#making these borderline suicidal plans. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thefanficmonster · 8 months ago

Note

Not sure if ur accepting requests for the bear.. but could we maybe get a Mikey x reader where she finds out she's pregnant after he died (big angst tbh) and she comes to the restaurant a mess and tells everyone and it's sad but everyone's shocked or something idk if that makes sense lol, thanks

Ahhh the angst! My favorite genre to write 🙈 Thank you so much for the request, darling! I hope you enjoy the fic 💌

Too Much, Too Late

Michael 'Mikey' Berzatto x Reader (Female) [The Bear]

Warnings: Mentioned Suicide, Mentioned Past Drug Abuse (dealing and consuming), Pregnancy, Swearing, SPOILERS for The Bear

Genre: ANGST, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Angst with a happy ending

Summary: see request above

It was a job like any other. It was supposed to be one of those briskly-in-swiftly-out deals. All you had to do was keep it on the down low, distribute your products, get your pay and leave.

However, that didn't happen exactly as planned.

"Why are you in such a rush, sweetheart?" You found yourself accosted by a man who was very clearly three sheets to the wind already. The redness of his eyes, the dilated pupils and the alcohol on his breath suggested he was under several influences. Still, none of that was any justification for his borderline sleazy behavior. "Why don't you accompany me in blowing through this, huh?" He held up the baggie he'd just bought off you, causing you to roll your eyes.

In another setting, preferably under vastly different circumstances you would've probably found him attractive and would even like to uphold a conversation with him. Then again, in those ideal circumstances you imagine he wouldn't have been nearly as obnoxious as he was being in that moment.

Besides, you had a strict rule against participating in drugs with your clients. Or just drugs, period. Anything stronger than weed, that is.

You wanted to get him off your back as soon as possible so, instead of shutting him down in your typical cut-throat manner, you decided to let him down slowly and vanish before his object permanence kicked in. "Another time, pal. I have a busy night ahead."

It worked like a charm anytime someone tried to sweep you off your feet.

However, none of those other occasions had any follow-up. This one, on the other hand....

"Hey."

You had been caught up in your thoughts, making a mental itinerary for the next few days worth of deliveries when a voice startled you out of your tranquility.

It was the following morning and you were headed to the dumpster that was your plug's house - if you could even call it that.

Looking up, you couldn't help but frown at the sight of the 'flirt' from last night standing on the porch of your plug's house, leanings against the fence, smoking a cigarette.

"Hi?" The word came out automatically, a notation of confusion to it which made him smile.

"I don't know if you not remembering me is for better or for worse. I understand I came off a bit....gross last night." His unoccupied hand clasped around the back of his neck, an apologetic half-smile on his lips.

Despite being puzzled by the predicament, you found yourself chuckling, "No, no, I remember you. And don't worry about it, you were pretty tame compared to other shitbags I've had to deal with."

Your wording made him let out a laugh, "Yeah, 'shitbag' sums me up nicely."

Realizing how your words were poorly transmitted, you hurried to correct yourself, "No! That's not what I..."

He laughed yet again, amused by the blush that had crept onto your cheeks, "I know, I'm just fucking with you." He flashed you a charming smile as he tossed his cigarette and offered you his hand, "I'm Michael, by the way, but everyone calls me Mikey."

You were surprised by your own lack of hesitation as you took it, "Y/N, nice to meet you, Mikey."

What did surprise you was his smooth gesture - bringing the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. You could see relief flood his features when you only scoffed in amusement. "Hope you don't mind, I asked around about you at the party last night. You're quite the phantom, you know. Nobody knew anything except your plug and it was a whole other hassle having to track him down."

You would've been lying if you said you didn't find his effort flattering. "Why go through all that trouble?"

There was that charming smile once more, now accompanied by a wink, "Cause that ain't a face you simply forget, darling."

That's how it all started, three years ago. But you can hardly remember any of it now. Everything has quickly been overshadowed by the tragedy that rocked your world.

Losing the love of your life. No one and nothing can ever prepare you for such a thing. No one can take away or aid the pain it brings on. No one can tell you how to move on, if you ever will. No two grieving processes are the same and yours has been very quiet. Too quiet. You can't even remember if you've cried since you found out a week ago. You can't remember having spoken to anyone since that dreadful phone call.

It's all been building up, piling on - the calm before the storm.

And the storm has just crashed down on you, tears finally spilling over past the barrier you're able to hold them at. Sobs scratch up your throat, racking your ribcage, echoing back at you off the bathroom walls. All the agony, all the pain, the regret, the guilt the grief - it all spills out in those harrowing sobs as tears stream down your face, falling onto the sink counter and pregnancy test on it.

The positive pregnancy test.

"No, no, no...." You mumble to yourself in despair, unsure of what exactly you're saying no to.

You don't even have time to process how you feel about it, if you want it, whether you're happy about it or not. All that's plaguing your mind is the gnawing thought of what if?

What if you'd found out two weeks earlier? What if you told him? What if that changed his mind? Would you still have him by your side if he knew he'd be a dad? Would this be a reason for joy and excitement for the two of you? Having your own little family, fucked up in its own way but miles better than your individual families.

You never met his, he never met your. Unlike him, though, you haven't seen your folks in years, five to be exact. He put up with his, you had cut off yours.

You're well versed into his family and their dynamics though, thanks to all the stories Mikey told you throughout the years. You specifically remember him talking about his siblings with such adoration. Natalie and Carmen. The only supposedly sane ones of the bunch.

Wiping the tears off your burning red cheeks, you regain control of your breathing, effectively calming yourself down as you take a long look at yourself in the mirror. You will yourself to put a hand over your belly, taking a moment to let the realization of there being a living thing inside you sink in.

Your and Mikey's baby.

A baby that'll never know the wonderful man that is their dad.

"Don't worry, baby. If they don't want us, we'll always have each other."

* * * * *

After a sleepless night, you find yourself struggling not to nod off on the train.

You thought you'd feel a lot more....well, something more as you approach the inevitable meeting with Mikey's brother. Instead, you're quite numb, immune to whatever you might be faced with once you arrive at the restaurant. Nothing he might say or do can faze you, not after the week you've had. Though you're pretty sure his hasn't been any better. He lost his brother after all. It could be a point of mutual understanding for the two of you or a point of collision and apperhension.

Only one way to find out.

You're surprised by the sheer boldness with which you enter the sandwich shop. Again, you thought you might exhibit at least mild hesitation but you have never been prone to such reservations. You still do things like you used to back in your dealer days - briskly-in-swiftly-out.

This is no different.

Upon entry, the interior feels familiar. You've been here only twice before, always after closing, snuck in by Mikey as a date night. He'd cook for you while you DJed with the restaurant sound system in the office. It was the peak of romance in your relationship.

Never once did you think one day you'd be coming in alone, during work hours, the memories bringing tears to your eyes.

You push the pain to the backburner when a waiter approaches you. "Welcome, what can I get ya?"

You force the closest thing to a smile you can manage, "Carmen Berzatto, if possible."

Just then, as if on cue, sounds of chaos flood out from the kitchen into the seating area. It doesn't really seem to bother any of the three tables enjoying their meal, but you are certainly a little shocked. You remember Mikey mentioning shit would get chaotic in back of house, but you'd never imagined it'd be this bad.

The waiter casually peers over his shoulder, pressing his lips in a thin line, "I can't promise you anything but I'll go ask. Who's asking for him?" He inquires, already uneasy at the thought of what he'll be met with in the kitchen.

"Mikey's girlfriend." You watch, in real time, as the poor guy's eyes hollow out in shock, his eyebrows raising impossibly high.

Despite being rattled by your response, he manages to clear his throat and murmur a quick, "Please wait here" before disappearing out of view.

Less than a minute later, the door to the kitchen swung open again, the man emerging from the kitchen shocking you with his lack of resemblance to Michael. Fair hair, bright blue eyes, overall soft features whereas Mikey was all sharp edges, dark brown hair and chocolate eyes.

He too, quite like his brother, is doing a poor job masking his confusion as he offers you a tattooed hand as a greeting, "Hi."

You take it, "Hi."

The rowdiness picks up yet again, causing Carmy to motion for you to follow him, "It's a little too loud in here." You nod and follow suit as he leads you out through a back exit to a fenced of area. He shuts the door, drowning out most of the noise before he turns back to face you, "Alright, tell me everything."

It takes all the will you have coupled with all the pride within you not to let yourself shed any tears as you sum up five of the best years of your life in front of this stranger. It gets especially hard when you see his eyes gloss over but you manage to keep it together. Your chest feels somewhat lighter once you bare one of the biggest secrets in your life, knowing there cannot be any repercussions now.

Because...well...he's gone.

"Fuck..." Is all Carmy can say to break the silence after you've concluded your story. His gaze is trained on the ground, his hand cupped around his mouth. He suddenly lifts his head to look at you, making you feel a little too exposed. Those eyes stare right through you. "Why didn't he ever tell us about you?"

You shrug, you have no real answer. You don't know why he would tell them but you're none the wiser as to why he didn't tell them either. So, you just stay quiet.

He nods, pausing for a second to collect his thoughts before speaking up again, "I-I gotta ask...did you suspect anything? Like, did you see any signs?"

You were expecting this. That doesn't mean it hurts any less to actually hear him ask it. You force yourself to inhale a shaky breath before replying, speaking around the knot in your throat, "No. I saw him that morning, he seemed fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. We were talking about the game. He was excited the Sox had won. He made us breakfast. I ironed his shirt for work and I sent him off. And...." You take a moment to maintain your composure, "...that was the last time I saw him."

"Fucking hell..." He sighs out, the curse pouring out from the depths of his soul. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, taking one and offering the pack to you, "You smoke?"

You shake your head, "Yeah, but I can't right now." You let out a bitter chuckle as you add on: "Last night...I found out I'm pregnant."

Carmy chokes on the puff he'd just inhaled, coughing out the smoke. He gives you a deer-in-headlights look, trying to gouge your reaction so he can mimic his accordingly. You help him out by giving him a slight smile, allowing him to reflect it back at you ten fold.

"No fucking way." He laughs, prompting you to nod, your eyes filling with tears for the millionth time today. He tosses his cigarette, motioning for you to approach him, "Come here." His arms wrap around you and you damn near break down, finally allowing yourself to shed those tears you've been holding back as you hug him back, squeezing him tightly.

You didn't realize how much you'd needed that hug, that comfort. You had no one to offer it to you. It's funny how quickly people can become important in our lives - in this case, only minutes after entering yours.

You're both startled when the door is thrown open revealing a man you don't recognize initially. His demeanor allows you to connect him to a name soon though.

"Cousin, what the fuck?! We're fighting a war in there...- oh, my bad." He straightens his attitude when he notices you, "Hi there."

Sniffling, Carmy wipes a stray tear before offering Richie a wide smile, "Cousin, we're gonna be uncles."

The confusion on his face provokes a laugh out of you, a genuine one at that. It's refreshing, nostalgic almost. And although you're well aware you'll have to retell your and Mikey's story several more times to catch people up to speed, you know that it'll be a little less dreadful each time.

* * * * *

It's over. The five minutes of utter hell and chaos are over.

You share a look of disbelief with Syd before bursting out in hysterical laughter, enveloping each other in a hug.

"We did it."

"We fucking did it."

Wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, you beam up at Richie who is equally as high on the feel of accomplishment. His arms wrap around you so tightly, he momentarily lifts you off the ground.

It's finally the calm after the storm. You can finally relax without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You rush out to the dining are, going straight to Sugar and Pete's table where your one year old son is being entertained by the couple, cackling as Pete tickles his feet.

"Hope he wasn't too much trouble." You say as you approach their side, your voice prompting Sugar to get up and practically tackle you with upmost joy.

"Great job back there, Y/N." She beams at you, holding your hands tightly when she pulls away.

"You too, mama." You smile back, resting a hand over her swollen belly just in time to feel a kick.

Turning back to Calvin, you see him making grabby hands at you, giggling when you pick him up, peppering kisses all over his face, "Hi, baby!" You coo to him, adjusting his surprisingly still clean shirt. A fancy one, curtesy of Richie. Him, Fak and Calvin are in matching suits tonight and it's the most adorable thing. "Wanna go see uncle Carmy?"

It's ridiculous you even asked. The little boy cheers happily, kicking his feet as you carry him back to the kitchen, stopping in front of the freezer door to knock on it.

"What?!" You hear Carmy's rough voice boom from inside.

"Carmy!" Calvin calls out to his uncle, his tiny hands tapping on the freezer door, "Hiiii!"

"Hi Baby Bear." His tone has softened now, raising to an octave higher, "Your mommy is a badass, you know that."

"Oh he knows." You reply, resting your forehead on the cool metal, "We did it, Carm. We took care of it. Everything's handled, don't worry." You take this moment of calmness on his end to reassure him that no matter what anxieties are plaguing him, everything is and will be fine.

"I know you did, Y/N. You're an awesome team. Just wish I was in the fire with you, you know?" He says through a shaky breath, causing your heart to ache.

"Oh this was just the frying pan, dude. You'll be there for the many fires to come." Your words are successful in making him laugh, bringing you relief.

"I cook too!" Calvin proudly proclaims, making you both chuckle.

"You'll cook too, Teddy Bear. You'll be the best fucking chef ever." You gave up a while ago trying to shield Calvin from the sailor mouths of the Berzatto family and the restaurant as a whole. If he has a potty mouth from a very early age, you'll just blame it on his dad and uncles.

You never dreamed you'd find yourself in the cahoots of such a batshit crazy and immensely loving family. It really makes you feel a sense of fulfillment looking back at how far you've come and look forward knowing that you'll never come to a point where you'll be alone.

You'll always have your son, the Berzattos and The Bear by your side.

591 notes · View notes

fenrysmoonbeamswife · 2 months ago

Text

Masterpost #1

Topic: Cassian is an abusive bastard

- Told Nesta everyone hates her

- Told her he couldn't understand why her sisters loved her

- Harassed her even when she continuously told him to leave her alone

- Followed her home

- Locked her up and acted as her jailer. Forced her to train as a warrior because she was using sex as a coping mechanism and proceeded to abuse that coping mechanism and have sex with her when she was at her most emotionally vulnerable

- Had sex with her at a time he had so much authority over her he dictated what she ate

- Purposely had Azriel pack a heavy bag so she would physically suffer on the hike

- Didn't stand up for her or even blink when Rhysand threatened to kill her

- Realized she was suicidal and continued to force her on a hike with lethal drops and didn't bother to look back at her for hours and days until she fainted

- Didn't tell her that Feyre wasn't angry with her anymore, leaving her in mental agony for days

- Forced her to physically exert herself while simultaneously using mental abuse until she collapsed physically and had a complete mental breakdown

- Had sex with her after her mental breakdown as some sort of reward for finally breaking for him

- Sexualized her and focused on her boobs after pointing out that she was emaciated from not eating because she was so depressed

- Used her fathers death against her because she *checks notes* wouldn't eat her plain oatmeal

- Put hands on her directly after finding out about Tomas and wouldn't let go until she physically hurt him the only way she could

- Planned for 10 minutes how to rile her up and argue with her and then villainized her

- He has built their entire relationship on spite, he treats her like an obligation something broken he needs to fix but never with understanding or empathy. Something that was forced on him pursued her against her will while ignoring her boundaries. Their entire relationship is based on power plays and asserting dominance over her

- Borderline violent and degrading sex with no aftercare while she is at her lowest

- Using her body to calm his own frustrations while blatantly ignoring her emotional state

- Emotional manipulation. He consistently uses her vulnerability against her, pushes her to get better on his terms while simultaneously throwing her failures in her face, making her feel unworthy, abusing her coping mechanisms, laughing at her pain. Perpetuating that she is only worthy if she falls in line with what he and the IC want from her. He consistently attempts to mold her into being someone more palatable (Feyre) rather than accepting who she is and helping her for who she is

- He contributes directly to her ultimate breakdown. He does nothing to help when she's quite literally begging for support and even goes so far as to worsen her situation repeatedly

- Villainizing her even when she's being perfectly placid. Eg. During the solstice scene she is pleasant, she wishes Feyre HB, thanks Elain for her gifts profusely, speaks nicely with Azriel, sits back and allows them to exchange gifts without interfering (though they forced her to be there and got her nothing), kisses Elain fondly before leaving, she mostly just sits their the entire time and Cassians POV afterwards?? "He'd had enough of the coldness, the sharpness. Enough of the sword straight spine and sharp stare." Not that she was blackmailed into coming, ignored all night and had gifts flaunted in front of her and was STILL pleasant

- Agreed with Mor when she equated Nesta with her borderline evil abusers. AND thought about how he was blown away by Mor's beauty while she sat there saying that Nesta should be tortured in a dungeon

- Affirmed her insecurities every chance he could

- Heard about how she was groomed and preyed on at 14 and made it about himself

- Judged her for being a child and not parenting another child the first second he met her even though she allowed him into her home

- Sees how strong her emotions are for others and then later claims that "she barely seems to care about anyone other than Elain"

- Laughs when she falls down the stairs, she has bruises and a black eye from this fall

- Doesn't correct her when she voices her feeling that she isn't good enough for him and doesn't deserve him

- Laughs behind her back that Rhysand is happy she will hate the hike

- She collapses every day on the hike and never speaks and all he says is "at least remove the pack so I can cook myself dinner"

- Works her to the point of literally fainting face first and he yells at her

- When she breaks down finally and tells him how much she hates herself, he tells her how much he loves Rhysand

- Claims there is nothing broken to be fixed yet he forces her to obey him and change everything about herself and behave in the way he approves of

- When she attempts to be open and communicative with him and explains how mate doesn't mean to her what it means to him because she's still human at heart he dismisses her and says it's bullshit

- When she calls in her bargain he doesn't respect it and immediately thinks of a way to get around it. He does not respect her or the boundaries she attempts to set. She says she wants a week alone yet he shows up the very next day and acts like she just wasn't clever enough to evade him

- While she is terrified and hoping he will come rescue her from the blood rite he says he even if he could he wouldn't

- He never says I love you NOT ONCE

- When Rhysand yells at and threatens Nesta for helping Bryce, Cassian does not defend her and even joins in and snarls at her

- Says he can take whatever she throws at him and then literally two seconds later he fucks her out of it for saying something mildly rude about Rhysand

The fact that I could keep going and going but I'm just too angry. Cassian sucks and anyone who likes him is perpetuating the forgiveness of abusive men. I don't care if he is a fictional character, he is a carbon copy of real life abusive men and the support of him and blatant ignoring of his abuse is disgusting and harmful. I'm sorry but anyone who claims to love Nesta but loves Cassian?? Uh YA LYING. If your best friend or your mother was being treated the way Cassian treats Nesta would you be happy with their relationship? I don't think so.

Inspired by @kataraavatara because she slays

#pro nesta #nesta archeron #anti cassian #sjm #anti nessian #anti rhysand

245 notes · View notes

moondirti · 1 year ago

Text

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face.

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.”

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design.

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you.

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t.

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ.

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is.

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first.

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory.

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition.

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology.

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far.

“Oye,”

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him.

“I need your day pass.”

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches.

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.”

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond?

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant.

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind.

He is asking.

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do.

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.

But, oh.

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself.

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.”

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now.

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you.

Can’t get it up?

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you.

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be.

And… Christ–

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous.

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago.

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara.

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger.

“Where is it?”

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin.

“Where’s the fucking day pass?”

Your satisfaction is short-lived.

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point.

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees.

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth.

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–”

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.”

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become.

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure.

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing.

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this.

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.)

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die.

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask.

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?”

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears.

What the fuck, indeed.

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake.

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation.

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed.

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost.

chapter five →

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be alerted of future updates!

2K notes · View notes

frvnkcastles · 5 months ago

Text

FILL THE VOID ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: Struggling with BPD, you’re determined to not get attached to anyone again, but that quickly changes when you meet Frank.

Warnings: BPD, suicide ideation, language, hurt/comfort

Word count: 2.4k

Author’s note: Long time no see :) I’ve talked about this before but in addition to C-PTSD, I also struggle with borderline personality and I’ve started to talk about it with my therapist and it’s bringing up some feelings. Sooo I obviously had to write about it and insert Frank into the scenario to make myself feel better. I hope this resonates with someone else as well! <3

You had sworn to yourself you weren’t going to fall for anyone else ever again. You weren’t going to let anyone in, wouldn’t allow anyone to get close to you and unravel you and all your baggage. It was simply too much, bound to end in pain and abandonment and you couldn’t put yourself through that cycle for the millionth time.

Obviously, when you met Frank, he made that plan plenty hard to put into action. He was too charming for his own good, and he didn’t even know it. Really, he wasn’t looking for anything romantic and he certainly didn’t mean to sweep you off of your feet, yet he ended up doing exactly like that.

You were an idiot to think you wouldn’t get attached in one night. That was all it was supposed to be — just two strangers in your preferred albeit dingy bar, having a drink and chatting for the hell of it. You couldn’t deny that he was easy on the eyes, and little did you know, he thought about the same about you, but getting to know him more was what did the final nail in the coffin. You had your history of impulsive hook-ups, but you were really trying your best to ditch that unsafe habit. Somehow, connecting beyond the physical level was worse.

Your first mistake was asking his name. ”Frank”, he uttered out with that gravelly tone you were enjoying all too much, not bothering to do the whole handshake routine as he gulped down a swig of his beer and then looked over to you expectantly. You introduced yourself in return, but your mind was already wondering what Frank entailed, what kind of man you were on the cusp of learning about, and the curiosity was driving you crazy.

”So, who exactly is Frank Castle?” you queried, resting your jaw against your hand as you admired the man who started to look more and more delicious under the yellowy lights of the bar. He had a prickly stubble adorning his jawline and his hair was growing gloriously on the top, and there was something enchanting about his wide nose and the way he scrunched it up every single time he took a sip of his drink.

”Uhh…” He seemed reluctant to talk about his history, and you supposed you did come off a little strong. That should have been your sign to back off and be glad you dodged a bullet, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

”Sorry, don’t mean to pry”, you chuckled awkwardly, wiping your hair away from your face and looking down at your hands to avoid his stare.

”Nah, it’s alright”, he was quick to reassure you, something about the soft tone setting your soul alight as you looked back up at him. ”Just… ain’t a very happy story to share, y’know? Don’t wanna dampen the mood”, he continued, and you nodded in understanding before breaking into a teasing smile.

”And what mood is that?” you wondered before wetting your lips, and taking note of the sweep of your tongue, Frank once again found himself speechless before managing a chuckle, one that sounded almost nervous.

”I dunno, you tell me. ’M just enjoyin’ the company of a pretty lady right now”, he shrugged. Again, he hadn’t been looking for anything romantic, but he couldn’t deny being drawn to you already, and lately, he had challenged himself to put himself out there more. He would always miss his wife, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to find company in someone else after mourning her for years.

The compliment went straight to your head, feeding your already developing attachment. And before you knew it, you were exchanging numbers, an euphoric soar lifting your heart and undeniable excitement pounding at your ribcage with force necessary to break through. You were already being pulled in too deep to writhe away, and there was not a thing you could do to stop yourself from heading down that same path you had trodden so many times before.

When you finally called it a night, Frank, ever the gentleman, walked you to your apartment. And as you reached the front door, you swallowed thickly, knowing very well what was going through both of your minds. In fact, it was as if Frank had read yours.

”Hey, we can just say goodbye for now. No pressure”, he reminded, his hands deep in his pockets as he gave you a sincere look, insisting that he meant every word. You nodded carefully, tearing your gaze from his handsome face, knowing every second you spent looking at his impossibly deep eyes or full lips would only weaken your resolve more and more.

”Don’t get me wrong, I… I want to. But I really shouldn’t, I—I kind of have a bad habit of sleeping on the first date when I don’t even know the person that well and it usually backfires”, you explained shyly, rubbing the back of your neck and finally bringing your eyes back to him, finding a faint smile on his lips.

”I understand, sweetheart”, he promised, giving you a curt nod before taking a step back, ready to leave. Before he did, though, he gave you a look. ”Just so we’re clear, though… that wasn’t a first date. I’mma do it right whenever you have time for me”, he insisted, flashing a grin at you before turning on his heel and walking away, not even giving you time to process.

As you got inside your apartment and sealed the door behind you, an indestructible smile took over your features. So much for not getting attached.

At first, you were able to keep your behavior in check and Frank was none the wiser to your past issues, apart from the small tidbits you offered in return when he finally opened up about his family. He took you on dates, some of them with a great effort put into them, but some of them more lowkey which felt more like Frank. You were perfectly content having wine on the rooftop of his apartment building or sharing a pizza while watching cheesy action on his couch — you were just happy to bask in his company. He seemed perfect, like he could do no wrong, and even when he admitted to his vigilante activities, you saw no fault in him. To you, he was flawless, and you adored him.

But slowly, through the cracks in your facade, the problems you had feared were beginning to show.

It started when he ran into trouble with some criminals he had been after. His mood became irritated and stressed, and you took it to heart. Your own mood soured and you tried your best to help him, unable to stop thinking about him and how he was struggling, your mind in a vicious loop as you sat in the bad feeling. A few days later, he was feeling better, and you instantly felt rejuvenated and alive again, and when the inevitable disappointment came around once more, you couldn’t breathe.

The biggest downside, however, was him putting distance between you and him to avoid you getting caught in all his problems. And distance was not something you handled well. You didn’t know how to communicate it to him, either, so instead, you were left alone in an evil downward spiral.

You messaged. You called. You cried and you begged and pleaded for an answer and reassurance that he still cared about you. It was embarrassing and you felt so vulnerable and hurt that it was almost impossible to bear. You tried so hard to be rational and understand that he was probably in a lot of trouble and danger and he’d pay attention to you as soon as he could, but the wait was killing you. It felt like you were starving without him, like your emotions were bleeding and you didn’t have the tools to stop the flow. You were suffering and it was a pain only he could alleviate.

Eventually, one night, there was a knock on your door and you flew up from the couch where you had been reading over your and Frank’s text messages again and again. Without even bothering to check through the peephole, you swung the door open, and at the sight of Frank, you felt healed. You threw yourself in his arms, hugging him tightly and clinging on for dear life, with your eyes squeezed shut and your face buried into his chest.

”Hey, sweetheart”, he whispered, wrapping his arms around you as he walked into the apartment with a gentle nudge to push you along. He kicked the door shut and carefully pried you off of him, only so he could look into your eyes. ”I’m real sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. Been dealin’ with some scumbags for the past couple of days and it’s been… rough. But I shoulda called you back. That’s on me”, he apologized, a sad look in his eyes as he stared down at you.

”It’s okay”, you breathed out with a smile, ”you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” Just like that, it was like nothing had ever happened, all the pain forgotten now that you were finally back in his embrace. It was so easy to doubt his feelings for you when he was gone, like they ceased to exist when he wasn’t around to prove his affection every second, but now that he was back… you were over the moon.

But the worst was yet to come.

”Yeah, about that, sweetheart…”, he started, and in an instant, your heart sank. ”I… I ain’t here to stay. I gotta get out of town for a while. I got these guys after me…”, he explained, but as he went on, the words didn’t register. All you heard was that he was leaving and that was enough to break you.

Tears welled up in your eyes and you grabbed ahold of Frank’s arm. ”Don’t leave me, please”, you whispered, ”you can’t leave me. Please, Frank.” His heart broke at the sight of you crying, and he reached for your cheek to wipe the tears away with his thumb, but the soft gesture did nothing to comfort your breaking heart.

”I’m sorry, sweet girl, I am”, he spoke, and quietly, he leaned in to kiss your forehead. As his lips collided with your hot skin, you closed your eyes and tightened your hold on his arm, but it didn’t deter him.

Gently but firmly, he undid your grip from him and left. The apartment became painfully quiet, but only for a while, as your loud sobs soon enough broke the peace. You fell to your knees, clawing on your chest as you wept and grieved what felt like a monumental loss.

It was the beginning of the end, you thought. You quickly lost the will to get up in the mornings, to eat, to sleep. In fact, you could no longer see the point in living, at all. You contemplated just putting an end to your miserable existence, feeling not only griefstricken but so goddamn humiliated. You had let yourself get caught up in it again, had let someone in and as always, it ended with you depressed and suicidal at the bottom of your bed.

When were you going to learn?

For the first couple of days, you loathed yourself. Then, your mind started to turn against Frank. He had hurt you, had disappointed you, had hurt you. He had held your heart in his hand and he had just crushed it. How could he do that? He had to be evil. He had to be cruel. It was his fault and his alone. And yet, you would have done anything to have him back.

One week later, that was exactly what happened. There was a knock on your door again and you found the strength to get out of your bed to find out who it was, though you were only hoping for one person.

Much to your relief and delight, when you opened the door, Frank was stood there looking like a kicked puppy, his dark eyes filled with something apologetic and his hands folded in front of him like he was getting ready to beg for your forgiveness.

”Sweetheart, I—”, he began, gulping as he hesitated. ”Your friend called me. Told me everything. About… about you”, he went on, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. You didn’t know how to feel about that revelation. You supposed you had to be grateful to your friend who had visited you in your mourning, because she had brought Frank back to you, but you also felt ashamed. Like Frank saw you in a completely different light now. Surely, he was here to end it with you for good, unable and unwilling to associate with someone as troubled as yourself.

”I didn’t know me leavin’ would hurt you so deeply. I never wanna cause you any pain, baby. I… I’m fallin’ for you and I only left because it wasn’t safe, not ’cause I didn’t care for you. But I understand now that it must’ve been real bad for you when I did that”, he explained, and slowly, you nodded. You raked your fingers through your knotted hair, feeling insecure under the weight of his stare, but he found you just as beautiful as always.

”Are you here to break up with me?” you asked weakly, sniffling as you looked down at your feet. He reacted immediately, lifting your chin with his fingertip and meeting your gaze.

”No. Fuck, never. ’M here to ask you to come with me. I still have a lot to do but I want you on the road by my side. How does that sound, sweetheart?” he proposed, a hopeful smile on his lips.

You couldn’t believe your ears. But sure enough, you mirrored his smile eventually, and your heart came back to life.

”I would love to, Frank”, you sighed, breaking into tears again, this time out of happiness. He quickly pulled you into a hug, squeezing you in his arms and kissing the top of your head. And when he withdrew from you, it was only so he could meet your lips with his own in a tender but loving kiss. It was slow and deep and it took your breath away, your stomach doing backflips as you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back with all your might.

There was still a lot you hadn’t revealed to him, but it was the first time someone had seen you at your lowest and accepted it, welcomed it, and for that, you had a feeling that Frank could really, truly, genuinely be the one.

#frank castle #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher x reader

85 notes · View notes

artyandink · 2 months ago

Text

amoralism | fourteen

SUMMARY: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: Dean’s the mole, the Sucide Squad formation and it being a train wreck, a bit of family problems, angst

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Tears of Gold - Faouzia

chauvinism

The mission had been in the works for two long, grueling weeks, and it still felt like a long shot.

You, Sam, Bobby, and the so-called "Suicide Squad" had spent hours in the Bureau's underground briefing room, a place so buried under layers of concrete and steel that cell reception was a distant memory. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale coffee, sweat, and stress—everyone had been pulling double shifts, and no one was more wired than you. The clock was ticking. Dean’s files were being held under lock and key by Raphael Deacon, the Director of the FBI, and a man with more power than the President on his worst days.

But the files—Dean's files—were the key to everything. They held the proof, the answers. The only way to clear Dean's name or understand why he had betrayed you all. You needed those files, and there was only one way to get them: a heist.

It sounded absurd, like something out of a bad spy movie, but it was the only plan anyone had that made sense. Bobby had been pacing the front of the room, whiteboard behind him filled with diagrams, maps, and hastily scribbled notes as the rest of the team crowded around.

“We go in quick, we go in quiet,” Bobby muttered, pulling the cap off a dry-erase marker with his teeth and slashing another line across the board. “We got exactly one window where Deacon’s gonna be out of his office, and that’s when we make our move.”

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the tension building in your chest. You’d been part of risky ops before, but this? This was borderline suicide.

“You really think we can pull this off?” you asked, glancing at Sam next to you. His brow was furrowed, a hand running through his long hair as he scrutinized the plan for any weakness.

“We don’t have a choice,” he said quietly, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the only way we find out what’s really going on with Dean.”

His words weighed heavily on you. It had been weeks since you last saw Dean, and the encounter had shaken you to your core. You hadn’t spoken to anyone about it—especially not Sam. You swallowed hard, pushing the thoughts of Dean to the back of your mind. Focus. You needed to focus.

Across the table, Charlie Bradbury was furiously typing away on her laptop, her fingers moving faster than you thought was humanly possible. “Okay, okay, I think I’ve got it,” she said, her voice cutting through the room. “I’ve hacked into the security system. We’ve got a thirty-second delay between when a breach happens and when it gets reported. That’s our window.”

John Winchester, his arms folded over his chest, grunted from his spot near the back of the room. He hadn’t said much throughout the planning—just his typical gruff one-liners about security, strategy, and how this was a fool’s errand. But when he spoke, everyone listened.

“And what happens if we miss that window?” John asked, his voice low, but enough to send a ripple of unease through the group.

“We don’t miss it,” Bobby snapped, glaring at John. “We can’t afford to miss it.”

Rufus Turner, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table, gave a lazy grin. “Oh, this is gonna be fun. Haven’t done a good ol' heist in years.”

Next to him, Agent Jack Kline, the youngest member of the team, looked more nervous than excited. He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, but he was trying to mask it with a look of determination.

Mick Davies, sharp as ever in his suit, spoke up next. “What’s our exit plan? We can’t just waltz out of the building with federal files in hand. Deacon’s got eyes everywhere.”

Bobby paused, pacing again, his boots heavy on the floor. “We’ll split up. Create enough chaos that no one knows what’s happening until we’re gone. Charlie, you’ll jam the internal comms, give us time to slip out without alerting the entire Bureau.”

Garth chimed in, tapping his chin. “And what about disguises? We can’t exactly stroll in looking like this.” He gestured down at his casual clothes.

“That’s where I come in,” Mick said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ve got some connections. We’ll have uniforms. FBI suits, maintenance workers, delivery personnel. The whole nine yards.”

“Sounds like a damn circus,” you muttered under your breath, rubbing your temples.

Bobby shot you a look. “We’re working with what we’ve got.”

The plan was as convoluted as they came—deceit, manipulation, distraction, and everything in between. There was no room for error. One slip, one wrong move, and the entire operation would be over before it even began. But you were in too deep now. Backing out wasn’t an option.

The day arrived sooner than any of you were ready for. You could feel the tension in the air as the team gathered in the Bureau's underground garage. Everyone was dressed to play their parts—uniforms, IDs, all fake but polished enough to pass a casual inspection.

You tugged at the stiff collar of your maintenance jumpsuit, feeling out of place but determined. Sam, standing next to you, adjusted the lapels on his fake FBI suit, his eyes scanning the group.

“Everyone know their role?” Bobby asked, his voice hard as he gave one final look at the team.

Charlie was the first to respond. “I’ll be in the van, controlling the security feed and hacking the system as we go. If anything goes wrong, you’ll know because all hell will break loose.”

John, dressed as a janitor, grunted his agreement. “I’ll make sure the halls are clear.”

Garth, in his delivery uniform, gave a thumbs up. “I’m your distraction. Trust me, I’ve got this.”

Mick and Jack were already in character, blending in seamlessly with the handful of actual Bureau agents milling about the garage. It was showtime.

The mission began like clockwork. Mick and Jack were the first inside, walking through the front entrance with forged IDs and briefcases in hand. They passed the metal detectors, nodding at the guards with an air of confidence that only agents from another division could pull off.

Meanwhile, you, Sam, John, and Garth entered through the back, where maintenance workers were busy hauling in cleaning supplies and equipment. John’s hard glare kept anyone from asking questions. The man had a presence that made you glad he was on your side.

Charlie’s voice came through the earpiece in your ear. “Alright, you’re clear for now. Thirty seconds until the first security sweep. Move fast.”

Your heart pounded as you made your way through the narrow back corridors, trying to keep your footsteps light despite the rush of adrenaline in your veins. Sam was right behind you, his eyes darting between you and the path ahead.

As you rounded a corner, you caught sight of Raphael Deacon’s office—a heavy wooden door guarded by two agents. Garth was already in place, wheeling a large cart of ‘deliveries’ toward the door. You watched as he fumbled with the boxes, pretending to lose his balance.

“Oh no, shoot! Sorry, fellas, can you give me a hand here?” Garth asked, flashing his best disarming smile.

The guards, caught off guard by the seemingly harmless delivery guy, bent down to help him, just as John slipped past them into the restricted hallway unnoticed.

“Ten seconds,” Charlie’s voice warned. “You better move fast.”

John reappeared moments later, his expression tense as he gave the signal.

The door to Deacon’s office clicked open.

Inside, Raphael Deacon’s office was as imposing as you expected. The walls were lined with bookshelves, legal documents, and awards, but the real prize was the locked cabinet at the back of the room. Dean’s files were inside. Somewhere.

You rushed to the cabinet with Sam while John kept watch. Time was ticking. You grabbed the small lock-picking kit Mick had given you, your fingers trembling as you worked the lock. The seconds felt like hours as you concentrated, sweat beading on your forehead.

“Come on,” Sam muttered beside you, glancing toward the door.

Click.

The lock gave way, and you swung the cabinet doors open. Inside, stacks of files lay neatly arranged, but it only took you a second to spot the one marked with Dean’s name. You grabbed it, stuffing it into your bag just as Charlie’s voice cut through the comms again.

“We’ve got a problem. Security’s onto us. They’re not buying Garth’s act anymore.”

“Time to go,” John grunted, pulling you and Sam toward the exit.

The building was already buzzing with movement as you slipped back into the maintenance hallways, but just as planned, the chaos was enough to keep most of the agents off your trail. Garth had done his job.

Back in the garage, Charlie was already in the van, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “You’ve got maybe thirty seconds before they realize what’s missing. Let’s go!”

Everyone piled into the van as it sped away, the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. You sat back, heart racing, the weight of the stolen file heavy in your hands.

It was a victory. But as you caught Sam’s eye, you both knew this was just the beginning. The contents of the file would tell you everything—or nothing. Either way, there was no turning back now.

The mission was chaotic, convoluted, and dangerous. But somehow, against all odds, you had pulled it off.

Now came the hard part.

The adrenaline from the mission was still pumping through your veins as the van sped down the back roads, far away from the FBI headquarters. Charlie, behind the wheel, navigated the narrow streets with sharp precision, while the rest of the team sat in tense silence. The stolen file, Dean’s file, sat heavy in your lap, the weight of its contents unknown, but it was the key to everything.

You looked over at Sam. His eyes were fixed on the folder, a mix of worry and determination etched on his face. Bobby sat across from you, arms crossed, looking out the window. John was muttering to himself in the back corner, probably going over every tactical mistake you all might have made. Garth, still in his delivery uniform, was looking out the window with a goofy grin as if the whole operation had been some kind of field trip. Mick, ever the polished MI6 agent, looked almost too calm, while Jack sat quietly, fiddling nervously with his hands.

The van rattled as Charlie took a sharp turn, and you tightened your grip on the file.

“So, what now?” Charlie asked, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “We just crack open this bad boy and hope for the best?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said with a grunt, shifting in his seat. “But not here. Too many eyes around. We need a safe spot.”

Sam finally spoke up. “We can go to my place. Jess is out of town visiting family, and it’s secure.”

You nodded. “Sam’s right. Let’s go there. We can regroup, figure out what’s in this file, and plan our next move.”

The ride to Sam’s place felt longer than it should have, despite the fact that it was only about twenty minutes away. The tension in the van was thick, and you could tell everyone was on edge. After the chaos of the heist, it was hard to believe you’d actually pulled it off. But as much as you wanted to feel victorious, you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Dean was out there somewhere, possibly on the run, possibly still with the syndicate. Or worse, maybe he was exactly what the files would say he was. The thought sent a chill down your spine. After everything, after all the years you’d known him—had Dean really betrayed you all?

Charlie pulled up in front of Sam’s house, parking the van in the driveway. Everyone piled out, and you all made your way inside. Sam’s place was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of stillness that made the atmosphere feel heavier than it should’ve been.

Sam locked the door behind him, and the group settled in the living room. You sat down on the couch, the file still in your hands, and the rest of the team gathered around.

Bobby leaned forward, eyeing the file like it was some kind of dangerous artifact. “Well, kiddo,” he said, looking at you, “you gonna do the honors?”

You glanced around the room, feeling the weight of everyone’s anticipation. Your hands shook slightly as you undid the clasp on the folder, opening it to reveal the contents inside.

There were several thick documents, each stamped with confidential seals and the unmistakable insignia of the FBI. You sifted through them quickly, scanning for something, anything that would make sense of this madness. There were surveillance reports, witness statements, memos—all detailing Dean’s activities over the last year.

Your eyes caught on one page in particular, a detailed report from Raphael Deacon himself. You skimmed it, your pulse quickening as you read the words:

"Subject: Dean Winchester – Special Agent, suspected mole within the FBI, believed to be in contact with syndicate leader Lucifer. Operative is highly skilled, with extensive knowledge of Bureau protocol. Unclear how deeply involved he is with the organization, but intelligence suggests infiltration may have been premeditated…"

You swallowed hard, passing the page to Sam. His brow furrowed as he read it, a deep frown forming on his face.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Sam muttered, flipping through the pages. “Dean wouldn’t do this.”

John scoffed from the back of the room. “You sure about that, Sam? People can change. And sometimes, they don’t turn out to be who you think they are.”

Sam shot him a glare. “Dean wouldn’t betray the Bureau. Not like this.”

You stayed silent, your mind reeling as you tried to make sense of everything. The reports, the surveillance footage, the classified memos—they all painted a picture of Dean as a double agent. But something wasn’t adding up. Dean was reckless sometimes, sure, but he wasn’t a traitor.

“We need to dig deeper,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “There has to be something we’re missing.”

Charlie leaned over, scanning the files over your shoulder. “There’s a lot of redacted information here. They’re definitely hiding something.”

“Could be a cover-up,” Bobby mused. “Deacon ain’t exactly a trustworthy son of a bitch.”

“Then why’d Dean run?” Jack asked, his voice quiet. “If he’s innocent, why hasn’t he come back?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t believe for a second that Dean’s in on this. Not fully.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. “We need more information. Something solid. These files... they’re not enough.”

Mick spoke up for the first time in a while, his voice smooth but thoughtful. “Perhaps there’s a lead we can follow. If Dean’s gone dark, there must be a way to trace his movements. Off-the-books contacts, safe houses, something he would’ve used to stay hidden.”

Rufus, who had been oddly quiet until now, nodded. “Dean ain’t dumb. He’d know how to cover his tracks. But he might’ve left a trail for someone who knows how to look.”

You stood up, pacing the room as the ideas swirled in your mind. Every second that passed felt like you were running out of time, like Dean was slipping further away.

“Charlie, can you dig into these files, see what’s been redacted and maybe trace where this intel came from?” you asked, knowing full well that if anyone could break through encrypted data, it was her.

She gave you a thumbs-up. “Already on it.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident on his face. “We should keep looking for leads, but I agree with you. Something’s off about all of this. Dean wouldn’t just run unless he had no other choice.”

The thought of Dean being out there, alone, possibly in danger, made your heart ache. You hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that there was more to this story. But the mission wasn’t over yet.

The prison was cold. It always was. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore. As you made your way down the long, sterile corridor, your footsteps echoed against the hard concrete floors, bouncing off the walls in a rhythmic, lonely sound. The guard leading you said nothing, his face impassive as he swiped his keycard to open another set of heavy metal doors.

It wasn’t your first visit here. You’d been coming to see Eleanor, your mother, for weeks now. But no matter how many times you passed through the gates, through the searches and the checkpoints, it never got easier. You felt the weight of it all pressing down on your chest with every step you took.

And today, it felt even heavier.

Your mind was a whirlwind of questions, of uncertainties. The mission had been chaotic, the files had been convoluted, and worst of all, Dean was missing. A mole. An alleged traitor. But none of it made sense. None of it fit with the Dean you knew. You hoped that your mother, with her past connections to the criminal underworld, might be able to shed some light on the situation.

The guard finally stopped in front of a small, enclosed room—a visiting room. "Five minutes," he said gruffly, as though the kindness of a full hour was something prisoners rarely deserved. He unlocked the door, then gestured for you to enter. You nodded and stepped inside.

Eleanor was already sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression as calm and composed as ever. She had that air about her, even in prison. A woman who had lived through chaos and come out the other side unbroken. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, streaks of gray more prominent now than they had been the last time you saw her.

When she looked up and met your eyes, her face softened, just a little.

"Hey, kid," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that you hadn’t expected.

"Mom." You managed a small smile, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. You placed your hands on the table, feeling the cold surface beneath your fingers, trying to gather your thoughts, trying to figure out how to start.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it never had been with Eleanor. She was patient, observant. She had a way of waiting you out, of letting you come to her when you were ready.

You glanced up at her and took a deep breath. "I need to ask you something."

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed slightly. She tilted her head, her hands still resting lightly on the table. "What is it?"

"It’s about Dean," you said, the words feeling heavy as they left your mouth.

Her expression didn’t change much, but you could see the flicker of concern behind her eyes. "Dean Winchester?" she asked slowly.

You nodded, your heart racing. "Yeah. There’s been… something’s happened, and I need to know if he’s involved with the syndicate."

Eleanor blinked, clearly taken aback. She leaned back in her chair slightly, her eyes scanning your face for answers that weren’t yet spoken. "Dean?" she repeated, almost incredulous. "Dean Winchester is involved with the syndicate? The same syndicate I used to run with?"

"That’s what I’m trying to figure out," you admitted, your voice quiet. "There’s a file, reports… all pointing to him being a mole inside the FBI, working with them."

Eleanor looked at you for a long moment, her gaze unblinking. And then, almost abruptly, she let out a soft, humorless chuckle. "No," she said, shaking her head. "No, that doesn’t make any sense."

"I know it doesn’t," you replied, feeling a mixture of frustration and desperation rise up in your chest. "But it’s there. His name’s all over the files. They have surveillance, they have witness accounts—everything points to Dean."

Your mother’s brow furrowed, her fingers tapping lightly on the table as she considered your words. "I knew Dean," she said finally, her voice steady, as though she was sorting through facts in her mind. "I worked with a lot of people who were mixed up in some dark stuff, but Dean? He wasn’t one of them."

You leaned forward, pressing her. "But could he have been involved without you knowing? Maybe something happened after you were arrested. Something that pulled him in."

Eleanor shook her head firmly. "I don’t believe it. Dean’s a lot of things, but he’s not reckless. And he’s not stupid. Getting involved with the syndicate? That’s a death sentence. And it’s not something he could’ve hidden easily, even from me."

You stared at her, trying to make sense of it all. "But what if… what if they forced him? Or what if he’s been playing both sides, working undercover?"

She leaned forward, her gaze sharp now. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low but intense. "If Dean was involved in the syndicate, I’d know. They don’t operate in a vacuum. Everyone knows everyone. And if Dean was in that system, his name would’ve come up long before now. You said there’s a file on him? Well, I can tell you one thing: Dean’s name isn’t in any of their systems."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had been hoping, deep down, that she could give you some insight, some hidden piece of the puzzle that would make everything click into place. But instead, it only raised more questions.

"Then why are they saying it’s him?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Eleanor’s eyes softened slightly. "It sounds like someone’s setting him up. They’re using his name, his reputation, to cover their own tracks. And you need to figure out who’s behind it."

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. Could it be true? Could someone really be framing Dean, manipulating the FBI into thinking he was the mole?

"But why?" you asked, more to yourself than to Eleanor. "Why would they choose Dean?"

"Because he’s good at what he does," she said, a hint of admiration in her voice. "And because they know that if you believe he’s guilty, no one will question it. Not even you."

The words stung, but you couldn’t deny the truth in them. If someone was framing Dean, they were doing a damn good job of it. And they knew exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you doubt everything you thought you knew.

You looked down at the table, your hands clenched into fists. "I don’t know what to do," you admitted, your voice small and defeated.

Eleanor reached out, placing her hand on top of yours. "You do what you always do," she said gently. "You dig. You find the truth. And you don’t stop until you have it."

You nodded, the resolve slowly returning to your chest. She was right. There was still a lot you didn’t know, but you couldn’t stop now. Dean’s life—his reputation—was at stake, and you couldn’t let him go down without a fight.

"Thank you," you said, meeting her eyes. "I’m sorry to have dragged you into this."

She smiled softly, squeezing your hand. "You’re my kid. You don’t need to apologize for coming to me for help."

The guard knocked on the door then, signaling the end of your visit. You stood, feeling the weight of the conversation still heavy on your shoulders. As the guard escorted you out, you glanced back at Eleanor one last time. She gave you a nod, her eyes filled with the kind of strength you always admired in her.

As the doors closed behind you, the coldness of the prison faded, but the uncertainty lingered. Dean wasn’t in the syndicate. You were sure of it now. But that meant someone else was pulling the strings—someone powerful enough to frame him, to make you doubt him.

You stepped outside into the crisp air, your mind still racing. There was more to uncover, more pieces of the puzzle to find. And now, you had to figure out how to put them together before it was too late.

Because Dean’s life depended on it.

Like, comment or reblog! I’d love to hear your feedback. Comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

TAGLIST:

@goldngguk @sweetpeachbombshell @slut-for-stiles @staple-your-mouth @daddyscrimsstuff

@dob-4-life @marcis-mixtapez @nonoreas0n @gabrielasilva1510

@lucyholmes13 @pandadork-blog1 @nicolstancu @malusinhaaaa @dybalabandolero

@a-cup-of-nightshade @tomatoessoup @sh0rtcakee @fall-06 @mckaykay-fandoms

@b3th13

@demonxangelomegaverse @deanwinchestersgirl87 @capailluiscedove @i723l-interrupted2323 @niyomiii

@all-the-fan-fic @eviekinevie8 @sunflowerlover57

@1-800-dean-winchester

@darichvep @idk-usernme @supernaturalmarvel3000 @ega2025 @deanbrainrotwritings

@targaryenluvs @bucky-hydra-hoe-barnes @leigh70 @aintnowayboi @ripoffsteveharrington

@gleefulleve @sacrosankta

@riteofpassage77 @eevvvaa @thedevilortheangel @thorsballhair @barbienotdoll

@4e1h3r @wolfieblue03 @kianaleani @vicky199625 @sassyslut2003

@impyrz

@didisull @miwp @lastcallatrockysbar @rizlowwritessortof

@zepskies @angelbabyyy99

@autisticgothic

@yourgoldengirls @deansobsessedgirl @mrsjenniferwinchester

@aylacavebear @lailawinchesterr @brightlilith @arcanaa @hobby27

@lyarr24 @ximm19 @deanbrainrotwritings

@a-girl-who-loves-disney @jeneelsworld @deans-spinster-witch @deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist @kayleighwinchester

@k-slla @muhahaha303 @suckitands33

@dean-winchester-is-a-warrior

@katherineeekai @freefallthoughts @angzls @deans-baby-momma @syrma-sensei

@cheynovak

#dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x you #artyandink #arty writes #amoralism #dean winchester smut #dean winchester angst #dean x you #sam winchester #fbi!dean winchester x reader #fbi!dean au #chauvinism

51 notes · View notes

batboopp · 6 months ago

Text

I’ve been digging around in the Jason Todd tag and I saw a very interesting take, “batman exploits his robins.” I actually think this is true, but for different reasons than the original poster was saying.

so, it’s common knowledge that Bruce left Gotham at 13-15 to gather experience about how to fight, survive, plan, scheme, make horrible scarring decisions, and not die or mentally break in the process (so basically how to BE Batman). but i think that people forget that to do this, Bruce had to completely break himself down mentally, and in some cases physically. to do and follow whatever his current mentor said because he was so desperate to prevent what happened to him to some other eight year old. i mean, rereading some comics, all i see is already shady people (because to be on top you probably don’t make the best decisions) getting their hands on a desperate borderline suicidal teenager who is ABSOLUTELY ready to die for his cause (even when he fully transitioned into batman he still never grows out of this “im worthless unless I contribute to the safety of Gotham” mentality). he exploits his robins because that’s how he was raised. he literally doesn’t know anything else. and he can’t stop because he just doesn’t know HOW. he was completely free to whoever was considered the best, to him, at least.

Do I think this makes his actions towards the robins excusable? no, definitely not. do I think that him being exploited in all categories growing up contributes to his strange parenting? YES. ABSOLUTELY. and I think this aspect of his “childhood” should be talked about more because so much of his behavior can be explained by this. it’s a huge part of him and it always gets glossed over.

AND IT ALSO TIES INTO THE “BRUCE LOVES HIS CHILDREN MORE THAN LIFE ITSELF BUT HE IS NOT A GOOD FATHER” TAKE. HE CANT PROPERLY SHOW POSITIVE EMOTIONS BECAUSE HE NEVER COULD. AUGHHH AU EUGHHH AGAHGGAGAG

don’t take my stupid brain vomit too seriously😭 i probably could’ve worded all this better

#batman #jason todd #“I will purge my heart” Bruce Wayne are u ok #dc brainrot #aughhh #im in agony #dc comics #bruce wayne

76 notes · View notes

literaryvein-reblogs · 1 day ago

Note

Writing a suicidal protagonist, but not depressed.

I'm going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment so I'm trying to put it into my writing. Do you have any advice for writing this? I mean, I suppose I already have the experience, but writing tips are always welcomed.

(I really hope this doe)sn't come across as trauma dumpy, I'm not seeking any irl advice. I suppose I just see it as an objective reality of many that doesn't necessarily need to invoke things such as comfort or anything, y'know?)

I'm glad you're trying to put such personal experiences into your writing.

Since I don't know much about your specific protagonist, in addition to incorporating your own experiences, I'll provide you with some writing notes on suicidal behaviour that you can refer to in order to make your writing more realistic or true to life (and you're right, literature on such real and sensitive topics doesn't always need to invoke comfort, or provide a lesson of sorts to the reader. Because simply depicting the realities of many people is enough - or more than enough - and is very important, even if it makes people uncomfortable... because it IS not a comfortable topic). Needless to say, each person has varying experiences.

Attitudes toward suicide have varied throughout history and vary considerably among different cultures.

The ancient Greeks considered suicide an offense against the state, whereas the Romans believed that suicide could be a noble way to die.

The view of suicide as a sin prevailed in Western societies for hundreds of years.

Only since the later decades of the 20th century did suicide cease to be considered a criminal act.

Suicidal Behavior - term used for individuals who have engaged in potentially self-injurious behavior with at least some intent to die as a result of the act. Evidence of intent to end one’s life can be explicit or inferred from the behavior or circumstances. A suicide attempt may or may not result in actual self-injury.

Levels of Suicidal Behavior

completed suicide

suicide attempts that are potentially fatal

suicide gestures—behaviors that are not necessarily lethal but are a cry for help or attention, such as superficially cutting one’s wrists

suicide gambles—attempts in which people gamble that their lives will be saved through intervention, such as a fatal but slow-acting drug overdose

suicide equivalents—behaviors that invoke responses similar to those seen with suicide, such as a teenager running away from home as an indirect call for help

suicidal ideation or thinking about suicide, which can range from nonspecific thoughts that life is not worth living to specific suicide planning

Mental illness is a major risk factor for suicide.

More than 90% of Americans who commit suicide have been diagnosed with a psychiatric illness and/or have problems with substance abuse, especially alcohol, opiates, and cocaine.

Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and borderline and certain other personality disorders are risk factors.

People are at particularly high risk for suicide during the first week following discharge from a psychiatric facility.

Other suicide risk factors include individuals who:

are victimized by bullying

are isolated from other people and community

have a family history of suicide

have a history of attempted suicide

have a history of childhood abuse or family violence

have had traumatic experiences

have experienced stressful events, such as separation or divorce, job loss, or death of a spouse

have a chronic or progressively debilitating disease or condition; chronic, severe, or intractable pain; or loss of mobility or independence

have access to a firearm

are victims of alcohol or substance abuse, which weakens impulse control

have low total serum cholesterol

reside at a higher altitude, possibly due to altitude-related metabolic stress in individuals with mood disorders

are involved with the criminal justice system, or are incarcerated (especially during the first hours or week of imprisonment)

have sleep problems and disorders

are impulsive

have been exposed to suicidal behavior in others, including family members, peers, or friends (especially among adolescents) or celebrities, which is referred to as contagion

take certain medications

live in low-income households or in poverty

are unmarried

are lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender (LGBT)

CAUSES. Suicide results from combinations of factors specific to each individual.

Studies have found a connection between genetic factors and suicide.

Some suicides appear to be impulsive acts, whereas others follow a major life event or crisis. However, the most common trigger is the pain and desperation of a mental illness, often unrecognized and untreated depression or bipolar disorder.

A complex of illnesses involving changes in the brain, depression is very common in the general population. People in recovery programs are often at particular risk.

Many people with depression develop anxiety disorders, which can further contribute to suicidal thoughts or behaviors.

Depression is particularly dangerous when the individual is emerging from the darkest depths of the disease and has the energy to act upon suicidal impulses.

Suicidal depression is not always obvious. For example, some depressed men appear irritable or angry rather than depressed. ‘‘IS PATH WARM?’’ is a mnemonic for signs of suicidal behavior:

I—ideation

S—substance abuse

P—purposelessness

A—anxiety

T—trapped

H—hopelessness

W—withdrawal

A—anger

R—restlessness

M—mood changes

Other signs of suicidal intentions are:

isolation or withdrawal

emotional distancing

lack of family or friends

distraction, seeming to be in one’s own world

lacking any sense of humor

dwelling on the past, especially losses and failures

feelings of hopelessness and helplessness

preoccupation with death

You can refer to a mental status review used by clinicians to guide you in describing your character. This includes:

appearance—the patient’s clothing, personal hygiene, and any physical evidence of self-harm

affect—expression, emotion, and intonation when describing plans for self-destructive behavior

thoughts—suicide command hallucinations (usually auditory); delusions about the benefits of suicide, such as thoughts that relatives will be better off after the person dies; and obsession with suicide

homicidal potential

judgment, insight, and intellect

orientation and memory, including signs of delirium or dementia

The need for suicide intervention is assessed by the following:

ideation—whether the patient has thoughts of self-harm

plans—the more specific the suicide plan, the greater the risk

purpose—what the patient believes will be achieved by suicide

potential for homicide

NOTE: The clinician will also evaluate risk factors as described above.

Most people give clear warnings of their suicidal thoughts; however, those around them may not recognize the significance or may not know how to respond. People who are concerned that a family member or friend is at risk for suicide should do the following:

educate themselves about warning signs and risk factors

identify healthcare professionals who know the person and can help

call 911 or the local emergency number if the person seems to be at immediate risk

Factors that lower the risk of adult suicide include:

a significant friendship network outside of the workplace

a stable marriage

a close-knit extended family

religious faith and practice, especially religions that value life and discourage suicide

a strong interest in or commitment to a project or cause that encourages social interaction and cohesion

One of the "Conditions for Further Study" in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) is Suicidal Behavior Disorder (SBD). This is NOT an official diagnosis yet, but research is ongoing. I'll include here a few proposed criteria and potential diagnostic features, just for reference purposes:

A suicide attempt is a self-initiated sequence of behaviors by an individual who, at the time of initiation, expected that the set of actions would lead to his or her own death. (The “time of initiation” is the time when a behavior took place that involved applying the method.)

Determining the degree of intent can be challenging. Individuals might not acknowledge intent, especially in situations where doing so could result in hospitalization or cause distress to loved ones.

Markers of risk include:

degree of planning, including selection of a time and place to minimize rescue or interruption;

the individual’s mental state at the time of the behavior, with acute agitation being especially concerning;

recent discharge from inpatient care; or

recent discontinuation of a mood stabilizer such as lithium or an antipsychotic such as clozapine in the case of schizophrenia.

Examples of environmental “triggers” include:

recently learning of a potentially fatal medical diagnosis such as cancer,

experiencing the sudden and unexpected loss of a close relative or partner,

loss of employment, or

displacement from housing.

Conversely, features such as talking to others about future events or preparedness to sign a contract for safety are less reliable indicators.

Again, the above excerpt is for a proposed criteria and potential diagnostic features for SBD (not yet an official diagnosis).

I'll include here a few interesting studies on SBD. Some researchers aren't for it. Most are discussing the current lack of data and research on it. 1 2 3 4

Also I think I misunderstood your request when I first read your message. I thought you wanted to write a suicidal protagonist but they're not depressed. But just in case, here are a couple of articles exploring suicidal ideation in non-depressed individuals. I would recommend looking into the qualitative findings as this could help writers if this is the topic you want to write about. 1 2

Lastly, since this is quite a sensitive topic, it is advisable for you to keep in mind conscious language, particularly when you're planning to share your writing with a wider audience and when publishing. Editors and publishers also frequently advise to get a sensitivity reader. Because while you might have the best of intentions, if you’re dealing with serious issues that real people deal with, it would be a good idea to do some research or get a sensitivity reader. Or both. Here's an excerpt from that previous post:

Words have power. Where and to what degree that power has an impact will inevitably depend on who the reader is. Words can drive a story forward and compel the reader to turn the page. Or they can disengage readers, even hurt them, and compel them to, at best, reject the novel; and at worst, review it negatively. Doing the awareness work prior to publication can help to prevent this while at the same time improving knowledge and craft.

Sources: 1 2

Hope this helps. And thank you for writing about such an important topic.

42 notes · View notes

sebbyisland · 1 year ago

Note

This is a weird question but you have good vibes so do you know any good shoujos for beginners? If you dont then just delete this lol

OH this is the best question i have ever received! Thank you! I hope this can be a helpful resource for you or anyone else interested in getting into shojo!!!

I’m gonna define “Good Beginner Shojo” as stories with an interesting premise, strong narrative(? this is VERY subjective sorry?), and also lacks some of the more squicky/uncomfortable tropes: predatory romantic relationships, borderline sexual assault as flirting, or incest**. This list is split between short and long series. I’ll also try to keep the genres diverse! These are all stories I’ve personally read/watched and are popular enough that they’ve been officially translated in different languages.

Good Shojo for Beginners, Short Term Investment

Princess Tutu: A dark fairy-tale-esque anime about a young girl who studies ballet in the day and fights demons at night using ballet + emotional intelligence. The deeper plot is that the entire cast are treated like puppets by a grand and elusive storymaster, and they all must struggle to escape being doomed by the narrative. There’s a lot of references to Swan Lake, the girl keeps getting turned into a duck, many emotions are felt. Complete, one anime season.

From Me to You: shy young girl is a social outcast due to misunderstandings that blew out of proportion. She receives an olive branch from a boy in her class and this gives her the confidence to start making friends and support herself!! The aforementioned boy is also her love interest and is endearingly too flustered to make a move. high school drama ensues. Two anime seasons, manga complete ~120 chapters.

Magic Knight Rayearth: three girls get transported to a fantasy world and have to learn to work together in giant magic mecha suits order to rescue a trapped princess + save the world. They make friends along the way as they try to fight monsters. One anime season, manga complete ~30 chapters.

Kase-san: sapphic high school romance with a jock girl and gardener girl who plants flowers near her practice field… they are both kinda shy and build up confidence as their bond gets deeper. it’s just 100% fluff. anime OVA and complete manga, ~15 chapters, there's also a sequel-series though

Library Wars: what it says on the tin. militant librarians fight the government to stop book censorship. the story follows a soldier in training: a reckless young woman who dreams of meeting the "prince" who inspired her to take up arms to protect books. this is more of an action-comedy than a political drama, so don't expect too much from the plot, but it's fun to watch our failgirl get put into situations. one anime season, 73 chapter manga, live action movie. you'll be okay just watching the anime but obvi the manga expands more on the characters + world building.

Orange: high school girl receives letters from her future self that tell her that a boy from her friend group is planning on committing suicide. She works with her friends to prevent this from happening, but things are definitely more complicated than they seem. An emotional drama, discussion of mental health including depression and suicidal thoughts. It’s a really heartfelt series. One anime season, ~38 chapter manga. (originally published in a shoujo magazine, then switched to seinen probably for marketing reasons.*)

In the Clear Moonlit Dusk: Masculine studious girl feels distant from her classmates who idolize her as a “prince,” but then she catches the attention of the local sparkly bad boy “prince.” An innocent, fluffy high school romance about a prince and her prince. SO many sparkly anime eyes, if that's you're thing. It’s a simple plot, but I enjoy the execution a lot. Ongoing, currently ~27 chapters

Tokyo Mew Mew: Captain Planet but magical girl. group of teen girls get accidentally infused with the DNA of endangered animal species + magic and transform into a hero squad to fight aliens trying to destroy earth's resources! Their cover for their secret headquarters is a maid café, where they all work part time. Manga complete ~30 chapters, anime adaption complete + one season of anime reboot.

Good Shojo for Beginners, Long Term Investment

Yona of the Dawn: historic fantasy setting, coming of age for a naive young princess who grows into a capable leader by abandoning her sheltered life within palace walls for…plot reasons (major spoiler in 1st chapter LOL). there’s a slow but thorough exploration of the political issues in her kingdom, i would say the world-building is an unexpected strength of the story. She’s supported by her hot magical anime boy harem, but the story emphasizes found family dynamics over the romcom. there’s still a primary love interest established early on, it’s just VERY slow burn. one anime season, manga ongoing 300+ chapters

Kageki Shojo!!: Follow the adventures of an all-girls vocational school to train to become members of the historic Kouka all-girls musical theater troupe, where women play roles for all genders. The protagonist is a girl who grew up watching Kouka performances and never lost her sense of childlike wonder. Theater doesn’t come naturally for her, but she’s also very talented. Fun cast, lightly discusses social issues as they come up with sincerity and care. Very reminiscent of 80s shojo. One anime season, Ongoing manga 90+ chapters

My Love Mix-Up! what if there was an ACTUAL high school love triangle. boy likes girl who likes a different boy, but that boy is interested in the aforementioned boy. what if this was all a misunderstanding and actually boy and girl like the same boy. what if that was also a misunderstanding. have you ever been a dumbass high school student trying your best. protagonist is bi king. 120~ chapters, no anime, but a live action show.

Ouran High School Host Club: ah yes a classic romcom. girl gets a scholarship to an elite high school and accidentally falls into debt on her first day to the school host club (boys who professionally flirt with girls during lunch). To pay off her debt, she pretends to be a guy at school so she can work as a host. The comedy is a blend of making fun of shojo tropes and the disaster personalities that make up the supporting cast. it's funnier the more shojo you have read/watched before this one. one anime season, 200+ chapters, complete

BL Metamorphosis: elderly widow accidentally reads a BL manga and gets invested, she bonds with a high school girl who works at the bookstore about it. Very cute parallels between her late husband and the fictional love story. Depicts fandom culture without normalizing the creepy and invasive BL fan behavior. Reminds me a lot of spending time with my grandma, which makes me want to cry.~90 chapters.

Sailor Moon: I know i know everyone is going to tell you this but it's actually a classic for a reason. (Sapphic!!!) magical girls traveling across space and time? Fighting evil with the power of friendship and love? Cute character designs? It's a good time. Protagonist is a total brat (normal 14yr old!!!!) AND a good hero. I'm putting this last because I wanted the other stories to have a chance, but it's honestly so good like please. There technically an inappropriate age gap relationship but it's like the disney movie Tangled where you don't realize it until you literally look up their ages. 150+ chapters, complete.

**When I first read shojo, I was a very young child, basically the target audience, but there are things I read as a child that would make me feel a bit disgusted to read now. Knowing this, I want people who are new to shojo to make informed decisions. There are problematic tropes present in MANY well loved stories--and they are well-loved for a reason!!! These complexities are part of reading and enjoying fiction. I've excluded some of my all-time favorite stories from my childhood thanks to the criteria I set as good "beginner" shojo--but I also don't want to contribute to a world that divides stories as "problematic" and "unproblematic" as if such a binary exists. Ultimately, this list is just based on my PERSONAL taste, what I deem more comfortable to read than other stories, so I can't guarantee that you'll have the same experience. I can't even promise I would have the same experience re-reading some of these, since the stuff that made me comfortable/uncomfortable in the past has changed in the present. It's all very subjective. That's why I'm intentionally specific about the tropes I've excluded. Note that this doesn't mean the stories listed are not littered with their own flaws. I hope this disclaimer didn't seem too excessive, haha.

303 notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 9 months ago

Note

AITA for talking shit about and leaving a friend with severe mental health issues?

(CW for mental health issues, self harm, and transphobia)

For context, everyone in this story is pretty young, in Year 11/12 (American equivalent would be sophomore/junior year) and we live in a pretty religious country

I (16M) met a friend (15F) through her approaching me and saying my pins (including a pride pin) was cool. We clicked immediately, i went over for sleepovers and became close with even her mom. I only once brought up politics offhandedly, and she got quite uncomfortable, but i thought nothing of it at the time.

She constantly told me that I was her only friend who "understood" her, and would be there for her, so I never brought it up again. However, when I was introducing her to another friend (who is very gnc and identified as transfemme at the time) we opened up her youtube reccomended and it was quite literally disgusting.

JK rowling, terf videos and tradwifes galore. Candace Owens, Ben Shapiro, you name it, she had literally nothing except videos titled shit like "trans people mutilate themselves".

I was very hurt, because I happen to be trans, as well as most of my friends and my partner. I questioned her, but she pulled the "mental illness" defense. I was scared of her hurting herself so i apologised (to my other friend) and tried distancing myself from her, admittedly made a few jokes at her expense to others.

She began being more radicalised, positing insane, borderline qanon stories, but my plan to cut her off was interrupted by her going missing and me having to be the one coaxing her back to school, i felt she was too dependant on me to be as harsh as i shouldve been.

The final straw came when she 1) said she thought of my (healed) scars as something that encouraged her to self harm and 2) when i found out she outed me and my partner as T4T and queer to a random transphobic youtuber to put in a cringe compilation. this was not only immature but really dangerous to us.

Heres where I might be TA: my partner confronted her because he was worried about my mental health, and she apparently showed up to school and cried. I felt bad, but when i first found about it i laughed about it, and didnt support her even when i knew she had no other friends.

My partner asked her to either stay away from me or not express her beliefs, and as a result she called me crying that night, borderline suicidal, and in a panic I soothed her and said I wasnt going anywhere. A couple days later, a mutual friend sent me the screenshots of her outing us, and I think that sort of made me snap.

She used her religion as a shield against finding us "disgusting" and wanted a video made against us etc etc, describing horrible statistics and threats, describing "mutilation" and I felt like i couldnt endorse that attitude towards trans people in good faith, so i argued with her over text, with her accusing me of manipulating her multiple times.

Again, I mightve fucked up here because I called my friends while texting her and talked shit about her during this confrontation, sending screenshots of our private dms to them, and afterwards she became a bit of an inside joke within our friend group- she also left the school because i think she had barely any other friends.

I cant help but feel like i shoudve been more mature about it, and especially because she was ill, i dont want to be That Guy that makes fun of vulnerable people, even if she sucked herself. So, tumblr, AITA?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole #self harm cw #suicide cw

93 notes · View notes

kolyubov · 10 months ago

Note

MR KRAAAAAABS I HAVE AN IDEAAA 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️😇😇😇 plspls may i request a part 2 of reader faking her emotions, that reader x nikolai one shot yk 🦍🦍 bit unfortunately we get the bad ending ☹️☹️ she just snaps one day, grabs a rope and 😭 (i have a cinematic trauma since most of my favorite characters hanged themselves) (ily sayori<3)

Feel completely free to ignore this 🙏 and if ur accepting it take your time 😇🙏

tw suicide attempt. please, do not keep reading if this kind of content triggers you.

Nikolai with a reader who archives his goals. (p2? bad ending lmao)

✧ pairing: Nikolai Gogol x Fem!Reader

✧ word count: 1.3k

✧ contents: sfw, angst?, obsessive and controlling Nikolai, slight manipulation, reader is referred to as "princess" once. (if I missed anything, please tell me)

✧ author's note: idk if this is as good as the first one :(( spoiler: I didn't write the reader dying, close, but no,,, hope u still enjoy it either way<3 btw, you mean sayori from dokidoki, right? I never played dokidoki, but I like Monika…….🧎‍♀️ sayori seems nice though! she's cute 🫶

Nikolai has been very clingy after what happened— He was always near you, touching you; holding your hand, having an arm around your waist, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and rubbing circles on your skin, or hugging you from behind.

His hands needed to be on you, afraid that the second he's not watching, you'll disappear from his life.

When he's not physically there, your phone vibrates almost every five minutes with a message from him asking how are you doing, what class are in you right now, if you have eaten— Stuff like that.

There wasn't any second you could be alone, and it was becoming more and more overwhelming.

Of course, you understand that he's worried and that he doesn't want to lose you; but this is borderline obsessive, and as much as a part of you likes being taken care of, another part of you is afraid that this might get even worse.

He was trying to tie you with him; sinking you deeper into the darkness of the cage that was holding you back. The cage of your emotions.

You didn't know it, but he even has a location tracker that shows him on his phone exactly where you are— It eases his mind because what if, after knowing that there wasn’t a way out, you try to be free by other methods?

Nikolai knows you won't dare to kill him like he is was planning to do with Fyodor; There was no possible scenario in which you would stab him to death or poison his food. Plus, he could easily see through your intentions and it won't be easy to kill someone like him.

But you could hurt yourself.

If it wasn't him, then the only way to be free was by shutting down your whole system. By ending your life.

Of course, he was not going to let it happen. He's going to be watching your every move until he's sure you won't do something risky like that.

For now, he is taking good care of you.

“Whatcha doing? I'm about to go home. I want to make a quick stop to buy you snacks.”

You giggle on the other side of the phone and that's enough to make Nikolai excited. He wanted to be in your arms, smooching your face, feeling your warmth, hearing you laugh. God, his heart is beating too fast right now.

“I'm just… doing nothing.” You walk around the apartment as you speak with him, trying to sound excited.

“I miss you, baby. Can't wait to cuddle with you today…”

Ah, you hated how inevitably you felt warm and fuzzy inside.

“You love me, right, dove?”

Yes, you do. You love him so much that it's suffocating you. Nikolai is suffocating you. But you can't help but need more of him, his attention, his love, his touch. All of that awakens a bunch of emotions that you wish to get rid of so badly.

“Mhm… I do.” You whisper, and you can hear him giggle through the speaker.

“Wait for me, love.” He smooches the screen of his phone before ending the call, then, you throw your phone to the couch.

It seems like Nikolai didn't notice.

Suddenly, Tears rolled down your cheeks. You place your hand over your mouth to muffle your sobs as the crying intensifies to the point where your chest hurts and your knees buckle, making you fall to the floor. You curse under your breath for being so fragile.

God. Why this fucking feelings don't stop even before your last breath? Why do they only get worse? Love, anger, sadness, disgust. It's all so overwhelming that you're starting to feel dizzy and nauseous.

Slowly, you stand up, still trembling and with small steps you walk to your room, finding the rope you placed on the bed a few minutes ago before Nikolai called. A small breathy chuckle leaves your lips, but it sounds more like a broken whimper.

You stand before the bed, grabbing the rope with trembling hands, caressing the material— The image of Nikolai's face after he comes home, opening the door of the room to meet with your lifeless body, is stuck in your mind.

How his eyes would widen, how he would desperately pull you out of the rope and hold you in his arms, close to his chest as he cries and curses himself for not being able to do something to stop you. His knuckles would caress your cheeks while his tears fell to your face.

The thought of it hurts your heart.

A part of you wants to stay, to keep enjoying your time with him, however, the pit in your stomach was becoming unbearable.

You felt pity for Nikolai.

But you'll finally enjoy that freedom you wished so much, you'll finally get rid of these emotions that consume your very soul, you—

“Think you can escape me, huh?”

A deep voice tickles your ear, and the second you turn around you find Nikolai smiling, as if the sight in front of him was amusing. You instinctively take a step back, letting out a yelp as you fall to the bed.

“Darling, you know that is not the way to cope with your temporary problems.”

How did he get here so quickly when a few minutes ago you were on a call with him?

Right. Nikolai has his coat. Probably he ended up noticing your fake excitement and decided to go home to check on you first instead of going to a supermarket and buying you snacks.

He crawls to the bed, taking the rope from your hands and throwing it away.

“I told you, didn't I? You won't leave me.”

Nikolai's voice gets deeper as he speaks. He seizes your jaw a bit too harshly. Glaring down at you with a serious expression only to lean down and kiss your lips, then the tip of your nose, and finally your forehead.

“It hurts me… that you want to leave me so badly…” He snorts, looking away from you and biting his lower lip, holding back from something that you weren't exactly sure.

You look away as well, feeling ashamed, among many other emotions that curse your body right now.

What if Nikolai hates you now?

That was even worse— If the only human being that cares about you hates you, you wouldn't bear the pain that'll come along with that.

As your brain keeps creating possible scenarios that might happen after this incident, tears spill from your eyes down your cheeks and you hide your face with your hands; palms muffling the small sobs that escape your lips like before.

Suddenly, you feel a weight on top of you.

You peek through the gap of your fingers and meet with Nikolai’s face nuzzling against your chest; his nose tickling your collarbone. Large and strong arms that had carried you like a princess before, are now wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Don't leave me… I love you so much, please…” He whines against your skin, almost as if he wants to sink inside you and be enveloped in your embrace. “Please, dove, pleasepleaseplease…”

Another sob leaves your mouth— Nikolai's fingers clutch around your ribs, nails almost digging desperately into you.

Slowly, you slide your hands to his back, rubbing it in small circles as you keep crying against the top of his head, his white locks feel soft against your cheek.

Instead of comforting you, he was the one being comforted.

“You're not going anywhere, are you?” He looks up at you. It didn’t sound like a threat, but you knew it actually was.

You shook your head; it's not like you have an alternative.

Nikolai sighs, nuzzling back against you and closing his eyes. After noticing you stopped caressing his back, he nudges your side as an indication to keep doing it.

“…Dove, you’re mine… If anything, I should be the one to take your life away from you…” He mumbles, giggling as your breath hitches at his words.

You can't escape him anymore.

#nikolai x reader #bungou stray dogs x you #nikolai x you #bsd nikolai #bsd x you #bsd x reader #nikolai gogol bsd #nikolai gogol x reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs x reader #nikolai.zip #requests.ᐟ #ᯓ★ messages from the stars ✧˖°.

89 notes · View notes