#vent fic

🐦‍⬛🩸

tw: self harm and suicide attempts, mental health, negative self talk. this is disconnected from canon. maybe a little bit of hurt/comfort at the end? nonmc reader in the sense that there is no mc. male reader, but it only comes up in 1 sentence at the end wc: ~1k thinking about angst again because i feel yucky. my initial thoughts on this idea are here, though the sylus i wrote in this post is less heartless. kinda a vent post in the form of an x reader blurb.

Your chest heaves with shallow breaths as you approach the vampire lord in his study. He let you into his home, left his front doors unlocked, didn't stop you when you stumbled through them on wobbly legs. He didn't speak when he heard you bumbling through his manor, didn't even move enough to creak the floorboards. You don't know what he was expecting to find, but maybe it was just boredom and curiosity that led him to allow you to do as you pleased.

He is beautiful, in a way you've never witnessed before. His red eyes are just as piercing as the rumors said they would be. He's leaned back in his grand chair, watching you with a furrowed brow. It seems that he is waiting for your first move as much as you're waiting for his. Maybe he thinks you're some sort of assassin, since you have a knife on your person.

You don't see his eyes slightly widen in surprise as you shakily get down on your knees before him, head bowed. You can barely gather enough coordination to do so, as your legs are trembling so violently that you nearly collapse. Though from hunger, exhaustion, or fear, you're not quite sure. Maybe all three. Well, if your plan goes as you intend, you won't be feeling them for much longer.

"Lord Sylus, I-I'm here to give up my life," You speak barely above a whisper, your voice shaking more than it ever has in your life. Even in your last moments, you can't pull it together. Pathetic. You swallow before speaking again, trying to steady your tone. You doubt you need to repeat yourself; it's said that vampires have exceptional hearing. "Please take it, m-my lord."

“Yeah, why?” Peter replies.

“You’ve been… quieter today.”

“Well, I was doing homework and you were busy… So…”

It falls back into awkward silence. Peter looks to the side. Mr. Stark is still next to him, trying to make sense of all of this. The bots are watching curiously. Dum-E beeps something Peter can’t understand yet.

“Hey,” Mr. Stark lowers his voice, “look at me.”

He says it rather gently. So gently, Peter feels his eyes watering again. He hides himself further.

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy.”

Stop, Peter wants to say, stop talking to me like this. He’ll give it all away.

summary / she doesn’t think she’s pretty. joe tries to help her see just how beautiful she is.

warnings / fem!reader, angst, body image issues, some self-projection

note / a vent fic based off of snow white by laufey

tags / @willowsnook @irishmanwhore @iosivb9 @softburrow @burrowdarling @jburrgf @wickedfun9 @hotburreaux @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @burrowswomen @kazsbrckkers @sportyphile @ebsmind @justhereforthetea200 @joecoolburrow (comment/send an ask to be added!)

IT WAS ROUTINE. It was normal. She refused to look at herself in the mirror. When she’d get up, shuffle into the bathroom, she’d cast one look at herself and notice every flaw. Acne scars. Her nose shape. Her stomach. But no one wants to hear a girl complain about insecurities.

Especially not the girlfriend of Joe Burrow.

So, she continued on her day. She went to work. She dressed in clothes that hid the worst parts of her, but she still looked good. She would fake confidence, fake security. No one saw that she compared every part of herself to the girls that she saw walking by.

i’m literally so annoyed with work right now so i will subject you to a quick mini fic about dazai being a good worker for once while his favorite fem!reader colleague is enjoying some time off.

ᢉ𐭩

“Wow, Dazai, you’re actually working?” Atsushi leans over his colleague’s shoulder, watching his pen scribble down his report for the case he just finished, and even has his work laptop up to review notes or other related information. Dazai sighs inwardly, not really believing it himself.

“Yeah, my favorite secretary isn’t here, so I need to actually try this paperwork stuff on my own,” his eyes hasn’t left the work splayed out in front of him, Kunikida pleasantly surprised to see his partner working diligently on his stuff, so much so he’s just staring in awe.

“I’m impressed, Dazai,” he mumbles, pushing his glasses up and tries peering over the device to see if he is writing his actual work or jotting down useless words to appear busy. “We should give her more time off then if this is all it takes to motivate you.” Dazai grimaces, the thought of you not being at work for him to bug and ask for assistance, following you around like a lost puppy with corny jokes and cheesy one-liners to garner your attention. It works, obviously, but sometimes it can be distracting when you have important things to do. Such as peer review his papers before sending them off to the president for a final check.

“I messed up last time she was away,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “I wasted time and just waited for her to come back so she could help me. Instead, she yelled at me then ignored me the rest of the day.” His fingers rub into his sockets at the memory of you finally exploding on him after you returned from your last mini vacation, telling him that you aren’t his personal secretary, and you already had so much other work piled up that the others didn’t bother maintaining for you while away — even though they’re literally supposed to. It’s in their job description. You left, off with a huff, and didn’t speak to him the remainder of your shift, trying to fly through not only the stacks of papers that needed reviewing, correcting, and filing away, but also everything he left for you to help him with.

You ended up “in trouble” more than Dazai for going ahead and just completing the reports for him, since “it’s his work, not yours”. You wanted to pull your hair out and Dazai, despite arguing with Fukuzawa on your behalf, letting him know it wasn’t your fault, caught you sobbing in the break room after the entire fiasco. Since then, he’s been trying to do better, especially if you’re not there.

“Took a month’s worth of coffee runs and lunches to get her to forgive me,” he adds with another light sigh, scratching his head, and eyes accidentally flitted off in the direction your empty desk.

“Could always just do your own work,” Kunikida offers, a suggestion he’s constantly reminding his partner of.

“I’m really proud of you, Mr. Dazai,” Atsushi gives him a smile then a pat on his shoulder. He has to fight rolling his eyes at their behavior. He isn’t doing any of this for the approval of anyone but you.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he huffs, fingers tangled in his hair as he goes back to doing mundane tasks his brain finds too boring to complete in any other instance.

When you come back a few days later, you did half expect to see a huge pile of work from Dazai alone sitting on your desk with a pink Post-It note saying: “To my favorite secretary, I really need your help. - O. Dazai” with some type of poorly drawn heart next to it. However, upon entering the office and heading to your desk, you noticed the surface has only your usual makeup work sitting there, awaiting your completion. Alongside a to-go cup of your favorite latte with a pink Post-It note that says instead: “Welcome back”. It wasn’t signed, but you recognize the handwriting, and there’s one person there that knows your order by heart.

“Hey,” Dazai greets, stepping closer to you after waiting the socially acceptable time of sixty seconds once seeing you walk in. His fingers rest on the desk surface, his glasses placed on his nose, and he wears a weirdly sweet smile. “Did you have fun?” You smile at him in return, your bag being dropped to the floor at your feet before rummaging in it for your work laptop.

“Hey, you’re here early,” you begin setting up, nodding slightly. “Yeah, just took some time to be away, did errands, chores. Dumb life stuff.” You shrug, tucking some hair behind your ear before looking back up at him. “Is this from you?” You point toward the cup, his eyes following, then he nods — sheepish.

“Yeah, yes,” he clears his throat. “I was already stopping by, thought I’d get you something too.”

“How thoughtful,” you murmur, caught off guard completely by this behavior. Still a bit thrown that he isn’t jumping down your skin to help him with paperwork. “How was work while I was away? Anything exciting happen?”

“No,” he answers immediately, the perfect segue opening up for him to brag, to impress you. “No, just, ya know, boring paperwork that I had to complete.” His body relaxes then, becoming his standard casual self, a lopsided smirk forming as he gazes at your shocked face. “I know, I know, I’m incredible, finishing it all on my own. Even had Kunikida peer review for me.” Your eyes get impossibly bigger at that last statement, surprised an understatement. Impressed not the appropriate word either.

“Wow, Dazai, that actually is incredible!” You suddenly beam, and his heart swells ten sizes, bashful and lips stretching into a grin of his own. “I’m so proud of you!” Your hand accidentally comes out and rests on his forearm, too elated to hear you won’t have extra work to do to realize what is happening. He breathes out a lighthearted laugh, getting flustered, not used to hearing all of this praise. All of it seems to be more meaningful when it’s coming from his favorite secretary.

“I know you have a lot that you work on, hard enough with me bothering you constantly,” he pushes his glasses up further, trying to find something for his hands to do, overcome with a foreign happiness of having you back and seeing your smiling face. “I didn’t want to make things harder, I guess.”

“You’re so sweet,” you tell him with sincerity, batting your lashes some, and your thumb carefully caresses his sweater sleeve. It’s really soft. “Thank you again.” He falters, noticing the way you’re looking at him, and his teeth sink down into his lip briefly before rushing through a mental pep talk.

“May I take you to lunch today?” He blurts. Your smile only grows, cheeks hurting from it, actually, and nod instantly.

“Of course, I’d love that.”

“It’s a date,” he states, testing waters he’s been preventing himself from completely diving into. You stare up at him, head tilting, and you simply giggle. God, she’s so cute.

“You call all of them dates.”

“You haven’t corrected me.”

Why on Earth would I?

yes i wrote this instead of doing my actual job. sue me!!!!!

masterlist | requests: closed

©GHXST likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated <3 do not repost, copy, change/alter/edit my works, and do not use it to feed generative ai.

He frowns taking off his boots, you both hate having to mop and vacuum, thus no shoes in the apartment.

Peeking around the end of the hallway, he can see all the over head lights are off but he spots a few of the lamps on, soaking the apartment in soft warm lighting, comfortable.

From the hallway he can hear the TV playing faintly, the voices from it mingling together into a steady stream of unintelligible white noise to him.

Eyes landing on the sofa just barely visible from where he stands he can make out the pile of blankets— and what he can only hope is you under it —on it, he can only see the blanket wrapped around you from the back.

His brows pinch together, frown deepening, while its not unusual for you to turn off all the "big lights" in favor of the warm colored lamps and for you to bundle yourself in blankets he can already tell something is wrong.

Very wrong.

Even when your bundled up with just the lamps turned on you greet him happily if a bit tiredly at times, always something. Tonight you've still said nothing.

With socked feet thumping gently against the wooden floor Jason quietly, carefully, makes his way to the kitchen. His worry grows when he doesn't see any dirty dishes in the sink that are supposed to be there, that are always there when he gets home. It tells him you haven't eaten dinner yet.

Quickly he washes his hands, he uses the soap you love, the lavender and sandel wood scented one you bought him specifically to get rid of the motor oil smell that sticks to his hands after work.

Most days you don't mind the smell of the oil, but it's glaringly clear to him you're having a bad night, bad day probably. He doesn't want to make your mood worse with the strong smell of a mechanic's work.

After he scrubs the grime and dirt from under his nails he turns the sink off and drys his his hands on the towl hanging over the oven door. Making sure his hands are dry and at least room temp. He knows how you hate it when his hands are cold and he touches you on days like this.

He tip toes over to the couch, pausing an arms length away while he tries to decipher whether its a angry bad day or a none stop crying bad day. One runs the risk of him getting slapped if he gets to close.

Deciding its safe he creeps infront of the Tv and crouches down infront of your place on the couch.

His brow is furrowed and a frown pulls heavily on the edges of his mouth, expression pinched.

"Hey," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and soft, "Whats wrong, baby?"

Your eyes avoid his face and you shrug your shoulders, pulling them up to your ears.

"Hey, hey, look at me, whats the matter?" He continues, gently prodding, you chew the inside of your cheek, lips pressing into a thin line.

"I just, its— I dunno." You meet his eyes, in the warming lighting their hazel color makes them look like honey. It hurts how sincere he looks, concerned.

"Its just— don't you think I'm to… heavy?" You mumble oh so quietly, and if you didn't have his rapt attention he wouldn't have heard you.

His heart breaks when the words fall from your lips, and you can see it happening in his eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart." He whispers, and he reaches his hand out to you, hesitantly you untangle your own from the pile of blankets you hide under, placing it in his.

"No, I don't think your too heavy. I think your perfect the way you are." He reassures, squeezing your hand and you squeeze back.

"Who told you you were to heavy?" Jason asks, and again you shrug, turning your face away from him.

"Nobody. Just my brain." You answer, voice still so quiet, like your afraid something will happen if you speak up, like your fragile reality will shatter if you're to loud and he'll leave.

He hums, he knows how cruel your brain can be to yourself, his is the same on his bad days. He knows how thoughts can turn against you at a moments notice and ruin your whole day.

"Well, your brain is wrong." Jason squeezes you hand again, "You're not to heavy. And anyone who says otherwise can take it up with me, ok?"

Your free hand rubs at your eyes, wiping away unshed tears, you don't want to cry again.

"Ok." You murmur back, forcing a wobbly smile.

"Ok." He repeats, smiling softly back, his brow is still furrowed.

Jason raises up slightly to kiss your forehead and you lean into it with a little sigh, some of the tension leaving your body.

When he pulls back he's still smiling.

"Now, I for one, am starving. What do we wanna eat for dinner?" He asks, standing back up to his full height.

You both agree on pasta, something easy to make and usually a safe food for you, though Jason can tell your reluctant at just the idea of eating.

He lets you continue to hide in your pile of blankets on the couch, the TV still playing softly, while he heads into the kitchen.

Half an hour later and Jason is walking back into the living room with two plates of pasta in his hands, the couch dips under his weight as he sits down next to you.

The plates of pasta get put down on the coffee table and Jason reaches over and pulls the blanket off from around your head, the fabric pooling around your waist.

"I almost thought you and the blanket would be one by now," He teases, handing you your plate of pasta from the coffee table, "Eat up."

The plate is warm in your hands, the smell of pasta wafts up into your nose, usually its a smell you love, right now? The thought of eating and the smell makes you want to puke.

You look over at Jason, settled on the couch after a long shift at work, watching whatever trashy TV show that's playing. he made you pasta, he took the time that he should have to rest between jobs to take care of you and make sure you eat.

You stare at the plate of pasta and try to swallow the imagined feeling of bile raising up your throat.

Water gathers in your eyes silently as you take the first bite, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, as you lift the fork again and again.

Jason looks over to see your wet face and his frown returns, he sets his own plate of pasta down, he was already half way finished anyway.

He doesn't say anything as he begins to rub your back, knowing words wont help at this point and all he can do is be there. So thats what he'll do.

You eat and he rubs your back with a sad smile, he only hopes the food will stay in your stomach.

When your plate is empty he takes it from your hands and puts it back on the coffee table with his half finished one.

He pulls you into his side, leaning back into the couch and taking you with him, he wraps his arms around you and lets you continue to cry silently as he rubs circles into your back, leaning his face into your hair.

Your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, relaxing into his hold best you can as the tears continue to flow unbidden, soaking into his shirt which you know you'll feel bad about later when given the chance. He couldn't care less.

an F1 RPF Landoscar fic by papayabrain

Summary: Oscar isn’t himself and he’s not talking. Lando takes matters into his own hands.

Rating: T

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: This is a vent fic as my grandad is currently in hospital, so focuses on grief 🧡

Read on AO3 | or read below 👇🏼

~

TW - Suicide ideation + plan + S/H (YES this is self indulgent ✌️😂)

It’s rare for someone like you to stick out. Laid-back, carefree, borderline lazy— pretty much the average person in their 20’s. You were the BAU’s Cheshire Cat, never putting in the effort until they needed you most. Not that it was a problem or anything, because— as stated before— you got things done (albeit without much cheer for it.)

What stuck out to Reid was between the lines.

The subtle frown that graces your face for a second when the team recovers from a joke of yours. Your tendency to have a drink too many when the team heads out to the bar. Most of all, that perpetually blank look in your eye no matter how you’re feeling. You could smile as big as a rainbow, and not even a sliver of a glint would cross your features.

It worried him.

Worried him enough to stick around and get you home.

“Hey, hey,” you dragged out, giggling quietly about nothing in particular. “Don’t gotta carry me, I can walk.”

Ignoring the potent smell of tequila on your lips, he repositioned you on his shoulder.

“You couldn’t tell me the time.” Reid countered gently, without any real firmness. “I doubt that you could take more than 5 consistent steps without stumbling.”

Rolling your eyes, you push off of the man. In a matter of seconds, you prove him completely right, tumbling to the floor without much of a grunt. Your name escapes him quickly, only sharp out of shock as he scrambled to pick you back up again.

“Please— stop moving.” He sighed, looking around for nothing in particular. “We’re almost to your house.”

What’s really worrying him is the fact you’re not talking. Even drunk, you would average about 140 words a minute. At your worst, you’d crack a joke or two.

You’re silent. Radio silent. Eyes downcast, a weakened shield protecting the vulnerability in your eyes.

“‘Kay.” You mumble, seemingly unaware of your surroundings as the two of you reached your apartment.

As always, the key is under the welcome mat.

Do you.. not watch movies?

Opening the door, Reid maneuvers you inside before shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.

Sitting you on the couch, helping you out of your jacket, and so forth was easy. What was harder was making it hard to notice his lingering eye.

Too hard.

“Got a staring problem.” You mumbled, lying down and burying your head into the sofa. “Stop.”

Okay. He’s really thrown off guard. You’re so uncharacteristically serious and he’s fighting the urge to sweat.

“Are you..” he began, hesitant to even speak.

Like clockwork you huff without humor, waving your hand in general dismissal. “Yup. Just tired. Like, what, 80% of drunk people?”

“High amounts of alcohol decrease sleep quality by 39.2%” he corrected quietly.

Your hand shifts to a thumbs up, before promptly plopping to your side.

…No. He can’t just let this go. He should’ve noticed this longer ago— well, to be more accurate, said something about what he noticed awhile ago.

“I don’t think you are.” He countered, this time with confidence, his gaze hardening— not at you, but at what you’re going through.

Your head shifts toward him, eyes narrowing.

“Reid—“

“—You never open up to anyone about how you’re feeling,” he started, beginning to pace to-and-fro. “Even when we notice how it’d gotten to you— if we noticed that. Hotch has noticed your lack of care for yourself in the field, JJ’s seen how tired you look, Penelope is worried about you—“

But they can’t prove it. None of them can. They know as much as they don’t, and you keep it that way. You’re frustratingly good at telling and hiding. Revealing and concealing.

“—I’m worried about you.” He finished, a whisper.

A beat passed, before you slowly sat up.

And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the exhaustion— you hadn’t slept well in a couple of days— honestly it may have been how gently he handled you, but your jaw loosened.

“Was supposed to kill myself at 18, yknow.” You slurred bluntly, stilling Reid in his tracks.

The shock doesn’t last long, though, replaced with hidden heartbreak.

You continued. “Living wasn’t worth it anymore. Woke up, went to school, felt s’upid, came home, felt worse, went to sleep, repeat. Sufferin’ was meaningless, and nothing was worth enough to keep it going.”

Your mouth pulls to a thin line, as if discussing a minor annoyance rather than what would’ve been your death.

“But I de’ided to call the hotline before I left. Speak to someone who’d atleast pretend to care.”

What came next was hesitant, the pace of your confession bringing you down to reality for a second. Were you really sitting here and dumping all of this on him? Then you look up, and see those stupid puppy-dog eyes of his, and the dam breaks loose.

“This— this guy picked up. My dad’s age. His voice was all,” you once more wave your hand aimlessly, as if it demonstrated your point. “Father-like. As if he knew me. As if he knew exactly why I was callin’. Called me ‘sweetheart’ as I sobbed my eyes out on the floor ‘nd whatnot. Didn’t wanna hang up. Was too scared to come back t’reality.”

The wall was always your safe space. When conversations got hard. When life got too much, you’d stare for what seemed like hours at the roof. It was almost like a life-line. Plus, it saved you a few times from letting tears fall, so that’s a plus.

“How’d it end?” He whispered, finding you again. Grounding you again.

You cracked a smile. “He told me he’d check on me t’morrow. That I should get some sleep. He knew I wasn’t gonna d’it.”

To keep the story sweet, you don’t tell him you didn’t pick up when the hotline called again tomorrow. You don’t tell him how you cut up your thighs the next day. You don’t tell him any of it—

“Were you going to kill yourself tonight?”

Was what why you’ve been so distant? Patting him on the shoulder more than usual, celebrating more often— drinking more often? Was this your last hurrah, decorated with alcohol and mindlessness?

It’s quiet. You’re not responding, and his breath just hitched. You’re not talking, and it’s scaring him. Forget the sweat, forget watching from the side, you’re not confirming or denying that you were supposed to die tonight. You’re staring. And staring. And staring, until your not.

Until your eyes shift to him, without your head, and your mouth opens again.

“‘s in the cabinet.” You mutter, your head tilting towards the cabinet before you.

Slowly, and with his eyes still on you, Reid made his way to the wood, slowly opening it with hands shaking harder than cymbals after a hit.

Your gun, beside your badge.

And a single bullet.

No note. Nothing.

Just a ticket out.

Everything sounds like static as he put it into his satchel. He’d put it somewhere else, somewhere smarter, but he wasn’t thinking. All he knew is that in his bag was the very thing that could’ve taken you from him.

“Wasn’t gonna write a letter.” You tried, your words meshing together. “You’ve read enough of ‘em,” you began, before his arms wrapped around you so tight it almost hurt. His nose pressed against your scalp, almost embarrassed at how hard he was vibrating.

“Stop.” He managed, though weakly. “Just— just stop.”

You two don’t know how long you stand there, and you don’t know why you let him. You just do. There is no explanation, and there’s nothing in you that moves you to stop.

And he hates it.

He hates how you don’t feel anything. How lives messed with you so profusely that you feel nothing towards the potential end of your life. How, come morning, this would simply be yesterday. Most of all, he hates how he knows the feeling. The desire to get worse, and feel nothing about it at all.

“Let’s go to bed.” Reid hiccuped, trying his absolute hardest to keep his voice still. It didn’t work, obviously.

After a beat, you nodded into his shoulder.

“Y’sayin’ that like y’r staying.” You both knew he would. Any smart person would.

When the sun rose, you’d go to work. You’d smile, and laugh, and make up a million excuses for tonight.

“I was drunk,” you’d snort, shaking your head with an all too familiar carelessness. “People say anything when they’re drunk.”

When the sun rose, the gun would be fully loaded. It’d likely be pointed at an UnSub. It’d be saving a life instead of taking one. No one would mention its original purpose, and no innocent would die.

But the sun hasn’t risen yet.

To tonight, with only the stars as witness, he’ll lay beside you. He’ll hold you close, and whisper just how important you are to him. He won’t mention the tears, or the ache, or the wail. It won’t negate him, nor will it shake him.

And come the morning, everything would look just fine.

(END.)