#symptoms of anxiety in pets

[drsamahfouad]

#healthlinkeg #pet_care #pet #pets #dog #dogs #pet_care

[woozymitts]

Step 1 - My alleriges are bad and I'm very dizzy and disoriented Step 2 - I know! I'll use my nasal rinse and flonase Step 3 - Wow, I feel so much better! Step 4 - I must not need my nasal rinse and flonase anymore Step 5 - Return to step 1

[thymodyke]

>be me

>sleeping like shit the last few days

>wake up in the middle of the night Again.

>fuck my life

>finally get back to sleep from 5-6:30

>friend texts me about bird flu outbreak in farm animals, worried about animal byproducts

>sends me some tweets

>hyperfixation activate

>suddenly have perfect clarity despite the poor sleep to cleanly lay out why people are over exaggerating the current risk complete with multiple sources

>guess I can work on less than 8 hours of sleep

[mistyorchid]

Logan's Girl

Old Man!Logan x fem!reader

summary: A sentimental anniversary gift for Logan reveals your biggest insecurity—saying three vulnerable words. inspired by this ask :) warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, fluff, some suggestive elements (gets a little steamy you guyss), established relationship, age gap, reader is 21+, insecure!reader, pet names (baby, darlin', bub, doll), I'm a hopeless romantic. wc: 1.8k

This wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The figure swathed in delicate lingerie has to be a figment of your imagination, a misty apparition in the mirror. Surely, you were staring back at a different woman’s face. You wanted to wrap yourself in something sheer, something to heighten the overwhelming feeling of sensuality that you had learned to love and trust.

It was unbearable to watch him leave the warm oasis of your bed every night. “‘M sorry, baby. Gotta take this shift,” he sighed. He ghosted the words happy anniversary against your lips before pulling a velvet box from under the nightstand. Logan marveled at how your eyes shined just as bright as the pearlescent necklace.

You blush as you remember how his strong hands gently traced your collarbones before fastening the dainty jewelry around your neck. The romantic gesture made your heart swell with pride in being his.

He had been somewhat of a lone cowboy before you met; indulging in alcohol and one-night stands in dive bar bathrooms. You managed to rope him in and cement his life in something tangible. Every time you heard the iron door rattle against the smelting plant’s walls, you prayed to the night sky to protect him from harm.

Logan chastised your insistence on feeling so immensely—he often joked that your emotional sensitivity was a hallmark of “your generation,” a crack meant to be salved and fortified. He knew, however, that your concern for his mental well-being stemmed from a place of genuine concern.

It’s been four hours since Logan crossed the threshold of your home onto the organic gravel of the earth. An unbearable void in your heart that called for him to return is soured by an uneasy wave of dread stemming from your current predicament.

It looks like the Hallmark Channel rented your bedroom for an intoxicatingly sweet, PG-13 love scene. Although, your thoughts bordered on NC-17. The sap didn’t stop there. A fresh trail of rose petals was scattered on the floor, leading from the front door to a glossy, heart-shaped box of truffles on your bed.

Skittish tendrils of insecurity creep up your body until a surge of warmth festers behind your cheeks. In the time it took to pace a hundred laps around the bedroom, two more hours passed. A harsh clanging sound reverberates against your brain. You pray that it’s a figment of your imagination, a temporary symptom of your shame-induced anxiety.

Logan haphazardly kicks off his boots while loosening his tie. “I’m home, darlin’!”

Shit. You're totally fucked. That is the plan, but hearing Logan’s heavy steps against the linoleum floor sends you into an irrational frenzy. Your body reacts faster than your mind, quickly darting around the room to turn off the lights and dive under the comforter. “Great,” you whisper into the sheets. The room is pitch black except for the warm flicker of candles artfully placed on the nightstands. You wonder if Logan would find the dimly lit interior sexy or off putting. Surely, hiding under the covers like a goddamn vampire would get him rock hard.

He knocks to the tune of Shave and a haircut—two bits, a classic rhythm almost as old as him. Geriatric fucker.

“You decent?” he inquires. Two years together, and he still asks permission to open a closed door. He raised your standards for how a man should act from the depths of hell to the gates of heaven. He’s unbearably traditional sometimes, and you love it.

You wonder, then, why you regret the scent of lavender that lingers in the air. It’s a fragrant piece of evidence that smells too much like I love you. It was easy to lose yourself in the warm embrace of his body, molding yourself to his wandering hands. This display of romantic affection was too sappy, even for you.

“Yeah, come in,” you exhale before burrowing into the warmth of your bed. Maybe if you sink deep enough you’ll be swallowed whole.

Logan’s brows quirk upwards as he surveys the room, unable to identify the source of your voice. You know it’s time to face the music when he flicks the light on, illuminating everything.

His feet crunch softly against the petals strewn across the room, progressing towards the edge of the bed. Logan plops onto the comforter, knocking over the box of chocolates. He winces as he strains his back to retrieve it from the floor.

Logan gently peels the comforter away from your shrinking form. “What’cha doin’ under there, bub?”

You meet his eyes with a sheepish turn of your head, preparing for a judgmental gaze that would validate your insecurity. Instead, all you hear is a gruff laugh pour out of his mouth. 

“Hiding,” you reply meekly. His insistence on staring into the depths of your fucking soul is not helping. Goosebumps rise along your form as Logan slowly pulls down the rest of the blanket, finally revealing the sheer babydoll dress that clings to your breasts and floats everywhere else. 

Logan lets out a low whistle. “Jesus,” he whispers, “This for me?” 

You cross your arms over the lingerie. “Yeah, but I’m embarrassed—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he interrupts. Logan tugs on the end of the central ribbon until it loosens, revealing the tantalizing line of your cleavage. “Lady as lovely as you shouldn’t be embarrassed.” 

You’re quick to apologize. “I’m sorry. . .”

He stalls his hand as if he’s been burned. Your immediate reaction is to apologize again, but Logan silences you with an unabashedly needy kiss.

“Hush. I’m tryin’ to open my present.” He toys with the pearl looped around your neck, admiring how the smooth texture rolls between his calloused fingers. It serves as a familiar allusion to the duality your relationship provides—softness and raw grit intertwining to form an unbreakable union.

You bite your lip, suddenly feeling insecure under his shameless gaze. “Logan?”

“Yeah?” He drops the pearl charm and grazes your chest, smirking when he hears your breath hitch. It’s almost unsettling, how fast you unravel for him.

“How was work?” You inquire, hoping it convinces Logan to focus on your face instead of your exposed skin.

He hastily removes all of his clothes save for his boxers before tossing them onto the floor. “Same shit, different day,” he mutters. The days are long, the nights even longer. You never talked about the gruesome collage of wounds and overworked scar tissue that plagued his skin. Over time, he leaned into your healing presence, allowing himself to dissolve under the tender insistence of your care.

You giggle. “Miss me?”

Logan lovingly pats your hip with an outstretched palm—a familiar signal that he wants to take up prime real estate in your bed. The more, the merrier.

He shuffles under the covers and pulls your body parallel against his own. You shiver as his lips hover over the shell of your ear.

“‘Course I did,” Logan sighs. He draws comforting patterns along the length of your arm, effectively luring a subtle shudder from your parted lips.  “Heart’s poundin’, baby—You’re breathin’ awful fast. Gives me the impression this feelin’s mutual.”

The night is quiet, laced with an unspoken yearning. A wave of anxiety tells you to move, to seek shelter somewhere else, in someone else—an anonymous man who doesn’t know anything about you other than the fact that you’re a warm body. You bury yourself into Logan instead, feeding into the restlessness that radiates throughout your soul.

He hums into your neck. The sound is so domestic that your heart aches and blooms all over again.

Logan curses as he feels your hips subtly rock back into his sturdy frame. “I guess it is,” you agree. His palm caresses the strong curve of your jaw before turning your head towards him.

The hazel pools of his eyes have borrowed the depth of the night sky. He speaks in a reserved, yet ravenous tone.

“C’mon, darlin’. Gimme some sugar,” he mumbles against your lips. You comply, not because he ordered you to, but because his insistence washes away any feelings of doubt that sullied your mind.

An airy sigh echoes throughout the room, silently parting the air and ricocheting against Logan’s sensitive eardrums. He wraps his arm around your soft stomach, earning a faint whine. “Stop, Logan,” you plead. Cheesy anniversary gifts aside, one constant source of insecurity was your belly. Logan absolutely adored it, but you loathed the physical evidence of your sweet tooth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says while shifting his warm palm to rest on your hip. “But don’tcha love it when you’re soft an’ I’m—” Logan pulls your ass flush against his noticeable bulge. “—hard?” He continues. You feel his smirk melt into the open expanse of your neck.

You allow yourself to be manhandled by Logan. It takes your breath away every time, cliche phrasing be damned. He uses his firm grip to turn you around until you’re face-to-face with his stupidly rugged . . . face. Ugh. You don’t know what’s come over you.

Logan’s warmth is all-encompassing. His hand wanders along your body before lightly caressing the back of your head to bring you further into his embrace. You let out a soft hum that vibrates against his chest.

A few minutes pass without any words at all. This is Logan’s comfort zone—intentional silence that gives him the space to communicate with action. The only difference now is that he indulges in quietude as a form of serenity rather than hostility.

“Hey . . .” he whispers. “You fallin’ asleep?” Each tender swipe of his hand flushes your cheeks.

“Mhm,” you affirm, faintly nodding. “I’m sorry, Logan. I really wanted to give you your present.”

He quickly kneads the tense folds of your furrowed brow. Logan exhales into the peak of your hairline. “Don’t worry, doll. ‘M tired too.”

You let out a sigh that’s deeper and more sustained than Logan’s. You don’t have to look down to know that he’s still hard. A tell-tale sign of his sensual pull towards you blooms behind his chest in a kinetic rhythm. He keeps you close, everywhere except near his bulge. What a gentleman. 

Your eyes open, quietly searching in the dark for the motivation to speak, to be faithful. As much as you adore Logan, you both find it difficult to verbalize your feelings.

“I love you . . .” you whisper, directed into the ceiling and stars beyond it instead of towards Logan. 

His palm finds your jaw again. He hovers inches away from your face, allowing your breaths to meet and interlace. An inaudible request to connect. 

The kiss is unbelievably earnest. You find shelter against the plush of Logan’s lips. He leans his forehead against yours, once again playing with the pearl necklace wrapped around your neck.

“I love you.”

You have matching smiles. The allure of rest is renewed once Logan lets out a loud yawn. Then, laughter fills the room.

The last thing you hear before succumbing to sleep is, “Happy anniversary, doll.”

His pet name for you is apt. Cared for, admired, cherished. 

Logan’s girl.

an: It's been a while. Thank you anon for sending in this lovely request. I decided to not include smut because I wanting to portray something a little more wholesome than usual. These are real lines of comic dialogue that also inspired me. "Lady as lovely as you shouldn’t ever frown." "Heart’s poundin’, Jeannie—You’re breathin’ awful fast. Gives me the impression this feelin’s mutual. Wanna bet?"

tag list: @bratscave @elflutter @fairiebabey @pointyxsole @scorpiosaintt @th3mrskory

[moonlight-joy]

Guard Dog

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: Hotch refused to get a dog—until you and Spencer convinced him. But instead of a pet, he got Max, a trained protection dog.

Pairing: Reader/Aaron Hotchner

Aaron Hotchner was protective by nature. It came with the job, the years of chasing down criminals, of seeing the worst humanity had to offer.

It was why he always double-checked the locks at night, why he insisted on knowing your schedule, and why he always kept a gun within reach.

And it was also why, despite your repeated requests, he refused to let you get a dog.

“But, Aaron,” you whined one evening, curling into his side on the couch. “I’ve always wanted one.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But dogs are a big responsibility.”

“I can be responsible.”

Aaron chuckled, rubbing slow circles on your back. “I never said you couldn’t. But I worry about leaving you alone with one. They take time to train, and what if something happens?”

You sighed dramatically. “That’s the point! If I get the right dog, they can protect me.”

Aaron shook his head. “That’s my job.”

You pouted but didn’t argue. You knew his protective streak ran deep, but that didn’t mean you weren’t determined to wear him down.

So, like any loving, strategic partner…

You turned to Spencer Reid for help.

It happened at the BAU during lunch.

Spencer was sitting across from Aaron, rattling off statistics about dog breeds while the rest of the team listened in utter amusement.

“Actually, studies show that trained protection dogs can significantly decrease home invasions,” Spencer said matter-of-factly, taking a bite of his salad. “German Shepherds and Belgian Malinois, in particular, are highly intelligent and have been used in law enforcement and military work for years. Their presence alone can be a deterrent.”

Aaron sighed, rubbing his temples. “Spencer—”

“Oh! And did you know that dogs can actually reduce anxiety and lower stress levels?” Spencer continued. “Research suggests they improve cardiovascular health and can even detect illnesses before symptoms appear.”

Derek snickered. “Come on, Hotch. If even the good doctor is backing this up, maybe it’s time to cave.”

Aaron shot Morgan a glare before glancing at Spencer. “So, you’re saying… a trained protection dog would be beneficial?”

Spencer nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”

Emily leaned back, smirking. “I can’t believe you didn’t see this coming, Hotch. Y/N is way too smart to fight this battle alone.”

JJ chuckled. “You know she’s got you backed into a corner, right?”

Aaron sighed again, looking like a man who knew he was losing a battle.

By the time he got home that night, you already knew Spencer had done his job.

You had been expecting Aaron to cave eventually.

You had not, however, expected to walk into your house and see a gorgeous, alert-looking German Shepherd sitting obediently at Aaron’s feet.

You squealed.

“OH MY GOD, YOU GOT ME A DOG?!”

The dog’s ears perked up at your excitement, and Aaron shot you a look. “He’s not just any dog,” he corrected. “This is Max. He’s been trained in personal protection, and I’m making sure he learns to guard you properly.”

You blinked, stunned. “Wait… so he’s not just a pet?”

Aaron gave you a small smirk. “No, sweetheart. He’s your bodyguard.”

Your heart melted. “Aaron…”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I still worry. But if I can’t always be here, I want someone watching over you. Someone I can trust.”

Your chest tightened with emotion. You knelt down, running your fingers through Max’s thick fur. “You’re gonna take good care of me, aren’t you, buddy?”

Max licked your hand in response.

Aaron crouched beside you, his hand resting on your back. “He’s already bonded with you,” he observed, watching the way Max’s body language shifted—protective, attentive, loyal.

You turned to Aaron with misty eyes. “I love him. And I love you.”

Aaron pressed a lingering kiss to your lips. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

Then he smirked. “Even if I know I just gave you another reason to gang up on me with Spencer.”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

It wasn’t long before Max had his first test.

One night, Aaron had been called out of town for a case, leaving you home alone.

Normally, you felt safe enough—Aaron had security measures in place, cameras, reinforced locks. But that night, something felt off.

It started with a strange scraping sound outside. Then, the sound of footsteps near the porch.

Your heart clenched.

And then—Max reacted.

He sprang up from his spot near the door, ears sharp, body tense.

A low, menacing growl rumbled from his chest.

The sound alone sent shivers down your spine.

You peeked through the window just in time to see a shadow retreating from the porch.

Whoever it was had changed their mind.

Max didn’t stop growling until the figure was completely gone. Then, he trotted back to you, still alert, still on guard.

You sank to your knees, wrapping your arms around him. “Good boy,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his head. “Such a good boy.”

The next morning, Aaron called you first thing.

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said lightly. “Some creep tried hanging around last night, but Max handled it.”

Aaron went silent.

Then, in a voice full of approval, he said, “Good.”

There was a smirk in his tone when he added, “I guess you were right about getting a dog.”

You grinned. “You know, I really love hearing you say that.”

Aaron chuckled, warmth evident in his voice. “Don’t get used to it.”

The next week, you brought Max to the BAU for a visit.

Garcia squealed. “OH MY GOD, HE’S PERFECT.”

Morgan whistled. “Damn, Hotch. You got Y/N a guard dog.”

Spencer nodded, looking pleased. “He’s a good choice. German Shepherds bond intensely with their owners.”

Hotch crossed his arms. “That was the point.”

Emily grinned. “So what you’re telling us is that you caved.”

Hotch sighed. “I wouldn’t call it—”

“YOU TOTALLY CAVED!” Garcia cackled.

JJ nudged you, whispering, “So, who’s more protective? Aaron or Max?”

You smirked, glancing at your husband. “I think Aaron’s still got him beat.”

Aaron just rolled his eyes, but when he looked at you, there was nothing but warmth.

Because Max was just another way of loving you—of keeping you safe, even when Aaron couldn’t be there himself.

And that?

That was something the team would never let him live down.

Please support my work with like and comment

[wandasaura]

ITS SIN

summary — when the weight of your day finally catches up to you, you find yourself tethered to the precinct with olivia

warning(s) — dom/sub dynamics, established relationship, age gap relationship, power imbalance, authority kink, domestic dominance, implied mommy kink, praise, soft affirmations, pet names, primarily comfort, light hurt/angst mentions of a shooting, alluded to anxiety, very lightly implied anxious attachment style, maybe illusions to subspace, olivia ‘pick your poison babe, i’m poison either way’ benson, men/minors dni

authors note — this was written by high aura on a whim. happy 4/20. this was not proofread nor edited and literally not a single thing on this blog ever has been or will be.

You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve left hours ago, but there’s a gentle glow coming from beneath an office door, and you’re reminded that you’re not alone, that you’re never alone — anywhere you go, she’ll be there; at work, at home, at the corner store across from her apartment with Noah when you’re just trying to surprise her with flowers — her favorite flowers, the kind that die in days but evoke a smile anytime the eye catches their colors. It’s wrong, straight up sinful really, dating your boss, engaging in explicit sexual scenarios with your superior officer, letting personal mix with professional, but you crave her like a rugged addict. Maybe you’ve never experienced addiction. Not true, stone cold, shivering, bone shattering addiction, but you’ve experienced Olivia Benson, and her withdrawal symptoms come at a much larger price. She’s unavoidable poison, and she takes pleasure in your pain. Distance pulls your heart to shreds, but proximity gets you drunk. Either way, she’s compromised you, but you’re too far in it to care anymore.

The blinds are drawn, an attempt to dissuade any disruptions. You know she wants to get back to Noah, how she likes to spend her nights, and how she gets unruly when things go unexpectedly even though she’s been within the claws of unpredictability for decades. You know her skin is stained with blood from its sharp unforgiving grasp over the years, and you can only think of how it’s probably slickening with more as the unpredictable crimes of New York City keep her tethered to her desk like she’s the criminal. You want to go in. Every muscle aches to be caressed beneath her fingers. You want to sit with her, share the lemonade you just pulled out of the vending machine, but you couldn’t possibly pull her away. Not when you’re the reason she’s here.

You swallow thickly, not sure if you want the lemonade anymore. You feel queasy, hot and cold. The belt around your waist had been noticeable when you’d gotten dressed this morning, and it’s outright insufferable now. You know your skin is rubbed raw, red and probably irritated. The marks on your thighs had been just as raw days ago, but bearing those had been different, consensual and somewhat dizzying. There’s no room for arousal at the memory of Olivia between your thighs when you so violently remember how you’d frozen during a chase. How you could’ve detained the suspect before he’d shot himself if you’d just moved faster when he turned the gun on himself after shooting at your feet. Your heart hammers now. You can hear the gunshot. Feel the reverberations through the bones in your feet even though there’s no bullet mark on these tiles. You shake your head. You told 1PP you were okay. You’d been cleared by psych. Everything that should’ve been broken was intact, but everything that could be broken and allow you to still function was shattered into a million pieces.

You’d never been shot at before.

Not like that. Not with the wind in your face, the blush in your cheeks, the clip already half empty. It was a messy fight. He shot back behind him. You shot head of yourself, only ever missing him by an inch as he weaved and zipped. You fired your gun twice. He fired nine. Seven shots had missed. Bouncing off windows, cars, bricks. One had so nearly grazed your toe for a second you wondered if it was gone. The second after that he had shot himself, and you thought it was you. Olivia had run past you, you only know because her fingers brushed your side as she made sure the suspect was dead and you’d never mistake the tingles she provoked, and that was the only confirmation that you hadn’t been shot before you’d been thrown around by medics and officers all questioning you, only some concerned about your health.

Your fingers pass across the cold metal of a broach pinned to your right pocket. It’s important to note that it wasn’t a necklace. Not one that would tangle on your hair when you ran. Not a bracelet that could catch on the safety of your gun or the brackets of the taser holstered to your belt. It’s a thoughtful sentiment. A meaningful one. A small mouse head sits sparkly against the dark thread of your slacks. Sterling silver. A notable addition. One that keeps you pushing toward one day having a metal to decorate you as a detective instead of a pin that represents a stupid nickname in the department. Mousey. Benson’s creation.

You live up to that name as you continue past her office, the only evidence of your prolonged presence in the precinct the scrape of the rolling chairs wheels on the floor. Your body feels heavy as you fall into the cushions. You set the lemonade down, sure it’ll stay there to die until Olivia inevitably grabs it off your desk and throws it away. The paperwork is standard follow-up, something that can certainly wait until the end of the week when everyone else stays late to overcompensate for the things they pushed off, but you can’t leave. Something tethers you to the precinct the same way it chains Benson to her desk. If you leave, you’re out there again, and the streets of Manhattan have never felt so unsafe; so changed. You’d been in SVU six months, but every day was opening your eyes to fears you’d ignorantly thought out of reach.

It could’ve been minutes, but it might’ve been hours before something shifted in the quiet building. The buzz of every device in the room quieted, letting you hear the creek of hinges behind your back. Olivia. You want to fall into her, to crash against her, but you failed today. You didn’t step up despite her laying the stepping stones for it to be possible. It wasn’t the end of the world. In the end, a criminal got taken down, but this wasn’t just about karma coming around. For six months Olivia had gone to bat for you. She’s taken you beneath her wing and you let her down. That’s never felt good, and it certainly doesn’t now.

“Sweetheart,” Olivia’s voice calls for you, sweet, soft, dripping with velvet affection. “Come see me, hm?” She attempts to draw you in, even opens her arms and nods her head toward her off in just the oddly specific way she knows makes your heart soar, but you don’t look up from the black ink stained page to realize she’s putting this much into comforting you.

She should’ve comforted you before — you’d wanted her to comfort you before. When you’d thought you’d been shot twice. When your heart was pounding in your chest and your hands were trembling and you could see the way all of your wrong doings piled up on her shoulders in an instant. It was too late now. You felt submerged in the weight of your guilt and anxiety. You were drowning in your feelings, beneath the crushing knowledge that you’d disappointed her; the one person who’d ever seen you.

When she realized you were purposefully ignoring her, your muscles flexing in unconscious acknowledgment of her presence, her jaw set, and her eyes narrowed. She hadn’t seen it before. You’d put up a mask of indifference and she’d let herself accept it, but just the simple fact that you’re still here says enough. She doesn’t think you realize that you do it, that you gravitate to her like an affection craving kitten seeking attention, but you do, and that need for closeness only strengthens when you’re distressed.

Olivia’s heart hammers with guilt. She knows that you can handle so much. You’ve proven that fact and yourself time and time again — in ways you weren’t even aware of — but so often you fell short recognized your own personal needs and feelings. As she’d learned you, memorized your every emotion beneath her fingertips, your heartbeats pulsing as close as they possibly could, she’d learned that certain events and feelings could leave you fuzzy, uncomfortable in your own skin, grappling for structure that gives way at the slightest touch. Your misstep had caused quite the commotion within 1PP and the precinct, it had pulled her away because it was job, but she can’t let that keep happening. You’re hers. She loves her job, honors her duty and serves it fully, but you’re worth more. At that moment, Olivia decides she’s done with paperwork for the night.

“Detective.” Paperwork may be done, but the badge hasn’t yet been unclasped from her waistband, and she can’t help but take advantage of that — of you. “My office. Now.” Her voice is thin, leaving no room for arguments of failure to comply. Your insides bristle. Prickly and uncomfortable. Her tone sent shockwaves through your bone marrow.

You need her.

When you still remain stationary, heavy in the rolling chair clutching your favorite black clicky pen that Olivia steals to sign rushed documents, she clicks her tongue demandingly, rolling out the kinks in her neck. “Detective, that was not a suggestion.”

You bristle again, but you swallow that sharp sting of stubbornness to finally give into the yearning in your bones. Your body moves towards her automatically, and when you blink up at her, swayed by the authority in her hard stare, she knows it’ll only take a moment before you’re in the palm of your hand, the way you should’ve been hours ago.

She lets the office door close behind her body before she draws you into her chest in a manner that convinces you to sink against her. “Hi, sweetheart.” Her ribcage rattles beneath your cheek, her fingers twisting into your hair and pulling down, gently tugging the roots behind your ear — your weak spot, one of the quickest ways to get you to crumble that Olivia has found. You preen, knees buckling, and Olivia smiles tenderly. “Look at you.” She cooed, her fingers trailing across your cheekbone now, so high that your eyes flutter closed on instinct. The darkness that consumes you paired with the heat of her touch only draws you into that fuzziness further. “You’ve had quite the day, haven’t you?”

You nod, just slightly, your eyes still closed even though her hands have wandered down to your waist, unbuttoning your pants that she knows are driving you crazy. You sigh when the pressure is released, and her fingers do wonders to ease the string where material had rubbed soft skin raw.

“I need words, my love.” She encourages, tilting your chin upward until your eyes meet hers. They're so soft. The love she holds for you makes your eyes sting, and your lip quivers at the release of all the emotions you’ve been keeping inside.

“Yes.” You whisper, the words hoarse as they cut through the air, slice your throat. Your lips downturn, something Olivja anticipated. You never were a fan of her religious checks for consent and understanding, and when you found yourself in this state, drunk beneath her affection and overworked from life, you don’t exactly have a way with words.

“And I wasn’t very attentive, was I?” She frowns sympathetically, letting you know that she’s aware of her shortcoming in your relationship, even if you never expected her to guide your flight through life at every new gust of wind. You shook your head tentatively, because you know she wants an answer, and she accepts it. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I’m here now. I’m here now. Just let me have you, okay? That’s all I need you to do for me.”

“Okay.” You whisper, because the prospect of falling into your roles, your discussed dynamic, it just sounds too tempting after thinking your life had met an untimely end. Maybe some would call that dramatic, but some things couldn’t be explained. Something changed today, your perspective had been more fragile than you’d realized.

“Okay.” She nodded, patting your cheeks before she let you go, “Come on, we’re just gonna sit down for a little while, okay?” Olivia asked softly, guiding your languished body toward her couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as the King sized bed in her bedroom, but it made for a decent spot to steal five minutes of affection throughout the day. “Good girl. Such a good girl for me, sweetheart.”

Olivia sat down first, and the look that crossed your face was one she wished she could memorize. Your lips downturned, your eyes glassy and wide in betrayal. A short whine slipped out, but before you could stamp your foot into the ground, though it would’ve been a welcomed sight, Olivia clicked her tongue disapprovingly at your impatience and guided you into her lap by the belt loops on your pants — and action that always made you feel small.

You sighed in content when she allowed you to sink into her chest, moving your hair and hers away from her chest so you could feel the soft pulse of her skin beneath yours directly. She didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t needed. Her fingers thrumming against your back, her breath against the shell of your ear, her perfume surrounding you… it was enchanting.

“Your strong, sweetheart, but you don’t always have to be.” She reminded you, and even though she’d been speaking those words to you for months, they only just settled in now, and your blissful state amplified.

Olivia chuckled warmly when you nuzzled your face up into her neck, blocking out the office light until that comfortable darkness got to you again. Olivia didn’t let you get too comfortable, she never let you get too comfortable. The unpredictability of her love was adventurous and addictive, another dilemma to conquer whenever distance forced your heart to grieve what wasn’t dead, just suspended. Before you could fall asleep, your breathing enough indication to say that was coming, Olivia tapped your thigh, shifting with the motivation to stand.

You whined, shaking your head, grabbing a fistful of her blazer to assert your claim over her even if she was in charge. You didn’t want her to leave, to be any farther away then she already was right now. “None of that, come on, let’s go, sweetheart. We can get you home and all comfy.”

When you remained unmoving, she tried another approach, trailing her fingers up your thigh until the tickle of her touch became prickles of arousal you weren’t at liberty to shove aside at this time. Your breath caught and Olivia smirked knowing you were in the palm of her hand. “The sooner we get home, the sooner we can work out some of these knots, baby girl.” She coed, her fingers curling around the fleshy part of your thigh until your breath trembled and your eyelashes fluttered tellingly.

“Good girl.” Olivia cooed, and guided you up when your persistence gave way. She didn’t bother buttoning your pants again, just fixed your shirt to cover the bulge where metal stuck out, and nodded her satisfaction. “Alright, home now, little Mouse.”

[disabirbity]

What are some things other psychotics do to differentiate between hallucination and reality? And what are ways some of you hold off symptoms? Looking to get a nice thread for people to help each other going here, this stuff isn't posted about enough.

Ways we prevent symptoms/stop them from progressing:

Make background noise to prevent auditory hallucinations. Most of ours start by hearing something that we can't identify the cause of in the background, and our brain starts the spiral from there. So we listen to music all the time and sleep with a fan on every single night, even in the winter. We just point it away from us if we don't want it making us cold.

Blame the cat (or other pets). Any weird movement, scratching, crunching or thumping? That's just Jerry, don't worry about it. He's a silly cat that does cat things even while we're sleeping. Any noise can be blamed on pets or the wind, which stops the paranoia from setting in and making everything bad.

We also tell ourselves that if there was an actual issue like an intruder or monster, the cat would hiss or scream, and the dog would be barking or making noise. This can be applied to many pets.

Stay busy. Focus on something--art, video games, tv shows and films, craft, gardening, anything that keeps you thinking. Don't let the anxiety get to you, just stay focused on your regular life.

Laugh at it. You're hallucinating a monster in your peripheral vision? Name it Fred and tell him to pay rent. You hear weird noises? Tell them to come back with a warrant. For us, treating symptoms like they're jokes or not serious makes us less anxious and therefore makes it easier to get back to a point where we're okay.

Having a friend or a pet near you can help. We feel safer and less alone when we see another living thing near us that's safe. We don't feel as much like we're trapped in another dimension that way.

How we differentiate between reality and unreality:

Touch it. This one only works for things you're not scared of, and if you don't have tactile hallucinations. It's not foolproof! But when we're seeing things like bugs and stuff, reaching out to touch them causes them to fade away so we know they're fake.

Ask friends and other trusted people if they "heard that" or "saw anything". If they're psychosis friendly, feel free to explain and be specific. If not, be vague and keep it to simple things like "hey did you hear anything? I couldn't tell what it was", if that will be safe enough. Having people to ground you can be great.

Look at how others around you are acting. Are they running or interacting with the thing in question in any way? Do they seem to look at it or no? If no one is noticing, it's less likely to be real.

These won't work for everyone and some of these might be harmful to others, but they're helpful to us. You know best what will help you!

Please feel free to add your own! We need more discussion around psychosis that isn't "scary evil person disorder and how to deal with people who have it".

[thesparklingwriter]

an unexpected surprise

tags: smut, omegaverse, afab! reader, omega!reader, alpha!zhongli, consensual somno, pet names, reader is in heat, zhongli is in rut, reader pregnancy in afterword, idk if genuine excitement to start a family counts as breeding kink, I STILL think this is somewhat fluffy if not vanilla

word count: 4k (side note what the fuck)

a/n: is celeste doing a good job of hiding the breeding kink or no

masterlist | taglist

It’s scarily easy to forget, you concede. It’s too easy to just question why your stomach is killing you all of a sudden. Or why that stack of pillows in the living room is calling out your name like a record player on repeat. Or why letting Zhongli go on that work trip last week almost made you want to fall to your knees and beg him not to.

But once you realise it's your heat breaking, it's almost like your body doubles down. With Zhongli returning from his trip within two days, there’s really no point in worrying him with the information. His ever-righteous alpha urges would have him running home in a heartbeat, and you can't be responsible for that. 

So you call in sick to work for the next week, and if anyone knows why, they don’t question you, and you resign yourself to a horrible few days by yourself. You wear Zhongli’s clothes in the hopes that enough of his scent is left behind to cool your impulses a little. Still, it’s only so long before silk is the only fabric your clammy skin can bear, and since his pyjamas have been freshly laundered, there’s really no point in even trying. 

You reluctantly switch to your own clothes again, a silk night dress you've adored since the day Zhongli bought it for you, and focus on building a nest in the spare room to distract yourself. It works so well, in fact, that you wonder how Zhongli will ever fit between the pillows you've piled up —you subconsciously only made it big enough for yourself. The spare room is good because it's the smallest—in fact, it's so small that calling it a room is almost an exaggeration. It was initially an overzealous store cupboard that you ended up forming an affinity to during your heats, and while it was never a badly kept room, Zhongli couldn’t bear the thought of you using a cupboard when you were most vulnerable, so he had it remodelled. It was worth it to him, even if you were only using it 6 times a year.

This would be the third out of six heats this year, and you congratulate yourself on making it halfway through the year without keeling over and calling it quits. But making it through this one would be tricky. One of the many advantages of married life is not having to go through heat alone, and if Zhongli doesn't return home in time, you might explode.

You try to sleep off the anxiety first, surrounded by cooling silk sheets and everything in the house you can find that smells like your alpha, and it works for the first few hours of the night until a heat cramp rips through you and stirs you awake. Zhongli is many things, but above all, he is a doting alpha, and since he has your permission to help you in any way he sees fit during your heats, he has a very good way of satisfying that part of you before a heat cramp can even manifest itself. But since you haven’t experienced a heat cramp to this extent in what feels like years, you find yourself doubled over and whimpering in pain. The waves of agony even have you forgetting how it was that you managed your heats before you found Zhongli and his cool hands and doting kisses and perfect co—

It doesn’t help to think about him, you realise, as another wave of pain shoots through you. If you can make it downstairs to just grab a hot drink, maybe your symptoms will subside enough for you to just take matters into your own hands like you used to, and then you can decide how you want to proceed. So you wait until the waves of pain are retreating, and you take the opportunity to rush downstairs and rifle through Zhongli's stash of teas. He has labelled them meticulously, and even in your dazed, heat-addled state, you know to not disturb it too much. 

You find one that seems to be labelled appropriately and do the worst job of preparing yourself a cup to drink. You know he'd have an aneurysm if he saw you, but times are tough, and he’s not here to help you. He would probably be even more offended by the way you chug the drink, not even pausing to appreciate the notes and intricacies of the flavour as you trudge back upstairs and hope you find the energy for one orgasm to get you through the night.

It's tricky during this phase. Your body only desires carnal pursuits, but your mind is so riddled with anxiety that it feels wrong when you slide your underwear down past your knees, and your other hand gently brushes your nipple. It feels awkward to slip your fingers between your legs, to pretend that it's him who’s fucking you with his fingers, but it works, so you can’t complain. You tell yourself that you’ll clean up before you fall back asleep, but the hours of no sleep are catching up to you, and you fall asleep as you are.

When you wake up again, it's not from a heat cramp or because you need to use the toilet, it's because your heightened senses can hear the front door opening. You take a minute to listen before you panic—Zhongli isn't supposed to be back for another day, but when you realise that it's his steady but hurried footsteps that you hear, the tension leaves your body, and you relax. You don't have the strength to go to him, so you just hope that he finds you here, and he does.

He pushes your door open and glances inside, spotting you curled up in your tiny nest, stressed and anticipating another wave of pain. He feels horrible.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, walking over to you and taking you in his arms. He carefully nips at your scent glands first and is relieved that from the way you smell, you're in your late preheat, so even though you may have suffered up to this point, it hasn't been the worst your body has to offer. A grateful hum slips from your lips as your eyes close in bliss, and his cool hands against your stomach seem to calm the heat cramp that was building up. “Love, why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were coming back anyway,” you reply, clutching at his shirt and capturing his mouth in a desperate kiss. “No need to bother you.”

“There was every need to bother me,” he whispers, gently adjusting the pillows around you on the bed and stripping off layer after layer after layer. He starts with his gloved hands, and the sight has you clenching on nothing, but you're just happy to finally have him to yourself despite your frustration. “You’re my wife, my mate, my omega. It is my job to take care of you. First and foremost.”

He reaches under you to pick you up, but you protest, grabbing his forearm. “I don’t want to move.”

Zhongli is hit with this unyielding wave of desire, so much so that he has to swallow his thoughts of you round with his child down before he speaks.

“Little love,” he shoots back, gently stroking your hair. “I have to take the contraceptive. Should I leave you here?”

“Don’t,” You say. You’d agreed that the next time your heat and his rut coincided, you’d be more thsn happy to explore the idea of having a child, but with the painful realisation that it might not sync up as fast as you want it to, you’re not holding out on luck.

“Beloved,” Zhongli shoots back, devastatingly beautiful, as you pull out the ribbon that holds his hair back. The image in his mind from earlier shoots back into his mind as he quickly contemplates whether he can take your words as they are, given the stage of your heat. If you were further along, you might say anything to get him inside of you again, but right now, he doesn’t think that’s the case. He takes your hand and gently kisses the inside of your wrist, a familiar action that makes you smile lightly.

“Don’t take it.” you repeat. “I don’t want you to take it.” You gently tug the ends of his hair to pull him closer to you, suddenly over-aware of the fact that your scent glands are begging for his attention. “Please.”

“I don’t want you to have regrets later,” Zhongli says quietly, and this time, when he leans in to nip at your neck again, something in his scent tickles the back of your throat, rich and almost spicy, and it makes you cough. His eyes shoot up to yours as realisation dawns on the both of you.

Zhonglis ruts are less common then your heats, with him experiencing only four a year compared to you. And if the last time they coincided was 2 cycles ago…

“Hm,” Zhongli mutters as you pull him into your nest. “That seems to explain things.” He had returned home early from this work trip for a multitude of reasons. At first, it was your reaction to him leaving, and then it was the dreams and constant thoughts of you that proved difficult to handle during important funeral proceedings, and then it was the thoughts of how you would look pregnant the moment he realised you were in heat. He should have realised sooner, instead of ignoring it and letting you suffer thus far.

“Sleepy?” he asks you, as you bury your face into his chest. But the most you do in the way of a response is make a soft humming sound, your omegan senses calmed by the knowledge that your alpha is close. He is upset by the fact that you didn't feel you could reach him when you needed him, but he knows now you need him more than you need an ultimatum. But for the next few hours, it seems like it’s just a waiting game. He is grateful his rut hasn't set in fully, or else the way you nuzzle into his chest might have driven him half crazy.

He gently strokes your hair, unable to tear his eyes from you for a single second—not only because you're the epitome of beauty to him, but also because he has been away, and he wants to take stock of everything. You once joked that he’d probably notice if a strand of hair on your head went missing, and although he’d laughed it off, he wouldn't be surprised if he could.

Your scent slowly begins to shift to something more sweet as you claw at your husband. You're not awake yet, and you won't be for a while, but you’d given Zhongli explicit permission to do whatever he needed to keep you happy during your heats, and he is always eager to please.

Even still, Zhongli takes his cues from you—if you’re grabbing at his face, he’ll kiss you for as long as you want him to, until you escalate things in your heat-addled slumber. And you do, breathy moans punctuating the kiss until you can take no more, and you're grabbing at his hips.

“What do you want?” Zhongli whispers, as he gently rolls you over onto your back. He’s been ignoring his almost painful hardness in favour of doting on you, but he refuses to forgo his manners the moment sex is on the table.

You whine at him, clawing at him some more, and he chuckles, gently pulling your nightgown up to your waist. He clicks his tongue at the sight of you, practically dripping for him, your underwear nowhere to be found, and as much as he wants to dip his tongue into you, he knows it's cruel to play with you in such ways.

“I know, love. I know.” He whispers to you as he gently enters you. You’re so wet that there's almost no resistance, and the breathy moan that slips out of you is almost too much for him to bear. His mind is almost immediately flooding with thoughts of fucking you into the mattress until you’re both so tired that it will take days to recover, but he would never do anything like that unless you were awake. He may have your permission, but he has his own morals.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers as you pull him closer, your head thrown back in silent bliss. Your response is in the way you clench around him, the slight whine in your quiet moans, and the way you dig your nails into his back. Gods, he loves it when you do that. And although it drives him near crazy, he keeps a steady pace until he feels his knot growing. He nips at your scent glands again, using the opportunity to whisper in your ear—filthy words that have you orgasming almost involuntarily, and the way you clench on him as his knot settles into place triggers his. 

He pulls you to the side so the both of you can lie down comfortably, and he is convinced that the satisfied look on your face as his knot keeps all of his cum safe inside you is enough to keep it there for another half hour. 

His estimations turn out to be correct, and by the time you begin to stir, his knot is still going strong. He talks to you as you wake, gently reminding you to not move too suddenly. You’re dazed but, more than anything, grateful for him as you pull him tighter.

“Thank you,” is the first thing you say when you wake up, gently planting a kiss on his cheek. The action, albeit mostly innocent, makes his cock twitch inside you, and you've regained enough of your sanity to laugh. “Rut?”

“It seems so.”

“Did you…?” your question trails off as if the process of asking is too tiresome for you. If he had, you would understand, but your anxiety is understandable. If he had taken it, it would mean you would both have to wait again, and Zhongli would be lying if he said that the idea of being a father would be unfavourable to him.

“As per our agreement, I did not.” 

The smile you give him is so… perfect that Zhongli has to look away before his knot returns with a vengeance, and he opts for pulling you into a hug, the cold silk of your dress against his chest. He wants to bathe you before the next round of cramps set in, otherwise, you will be clammy and irritable, and he learned very quickly that you cannot bear any discomfort that he cannot fix by fucking you during your heats.

He wants to run a hand over your belly, but decides against it, for fear of jinxing things, instead settling on pressing multiple kisses to your head. 

“How do you feel?” he asks you. He’s not entirely sure how far into your preheat you were before he returned home and he’s worried that he hasn’t been able to help all of the symptoms as a result.

“Warm,” you whisper. “How come I’m still wearing this?”

“As you remind me every cycle, doing anything but what an omega in heat explicitly asks of you is essentially torture. You didn't ask me to take it off, so I didn’t.”

You pout at him, and he laughs gently at you. His knot has deflated, so he slowly sits up and pulls you into his arms. “Will you fight me if I offer to bathe you?”

You shake your head no, lifting your arms above your head as he carefully drags your nightdress off. He decides to save himself the hassle of trying to get it completely clean and just get you a new one.

The minute your skin is exposed to the cold air, you wrap your arms around your chest, and Zhongli takes personal offence to that, kissing your arms until you move them, and then kissing your breasts, his tongue flicking out to tease your nipples. From the way your nails dig into him, he realises that's just about as far as you’ll let him go with the teasing, so he picks you up and takes you to the bath. It’s easy when you’re as pliant as you are now—any attempt you make to push back is easily combatted with words of praise and a gentle kiss to your head, and before you know it, you’re clean and dry and pressed up against your lover’s cool skin.

“Are you still certain about this?” Zhongli strokes your hair again, gently scratching your scalp in a way that sends satisfying shivers down your spine. “I can still take the contraceptive if you want.” 

“No. I want this with you,” you reiterate, pulling him into another kiss. You expect him to kiss you back softly, the way he usually does, but the fact he’s in rut has slipped your mind, and the way he captures your lips in a fiery kiss has a wave of need rushing through you. You gasp at the way his teeth graze your neck, the way his hands rest against your skin, still so gentle despite the fact you know he wants to be anything but.

A heat cramp comes over you so suddenly that Zhongli barely has the chance to register the change in your scent, but he’s quick to respond to your whimper. It’s cheeky of him, he knows, but he gently slides a hand up your thigh and lets it play with your clit for little more than a few seconds. Judging by how drenched you are, if he’d allowed himself to play for any longer, you might have taken matters into your own hands.

Zhongli whispers your name, although it comes out as more of a growl than a whisper, and you know he’s asking for your permission to take you the way he wants to—the way he craves. And even though he knows you’ll be fine, in fact, when you’re in heat you’re most compatible for a mate in rut, he feels the need to check. So when you reach for him and bite on his neck as hard as you physically can, he takes that as an okay.

It takes every single piece of patience he has to gently place your legs over his shoulder, and slowly sink himself into you. It takes even more for him to maintain a slow pace when you’re looking up at him like that, even more so when you moan his name in the breathy way he loves so dear.

“Safe word?” he asks through gritted teeth, and only when you repeat it back to him does he let himself relax a little. He slides a pillow under your hips, before whispering: “Brace yourself, love.” And even though he warns you, you’re still shocked by how hard his next thrust is—if you hadn't been in heat, it probably would have been enough to send you over the edge. His hands grip your waist so hard that in the back of your mind, you're convinced that it’s going to bruise, but the rest of your thoughts are blank, a dull hum in your head where words are supposed to be.

“Are you still alright?” he asks, as he moves his hands from your waist to your wrists.

“More. please, more,” you reply, and he obliges, quietly pleased with the way your pleas shift from words to loud moans and desperate whimpers.

“You want me to breed you, don’t you?” his voice is impossibly steady, his eyes trained on you in a way that stops you from looking elsewhere, even after he thrusts into you so hard that you want to throw your head back. Your whispered please is so faint that he almost doesn't hear it, but he does feel you clench desperately around him, and he's almost disappointed that he’s knotting you so soon.

The way you look at him is unfair. The way you scream his name as you orgasm is unfair, the way you close your eyes in bliss as he cums inside you is so. Fucking. Unfair. How is he ever supposed to win against you? You could ask him for the world, and he would create it for you.

“Is it safe to assume you’re satisfied now?” he asks you when you’re once again capable of speech.

“For now,” you respond. And even though you know it's bad to keep things from him, you don’t tell your husband that you don’t feel another heat cramp for the rest of the week.

~~~

“It has been less than a second since I stepped over the threshold of this house and you are already jumping on me.” Zhongli laughs as you barrel into his arms. He notes you smell different, but he can’t pick up what he is. As he picks you up, he thinks that you're slightly heavier than usual, but that could just be his muscles being fatigued from moving packed boxes of paperwork all day.

“You’re home early,” you smile, looking down at him. He manages to get his shoes off and walk you over to the living room, where you curl up next to him on the sofa. You have been increasingly affectionate as of the last few months and increasingly horny too, but you have those phases every so often, so Zhongli does not question it.

He very quickly realises you’re wearing the replacement of the silk nightgown he got rid of during your last heat. He made sure it was a one-to-one replacement, but it fits differently on you now. Not a bad difference, it’s a perfect difference, he concludes.

“I missed you, my love.” he kisses you softly. “More than should be humanely possible.”

“I missed you more.” you grin. You sit between his legs, your back against his chest, your head tilted lightly to the side so he can kiss your neck the way he always does. But this time, he hovers before he kisses you, and you use his sudden pause to take his hands and place them on your belly.

Zhongli’s smile is peaceful. he likes the quietness of being with you, especially when youre so soft against him, and you smell so…sweet. sweeter than usual. more perfect than normal.

he blames his reignited obsession on his rut somehow. it isn’t his first, obviously, but it’s the first time he’s been able to truly spend it with a partner. he doesn’t know what else to blame it on, nothing else has changed.

except for when the fruit vendor looked at you the wrong way and he almost wanted to rip the man’s throat out. or when then bakery didn’t have the bread you wanted, and it made you cry and he wanted to destroy it there and then. and maybe crying over the bread was a little melodramatic, but it was about the time where your heat returned, so he couldn’t judge you.

but he could judge himself for wanting to resort to such barbarism.

“how have you been, love?”

“tired. hungry. bored.” you retort, your hands falling over his on your belly.

“then we should find something for us to do.”

“i think we should look at remodelling the fourth room,” you grin, “it’s going to be a really boring 6 months if we use your idea of fun as a bench mark,” you sigh.

“The room that conjoins ours?” Zhongli replies, ignoring your mild insult. his body seems to understand your words faster than he does, as his thumbs gently start rubbing your belly. “so you don’t want an office anymore?”

Your husband's brain has been replaced with a rock, you decide. 

“Li,” you sigh. “how you have survived so long whilst ignoring your instincts is beyond me.” you tilt you head up so you can look at him as you deliver the news. “i’m pregnant.”

You feel his breathing pause for a second, and the silence that descends between you is warm and comfortable as the words register.

“You’re…” Your husband is speechless. He sits up slowly, his eyes trained on you.

“mmhmm,” you reply, as he gently cradles your face and kisses you softly. it’s only when he pulls away from you that you realise he’s crying.

“oh, my darling,” you smile, pulling him into another hug. “you’ll set me off.”

he pulls away to look at you, eyes shining with unshed tears and eternal love.

“i suppose celebrations are in order,” he says quietly, pressing kisses into your hair, your cheeks, and your neck as you giggle at him. "I am certain you’ll be a great mother, deserving of every praise.”

You smile. “And you’ll be a great father.” you reply. “The best our child could ever ask for.”

© 2023, thesparklingwriter. please do not copy, edit, repost, or translate.

notes: i have plenty of things to blame this on but I wont even start. can smut be fluffy...? is that a thing? is this enough to make u guys forgive my absence ?

[jellyskink]

Did you know? One of the possible timelines for Domesticated Ford is actually GOOD! Have a look at Good Ending D!Ford! Him getting here involves him being kidnapped to an alien compound and receiving years of mental and physical therapy, supported by Dr. Oleander, Stan and, later on, Pet Guy. And H!Ford, but he’s in his own separate category of fucked up, and needs his own mountain of support. Features of good ending D include:

- Free from Bill! Bill is dead. D helped kill him

- Good health! Through extensive PT (and some alien medicine,) D rarely experiences the sort of constant aches/pains he did before. They still flare up occasionally, but it’s worlds better. He also has some muscle tone now!

- Delusions are gone! This HAS made room for depression, and he has bad days, but he’s able to see the world (and people) clearly now

- Dramatic reduction in symptoms of anxiety, self-loathing and food insecurity! All are still present in one way or another, but again, it’s night and day

- Increased instances of aggressive behavior! This one’s less good, but now that he’s not so disassociated and/or terrified all the time, it sometimes shines through just how desensitized to violence he is. At least the random, uncontrolled breaking of objects is gone! For the most part

- Bill tattoo on his back is blacked out! The black made a coverup too difficult to attempt, so he got the shapes of the tattoos added to and changed. Most of them are moth motifs, and he has a large moth silhouette on his chest, surrounded by smaller ones. He got similar designs on his wrists and ankles, to cover his scars

- Clothes he actually likes! He still has a hard time picking out outfits he likes, or that look good, but with H’s help, he’s put together a wardrobe he’s quite fond of

- Increased executive function skills! They’re still pretty bad, but he’s been working on them, and they’re better than before

- Increased grooming/self care! These are still areas he needs help with, mostly in the form of reminders from Pet Guy, but it’s A LOT better

[rainylana]

“Takin’ care of my best girl.”

Eddie Munson x female reader

summary: reader has a panic attack during the night.

warnings: panic attack, anxiety, tears and descriptions of anxiety symptoms, hurt/comfort, fear of allergic reaction/throat swelling.

You’re sitting on the porch. The air is cool and breezy against your face, the moon shines a calming light on the grass in from of you, making it shimmer. There’s cats roaming in trash cans. Maybe they’re raccoons, actually. It was a beautiful night, but you weren’t really able to enjoy it.

Your heart was pounding, head aching and body trembling with fear, a fear you didn’t know what it exactly was. Your stomach was so twisted with knots and nerves you thought you’d surely pass out. It hurt to breath. You couldn’t breath. Your hands were cradling your head, holding your body tight and hoping it would pass.

It always passed. It always went away and you were always okay. They didn’t normally get this bad. You were getting so much better at handling them. For some reason tonight wasn’t the case. You debated waking Eddie up, but you hated keeping him up with you when you got this way. It wasn’t fair to him.

You had tried all the things to help you. You squeezed an ice cub in your palm, took a cold shower, tried watching to tv to distract yourself. You couldn’t stop swallowing, testing to see if your throat was closing up, which was now raw and irritated from your constant swallowing. You tried taking deep breaths, hands shaking as you placed a hand over your chest, grasping at your shirt.

Once you thought you were getting better, it would start up again. The sudden racing of your heart that made you breathless. After a few minutes, you began to pace, gripping at your chest and willing it to go away. What if there was something wrong with you? Were your lungs actually closing? Were you having an allergic reaction?

That’s what got you every time. You always thought you were dying, and you never were.

You needed to go to the hospital. You couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d been to the er many times for panic attacks, but what if it was serious this time? With trembling legs you walked back inside to your bedroom, rounding the bed and shaking Eddie urgently.

“Eddie?” Your still holding your chest. “Eddie?”

His eyes flutter open, squinting in the dark. “Hmm?”

“I’m scared.” You say, bringing up a nail to bite. “I think something might be wrong.”

Those key words had him sitting up, rubbing his eyes. He leans over and switches on the light, looking up to take you in. He knows what’s wrong immediately, lifting the blanket so he can get out of bed. “What’s going on?” His voice is tired and gruff. “You anxious about something?”

You shake your head yes, grasping at your throat. “I- I uh, I think my throat might be swelling up. Maybe I ate something.”

He nods slowly, bringing his hands up to ghost at your arms. “What brought this on? Did it just start?”

“No, I’ve been up awhile.” You say, trying to swallow again. You do, but harshly, pushing out a choked breath that has you pacing around the room. “Eddie, I’m scared.”

“You’re alright, baby.” He’s following you, grabbing your hand. “Come on, let’s go out to the living room.” He guides you out there, sitting you on the kitchen chair by the stove. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Your eyes start to well up and you shake your head. “No, I- I think we should go to the hospital, Eddie.” Your voice came out desperate.

He’d done this with you so many times, yet the urgency and fear in your voice always made him nervous, even though he knew you were completely fine. He puts the tea in the microwave, setting it for two minutes before he’s crouching in front of you. “Hey,” He’s grasping your face. “You’re alright. You know that. We just have to work through it okay? Like we always do.”

You let out a sob that makes his heart ache, a tear dropping town to his wrist. “But I’m scared.”

“I know you are.” He coos, petting your hair. “If you really want to go I’ll take you, but you’re strong enough to fight this, baby. I’m right here with you, right? We can get through this.” He leans up and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, going back to the microwave to let you think.

Your knee is bouncing quickly, your knuckles tapping at the table like you’re trying to communicate through morse code. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier, your head getting harder to keep up. You gasp, groaning loudly as you lean over.

He’s bringing the cup of tea over to you quickly, sitting it on the table to hold your back. “Just breath, sweetheart.” He’s rubbing your back, crouching beside you. “You’re alright.”

You start to sob, head between your knees as you fight to be sick. You hiccup, shoulders shaking with your cries. You reach to grip his arm. “My stomach hurts so bad.”

It wasn’t rare for you to throw up when you got worked up. He quickly brought the kitchen trashcan over to you, sitting it in front of you so you could have it at the ready.

“Keep breathing.” He instructs you, bringing the tea over to you. “Here, try and drink some of this.” He wasn’t ever sure if the tea helped, but it made him feel useful when you got to feeling poorly.

When your tea is gone, after practically gulping down the hot liquid, he’s rubbing your shaking shoulders, trying to get the knots out of muscles. He switches on the tv to gilligans island, the episode where the professor is trying to make a phone out of a coconut and a banana peel.

You keep crying through half of the episode, coiling over here and there. When you did, he rubbed the back of your neck and kissed your shoulder, telling you to breath and that you were going to get through it.

When you’re three episodes in, your tears have stopped and you’re left with nothing but embarrassment and humiliation, your face beat red as you begin to mutter an apology. “I’m sorry.” Your voice is shaky and hoarse. He’s sitting beside you now, his arm tossed around your shoulders.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, tapping your nose. “Just doing my job.”

“Your job?” You sniffle.

“Takin’ care of my best girl.” He kissed you, a quick peck on the lips as he leans over and turns off the living room light, snuggling back into the couch and pulling you into his chest.

[scoutofmymind]

hey babe I’m not the anxiety attack req anon but wow do I need to read that!!!!!

That Funny Feeling — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: panic attacks, anxiety disorder, sweetie boy Luigi, friends to lovers, Disney World (lol), Ms. Anxiety is referred to as ‘her’, Bo Burnham lyric reference, lots of pet names, comfort

Wc: 4,101

Notes: You and Luigi have known each other for over a decade, and in that time, Luigi has found himself rather well versed in handling your anxiety attacks. But what sets him apart isn't just his ability to help you through these moments — it's his perspective on them.

Hello my pookies. This request is super recent but I felt compelled to write it! As someone who struggles with anxiety (especially during winter months) I felt generally responsible for portraying the feeling of anxiety disorder as realistically as possible, and with that being said, please take care of yourself — if you think reading this will cause any anxiety, or trigger you in any way, please do not read!

There’s plenty of other things to read on my bloggy 💕

I deleted this original ask on accident, if it wasn’t already obvious, so original anon (maybe) responded to my Hail Mary with another ask:

Now I’m thinking I had several anons asking about anxiety attack reqs bc the original was just a general request (no mention of an exam or gettin freaky) about reader having an anxiety attack and being comforted by Luigi through being his sweetie self and physical touch.

Anyway, I added a good girl for you, anon. 💋

There it is again, that funny feeling.

That funny feeling.

You still remember the first one.

Where all of it started.

Disney, of all places, where dreams were supposed to come true, or whatever.

You and Luigi were dancing around the Just Friends label, though his willingness to endure a fourteen-hour road trip with your family spoke volumes. He'd claimed the passenger seat next to you without hesitation, making this his third family vacation with yours.

Your parents drove ahead in their own car, leaving you to manage your bickering tween siblings with Luigi as your sole ally.

The separate cars were your mother's idea — a stroke of genius, really.

After last year's catastrophic drive to the beach with everyone crammed into one minivan, personal space had become a priority. Your father had joked it was for everyone's sanity, but you knew it was mostly for his.

Looking back, the warning signs had been writing themselves across your day in bold letters you didn't yet know how to read. Strange sensations you'd never experienced before crept in at the edges — moments where the lines on the pavement seemed to ripple and dance, pulling your focus until the world around you blurred.

There were seconds, terrifying and fascinating all at once, where you felt yourself floating somewhere above your body, so disconnected from the earth that your own name became a foreign whisper in your mind.

The tingling started subtle — a live wire of sensation that would spark without warning, racing up your spine like lightning searching for ground.

It would burst at the base of your skull, sharp and electric, gone almost before you could process it.

These symptoms, these peculiar feelings that should have set off alarm bells, you dismissed as exhaustion, dehydration, anything but what they really were.

Honestly, Disney hadn't exactly topped your travel wishlist — you'd dreamed more of quiet European cafes or hidden mountain trails — but you'd sooner wrestle an alligator than voice any complaint about being at the self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

Besides, there was something almost supernatural about the way Disney's magic worked its way under your skin, seeping into your bloodstream with each step closer to the kingdom.

The transformation from cynic to believer happened somewhere between the parking lot and your hotel room, as if crossing that threshold stripped away your carefully cultivated teenage skepticism.

Suddenly you were giddy with possibility, enchanted by the little touches that made everything feel surreal — Mickey-shaped waffles that were too cute to eat, chocolate-dipped strawberries appearing like edible rubies on your pillow, and Luigi's laughter mixing with yours as you both sprawled across crisp hotel sheets, talking well past midnight despite knowing tomorrow's alarm would be merciless.

But it was nothing caffeine couldn’t fix.

"C'mon," Luigi's voice carried that edge of concern you'd grown familiar with lately, his elbow gentle against yours as you sat at the hotel's breakfast bar. His dark brows pulled together, creating that little wrinkle you usually found endearing. "That's your second espresso."

You knew exactly what prompted this — either that pretentious health documentary he'd made you watch last week, or those endless conversations with his med school friends.

The last thing you needed was an interrogation before your first ride, especially from someone who'd once tried to survive finals week on nothing but Red Bull and prayer.

"It's basically just a double shot, Lu," you murmured, your voice honeyed with practiced patience. You speared a chunk of pineapple with your fork and lifted it to his lips — a tried and true distraction technique. "People do it all the time." The people in question being you, most mornings before school, but you kept that detail to yourself.

Some lectures weren’t worth inviting, and you were running out of time to get the most out of the breakfast bar, at least with the crammed itinerary your siblings had planned.

The sensation hit you almost the moment you passed under the wrought-iron gates.

The press of bodies, the shuffle-step of crowds being herded through winding queues, it all started to feel suffocating.

That strange disconnection from earlier crept back, stronger now, but you pushed it down. Blamed it on the Florida heat, on too much sun, on too little sleep — on anything but what it really was. But then the world started to narrow, your vision tunneling until all you could see was a pinprick of light ahead, everything else fading to a nauseating blur of color and movement.

You fled.

No destination in mind except away, away, away from the crushing weight of too many people in too little space.

Luigi had been waiting in line for god knows what when he noticed you'd vanished.

He found you later — minutes or hours, time had lost all meaning - wedged between two meticulously manicured topiaries. Donald Duck and Goofy's cheerful forms cast dappled shadows over your huddled figure as you pressed your head between your knees, desperately trying to remember how breathing was supposed to work.

Each gasp felt like trying to suck air through a coffee stirrer, your lungs burning with the effort of simply existing.

The moments after he found you exist only in fragments, like a film reel with missing frames.

Your focus had narrowed to the simple task of staying conscious, counting breaths that refused to fill your lungs properly. But you remember Luigi's panic with startling clarity — the way his usual steadiness shattered into sharp-edged fear.

He'd never seen anyone like this before, and the sight of you — normally so composed — crumpled between cartoon shrubbery sent him spiraling. His voice pitched higher, words tumbling out faster, convinced your heart was stopping or your brain was hemorrhaging or any number of catastrophic scenarios his medical friends had planted in his mind.

It wasn't until you'd gone completely still, retreating so far into yourself that even his increasingly frantic questions couldn't reach you, that real terror seized him.

The last thing you registered was the sound of his footsteps pounding against pavement as he sprinted away, shouting for help.

He'd left you there, alone in your private apocalypse, while the happiest place on earth continued its cheerful orbit around your collapsing world.

Somewhere nearby, a child laughed.

A parade song played.

And you forgot how to exist.

Over the years, you became fluent in the language of your anxiety — learning its dialect of triggers and tells.

Though most attacks still ambushed you without warning or reason, appearing like sudden summer storms in a clear sky, there was a growing anthology of things to approach with caution; hot and crowded spaces, lack of clear exits, too many consecutive nights of poor sleep, too many drinks the night before. Some rules could bend; others were steel-rigid boundaries you'd learned to respect.

Luigi, ever the engineer at heart, remained steadfastly convinced that those two espressos had been the match that lit the powder keg that morning at Disney.

He'd quote studies about caffeine's effects on the sympathetic nervous system, ticking off statistics about heart rates and cortisol levels with the same intensity he once used to memorize roller coaster heights.

You'd let him have his theory — it was easier than arguing, and his concern came from a place of love.

In the decade since that morning in Disney, Luigi has watched you wage war with an enemy he can't see or touch.

For someone whose world operates in binary — in clean ones and zeros, in problems that can be debugged and solved with enough careful coding — watching you battle something so abstract and unpredictable has been its own kind of torment.

"I mean it," he'll say, dark eyes serious in that way that still makes your heart skip, even after all these years. "If I could just understand the variables, map out the function that triggers it..." He trails off, but you know what he means.

Luigi has always believed in learning through data, in breaking down problems into manageable chunks until a solution presents itself.

But you've made him promise never to wish this on himself.

There are some kinds of knowledge that come at too high a price.

Still, watching him move through life without this constant companion of fear sometimes fills you with a complicated mixture of relief and envy; his brain doesn't betray him with false alarms and imagined catastrophes, and it doesn't make him better — you both know that — but God, there are days when you'd give anything to experience that kind of mental quiet, even if just for an hour.

Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant had become almost routine when organized by Luigi's circle — a mix of brilliant minds who'd evolved from awkward coding camp kids into successful engineers, plus their equally accomplished partners.

The old social anxiety that used to accompany these gatherings had faded to background noise, manageable enough to let you focus on the menu rather than escape routes.

In fact, nothing lately had set off your internal alarm system.

No triggers lurking in dark corners, no unexplained spikes of dread.

For the first time in recent memory, your mind felt.. Well.. Quiet.

Your therapy journal — a habit maintained since the Disney incident — reflected this unprecedented peace.

The past few weeks had been remarkably clear, like someone had finally adjusted the lens through which you viewed the world, even compared to your good years, this period stood out as exceptional. A far cry from that morning a decade ago when you'd found yourself becoming intimately acquainted with topiary versions of Donald Duck and Goofy.

But there she is, joining the table unannounced — anxiety, that vindictive ex who always seems to know exactly when you've finally stopped checking over your shoulder; the moment you dare to relax, to think maybe you've somehow outgrown her, she kicks down your door without so much as a courtesy knock.

It starts in your chest, right after a sip of wine — expensive stuff, carefully selected by the sommelier with his practiced French pronunciation; one moment you're admiring the way the wine catches the light, and the next, your ribcage feels like it's being crushed in a vice.

Oh, fuck.

Your mind immediately launches into its familiar spiral of worst-case scenarios, each thought more catastrophic than the last.

When did you last have wine?

Could you have developed an allergy?

Is this anaphylaxis?

Your throat isn't closing up, but maybe it will.

Should you be able to feel your heartbeat this clearly?

Is this what the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like?

The rational part of your brain — the part that's been through this dance a thousand times — tries to remind you that you're fine, that this is just anxiety's signature move.

But panic has always been louder than reason.

Luigi presses his temple against the side of your head, that familiar gesture of affection he's perfected over the years. Like some oversized, obsessed feline marking his territory, "What you gettin'?" His warmth bleeds into your skin. "You've been here before, right?"

But you're too busy wrestling with your own mind to fully process his presence.

No, you're not dying.

You're not dying.

You are not dying.

But what if..

Stop it.

Please, not here.

Not now.

His words filter through your panic in fragments, like trying to catch radio signals through static.

Been

here,

right?

"Mm-hmm." The sound escapes like a breath you'd forgotten to release, your head bobbing in what you hope passes for a normal nod.

The menu before you becomes your anchor, though the carefully curated descriptions of dishes blur and swim across the page, words dissolve into abstract shapes, then into nothing at all as your vision tunnels inward, focused on the growing storm in your chest rather than the $95 risotto description you're pretending to contemplate.

Around you, life continues its normal rhythm.

Someone laughs at a joke about crypto drama, wine glasses clink, a story about a failed startup makes its way around the table, but you're watching it all through thick glass, separated from reality by an invisible but impenetrable barrier that arrived unprompted and appears to have packed for an extended stay.

"Mm-hmm what, angel?" Luigi's voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse beam, momentarily illuminating a path back to shore, and you blink to find it again while your shoulders automatically square in an attempt at casualness that feels as obvious as a neon sign. "You with me?"

He's learned over the years to modulate his voice just so — keeping the concern tucked beneath layers of practiced calm. Luigi knows now that panic is a mutiny; your mind's crew turning against its captain, led by powder monkeys convinced each breath might be their last.

In these moments, you're a ship without stars to guide you, your internal compass spinning wild and useless.

He's discovered that once the storm hits, there's no turning back to safer harbors, no amount of retracing your wake will stop the waves from coming.

The panic has to run its course, has to drag you through its depths before it will release you back to the surface.

Like a riptide, fighting only exhausts you faster — you have to let it carry you out before you can swim parallel to shore and break free.

This is what your therapist tells you, what Luigi reminds you, what you know somewhere in the rational corner of your mind that's still functioning.

There's no fighting the abduction when it comes.

Resistance only makes the ship sink faster.

But believing it while you're drowning?

That's still a lesson you're still learning.

Your focus narrows to a single champagne bubble in Luigi's glass, watching it rise with desperate fascination, as if this tiny sphere of effervescence holds the secret to staying grounded. Your chest constricts further, every sense heightened to painful clarity — the scratch of silk against your skin, the too-loud clink of silverware, the overwhelming scent of truffle from three tables away.

Your body screams warnings in a language you're fluent in by now, though you wish you weren't.

The message is always the same.

This is it. This is how you die.

"Just have to go to the bathroom." The smile you manage feels like origami folded from sandpaper, but you place your napkin on the table with practiced grace.

Even as your insides are being shredded by panic, your muscle memory remembers its manners.

You navigate your exit with the poise of someone whose nervous system isn't currently attempting a coup, only to discover what can only be described as panic attack architecture at its finest — a single stall bathroom, complete with what appears to be a leather wingback chair, because apparently this is the kind of establishment where people need to sit contemplatively while powdering their nose.

Some interior designer's questionable choice about bathroom furniture has just become your salvation.

Later, when you're back to being a person who can form coherent thoughts, you'll want to write a thank you note to whoever decided that this bathroom needed a seating area.

Right now, though, all you can focus on is the mechanical process of existing; spine straight against the leather, shoulders rolled back, lungs remembering their one job.

Time dissolves into a blur until a familiar silhouette materializes before you — all black turtleneck and chocolate waves, appearing like a storm cloud in reverse.

Luigi crouches, his words filtering through your panic; a light through murky water. "You didn't lock the door." It's not an accusation, just gentle explanation.

"Worked in my favor, though." His forearms settle across your lap, warm and solid, while his fingers wrap around your torso with practiced care, his thumbs finding their place beneath your ribs, pressing with deliberate pressure — a physical tether to the present. "Feel that?" He looks up at you from his crouch, studying the vacant expression he's come to know like a seasonal forecast. "Where am I?"

Where am I?

Where am I?

Where am I?

The question echoes through the static of your mind like another signal cutting through the white noise.

It's become your lifeline over the years — Luigi's idea, one of his elegant solutions to a complex problem, the kind of simple brilliance that's pulled you back from the undertow countless times.

"You're in my belly." The words come out barely above a whisper, but they're there. You focus on the steady pressure of his thumbs against your skin, the thunderous beating of your heart against them, proof that you're still here, still existing, still breathing.

He hums softly, a gentle "Mm-hm, good girl." that doesn't quite reach through the chaos of your thoughts, but his thumbs pressing steadily into your sternum somehow breach the mutiny of your mind. "Where am I now, darling?"

Your brows knit together as new anxieties stack themselves like stones — the table of colleagues wondering about your extended absence, the inevitable questions about Luigi's disappearance, the mounting social debt of disrupting such a carefully orchestrated evening.

"My chest." The words escape as a whimper, and Luigi's expression shifts with recognition.

He knows exactly where she's made her nest tonight — that malevolent stowaway, that hijacker of peaceful moments, that pirate who turns calm waters treacherous without warning. She's taken up residence behind your ribs, squeezing your heart like it's treasure she means to keep.

"Mm — yeah," he breathes between a gentle nod, one palm spreading wide across your sternum, the other a steady presence on your back.

The pressure feels overwhelming for a split second, like being caught between two closing walls, but then- "Breathe with me, baby." His voice is low, steady. "Breathe in for me."

Through the crackling fizzle of your thoughts, his voice cuts through like a clean line of programmed commands, and you draw air in through your nose, your body remembering this familiar subroutine even when your mind is caught in an infinite error loop.

"Out." He demonstrates, his own exhale warm against your skin as he presses his nose to your cheek. A soft, approving hum vibrating through him when you complete the cycle — one successful execution of this breathing protocol you've practiced countless times.

For the next six minutes, your world narrows to this simple command-and-response; his gentle prompts, your body's gradual remembrance of how to operate its most basic function.

Input, output.

Inhale, exhale.

Reality still feels like you're underwater, everything distorted and just out of reach.

The sensation draws a physical response — your fingers curling into the soft wool of Luigi's sweater, anchoring yourself to something tangible, your brows pinched together. "I'm-" The apology dies as the first tears breach your defenses, and you remember belatedly that Luigi's already witnessed every shade of your darkness.

"Shhh," he soothes, rubbing solid circles into your chest while the strap of your dress slides rebelliously down your shoulder. The scene would be quite the tableau for any accidental witness — especially since Luigi hadn't thought to lock the door after pointing out your own oversight. "We gotta get her out of there." His lips curve into a gentle smile.

The her being that wicked thing that's made a home in your chest, coiled around your lungs like a python, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

"It's always at the worst times." Your voice emerges paper-thin as you stare at the ceiling, fighting against tears that threaten to break free; you know if you let go now, you might flood this whole restaurant with the weight of your shame. "I'm so sorry."

Luigi shakes his head, though your gaze remains fixed upward.

"Look at me," he whispers, nudging his nose against your neck to encourage you to look away from the ceiling while his hands maintain their steady orbit — one drawing circles into your chest, the other tracing constellations between your shoulder blades. When you finally lower your head, he meets you halfway, forehead pressing to yours. "You never need to apologize for this." His nose brushes yours, a gentle reassurance, before his lips find your cheek. "There is nothing to be sorry for."

But there is, and the weight of it sits heavy in your throat.

Because you are sorry.

You're horribly, terribly sorry for all the moments Luigi has sacrificed to tend to you — his hands learning the maps of your distress across chest, head, and belly, working to exorcise that wicked presence.

You've pulled him from meetings, from deadlines, from life itself.

He's tracked your hazard lights down empty highways, found you pressed against brick walls in city alleyways, breathing into paper bags.

He's always been right there, though.

And every episode has refined his expertise, until caring for you in crisis has become as natural to him as breathing — though that knowledge only adds another layer to your guilt.

Sometimes you worry — no, that's not right. You're always worrying — about what would happen if this all fell apart.

If Luigi woke up one morning and decided he was done being your sanctuary, done pressing his thumbs into the spaces where your demons nest, done chasing away the thing that makes your heart hammer and your fingers go numb.

What if one day he craves simplicity — a love story without footnotes, without having to keep a mental catalog of triggers and remedies, without having to scan rooms for exits and quiet corners just in case she decides to visit.

But in reality, Luigi doesn't carry these thoughts at all.

Not even a whisper of them.

To Luigi, loving you isn't a burden — it's as natural as the way his hands know exactly where to press, as inevitable as his instinct to follow when you disappear.

He doesn't see himself as a therapist or an exorcist.

He sees himself as the person who gets to love you, who gets to be there when you're strongest and when you're struggling to remember how to breathe.

Every time he finds you — whether it's in bathroom stalls or behind steering wheels or pressed against alley walls — he’s not thinking about what he's missing; he’s thinking about how brave you are, how you keep fighting even when your mind turns traitor.

He's thinking about how you still show up, still try, still love with your whole heart even though this disorder has taught you how quickly things can shatter.

You see yourself as a compilation of crises.

He sees you as complete.

Where you count the times he's had to rescue you, he counts the times you've trusted him enough to let him in during your darkest moments.

Your fear of being too much is met with his certainty that you're exactly enough.

"You know what I think about?" Luigi murmurs against your temple, his hands still tracing those steady circles. "I think about how strong you are. How you feel everything so deeply, and still get up every morning. Still love so fiercely." His voice drops lower, meant just for you. "Still choose to trust me with this part of you."

One of his hands slides up to cup your face, thumb catching a tear before it can fall.

You're still trembling, but it's different now — like aftershocks rather than the main event. "Remember our first real date? When we decided after three years to stop playing the just friends shit?” He asks suddenly, a soft smile playing at his lips. "When you had a panic attack at the theater, and I found you outside?"

He doesn't wait for your response, knowing how words still feel too heavy on your tongue.

"You apologized then, too. But all I could think was how brave you were, coming back in to finish that awful movie." His forehead presses against yours again. "That's when I knew, you know. That I wanted to be the person that would always find you.” You sniffle gently, reaching your hands to cradle his face into them as he continues, "I'm not going anywhere."

Your breath catches — not from panic this time, but from the sheer weight of his words settling into your chest.

They nestle there, pushing against the lingering tightness, making space for something warmer.

"But I-" you start, the familiar litany of apologies rising to your lips like muscle memory, and Luigi shakes his head, the movement gentle against your forehead.

"No buts," he says softly, firmly. "Remember what we talked about? No apologizing for the way your mind works." His fingers trace the line of your jaw, steady and sure. "I see you surviving. And I see you letting me be part of that. Do you know how much trust that takes?"

"I keep waiting," you whisper, the words barely audible, "for it to be too much."

Luigi's laugh is soft and tender. "And I keep waiting for you to realize that too much isn't in my vocabulary.“

[snootyfoxfashion]

2lb Weighted Moth Plush from TheMothMama

People of all ages love the calming hug of weighted wings, while the soft textures reduce sensory processing symptoms associated with anxiety, ADHD, C/PTSD, autism, and other conditions. Weighted plush offer a unique (and safer for small pets who may sleep with you!) alternative & addition to the weighted blankets scientifically shown to work by providing deep pressure / deep touch therapy.

[trinketfairy]

"Although animals as therapy adjuncts, even pets, can help reduce anxiety, depression, loneliness, and isolation, owning or working with an animal may not be a viable option for everyone in need. Therefore, stuffed animals, which represent a source of comfort in times of stress for young people, may serve as a suitable replacement. Rose M. Barlow of the Department of Psychology at Boise State University in Idaho wanted to see if stuffed animals would serve clients equally as well as live animals. In a recent study, Barlow surveyed a sample of high and low dissociative female college students and those with dissociative identity disorder (DID) about attachment to live and stuffed animals. She found that the DID women had significantly stronger attachments to both live and stuffed animals than any of the other women. She also found that those with high dissociation and those with DID reported higher levels of attachment to stuffed animals than live animals when compared to the low dissociative group. The findings of this study have several important clinical implications. Even though comorbid issues such as depression, anxiety, and bipolar were not considered in this research, the evidence suggests that stuffed animals may be particularly helpful to those with high levels of dissociation. Because symptoms of dissociation, even disorganized attachment, can begin in childhood and result from emotionally unavailable parents, divorce, or abuse, integrating stuffed animals into therapy for young children can provide a sense of security and help to rebuild impaired attachment bonds. “Animals, live or stuffed, can aid therapy for both children and adults by providing a way to experience and express emotions, a feeling of unconditional support, and grounding,” Barlow said."

Good Therapy - Animal-Assisted Therapy: Does It Work with Stuffed Animals?

[buckybarnesslutshop]

In the clouds ☁️

Paring: Bucky Barnes x Reader

CWs: reader described as “his girl” once but otherwise kinda gn, no description of reader sex (anatomically), Natasha and Wanda mention once, Tony Stark mention, discussion of mental health, almost tooth rotting fluff, dissociation, few kisses, reader is an avenger, anxiety, Bucky sings and to me that’s canon, back massage, Bucky’s arm can be warmer bc i said so, pretend the song came out at a logical time! (it kinda does), Bucky has 1 dirty thought, Bucky takin care of you :\>

Pet names used by Bucky: Doll, Princess, Love

Pet names used by reader: Love, Buck

A/N: this is self indulgent some, and on that note, the description of dissociation is based on MY EXPERIENCE ONLY. Don’t forget we all experience and need different things. Anyways I thought maybe I’d throw in some fluffy writing today, I hope you all enjoy and maybe it’ll make you smile 😋

Summary: Reader occasionally suffers from dissociation as a symptom of her anxiety disorder. Good thing Bucky always seems to notice. Set in Avengers tower.

——————————————————————

It was already later in the evening when it had hit this go round, though sometimes you just woke up like this.

The world around you felt a bit hazy, and your concentration just seemed to be out of reach. Luckily, training was in the morning today, and there were no meetings to be had. It was quiet in the tower, mostly. Well. Unless you count the movie playing in the common area where the majority of the team sat. Your head sat on Bucky’s shoulder while you watched whatever “amazing action” movie Tony decided you all must watch.

It wasn’t the movie, or the long day, or even the darkness. Dissociation just hit you at random times. You felt it suddenly onset, similar to when you take too many puffs of smoke off a joint at the beginning of a smoke sesh, or when the 5 shots of vodka you downed back to back hits you like a freight train half an hour later. You sat up, almost a bit suddenly, before trying to play it cool by sinking into the couch.

Bucky noticed, how could he not? He thought maybe something in the movie surprised you, he wasn’t watching anyways. Stark wasn’t known for the best film taste.

But as you sat back, still rigid, Bucky soon recognized the slightly far off look in your eyes and the way you blinked rapidly.

Not even 10 minutes later, you excused yourself, and something along the lines of “headed to bed…” mumbled out of your mouth. Bucky followed. No one really paid much mind, they knew you were together and Bucky was attached at your hip most of the time. Nat did, however,

share a glance with Wanda, both having a general understanding of how your disorder operates. They made a note to check on you in the morning.

You didn’t notice Bucky trailing after you, though subconsciously you knew he would. When you walked into your bedroom (it may as well have been your shared bedroom, Bucky really only went to his for any items he didn’t keep in yours) you had almost shut the door in his face.

“Doll.” Your head snapped around, almost surprised to see and hear him. You had been too out of it to notice. He saw that same look in your eyes immediately: that far off, dissociated look. He had seen it many times before. You would have cried if you were connected enough with your senses for it. He quietly shut the door behind you before walking toward you, gently pulling you into a hug.

You leaned into him, most of your weight behind held up by him at this point. You let out a deep sigh of frustration, and then inhaled his scent in some futile attempt to ground yourself.

“Not feelin’ great? The dissociation stuff happening?” You nodded, humming. Bucky didn’t quite understand how it all worked, but he could at least understand the general feeling, as it wasn’t too far off of what he felt when the memories began to sneak into his mind too deeply.

He pulled back, and you almost stumbled before he swung an arm underneath you to carry you bridal style. You looked up at him, and he down at you. Your eyes, he noticed, were still of course somewhat far off, but had a little tint of love and gratitude that matched your slight smile.

“Thanks…” you mumbled.

“Of course, love. Anything for you, you know that.” You hummed in response again, energy not quite there, and you looked away, almost as if you were looking at something in the distance. You leaned your head against him as he lead you to the bathroom and sat you on the counter.

“What… what’re you doin?” You said quietly.

He turned the bathtub faucet on, running a warm bubble bath before coming back to you.

“Takin care of you, princess. Don’t have to do a thing, just let me. You only need to tell me what is or isn’t helping.” You nodded, smiling fuller this time. This was always how Bucky handled it, but it still amazed you to see him love you so wholeheartedly like this. You always felt so taken care of, so special to him.

“There’s that pretty smile” Bucky said, his smile matching yours. He kissed you, lightly and sweetly.

He had undressed you both before settling the two of you in the bathtub. Thank god Stark had made the suite bathrooms stupidly and unnecessarily large. It was like he knew…..

You closed your eyes and rested against him for a few minutes before saying “Buck. it’s too quiet, I need some sort of noise.”

He hummed for a second, before quietly beginning to sing. His voice, though deep and almost a bit gravely, was beautiful. It always felt like he was singing right to your heart.

“Cathedral bells were tolling

and our hearts sang on

Was it the spell of Paris?

Or the April Dawn?”

You loved these moments most, when Bucky sang for you. He never sang for anyone, a talent he kept hidden from before Hydra had taken him. The song had sort of become yours, and he sang it on rare occasion, often before or after being separated by missions for longer periods of time. Once he told you that he knew the first time he heard it, he knew he would sing it for his girl one day. He never sang it, however, until one day, he knew it was meant for you.

“Who knows

If we shall meet again

But when the morning chimes

ring sweet again”

You looked up at him to see him already looking down at you. You simply stared into his eyes, the love in your eyes matched in his.

“I’ll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces

All day through

In that small cafe

In the park across the way

The children’s carousel

The chestnut tree

The wishing well”

He paused for a moment, kissing the top of your head. You nuzzled a little deeper against him.

“I’ll be seeing you

In every lovely summer’s day

In everything that’s light and gay

I’ll always think of you that way

I’ll find you in the morning sun

and when the night is new…

I’ll be looking at the moon

But I’ll be seeing you”

You blinked slowly, finding sleepiness overcoming you some. You still felt like everything was a bit far away, but at least you weren’t feeling anxious. In fact, you felt the calming love radiating from you both.

“I love you,” he whispered, still looking down at you.

“I love you too.”

——————————————————————

Once you were both dry and dressed in your pajamas, Bucky had sat you on the bed.

“Do you want a massage, doll?” He asked, voice still quiet. You perked up some, nodding with a mumbled yes. You turned to lay on your stomach.

He grabbed the lotion from the top of your dresser drawers, the one scented like your favorite flowers. He took some in his hands, and once his metal arm had warmed up some, he began to massage into your upper back and shoulders. His metal arm, with its lovely heating and cooling function, made it easier to relax your muscles so that he could work out all the knots. The strength of the arm helped too, especially in your shoulders. They were often riddled with knots, even just days after Bucky worked deeply at them.

You let out a soft moan at the feeling of the knots being rubbed out. While Bucky’s first reaction was less than pure, and he felt himself twitch, he didn’t falter and kept going. Right now, this was about you and what you needed.

He moved down your back, and your arms as well, before moving to your thighs and calves. Eventually, he massaged out your feet, and he noticed a quiet snore come from your mouth. He finished soon, before needing to wake you back up.

You whined, and you grumbled something incoherent at him. “Doll you have to take your medicine. Just gotta be awake for a few minutes, ok?” Your eyes fluttered open, a grumpy face meeting his. You mumbled an ok. Your eyes still looked distant, but Bucky knew once he got you to take medicine and sleep, you would feel better in the morning.

Once he got your pill bottles out, and retrieved your emotional support water bottle, you took your medicine without fuss.

You both settled after, and Bucky put your phone on charge before turning on your favorite sleep playlist and turning the volume to a quiet level. You both crawled under the covers, lights being turned off, and you both inhaled the smell of each other. For some reason, it always relaxed you both.

Once comfortably in his arms, your head on his chest, you looked up at Bucky. He felt you move, and looked down at you. The moonlight from your window illuminated you just barely.

“Thank you, love,” you said, though barely getting it out. “Thank you so much. I love you.”

“I’ll do whatever you need, doll. Always. I love you,” he said. You readjusted, nuzzling back into his chest. His chin rested gently on your head. That was the last thing you remember before falling asleep.

[fivetrench]

New Wings of Fire sona wow wow wow

His name is Bulrush & he’s a Mudwing/Nightwing hybrid with xanthochromism, which is why he has a pale yellow complexion. I’ll put some more stuff about him below the image description :3

[Image Description: Two digital drawings of a dragon character, the first is a headshot and the second is a full-body illustration. The dragon has various shades of light yellow/green scales, with dark green horns, orange eyes, and long, off-white spines. There are a few small dots of green scales on his face. He has small, circular earrings that match his black lip piercings. In the first drawing, he is depicted looking to the left with a neutral expression. To his left is a piece of text that reads “Bulrush (he/him)”. Below the text is three pride flags, the transmasculine, nonbinary, and aroace flags. Below that is a small color palette, containing all of the dragon’s colors. The background of the drawing is solid white. The second drawing is a full-body image of the dragon, who is looking to the left with the same neutral expression. He’s standing in place, his tail slightly curled upwards and his wings partially folded at his sides. The membrane of his wings is dark green with a few off-white stars speckled near the joints. The background of the drawing is an orange similar to the color of his eyes, and he is outlined in a lighter version of the orange. End ID.]

More info on him below!

Bulrush is a very weak seer, his only ability is getting “feelings” of when bad things are about to happen. Basically there’s always a little hum of dread in his mind, which increases when in crowds, during conflict, right before events, etc. He doesn’t get visions but he does have nightmares, mostly of wildly unrealistic possible futures. He’s very pessimistic and antisocial, both because of his abilities and because he’s just like that. His anxiety and powers kind of merge into a weird mess of symptoms that can’t be differentiated from each other (e.g., his nightmares, increased dread when in crowds, etc). He works as an entomologist in the outskirts of the rainforest, identifying, cataloguing, and preserving insects. He lives in a small hut that’s closer to the Mud Kingdom, where he keeps all of his collections. He prefers the company of bugs and animals over dragons and has a pet Burmese python named Prince (based off of my ball python, Princely :3). Prince is his only official pet, but he often feeds the animals near his home and has names for them. He’s never met his father, a Nightwing named Snaketail, who left Bulrush and his mother when he was an egg. He has a good relationship with his mom, a Mudwing named Crayfish, and visits her in the Mud Kingdom frequently. I’m not sure what I’m going to do for him story-wise, but I’ll probably give him a Rainwing friend since he’s in the rainforest so much!

[briefinquiries]

Luke Alvez x Reader: The Space Between Us

Prompt: I’m so glad you’re back! Can you write something where the reader & Luke are in an argument? Maybe he’s struggling when he gets back from Afghanistan or something? Idk you can be creative with the rest :) Thank you!

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: PTSD symptoms mentioned

A/N: thanks for the request, enjoy! 

You’re in the midst of scrubbing a dish clean when you see the headlights of Luke’s truck pull in the driveway. 

He cuts the ignition. The sun is long gone, set beyond the hills in the distance, so when the door opens and closes with a thud, you can’t get a good look at him. Suddenly, you realize how torn you are between being relieved that he’s finally home and still so angry at him for leaving in the first place. 

The fight you’d had a earlier had been a bad one– probably the biggest you’ve ever had. And Luke looks… God, he looks so tired as he walks across the driveway, his silhouette illuminated by the porch light you’d left on. His head is hanging low, his feet trudging along the steps towards the front door. Under normal circumstances, you would greet him there– throw your arms around him the second he walked inside and bury your face in his neck. But tonight you can’t– because these aren’t normal circumstances. 

Instead, as soon as he steps through the door, you set the dish down and turn to face him. 

“Hi baby,” he murmurs. The pet name he uses makes you cling to the small sliver of hope that maybe things will be okay. 

But still, your eyes burn with unshed tears. “Hi.”

“How has your day been?” he attempts. 

But you shake your head. “Luke, I really can’t fake pleasantries tonight.”

He scrubs his face with his hand and sighs, like he can’t wait to be done with this entire situation– the fighting, the chaos, you. As unbearable of a thought it is, you can’t help but glance at it in the horizon. What if that’s what’s happening here? What if he’s sick of you? What if his feelings for you had changed since he’d been away?

It’s a possibility– no matter how badly you don’t want it to be. 

“Listen, I’m just so tired–” He sounds defeated… empty. 

“And you think I’m not?” You challenge. 

He shifts before gripping his neck with his hand, still hovering near the door, not daring to move closer. It’s as if he’s already distancing himself from you… As if he’s done. 

“Well if we’re both tired, this probably won’t be a very productive conversation. Why don’t we just pick this back up after we’ve gotten some rest?”

You dig your nails into your palms, a distraction from the pain in your chest. He doesn’t get it– this anxiety that’s been making a home inside your chest. No matter how hard you push and plead. And you don’t know what else to say to make him get it. 

“How am I supposed to know you’d still be here by tomorrow?” 

His jaw tenses. 

“That’s a pretty fair possibility considering the shit you pulled today.”

Luke sighs. “I know I did and I’m–”

“You stormed out,” you say, taking a step forward so that you can grip the island counter. “You left.”

He opens his mouth to speak, and you know you need to let him talk. You know he deserves a chance to say his piece. But you’re still just so angry… you’re consumed by it. So you continue. 

“What if I had done that to you?” You ask. “What if I had been the one to take off and then just… not come home for over twelve hours?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You’d be pretty worried, huh? Maybe a little mad…”

“Baby–”

“No, you’d be fucking pissed, Luke! I know you would. So why is it okay for you to do that to me? Why is it okay to take off and not answer any of my calls or texts?”

The pained look on his face tells you everything you need to know– that you’re right. 

“You say you have dreams– nightmares where you can’t find me,” you say, using the things he’s told you to prove your point– digging where you know it’ll hurt, because you’re just so fucking angry, and you need him to understand. “That was my reality today, Luke. You put me through your literal fucking nightmare.”

“Please don’t,” he mumbles, his head hanging low.

“I was so worried. I- I didn’t know where you were,” your voice breaks. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back– is what you don’t say… what you’re too afraid to say. 

When Luke got back from Afghanistan, that was supposed to be it. You were supposed to be through with the distance, through with the heartache, through with being terrified that every time the phone rang, it was someone telling you he was dead. 

But although he was discharged almost three months ago now– it doesn’t feel like it. Instead it feels like walking on eggshells and waiting for the other shoe to drop. And while you want to play it off as just an adjustment period and some misunderstandings, it’s starting to feel bigger than that. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice still empty-sounding. “I didn’t want to make you worry.”

“To make me worry?” 

“I was going to call,” he explains, “But my phone died. And I– I needed some space.”

“Some space?” You gawk. “Are you kidding me? You needed space?”

He nods, but his gaze doesn’t meet yours. 

“Luke, you’ve been gone for three years. All you’ve had is space– all I’ve given you since you’ve been back is fucking space– I have waited and waited for you to come home from the army. I counted down the years, the months, the days– I lived on letters and shitty phone calls where I could barely even hear you because of the horrible reception. And now… you’re out, you’re home. You’re finally here, except you’re not. You never fucking came back from Afghanistan, Luke. You haven’t even given me a chance to not give you space because you’re not fucking here.”

There’s an eerie silence, a dramatic, drawn out pause that only seems to magnify the space between you. 

“That’s not fair,” he says. 

“Not fair? You really want to talk not fair, Luke? What’s not fair is leaving in the middle of an argument and not coming home all day. What’s not fair is not calling or texting or giving me some shred of fucking evidence that you were alright. I mean, do you understand how fucking worried I was? Do you even care?”

“Of course I fucking care– I just… I needed to–”

“Needed to what?” You snap, your voice raising as your arms flail in the air. “To take off? To leave?”

“I don’t–” Luke stammers, sounding so defeated. “I don’t know.”

Another beat of eerie silence settles between you. After only a moment, you can’t take it anymore. So, you ask the question you’ve been terrified to know the answer to. “Are you going back?”

His head snaps up, like he’s surprised you even asked. 

“Th-this is all my fault. Fuck, I should never have let this get—” he stammers. 

“Don’t,” you say, your voice louder than you thought it could be at your current state. “Just don’t, Luke.”

But he continues. 

“It’s the right thing to do,” he tells you, and you have to swipe the tear sliding down your cheek before he can see. “I just…”

“Just tell me, are you going back?” you say, harsher than you intended. 

“No,” he shakes his head, adamant. Finally he looks at you. You hoped that would’ve given you some sort of comfort, but it doesn’t. Instead, you see pleading eyes, usually so warm you want to sunbathe in them, so familiar that you want to curl up and call them home. But tonight they’re neither warm nor familiar. 

“Then what is it? What the hell is going on?” you say. 

“I don’t know what to do, but I can’t keep— I can’t keep…” 

“Just tell me,” you plead, voice rising. Because you can’t stand this. “Please, just fucking tell me. Luke, I’m begging–”

“I can’t do this,” he finally spits out. “I can’t do this anymore, I just can’t.”

And there it is. 

The nail in the coffin. 

The final straw.  

Your worst nightmare.

“Right,” you exhale the rest of the air in your lungs. Before you burst into a sobbing mess in front of him, you give Luke a short nod and turn away. 

“Wait–” you hear him call. 

“It’s fine, Luke,” you say over your shoulder without looking at him. “Like you said earlier, we’re both tired.”

“Wait, wait,” he follows you up the stairs, but you were too far ahead of him.

“Just forget it–” you say, voice choking with tears. 

“Baby– stop, please–” he gets out just as you slam the door to the bedroom shut.

You stifle your sob in the sleeve of your sweater, back pressed against the door for a moment while you try to collect yourself. Then you walk to the bed and collapse on the mattress in a heap. As you curl up, clutching Luke’s pillow like it’s your lifeline, you try desperately to breathe between sobs. And then, even though you know he won’t, you hope with everything inside of you that he comes after you. 

…

You can’t sleep. Whenever you try, you just feel like you hear sounds of him leaving again– the screen door snapping shut, the zipper of his bag, the fear and anxiety only intensifying as the hours wear on.

All you have is silence and your thoughts.

I can’t do this, he had said. His direct words. 

You bury your face in his pillow as you try to hold back more tears, wondering if you’re imagining the way his scent is starting to fade from the fabric. How could you miss someone living under the same roof as you?

You roll onto your back again as you stare up at the ceiling, watching the fan whirl around and around steadily. 

“Fuck,” you mutter as you sit up. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes frustratedly before turning the lamp on. Was Luke even home? Or had he taken off again? You hate that you even have to wonder. How can things have gone so wrong so fast? 

As soon as the doubt creeps into your mind, you know it’s there to stay– at least until you can see for yourself whether or not Luke is still home. So, you swing your legs over the bed and head for the door. Except as soon as you swing it open and step forward into the hall, your feet collide with something– and before you know it, you’re crashing to the floor with a hard thud. 

All the air is sucked from your lungs as your stomach collides with the carpet beneath you. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” Luke’s familiar voice hovers above you. 

And while you don’t really have the oxygen in your lungs to answer his question, when you turn your head and open your eyes, you can see the faint outline of his features from the lamp you’d turned on in the bedroom. His eyebrows are scrunched together– like they’re concerned, and his mouth is slightly agape. 

“Baby, are you okay?” Luke repeats, his hand hovering on the outside of your hips. 

“No–” you stammer, flipping so that you’re lying on your back. You barely choke out the single word before you’re bursting into unfiltered tears– the blubbery kind, where you can barely breathe in between sobs. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, sounding panicked. He shifts, scooching forward so that he’s closer to you, but he still doesn't dare to touch you. “What hurts, baby?” 

All you can manage to do is shake your head before you move to cover your face with your hands– a feeble attempt at hiding from him. Like that would make any difference. At one point, you feel his fingers ghost along the fabric of your sleeve, trying to tug your hands from your face. 

“Look at me, baby,” he begs. But you just shake your head harder, resisting his pleas. 

“C’mon, I just want to know if you’re–” 

But he doesn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence before you break. Flinging your arms down, you shout, “No I’m not fucking okay! Nothing about this is okay!” 

He flinches back, arms dropping to his side. Instantly, another wave of tears well up in your eyes, choking out before you can stop them. And suddenly, you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe. You’re a mess– all blubbery and pathetic in front of him. But you don’t even have the energy to care anymore. 

“Just breathe, baby. Breathe,” he says. He moves like he’s going to reach for you– and you let yourself get your hopes up in that fraction of a second. But then he drops his arm back down and frowns, like he’s caught himself doing something he isn’t supposed to. The space between you now only makes you cry harder, gasping for air in between sobs. He’s right beside you, but in some ways, he feels even further than when he was across the ocean. 

“I’m sorry I tripped you.”

You shake your head. “I’m– I’m not crying because you tripped me,” you bellow. Before you can see the questioning look on his face, you continue. “What–” you try to say, but your voice is too choppy. “What… are… you even–” you stammer harder. “What are you even doing out here? Why are you here?”

“I’m sorry–” Luke repeats. “I didn’t want to sleep on the couch– I wanted… I wanted to make sure you were okay, I wanted to be there if you needed anything.”

You pause, realization washing over you. 

Luke was here–

Outside the bedroom door.

Sleeping on the floor like a goddamn golden retriever. 

But why? After everything he’d said– and the way he’d acted earlier? 

“You dumbass,” you snap, finally sitting up from the carpet. “I did need you. Why don’t you get that? Why don’t you understand that I fucking need you? That I’ll always need you!”

“I–” he stammers. “I don’t– I didn’t mean to upset you–”

“Well guess what? You leaving upsets me! You sleeping in the hallway instead of in our bed upsets me! You not wanting me anymore upsets me!”

“Wait– what? Not wanting you?” he says, his tone disbelieving.  

“Not being able to do this anymore– or whatever you said. Guess what, Luke? That’s upsetting!”

“I didn't mean it like that–” he says quickly, his eyes downcast as he seems to try to think if he really had worded things that way. “I– Fuck, I just– I just meant I couldn’t fucking handle… I couldn’t handle things–. I couldn’t deal with this… this feeling inside of me since I’ve been back from the army– I didn’t mean you– God, baby it was never you–”

“But–” you whisper, shaking your head. “You said–”

“I don’t remember what I said–” Luke explains. “I bet it was fucking stupid– I’ve been so overwhelmed and frustrated at myself. I don’t know what I said, but I promise I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”

You close your eyes at his answer, everything clicking into place. Is it possible that this was just all one giant misunderstanding? Did Luke still want to be with you?

“I thought…” you stammered, your voice next to nothing. “I thought you were done with me. You said you were done.” 

More tears escape down your cheeks and you duck your face to hide from him once again. 

“No– no. God, I’m so sorry… I can’t,” he says, his voice low and tired. “I just don’t feel like myself since I’ve been home. I don’t know what to do and I’m always on edge… I can’t breathe half the time. But I swear it’s not you–” he swallows and takes a moment to compose himself. 

“Then what is it?” You plead. “Why can’t you stand being home with me? Why aren’t I enough?”

God, you sound pathetic– but after the emotional roller coaster Luke had put you through these last few months, you really couldn’t help it. 

“I don’t know what it is–” he admits. “I wish I did, but I don’t. But please trust me, baby girl, you are enough. You’re more than enough. I mean, you are the only thing that makes me even feel alive anymore. I can’t believe you haven’t gotten sick of me– I don’t know how you’ve put up with this for so long.”

He lets out a loud huff when you launch yourself into his lap– completely erasing the distance between you two on the floor once and for all. Before he knows what’s happening, you’re winding your arms around his neck and burrowing your face in the crook of his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. He hesitates, but only for a moment, before his arms are securely wrapping around your waist, anchoring you to him. He buries his face in your hair, breathing you in. 

“Because I love you, you idiot,” you sniffle. 

He squeezes you tighter, holding you to him like he’s scared you’ll disappear. You know the feeling, all too well. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispers into your hair. “I- I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. Everything sets me on edge– every noise, every thought. 

When you pull back, your heart aches as soon as you see tears glistening in Luke’s eyes. You cup the outside of his face, your thumb trailing up and down his cheek. “We can figure it out,” you promise. “We’ll get you to see someone– a doctor or a therapist, or someone that can help. We’ll figure it out.”

He nods like he actually believes you. 

“I know you’re tired,” you say, shifting to move from his lap. “Let’s just go to bed, okay? We can figure the rest out in the morning.”

He nods and lets you tug him to his feet. You cling to his hand as you walk towards the bedroom, afraid that if you let him go, he’ll disappear again. 

“I can take the couch,” he says softly, making you halt in place. You turn to face him almost instantly. 

“What?” You shake your head, brow instantly furrowing. “No–” Instantly, you feel your anxiety creeping up again. 

“I just– I can take the couch if you want space.”

“No, Luke. I don’t want space. Do you want space?”

He shakes his head quickly.

“Good,” you say. “Then stay with me. Please.” 

He nods, while you walk him the rest of the way to your bed. He waits for you to crawl to your side closest to the wall before he slides under the sheets beside you. He looks stiff– awkward when he first lays down, but you don’t give him long before you’re scooting into his side, resting your head on his chest. 

“Thanks, for being patient with me,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll figure this out,” you say. “I love you.”

He gathers the hand you have resting on his chest in his own, lacing your fingers together and giving it a tight squeeze. “I love you, too.”

You exhale, noticing that even breathing feels easier with him beside you.