as red as Baz says—like apples.

"You and your wedding ideas…"

"When the right time comes, it will be a good symbol for you."

Finally, I take the ring from her hand and hold it in mine. If Baz and I do marry someday, at least we’ve got the “something old” part covered.

...............................................................................................................................

Hello!

And we start with this year's Carry On Countdown. I'm not going to do it every day, but I'm going to try to do some one shots. In this one I thought it was a good idea to use the “something old” in something related to weddings <3

I started writing this with a baby strapped against me,, taking his bottle.  he he.

Thank you very much for reading!

Bye!

[theherdofturtles]

Fandom: Hetalia Prompt: Depression Rating: T Word Count: 4,560 Follows a headcanon of mine that England struggled with substance abuse after the invention of Laudanum during the Victorian era. Especially in the Navy addiction was rampant. In my headcanon timeline, during the Cold War England had a brief relapse. Contains drug abuse and suicidal ideation @badthingshappenbingo

Arthur knew he was high because he was puking his guts out and it felt great.

He was head half-down a garbage bin in more ways than one. Couldn't even count with the bliss frying his nerves, fuzzing warm waves of euphoria through his whole body. He knew it was more than one. He couldn't think clearly.

The sensation shivering through his spine, radiating security he'd never known, warmth of an all-encompassing universe. It was too good. The warmth pooled in his fingers, hands, arms, toes, feet, legs, limbs, gaining weight and gently adjusting to lean against the wall, slide from the garbage bin, then coze onto the floor… it was all fake comfort. He didn't care.

Arthur was smart. The dose looked pretty strong on his mates when they'd shot up right before him. He'd had the self-control to half his intake. He didn't take too much of the liquified, sticky, impure brown… it was too difficult to tell the strength of this batch. Every batch had a different potency. No two measures of heroin were ever the same, but Arthur liked to think he was smart. He wasn't fading a drift from consciousness this time, head slid full down a tube too gray and blue and detailed to turn reality into anything out of a distant dream. Hazy, but present. Not dripping off into sleep yet.

Those were usually the times he died. He could always tell right at the start if he'd done too much.

Arthur had twelve minutes of absolute heaven beyond comprehension, if he was lucky, until the mask fell and he realised this was actually Satan's kiss. He'd have to pay back his bliss later.

The highs never lasted long enough.

Arthur thumbed the street, feeling the man-made earth below his body that fuzzed too well into his chemical-flooded brain. 

The texture was strange, lumped and scattered and giving him a soft hot-white itch. His warm and blissful brain settled as the rest of the world was cocooning him though. He'd never felt this good before—he always thought that. Nothing else in the world could compare to the perverse euphoria of destroying himself. 

Look at this heaven they'd made for themselves. With streets and dopamine and needles, kings and cars rushing by. The whole world sluggishly inched a perfect pace for twelve minutes. His chest might breathe too much air, bursting his lungs on life. He'd stop breathing altogether, he'd never care.

Nothing mattered and nothing could harm him. The world was safe, fixed, and all was well. 

He wanted to feel like this for the rest of his life. He wanted to die like this.

In the pink and blue light from a step outside the empty club, voices thumbed under the concrete as he lost himself. The voices sounded too close and familiar. He thought he was supposed to be mostly alone. Sighing, Arthur gave a contented look up the wall. 

There were humans around. He knew their shapes, didn't care.

Some murmuring and mumbles. Arthur was tired. He didn't care anymore. He thought one of them was familiar, but he turned his head a little to one side and closed his eyes before he saw.

When Arthur first woke he didn't realise anything was amiss. Opium dreams did that… they brushed the world gently free from anxieties. His eyes were dull and tireless, not yet aware enough to be bewildered. Then the opium dreams began to evaporate… the uncomfortable disappointment of reaching reality started to hug his tired bones. The third time he woke, he felt disjointed and cold. 

He wondered if the high was worth living every other second waiting for the next.

His eyes adjusted. The colours and shapes around him weren't the ones he'd expected to see. Memories tightened around him, but after these phases, his brain was worth as much as morning dewdrops, sick on too much honey. He didn't want to remember what had happened outside of the bliss. Nothing else was as important, his brain should throw the rest away.

"Do you know where you are?" 

"I don't know," Arthur managed to mumble. He was waking, and the sickly sweet sedative dreams were melting away. They dribbled warm from his head, leaving a rocking throb behind.

"You're home." 

Some fingers threaded through his hair, weakly ruffling his messy, oily head. It was so gentle. So whole… the opposite feeling from the slight shaking tremor starting to shiver cold in his body.

Arthur blearily blinked at the window and wall in front of him. The faint vision of a tree grew between the blinds, he could see and hear clearer and duller.

There was a bowl beside him, one for him to throw up inside.

"Are you okay?"

"No…" he groaned. 

He could hear the other exhale. They sounded unwell, too. Shuddering, just like him, only in bigger, deeper, and more sparse tremors. Arthur could feel them beside him, trying to be quiet. Exhaustion kept Arthur from rolling over to see who it was… he knew who it was.

"I'm not okay either," they whispered. 

There was an itch on his arms, so Arthur lifted his arms. The arms that moved when he moved and lifted for his eyes to see when he tried to see them, but didn't feel like they belonged to his body. White gauze wrapped these arms, and he didn't remember patching himself. The smell of blood and antiseptic tickled his nose.

"What happened?" He spoke slowly. He decided to turn over, but his movement struggled against the dream. Nothing felt real enough, even when he managed to face the outline of the other country. 

Like a curtain had been jerked, light spilled and he squinted.

He looked up at the light. Emrys sat by Arthur's side, solidly in front of a lemon-orange coloured lamplight, and his pained, restless face stared back at Arthur. 

"Why did I believe you…" Emrys said. He spoke softly, aghast. Faint. 

Arthur struggled against closing his eyes. He released himself, letting his body lay heavy in the bed, unmoving, wanting Wales to be disgusted with him but not wanting to see it for himself. 

"You said your car broke… why did I believe that? I found you by pure luck. I saw your car. Do you know how it feels to see that? On the side of the road and think I had the luck to help? To find…" he trailed off.

Arthur said nothing.

"When?" Emrys put his head in his hands. "When did this happen?Again. How'd I not notice… why was I so stupid?"

"My healing makes me more immune. I'm not a junker."

"How many times."

"This month…" Arthur mumbled. "That's all." He could feel the admission burning his skin, lying, cutting three layers off his body, trying to make it better, failing. Arthur had drugged himself each day for a time closer to four months now.

He thought he should be proud… some couldn't go as long as he could without shooting themselves full of cotton. This was a testament to how his biology suffered immortal healing, and in part for his willpower. A willpower he'd thrown out the window four months ago.

He'd made a choice.

Emrys should know that. 

The world was crumbling, their family splitting with riots and wars, Russia and America racing to kill humanity, Arthur knew the world was going to end. He felt nothing about the incoming end… Arthur wouldn't survive a cold war turned blazing. If Arthur would choose to destroy himself, today was a good day to pick. He wanted to feel again. He didn't care about anything else and spent most of these days thinking about his next twelve minutes free from care.

"Why?" Emrys asked. He sounded so broken, and asked so simply. As if any reason wasn't obvious.

Arthur couldn't tell him. He couldn't say that he'd wanted to feel anything at all, wanted to escape himself. That he couldn't live comfortably and pleasantly anymore: inactive, finding hardship in the simplest living tasks, trying desperately to save himself from nothing through his own cleverness.

"Please-" I want to be free. I hate this pain, I hate it, I can't do it again. This fake pleasure wouldn't ever free him, but each time he failed to escape the prisons real life gave him he thought screw it. The world would be too engulfed in torment and fast and painful for him without the high anyway. Nothing else in life was as exciting anymore. He was trapped, chained to twelve minutes a day. He couldn't go anywhere without thinking about his twelve minutes every day. "Please don't…"

"I'm going to use the spell." Emrys said. "You could die again."

"That's never the problem," Arthur felt the words hiss and wail through his teeth. "I'm going to live. Forever. I can't die, I can't ever die. I want to escape it all. Why can't you let me get away from it all for one month?"  

The lie burned again, but Arthur had decided to passionately believe in his lie. This lie was easier and more attractive than the truth. He couldn't let Emrys know how far he'd fallen: from hell and back and back into hell again. He barely lived in this state. All he wanted was to turn back the clock and have everything un-slipping through his fingers. Emrys shouldn't need to suffer worse because Arthur chose an addiction digging him into a grave instead of a nuclear holocaust.

Abandoning this type of high, he'd done it before. It felt like ice scraping his brain, every muscle strung to snap. He'd be willing to do anything to escape that. He just wanted to feel normal and safe and okay and he couldn't do it anymore without a drug. He'd give anything up except heroin.

"Going back isn't possible. I can't live without it—Cym please let me fall."

"You lived without it for sixty years," Emrys pleaded back. "You were doing so well."

Arthur rolled over, leaving his back to Emrys.

Several hundred years ago, the million-sterling cure of tomorrow had been discovered, and the ingredient became the miracle medication for everything under the sun. Arthur remembered the first time he'd ever been cured of everything on earth. 

It had been perfect.

One hundred years into decaying, the panicked authorities had tried to clean the military up.

The doctors didn't wait around… they boiled opium into morphine. Then they refined it again, and by the first world war they'd created heroin as the 'safer' alternative to morphine, which had been the safer alternative to laudanum, which had been the safer alternative to smoking opium straight.

Everyone who cured themselves had to admit, at one point, that they were rotting from the inside-out. They were getting worse. But most of them weren't meant to last longer than a war, and the rest simply accepted the cost of doing what they loved.

"I chose this."

"No, you didn't," Emrys tried to lie to him.

"Nobody did this to me," Arthur hissed, "I had options. All they gave me were the means, but I was fine for sixty years. I did this. I. Did. Everything. I crafted each fetter, each chain, linked them together and gave the leash strangling my neck to the hands that would crush me. I am the one who devoured myself don't you dare pretend anything else. I'm okay with this."

"Every time you say that it's destroying this family," Emrys said in a small voice.

Arthur curled hands closer to himself and held his breath. He laid still where he was, close to Emrys, and listened to the bed creak where his brother sat and shook and cried softly to himself thinking Arthur couldn't hear. 

He wanted to say something. His slow brain stirred the sounds an inch from reach. In that moment, he found he couldn't stop holding his breath. He couldn't say anything. His heart beat more and more slowly, his hands became more numb, as if he were drugged again. But with none of the pleasure. The Devil's Share was getting into his chest and, tightly, tightly, beginning to crush and indent the surface.

Arthur tried to breath and made a choked gasp. 

"I-I'm sorry…" Emrys shifted beside him on the bed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean- you're my brother, Arthur. I… I can't let myself care about what you did… I want to care about what you'll do next. I'll be with you the whole time. Please don't say that."

Sobering felt like rotting into the earth. Death inside a trapped, fighting corpse. There was no wind, time, nothing. The world was isolated, and every second perished.

Emrys was going to force him again. He hated Emrys in that moment for being the only one who'd never left no matter how badly Emrys needed to save himself.

"Let me fall," he mumbled.

"I can't—I can't do that. I'm going with you."

The glass was cracking. It was slow. How he couldn't breathe. Water was welling up around his tongue, wet and messy like the small imaginary, invisible traces of pain escaping from the dark hidden places under his heart that he wanted to forget. All the filth bubbling up from underneath, hopeless enough to be ferocious through his body, replacing every previous rush. He suddenly had glass in his eyes, broken and gross, ugly as everything he'd done. "I wish I'd never gone across the channel," he whispered. Never left home… never experienced something he couldn't return from. "I wish I'd not survived eighteen eighty-one… I wish I'd died then."

The glass cracked.

It was a quiet crack. Nobody would know except Arthur, how terrible and broken and easy letting go was… no longer waiting to spill.

The first tear fell, he sniffed.

"Don't tell the others," he said. He sounded as quiet as he felt, ungrounded from his body.

"Scotland is already on his way."

He closed his eyes, clenched. He hated that his first impulse was to make the pain go away with another needle.

"And Ireland?" He bit.

"Not in contact." 

His oldest brother hadn't been seen in months. There was a possibility that Arthur's own military had finally caught and vanished him and Arthur had been too high lately to notice. He'd not cared to check. Every activity of his life had become a motion or obstacle he had to live through, climb over, exist in, all on his way to achieve those next twelve minutes of pure comfort. He'd not spared a second thought to imagine his oldest brother locked into the dark corners of the earth where crimes could be committed without cost.

Nothing he wanted he could satisfy now. Nothing satisfying existed to gain—Arthur had refused to have the world as it was, and so he felt nothing. All other good thoughts and feelings would be locked tightly away. He often wondered what would finally destroy the lock, turn him into a real person, one who felt and cried and laughed and mixed the joy and sadness of the world into one bottle to sip.

Looking back at everything he'd ever felt, he wished he weren't a living being.

"Help is wasted on me," he choked out.

"I'm never going to stop trying," Emrys promised. Arthur didn't want to believe him. He'd shot himself and everyone else who got too close; Emrys didn't deserve this betrayal; Emrys would realise that soon.

The room was much colder now. His face much hotter, uglier and watery, noiseless, just the way he intended to hide. This emotion escaping through from the depths of his mind was not welcomed or wanted. It was the kind he liked to feel. Nothing else made him want to run more than being seen this way, and then be reminded how little he had left.

It was the screw it, the know-now that there wasn't anything worth saving. He might as well die in the coze he couldn't stop craving, because giving in was so much easier than fighting for scraps.

Emrys turned and crouched to his knees, sinking awkwardly on the bed next to him. The daylight from between the blinds striped over him as he crouched over Arthur and pressed his lips into a worried line. 

"I'll stay the whole time," he said.

Arthur barely had time to realise his brother's plan before both of Emrys's hands pressed to his head. Thumb over brow, fingers threaded around his skull.

Arthur jerked backwards. Violently. He slapped Emrys off, thrashing through a shivering headache. "No, don't!" 

Don't do it, don't take it from me, not this.

Emrys pressed down, re-gaining grasp until Arthur was against the headboard and couldn't get further.

"This is what works, I'll be here with you. You've done it before," he reasoned.

It was because he'd done it before that Arthur never wanted to do it again.

Even as he shook his head, Emrys managed his fingers in roughly the right position and muttered a spell quickly.

The magic fizzed quickly down his spine.

Arthur chose to feel cotton around his body, then. His legs were stiff and sore. Nothing of him wanted to move because he wouldn't have a reason anymore to move, and his stiff body didn't help motivate him to fix anything. Moving would dispel the stiffness, but the desire to dispel it, too, had been lost from him.

"I hate you," Arthur cried. 

Emrys gently ruffled his his messy hair, again. Arthur didn't want to be touched.

The spell was a cruel and effective one. Emrys had copied the idea from the inhibitors, the three-legged chemists making another medication to fix the last medication gone wrong. The spell blocked his nervous system from getting any bliss from any substance and made it so he couldn't escape anymore. The cruel cravings and withdraw pains were spared but none of the relief was left.

Everything was empty, and Arthur was finished. 

Arthur heard and felt the bed creak as Emrys left him. The lamp clicked dark, and the door softly shut.

He laid there for several hours lost in his own lack of will. His mind was an echoed desert cavern that sleep had sunk away from and the sun hadn't yet sunken into. Arthur was too tired. He didn't want to think, but he didn't want anything, not really, not anymore.

Every so often Emrys came to take his hand and move his fingers, to draw on them and check on him, but stretched cold over the bed quilt, Arthur didn't think or feel much of anything aside from a hopeless, rose-lensed grief for his missing habit.

Things finally changed when the light clicked again and Arthur flinched from the sting.

"Alistair's here," Emrys whispered quickly, "I'm going to do something stupid, okay? Let me do this. I can't take everything but I can help."

Arthur noticed how Emrys took his hand this time. 

The way he laid the palm flat, the way he brushed gentle patterns over the top. The manner wasn't simple hand-holding… Emrys's fingers traced Arthur precisely, as if preparing a written spell. 

Arthur blinked and groaned, festering restlessness spreading through his body. He looked to see black lines drawn onto his fingers, wrinkled and curled in Celtic knots with Cymraeg between the lines.

Arthur had never seen these shapes before, but Arthur didn't understand Celtic magic as well as his older siblings. 

"Hold on." Arthur noticed that Emrys's other hand was equally covered in markings when he took Arthur's and the lines connected. He felt the whirl and spark sharp as a pin-prick. Arthur's palm flickered a cinder burn. He hissed a breath from his nose and tried to pull back, but Cymru held tightly. 

The magic faded through bone straight into his heart, shot through his hand into Emrys's. The drum-beat of their blood pumped off tune, dizzily rising his anxiety.

Immediately the exhaustion began to sap. Arthur watched with waking alertness as Emrys began to droop.

"What? Cym, hey-" Arthur jerked his hand back, easily sliding free this time. His older brother's fingers had loosened and the lines smudged as they slipped free. "What is this?!"

Emrys laughed with a glow leaving in his eye, skin paling.

"Up," Emrys said. He pushed Arthur to stand, and Arthur was well enough to do so even without a will. The blood pooled in his legs, the wave of nausea tapered easily off. 

Emrys looked like he was about to stumble. 

"Sit over there." Emrys pointed to a chair by the cold pellet stove. Arthur listened, and curled his chin over his knees.

Then his brother leaned against the headboard with a determined frown on his face.

Something had happened… Arthur was feeling better. Emrys, worse. He had an active intellect; the magic was working. He didn't know this magic but had an idea as to what stupid thing Emrys had done.

Still he said nothing. 

Arthur was selfish… and avoiding consequences was easier than ever facing them. This was the part of himself he hated the most.

Alistair's footsteps approached soon after. This brother came into the room with a quick grimaced glance in Arthur's direction, and in his hands he held a casual cup of tea. He quickly found, went to Emrys's side, and there placed the cuppa by the nightstand.

"Thanks, Alistair," Emrys said. He sounded less lax, more tense. An illusion of shivers nearly flowed down his body, but Arthur didn't think that could've been real.

"How is the bastard?" Alistair asked, lowly. The light glowed over the hair of his head, but the rest of him faced the shadow. From there, the studious anchor couldn't be seen, the silent fury, dislodged. From there, pretending to be taking the situation lightly, Emrys easily hid his marked hand in the tangle of covers.

"Better."

Alistair raised his brows. "Give him four more hours."

During the days following the Enlightenment, after the age of sophisters, economists and calculators came to rise, Alistair, too, had lost everything, only sooner than Arthur. He would know the timeline Arthur was about to embark on. Culloden marked a buried crown and the Old Pretender had drowned to alcohol shortly after the new world devoured the last scraps of wealth in the royal's pockets. Alistair was set to lose himself. When Arthur saw the opportunity for the Act of Union, his older brother hadn't been able to string together a coherent sentence to negotiate. There was a man who thought there was nothing left to lose.

The military had killed him too quickly. Taken the last piece. Pushed him fully through the ranks until spent with the other dead boys kept for fodder. Arthur had scoffed at Alistair, at first, when he fell so fast. And then laughing, disgusted, only to follow the exact path. Alistair, only sooner than Arthur, had regained his feet under him. An invisible grudge seemed to exist wedging them further apart for that small victory. Alistair never made it to heroin. 

Stooping over Arthur, Alistair touched his chin and pushed his face upwards to get a better look. This was for his own assessment, because though Alistair's own judgment did his brother accept anything, and Alistair confirmed what Emrys had said to be true. The sudden improvement of health wouldn't make sense to a man who knew what to look for, so Arthur let his eyes drift to naturally lay half-mast. He pretended that the spell had been more effective in keeping him down than it hadn't. It was easier to pretend than to guess how he might authentically react. 

Alistair hummed to himself.

"Did you give him anything?"

"No," Emrys nervously fingered the cover.

His eye caught Arthur's marked and curled hand.

"What is this?" Alistair grabbed him and Arthur tensed. 

This was the wrong thing to do.

Encouraged by Arthur's resistance his grip strengthened. His back straightened and he narrowed his burning eyes like a hound finding a trail. 

"Cymru, What is this?"

"Tidy," Emrys shrugged, wearing a sheepish smile. "holding the family together?"

"You'll get killed holding this family together!" Alistair growled.

"Dramatic much." Emrys shook his head. "If you two helped me from time to time, I might find a longer lasting career."

"Use a spell! Use a spell, numb it off!" He stormed to Emrys and grabbed and shook his shoulder, which Emrys let him do, but Arthur could see the nervous worry and anger all spun wildly together into Alistair's action.

Emrys shivered, thinking. He clearly wasn't used to this sensation, how Alistar and Arthur were, and the grimace on his face almost looked like a smile.

"Trying to remove pain got us into this situation, so, might think it's time for someone to take the pain. Pain's not a bad sense. I can do this."

Alistair cursed and kicked the carpet. A wild growl came from his throat, ugly and caged. He whirled to glare at Arthur, and Arthur nervously let his eyes lazily stay glazed, half-lidded, falsely pretending to be less aware of the issues he was causing than he really was.

"You should be going through hell, not him." Alistair jabbed a finger at Arthur, burning him with a glare.

Neither of Arthur's eyes cracked further open or closed, and his approximation of delirium feigned on. 

He confirmed to himself that he was too selfish to make things right.

All good that is not grafted to a morally good character is nothing but illusion and glistering misery. All Arthur's success until now meant nothing. The drive inside never left. He never felt human enough. Arthur couldn't carry his feet for any cause.

"The effects should be decently split," Emrys said, "Between us, I picked all the symptoms I could carry. I thought this would be safer than going full-cold."

Alistair shook his head, teeth grit. And something made the wrath boil off from his shoulders, like steam from a pot, dissipating slowly from the body into the air. His lip set and he looked across at Emrys. "You're not afraid?"

"That's not what I said, but I'm glad, though, that I can help."

Alistair somehow understood. He didn't approve. The wrath flickering through his body wasn't for Emrys. Arthur wished for it—he craved that fire to burn as much as he craved the mindless haze, to beat the brain dead before he cared again, crushing crippled fingers with a hammer into white-numbness, wanting to peel the stomach free to kill the stomach ache. Committing suicide from a fear of death.

He loved himself so tenderly to wish for any way to avoid pain. He would do anything.

Anything to escape.

The first thing the next morning, Alistair had soup, Emrys had shivers, and Arthur had more feeling than he'd eaten in weeks. He despised every second of unwishing his will as he fought against the ability to feel the world in the way he didn't want.

[doumadono]

Hey hey so I hope it's okay if I send in an Emergency Request.

Recently I've been on a new antipsychotic and it's causing weight gain, so they put me on a diet medication and I'm STILL gaining weight.

As someone with a past of having anorex!a this is MAJORLY triggering as now I'm in the "Overwe!ght" BMI range and I'm freaking the fuck out and wanting to d!e every single day.

So can I get a comfort with Shinsou who reaffirms the reader( who also struggles with gender dysphoria at the same time, so this is doubly hard ) that he will love them no matter what gender they are and how much they weigh and that they can work on losing weight in a healthy way and he will help them recovery from their ED habits together?

Shinso & s/o with gender dysphoria and anxiety about gaining weight

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

Shinsou notices your struggle and decides to have a heart-to-heart conversation with you. "You've been going through a lot lately, haven't you? Wanna talk?"

You open up about your experiences with gender dysphoria, the weight of the words lifting as you share this intimate part of yourself. "I've been grappling with my gender identity, and it's been a real struggle. I trust you, Shinso..."

The words pour out as you recount the toxic environment at home, the pressure to conform to harmful beauty standards, and the history of your family promoting your eating disorder. "My family, they've always pushed me toward this destructive path. It's been a battle to break free from their influence."

He starts by expressing genuine concern, acknowledging the difficulties you're facing with both medication and family issues.

There's a moment of vulnerability as you worry about how Shinsou will react. "I'm afraid you'll see me differently, that this will be too much for you..."

Shinsou reassures you that he cares deeply for you, emphasizing that your worth isn't determined by your weight or gender. "I want you to know that I adore every part of you, regardless of what your family or society says. Your gender identity is valid, and your journey is uniquely yours, remember that, sweetpie."

Shinsou encourages you to focus on your health rather than conforming to societal standards, stressing that your well-being matters most.

He suggests finding positive outlets for stress relief and encourages you to explore activities that bring joy and fulfillment. "How about we make some tasty, nutritious snacks together? It's a small step, but a positive one, don't you think?"

Shinsou reminds you that your identity and body are yours to define, and he supports you in every decision you make.

He shares stories of his own struggles, highlighting that everyone faces challenges, and growth is possible through perseverance.

Shinsou proposes working together on setting achievable, healthy goals, whether related to weight or personal development.

He assures you that he's there for you every step of the way, offering support and understanding. "You're strong, you know? Facing everything head-on."

He uses his quirk to gently ease some of the emotional burden you're carrying, showing how he cares about your mental well-being.

Shinsou encourages open communication, emphasizing that your feelings and experiences are valid, and he's here to listen without judgment. "It's always better to talk to your trusted person, isn't it, sweetpie?"

The air hung heavy with a subdued tension as you found solace in the quiet corner of your shared living space with Shinso. The weight of unspoken burdens rested on your shoulders, and as the tears welled up in your eyes, you couldn't hold back the overwhelming tide of emotion any longer.

Shinso noticed the tremble in your voice and the shimmer of unshed tears. He approached you with a gentle concern etched across his face. "Hey, what's going on? You seem… distant."

A shaky breath escaped your lips as you attempted to articulate the complex emotions swirling within. "It's just… my family. They've never understood, and now with everything else… It feels like I'm drowning in their expectations. I'm also struggling with my gender... I feel like I'm drowning, Shinso..."

Shinso sat beside you, a silent gesture that spoke volumes. "You can talk to me. I'm here for you. Breathe. In and out, in and out. Calm down and pour it all out. It'll ease your stress. And no matter what, I'll stay by your side, always. You're perfect just the way you are. I love everything about you."

With a heavy exhale, you began to unravel the painful narrative of a family that had never truly been supportive. "They always had these expectations, these ideals of what they thought I should be. It's suffocating. They pushed me into this dark spiral of self-doubt, made me believe I was never enough. And thank you for your kind words, baby..."

The tears flowed freely now, a cathartic release of pent-up emotions.

Shinso, understanding the weight of your words, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You are more than enough, and I'm here to help you break free from those chains. You don't have to carry their expectations anymore."

In the warmth of Shinso's reassurance, you continued to share the heart-wrenching details of a family that promoted destructive behaviors, exacerbating your struggles. "They encouraged my unhealthy habits, made me believe that I had to conform to their standards. It's been a never-ending battle."

Shinso's gaze never wavered, a silent pillar of support. "You're not alone anymore. We'll face this together, and I promise you, their expectations won't define your worth."

As you poured out your heart to Shinso, the weight on your shoulders began to lift, replaced by the gentle embrace of understanding and empathy coming from your beloved boyfriend.