#tw.panic attacks

[mochroialainn]

𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲

description: telling them you're pregnant fandom: JJK characters: Toji Fushiguro, Choso Kamo, Ryomen Sukuna format: SMAU request: no warnings: pregnancy, slight toxicity in Tojis, potentially OOC Toji and Sukuna (its my first time writing Sukuna so I apologise if he is OOC), slight panic attack in Choso's notes: im so sorry this took so long to get out, my brain has felt like there are bees living inside of it for the past few weeks, so I apologise if this isnt the best

𝙩𝙤𝙟𝙞 𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙧𝙤

𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙤 𝙠𝙖𝙢𝙤

𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙪𝙠𝙪𝙣𝙖

[ndcultureis]

nd culture is getting overstimulated but your family not understanding and bringing you to a lot of places that are loud and overcrowded and overstimulating you even more and literally causing you to have a silent panic attack in the back of an ice cream shop :)

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[way-too-addicted-to-fandoms]

Molly is really sweet and I'm so glad she's not a bitter, jealous ex. It's a nice change.

This is absolutely beautiful I'm so in love with it, and Bradley, of course😉

The Arrangement

title:  the arrangement

characters:  bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x doctor!mitchell!reader (rooster calls them angel)

words: 20k +

themes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, fake dating (minor), fluff, , smut, mutual pinning, idiots not realising they’re in love

rating: 18+

warnings: female identifying reader and female anatomy used, mentions of parental and canon character death, panic attacks, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex (p in v), rooster has a lieutenant kink, rooster in dress whites, praise kink, unprotected sex, scratching, biting, cream pie, overstimulation

summary: ‘he laughed, my darling you will never be unloved by me you are too well tangled in my soul’ @atticuspoetry

You and rooster made an arrangement when you were 18 years old, that if either of you needed a date to an event and you were both single you would be each others date, you try your best to be at every celebration and ceremony for your education and respective careers. you managed to keep this up for a while, but the life of a doctor and the life of a navy aviator never seem to line up and suddenly you find yourself not only cities but countries away from one another and the arrangement falls to the background of your minds that is until you move to San Diego and Rooster finds himself calling on your arrangement one last time.

a/n:  this ended up being sooo long and i am (not) sorry about it, i got so carried away with it. also this is the dress i imagined when writing this. also, i don’t consistently refer to Rooster as Bradley or Rooster in this, it switches so often. i also apologise if the smut is bad, i don’t write it often. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT this is an 18+ piece, I will be checking blogs that interact so please have an age indicator somewhere on your blog. this is part of the ‘fly me to the moon universe’

Rooster was sure the world stopped the minute you walked through the doors behind your father, it had been over 10 years since he had last seen you and yet he knew it was you instantly. If anybody asked, he would say it was your eyes that gave you away as being (Y/N) Florence-Mitchell. The same emerald green as your father, full of life and happiness as they crinkled at the sides when you smiled at Penny across the bar, giving your soon to be step mother a wave as your father guided you through the crowd and straight towards the group of aviators that made up the dagger squadron. 

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[devilstempt]

NIGHTS WITHOUT YOU.

nanami kento.

for @lacheri ‘s moonlight muses collab- congratulations again on 1k!

i’m so sorry. inspired by ghost of you by 5SOS.

tags: absolute pure angst, gn reader, alternate universe but IMPLIED JJK MANGA SPOILERS, swearing, memory reflection, VHS tapes

warnings: death, blood, described panic attack

wc: 5.1k

Kento, it’s almost midnight; why aren’t you home? Are you working overtime again? AO3 link.

You often found your mind wandering during the nights, head swimming with questions left unanswered, and answers to questions never asked.

The nights were so much harder, and you never could quite figure out why. Maybe it was the fact that everything was darker, quieter. Nothing to focus on, to distract yourself from. Maybe it was the fact that you were alone in your home, something you hadn’t been in years, not since you were 21.

When the blinds on the world finally fall, and you are wrapped in silence once again, you expect yourself to break. Expect something like out of a movie, where they drop to their knees and scream out to a void that wronged them, one that never has an obligation to answer.

Of course, it all hurts. Like an incessant scratch on the inside of your lungs, under your skin, in your blood. It’s tearing you apart and you want nothing more than to fall asleep and wake up with his arms around you again, as the light of the morning breaks through glass to bless him with its rays. But you wake up alone.

It’s a pain that you realise will not, cannot, go away with time, like you expect it to. Oftentimes it takes over, has you gasping for air as you wake up much too early, scraping at your chest to tear out a heart that has long been broken, only to leave angry red marks and tears.

It’s too difficult to remember life without him. You can hardly recall your youth from before you met him at 11, with every memory since then occupied by him. Him, him, him, and only him.

He is all you can think about as you open up your film cabinet at 3 in the morning. He insisted on keeping an old TV with the VCR player, ‘if not for the nostalgia, then for our tapes’. You still remember how you snorted and slapped his shoulder, laughing at his horrible attempt at an innuendo. Sometimes you still see him sitting in front of the cabinet, labelling and ordering all the tapes methodically, turning back to face you with a smile when you offer him his tea.

You sigh as you run your fingers across the VHS tapes, stopping at a random one to pull it from the shelf and insert it into the VCR player, eyes glued to how it swallows your memory whole, not wanting to look up at how it’ll play it out for you, too.

“C’mon Ken, you can’t be serious!”

“I absolutely am,” You know how this tape goes, know it off by heart, but you still watch it as if it’s the first time you’ve seen it. You still notice how he struggles to balance the camcorder on the shelf of his old family bathroom, notice how he smiles the slightest bit at your whining.

You’re both so much younger, it almost makes you laugh. Almost 11 years have passed since then, but your 16 year old faces are a stark difference to your 27 year old ones, though the eyebags seem about the same.

The quality is ‘fizzy’ as you like to call it, but you can still see both of your acne and your scars, see your little imperfections through the grain. You still remember how the both of you thought it was the end of the world when a new spot turned up, or when one scarred horribly. You remember when you heard about Bio-Oil and Fade Out, remember the way you both gushed to each other when you realised they worked.

The tape has continued while you live out your memories, and now 16 year old you is snatching gloves from his hands and putting them on yours, prepping the bottle to squeeze on him, “You’d better be sure about this.”

“Trust me,” he smiles, and you see how your younger self almost crumbles at it, “I am.”

You sigh softly as you shake the bottle in your hands and squeeze the contents onto his hair, putting it down to massage the dye through his caramel coloured strands. Somehow, he had convinced himself, and you, that a) he would look better platinum blond, and b) the box dye would lift the colour from his dark hair, without bleach.

His hair was longer then, with a side part and pieces that wouldn’t tuck behind his ears falling on his face. It hadn’t really gotten any longer than that afterwards, staying at that length until he cut it, and since then he had preferred to keep it shorter, and styled, though you kept nudging him to let it grow out a little. He refused to listen.

The waiting process wasn’t filmed, a result of one of you forgetting to charge the camcorder, so it conveniently died just as you waved your dye-covered gloves at the camera. You remember how he grumbled at you as he went to charge it, a Hello Kitty towel draped around his shoulders, and hair soaked in dye, while you bickered with him, telling him it was actually his fault, seeing how it was his camcorder.

The rest of it never was filmed, with the charger malfunctioning and deciding not to do its job, but the memory still feels fresh in your mind. You waited in his bedroom as he showered, making a head start on some of your homework, but all your focus flew out through his window when he walked into his room, blue plaid pyjama pants low on his waist, hair dripping and a hand on the back of his neck, he sheepishly muttered, “I forgot my t-shirt.”

You could’ve fainted there and then, and you swear you almost did. He wasn’t as built then, just a faint outline of abs and a V-line on tan skin, but to you, he could well have been a marble structure, with the way his new blond hair contrasted his skin.

To this day, you’re still not surprised by the way you take a t-shirt from his drawers and pull it over his head as he puts his arms through the holes; still not surprised by the way you pressed your lips to his straight after, your hands under his top, touching his burning skin at his waist.

It was your first kiss as much as it was his, the result of an unspoken promise to devote yourselves to each other. The way his chapped lips moved against yours was oddly soothing, a kind scratch that was so wonderfully him.

The way that the magazines made it out to be, you expected a swarm of butterflies in your stomach, pushing up through your chest. The wave of serenity that washed over your body in that moment was so confusing to you, made you doubt him, doubt your feelings for him. But when you pulled away, and he clung to your body, pretty brown eyes peering at you, you smiled and placed your hand to his cheek, laughing when he turned to kiss your palm, chapped lips tickling it.

You knew then that the universe had fated you two together, lovers in every lifetime, as written in the stars. Because truly, there was no other person who could ever make you feel so at peace than him. Because it was always, will always be Kento. Always and forever, him.

The screen had long been black, as your memory consumed your thoughts, and as soon as your eyes refocus on the blank screen, you’re moving to eject the tape, pushing it back on the shelf, and pulling out a new one to insert.

This one had collected dust for much too long, and you had forgotten about it. Though as the video focuses, and you see his side profile, you wonder how you could ever let it slip your memory.

Your teenage years were dominated by experimentation of what you enjoyed, learning about yourself, and what made you happy. Of course, with your own journey of self exploration, also came his, and that was how the both of you ended up at a skatepark, thoroughly unprepared.

Years on and you still don’t understand how the both of you got hold of skateboards, knee and elbow pads, and helmets. He would joke that you stole it, but you’re pretty sure that it was either him who stole it (highly doubted), or Gojo (very reasonable), under the pretence of ‘ensuring that my best friend gets some’. He definitely hit him after that.

The tape played and you watched how you almost tripped over your own feet, watched how you step up on your board, arms out and knees bent as he snorted, “You look like a fuckin’ surfer.”

“Piss off,” you grumbled, “Try and do better then.”

The faint smirk on his face was clear even through the grainy texture of the tape, but it was all but lost as he climbed up on his board, which promptly (and quite conveniently) slipped from underneath him, leaving him to fall flat on his ass with a groan.

“Are you,” you’re laughing as you step off your board to crouch next to him, and you can barely get your words out, “Okay?”

“Of course I’m not. My fuckin’ ass hurts.”

He stares at you in disbelief as you collapse beside him, cackling at his pain. He so desperately wants to be pissed at you, wants to shout at you for laughing instead of helping him, yet he just hits your shoulder weakly, chuckles escaping the confines of his chest, and within minutes, there are tears in your eyes and in his, as you clutch at your chests for breath.

You’re not sure what the water welling up in your eyes now is due to, but you know that it doesn’t slip down. Confined to its place, it remains there, its desperation tearing at your eyes, needing a reason to fall. You don’t give it one.

And so it dries, and your vision is focused sharply on the TV as your memories play out from a foreigner's view; detached but incredibly personal, like a diary read aloud by a stranger.

You were an ace when it came to skateboarding, gliding around the track as he wobbled and shook slightly with the littlest of movements. In the end, you took to holding his hands while on your own skateboard to help balance him.

You hummed when his palms touched yours, soft and sticky, but with the telling signs of hardening. You used to tell him to moisturise them more, to keep them softer for longer, but he continuously refused, either plain out forgetting, or arguing that it would make his hands even sweatier. There was never really any point in arguing with him back, so you just left it, settled with feeling the way the texture of his hands changed over the years.

The camcorder didn’t pick up your mutters from its perch on a low wall, didn’t pick up on the way you reassured him, the way you praised him when he stopped wobbling on the board.

The camcorder barely picked up on his faint blush at the intimacy, but the heat of his hands and his tightening grip was unmistakable, and it wasn’t hard to notice how his skating somehow improved incredibly in the span of 5 minutes.

The tape continued for another hour, and you knew it was nearing its end when you saw how you put your skateboards aside, and removed your helmets to watch the sun set over the buildings of the city.

The camcorder filmed your backs as you both sat, dangling your legs over the edge, you leaning back on your hands, and him with his head on your shoulder. You never realised how well the two of you fit together. Seeing it felt like putting a piece of furniture in a tight place, afraid that it’s too big, only to have it fit perfectly.

Only when the sun disappeared over the darkening buildings, and you were left to bathe in its shadow, did you rest your head on his. As soft oranges and pale yellows faded and weakened, as they began to meld into shades of purple, as the sun finally disappeared, and left nothing but bleached darkness as a parting gift, you sat there. Though your hands started to ache, though his neck began to sore, the two of you sat there. Only when a nearby streetlight shut off did you rise from your positions, bodies stiff, to stretch and take your boards to walk home.

Your hand pauses on the eject button, and you roll the idea of playing the tape again in your hand. You want to hear his laugh again, even if it is vastly different to the one you heard only months ago, but you also want to curl up in a ball and cry.

Your body decides for you, because in minutes, the tape has been put away, and you’re lying on your side of the bed, duvet pulled carelessly over your body, eyes focused on the dark ceiling.

Kento came to you the morning after. Knocking his shoulder against yours as you walked your school’s hallways, whispering, “My ass is bruised.”

You still think he just said that to fuck with you, because the way he smirked when you had to slap your hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from laughing in the silent hallway was so cocky, you couldn’t help but push him lightly into the wall as you sped walk to your shared class.

His ass was never bruised; you figured this out when you got to lunch and he sat down comfortably. The glare he sent you when you slapped his back mid-bite, was not unmissed, but you still laughed it off, tapping the table with two fingers, twice. Payback.

He rolled his eyes. You fall asleep.

It’s 9 in the morning when you wake up, and you want to laugh, because your body clock hasn’t worked as well as it has in the past few months than it has in the past seven years.

The way you fall into routine subconsciously prevents you from thinking for much longer. You clamber out of your bed, fixing the duvet, and looking away when you see his side of the bed untouched. The mattress has no recollection that he has ever touched it before. You move to the bathroom, and begin to brush your teeth, your eyes glazing over when you only see yourself in the mirror, only feel goosebumps on your waist. You don’t look at his toothbrush.

When you finish up in the bathroom, you change into some pyjamas, putting on your own t-shirt instead of his. When you make your way to the kitchen, you find yourself brewing a mug of tea, along with your coffee, sweetening it with honey, to let it stand by the fridge and allow its warmth to die with the day. You’ll only empty it tonight and wash it to use it again.

You sip on your coffee as you take the newspaper from your front door letterbox, consciously ignoring that it wasn’t already on the table in front of your seat. Today you take it to your sofa, placing your mug down on the coffee table, and opening the newspaper. Nobody peers over your shoulder to see the front page.

When 10 o’clock rolls around and you don't hear the front door open, don’t hear him shouting something to you before shutting it behind him, you simply sigh.

When the clock strikes half 11, and his name doesn’t flash on your phone, when it's 25 minutes to 12, and you’re not on video call with him, and you’re not eating lunch with him; you can’t find it in yourself to stay awake, and so you succumb to the sweet lull of sleep, and don’t wake up until 9 at night.

You haven’t dreamed in months; not since the last night he wrapped his arms around you, since the last time you felt his warm body press up against yours, since the last time that he overtook all of your senses.

You used to hate Kento’s cologne, used to hate ‘how fucking strong the men’s shit is’, used to hate how ‘they all fucking smell the same’. He laughed at that, but shoved the sample under your nose, forcing you to smell it.

You never would’ve admitted then that you didn’t mind it, could never have confessed that you knew it would grow on you. So instead you put on the straightest face you could and deadpanned, “Do you enjoy smelling so strongly of shit?”

The way he guffawed at you then is engraved into the walls of your memories. You’d caught him off guard for the first time in the 6 years you knew him, and it had felt positively glorious. His eyebrows raised, eyes widened and his entire visage lit up, and you thought, ‘well, I don’t mind smelling that if it means I can see this face once more’. And Gods, did you see it. Always the same face, always as a result of a barely half thought out comment.

That stupid cologne gave you such a beautiful core memory- how could you ever hate it? In all the years that passed, you had never once smelled one quite like it. An odd mix of scents; minty clean, but distinctly musky, but also sweet, so fucking sweet.

If you were ever to explain how it felt to smell it, you would describe it as living in a cottage, far removed from everyone, with the one person who made your insides melt, but in a way similar to how a strong breeze felt on a hot day. Truthfully, it’s the only way you could describe it, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get confused glances if you were to say it aloud.

The smell was so achingly him, that you haven’t been able to replicate it since. You still have his bottle, half used, but you either spray too little or way too fucking much, never in the right places, and it pisses you off to no end, because it’s just fucking perfume, so why can’t you just fucking get it right? Now all you have is his fading scent on his worn down t-shirts, and pristine suits as they collect dust.

His suits. Thinking about them reminded you of the time he showed you his first one. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to hit him more than you did at that moment. You knew he wasn’t the best with fashion, but you didn’t even know they made suits that bad.

First was the general fit of the suit. He was growing to become so much bigger, and the loose and oversized style of the suit did not do his body justice in any way, shape, or form. Second were the colours. Sure he was hot, but dear god, this man could not pull off cerulean blue and stone. On paper it seemed a good combination, but when on? No.

Third was that god awful tie. As if the blue and off white wasn’t bad enough, the tie was a pale brown (or piss yellow, as you affectionately called it), and leopard print. And to top it off, his shoes were a shade of brown that did not at all match the tie, and looked like they belonged to a 75 year old man. You had never been so inclined to burn a suit.

To your relief (and for the safety of the general population’s eyesight and sanity), the suit was refunded the next day, but you hadn’t stopped bullying him about it. When you had hit 23, he surprised you and wore it to the reception of your wedding, tapping the table twice, with two fingers and a smug smirk. You consequently cried, and threatened to tear the suit off him, and not in a good way.

Your fucking wedding. Almost 5 years ago. Almost 5 years ago when you exchanged bands with the most important man of your life, and he isn’t even here to celebrate your anniversary with you. The thought of it startles you so much that you wake up almost immediately.

You’re still on the sofa, and your neck feels a little stiff as you rise to make yourself something to eat. The sofa’s comfortable though, and you force yourself to throw your blanket off your body, have to fight against your body’s lethargy to make your way to the kitchen.

You’re hungry, and you can’t tell when the last time you ate was. The days all blur together anyways, so you don’t bother keeping tabs on them.

You want something that he makes. Kento always had a talent for making food, and would always treat you to something of his everyday, even if it was just a small salad, or a drink. You missed the way he seasoned his food, how he made something plain taste like something straight out of an expensive restaurant.

He taught you how he cooked food his way, and you taught him how you cooked things your way, but though you followed each other’s instructions, your meals never came out quite the same. Probably the lack of love in it, he argued. The secret ingredient, you teased back.

A low sigh escapes your mouth as you take a microwavable meal from the freezer. You haven’t had the energy to make proper meals for yourself lately, plus, you haven’t mastered being able to make less than 2 servings yet.

As you set up the microwave settings and start it up, you let the hum of it distract you from your mind as you fill a glass of water. Small sips are all you can take right now, so you put it aside and set yourself up to wash the dishes. His mug stays in its place by the fridge.

The microwave beeps seconds after you dry your hands off, and you take some cutlery from your draw, and a plate to put the hot container in. You take it all to the dining table, sit in your seat, and eat in silence.

Though your bites are small, and your sips of water too, you’re still glad you’re eating something; you know he would be concerned about you.

Gods, you don’t want to imagine how much he’s worrying about you. Just thinking about him thinking about you makes you want to lock yourself in your room forever.

Sometimes you can hear him encouraging you to take care of yourself. You know it’s not really him, but you can’t stop yourself from freezing when the wind takes on the properties of his smooth voice, can’t help blinking sadly when it cracks as it says your name.

You want to listen to his voice once more, properly. Listen to his fading accent, to the way he says certain words, to his little quirks. You want to listen to it as he speaks with your head on his chest, want to hear how his heavy heartbeat fuses into his every word.

It’s destroying you.

This stupid fucking mourning process is destroying you, and you’re just moving on pure fucking instinct, because the next thing you know, you’ve finished your food, and washed all the used dishes and cutlery, and you’re already turning the shower on.

You don’t even realise you’ve had a shower until you feel the weight of your makeshift t-shirt towel slip from your head.

And soon enough, you’re curled up in his armchair, with a book in your arms, opened to the first page as you stare at it.

“Hey, Kento,” you shout at him from the kitchen, and he hums, “What book are ya reading today?”

It takes you a few seconds to realise it’s a memory, and the house isn’t brighter, nor is he the one in his armchair.

“Uh, I’m gonna read Two On A Tower. Gotta finish it, don’t I?”

“You got my book out too?”

“Yup, ‘course I do,” and he grins at you as you emerge from the kitchen, two mugs of tea in hands as you place them down on the coffee table. Before you go to take your seat on the sofa beside the armchair, you lean down to him as he pecks your cheek, then angles your face to connect your lips together, and, as usual, it makes you melt.

When you pull back, he smiles. When you take your seat, open your book, and feel his cool touch on the nape of your neck, it’s your turn to smile.

That was how most nights were carried out. The two of you reading with some tea, and sometimes a nice record on in the background. Some nights one, or both, of you would have work to catch up on, some nights you were both out of the house.

Usually when you were out of the house, there was a small selection of what you’d do. A restaurant, either posh or casual, a nightclub (disliked by both of you, to be fair), or a funfair, if one was close. He’d carry the huge plushies you’d win, and wear a fluffy headband that matched with the one you’d wear. Though most of the plushies and accessories ended up going to Yuuji and his friends, it was still fun to win them, and definitely worth it to see him in such a cute headband, with his messy ‘night hair’.

On the nights when you weren’t busy, when you were both in the house, when you were both feeling a little too lovesick, you’d find him putting one of his jazz vinyls on, before making his way over to you, placing his big hands on your waist, pulling you to him as you lock your arms over his shoulders. Your noses would touch, but neither of you would make an effort to press your lips together, instead, focusing on the intimacy of your bodies rocking together.

He used to be a terrible dancer until you dragged him to a dancing club while in school. Then he’d practice with you as often as he could, even when you had long left the club. He’d soon become one of the best dancers you’d met, though he was only ever good at traditional styles of it.

You miss it. So, maybe that’s why you’re rising from your seat, and putting his favourite vinyl into the player, putting the needle onto the record and stepping back into the centre of your living room, pretending like he’s with you, like he’s the one you’re throwing your arms around, one last time.

You can feel his breath on your skin, smell the faint mint and wine, and see his every imperfection as he stands before you. To feel his hands around you one last time, you would do anything. But for now, your imagination is supplying you well, but working completely off memory, and perhaps that’s why his nose is perfectly straight, why his eyes are plain brown, why he has no stubble.

“Ken, it’s almost midnight; why aren’t you home yet? Are you working overtime again? It’s okay, just please call me, and make sure you get home safe. I adore you.”

Your words bounce around in your head like a fucking tennis match, tearing at the walls of your memories, until they all break loose and you’re drowning, and you cannot fucking breathe.

He’s not in front of you anymore. Fuck that, nothing is in front of you anymore. You can’t see shit, and the music has stopped, and you’re not standing anymore, and you’re on your knees on the floor, and, fuck, there is no fucking floor, and everything is happening all at once, and there’s no break between any of your memories, and some are happening at the same time, and, you’re fucking choking trying to regain your breath.

You scream. Though it comes out in a sob, it’s still a scream, because you can see him. He’s in front of you again, but at what cost? Because now, he’s covered in blood, and he looks like he’s in so much fucking pain. You don’t want to think about how his car isn’t parked next to yours anymore, hasn’t been for months.

He crouches in front of you and you lift your chin to face him. His favourite coat. Stone wool with sky blue lining, imported from Italy. And now, it’s ruined, covered in his blood. He smiles at you.

You knew you were crying, felt the irritating run of your tears down your neck, but his smile manages to force so much more of them from your eyes.

The speckles of gold in his eyes seem to sparkle that little bit more, and the crows feet at the corner of them deepen with his smile, and you know what it means. You remember the first time you saw it, on your honeymoon in Kuantan, and you haven't forgotten it since.

I adore you.

And that he does, and you know he does. You know that he does in every single life, you know because you adore him too.

You’ve adored him since 11 in this life, adored him since 15 in your last. And you’ll continue to adore him, even if it’s for three decades, a month, or a day. Hell, even if it’s for an hour, a minute, a second.

You adore him, always have, always will, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t despise the way he’s taken away from you in every life you’ll ever live.

Because, though you’re soulmates, through and through, though your hearts are bound together by a tough red string, though you’re made for each other, you’re both cursed.

And nothing escapes a curse, so you’re forced to relive a tragedy again, and again, whether you know that it’s your 72nd life or not.

The heavens have cursed you to relive a different life over and over, as it all ends in the same way. Him gone, and you alone, to pick up the pieces of a shattered heart. To fight is futile, but to rise? It could very well be that your 73rd life together could be the one to free you both, forever.

You look up, and the room is back to normal, moonlight cascading through glass. You’re on your knees, and your breathing pattern is crooked, but you can feel the floor.

Kento’s gone.

But above you is his picture. And he grins.

73 is a lucky number for eternity.

remember, my taglist is in my pinned, and constructive criticism and questions are encouraged! thank you for reading<3

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[hajimeshoe]

Leona calming his neurodivergent S/O down from a Panic Attack

So, this is entirely self-indulgent while I come down from a panic attack lol. Hence, it is based pretty much entirely on what I need when I have a panic attack.

TW: Descriptions of a panic attack

Leona was starting to worry.

He was in the botanical gardens, taking a nap while he waited for your class to end. He had not expected Grim to suddenly rush over, yelling about him needing to go get you.

Once he had managed to calm Grim down enough for him to be able to talk to him, the cat finally explained.

"Y/N's having a panic attack and ran off!!"

And so Leona had run. He's been stalking your favourite places around the school since. But, he still hasn't found you.

"Where the hell are ya, Herbivore?" He murmured.

Then he paused. His ears twitched as he heard it. Crying, gasping - an elevated heart rate.

He took off running once more, skidding to a stop once he reached you. Leona knelt down and placed a gentle finger on your knee, stating your name.

"O-ona?" you gasped.

"Hey, doll," his voice was quiet and calm. "Is it alright if I pick you up so I can bring you to my dorm?"

Unable to find your voice, all you did was nod. Leona reached out and picked you up in a similar manner one would a child. Your legs around his hips, his arms under your butt. He used his chin to nudge your face into the crook of his neck.

As he walked, Leona whispered soothing words and kissed the back of your head.

You were laid down on his bed the second he got back to the dorm. Luckily, what to do had already come up in conversation with him. He used his magic, doing a simple spell to conjure a caffeinated drink for you, to help you calm a bit. He helped you change into more comfortable clothes and tucked you back into his bed.

"I'm here, baby," he soothed. "I'm here, I can do whatever you want me to if it helps you."

When you started chewing on your hand, he was quick to pull it away and replace it with a chew necklace for you.

If you want him to, he'll cuddle you for the rest of the night. He loves you and will do absolutely anything to see you happy again.

[st1ckart1zt]

Dave's Panic Attack

I headcanon that Dave has claustrophobia since he's been locked up in toppat cell for so long.

[of-magic-and-stars]

It was a quiet night. Nothing to drastic had happened. The room was even pleasant so much so that she was willing to have a cup of tea and attempt to sleep at a reasonable time frame. She has been making so much progress and she wondered if it was enough.

Maybe she could have a good night sleep for once.

Theo had decided for once she's even wear a tank top and shorts. She felt confident in herself and her progress.

" okay...breath.... Just breath... Y-you you can do this! "

Cautiously she walked forward slowly allowing her feet to actually feel the floor. And for a brief moment she felt happy. Happy to be able to be in simple night clothing and not feel dirty or worthless. Happy to be standing barefoot and have her feet flat agents the floor. Happy to dress in less clothing because she gets hot some days under all those sheets

And that's when everything went wrong.

The floor was cold.

It was cold and hard and she felt scared.

Cold.

Cold.

Cold

She was scared.

For a moment she didn't see chaldea. She didn't see her minimal room with its simple design. Didn't feel the warmth it left her when the thoughts of home met her mind.

She was in that room. In that prison . Her body shook and she screamed, her knees hit the floor and her hands covered her head as she panicked. Her breathing was off and everything felt so small and cold.

It was her fault really. Her dumb stupid no good fault. Had she stalled till her older brother came home they all could have been together. Her, her brother and their baby sister. The one she traded her life for. Maybe her grandfather was right. Maybe she did deserve the treatment she got. Maybe she was a horrible peace of trash who messed up everything.

It was cold.

She could feel phantom hands touch her skin and she felt dirty. So very dirty. Could feel blades cut into her and the feeling of pain spasmed against her body.

And she was scared. Scared that she was going to be back in that danm room again.

" no...more... Please.....no more..."

[cbbkinney]

Emily was never really fond of her birthday. It brought back too many memories of terrible past ones that she thought it was best to leave the day be. Treat it as any other. Yet Jon knew that. But there were things Jon didn’t know and things she wasn’t going to bother him with. She wasn’t his problem anymore. With guitar case in hand, the blonde made her way to the small lounge where it was empty and set it down on a small table. Opening up the case, the smile on her face faded to white complexion of fear. This couldn’t be happening. This is why she stayed inside. Looking at the case, on top of her guitar was a picture of Emily recently out at the zoo. Hesitantly reaching out and picking it up, the corner of the picture and a small ‘xo’. He was back. Her fears confirmed. Slouching back  into the couch, she felt her panic start to rise as she stared at the picture in her hand. Not even realizing someone entering the room.

@cbbjon-bernthal

[idryusan]

ashes to ashes.

@idjohyun, at the showcase venue after olympus’ performance, after a falling out with taeho.

san is gripped by panic. entirely. it’s wrapped around him, like a stiff-bodied anaconda. twisted through his bones and veins and limbs. pressed against his windpipe, until his breath comes out thin, a heavy-handed pull from exasperated lungs. he’d pushed himself through olympus’ performances, seemingly on autopilot. a fraction away from snapping. like a fragile bone. spindly and deficient of nutrients. and now, finished, san allows for himself to collapse. a fracture of his mental state, a place far away from olympus’ dressing room. far away from taeho. 

he doesn’t regret it, what he’d done to him. he’d wanted to, and taeho had deserved it. but that doesn’t mean san had welcomed the after effects, taeho’s rage. doesn’t mean he’d enjoyed falling back into that headspace, a reminder to just how easily taeho can drag him back to the past. where san felt so small, young, uncertain, powerless. it’s a small hiding spot, some corner, and he’s sitting on a crate. there’s a broom next to him, and a cigarette propped between his fingers. it’s unlit. he hasn’t tried yet, and his lighter remains in his fist. fingers wrapped too tight, to the point of cramping. 

but he can’t even breathe properly yet. it’s comforting though, knowing that’s what comes next. for when he finally gets a grip on himself. san hates feeling like this. he calls it weak. many people around him call it weak. san’s learned long ago not to show his vulnerabilities. when he does, people exploit them. he walls himself off instead, tries to save it for private. or if he can’t hold it all in, he stows himself away. his chest flutters, and there’s a cold sweat near his temples. pins and needles prod at his fingers and toes and sternum. heavy limbs, and the beginning of nausea. 

he wants to escape his body. leave it there, let it suck in some poor soul floating around, haunting this venue instead. it’s defective. everyone about san feels defective. his eyes sting, but he blinks that back. a refusal. there’s a heavy-sounding cough he hides in his elbow next. it’s not a sob, but it still sounds off. hyperventilation, maybe. it takes him a few seconds to catch his breath again after it forces its way out. that’s when san spots johyun lingering nearby. an inquisitive expression, and san glares. he doesn’t want to see johyun, and especially not like this. if he were in a better condition, he might bark at him to fuck off. instead, he angles his body away. pretends like he might be fine, busy. lifts a trembling fist to fumble for his lighter, tries to spin the gear to make it light. fails three times before he gives up, chucks the lighter to the floor in frustration and watches it skid toward johyun’s feet.

[bordemm]

having a full blown panic attack in the doctor waiting room check 😃

[ndcultureis]

Autism culture is having a panic attack and going non-verbal bc your parents changed a plan without telling you and getting told you need to "be mature about it" despite the fact you thought you were being mature ab it bc you hid your panic attack and didn't complain until they straight up asked you why you were acting weird and then them getting mad at you for telling the truth

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[way-too-addicted-to-fandoms]

Molly is really sweet and I'm so glad she's not a bitter, jealous ex. It's a nice change.

This is absolutely beautiful I'm so in love with it, and Bradley, of course😉

The Arrangement

title:  the arrangement

characters:  bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw x doctor!mitchell!reader (rooster calls them angel)

words: 20k +

themes: childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers, fake dating (minor), fluff, , smut, mutual pinning, idiots not realising they’re in love

rating: 18+

warnings: female identifying reader and female anatomy used, mentions of parental and canon character death, panic attacks, fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex (p in v), rooster has a lieutenant kink, rooster in dress whites, praise kink, unprotected sex, scratching, biting, cream pie, overstimulation

summary: ‘he laughed, my darling you will never be unloved by me you are too well tangled in my soul’ @atticuspoetry

You and rooster made an arrangement when you were 18 years old, that if either of you needed a date to an event and you were both single you would be each others date, you try your best to be at every celebration and ceremony for your education and respective careers. you managed to keep this up for a while, but the life of a doctor and the life of a navy aviator never seem to line up and suddenly you find yourself not only cities but countries away from one another and the arrangement falls to the background of your minds that is until you move to San Diego and Rooster finds himself calling on your arrangement one last time.

a/n:  this ended up being sooo long and i am (not) sorry about it, i got so carried away with it. also this is the dress i imagined when writing this. also, i don’t consistently refer to Rooster as Bradley or Rooster in this, it switches so often. i also apologise if the smut is bad, i don’t write it often. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT this is an 18+ piece, I will be checking blogs that interact so please have an age indicator somewhere on your blog. this is part of the ‘fly me to the moon universe’

Rooster was sure the world stopped the minute you walked through the doors behind your father, it had been over 10 years since he had last seen you and yet he knew it was you instantly. If anybody asked, he would say it was your eyes that gave you away as being (Y/N) Florence-Mitchell. The same emerald green as your father, full of life and happiness as they crinkled at the sides when you smiled at Penny across the bar, giving your soon to be step mother a wave as your father guided you through the crowd and straight towards the group of aviators that made up the dagger squadron. 

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[ndcultureis]

Neurodivergent culture is nearly having a panic attack when someone doesn't meet your same energy levels when texting because it feels like all you're doing is pestering and being obnoxious.

[ndcultureis]

undiagnosed anxiety culture is reflecting on specific times in your life and going "oh that mightve been an anxiety/panic attack actually"

- @lex1cle

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[ndcultureis]

PTSD and panic attack culture is wondering wether or not you're actually in danger or if it's just a flash back

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[of-magic-and-stars]

Theo could vaguely hear, in the distance, at least to her, it seems the door to her room was being knocked on, when no answer came of course, the knocking became more frequent until the door was forced open. Zaire and Guan Yu rushed into the room in search of her. "Theo!"

Everything for her was muffled. It was hard to hear anything that was real. And unfortunately for her she couldn't even comprehend what was wrong. Panic burned hot in her blood and feat clouded her mind.

She couldn't breath.

Couldn't see she was safe in chaldea with people she loved with family she could trust.

It was a jumbled mess for her really. Shaped that messed with the world her mind made from memorys and nightmares.

She was tariffed.

" p-please. . . . please don't hurt me... "

So much so she pulled her body in a fetal position and tried to make herself as small as possible.