If there's one thing about Sevika, it's that she notices everything.
or; How Sevika shows support for her partner. Softie Sevika bc she's a lovergirl you can't convince me otherwise
(lowk hella bipolar reader coded (cuz im literally the author) but also like probably common mental health struggles tbh so have fun here's some comfort )
Something that didn't take long for Sevika to pick up on, was your inconsistency. Not you as a partner, you were nothing but stability to Sevika, and your love was secure. But your habits, those were inconsistent.
She remembered using the bathroom at your home for the first time, and taking note of how organized and neat your bathroom counter was. Cluttered, sure, but at least neat, with plenty of plants to liven up the space. So next time she came over, it didn't slip past her how different it was this time.
The counter was messy, with unorderly bottles and hair ties scattered everywhere. Your plants looked wilted, but not quite dead yet. She figured maybe this was just you becoming more comfortable with her, feeling that she's more than a house guest you need to clean for.
As your relationship progressed though, eventually furthering to moving in together, she noticed a lot of other odd inconsistency's. How some weeks you would sneak out of bed when you thought she was asleep, and start off your morning with only a mere couple hours of sleep. And yet, you seemed energized as ever.
Then the next week, you would sleep like a dead person, going to bed at 8pm and managing 10 or even 12 hours of sleep, only to wake up looking like you didn't sleep at all. It was during these weeks that Sevika would hold you closer during the night, hoping maybe her warm embrace would help you feel rested. It was a lost cause, she knew that, but what else could she do?
"Don't go yet. I'm still awake." Sevika's gravely, but soft voice rings out from behind you. Her arm tightens around your waist, her forehead pressing into your back. She tiredly scoots up further onto the pillows to tuck your head under her chin, hoping that engulfing you will be enough to convince you to stay in bed. And you'd be lying if you said it didn't work.
"Sorry babe, I thought you were asleep." She hums softly, and you feel her chest moving against your back. "Why would that matter either way. Why you gotta get up this late?" She seems to be slowly becoming more conscious and coherent, her voice traveling from confused to more clear and intentioned.
You shrugged your shoulders, feeling the weight of Sevika's chest on them as you do. "I dunno, I just can't settle down. Besides, there's tons of other things I could do. And it feels like there's a bunch of tiny ants in my skin right now so I kinda wanna take a shower."
She sighs and lays a kiss just behind your ear. "Okay, let's go then." She sits up from behind you. You stay where you are though, looking up at her in confusion as she blinks her eyes awake. "What do you mean?" You ask her.
"Let's go take a shower." She grabs your hand and pulls you up, her grip around your arm being a gentle firmness you've only ever experienced with her. "You don't have to, Sev-" She cuts you off with a shake of her head, strands of her messy dark hair falling as she does, and she leans in to press her lips to yours. "I want to." She mumbles as she pulls away.
It's when you're in the shower together, your head resting on her chest as you both share the stream of hot water pummeling down onto both of you, that she finally brings up what has been on her mind.
"You know, I notice everything, right?" She asks you. If you didn't know her so well, your stomach might have dropped with uncertainty and dread. But you did know her, and you know that right now, naked and intertwined, she views you with nothing but care and concern right now. And not just now in this setting, but always and anywhere, as long as it's you.
You don't say anything in response, not knowing what to even say. She fills the silence that you left open. "You always get really itchy when you don't sleep." You close your eyes and take a deep breath, taking in her words. She still holds you close to her, her comforting embrace mixed with her compassionate tone is enough to make you feel safe.
Even as your deepest vulnerabilities are laid out right in front of you, by the woman you love and respect the most in your life, you can't help but feel safe.
"What else do you notice?" You ask her quietly. She thinks for a moment before replying. "Those weeks that you don't really sleep, you're always lighting incense. You say the house smells weird and metallic, but I never notice a difference. You're always responding to the cats when you hear them scratch at the doors to be let in, but they weren't even at the door. They're asleep on the couch. You get paranoid about bugs, thinking there's one flying around the house or on your skin."
Your breath hitches as she lists everything too closely, too accurately. If she notices, she doesn't say anything. "Then after your sleepless week or two is up, you go another sleeping non-stop. It's cute, don't get me wrong, but can be worrying sometimes." She strokes back your damp hair and lays her head on top of yours.
Your fingers nervously fidget against her back, brushing the scars and lightly scratching your nails against her bare skin. "You don't seem to feel as much when you're in your tired weeks. But you seem to feel everything the other weeks. It's nice, seeing you so happy. You're always so optimistic and sunshiney. I know you always are, but especially so during certain weeks. But you also get stressed out easier, you can be more irritable, and overwhelmed. A lot more sensitive."
Her voice is steady and thoughtful. You're sure she's had these thoughts pent up for ages, but the way her words are spoken doesn't make it sound like it. Her words are carefully chosen and considered.
"And I don't think I need to really say much about your impulsiveness." Your face burns at the mention, her tone light and teasing. "You know that's why I love you though. What else would entertain me, if not you coming home with 3 new piercings on a random Wednesday?" You crack a smile at her words.
"And obviously there's your in betweens, where you're just the same old gorgeous girl that I love, but there's definitely a pattern. For as inconsistent as you are hun, you definitely have a pattern." Her hand circles your back as she finally peels her body away from yours. Her hand moves to rest on your shoulder, just shy of your neck. She gazes into your eyes, water droplets falling down her forehead and onto her nose.
"Just know that I notice it, but I don't mind. I love you, and that means all of you. I notice that you've never let me in on the times that it's been much worse than this. And you don't have to, but just know I'm here. Whether it's sleeping all day, everyday, or breakdowns with tears and emotions that you've never let me experience with you, or your highest weeks where everything feels euphoric- whenever you want me, just let me know."
okay, never did a request before BUT this idea has been sitting in my brain for too long.
so, I suffer from BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) and lately I've been struggling a lot bc of it and I've been spending my day thinking that Aaron Hotchner would never let me go through this alone and would be the most supportive person ever (we love us a supportive king) and I wanted to ask you if you could write something with BPD!Reader?
I was thinking maybe reader has started taking a new med and it's not working as it should and they feel really down and a bit hopeless bc of it and they start feeling like they don't deserve to be with Aaron bc his job is very demanding and in the moment they feel like their emotions and feelings just add onto Aaron's plate but he's like "you could never be a burden to me"? but BPD isn't much represented in general and even less in ff, so you're free to write whatever scenario you'd like, I'm going to read it anyway bc I'd read anything coming from you, I'd just like
very angsty mentally/psychologically speaking with some comfort at the end?
tysm if you're going to write it and I love you and your work so so much 🫶🏼, also I'm so proud and happy that you reached 5k, you totally deserve it ✨️💕
Burden | [A.H]
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BPD!fem!reader
WC: 3k
Warnings: Angst, BPD, Medication not working as intended, Dysregulation, fear of abandoment, reader is really hard on herself, crying, therapy mentioned
Summary: Your therapist has put you on a new type of medication to manage your BPD and it leaves you drowning in numbness and your spiralling thoughts.
A/N: I've had this waiting in my inbox for so so long, and I honestly wish I had gotten around to do the research for it earlier, because this was such a nice break to write.
The apartment was suffocating in that way; it only got when the rain pelted heavily against the windows and the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red hues, smearing across the glass like bloody droplets.
You sat on the end of the bed, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins, staring at the orange prescription bottle on the dresser like it might answer for itself if you looked at it long enough.
Your psychiatrist had called the new medication "promising," with that careful optimism doctors use when they don't want to overpromise but need you to keep showing up for your appointments.
It was supposed to smooth out the jagged edges of your BPD, make the waves less tidal, the voids less bottomless. You'd let yourself hope, a little, let yourself hope that this one was the one, even though hope always felt like handing someone a knife and trusting them not to stab you in the stomach with it.
It had been three weeks. Three weeks of waiting for the fog to lift, for the emotional storms to lose their fury. Instead, everything felt flatter, duller, but not in the good way that meant the medication was starting to work its magic. No, just… muted despair. Like your brain had traded sharp knives for a dull, persistent ache that pressed behind your eyes and settled low in your sternum, a weight with no name and no edges, nothing to push against, nothing to fight.
At least the knives had been honest.
At least the storms had been something you could name.
Hopelessness curled in your gut like smoke: thick, acrid smoke, impossible to fan away no matter how many times you tried to breathe through it the way your therapist had taught you. Name it. Don't fuse with it. You are not the thought; you are the one noticing the thought. The words felt like instructions to be used on a body that wasn't yours to control anymore.
Hotch would be home soon, you told yourself.
Or maybe not.
His job didn't promise "soon." It promised late nights, red-eye flights on the jet, and the kind of exhaustion that etched deeper and deeper lines around his eyes every time he came back home from a case.
Hotch spent his days steeped in the worst things people did to each other, and yet somehow he still came home and asked how your day was first.
How could you possibly fit into that without tipping the scales?
How could anyone carry monsters all day and then come home to more weight?
And there it was, the thought arriving fully formed, the way it always did, with the force of a truth being revealed rather than the uncertainty of a spiral skewing your view of reality.
Not, I wonder if I'm a burden, but I am a burden.
Not today is hard, but I am hard to be around, all the way down, in every direction, permanently.
The good days, the ones where Hotch laughed against your hair and said you made the job bearable, the ones where you believed him, those days didn't seem to exist right now. Sure, they still happened, but to you, they'd been wiped from every record you kept stored away in your head.
There was no in-between, no "today is just difficult." There was only the absolute: you take, and he gives, and that is the whole shape of what you are to him.
You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes until the kaleidoscopic burst of white swirls appeared behind your lids, trying to find something to focus on besides the thoughts looping themselves tighter.
You're doing it again.
The thought was clinical, almost detached, observational in the way your therapist had spent two years teaching you to be: notice the pattern, name the distortion, you don't have to believe everything you think, but the noticing didn't stop the spiral, it just meant you got to watch yourself fall with your eyes open, instead of being blissfully unaware of what would happen next.
That was its own kind of cruelty. Knowing the mechanism and still being unable to stop the gears from turning, keeping you trapped in the machinery, even when you could see the emergency stop button.
It is right there!!
Your brain loved to weaponize love. It took the good things, the soft things, the things that should have felt like safety, and twisted them slowly, methodically, into proof of your unworthiness. Unworthiness of getting a happy ending. Unworthiness of being loved.
Hotch loved you.
You knew that on your better days, knew it the way you knew your own name. But today wasn't a better day, and on days like this, the knowing didn't transfer into the logic department; it stayed locked somewhere you couldn't reach, the key thrown away, stayed locked behind glass, visible and useless.
Today, the new medication had you convinced, with total and humorless conviction, that you were his warden and loving you was a death sentence for him.
You are a sentence.
Another burden on a man who already carried the world on his shoulders, who didn't need one more weight added by the person who was supposed to be his rest, be his home.
There was no gray in it. There rarely was, not when it got like this. Either you were good for him, or you were ruining him. Either this relationship was the safest thing you'd ever had, or it was the cruelest thing you were doing to someone who deserved better. The thought didn't ask permission to be absolute. It just was. And it had ruined more than one relationship for you in the past.
The key turned in the lock of the front door.
You didn't move.
"Hey," his voice carried down the hall.
Footsteps, then the soft clink of his keys on the table by the door, the small domestic sound that on any other night would have made something in your chest unclench, waiting for the kiss and his open arms when he saw you.
Tonight, it just registered as data.
He's home. He'll see you like this.
He appeared in the doorway, tie loosened, suit jacket already shed and probably left on a dining chair, like he always did.
The white of his shirt was slightly rumpled, perhaps from the nap he had most likely taken on the jet. His eyes found yours immediately as he entered the bedroom. That profiler gaze, trained on decades of reading people before they even spoke a single word.
That gaze softened the instant it landed on your hunched form. "Rough day?"
You tried to smile. It felt like thin ice cracking beneath your feet as you ventured out on a lake that barely had started to freeze over, like your face had forgotten the shape of the expression and was forcing it through brittle material that might splinter at the wrong angle. "New med's... not great,” you managed.
Hotch crossed the room and sat beside you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. His hand found your back, carefully rubbing slow circles across your lower back.
The touch didn't ask anything of you, didn't require you to perform okay-ness in return. And yet, perform was what you were fighting your body to do. He didn't push. He never did. That was one of the things that made it worse sometimes, in the warped logic of a bad night, his patience felt too good to be true, like a well that never ran dry, no matter how many times you came to it.
And you felt like a black hole waiting to swallow it whole. Like the very fact that he never ran out of patience was proof of how much you were taking.
"Talk to me," he murmured, the words pressed gently into the quiet between you.
You shook your head, but the words came anyway, spilling out in a rush that bordered on frantic, like a dam that had been holding for three weeks finally giving way all at once. And he let you speak, because truth be told, he had noticed you getting worse, hoping that you would come to him before it got even worse.
"I feel like I'm disappearing, Aaron. Not in a dramatic way. Just… I don’t know, fading? The meds were supposed to help with the intensity, but now everything's this heavy gray sludge that’s keeping me from breaching through the surface. Like I'm watching my own life through water." Your voice cracked, and you hated how small you sounded, hated that the woman who could usually hold a thought together, on a good day, was reduced to fragments. "And I keep thinking…" You took a deep and shaky breath. "I keep thinking about how unfair this is to you. Your job is nonstop. The cases, the travel, the things you see that no one should have to see. And then you come home to this. To me, swinging between too much and not enough. Clinging one day, pushing away the next. What if I'm just… adding to it? What if loving me is exhausting you in ways you won't even let yourself admit, because you're too good a person to say it out loud?"
The fear of abandonment was always there, it always had been, a live wire under your skin, humming at a frequency that never fully went silent even on good days.
But tonight it mixed with genuine guilt, the kind that whispered you should leave before he realized he deserved so much better than you could give me, before your episodes became the thing that finally broke the unbreakable Aaron Hotchner.
The thought arrived with its usual absoluteness: there was no version of this where you were simply having a hard time.
There was only the binary: either you were good for him, or you were quietly, slowly ruining the one stable thing in your life. Tonight, lying in the suffocating gray sludge the medication had left you in, you were certain it was the second one.
Not worried.
Certain.
He was quiet for a moment, but not distant. You'd learned the difference years ago, the specific texture of Hotch’s silences, how some of them were walls and most of them were him choosing his words the way he chose everything, with care.
His hand never stopped its gentle rhythm on your back. When he spoke, his voice was filled with the kind of love that had survived hell and chosen, again and again, to stay.
"You could never be a burden to me."
The words landed softly, but they hit like a lifeline thrown into churning water. You wanted to believe them. God, you did. Some small, quiet part of you, the part that remembered the good days, reached for them like a drowning hand reaches for the ring of life. But the voice that amplified every insecurity into catastrophe, that took a sentence of comfort and immediately began dismantling it for hidden flaws, screamed louder, drowning out the reach before it could close around anything.
"You say that now," you whispered, pulling your knees tighter against your chest, trying to make yourself smaller, like if you took up less space physically, you'd cost him less mentally.
Tears burned hot trails down your cheeks, and you didn't bother wiping them, too tired to fight that particular performance of composure you’d tried to uphold. "But what about when I have another meltdown at 2 a.m. because my brain decides you're going to leave? Or when the emptiness hits, and I can't get out of bed, and you're coming off a three-day case with no sleep? I'm supposed to be your partner, not another case file you have to manage. I see the way you look after the bad ones, Aaron. The weight you carry home with you, even when you don't say anything. I don't want to be part of that weight. I don't want to be one more thing you have to be strong for."
Your breathing quickened, the familiar sense of panic clawing up your throat, tightening around your windpipe like a hand squeezing the last breaths of life out of you.
Emotional dysregulation, your therapist would call what you were experiencing right now. One of the hallmarks, the textbook term sitting cold and clinical next to the very unclinical feeling of your chest caving in. You knew the terms. You'd read the books, sat through the DBT sessions, taking careful notes on opposite action and radical acceptance, swallowed the old meds and now the new ones, done everything you were supposed to do.
But knowledge didn't stop the flood.
And underneath all of it, quieter than the panic but somehow louder than anything else, the thought that had been circling since you sat down on the edge of this bed three hours ago: if you really loved him, you'd make this easier for him. You'd let him go before he had to ask.
Hotch shifted, turning fully toward you, the movement deliberate, unhurried, like he had nowhere else in the world to be. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears with a tenderness that felt almost sacred, like you were something worth that much care even now, even like this. His eyes held yours. No judgment. No exhaustion.
Just Aaron.
Steady as bedrock in a landslide.
"Look at me," he said softly. When you tried to glance away, old reflex, the shame reached up to pull your gaze down before he could see too much. He waited patiently until your gaze returned on its own, until you gave it to him instead of having it taken. "I see you. All of you. The days when the world feels too bright and the nights when it feels too dark. The way your mind races ahead to every possible way this could end badly, because it's trying to protect you, not because it's broken. I know what your diagnosis means for you: the intensity, the fear, the way emotions hit like freight trains with no warning before the platform. I know it isn't a character flaw, and it isn't a choice. And I choose this. All of it. Every single day. You are not your diagnosis. You are you."
You let out a shaky sob, leaning into his touch despite yourself, despite the part of your brain still insisting this was temporary, conditional, a kindness with an expiration date. "But why? I'm a mess. The new med isn't working right, and I feel so… so hopeless. I'll never get stable enough to be what you need. Like you're loving some future version of me that might not exist yet, and stuck with this one in the meantime."
"Because you're not a mess to me," he replied. "You're the person who makes this apartment feel like home after I've spent weeks chasing shadows that don't sleep and don't stop. You're the one who remembers how I take my coffee on the bad days and who laughs at my terrible jokes even when the world is burning around both of us. Your emotions don't 'add to my plate', they're part of what makes you you. And I love every part. The loyalty. The empathy. The way you fight so hard, every day, even when your own brain is lying to you about whether the fight is worth it."
Hotch pulled you into his chest then, arms wrapping around you. You clung to his shirt, fistfuls of fabric clutched tightly in your hands, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne and old coffee, a smell that had become shorthand in your body for safe.
The tears came harder. They were ugly and raw, the kind you usually tried to hide even from him, but he held you through it. No shushing. No fixing. No urgency to make it stop, like he understood that some storms just needed to finish passing through on their own accord.
"I know the meds aren't perfect right now," he continued, lips brushing over the top of your hair, voice rumbling. "We'll call the therapist tomorrow. Adjust the dose, schedule a new appointment, or try something else. There's no rule that says you have to white-knuckle through a medication that's making things worse. You're not stuck here. You're my partner. My love. And I will make damn sure that you know that, every single day, no matter how bad you’re spiralling, even if I have to literally spell it out on the fridge in magnets before I go to the office. I love you."
Time stretched. The rain continued its pelting against the window. A sound that had felt so suffocating only an hour ago was now just… weather. Ordinary. Bad. Weather.
You pulled back enough to look at him. Hotch’s eyes were tired; you could see the case in them, the days he hadn't fully slept, but they were warm, oh so warm. Always warm when it came to you, even when there was nothing left over for anyone else.
"I'm scared," you admitted, smaller now, the splitting finally loosening its grip enough to let something more honest through the barrier.
Not I am unlovable, but I am afraid.
Which was a different, more survivable thing to say out loud. "Scared that one day the fear wins and I push you away for real. That I'll do it on purpose, just to prove the fear right."
Hotch pressed his forehead to yours, close enough that his next words were almost a shared breath. "Then we'll fight it together. Like we always do. You've survived every storm so far. Your track record is one hundred percent, as far as I’m aware. Even the nights you were sure you wouldn't, you made it through. And I've got you through all of them. That's not going to change because of bad medication or bad nights."
Later, as you lay tangled together under the sheets, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your thigh, the hopelessness ebbed into something more manageable. Tomorrow you'd call the therapist. Tomorrow you'd try again, the way you always tried again, because trying again, getting back on the horse, whatever, was really the only thing you could do to continue living.
Tonight, you let yourself believe his words as he once again reminded you. "You’ll never be a burden to me.”
what would it be like for Shanks and Whitebeard (crew) (separated) with an *untreated* bipolar person (I'm bipolar and I don't receive treatment, and it's hell)
─Shanks & Whitebeard Pirates x bipolar!reader
─Summary: It's not nice to have bipolar disorder, but at least you have someone who cares and looks after you.
─Warnings: none
I'm so sorry for that, I hope you can get the necessary help and that your close people help you cope, mental health is important!
and please correct me if there is something wrong
— Everyone on the crew is aware of your disorder, but Shanks is the one most concerned about the lack of medicine to treat it
— He's always near you, hovering like a ghost, while you can remain neutral in some instances, you never know when some of your episodes will happen.
— If you have a spike of emotion, where your thoughts race, you're more irritable, and you refuse to accept things in general, he'll be there to calm you down in any way he can.
— When your sleep routine is disrupted, he hugs you until you fall asleep or gets you up so you don't spend all day in bed.
— He keeps you busy helping others with tasks so you can't overthink sometimes.
— He'll cut off any contact with alcohol you may have, at least in the vast majority of events, continuous drinking can make you dependent on the intoxicated state so you don't let your mind betray you.
— When he notices your mood shifting to a more silent or reserved one, he makes it his mission to approach you, put his arm around your shoulders, and chat as if he was sharing a secret with you.
— However, if you're reluctant to talk, he'll settle for keeping you company, silent but present.
— He won't let you neglect yourself and will offer you all the care you need without making you feel he's being invasive, he only cares that you don't neglect your social side without going overboard.
— Despite having a full team of doctors on the ship, they don't have the necessary equipment to treat mental health.
— Your mood swings don't go unnoticed by anyone aboard the Moby Dick.
— You have freedom because you don't always have these changing phases, but even if you don't notice it, everyone is almost always watching you, no matter how subtle your changes are, they will notice them immediately.
— When your most social, explosive, and positive side comes out, Ace and Thatch are by your side, trying to help you control all that energy into something else that can't harm you.
— On the other hand, if you tend to withdraw into yourself, avoid people, and have more critical thoughts about your life, Marco and Izo are your trusted men; they know how to handle you by whispering kind words in your ear.
— Everyone generally tries to ensure that you have minimal social contact, whether it be with small greetings, trivial conversations, or even comforting silences.
— Whitebeard makes sure that things that can cause addiction are strictly kept away from you, or at least that you have little contact with them.
— Ace will accompany you on some of your crazy adventures due to a (harmless) momentary impulse, he gives you a certain amount of freedom so you don't feel like he's trying to control you, but he handles the situation if you put yourself in danger.
— Whitebeard offers you those small moments of peace, where you feel like a lifeless doll, feeling his chest rise and fall is enough of a reminder that you're not alone.
Hi!! Another request I'm so sorry 😭😭 I love the way you write, so, if you can, I've got another idea for the drabble I would love to read. Xavier centered, if it's not hard.
(TW ED, CW bipolar)
Usually, I don't eat a lot when it's depressive episodes because I don't have appetite, maybe, once in a few days, so when I'm "leaving" that depressive phase, my friends make me eat, but recently I understood that I am kinda scared of eating? I try to distract myself just so I won't eat more than I did in depressive phase. I would love to see how Xavie would act in this situation, sorry if its too detailed!!
Hello again!
Thank you so much for the second request! I apologize that it took so long to get done, please enjoy!
Hope you have a great day!
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
You were sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at the plate Xavier had put in front of you. Fruit. Toast. Eggs. It was simple, kind of him to prepare for you, but your stomach twisted at the sight. You hadn’t eaten much in days, honestly it had been barely enough to keep you alive, and now, with the depression lifting, clarity coming back to you, the idea of eating normally felt…terrifying.
Xavier slid into the chair beside you, his hand brushing yours gently. “Starlight,” he said softly. “You don’t have to eat it all. Just…Just try a bite. That’s enough.”
You shook your head, fingers hands twisting your napkin anxiously. “I…I don’t know. I’m scared,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “What if I, what if I eat too much? What if I...”
“You won’t,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Your body needs fuel. You need it. I'm right here with you, you're not alone, we can do this together.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to focus on him but the anxiety kept creeping up on you. Slowly, you picked up the fork, your hands trembling. Xavier’s eyes never left yours, you didn't understand how he could possibly be so patient with you.
“Look at me,” he said, voice soft but firm. “One bite. That’s all. I’m not asking for more than you can handle.”
You nodded, forcing the fork to your mouth. It was a small bite, you could barely taste it. Xavier smiled gently, squeezing your hand. “That’s it,” he said. “See? You did it. That’s enough for now.”
You exhaled, relief washing over you. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours. “We’ll take it slow. One bite at a time. No rush, no pressure.”
You swallowed, the fear still there but a little less now. “Okay,” you whispered. “One bite at a time.”
Xavier kissed the top of your head, and you slowly picked up the fork, stabbing another piece of fruit. Maybe, with Xavier by your side, you could do this.
you try not to think about it, but you can see it in his eyes.
author's note: i really don't know why i put rafayel through the ringer constantly, but i think it's because he's my main. anywho, non!mc reader and reader is implied to be bipolar. (i got my diagnosis like two days ago and i'm coping. very self indulgent fic.)
cw: alcohol and implied smoking.
(on the seashore by george elgar hicks)
you weren't good with relationships. you weren't good with emotions. you didn't know how to do halfways. you wanted bone crushing devotion or you didn't want anything. you wanted to eat their heart whole and be the whole thing that consumes their mind. you don't do relationships because you don't know how to handle your own emotions. you went quiet the first time you figured out that you didn't feel normally. you went a little overboard. and that was okay. love wasn't needed in your life.
until you meet rafayel.
there was something deeply wrong with rafayel. there had to be. how did he understand you so perfectly? he was loud. he sent you a thousand messages in a second. he whines when you go to the bathroom. he's clingy. needy. and you're obsessed with him.
you're just as clingy as he is at times. you love to annoy him sometimes, pushing his face away when he tries to squish himself on your skin - but your heart is racing out of your heart. you adore him. you've never loved anyone more.
until mc comes in.
she's a sweetheart. you truthfully mean it.
you've exchanged makeup tips with her and occasionally like her posts on social media. you've exchanged coffees and laughs with her. but you can see how rafayel looks at her. his eyes that usually have so much love for you... seem dull in comparison. you try to swallow the thought that you can't light a candle agaisnt her.
you avoid relationships for this exact same reason. as beautiful as love as, it brings other emotions. jealousy, anger, self-hatred. it makes you brain itch. it makes you irrational. it makes you feel mad. you don't want the spinning thoughts. you don't want to hate somebody who's merely a friend. somebody who's not even interested in him. this is all on him.
that's why you're drinking. that's why you're in a hot club and your eyesight's blurry. your head thumps with the bass and you smell of heavy smoke. you know he's texting you. you know he's worried out of his mind. you know it'll take him about a hour to find you. but you need to not think. for a second, to not worry about rafayel. if he's worried, it serves him right for making you feel that way.
your phone buzzes for the seventh time in the past five minutes and you sigh, throwing it to the side. you don't care. you don't want to care. you don't want to understand. you want to be mad. you want him to feel bad. god, you were terrible at times. but you knew him.
or so you thought.
. . .
rafayel: please, y/n.
rafayel: i can explain everything please please. i'll be honest and explain everything, please. nothing's going on, please. we can talk about this. i'm sorry.
rafayel: i know i hurt you. i know you noticed. please. come home. let's talk. i promise we can fix this.
rafayel: i love you, y/n. fuck, please. talk to me.
hi! i'm deeply in love with everything you write and reading your fics is like a daily ritual for me.
i'd like to request a larissa/reader fic, but the idea is a bit hard, so it's absolutely fine if you don't want to write it!
r is an art teacher at nevermore and she's in love with larissa. but the thing is that r is bipolar and her mood can change almost unpredictably. larissa invites her for a glass of wine and they end up spilling their feelings for each other (some smut would be nice). but the next day r is feeling depressed and starts ignoring larissa for days thinking she's not good enough for her and it was a drunk mistake. larissa finds her, r tells her the truth and larissa tells her that it doesn't change anything and she will be with her no matter what.
idk why i requested this, it's a bit personal ig. sorry for lots of details, feel free to change anything!
My flickering flame 18+H&C
*Authors note~ Bipolar is a super sensitive topic and I've done my research to try my best to handle it in a respectful and informative manner*
Trigger warnings~ Bipolar r mommy kink oral fixation for r thigh riding face riding fingering and oral sex mentions of sh
Prompt~ see ask^^^^
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Teaching at Nevermore was something you'd always wanted to do, your ability made your desire for art easy. Your ability meant anything you created would provoke visions of sorts. You were often transported into the work and especially if you were creating something based off present facts or feelings. Being at Nevermore and teaching also introduced you to the one and only Larissa Weems and you were immediately taken with her, the blonde was alluring and you both struck up a great friendship.
It wasn't uncommon for Larissa to invite you for a glass of wine, in fact it also became a weekly ritual. It was something you came to love but you'd had to cancel it every so often due to your bipolar. Your depressive episodes were horrible and made even just breathing difficult but your Mania episodes were equally exhausting and even exhibiting dangerous and risky behaviour. You remember the first time you experienced a Mania episode and you completely blew through all of your savings on random items that you'd never normally buy. You remember telling the doctor, that you were seeing Lucifer and telling you what you should be doing.
You were feeling good today and the excitement of wine with your crush was really overwhelming for you. But you found yourself sat on her sofa with a glass of red wine dangling from your fingers as you drunk in her beauty. "Darling, you're staring" Larissa murmured watching the blush creep over your cheeks. "You're just so beautiful" you mumbled before gasping in shock, your didn't mean to say that out loud.
"So are you darling, I must confess I rather like you" Larissa purred slipping closer to you, close enough your foreheads met. "Like me?" You mumbled confused. "Very much so and I'd very much like to kiss you love." Before you even verbally replied her lips were attached to yours, they felt softer than you ever imagined and the taste that was so perfectly her was invading your senses.
You both pulled back breathless wearing matching grins, "god I want you" you mumbled before tugging the blonde back to your lips, more passion seeping into this kiss. "Ris? Please" you whimpered after she sunk her teeth into your bottom lip. "Mommys gonna take such good care of you baby, you want this yes?" She murmured smothering your neck in kisses as you mewled, "oh god please never wanted anything more."
It was one night of pure passion, love radiating £!0through you both as you brought one another over the edge time and time again. Larissa riding your thigh, coating it in her slick heat, your mouth securely attached to her breasts as you nipped, sucked and licked at her point rose buds. You riding Larissa's face and suckling on your own fingers to prepare them for her needy cunt. You even somehow managed to get off by the woman's tongue alone, something you'd never done before, her long slender fingers buried deep into your core as you begged for more, harder and faster. You just needed her. You feel asleep in the woman's arm's sucking on her fingers, moaning at the taste of yourself, just happy to sit in your bubble full of bliss.
You left before Larissa woke up the next morning, the blonde was confused and hurt, she really thought that would be the start of something beautiful but you just disappeared. You stopped teaching your lessons, the only contact you and Larissa had was you informing her of your need of a substitute teacher every morning. All sorts began to race around her mind, maybe you regretted that night, maybe you were embarrassed and didn't want anyone to know, and perhaps you just realised she didn't live up to your expectations.
Meanwhile, you were stuck in your room, no energy to do anything. Negative thoughts swirling around your brain, you'd not eaten or showered since that night and you were lucky if you managed to grab 3 hours of sleep a night. The guilt over leaving without saying anything and the feeling of emptiness and guilt knowing you hurt Larissa. Truly it was all too much and you'd convinced yourself you were better off dead, after all what purpose did you serve now? Your old coping mechanisms are back too.
No one had seen you in days, Larissa had a duty of care as your boss to check on you. So she did, anxious butterflies taking residence in her stomach. But the sight she saw caused her heart to drop, you were curled up in bed, tears flowing over the dried tracks they'd ran before your arms legs and stomach littered in scars and new cuts. You appeared to be asleep as you whimpered her name, your sobs starting to make the words sound choked. The complete opposite of what Larissa had imagined.
Hesitantly, she sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed soothing circles into your back in hope of rousing you awake safely. "Oh darling, I'm here I don't know what's wrong but I'm here" she murmured pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. "Rissa?" You mumbled sleepily before realising the situation and scrambling away from the woman, "no no no she's not meant to be here, you said no luci!" You mumbled to what you thought was lucifer but was actually the wardrobe. "That's the whole reason why I did this" you exclaimed tugging at your abused arms, "I'm not insane! Im not crazy! I'm normal! You're real I know you are."
"Oh darling, can you focus on me for a second? Just ignore luci for a second. Follow my voice" Larissa whispered to you and you seemed to manage that for a second, rapidly blinking as you faced the woman. "It's happening again" you whimpered before breaking down and throwing yourself into the principals arms, "just a freak with bipolar, you only slept with me because you pity me" you sobbed and suddenly everything made sense to the blonde. "I slept with you because I love you" Larissa murmured into your ear. "Luci says it's lies" you cried and Larissa hushed you, rocking you soothingly.
"Have you taken your medication darling?" You nodded and informed her it wasn't working. So together she helped you phone your doctor and ask for some advice on how to help you now. He informed the blonde as long as she was safe and not posing a risk that she could stay home and have her appointment first thing in the morning to talk about her medication. So that night Larissa slept next to you, In your bed just reassuring you and keeping you safe. She loves you so that means this part of you too, no matter what happens she'll be here for as long as you want her.
I know I said Aizawa would get the next fic and he will, I've just been unmotivated lately because of my depressive episode and homework is kicking my ass. That fic is in my drafts right now and will be completed soon. For now, here's this.
I hardly find any content with characters and mentally ill readers, especially with characters who are considered emotionally strong, like L and Aizawa. I needed this and I hope it helps somebody else, too.
Warnings: Sfw, mentally ill reader, bipolar disorder (I'm type 1 so this may relate better to type 1 people, though I hope it can resonate with type 2 people as well), mania, depression, psychotic symptoms (hallucinations and delusions), medication, L monitors you via cameras and tracking devices, I used personal experiences when explaining reader's psychosis; it's interchangeable to whatever your unique delusions/hallucinations are.
Honestly, your diagnosis doesn't intimate L. While he hasn't exactly engrossed himself in mental health research, he's very knowledgeable in psychology
Your symptoms don't surprise him or make him uncomfortable, and he's actually well receptive of them.
Though admittedly he finds himself a little lost when you're in a manic episode. He's not freaked out, but getting a word out of edgewise with you is challenging. He follows along as best as he can.
Insomnia is something he's well acquainted with himself, so if you can't manage to sleep for a few days he'll be at your side. He'll definitely try to encourage you to take a sleep aid, but if you're stubborn he'll concede and just hang around to monitor you.
He's actually protective when you're in a heavy episode. Sure, he trusts that you have autonomy over yourself, but he also needs to make sure you're safe. So he'll track your whereabouts when you're gone and will sneak cameras into your residence so he can check up on you.
Even if you're good about keeping track of your medication, he'll occasionally make sure you have. Simple reminders like, "Have you taken your medication today, love?" If you're not with him in person he'll text you.
Honestly, because he's so analytical, sometimes he can't help but feel intrigued by your episodes. He knows that every person with bipolar disorder is different, and so paying attention to how your condition affects you, in particular, is interesting to him.
Depressive episodes are harder for him than manic ones, surprisingly. He wants to keep you engaged and present, but when you're stubbornly depressed it's hard for him to know what to do. He gets creative, often asking you to join him for sweets or go shopping. Anything to get you moving.
When you lie in bed all day, that arches him the most. As someone whose brain is always on the go, he's sure that you doing absolutely nothing but sulk has to be painful. Sometimes he'll come and lie beside you for a while and try to talk with you.
As strong and collected as L is, he's no stranger to depression and hyperactivity either. Maybe he's not bipolar, but he can relate to constantly being on the go. His depression only really comes about when he feels hopeless about an investigation. He understands being unmotivated when it seems like nothing is going your way.
Seeing you cry is when he becomes the most complacent. This is tricky for him, he's not used to such a strong emotional response. He doesn't really know what to do or how to make you feel better. He wants to cure it and even just tell you to not cry, but unfortunately, it's not as simple as that. He knows that.
The only thing he can really do is hold you, or just be in your presence if that makes you more comfortable. But admittedly, he is very uncomfortable when the waterworks come out. L isn't inept at reassuring support, but being emotionally competent isn't his expertise.
He'll offer you some sweets to make you feel better. He's trying.
L's very in tune with your early warning signs. He's usually the first one to predict if an episode is approaching. He's studied your behavior so well that even the slightest sign of symptoms is apparent to him. He'll conduct some proactive measures to help if he can, though he doesn't want to seem like your psychiatrist or anything. If you use substances, he'll encourage you to go easy with them. He'll also encourage a better sleep routine (funny, coming from him).
One thing about L that makes him an excellent support, is that he's not scared of your symptoms. He realizes that medication is only a management strategy for bipolar disorder, not a cure. He's not going to lecture you on upping your dose or make you ashamed of your symptoms. It doesn't have to be a bad thing if you can manage it. He's a busy guy, so there's only so much he can do, but he'll help.
His main strategy is distraction, and his other is communication. If you need to talk about your symptoms, or even just ramble while you're manic, he'll listen (mostly. Your manic rants can be overwhelming sometimes).
When you're getting especially excitable he'll try to ground you with an activity; chess, maybe. Something that requires your brain to slow down and become more methodical. For your depression, his go-to for you is physical activity, like tennis. The endorphins help cope with depression and can give you some rewarding feelings.
Psychosis is one that he wasn't prepared for. He knew it could be a symptom of bipolar disorder but wasn't aware of the intensity. So when you came to him nervously asking who was watching all the cameras and if he had sent international government organizations to kidnap you, he was confused.
Then you started telling him about how you were the only person who has ever existed and everybody else was an extension of yourself, and he started getting it.
Delusions are tricky for him because ultimately he can't change your mind, but he does want to make sure that he can ground you as much as he can.
The cameras are an issue. He puts them everywhere, but because they are a huge source of anxiety for psychosis, he has to figure out a way to monitor you but also not make you feel like you're in danger. He may even lie to you about there being no cameras but has actually put them in places you wouldn't expect them to be in. It's for your safety, he tells himself. If you're insistent that there are cameras everywhere even after his lying, he'll try to at least have you understand that the only one watching them is him and it's because he loves you and wants to make sure you're ok. That's the truth.
Hallucinations, he gets. He's even had them himself when he goes many many days without sleeping (also remember episode 25. And before y'all tell me that he lied about the "bells", I don't care and I could write a post about it but that's not what this is for). He's quick to notice you turning your head behind you, or when he's talking to you and you'll be looking beside his head. He'll ask questions about it.
His busy schedule can make this hard for him to balance, but trust that you are not a burden. He wouldn't still be here if you were. He loves you and just wants you to be safe.
“Ruby-roo,” you scold gently, taking the brush from her mouth, “No that’s not a chew toy, no it’s not.” You set her gently on the floor in her basket and sigh.
“Whatcha doin’ today, bunnybaby?” Steve asked, reaching around you for his tooth brush and shaving kit.
“I’ve got a video to film. And we’ve got a photo shoot. Hopefully we get some promo images and a good book cover out of it.”
“Fancy,” he said, kissing the side of your head.
“What are you and Bucky going to do?” you ask, applying primer to your skin.
“Probably stalk your social media and love all your pictures,” he said grinning.
You roll your eyes and turn your attention to your toolbox full of make up, setting things aside to touch it up later. “Maybe I can meet you for lunch?”
“That’d be nice,” he said, “I’ll see what time we get done and text you?”
You nod, “I’ll probably not get out until a little later so if you get tired of waiting, that’s fine too.”
“Bunny,” Steve chuckled, “God made hot dog vendors for a reason. We can grab a snack and have lunch with you still.” He looked down to where Ruby was attacking his shoes laces and lifted her up gently, “Quit it,” he scolded, smiling a little when she licked his nose. “Uh,” he groaned clutching her to his chest, “Stop. I can’t deal with the sad eyes.”
You giggle and he turns, “You taught her that didn’t you?”
“No,” you protest, “She just knows you’re a teddy bear.”
Steve pulled a face and cuddled the puppy more insistently, “C’mon Ruby-roo, let’s go wake up Bucky.” At the mention of Bucky Ruby whines and fusses insistently, wiggling. Bucky is fun to play with. He hides under the covers and Ruby has the best time worming her way into his arms to lick his face and chew on his hair. You shake your head and apply yourself to getting your face made up so you can get out the door. But you can hear the chaos in the bedroom of Steve sicc-ing Ruby onto Bucky’s exposed feet to get him to drag himself out of bed.
“Morning people,” Bucky grouses, holdy Ruby at arms length to keep her from licking him.
“Don’t lump me in with those freaks,” you pout, taking Ruby from him gently and cuddling her, “I’ve been up since 3.”
“Ugh, why?” Bucky groaned starting the shower.
“I got possessed by some kind of manic cleaning demon,” you explain, “Then I got distracted and did some editing.”
“Bunny,” they scolded as one.
“What?” you say shrugging, “It happens. They adjusted my Lamictal and it’s fucking up my sleep schedule a little.”
“Still,” Bucky said kissing your cheek as he pushed his boxers over his hips, “You need rest.”
“And I need to film,” you say shrugging again. “Bills don’t pay themselves.”
Bucky shook his head and kissed you softly, careful not to muss your makeup, “And you have a tour.”
“I do,” you answer, “That’s why we’re all gonna get lunch today. Try and keep my boys from going through withdrawls.”
Bucky nods and kisses your hair, “Whatever you say, Bunny,” he murmurs.
