#Mentions of PTSD

[steddieas-shegoes]

Hello my love! ❤️

I would LOVE to see what you could do with a 4th of July prompt, especially considering the trauma Starcourt brought!

(For some godforsaken reason it’s the FIRST of July and there’s a whole-ass fireworks show in my neighborhood because I live in the pits of Conservative American South so. That’s… fun. Honestly the fireworks don’t bother me I just don’t understand why it ends up being a week-long celebration. 😂)

I feel your pain my star ✨ Where I live is the same way pretty much the whole week. It’s very “god, guns, and country” where I live so I am very grateful to be in the mountains this whole week 😂

- - -

Steve wouldn’t admit it, but his nerves about July 4th had gotten almost unbearable in the last week.

The amount of people hoarding fireworks on their porch was enough to make him want to run away.

And of course, most people started on the 3rd and continued until they ran out of supplies.

He arranged to stay with Eddie for the week, knew if he had someone who could hold him through it all he’d probably be okay.

Robin didn’t have the same problem as him, was even planning on attending a fireworks show with her parents in Indy.

When he heard some going off down the road from the trailer, he flinched, his whole body curling against Eddie.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. They won’t do a whole lot tonight. I’ve got ya.”

Eddie was right, they only lasted about five minutes, but it felt like the longest five minutes of Steve’s life.

He relaxed into Eddie’s chest, knew he would fall asleep soon with the way Eddie was playing with his hair.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Steve tensed for a moment.

“About what?”

“Last year. Why you hate fireworks so much. Any of it.”

Steve could say no. Eddie would drop it and pretend he didn’t ask if that’s what Steve wanted.

But Steve wanted to be honest with him, especially because Eddie had always been honest with him.

“It’s just like, my brain can’t just hear fireworks anymore, ya know? It hears the way Robin was begging to be let go, and the way I felt like I was going to die because I had to protect her and the kids. It reminds me that I was so concussed, I barely remembered the 24 hours after I got out. It reminds me how much we all lost that night. Every single firework going off is a reminder that we don’t always win.”

Eddie’s arms tightened around him, his lips softly pressed against the top of his head.

“I know I wasn’t there and can’t imagine what it was like, but you made it out. You may not have won, but you didn’t lose everything. You all grew closer, you got Robin!”

“And head trauma, don’t forget the head trauma.”

Steve and Eddie both laughed, though Steve still felt too on edge, too close to crying.

Eddie could tell from the way he held himself against him that words weren’t going to help, not now.

But a distraction might.

“You wanna go to my room?”

“You trying to distract me?”

“I’m not opposed to distracting you without our clothes on.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Best distraction in town according to the locals.”

“How many locals have been in your bed?”

“Just you, sweetheart.”

“Well, I guess the locals are right then. You are a good distraction.”

It wasn’t really a fix, but it was a bit of a band aid, especially on the 4th.

But Steve barely heard anything in town with Eddie whispering everything he wanted him to do, and everything he loved about him in his ear as he touched and kissed every inch of his skin to help him stay focused here instead of the past.

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

You'll change your name and change your mind (but you can't leave this fucked up place behind)

(Prompt #7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES | Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them.")

Notes: Oh boy, I had fun with this one, ngl. Settle in... Every timeline where Toman exists and has 6th founders I guess? Idk, it's right after Shin timeleaps and Haru earns his fresh and traumatic new memories!

Also, keep the prompt in mind bc the ideas are haunting their talk and rooting inside Haru's broken mind, but it's kinda subtly there? I hope it makes sense!

Warnings: Angst, with mentions of unresolved grief and ptsd (also, broken mind due to two sets of memories, that adds to the ptsd). Manga spoilers!

Haruchiyo knew this was a very bad idea, he could recall how many times Takeomi had warned him about it — always the same, Mikey and Emma were welcomed but he and Senju should stay the fuck away from Shinichiro. 

The only fucking problem was that those memories were overlapping with Shinichiro picking him out of juvie, with a brother that didn’t bother to speak with him. 

It made no sense, his mind was doing weird tricks, driving him crazy. He needed to talk with someone and one thing was clear: In both memories, he trusted Shinichiro. 

To be honest, he wasn’t sure if any amount of faith would’ve cut it when the man in front of him started to talk about time leaping. Luckily, there was no need for faith when he remembered every detail of those agonizing four years — when he still smelled the lingering scent of death orchids and baby’s breath.

“So… Mikey never had the accident here? And he doesn’t know?” 

Baji didn’t know either, he thought to himself, unconsciously rubbing his scars — it was the only thing calming him down, grounding him here instead of that past. At least, back then he had one friend left. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through this, Haruchiyo.” Weirdly enough, Shinichiro’s voice didn’t sound regretful. Of course, it didn’t, Mikey was alive! “But I’m glad Manjiro has a friend like you.”

“Really?” 

Him? Like him? Even when he was unable to look as relieved as Shinichiro? When he couldn’t smile all the time because his brain felt all twisted and he couldn’t shake the weird sensation of loss? 

“Of course, you had always remained by Manjiro’s side, forgiving and protecting him. You’re a good kid, I’m sure of it.”

His face lit up at the praise. It felt like a balm for his soul, the confirmation he was more than what people said about him — more than a wacko or a burden. 

Haruchiyo was Mikey’s best friend, the only one who remembered, the only one who understood. 

The only one willing to protect Mikey at all costs, exactly like Shinichiro did.

[rosaren2498]

EDIT: THIS TURNED OUT SO MUCH LONGER THAN I INTENDED; I'M SO SORRY

I think... it's time. Ever since I saw the show, questions have plagued me. And I guess I just need to get them out. This is going to be an absolute mess but it's really just me trying to get my thoughts out. It mostly covers Hob, Morpheus, and The Corinthian because I have the most questions regarding them. I'd also like to preface this with the fact that I've only seen the show.

So, let's start with Hob and Immortality. How the actual fuck does his immortality work??? Hob says they tried drowning him as a witch and it makes me wonder. Does he just... drown, die, wake up, repeat? Or is he just stuck underwater, water in his lungs but no relief to be found unless he passes out? Can he pass out from lack of oxygen? Does he even need oxygen anymore? He still needs to eat, and feels hunger still, so it's likely he still needs to breathe, but that implies that basically, he spent who knows how long just drowning over and over like Stefan did in The Vampire Diaries, which is horrifying to think about. Fanon claims he can technically die, but that his soul doesn't leave his body seeing as Death won't take him, that it's more like falling unconscious and just waking up when his body is healed enough.

In the same vein, he cannot die, but Dream tells him he can be hurt. So... does he heal, then? If he gets a cut on the palm of his hand, does he have regenerative capabilities? And if yes, what is the extent of them? He can't actually die so could he, theoretically, survive without a head? Is he like Deadpool? Deadpool's regenerative capabilities are so advanced that he was once disintegrated and he healed from it. He's been ripped in half, and had his head removed and all that happens is he passes out for a bit and then wakes up, fully capable of moving and reattaching limbs (like his entire waist and legs in the video game, even reattatches them incorrectly aka backwards) Can Hob do that????? What is the fucking limit to his immortality? Is there a technical limit? Or is he, functionally, Deadpool? I really need to know because we see what the AoP (Amulet of Protection) can do so... Hob can't die so what would happen if the AoP was used on him????? Would he be rendered a smear of blood and muscles and other stuff, only to slowly be pieced back together? Would his entire body just... reform, leaving a mess behind???

In the same vein, but now moving to Morpheus. Fanon claims that he can only be hurt if it's what he wants (ie love bites, hickeys, bruises left on hips or thighs etc), and while I have no idea if that's true in Canon, because the show doesn't fucking talk about it (no show or movie ever goes into details about stuff like that and it never fails to drive me up a wall), we'll take it anyways because I have questions about that. And we'll use the scene Cori stabs him as a basis, though removing Rose from the equation, leaving Morpheus at full power.

If he cannot be hurt unless he wants it, then what would've happened when Cori tried to stab him? I've got 3 different ideas about it.

1. Cori tries to stab him and his skin is hard like a twilight vampire, so the knife either bends, or shatters (which admittedly would be kind of funny)

2. Cori tries to stab him and his skin opens, but there is no blood, nor any pain, and the 'wound' reseals almost immediately

Or the one I think is most likely:

3. Cori tries to stab him but the skin refuses to bruise or break. Like poking someone, the skin pushes in, it indents briefly, but it doesn't break, doesn't split open, doesn't even fucking bruise (because he won't bruise unless it's what he wants). I just imagine Cori trying to stab or cut him and its like using a plastic blade lol

On a slightly different topic, to take a break from things driving me crazy and turning to something I'm merely idly curious about... Morpheus gets big in episode 5. He holds John in his fucking palm and he's about the height of a quarter maybe a half dollar, and Morpheus is huge (not as big as Arishem in Eternals, but still!) Is that as big as he can get? Is there a limit to his ability to change size in The Dreaming? Obviously in the Waking World, there are limits to his capabilities, especially because he has to pass as human, but in The Dreaming? The imagination is the limit so, theoretically, could he get as big as Arishem?

Onto my questions regarding Dreams and Nightmares. Seeing as The Corinthian is the one we get to see the most, I will be using him in my examples.

First and foremost, he screams when the AoP destroys him. Is that actual pain he's feeling, or is it just a mental thing? He thinks it should hurt and so it feels like it does, but really it doesn't, kind of thing? Second... okay so the AoP is used on Cori. We get to, sorta, see his insides as he gets destroyed, and then again as he reforms in The Dreaming. What is he made of and what exactly is his anatomy??? Right before the flesh (???) reforms, there is what appears to be some kind of metallic structure vaguely reminiscent of bone that reforms, most clearly seen as his outstretched hand reforms, and something else underneath it, like he's made of 3 layers. It's really intriguing. Does he have organs beyond his mouths? Also, Fanon likes to claim his ocular mouths have tiny tongues (which is cute af) and I need to know if that's Canon immediately.

Furthermore, does he breathe?? Morpheus gets trapped in a sphere (I feel like fishbowl is too rude, like it's taking how fucking serious and traumatic that was for him and just... 'ooh funny' so I refuse to call it that) made of glass and iron for over a century and according to Google, the average amount of time for air to run out in a sealed area is 12 days. Less than 2 weeks. He spent more than a century just... not breathing because after 12 days THERE WAS NO AIR.

Which implies that he either A, doesn't need to breathe at all and does so out of convenience (you need air to speak, Burgess you fucking dumbass) and maybe habit or B, because he cannot die, he feels the need to breathe but it just... won't kill him. Which means he spent over a century with all the terrible symptoms that a lack of air provides, including a constant burning in his lungs and his head feeling like it was going to explode...

But all that to say, does that mean Cori doesn't need to breathe? Does he even have lungs??? WHAT IS HIS ANATOMY??? HE CLEARLY HAS A DICK SINCE HE USES IT THROUGHOUT THE SHOW! What else has he got??? I just... I want concept art or something similar that shows his insides and what he's made of, as creepy as that probably sounds. I need to know how human he is on the inside. My morbid curiosity will not be satisfied without these answers man. Also, random side note: why tf is his hair platinum blonde when he enters Burgess' manor?? When Morpheus confronted him before, it wasn't platinum, and at no other point is it platinum blonde. Why just THAT scene? It always vaguely irritates me because it's weird.

Also... what, exactly, is The Darkness? Because if it's what I think it is, that is the cruelest thing Morpheus could fucking do. It sounds like it's a fucking void where your consciousness sits, no body, just you and your thoughts, alone, no ability to see, or speak, or breathe, or touch, or fucking feel anything and... God I'm about to go into a fucking panic attack just THINKING about it, wtf Morpheus! Just pitch black NOTHINGNESS, more of an absence of everything than anything else, the goddamn VOID.

Back to Hob though, is he the kind of guy who will eagerly tell you about all the ways people have tried to kill him, completely casually, maybe even laughing at some of them no matter how bad they are, or does some of his almost-deaths haunt him? Does he have an uncontrollable fear of bodies of water because they tried to drown him??? Does he have PTSD and recurring nightmares from all the War he's seen, or does his immortality render his brain incapable of 'breaking' under pressure? Orrrrr has his brain 'broken' multiple times from all of it, but because he's immortal, he always comes back from it?

I ALMOST FORGOT!

Morpheus tells Rose that he 'failed in his duty, an entire universe was lost' uh... wtf does that mean? This is at least the 2nd Universe the Endless have been in and I want to know if they just... went to another one once their previous one died (which, Death says something about shutting the door behind her when she leaves so maybe???) or if they pulled a Futurama and just waited for another universe to form around them. You know, that episode of Futurama where Fry finally gets a date with Leela, but the Professor built a time machine THAT ONLY MOVES FORWARD IN TIME and Fry doesn't have much of a choice and gets dragged along and they fuck up and end up going through 3 different universes before they finally stop moving forward in time and Fry just barely makes his date. Is it like that???

Also, Morpheus says he holds 'the entire collective unconscious'... is that just Earth, or the entire Universe? He doesn't say human unconscious, partly because we know most animals on earth can dream and so he holds their collective unconscious as well, but is it the ENTIRE UNIVERSE? Because the human population on Earth alone is 7.837 billion. That isn't including ANY of the animals that can dream. It's no wonder he has such strict and rigid rules! That's a LOT OF PEOPLE AND THAT'S JUST HUMANS! Even if you say there are only 5 total planets in the INFINITE universe with beings capable of dreaming, one is ours, and the other 4 only have half our population, that is still 23.511 billion beings (including our 7.837 billion) that he holds the collective unconscious and STILL doesn't include our animals or any potential animals on the other planets. That's just 5 planets. The universe is fucking INFINITE

[lostmf]

I’m not sure I deserve it ..

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello, Congratulations on the 5k follows!!

I discovered this fandom a few months ago and have been living for your writing ever since.

I was thinking as a drabble of the taskforce gentlemen coming home at the crack of dawn from a long mission and seeing their spouse's hand, limp on the ground peeking out from the side of the couch. All the panic and worry going thru their heads, so much bubbling up, horrible scenarios. They rush over and find you sleeping on the floor. The power had gone out last night and the hardwood floor was the coolest place to be (you didn't want to open the window because you know how they worry), so you were watching stuff on your phone and drifted off. Crisis averted!

Thank you for your time 💜

—Wide-Eyed Panic

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Why were you behind the couch?] ❞

I’ll start by saying all of them would be concerned and immediately go into panic mode—why were you behind the couch? Why was your hand sticking out? Why, in God's name, were you not moving? Cue the horrible thoughts and flashes of what went on in their work lives.

John Price ➺

John entered the house with a sigh, slipping off his boots as the door was closed and deftly locked behind him. Grunting under his breath, the man rubs over his face, the lights off as he calls out with a tired grumble to his voice. 

“I’m back,” his voice echoes, the tone moving through the darkness far louder than it should have. There’s no answer. “Love…?” Pausing, John blinks slowly at the wall, ear twitching to the utter silence of the home. No water in the pipes. No buzzing of electricity. No you. Eyes rising, they dart around quickly as his finger moves out to the light switch. A small push elicits nothing, just as he thought. The power was out. 

Dread slowly creeps into John’s chest.

Hand reaching behind his back, the man’s fingers inch over the smooth metal of a pistol, grasping the weapon before he begins walking forward. He keeps silent, feet moving to where he knows the wood won't creak. 

His mind runs. 

Why was the power off? Where were you? Why didn’t you respond—were you hurt? John’s mind goes to blood and bullets, his jaw clenching tightly as the pistol comes out to rest in front of him; hands shifting the grip as he takes a soothing breath. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone, but it would be pointless to lie about how his heart hammers. 

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes going tight. 

That’s when he sees it. Blue eyes widen sharply. 

“Love!” John shouts, all other concerns about intruders meaningless to him. Your hand was sticking out from behind the couch, a dark shadow in the low light. He rushes over as you jerk, yelling in alarm as he rushes to grab you, pulling you up into his arms and pulling you away into the closet across the room.

“John!” You blink rapidly as you’re set back against the wall. 

“Shush now,” he grunts, eyes panicked. “Keep awake, let me look.” A hand moves all over your body, searching and pulling at clothes to touch the skin for any wounds. “Tell me where it hurts, then. Quickly. We have to move—”

“John, what the hell,” you push at him, moving him back. Your eyes try to adjust to being so rudely awakened at such an hour. “What are you doing?!”

You weren’t hurt. 

The Captain’s face pulls in with confusion, back against the closet door and now in more darkness than ever before. He can barely make out your face before you sigh and put your hands against his arms. 

Things begin to calm down as his hand rests at your hip, nearly tight enough to bruise. In his other is the gun just before you put your hand to it and softly peel the item away from him—putting it on the shelf that you know is to your left. 

Hands find John’s cheeks as he pants.

“John,” you say his name again. “...what happened.”

“Why were you on the ground?” He forces out firmly, voice a low grunt. “Why were the lights not—”

“The power went out for everyone, okay?” You speak slowly, rubbing your thumbs over his beard. “It was on the news. I didn’t open a window because I knew you would worry about that—the floor was cool and it was getting too hot in here.” 

Your mind tells you to explain quickly and fluently. You move forward and press your forehead into John’s as he sags with a great exhalation of breath—his arms circling you tightly until your spine might crack. 

He doesn’t speak for a long while, just holding you.

“Scared me,” he mutters, missing you deeply on the forehead, speaking into your skin. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

He keeps you to his chest, eyes fluttering shut and his spine hunching over you, fingers splayed over your back. You run your hands through his hair and calm the swelling of your heart.

You can feel his pulse mirroring your own.

Simon Riley ➺

When he sees your hand, he freezes. 

Simon wasn’t a stranger to the lights being off in the home—you opted for lamps and low light more often than not; this wasn’t new. He had only quirked a brow when he came home to the pitch-blackness, off from his recent deployment and eager for a warm bed to fall into. He admits he’d let himself calm down on the car ride home—your home was where he could relax and release tension until it became as unimportant as an ant on the pavement. 

But when he’d closed the door silently behind him and walked the few steps it would take to enter the living room, where he was sure you were still up either reading or watching something on your phone under a blanket, his body had stiffened immediately. 

Your hand sticking out from behind the couch. Limp. 

Lifeless.  

He’d been staring at it for only a few seconds before the memories came back—the ones of gore splattered to the walls and ceiling of an old flat back in Manchester. 

Simon’s thoughts had hit him like a bullet.

Not again.

Rushing forward like a bear, the man slips along the hardwood as his knees go down, shaking the home at the force at which he grabs at your body and flips you from your side to your back. 

You gasp awake and instinctually throw out a fist, connecting with a stone chest as you hiss and blink in panic. 

Fingers ruthlessly dig into your shoulders, wide brown eyes open, and…and afraid. 

“Simon?” You mutter softly, all fear in your heart is squished in an instant. 

The man breathes through wheezes, balaclava fabric moving from the force of his breaths. His fingers are shaking, blinking as his head jerks to look your lying form up and down swiftly. 

You hesitantly put a hand on his cheek and he flinches before nuzzling into it. 

“Don’t…” he takes a quivering breath into his lungs, and after, loosens his grip on your skin. Simon’s hands go to your waist, dragging you up and stapling you to his chest. “Don’t do that again.”

His voice is low. Vulnerable. 

You blink, hands holding him back on the floor. 

“...The power went out,” you try to explain only half of it softly, muffled by his neck. 

He only holds you harder, eyes open and blankly staring at the floor a foot away.

Johnny MacTavish ➺

Johnny hums a song under his breath, hanging his keys on the hook near the door.

“Dearie!” He calls to you loudly, itching at the side of his head and chuckling. “Don’t run too fast to me now, I’m all yours for two w—”

The light switch is moved by his finger, but no light illuminates his path to the living room. Pausing in the entrance, the man’s brows furrow tightly, speech cutting off like scissors to paper. 

“...eeks?” Johnny ends his sentence, turning back around to look at the switch in confusion. “The hell’s going on with that?” He mutters to himself, a frown growing on his face before he refocuses on his mission to find you—now with the added task of figuring out why the power was out in the house. 

“Swear,” the man grumbles, huffing while he runs a hand over his face, “if those kids down the street did something I’ll be livid. Little devils, I swear.” 

Johnny steps farther into the living room, glancing around. 

“Dearie?” He pauses, listening before calling out your name. “Where’s she off to?”

He sighs softly, wanting to hold you now that he’s home to do so—squeeze you in his arms and take in your scent again; he’d missed you immensely while he was away.

Johnny came across your hand sticking out from behind the couch by accident, moving to make his way into your bedroom thinking that you were sleeping. He sees an odd shape in the blackness and pauses, feet slowing to a stop. 

When he notices that it’s a hand—your hand, he doesn’t even realize that he’s completely gripped the side of the couch and wrenched it back until the scratch of the wood floors screams in his ears. 

You wake up to hands on your cheeks, sharp yelling, and your head being shaken up and down until you’re conscious. 

“Dearie, hey! What the fuck,” the last sentence is growled on fast lips. “What the fuck.”

Your hands slap to Johnny’s wrists, nails digging in. 

He breathes out quickly, looking into your eyes to look for dilation as the darkness forces him closer. “There we are, tell me where you’re hurting, now, yeah? Did you hit your head? Let me take a look. It’s okay, I’ll get you all fixed up, there’s no need to worry.”

“Hey!” Your hands push at his, trying to shove the brick wall away from you. “Quit it! Johnny! I’m fine! ”

The man pauses at your animated movements, blinking rapidly before his grip loosens. 

When it’s obvious that you’re perfectly fine, he moves back and groans, thumb and forefinger digging into his nose bridge. 

“Hell’s bells, Hen.” You glare, panting on the floor before you push yourself up. 

“‘Hell’s bells’, me?” Johnny’s head plops to your shoulder. “You just shook me like a fucking rabbit!” 

“Scared the shite out of me, you terror.” The man huffs. “Need to put a heart monitor on you.”

“Piss off,” you sigh, putting a hand to your chest to feel the pace of your pulse and the blood that runs furiously.

Johnny, moments later as he’s still resting on your shoulder, starts…laughing. Low at first, then gaining noise the more it goes unchecked—a deep rumble into chest-jerking amusement. You look down at him, the couch tilted and long scratches over the floor. Pausing, you blink at his shaking shadow before your lungs start quivering. The two of you bend over one another with shared, house-shaking laughter. 

“What the fuck were you doin’ behind the damn couch?” Johnny grabs you close, kissing along your neck as he picks you up, dragging you to your feet. 

“The power went out!” You giggle, chest hurting from the fast gasps of breath as more kisses are spread over your skin. “It was colder down there and I didn’t want to open one of the windows because I knew you’d throw a pouting match about it.”

“Christ, Dearie.” Lips meet your own. “I had half the mind to think you had a heart attack. Nearly gave me one.”

Kyle Garrick ➺

Kyle sighs as he rubs at his jaw, itching the skin and slipping out of his jacket. 

“I’m home, Love!” He says, his voice echoing over the flat. “Want me to start on supper or have you eaten yet?” The man smiles, taking off his cap and putting it on the coat rack, sighing softly. 

It was good to be back. 

Bending down to unlace his boots, he pulls at them until they’re loose enough to slip out of, thumping to their sides on the rug until he reaches out and fixes them. 

“What’s that, then?” He calls into the darkness, not hearing your answer as he quickly checks the time on his phone. “Fuck, it’s late,” Kyle utters to himself. 

Walking into the kitchen, he touches the light switch only to be met with nothing. Pausing, the man’s face pulls in—fingers twitching at his sides as he glances at the window and the moonlight that seeps in to glare along the floor. 

A deep frown takes hold of him, and he looks around once more before backing up.

“...Love?” Kyle wasn’t too concerned—the building wasn’t always the best, and power outages weren’t unheard of. But, damn, if the high of getting off of a deployment didn’t put him in a negative head-space when it came to a change in routine involving you. 

Why weren’t you answering him?

Walking slightly faster into the living room, his hand nearly reaches into his pocket to call your phone if you didn’t end up in any of the rooms—pulse beginning to be infected with a steady injection of adrenaline. 

Brown eyes find your hand behind the couch when they’re about to shift to the open door of your bedroom. A sharp gasp is inhaled instantaneously. 

Kyle races over, grappling to it and pressing his fingers to your neck for a pulse. You softly breathe, none the wiser as you lightly shift and sigh in your sleep; a delicate hum moving out as familiar fingers dig into you. 

It’s through his panic that a thought quickly cuts through the man’s mind. You’d mentioned this before. 

Kyle pauses, just about to loudly wake you. 

‘It gets hot when the power goes out, Kyle, I swear one of these days I’m going to just fall asleep on the floor. At least it’s cool down there.’

Well, the power was out, and, it seemed, you really had fallen asleep on the floor. Now that he thought about it, the flat was running hot—and he also knew that you knew he had gotten nervous of late when you left the windows open at night. 

“Bloody hell,” the man releases a long breath, free hand moving to grip the back of his head. A few seconds later, Kyle chuckles to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. “You are losing it, Mate. Losing it.” 

Without another word, he grips you, and with a grunt, picks you up and takes you to bed, setting you down on the pillows and making sure to leave the sheets off of you so you don’t grow uncomfortable.

A kiss is pressed to your forehead, and you hum in slumber, smiling unconsciously.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Love.” 

He leaves to go make a quick supper of cereal and milk.

[cccat-in-a-meat-sack]

me, with both:...

[hyperfixating-chic]

Anytime a Wayne gets a kidnapping threat Jason fits a pun in on how he died

“Hey, I mean, worse comes to worse, the worst thing that you can do is *die*”

“—Jason.”

But he gets a kidnapping threat? Gosh, stay out of Bruce’s way. Jason isn’t out of his sight once and if that maybe, possibly, makes Jason feel a little safer, he ain’t telling anyone.

But he might get a few more nightmares than usual, might work on his knot and lock picking skills, even though it makes him feel stupid.

Bruce might be working on how fast his motorcycle goes, he might sneak in Jason’s room to check on him a couple (No Barbara, it has not been every night—) times, might tell him he loves him more often, might panic when Jason goes on patrol, might trail him to make sure his baby is safe, but Jason might not hate it.

[rosquinn]

im seeing a lot of holden haters on the catcher in the rye tag again so id like to tap the sign

[doobledabbadoo]

I love your flippy! May we have some more fanart of him??? <33333

certainly! heres some recent art i did of him + a few headcanons!

heres the individual images!!

[maybe-im-dark]

Alright, let’s talk about Logan’s PTSD. People throw around the term “bad memories” or “scary flashbacks,” but for him, PTSD is much more than that. His trauma isn’t just something he can brush off or ignore—it’s embedded in him, in every single fiber of his being, and the triggers are painfully specific.

Imagine needles. For most people, needles are a brief discomfort. But for Logan, they’re a brutal reminder of the agonizing, torturous hours he spent during the adamantium bonding process. Think about it: needles didn’t just prick his skin; they drilled into his bones, pumping molten metal to fuse with his skeleton. It’s like he’s reliving those moments every time he sees a needle. It’s not just a shot—it’s the memory of lying on a table, helpless and immobilized, as they drilled deeper and deeper until he became Weapon X. When doctors suggest anything that involves needles—like an IV or drawing blood—he has to fight the urge to lash out because it throws him right back to that table.

And the thing is, it’s not just needles. Medical procedures, in general, set off alarm bells for him. Even something as routine as an EEG, where they place electrodes on his head, is a complete no-go. Why? Because it looks too much like the mind control helmet Stryker and the scientists used on him, the one that allowed them to twist his thoughts and make him an unfeeling weapon. It doesn’t matter that it’s safe; Logan’s mind is hardwired to associate it with the moments when he lost control of his own mind and body, forced to do unspeakable things.

Then there’s the ever-present sense of vigilance. Logan isn’t just “hyper-aware” like most superheroes; he’s hyper-aware to the point of exhaustion. He’s constantly on alert, watching his back, assessing threats in every room he walks into. His senses are razor-sharp, which makes it impossible to ignore any sight, sound, or smell that might bring a painful memory flooding back. Smells, in particular, can set him off. The sterile smell of hospitals, or the faint chemical scent in labs, can bring him back to moments he’d rather forget. And he can’t just shut his senses down, so every little trigger feels amplified, making it a battle just to stay grounded.

And let’s not forget nightmares. Logan’s sleep is a minefield of traumatic memories. We see him wake up in sweats, sometimes even with his claws unsheathed. He’ll wake up clawing, gasping, fighting off shadows of the past that linger long after he’s woken. For him, sleep isn’t rest—it’s another battlefield, where memories become physical sensations he can’t escape. And he’ll never fully let his guard down, even around the people he loves, because he knows that one misstep could mean hurting them, especially when his subconscious doesn’t recognize friend from foe.

Logan’s need to protect his food is something that catches people off guard. But when you’ve spent years in wars, surviving on scraps, and when you’ve gone hungry as a kid running through the wilderness, that survival instinct sticks. Logan has real food insecurity—even if logically, he knows he’s safe now.

Logan will often stash food in his room, even with Wade assuring him there’s plenty in the kitchen. He needs to see that food, to know it’s there just in case. And god help anyone who takes food off his plate; he’ll instinctively react, growling or baring his teeth. It’s not about being rude or greedy; it’s a primal reaction, a reminder of times when he didn’t know when his next meal would come.

So, no, Logan’s PTSD isn’t just “bad memories.” It’s physical, it’s mental, and it affects every part of his life—from how he interacts with doctors and hospitals to how he navigates relationships and even his own body. For Logan, trauma isn’t just something he “deals with” or “works through”—it’s something he lives with, in every moment.

[blu3b3rryj4mp1r3]

Friendly reminder that "I bought you nice things", "I gave you food and a roof over your head" and "I've never hit/physically hurt you" does not justify emotional abuse, neglect or parentification.

And if when being confronted they make you feel guilty and get defensive and passive aggressive saying some variant of "Oh well I must've been such a terrible parent!" and tell you how they bought you nice things for your birthdays and how your basic needs were met, that does not make your feelings and trauma invalid. You're not a bad person or ungrateful for feeling hurt.

[bangs-coffee-fandoms-unite]

I am in the middle of rewatching the 2003 version of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles during my summer break from college, this time with my father, who had only seen bits and pieces of it when I watched it as a child. We are currently on season four, which fans often refer to as the "post-traumatic stress disorder arc" for Leonardo, as it depicts his mental deterioration and increasing anger, even surpassing that of his notoriously hot-headed brother.

While doing the dishes, I asked my father what he thought of the arc so far. He simply said, "He seems angry." I agreed, replying, "Yeah, he's angry at himself." My father responded, "Yeah, but he's also angry at his brothers." This made me pause. I knew Leonardo had moments where he was upset with his brothers for not training enough or for goofing off, but I had not thought of him as being outright angry with them.

Then my father elaborated, "He's angry because they're not perfect, like he expects himself to be." This was a revelation for me. I had always interpreted this arc as Leonardo being angry at himself for not being good enough, but it makes a lot of sense that if he holds himself to such a high standard, he would hold his brothers to the same—and get frustrated and angry when they inevitably do not meet it.

I think a less explored aspect of this arc is that Leonardo is exhausted from carrying the burden alone and was trying to share it with his brothers. However, they do not carry it the same way he does, which does not make them lesser—it just makes them young and still wanting a life outside of crime fighting. Michelangelo captures this sentiment best in the same season when he says,”I think all of you should just lay off the poor guy. I mean, it can't be fun. Always being the responsible one, and we’re the ones who really benefit. Raph's free not to think cause Leo does all the thinking for him, Don's free to dream, And I'm free to take it easy, all cause Leonardo is busy being responsible enough for all of us.”

Anyway, at the ripe age of twenty-two and in graduate school, I find myself once again feeling melancholic over little green guys.

[nyazai-osameow]

a silly little comic of a convo i had with a friend one night

[teaboot]

Every so often someone IRL gets on my ass about a dumb shit thing I'm doing and it's fine usually except sometimes it's really condescending and holier-than-though and after I've tried a few times to say "yes I know this" and they haven't shut up I kinda wanna just

yanno

[lostmf]

[daffodilmornings]

Anyway, victims of rape deserve a safe space online to vent. We deserve to be open about our feelings, and our hatred and fear is valid as yours is to anything else that has harmed you. Stop silencing rape victims as "radfem man-haters" and listen to them as victims of continuous abuse at the hands of men and a patriarchal society that does not put these men behind bars.

RADFEMS AND TERFS DO NOT TOUCH