#cw bad coping mechanisms

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May

@themerrywhumpofmay

May 9th- “We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

[collar | lost | roof]

***

(tw: lady whump, mention of past torture, minor character deaths, mention of dead bodies, gunshot, bad coping mechanisms— smoking addiction is implied)

Mal ran like she had never run before. The blood on her sleeves was not her own.

It was supposed to have been a simple con. They had promised the noblewoman nothing but the finest blades. The money would be paid upfront and then they would vanish, the expected delivery never arriving.

It was so simple, she had been allowed to accompany the crew on it.

But now she was running into the night, lungs burning for lack of air and eyes burning with unshed tears.

You messed up.

You messed this all up.

God, Xiang would kill her. Her leg twitched at the thought of what Xiang would do. There was a jaggedly circular scar in her calf, courtesy of Xiang.

Xiang had ordered an arrow to be shot through her fucking leg.

Mal didn’t know if she was more terrified of the dead body she had left behind or of what Xiang would do to her for leaving without the money.

The dead body with empty eyes.

Gold in her hair and blood on her lips.

The noblewoman was a corpse now.

And it was Mal’s fault. It was all her fault.

Mal stumbled to a stop, her hands clammy and stomach churning. The tell-tale signs that she was about to be sick. Which she was. Violently.

Light from an overhead lamp fell gently over her, its touch bronze and smelling of smoke.

The smoke didn’t come from the lamp��� crouched just out of the circle of light, a man sat in the shadows of a building’s steps. He smoked a cigarette comfortably, the tip glowing with a dull light. He stared up into the sickly-coloured night sky and paid no mind to the person that had just thrown up all over the base of the lamp.

Mal ran her tongue over cracked lips. She looked behind her. There were shouts in the distance but she decided they were still too far away to be very concerned.

She walked over to the man. “Do you have an extra one?”

The man glanced at her, exhaling a puff of smoke. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been shredded. “Do you have money?”

“...No.”

The man smiled, closing his eyes as he inhaled the cigarette. “Too bad.” He didn’t seem to notice the blood covering Mal. Or he merely didn’t care.

“C'mon. I need one.” She needed the steadiness a cigarette would bring. She needed to keep her head together– to keep the image of a dead noblewoman in the back of her mind-- and for that, she needed a cigarette.

He didn’t open his eyes, but reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out one cigarette. He flicked it at Mal, who caught it with numb fingers. “Don’t expect a light from me.”

The shouting grew louder and Mal fled.

She turned a sharp corner, retreating into comfortable shadows.

A cat hissed at her from the sewers as she kicked up at water, splashing the small creature.

Mal winced an apology. She found a lighter in her jacket– thank the gods she never went anywhere without one– and shoved the cigarette into her mouth. Lighting as she was running was a bit hard, but not impossible.

She stopped only for the first welcome inhale of the cigarette. And for the exhale.

The alleyways branched into a dozen different directions, all lined with refuse and filth. A few were flooded. She turned to go back the way she had gone and was greeted with more shadows.

Lost.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find her if she was lost. Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Mal sat down by the sewers and waited until the shaking in her hands had stopped.

The only light came from the glowing end of her cigarette, bright against the shadows.

Maybe if she had a cigarette during the con, it wouldn't have all gone to shit.

She had been on the roof. Watching for any sign of officers or guards or anything slightly off. Like Xiang had said. She had done everything Xiang had said.

Well, not everything.

Waiting on the roof. Waiting on the roof, bored out of her fucking mind. The noblewoman had been talking. Just been talking and talking and talking, and how was she supposed to know that a noblewoman was that good with a pistol and sword?

There had been a gunshot. And Dar was on the ground, bleeding, twisting in on himself. Yan had been run through with the noblewoman’s sword.

Mal exhaled smoke, staring out into the shadows.

She had left three corpses behind. Not just the noblewoman’s.

A dripping wet cat made its way down the cobbled street. Its ears were pressed back into its skull as it stalked past Mal.

Mal inhaled the cigarette and breathed it out her nose. “Rough night, huh?”

The cat ignored her.

“Yeah, me too.”

The cigarette was nothing but a stub and Mal put it out on the bricks. “I need to find more.”

I need to get out of town. Before Xiang finds me.

Mal flicked on her lighter and watched the flame. She turned it off and the flame vanished. Clicked it on. The flame appeared, impossibly bright.

On and off.

On and off.

“I guess we can burn that bridge when we get there.”

[the-gayest-sky-kid]

girls will be physically sick from the overwhelming anxiety and then immediately think about fucking that fictional character

[randommothsvents]

🚫Pov:🚫

My subconscious trying to decide what (unhealthy) coping mechanism to do tonight

[autistic-katara]

there r fics that make u insane (so amazingly good it’s removed ur sanity) and then there’s fics that make u insane (you need to fistfight the author for how they did a specific thing that caused u to rant for hours)

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

There's nothing wrong with me that a mushroom trip couldn't fix.

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

TW sh implied

______

Mike's too scared to go swimming when the rest of the Party invites him. He's scared of the others seeing his scars. He's scared that they'll judge him. He doesn't want to deal with that. Instead, he just dips his feet in and watches his friends swim

[sicknessbysalem]

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Six

@monthofsick | day six: post-adrenaline puking

once again, i am revisiting some days i missed because im not feeling the last few prompts at this time.

(also once again these characters originally belonged to @simplysickness but they have given the characters to me)

if you have any requests or questions feel free to send (please send)!

tw emeto, caffeine overload, brief/vague mention of mental health issues, bad coping mechanisms

In the dimly lit garage, the scent of motor oil hung heavy in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of sweat as Xavier tinkered with his bike, his hands deftly maneuvering around the engine with practiced precision. The fluorescent glow of the overhead lights cast sharp shadows across his furrowed brow, accentuating the lines of fatigue etched into his features.

"Hey, Cass," Xavier called out, his voice rough from exhaustion as he glanced over his shoulder to where Cassidy sat on the tabletop of his workbench, leaning against the workbench, concern etched into his features. "Hand me that wrench, would you?"

Cassidy stepped forward, handing over the tool with a gentle touch, his eyes scanning Xavier's face with worry. "You sure you're up for this, Xav? You look like you haven't slept in days."

Xavier chuckled, the sound hollow in the confines of the garage. "Just needing a bit of a distraction lately. Not sure why, maybe with you and Amity being in college, need something to fill my time."

Xavier reached beside him, knocking back the last of the can that Cassidy brought him. Probably much to one of his boyfriends' dismay.

"How many of those have you hit today?" Cassidy asked.

"Three, maybe?" Xavier said, "It's my last one, promise. I'm almost done anyway."

Cassidy's expression softened with understanding, though a flicker of concern still lingered in his gaze. "You've been pushing yourself too hard, Xav. Racing every chance you get. Aren't you supposed to only focus on the circuit?"

"I don't have to," Xavier shrugged, "Besides, the more I race, the better I do on the circuit."

"Yeah, and you look like you haven't slept in days," Cassidy said, "If you don't slow down you'll get yourself sick."

Xavier's shoulders tensed slightly, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. "I can handle it, Cass. I've been doing this for years."

But even as he spoke, a wave of nausea swept over him, a harsh reminder of the toll his rigorous schedule was taking on his body. He swallowed back the bile and the sickening sweetness of the last energy drink he had rising in his throat, his grip tightening on the wrench as he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

Cassidy reached out, a hand coming to rest on Xavier's shoulder, the touch grounding and reassuring. "Just promise me you'll take it easy after this race, okay? Your health comes first."

Xavier met Cassidy's gaze, a flicker of gratitude softening the exhaustion in his eyes. "I promise," he murmured, the weight of his words heavy in the air between them.

-

Race day dawned with the sky painted in hues of fiery orange and soft pink, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of gasoline. Xavier stood at the edge of the track, clad in his racing gear, the vibrant colors of his suit a stark contrast to the pallor of his complexion. Despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Xavier felt like maybe, just maybe he did too much in too little of time.

Cassidy stood nearby, a knot of worry twisting in his stomach as he watched Xavier's trembling hands lift another energy drink to his lips, knocking it back like it was a shot of liquor as opposed to an excessive amount of caffeine. The telltale signs of too much caffeine were impossible to miss, the jittery tremors a stark contrast to Xavier's usual steady demeanor. He approached Xavier with a gentle touch, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Xav, maybe you should sit this one out," Cassidy suggested softly, his voice laced with worry. "You're not in any condition to race."

But Xavier's jaw clenched stubbornly, his gaze fixed on the track. "I can't back out now, Cass. I've trained for this, I've worked for this. I can't just give up. I can't let the last month and a half be for nothing."

Cassidy reached out, cupping Xavier's trembling hands in his own. But, it hurt. Or something, Xavier wasn't sure how to explain it.

"I know you want this, Xav," Cassidy murmured, his voice gentle but firm. "But pushing yourself like this, it's not worth risking your health. There will be other races, other opportunities."

But Xavier shook his head, his gaze unwavering as he met Cassidy's eyes with a fierce intensity. "I have to do this, Cass. For me, for us. I need to prove that I can still compete, that I'm not just a has-been."

Cassidy's heart ached at the raw vulnerability in Xavier's words. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Xavier in his arms, to shield him from the relentless pressure weighing him down. And it was all pressure he was putting on himself, Cassidy knew that. But he was putting that pressure on himself as a coping mechanism, Amity explained that many times. Putting race pressure on himself, putting excessive caffeine in his body, it was a coping mechanism to avoid facing his internal struggles. A bad coping mechanism, but a mechanism nonetheless.

"I have to go, race time," Xavier said, knocking back the last of the can he had, handing it over to Cassidy, proving it was empty, making a statement that was the last one.

-

As Xavier crossed the finish line, a surge of triumph surged through his weary body, the deafening roar of the crowd echoing in his ears like a symphony of victory. But as the adrenaline that had propelled him through the race began to fade, a wave of nausea swept over him with crippling intensity.

The world spun around him in a dizzying blur, his vision swimming with dark spots as he fought to keep his balance. He needed to get off the track, for several reasons.

Cassidy's voice cut through the haze of exhaustion, sharp with concern as he rushed to Xavier's side, a hand coming to rest on his quivering shoulder. "Xav, are you okay? You don't look so good."

Xavier swallowed back the bile rising in his throat, the taste of stomach acid and the energy drink a strange mix of sweet and bitter on his tongue as he forced a weak smile, continuing to walk off to the side with his bike, "I'm fine, Cass. Just need a minute to catch my breath, that's all."

But even as he spoke, a violent wave of nausea tore through him, his stomach lurching with agonizing intensity. Xavier staggered to a halt, his hands trembling as he struggled to unclasp the helmet strapped to his head.With a strangled gasp, Xavier ripped off his helmet, the cool air of the racetrack washing over his clammy skin in a welcome relief.

Cassidy's brow furrowed with worry as he watched Xavier's pallor turn ashen, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he clutched at his stomach.

"Xav, you need to sit down," Cassidy insisted, his voice urgent with concern. "You're not okay."

But Xavier waved him off weakly, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to keep the contents of his churning stomach at bay. "I just... need a moment," he managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper.

With a trembling hand, Cassidy reached out, offering Xavier a steadying arm as he guided him to a nearby bench, the cold metal biting into Xavier's aching muscles as he collapsed onto the hard surface. The world spun around him in a dizzying whirl, the sounds of the racetrack fading into a distant haze as darkness threatened to consume him whole.

As Xavier sat on the hard metal bench, the world around him seemed to spin faster and faster, the cacophony of voices and engines blending into a disorienting symphony of chaos. With each passing moment, the relentless grip of nausea tightened its hold on him, a suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

Cassidy hovered nearby, his features etched with concern as he watched Xavier's condition deteriorate with growing alarm.

"Xav, I told you this would happen," he said softly, his voice tinged with panic as he reached out a hand to steady Xavier's trembling form.

But before Xavier could respond, a violent wave of nausea tore through him, the contents of his stomach rising up with agonizing force. With a strangled gasp, he doubled over, retching violently onto the ground, the bitter taste of bile filling his mouth with every heave.

Disgust and dismay washed over Xavier in a sickening wave as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the acrid stench of vomit lingering in the air like a foul miasma. Shame burned hot in his chest as he glanced up at Cassidy, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry, Cass," Xavier murmured, his voice thick with self-loathing. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

But Cassidy's expression softened with compassion as he knelt beside Xavier, a hand coming to rest on his trembling shoulder. "Hey, it's okay," he reassured, his voice gentle but firm. "You pushed yourself too hard, that's all. Let's get you home."

With Cassidy's steady support, Xavier struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he leaned heavily on his boyfriend for support. The world spun around him in a dizzying blur, the sounds of the racetrack fading into a distant haze as he stumbled toward his bike. The weight of his exhaustion was draggung him down like an anchor in the storm, but he needed to take care of things before they could go.

“Hey, hey,” Cassidy said, “Here. Let me help. And then we really should get you home… and in bed.”

Xavier glanced up at Cassidy, a flicker of gratitude softened the edges of his despair, a reminder that no matter how far he fell, his boyfriend would always be there to lift him back up again.

“I’m sorry,” Xavier said, “Seriously.”

Cassidy nodded, “Yeah, I know. It’s okay…”

[butshedidnotknow]

Ready To Fall

For @febuwhump 2024 Day 1: Helpless

Summary: Neil Josten returned to the Foxes in a body bag, and all of the proof Andrew has of foul play is a mysterious countdown on Neil's phone, ending the day he died. Andrew takes it badly.

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

One man stood alone on the edge of the rooftop, a silhouette against an already-dark sky. It was beginning to rain, gently now, but soon it would turn to a storm powerful enough to crush all of them and wash the entirety of South Carolina away with it. Despite that, the lone glow of a cigarette hung from the man’s lips, still ever so lonely. Nearly invisible against the night was the bottle of vodka that dangled from his fingers. 

“Ninety nine percent,” he muttered, staring at the parking lot down below. And then he laughed, sharp and harsh and as cutting as any of the blades that he kept pressed against his skin. “You hear that, bastard?” he shouted against the wind to no avail; it was beginning to pick up, and carried his words away with it. “Ninety fucking nine percent and I didn’t even get to kill you for it!”

Abram was dead, and they didn’t even know how. Oh, they had been given a body, and everything about it—about the familiar face, muddled and broken and bruised—had pointed to “Neil” being hit by a car in the parking lot, probably trying to escape the riots that had broken out after their game. But Andrew would never buy that, and no matter how much the other Foxes gave lip to the story, he knew that they refused to, either. It was more than a coincidence, more than an accident. The scars, the endless antagonizing of Riko and his Ravens, all of the secrets that Neil had never traded with him in their game—

Andrew dropped his cigarette off the roof and stared at it, watching its dim glow flicker out. From his pocket, he drew out a phone—old, a flip phone, far outdated, but still functional, and now without any owner for it. He gripped it tightly, almost trying to break it, and drew back his arm to throw it right next to that cigarette, now stifled by the rain.

At the last moment Andrew stopped and dropped the phone at his feet instead. There wasn’t much left of Neil: his exy gear, unused brown contact lenses, pages and pages of math work that Andrew couldn’t stand to look at, and his phone. 

He raised the bottle to his lips, took a very long drink, long enough that he was beginning to question what he was doing on the roof like this, with limbs so heavy and a pulse that threatened to leave his veins in shreds. His own scars throbbed, both old and still fresh from the riot. 

Abram is dead.

Is your spine the spine of the righteous?

If he knew who had done this, if he had any way of reaching out, Andrew would have torn them to pieces and not hesitated another second to get back at them for what they’d done to Neil. But there was nothing more to it than this: whoever it had been, they were the Ravens, or something to do with them, and with Neil gone, Andrew’s attention was wholly dedicated to Kevin. 

Andrew stared at the phone at his feet, and raised a foot to crush it beneath his boot.

Before he could, it rang once. 

Andrew stopped. He stared at it. Put his foot back on the ground. There was no one who would text Neil, not now that he was dead. The only numbers that the man had saved had belonged to the Foxes, and to whoever had sent that countdown. 

The countdown is over now, Abram, and you’re not here to see how mad I am. Do you know how much I want to kill you for that? You let them get to you first. You made me break a promise.

Not one, but two. Two promises: he’d hurt Kevin, and he’d failed to protect Neil. One of those he may be able to properly apologize for, in due time. The other—his breath was ragged and something stabbed through the side of his ribs as he thought it for the hundredth time—the other he was helpless to do anything about, no matter how hard he was to try.

Neil—Abram—Josten was dead.

And now someone was texting him.

Andrew bent down, picked up the phone on the ground, flicked it open. They still needed to cancel the phone plan. It had gotten lost in the string of things in the past week—there was so much to do that a cell phone was ranked at the bottom of the list. 

Except.

Except there was a text from a blocked number—a different one than the countdown—and when Andrew opened it, all it contained was a single word:

Wait.

And dread filled his stomach in the same way it had when Neil’s hand was yanked from him in the riot. 

He sent a reply, rash though he knew it was:

Who is this?

But there was no reply, and when he attempted to phone the mystery number back, he reached a message informing him that the number was out of service and he should hang up and try again.

Andrew buried a sob beneath a mouthful of vodka and a cigarette inhaled so quickly he felt nauseous. Who could he begin to ask for answers? A burner phone like this would be no use in trying to track down any further information, regardless of who had sent that text.

Another drink. Standing and taking tottering steps towards the door, more shakily than he would ever let himself be in front of anyone else again. 

He could not be helpless again. Not after all that he had lost.

[mrsarnasdelicious]

One Piece Holiday Special #1 - Law and his Cora-san

Content Warnings: Past abuse, bad cope and Rosinante x Law.

Law's most steady relationship is with Donquixote Rosinante. Not only the brother of his abuser, but also the man who helped him become the well adjusted medical student he is today. They share a home and Rosinante pays for most of Law's study.

Due to his past with Doflamingo, Law has anxiety PTSD and is prone to bounds of depression. For most of the trauma Doffy left him with, Law has healthy copes and he goes to therapy on a regular basis.

But the way he copes with the sexual trauma, partially, is probably rather disturbing. And he only trusts Rosinante with it. Because Rosinante is the only one he truly trusts. Sure he trusts Kid, Penguin and Shachi, but not the way he trusts Rosinante.

He'll ask Rosinante to use him. To be Rosinante's little fuck toy. It is his way to claim back the power that Doffy took from him. Because he knows that he can always use the stoplight system or a safe word to tell Rosinante to stop. He never does. He likes the way Rosinante uses him. But the fact that he can gives him that strange healing that therapy can never provide him.

Rosi defo had to get used to it. Because he knows in what ways Doffy abused Law and he would never want Law to relive that. But when he discovered this is healimg for Law, he of cours eneeded some firm boundaries set, with which Law agreed.

[tcfactory]

Redbeak

I like the headcanon that Karasu' peculiar mannerisms came about because being forced to change from trainee Doman shinobi to full-time imperial assassin (after the rebellion of all times, when the empire had plenty of targets for them to eliminate) left him with lingering trauma.

I can easily see Gekkai handing him a long list of people who need to die, no questions asked - mostly people who took part in the uprising, but there are some innocent civilians thrown in there for good measure to test how tight his hold on Karasu actually is - with the implication that if Karasu fails or tries to betray his new masters he will be hunter down and killed.

[randommothsvents]

What if I'm wrong?

What if my heath is completely normal and I'm just a dramatic bitch?

Whenever people say "I hate when people act like the victim when they're not" i aways think of myself.what If I started all this and I'm actually the problem?

What if I'm wrong and everyone hates me?what if I kms?

What will you do?nothing bc I don't matter...my family wouldn't do anything,too

Everyone's comfort,no help.theres a different...and I'm tired of helping.nobody cares about me when I care for them.yet I still feel selfish when I'm honest.so I fake my personality.bc if I was honest.everyone would hate me,rightfully

You can't say I'm wrong,you don't know the real me...you don't know how I actually feel about certain topics...alot of things,actually

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

ok also had a realization about the mechs au. genericb is still carmilla but grumbot is still a grian creation. i’m shoving the crane wife from stranger and frankenstein into one character to make a terrible man.

[soryualeksi]

// cw death // cw horrifying ways to die // cw no happy endings ever // cw stories from EMS // cw car crash // cw fire

//

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My mood was pretty good at the get-together until that young firefighter told the story that ended in "... and that smelled like fried chicken."

[memeticallyengineered]

JOON NO

[folaireamh]

< resisting the urge to smoke and drink

[soulesplinters]

No more slacking! I'm on the job! Yes, I know that everyone has to play their part -Come on! Rev the engines of this beast!

[ID: Disheveled doodle of Cel from TFJ's bad end in chromatic aberration, meant to give off an abstract horror effect. Their entire appearance is nearly glitched out and overshadowed. The main trait emphasized being their wide eyed cyan stare in front of their completely wrapped face, and a long purple tear streak dripping down. Bits of binary code are crowding Cel's eye. /End ID]

(cw for scophopho.bia, tee.th, and ne.edles in the song linked!)