#and then there was you know. the paranoia and constant anxiety and trauma from being next door to the DJD

[lord-squiggletits]

The funny thing about Pharma and the Delphi situation is that that's where the concept of the DJD was first introduced (with the first scene with the DJD at work happening literally the issue afterwards, issue #6) and literally the more you learn about the DJD the more it vindicates Pharma in his paranoia and being convinced that he couldn't ask for help like

In the Delphi issues we learn that the DJD hunts down Decepticon turncoats/traitors/etc and that Ambulon, one of the Delphi staff, was a Decepticon traitor. We also learn that their leader is evidently terrifying in addition to being a t-cog addict, but that's it.

Except in the subsequent issue #6 and all issues with the DJD afterwards, we learn a variety of fun facts about the DJD such as

Several of the members either literally transform into torture equipment or have said torture equipment built into their bodies

Their leader, Tarn, the guy with the t-cog addiction that forced Pharma into blackmail, can kill people with just his VOICE

We later learn that the DJD have a fanatical devotion to the Decepticon cause/Megatron such that they literally worship an idol of Megatron

Even later on, we learn that Tarn's kill-you-with-his-voice powers work both over the phone and via recordings of his voice

Tarn is also very talkative during torture sessions and he seems to find pleasure in his stupid, smug-smart guy persona where he likes to describe to victims what's happening to them and why. And there's no reason he wouldn't apply this to Autobots just as much as he does to Decepticon traitors

The DJD have access to signal jamming technologies that make it so that even if their victim can get a help signal out, no one will receive it until weeks after the fact

Their entire system of hunting people down is based on pursuing them no matter what, isolating them from any help, driving them mad with psychological terror, etc

They're capable enough warriors to slaughter an entire ships' worth of people, apparently without sustaining any meaningful casualties

They're drug addicts that are prone to overdosing and/or losing control and slaughtering people while they're under the influence

So like???

If Pharma was only privy to HALF of the things that we as the audience know about the DJD, it's perfectly reasonable to assume that Pharma probably wanted to call for help at some point, but was convinced that doing so would lead to 1. the signal being jammed/blocked so no one would help anyways 2. him and everyone else at Delphi (including the TRAITOR WHO IS ONE OF THEIR EMPLOYEES) would be horribly tortured to death by fanatical Decepticon torturer freaks.

Like I get that in the text Pharma only says that he did the Red Rust stuff so that he wouldn't be caught/blamed for the t-cog deal and is prideful about how he stopped the DJD from murdering Delphi, but like...... there's no fucking way that Pharma going "oh I didn't want to get in trouble and also I'm better than everyone" was his PRIMARY reason for everything on Delphi. Pharma didn't go from perfectly normal/sane Autobot doctor to raving egotistical maniac because he was always an asshole and he decided to solve the DJD issue in an asshole way. It's bc according to all canon evidence we have of the DJD and the way they react to traitors/Autobots, Pharma had every reason to fear for his life and believe that no aid would come to him.

[decojellyfish]

So we saw Guard dog! ghost and kitten! reader

Rescued fighting dogs! Ghost and Soap with cat! reader

how about we get some of Price adopting a puppy! reader and reader having to learn the ropes from Older dogs! Ghost, Soap, and Gaz(maybe??)?

or just Price rescuing another former fighting dog! reader and them being all defensive against former fighting dogs! Ghost, Soap and Gaz(maybe??), maybe even fighting against them when they(soap) try to get too close for reader’s comfort

Thank you so much for being my second request!! I decided to go with the second prompt you offered me, and I had fun writing it! I just don't have fun making you guys cry because, fair warning, this one is gonna be angstyyy... 😔 But I hope you guys enjoy!

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Bite

Hybrid AU! TF141 Retired Fight Dog! Gaz, Ghost, and Soap x Retired Fight Dog! GN! Reader x Owner! Price Reader is only addressed as ‘you’

SFW ~ Angst

Warnings: Brief/occasional swearing, mentions of abuse, depression, extreme violence, trauma

───♡───────────── Beginning Your body ached. You didn’t know if it was because you were starving, or if it was your muscles and joints crying out for help from your most recent fight. It was a couple of hours ago, and it was rough. Your previous owner had disowned you when he found a new pup to use and abuse for profit. Part of you was happy, the years of abuse and ruthless training were over. The other part of you was absolutely terrified. You had no more food, no treats, no worn-out bed for you to sleep on, and no roof over your head.

You’d been homeless for nearly a year. You gave up on keeping exact track months ago. Your slightly sunken stomach never ceases its eternal growl, constantly yearning for food. Dumpster diving has become a part of your lifestyle. You had managed to find some food, albeit moldy and/or coated in garbage juices, but it was still food. ‘Food is fight fuel’ was constantly echoing through your head, while you fought off the sickness going through your head as realization set in that you were literally eating garbage. Sometimes, you even wondered if food was even worth it. You weren’t fighting as much as you used to. Sometimes you were suddenly assaulted by other stray fighter dogs as well, forcing you to live in constant paranoia, anxiety, and a never-ending feeling like you had to fight.

There were times that you even lashed out at strangers because of this constant fear. Domesticated dogs would find themselves abruptly thrown into a fight when you were around. They would leave with scratches, bites, bruises, and even chunks of flesh missing due to your fierce bite. In the underground fighting scene, you were most known for how gnarly the wounds from your bites would be.

This would result in animal control being called on you. But you’d evaded them countless times, which meant that you were far from where you originally came from. You would bounce from alley to alley, town to city. You were far from home if you could even call where you came from ‘a home’.

Though you were far from old enemies, you still made new ones. You were so used to lashing out that you were still getting into fights, but now you were getting into fights with fight dogs you didn’t even know.

Some days, you were tired. So tired, you just wanted to lay in your current alleyway and just rot. Let the bugs eat away at you, sometimes you even want to turn yourself into the pound. At least there you would have food in your belly and a semi-warm place to sleep. On other days, you were mad. So mad, you just wanted to paint the town red with any kind of blood, even your own.

Today was a tired day. You were lying against a wall, it was raining. Rain would be the closest you had to being bathed. Your rotted clothes were soaked and falling apart, your hair sticking to your face and skin as you stared at the opposing wall. Your eyes had nothing behind them, you were lost in your little world. Your happy place.

You imagined yourself in a cabin, or a cottage, just somewhere secluded and cozy. You had a loving partner, and pups of your own to take care of. A garden in the backyard, full of fruit, vegetables, and herbs. A flower garden in the front yard, full of daffodils, tulips, rose bushes, and trumpet lilies. You wore soft clothes like they were made of clouds. In your happy place, you were warm. In your happy place, you were safe.

Unfortunately, you were ripped out of your happy place by a smell. A familiar smell. Multiple familiar smells. Your heart had already started to beat rapidly, and the sense of adrenaline you had when in the fighting ring was coming back, slapping you in the face. You shifted your position from laying back against a wall to standing up and ready to fight, your teeth already beginning to show and a low growl slowly leaving your throat.

Familiar smells were never good, it meant that someone who had been made an enemy was close. Another fight was about to happen. You could hear men chatting with each other, though it was muffled by the ringing in your ear as your brain was now filled with nothing but adrenaline, panic, and one word. Fight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Price was going on his weekly walk with his boys, all rescues. His home had become somewhat of a mini rehabilitation center. His pups, although fully grown dogs, were his pride and joy to be around. Gaz was his first rescue about seven years ago, Soap was rescued about two years after Gaz, and Ghost had been rescued three years before today. Price, himself, was a retired military veteran.

He enjoyed going on walks with his pups, he found it to be a nice bonding experience. Although today was rainy, it didn’t stop the group from following tradition. Gaz loved the rain, the sound and the feeling of raindrops hitting windows, umbrellas, or even himself was beyond calming for him. Soap didn’t particularly like rain, it mostly made him think of those unbelievably sad scenes in movies that involved rain, like an intense breakup. Ghost was neutral about it.

But Ghost found himself focused on something else, a smell. He glanced over at Soap, who could also smell this sudden scent. “Stop.” Ghost spoke firmly, grabbing Price’s shoulders and looking at the rest of the group. “Stay here, I smell something.” “Ghost, I don’t want you getting hurt-“ Price protested, only to be interrupted by Soap. “Stay, somethin’s here tha’ could rip out your throat.”

Gaz was worried as well, even though the scent wasn’t as familiar to him as it was to Ghost and Soap. He could smell a large amount of adrenaline and even panic or fear mixed in.

Ghost slowly walked up to the scent source and braced himself, slowly watching as a familiar face came into view. The two of you had been through plenty of fights together, each parting putting up a massive fight. You were snarling at him when he approached you, your body unconsciously moving closer to the wall, further away from him as he grew closer. Your hollow, starved appearance had him taken aback. You looked terrible. You were coated in scabs, bruises, and open wounds that had miraculously not gotten infected.

Your heart was beating so fast, that both you and Ghost could hear it. He had his hands up, his palms open as he showed he wasn’t looking for a fight. That didn’t stop you though. All you could see was all those fights, years ago. Ghost snarling back at you before he would nearly tear a chunk out of you while you almost ripped both of his ears off. You lunged at him with a loud bark, tackling him as you began to scratch and bite at him.

The group was startled, and terrified. They would all run to Ghost as they tried to get this rabid dog off of him. Of course, four men against you was an unfair fight and you were swiftly removed from the fight.

Soap held you against the ground, crouching over you as he pinned both of your arms behind your back as you continued to snarl and attempt to bite. You panted and stared at them with wide eyes, mostly focusing on Ghost and Soap since they were enemies from the past.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, aren’t you..?” You spoke shakily, to either of the boys. Soap could feel how strong and deep your breaths were as you hyperventilated.

All the men shared a glance of worry, Soap spoke up, “We’re not those dogs anymore.” Ghost would nod in shared agreement. “You don’t look so good, since the last time I saw you.” He looked down at you, noting how your stomach churned from hunger, how tired your eyes were, and your slightly raspy breath. Even your recent wounds worried him, some nearly looking like early stages of infection.

You grunted as you struggled under him, “Yeah, well, ‘m happy to see you guys living the high life.” You grumbled, the other dogs’ ears twitching as they heard a slight crack in your voice. You couldn’t ignore it, you were jealous. They didn’t look as tired as they did at your last fight, not on edge all the time, they looked well fed, and they smelled good too. And worst of all, what made you want to lash out at all of them, even their owner, was the fact that they looked happy with this new life. The life that you desired that always seemed to be out of reach.

All the men looked back at Price, Gaz included, with one question in their eyes. ‘Can we keep them?’

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Taking you back to their home was a fight in it of itself. You couldn’t help but be scared. Maybe they were all tricking you, maybe they were gonna lock you up in their house and sell you off to another owner in the underground fighting scene. Maybe they really were going to kill you. You only felt slightly safe with Gaz, but that’s because he didn’t look as scarred a fighter as Ghost and Soap, and his eyes held a safer gaze than the other two. He would hold your hand on the way home, firmly but protectively. However, he only did this after you attempted to run away from the group about 4 times.

Arriving at the Price household, there was an overwhelming amount of smells. Everything smelled like all the boys, but individually and in one unit all at the same time. You would stay close to the front door at the entrance, scared to step one foot further into the house. You still didn’t know if it was safe or not. Price respected this, though. He had Gaz let go of your hand so you could settle into the house at your own pace. The look of fear in your eyes was one that he was familiar with, he’d seen it in all his other boys when he first brought them home.

He had the boys all continue on with their night, only giving you directions to the bathroom in case you needed it at some point.

As time went on, your legs would grow tired of just standing. You remained seated, close to the door as you watched the household live out their lives. Price would only stop by you once for the night, and it was to give you a late-night snack and to wish you a good night. He had set down a plate with pieces of watermelon and a glass of water. He left after that, supposedly going to bed. The boys would stay up a bit later, they would watch you in secret. But you were quickly able to tell they were spying on you, however, you let them continue.

You saw it as a way to test if they were trustworthy. Your ears slightly twitch as you listen to their whispers.

“...how do you know them…?” Gaz would whisper, curiosity lacing his voice. “...Ghost and I have had a few tussles with ‘em years ago…” “...Fierce dog… don’t underestimate them…” Ghost grumbled in reply, Soap nodding in agreement. “...Nearly took mah whole face off…” Soap chuckled. “...They almost got my ears…” Ghost added.

You would faintly smile at the warning of underestimating you as a fighter dog. But then you were reminded that you were a fighter dog. And a successful one. Any moral being would never want to be a successful fighter dog. That meant you were scary and either could have killed or even mutilated another dog. Memories of all your fights would flash across your mind, like a blinding camera shot. Your successful ones, the ones where you would lose and your owner showed you what bad dogs get for losing. The bits of compassion you would feel for your opponent as they bleed out, or yowled in pain as their bones broke, pellets of skin torn off, or their bleeding gums from when you knocked nearly all their teeth out.

You wanted to hug them, apologize to them, tell them that you wished you could fix them. Only to have those moments of kindness wiped from your mind as the shrieks and cheers of your owner and the people who bet money on you were released into the air.

Coming back to reality, you were perplexed when you didn’t hear the whispers anymore. Taking a chance, you glanced up at the boys. Only to see that they were now staring at you, curious and worried. You didn’t know why they were staring until you heard a soft pit-pat against the floor beneath you.

Glancing down, you saw little droplets. Your hand instinctively raised to your face, feeling little beads of tears and the streaks they left behind on your face. You would quickly smear your tears away and shoot the dogs a mean growl before reluctantly stuffing a piece of watermelon into your mouth. You just wanted something else to focus on aside from the stares you were getting right now.

An hour later, the men had all gone to sleep and you had eaten all the food Price had given you and drank all the water he offered. You stayed awake throughout the whole night, however. You still didn’t trust anyone, believing the house was a trap.

Morning arrived, your eyes tired but still open as you didn’t want to lose your guard. Price was the first one up, yawning and scratching at his chest as he walked into the room. He would glance down at you, smiling when he saw you’d eaten all your food.

“Food was good, yeah? Don’t worry, I’ll get you some more soon.” He chuckled, taking your empty dishes away and heading into the kitchen.

You felt awkward now, just sitting there as Price had begun to cook breakfast. You would quietly stand up and slink into the kitchen, sitting on the cold tile as you would watch him from a random corner of the room. It had been about ten minutes before Price would look over his shoulder to check on you, only seeing that you weren’t in your previous spot. He would then glance down at you in your new spot, chuckling to himself.

“Got bored of the old spot?” He asked before going back to cooking. He didn’t expect you to be speaking right out the gate, all the other boys were like that too when he first took them in. After a few minutes, Gaz would walk in, rubbing at his eye. A big smile formed on his face as he smelled the currently cooking food. “Smells good in here, Price.” He would then finally look at you, mildly surprised you had moved but he would regain his smile.

Waving at you, he would approach you but keep his distance. “Did you sleep well last night…?” You silently stared at him, your restlessness very obvious, especially in your eyes. “Did you sleep- at all last night…?” He looked concerned, his brows only furrowing more when you shook your head no. “...Too scared?” You stayed quiet. “That’s okay, Ghost and I were like that too.” He smiled at you. You couldn’t deny it, he was a comforting ball of sunshine to you.

“I could set up a bed on the couch for you, I could even keep the telly on for you if you like falling asleep to that sort of thing.” You remained quiet as he talked to you, causing him to let out a slightly amused but comforting huff. “That’s okay, you can think about it during breakfast.”

Breakfast included food that was the most delicious food you had devoured in years. French toast, fried eggs, bacon. You would quietly inhale the first actual meal you’d had in a long time, everyone else watching you at the kitchen table, some trying not to laugh at your eagerness.

You awkwardly stared at everyone else, wiping away some yolk on your mouth with your hand. Price chuckled, “That reminds me, we ought to give you a bath today and get you some new clothes.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You awkwardly sat in the tub as Gaz would scrub a sudsy sponge along your back. Price was washing some clothes, making sure the scent was cleaned out so you had no trouble with wearing them.

“Don’t worry, I was like this when Price first took me in.” He laughed a little. “Quiet, scared, and I didn’t know if this place was my permanent home. But it is my home, and it’s gonna be your home too.” He smiled at you, now rubbing shampoo into your hair. “...what’s it like?” You looked up at him. “Y’know, living here? What’s it like?”

Gaz thought for a bit, also trying to make sure none of the shampoo got in your eyes. “Well, it’s nice. Good food, good clothes, good comfort. Price will sometimes pick up our favorite snacks for us, he’ll do that for you too, you just need to ask him or write it on the grocery list. We go on weekly walks around the block, sometimes we go to the park which is really fun. Especially with Soap, he really likes to play games at the park.”

That surprised you, you never took Soap to be a ‘fun games at the park’ kind of dog. Well, that could also be because you never got to see him or Ghost as a domesticated dog, your only memories of them being in the fighting rink. Maybe they have changed. Maybe you should give them a chance to show you they’ve changed.

Maybe they were doing that all along since they found you, only holding you down instead of attacking you in response to being attacked by an old foe.

The bath was eventually drained and you were dried off with a towel, Price coming in with a pair of folded up clothes, a t-shirt and some sweatpants. You were left alone in the bathroom to get dressed, also to let you just have time to yourself.

After a few minutes, you stepped out of the bathroom in your new attire. You couldn’t lie, the clothes were beyond comfy and were nice and warm. Probably fresh out of the dryer. The rest of the boys were on the couch, watching a show on the TV. You would stare at them before slowly beginning to move your legs towards the couch as well.

They would notice your approaching, but wouldn’t bring any extra attention to it. They all remember their first time trying to get comfortable in the new home. It honestly warmed their hearts watching you hesitate on where to sit before eventually picking a spot and huddling into the soft pillows.

Price was already dressed for the day and was writing down the current shopping list before slipping his shoes on. “Oy, Gaz, you’re coming with me for groceries today.” He called out to the couch, Gaz promptly getting up and putting his own shoes on. He waved to you and the other two before stepping out the front door, Price giving a wave as well. “We’ll be back in 30.”

You sat there in silence, now stuck with your past enemies. There was tension, no doubt. At least, that’s what you felt. You were the one who was constantly looking over at the boys, a nervous sweat forming on your forehead. The two were just sitting there, watching the commercials play and pass by.

Now that the only pacifists in the house were gone, they were going to pounce at any second. You were sure of it. At any given moment, they were gonna do it. So you sat there, in a state of constant fear and bracing yourself for a fight you didn’t even know would happen.

Ghost noticed your condition, Soap a few seconds later would see it too. “... you okay, pup?” Soap would ask, seeing the little bits of sweat on your skin. “You’re scared.” Ghost stated, looking deep into your defensive form. “You don’t need to be, you’re safe now. We all are. We aren’t the same dogs you fought those years ago.”

They continued to watch you, watching as you stayed quiet and just stared at them expectantly. “We know you’re also no’ the same dog from those fights. Ye dinnae have a choice, only doin’ tha’ for your own survival. Like us.” Soap’s eyes were full of empathy and concern.

“No need to be scared. It’s safe here.” He smiled at you, slowly reaching out to you to rub your shoulder.

You only saw the worst in people, you would see a possible future where he was reaching out to strangle you instead of comforting you. You thought you could see his teeth start to bare, maybe he was snarling at you.

You felt like you were back in the fighting ring. You could feel the adrenaline begin pulsing and coursing through your veins.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You didn’t know how you did it, it went by so fast. The last thing you saw was Soap’s teething smile and his hand. Now you were pressed up against a wall, hyperventilating at the sight of what you just did.

First, you  grabbed his arm, throwing him to the ground before you began to bite and tear at his flesh and clothes. You woke up when Ghost pinned you to the ground, keeping your wrists together so you couldn’t hurt anyone or yourself. You scrambled away from him and coward into a corner.

You thought you were doing good, only a day into this house and you were doing so good. You didn’t feel like a good pup, not anymore. You weren’t deserving of this house, these new clothes. the food that resided in your stomach. You were a bad dog. There was no way you could look any of the boys in the eye now. Not after what you did.

Lost in a tsunami of your thoughts, you couldn’t hear Ghost trying to reassure you, that it was normal for an outburst like this to happen. He, himself, did it to Price. He brought Soap to the bathroom, taking out the first aid kit along with a few extra bandages. Living in a house with a bunch of retired fighter dogs, the first aid kits would be a bit more extreme than a regular, everyday one.

When he returned to check on you, to tell you that Soap was going to be okay, he didn’t see you in your corner. Not even the spot you were in on your first day here. But he saw that right next to the spot, the door was left open.

They lost you. ───♡───────────── End

If you have any requests, or asks, feel free to submit them!

[unboundprompts]

Thank you so much for your blog! It's so neatly organized, it's lovely to read. It takes a lot of commitment to do detail every post and still constantly update, and I'm very grateful for you <3

I was wondering if you could write tips+prompts for a paranoid character?

Thank you again 😺

Thank you for the kind words!! That means a lot :)

How to Write a Paranoid Character

-> sources: mind.org , betterhealth.vic.gov

Paranoia is the irrational and persistent feeling that people are "out to get you."

Things that Make Paranoia More Likely:

Having confusing or unsettling experiences or feelings that you can't easily explain.

If you are anxious or worried a lot or have low self-esteem and expect others to criticize or reject you.

If you tend to come to conclusions quickly, believe things very strongly, and don't easily change your mind.

If you are isolated.

If you have experienced trauma in the past.

Things that may Contribute to Paranoid Thoughts:

Life experiences. You are more likely to experience paranoid thoughts when you are in vulnerable, isolated or stressful situations that could lead to you feeling negative about yourself.

Experiences in your childhood may lead you to believe that the world is unsafe or make you mistrustful and suspicious of others. These experiences may also affect your self-esteem and the way you think as an adult.

If you experience anxiety, depression, or low self-esteem, you may be more likely to experience paranoid thoughts.

Paranoia is sometimes a symptom of certain physical illnesses such as Huntington's disease, Parkinson's disease, strokes, Alzheimer's disease and other forms of dementia. Hearing loss can also trigger paranoid thoughts in some people.

Lack of sleep can trigger feelings of insecurity and even unsettling feelings and hallucinations. Fears and worries may develop late at night.

Recreational drugs may trigger paranoia, such as cocaine, cannabis, alcohol, ecstasy, LSD, and amphetamines. This may happen particularly if you're already feeling low, anxious or experiencing other mental health problems.

Research has suggested that genes may affect whether you are more likely to develop paranoia.

Symptoms of Paranoia:

being easily offended

finding it difficult to trust others

not coping with any type of criticism

assigning harmful meanings to other people's remarks

being always on the defensive

being hostile, aggressive, and argumentative

not being able to compromise

finding it difficult (or impossible) to "forgive and forget"

assuming that people are talking ill of them behind their back

being overly suspicious

not being able to confide in anyone

finding relationships difficult

considering the world to be a place of constant threat

feeling persecuted by the world at large

believing in unfounded conspiracy theories

Writing Prompts for a Paranoid Person

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Everyone was against him. No one liked to see him succeed and so they were doing everything in their power to stop him.

People were talking about her behind her back. They would whisper as she walked by, and their laughter would echo in her ears as she got further from them.

"You never believe me!" They wailed, pointing an accusing finger at their friend. "You wouldn't get it! You don't know what it's like to be hated by everyone!"

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and wide awake. It was a nightly routine, at this point. He could never bring himself to close his eyes. There were too many things going on his head, too many things that only made him dread when morning came.

Everything was about to go so wrong so fast, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. The impending doom beat down on her shoulders, reminding her that she was not okay. She was not safe.

They couldn't stop fidgeting with their hands. It used to offer some form of comfort, but not anymore. How could it when the whole world is against you?

They were looking at him. They were watching his every move. He was being tracked. Studied. Something was going to happen. Something bad. Something he wasn't prepared for. What could he do to be prepared?

"You think I'm crazy, but I'm not! You'll see."

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[qtubbo]

Almost everyone assuming the way to “fix” Tubbo not being happy being make him and Fred start dating again, because it’s the simplest solution but just isn’t the solution. Tubbo is not jealous of Fit and Pac’s relationship in comparison to him in Fred, any jealous is of himself being third pick, rather than anything to do with them actually dating. From his and Bagi’s talks with Fred, it becomes pretty obvious that Tubbo is avoiding getting back together with Fred. He knows Fred likes him still, both how she’s acting and from the “boy with the pretty eyes” letter. Bagi’s talk with Fred, made her convinced that they just need to get together since it’s obvious they both still like each other, but it also asserts that Fred is making the active choice to step away for safety reasons.

From Tubbo and Pac’s chat, we can really gather some of his lingering trauma from his relationship with Fred. Fred was in constant danger from the Feds because he was with Tubbo, and Fred liking Tubbo is what got him tortured and almost killed by Quackity. Tubbo projects this unfortunate relationship on to Pac’s with Fit, he puts Pac as himself and Fit as Fred (just due to opening up to Pac instead of Fit nothing more), he explains in rambles about how they’ll be used against each other. That their relationship puts a target on each other’s back, if someone wanted to get at Fit they could use Pac. Pac being so open towards Tubbo, allowing him to get his thoughts out without proclaiming paranoia, helped Tubbo be a lot more honest. Explaining his general anxiety towards being in a romantic relationship, because he’ll be the catalyst to their down fall. Even making it obvious to someone else if it came down to it he’d kill Fred for an egg, by speaking of ultimatums in which it was Pac/Fit or Ramon/Richas.

He makes it pretty obvious he’s put his life on hold for Sunny, by projecting those same choices Tubbo made for Sunny on to Pac. Tubbo isn’t going any of this out of some jealousy to have Fit and Pac’s relationship but rather from fear. To him the choice is simple, even though it’s guilt-ridden, what’s better Pac or Fit dying as a pawn in someone else's game or a break up where they remain friends afterwards. This is a much more deep seated issue than some magical true love kiss can fix, even though both Fred and Tubbo still love each other. Fear is overriding want, and just getting him and Fred back together will make him reject Fred, or be in an intense state of stress.

When it comes down to his relationship with Morning Crew as a whole, he feels like the third wheel and has always felt that way. It’s Fit and Pac and then it’s Tubbo. Tubbo mimics a lot of Pac’s issues about usefulness and feeling like last place within their respective family’s. He’s been open about feeling like Morning Crew will become just a duo, that most of the love is directed towards Fit and Pac rather than himself. Tubbo has never shown any real bitterness from this, but he has showed a deep loneliness, Morning Crew is his safety net, he hasn’t accepted Bagi in yet, and his relationship with Phil has strained since purgatory. So in practicality if he lost Morning Crew, he looses an essential part of being alive, and he needs that for Sunny.

Tubbo is overwhelmingly terrified that Fit and Pac getting together is the beginning of the end, even though Fit and Pac have shown even after dating that he’s always on the back of their minds, that they’ll always care. He convinced himself that they’ll start spending more and more time together, without him, that he won’t even be a sidelong glance. There’s also a fear of death, a forced separation that them being together means their always each other’s weak point, “empathy is weakness”. To show care to another, is to show someone can hurt you with them, that’s something Tubbo has lived with since Fred. He won’t call Morning Crew his family, even though they are because then they’ll be in danger because of him.

It’s this pestering paranoia that’s driving Tubbo, not jealousy, he can not be “fix” as most islanders say by just giving him Fred to love. His loneliness is a choice built on fear, sometimes when Tubbo says he doesn’t want to love again, he means it. They love each other but now is not the time, maybe in the future where he isn’t so isolated.

[credulouscanidae]

every day i live in a passive limbo, waiting for the moment i suddenly feel better and can confront my anxiety, paranoia, and loneliness.

i feel like i have been shattered, and left in pieces with no glue to be put back together.

every day my existentialism and history of being gaslit dominates my brain and i can never make sense of my thoughts and feelings. i am constantly second-guessing myself, and implanting intentions that weren't previously there. i feel like i am required to have constant self-awareness, and to not have so means that i am Obviously Insane and Unsalvagable.

people on the outside would think im just a very holistic thinking person. which is true, and can be a good thing. but honestly? it's detrimental to how i perceive myself. i cannot unabashedly live in the moment of anything. i am, by default, viewing myself from a third person perspective in a hyper critical way. i feel afraid to fall into any category of people or labels, because to claim anything about myself is felt to either be a lie, a mockery of people who are "really" that thing, or it's attention seeking (which of course is the worst thing you could ever do right?)

even claiming to be existential causes a fear and anxiety that i am being pretentious or not self aware that it's a very human experience. my detachment from the world, my trauma, my existentialism, none of it is important or matters because others experience it too.

i cannot begin to describe what gaslighting does to the brain.

what it's done to me.

i dont even wanna claim ive become very isolated because others also experience it. id say the lockdowns from 2020-2021 triggered this, but i think more and more and realise that i wouldve done this when my mum died, or even earlier had i not had a confident person with friends take me under their wing.

i feel my whole life has come into question. i feel like my old home, my old life, my friends and pet and loved ones, dont exist anymore. i feel like im a dead person, looking back on their life and realising who i really was. all the mistakes and inconsiderate behaviours i ever done. it just fuels the fire of the gaslit brain.

everything i ever do or feel is a contradiction. i dont matter to others, but i also have more of an impact on others than i realise. the impact i have matters more than what im ever feeling, and for me to not be self aware of that clearly demonstrates how selfish and horrible i truly am.

maybe it's why people think im such a giving, non-judgemental, and sweet person. im not. im angry. im subjugated. im frightened. like a deer in the headlights, i have no choice. im easygoing and agreeable because i am scared of disagreeing or giving my thoughts through normal debate. because doing so in the past has caused assumptions about me, or intentions skewed or created. my words did not matter, but also they did.

i dont know how to just. start talking to people again. i have been given advice from people who have dealt with isolation but. i know the secret is to challenge yourself and do things even when you dont feel ready, because youll never feel ready, but how? i have lost so much. i dont have the support i need to do something so brave. because i am a coward who avoids and runs away. thats probably manipulative for me to do anyway. ive dug myself into a hole i cant climb out of. ive literally made it worse for myself for no reason. and now i cant even face the consequences of my own inaction.

but why would i wish for people to be there for me when i cant even be there for them? i know i would be there for them, in a heartbeat, but i cannot right now. thats selfish and manipulative to say i guess but. it's not fair that others dont get considered as a result of me not considering myself. mental illness makes you selfish. it makes you not a good friend.

i want to be a real friend.

dont wanna break when i bend.

.....

i have a therapist im gonna be seeing every 2 weeks. if this doesnt work out, then idk what i'll do. i have settled for the most part, and when life feels good, when my roots are grounding and growing in england, it feels good. i dont have many friends here, but i am happy with my partner and his friends, but it feels like i have so many loose ends and a life i have left behind that i cant face. and i am guilty when i experience happiness, let alone share it. because that doesnt align with my narrative that im suffering. which i am, but, i am also trying to survive and live in the life i currently have.

i guess that's what happens to the gaslit brain.

but i have to believe things will get better.

because if i don't

then what?

[conditionaljewel]

It’s Trans DOV and tbh I’ve been largely isolated the last three years.

Much of that is pandemic driven, instilling a slight paranoia of large gatherings and enclosed spaces for a while, but more recently it’s been the rhetoric surrounding trans folks, and trans folks in Florida in particular, where I live.

I don’t need to tell y’all it sucks here. But with my constant anxiety and heightened paranoia due to ptsd and past traumas, I’ve largely become a hermit. Not particularly visible, cuz I dont trust anyone these days. Not down here. No way.

I wish it were different but I don’t even know that being further along in my transition would make me feel safer, I just know that things need to change internally *and* externally if I’m ever gonna feel safe and comfortable in public. Until then, I’m gonna remain pretty closed off from society and self contained.

I’m happy and glad for the folks who are visible today and everyday and while my visibility ebbs and flows, just know that I always see y’all and I love y’all and I’m proud of you 🏳️‍⚧️💖

[steadfastmockingbird]

Probably zero chance in the fact that the best psychiatrist I ever had was an older black South African lady. The reason I have a PTSD diagnosis - the only reason I was able to access specialist therapy and support groups and all the rest - is because Dr A listened to me.

Rambling below. Cut for vague references to sexual assault and medical negligence.

I had a whole parade of doctors - white, male, smug, all tell me that my violent outbursts and flashback-induced anxiety and self loathing and depression and other classic PTSD symptoms must, simply must be something innate in me. Something I was born with, some inherent personality flaw, something passed down from my parents' DNA. Dr M even told me, quite proud of himself, that only active combat veterans get PTSD and I was indulging in stolen valor.

Enter Dr A - a locum, standing in for Dr F, who was either off sick or golfing. Probably both. She looked at the long list of medications I'd been prescribed to zero affect, and asked me what's wrong?

I started with the usual spiel - can't eat, can't sleep, living in constant terror, jumping at shadows, hit them first before they can pin you down and-- etc, and she stopped me. This isn't on your records, when did this start, why? And I said, well, I think I have PTSD but Dr F says it's something else. Something that's my fault. And I explained why I thought it was PTSD. She listened. Dr F never let me get more than half a sentence into an explanation without cutting me short. The fact that I'd been hospitalized by a sexual assault a year and some months prior wasn't even on Dr F's meticulous records. That tracked. He'd told me that he didn't think trauma could cause aggression or paranoia or any of my other symptoms. Must have been something my mother did while she was pregnant, or else I must have hit the front of my head too hard as a toddler. Never mind that the symptoms had only kicked in properly after the assault. The explanation for that was so bullshit I never bothered remembering it.

And then she said something that shredded my perception of the world. These old white men will never diagnose you with PTSD, because then they'd have to admit that they're complicit in the system that caused it.

She was the first, and to date only, psychiatrist I've ever seen that talked about the systemic causes of trauma. Who talked about how race and gender and class and all those other things collide to make them refuse to treat me because it would mean looking long and hard in the mirror. She wrote three referrals that day - to a sexual violence support program which would do things like provide an advocate if I needed to apply for disability or a buddy for medical appointments, to a specialist therapist who I worked with for nine months, and to a support group run by two psychiatric nurses who were not the best, but really did try. Without that care I don't think I'd still be alive, especially not considering the sheer toxicity of some of what was being prescribed by all the other doctors. I don't think Dr F even knew that those resources were out there. I don't think he thought they were necessary. I doubt he cared enough to think about it at all. Why treat when you can just drug into compliance?

Not totally sure what the point of this post is. Dr A is (I hope) retired by now. I hope she knows how much of a difference she made.

[mindweasels]

phases

PHASE 1

overwhelming sense that my brain and body are different from other humans in a way that they don't understand and (mostly) feel threatened/exhausted by

an internal monologue that seems divorced from my emotions or environment in any immediate way, and frequently conveys words and phrases that I don't agree with

moments of suicidal ideation, usually spurred on by this internal monologue making a case for why I should kill myself

lots of circular dialectical thoughts in my head. i.e. "humans are bad," "they're not all bad," "name one that isn't bad," "x isn't bad," "x harmed you in the following ways," "nothing is all good or bad really," "only humans think things are good or bad. That's why humans are bad." (that's an extremely simplified example. often they get into some 400 level philosophy stuff.)

increased feelings of sexual arousal and sexual attraction to socially inappropriate targets

PHASE 2

Feelings of worthlessness, rejection, shame.

Extreme physical pain and exhuastion.

Constant inner monologue saying "you should kill yourself. I want to kill myself," over and over. No longer divorced from my emotions.

Insomnia.

Crying. Amplified emotions.

Paranoid thoughts do arise but are still easily dismissed.

PHASE 3

Vision problems. Possible seizures?

No insomnia or crying (except during menstruation)

A distinct sense that there are two separate people sharing my body

Unbelievable non-stop horniness

There's a kind of euphoria. A bliss. Everything is meaningful all the time. I'm in love. It's like sex, 24/7.

A sort of pain in my abdomen, like yearning. More, more, infinitely more.

PHASE 4

Forgetfulness and disorientation

Non-stop euphoria. Never want it to end.

PHASE 5

Obsessive thoughts. Anxiety about whether I'm going crazy and whether I have "trauma." This: my whole life everyone - even my parents - put me in the "safe to fuck, but not safe to love" box. And I'm furious and hurt about that. When I first got close to Cristina, it seemed safe, because she's aromantic and an internet stranger, so… if she rejected me romantically, it could not possibly be my fault. Then she fell for Corinna. She gave Corinna everything I wanted. It could not be more clear that she was ready to fall in love, was looking for it in fandom spaces, and chose NOT ME. It hurt me in ways I never really came back from.

It's not safe for me to be romantically rejected, but its also not something 100% in my control. I don't know why people keep me at a distance. Maybe if I knew I could fix it. It seems like people enjoy falling in love with people who are withdrawn and mysterious, who don't talk much about themselves or their feelings. But that's not fun, is it? Being seen is so addictive.

PHASE 6

Disconnectedness from the concept of romantic love. Obsessive thoughts about power dynamics, trust, and transactions in relationships.

Socialization feels less purposeful and more like an error made in desperation. It is frequently followed by paranoia that I fucked up by reaching out or getting close to someone (because I have opened myself up to abuse or rejection.)

Greater feelings of delight and intimacy in physical objects, animals, etc.. ("Madame Lafleur")

PHASE 7

Forgetting the first five phases. Putting them out of my mind, until once again I crash into them when dealing with social rejection, loneliness, or shame.

[oliveroctavius]

Do you have any neurodivergent headcannons for some spiderman characters in mind? In my headcannon I feel like Peter and flash give off some adhd vibes and MJ kinda comes off as autistic towards me which is nice.

ADHD Peter is practically canon as far as I can see. His greatest weakness is literally time management. He talks through his plans for the day out loud, he thinks best when he's physically active, and is chronically incapable of running errands without getting sidetracked.

I wouldn't be surprised if Peter's friends don't bother him about his double identity because they think he's autistic. He's an extreme loner (out of paranoia). He gets sensory overload (from his Spider-Sense). He's impatient, terse, and lost in his head (because he's under a massive amount of stress they don't know about). He's always making excuses to leave social or chaotic situations at random (and we know why that is.) Plus he's a science whiz—he has the perfect cover in just kind of being an asshole savant.

Speaking of asshole savants I don't think there's a single version of Doc Ock that's not autistic to some degree. "Octavius is a tortured soul oh he doesn't mean it" writing is bo-ring to me because I love him as a power fantasy/cautionary tale for a specific flavor of Autism Hubris. You know, the little voice in your head that says "human society is for fools, I'm too Secretly Genius for school, I should build a nuclear warhead in my basement"? SO relatable.

Peter seems to enjoy the responsiveness of Ock's absurdly loquacious counter-shit-talking. Maybe he is a little autistic.

You know what, screw it, Liz Allan autistic headcanon. She's so blunt and earnest and insistent and doesn't seem to care what others think of her. And I like her.

Deb Whitman definitely has something going on but I can't pin it down. Maybe it's just the trauma.

Dear Harry Osborn is an anxiety-ridden DSM alphabet soup but I usually stick with describing him as schizophrenic. Which, did you know that a common symptom is dyslexia-like reading/writing problems? That would explain why he was a struggling student even though he's pretty smart.

(snaps fingers) you know what. I just realized Peter has scrupulosity OCD. He's constantly dropping everything to perform a series of actions that will allow him to temporarily feel better about himself, to the point of constant self-injury. Pete for the love of god. THERAPY.

[hishoukoku]

hey, so feel free to ignore this, but i saw your blog is crazily active and you answered smth similar in the past

for some reason, I cannot get behind TGCF I cannot find Xie Lian realistic regarding his mental health.

As someone dealing with PTSD constantly I feel like mxtx has completely washed out his character. No one reacts like that especially in the grueling circumstances he was put through in his teenage years.

I feel like ultimately MXTX is romanticising his trauma especially by bringing hua cheng into the equation too.

Hey anon.

So, this is a pretty intricate subject and I don't feel like I can do it justice in a few words, so this might get a bit long.

I've read the book a few months back by now, but going through my personal interpretation and experience with this character I feel like MXTX did a fantastic job, in terms of him being realistic and identifiable as a person, despite the world around him being clearly not realistic.

We do know how 17 years old Xie Lian, his Highness the Crown Prince was someone boldly arrogant and naive or spoiled, yet he whitheld a proud, overly-idealistic sense of justice in terms of saving the common people.

But his ideals were brutally tested countless times as XianLe fell and as he was degrading from a proud, ignorant, spoiled, naive prince to someone who would rob and steal and despair and who'd ponder ruining his kingdom as he has no other alternatives.

Xie Lian encompasses a very realistic portrayal of what falling into anxiety and depression does. His overly paranoid sense of abandonment, his clinginess to friends back then and having to watch them leave, his paranoia and very low sense of self. These are always peppered throughout the entirety of the flashbacks and the present timeline.

Morevoer, Book 4 covers this exceedingly well, with him going throguh the absolute lowest moments of his life. the attempted suicide, the fact that he thoroughly believes he deserves to suffer all those consequeces, the cursed shackle being his own request, proving that he's ready to never be able to die and suffer the consequences for literally eternity.

Yet our main character is 800 years old by now. He's had a long long loooong time to desist and rationalize why his existance never forebodes well and why he's the god of misfortune, why this fate befell him and how it's equally because of the one who manipulated him and his own choices back then.

Xie Lian now (800years later) has always been presented as being broken and somewhat a defeatist when it comes to his own fate, he despises himself, he has a constant need to deflect everything with his self-deprecating sense of humour but he is someone who is still compulsively obsessed with saving the common people.

This is not only incredibly realistic but also very human of him. He makes a mess wherever he goes for the exact reason of not knowing any better, he's always indirectly affected by his past self. His descent back then was incredibly steep fast and he had little to no time to get accustomed to the absurdly difficult and grueling choices he had to make.

So now it's not that he's blissful or ignorant or uncaring. On the contrary, his fierce dettachment to his past self and utter disregard of his own safety, his stubborn persistence of holding on to his core values, are not him ignoring/"getting over" his trauma, it's him working through it, constantly and repeatedly over and over for 800 years and counting.

To sum up, there are 2 things which are unchanged with his character and those are:

- his core value: save the common people - albeit present XL upholds a more twisted toned down pragmatic version of it

and

- Hua Cheng. Since you mentioned him I wanted to touch up on it a bit.

Him showing up in different forms throughout his life as the only tangible life-guard, he's the only one teaching him exceedingly slowly but surely that he can allow himself to be happy and loved and cared for.

His cognitive dissonance regarding everything involving Hua Cheng is a direct result of how little he thinks he deserves that someone so all powerful and all perfect and handsoome would spare him any thought.

He doesn't allow himself to give in because he still doesn't think he deserves it and it takes a long time for him to start believing it. Proof that despite all the clues being there his cognitive dissonance wouldn't allow him to believe Hua Cheng (or anyone, but especially HC) would hold any emotion for such a lowly broken god. It took riddiculously much (but realistically so !) up until the confession scene for him to slowly piece things together that he finally allowed himself to believe that.

The fact that by the end Hua Cheng is the one who breaks his shackles is both literally and metaphorically proof that he's finally freed of his past self.

[yanderenightmare]

Hello, I have been looking at your content and I must say that I really like the way you write and I hope you are doing well.I don't know if your applications are open now but I want to give you an idea, how would the yanders react if their beloved has depressive periods and low self-esteem?It may be a bit of an anguish at first but I would like how they would react, use it on purpose or go soft on their beloved.

yandere ! BNHA headcannons

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

goodiebag WARNINGS: depression, self-harm, abuse, manipulation, abuse, profanity, amnesia, anxiety, panic-attacks, arson, bipolar disorder, blood, death threats, eating disorder, guilt, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, mental illness, mind control, paranoia, noncon, dubcon, starvation, suicidal ideation, trauma

BAKUGO KATSUKI - KACHAN

MELANCHOLIA –

She’s always biting her tongue, the inside of her cheek, her lip. So much so, he doesn’t even know what her lip normally looks like without it being bloated and swollen and red from having her teeth sink into to it. He’s okay with her chosen silence as long as she answers when she’s spoken to, which she does, lacking the will to refuse, knowing it will only cost her valuable energy, energy she needs in case Bakugo decides he wants to rip the breath from her lungs while he hunches over her, his hips snapping into her again and again, ramming at a pace so rough she both dreads it and welcomes it, for on the one hand it’s exhausting and she always wakes up with aches in the morning, yet on the other hand he makes her appreciate breathing which is always a nice reminder when she often times wonders what tranquility would be found in not breathing whatsoever.

He doesn’t want to confront her about it, sensing how she might not enjoy confrontation all that much, and not really wanting the whole ordeal to result in making her cry at the mere sound of his voice. He won’t alter the volume or the roughness of his tone, no matter how many times she cringes at how loud he’s being, but he does try being gentle, at least with his criticism. He showers her in compliments, which is a huge contrast to how he would usually handle fixing things. But, he finds using softer methods benefit him as well, loving the blush that adorns her face each time he does so, his own confidence probably boosting more so than hers.

He does nice things, not really knowing what or which way to help. He doesn’t make her do any chores, ignoring the nagging feeling that keeping her busy would probably help more so than having her sit and look cute all day, but… he’s afraid of admitting it, but… he quite likes taking care of her. He quite likes hugging her throughout the night, feeling her small tremoring sobs against him while stroking her back. He likes comforting her on those same nights where she wakes abruptly from some nightmare, stroking glossy diamond tears away from her cheeks, loving her bloated lips and that cute red wet irritation flushed on her nose and cheeks.

The only times he gets upset with her is when she refuses to eat. He tries so hard to make things she might like, but it’s scarce he sees her taking more than a few bites, if she makes a move to eat at all. He doesn’t want to make her cry, despite it being a constant hobby of hers, he doesn’t want to be the reason to her crying, but… he can’t have her starving. He finds the fear-tactic surprisingly effective on someone who spends most their time fantasizing about death. A few sparks in his palms has her all but quaking, scared half-way into catatonia or even comatose, so much so he has to pull her into his lap and spoon-feed her. Not that he minds that either, he comes to enjoy it quite a lot actually. How her small frame melts so perfectly against his chest, legs swung over his lap, head on his shoulder, remnants of her fear-stricken cries still evident as small spontaneous jolts run through her, being slowly comforted away with the same hand that caused the trouble in the first place.

DABI - TODORKI TOUYA

ANXIETY –

He couldn’t be happier with his little ball of blue wrapped up in soft-tinted crushed dreams with a heart made of honeycombs and dandelion-fluff. Whereas his misfortunate lack of happiness stems from a place of violence, where violence breeds violence, she’s nothing but a tender trauma. Such a soft despair, such a sweet despair, such perfection found in something so devastating. It’s artwork really. How she can cry herself to sleep, trapped in his arms, feeling as though she’s dying, yet wake up the next morning all velvety and soft in his arms, her heart finding comfort in what her mind rejects, what her mind fears.

He tries being a source of comfort for the most part, but teasing and haunting and poking fun at her is such a delicious past-time he cannot simply just refrain from. He’ll be a real villain about it at times. Having her as a complete blubbering pathetic hiccupping mess, poking fun at her crybaby-face as he licks the tears from her cheeks and gorges himself in her panic, his fingers dancing small patterns on her stomach as she wiggles beneath him.

She used to be so scared of him. So skittish and paralyzed, cold-sweating and eyes constantly leaking he had to imagine what her eyes would look like without being rimmed with red. She used to shiver and shake and quake and reel in on  herself, curl up until her limbs ached from how small she was trying to make herself become, backed up into the corner beneath his shadow, his leather-boots looking like the onset of everything horrific as she coward in front of them. But wild untrusting childlike beings such as her is quick in nature to tether themselves to the first or only source of light. And though the transition was slow, her anxiety soon shifted from being directed at him and soon for him instead.

It was too easy, and it benefitted him so undeservingly as well it was cruel. How he simply took all those fears of hers, all those fears for everything residing in the new foreign room she’d been taken captive in, manipulating them into becoming paranoia for everything found outside the bedroom door instead. He went from being the source of her dread, of her panic, of her misery, of her pitter-patter heart and shattering teeth to her savior. Soothing her in her frenzied quakes as she spluttered on sobs containing what hellish monsters and dangers found outside, begging him to be careful, to come back to her, to stay.

She will hug him close throughout the night, hanging almost like a noose around his neck when he needs to leave in the mornings, tracing his scars with a stream of endless worried thoughts blubbering in her groggy voice. And he’ll humor her worry and tame the oncoming panic-attacks by giving her a little light-show of blue flames in his palm, words of his own coming to assure her how nothing will ever happen to him and how he will never let anything ever happen to her, assuring however many times he has the time for.

She’s too cute it’s unfair. Unfair that small creatures like her exist without anything to protect them from hungry wolves like him. And though he was never the type to fantasize about clingy things, he has to admit… coming home to someone who lunches at him in the most secure yet clumsy and desperate embrace, he feels as though that feeling of coming home is all he’ll ever need in the world, that she’s all he’ll ever need.

SHIGARAKI TOMURA

INSOMNIA –

It’s nice. He knows it shouldn’t be the word he describes it with, but… that’s what it is. It’s nice. It’s nice to stay up with someone who expels the same type of energy as him, and not to mention the same amount of energy as him, or… lack of thereof. It’s nice living off of fumes together. It’s nice slipping to and from consciousness and how it almost turns into a game of who can survive the longest before collapsing, with the other shortly following, too tired to even bask in their victory.

It’s nice irritating over the same sharp sounds that attack their sensitive ears, not at all like the familiar sound of soft clicks of the controller in their hands. It’s nice communicating almost purely through mellow moans and groans and croaks, always understanding what the other is emitting despite it being but shapeless sounds.

It’s nice finding agreement in how the lights should always stay off, how it’s turned into some religious rule never meant to be crossed. It’s nice annoying over the same crisp bright light of the sun that violate their eyes those times they forget to shut the blinds before passing out after having counted stars and eating in the dead silence of night like nocturnal beings ignoring the light of day as though it were the plague. It’s nice how they can both find comfort in the glow of the moonlight or computer screen, leaching off of the energy like flies.

He’s found kinship in her presence, and despite it merely being himself and her in the darkness of his room, with flying specs of dust decorating the air and their computers the only windows to the world beyond their four walls, he feels as though the whole universe is looking at him when the softness of her glinting, beaming, sparkling eyes set their gaze and lock with his. It’s strange, but he always found angel-bright smiles and supersonic eyes to be too intrusive and annoying and scary to stand before, whereas her sunken dark eyes, ringed with shades of lilac contrasting her otherwise pale porcelain skin, kept almost albino in the darkness of his room… she couldn’t be more perfect.

Come to think of it, it’s perfection. Her in all her sleep-deprived glory, all her drowsy silliness, her sloppy harsh movements, tripping and stumbling with her droopy-eyes, in her soft giggling fits, where she’ll catch her stupidity just a moment too late and roll around on the bed, trying to shrug off Tomura’s teasing judgement as he pokes fun at her idiocy. Giving up on forming complete sentences as she almost always ends up toppling over her own words, settling for whining or sighing as she turns her head to bury it in his chest.

Utter perfection. Never bothering to get dressed, walking about like a little tease in only underwear and Tomura’s ill-fitted hoodie, hair pulled up into a messy-bun too messy, always defeating the purpose of keeping her hair from out of her face. Her unstable movements, disconnected to the ground as though she’s floating. Too grabbable and easily defeated in her weariness when being pulled into his lap, simply humming and moaning in response as he plants soft kisses down her neck, his fingers coming to destroy whatever’s in the way of him and her body.

HITOSHI SHINSO

HYPERSOMNIA –

She sleeps so soundly, like a little couch-kitten. All soft and cute, playing in her dreams. She’ll sleep whole entire days, only opening her eyes in small flutters every now and again and moaning ever so softly once he wakes her, though quickly scrunching her nose and twisting to fall asleep again. Her drowsiness rendering her pride invalid, causing her to pull at him to better comfort herself against his body, whining when he shifts, his warm presence leaving the bed when he needs to go to work. Her little unconscious protest making his heart twist in his chest, tempted to stay in bed with her all day long, yet comforting himself with the fact that he’ll probably come home to find her in the exact same position.

She’s so cute. She’ll curl and stretch, resting anywhere she finds comfortable: in bed, in the sofa, in the armchair, on his chest, his shoulder, his lap. Adorable with her little snores, all knotted up, remnants of her dreams spilling out from her sleep and coming to life in her limbs as she kicks and shakes her head, delving further into the pillow and twisting intricately in about the blanket. Eyelashes fluttering, eyes skittering beneath her puffy eyelids, caught up in whatever hurricane her mind has conjured up.

She seemed unfazed once she woke up in his room for the first time, and even then, she only gave him enough time to explain himself before nodding with heavy eyelids, laying her drowsy head back on the pillow. The situation dawning on her gradually over the first month, and if whether she was startled or angry, he couldn’t tell. If anything, sept for sleepy, he’d say she seemed confused, but alongside the confusion was the look that told him she couldn’t find the energy in herself to think too much about it without her fuzzy head hurting. Settling for eating breakfast with him in the mornings, and even thanking him on those occasion where she would forget the circumstances that led her to live there.

She doesn’t struggle when he pulls her limp body close to his own in the dead of night after he’s done for the day. He’s only mildly concerned, but it’s not his affection that shakes her from her sleep. He’s a selfish person, and he’s not one to hide those ugly aspects of himself. He’s selfish, greedy, controlling. He has to use his quirk on her sometimes… often times. Though she’s cute when she’s sleeping, he wants to do more than just watch her. He wants words, conversation, he wants to know what’s going on in that dark dreary head of hers, he wants to know what eerie things she’s been dreaming about, where she escapes to when her eyes slide close.

What more: he wants those eyes on him, those puffy, sleepy beautiful doe-eyes. He wants her to pay attention as he touches her skin and not simply to moan in response to it, he wants her to hang onto every single moment his skin touches hers. Telling her to focus reaches a long way. Those otherwise sleepy doe-eyes widening in such moon-bright curiosity, slaving at the hands of his quirk. Her otherwise limp and soft body shaking under his overwhelming touch, goosebumps springing to the surface under his tongue, a wicked glint evident in his lilac eyes.

TAKAMI KEIGO - HAWKS

BIPOLAR –

She’s fragile on most days. Whether that fragility is in the shape of a daisy or a bomb is impossible to say until she either falls apart or blows up. It’s all rather uncertain, sporadic, spontaneous, where he’s given only a few signs where which he can predict what state of mind she’s in and how stable that structure is.

Most things depend on sleep, and upholding a balanced sleep-pattern has become one of the most important things in Keigo’s life after having taken his little darling. But, she manages to slip past his schedules more times than he would like to admit. When she refuses to go to sleep, his mind drifts to all the fun things they can do if they weren’t sleeping, and when she’s sound asleep and drowsing far beyond what time she should have woken up, he can’t find it in himself to wake her, not when he is the reason as to why she was so spent and sore and exhausted from the events and methods he used to make her fall asleep in the first place.

On little sleep one of two things can happen. She can either have the energy of a hummingbird or be tired to the point she almost looks sickly. On her lack-of-sleep-high she’s confident, cocky more so than Keigo, where she’ll test her luck on how far Keigo’s willing to bend his rules when she misbehaves, calling him all types of names, laughing in his face when he snaps and cackling even harder even madder when he decides to punish her, as though it’s all a game to quench her boredom.

With the absence of sleep causing her exhaustion she becomes irritated, seething with boiling rage, red in annoyance, whatever energy she has left focused on making her discomfort known as she scowls at him each time he smiles too loudly, but being too drained to physically act on her frustration or to even make up a snide comment without evoking a headache, left to simply snarl. He thinks it’s cute, where he knows well enough that if he pushes her limits too far she might just break. Break, and therefore let him gather her up into his arms and hush and tut at her to stop crying while he strokes her back, feeling her tremble with unparalleled frustration weighing down on her shoulders.

Then there are the days she sleeps too much. The same options are present here too. She’s either too energetic or too well rested. Either black or white. No grey. But with too much sleep she isn’t ever hostile, but still wild. Wild and enthusiastic and self-destructive and prop-full of ideas and insane in her passion. She’ll be unable to focus on anything, she’ll forget things seconds after they’ve been said or done, but… she’ll laugh and she’ll smile, and it won’t be one of those haughty nasty smiles she gives him when she’s feeling spiteful, but genuine in its playfulness or even bliss.

Then on other days sleeping half the day only results in her being even more drowsed out, yet accompanying her exhaustion isn’t irritation, but soft-tinted melancholia, where all she does is stay wrapped up in her blanket, quiet and still, silent tears dripping down her cheeks as she focusses on how hollow her chest is, as though caving in on itself, where she’ll fall all limp and snuggly in Keigo’s embrace, humming appreciatively as he wraps her up in his wings. All the while a treacherous smile of satisfaction on his face.

MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

DESPOND –

When Izuku chose his darling it was done without compromise, without fault, it was done with perfection. Meaning, he fell for all of her, invested in all of her, determined to preserve all of her. Even her inexplainable unfounded absurd plethora of self-doubt that make her delirious and hopeless with anxiety and guilt. He let himself fall hungrily in love with her little terror-wide heart. He fell viciously in love with how desperate in need of him to come help ground her she was.

It was as though she’s made for him, he would argue. It was as though he’s made for her. Some breeds of people are just too vulnerable to take proper care of themselves. Some people just aren’t meant to take care of themselves. Whereas others are made to help, other people need to help.

Emotions are abstract fundamental tools meant to be used. Lesser minds might look down on his methods, yet Izuku came to understand quite early in life that things such as morals are chains meant to keep you from achieving your goal. He has no quarrels with using and abusing those tools presented to him, where her irrational feelings of doubt, hopelessness and worthlessness are a delicious opportunity to achieve his goal. Besides, her emotions are too easily abused and give such great unshakable responses, and even though he doesn’t want to tamper too much with her instability… they’re just too in-reach for him to ignore, too tempting for him to stay away.

The feeling of responsibility sits like an extra organ inside him, where his toes curl each time he sees her large doe-eyes look at him as though he were the sun, as though her whole life revolves around him. She’s just so dependent on him, so in need of his guidance and advise and praise, where he’s afraid she might just drown in her own guilt if she senses she’s displeased him. She makes sure she wears what he likes, has her hair the way he likes, letting him play with her like putty in his hands if he asks it of her. How can he be expected to not exploit what is so clearly offered?

Besides, he spoils her as well. He returns the favor so to speak, even though he knows she has given herself no choice but to worship him in her mindset of inadequacy. She’s so sweet he nearly feels undeserving, because she’ll blush so preciously when he compliments her, bashful and adorable and too good to be true, he wonders how such a creature can ever feel like less. He adores her, yet that doesn’t stop him from finding such satisfying bliss in the fact that he’s infinitely stronger and faster and not to mention smarter. Whereas she’s gullible and too eager to please, another attributing factor as to why he loves her, despite it is also being the cause of her demise, or maybe even because of it

The truth is she’s lucky that she belongs to him. Lucky that he won’t ever let anything happen to her, no matter if she’s the source of her own harm. She’s lucky to have him to anchor herself to as so to avoid floating away in her hopelessness. This is safer for her. Despite him sticking his bloodstained inky fingers and twisting her heart in his deadlock of a fist, she’s safe, safer than she could or would ever be on her own.

CHISAKI KAI - OVERHAUL

AMNESIA –

It’s cute. He won’t deny that it’s cute, because it is. It’s adorable and unbelievable and annoying all the same. She’ll forget the rules, she’ll wander too far from her confines, not greeting him at the door, not kissing him on que, leave questions unanswered despite him having told her to always answer him when she’s spoken to, all things he feels he’s made blatantly clear through threats and countless reminders. But, not only will she forget his rules, but basic living necessities, she’ll forget to eat and drink, forget to get dressed, forget where she is.

She’ll say the strangest things sometimes. Mild and mellow passionate thoughts regarding the clouds and stars and moon and gods and how pretty his snake-eyes are, like great big lakes of molten gold. It’s strange but he finds such great comfort in her little philosophical blubbering, her soft voice kissing his ears like gospel. It’s a tender type of relief or resolution found in listening to nonsense as opposed to the serious matters he has to deal with in his position in the underworld, her view of the world somehow painting everything, even the ugly and the dangerous, in beauty.

Sometimes she’ll drift a bit too far away though. She’ll daydream more than sleep, absentminded when he’s speaking to her, unable to focus on him or anything for more than a few minutes at best. All dizzy and fuzzy, as though she’s just woken from some dream or as if she’s always dreaming. Irritation festers in his chest when she doesn’t answer, but as she turns her head, expression all soft and oblivious, his chest caving in at the sight of those doe-eyes, all anger simmering into nothing, rendering his annoyance nonexistent, replaced by a sense of hopeless forgiveness and somehow appreciation.

When it comes to her for once actually remembering what she’s supposed to do she’ll weigh each task as though one wrong decision would cost her life. Greeting him at the door in nothing but underwear, already having failed at picking out an outfit and resorting to wearing the lingerie Kai picked and laid out for her on the bed in the morning. The simple task suddenly becoming a battle where she’ll spend much too much time deciding whether to take his jacket first or give him a kiss or welcome him home. Too many decisions with too faulty statistics and unsure outcomes she ends up merely standing there doing nothing but hold her head in her hands and whimper slightly at all the noise that suddenly crowded her head, tears already threatening to fall as she stands before him, all guilt-ridden and trembling.

He can be patient as long as he knows she isn’t disobeying him on purpose, especially when he sees how guilty and how terribly sorry she is each time she fails on acting out simple tasks such as those he gives her. She’ll cry and apologize for the mere act of breathing on some days where she’s extra fragile, where she seeks nothing but his praise, his comfort, his hand stroking through her hair as she sleeps restlessly in her sobs on his chest, unaware of the mild smile of satisfaction and endearment displayed on his face.

TODOROKI SHOTO

SELF-CONSCIOUS -

She’s always hiding. Like a little mouse, she’s always squeaking and squealing and hiding. Hiding her face, burying it in the pillow when he compliments her gorgeous eyes, begging him to stop, small timid hands pushing ever so slightly at him. Hiding her chest, her nipples, when he admires them, his hands playing with the soft and supple flesh, whimpering as she tries to twist away. Her knees trying their best to wrench shut, to hide and protect what sensitivity find between them from Shoto’s hungry fingers and tongue.

She’s always hiding… but he likes to hunt anyway. If she drapes herself in pitch-black hoodies he’ll gladly rip them off, or scorch them off and expose her delicious artful body. If she refuses to leave the bed he’ll gladly attack her where she’s sleeping. She’s always hiding, but she quickly comes to understand that there will be no hiding from him.

He doesn’t understand why she would ever want to hide divinity, and therefor doesn’t respect the wish. Having made it his mission to expose every little piece of her, licking up long lines of bumpy purple and white scars, sucking and biting at those pointy cherry nipples strutting at the coolness of his breath, kissing those plump lips of hers despite her cringing to cover herself up in thousand layers of clothes, dark clothes, where only the very least of her skin is remaining on display. He won’t have it.

He has to tie her up on most occasions where she’s too difficult and shy to listen and let him play with her beauty. He’ll have to tie her up like a starfish on the bed, limbs spread in each direction, scars running along them, quite like the ones he receives in battle, only precise and matching and purposeful, his hands coming to touch them in reverence, worshipping every little altercation she’s added to her skin, further pushing its ever-changing perfection, watching as she hopelessly struggles to hide herself, yet the both of them knowing how she’s fully his.

He can’t allow her hurting herself anymore though, not with the fear that she one day might slip up and kill herself just a little bit too much, but he’s happy to help her through the tools of fire and ice. Frostbite flowers look even more as though they belong on her body, as well as blotches of burns, his markings, his teeth. He’ll never forget the moan he received on his first indulgence branding her body with his elements, how she purred in gratitude, small blissful squeals and mewls following, further egging him on.

Once she grew more comfortable with his hands and his stare… or rather… once the need for his hands outgrew her discomfort, she became somewhat addicted. And now, she can be wild in her cravings on some days, demanding it of him, threatening him, fighting him. She’ll bite and claw, begging for him to retaliate, longing for him to push her into the bedsheets and teach her what it’s like to feel alive by teasing her with the promise of death.

Without him she’s left to pick at scabs, counting the seconds until his return. She’ll pull at her hair until her scalp is screaming. She’ll ball her fists, creating those blood-red crescent moons in her palms, biting her nails until they bleed and then some. Then bask in relief upon his return.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

[poisonedapples]

Patton’s Home For Traumatized Kids - Chapter Four

Self Care Day

Chapter Summary: Roman finally relaxes, and Virgil attempts to help.

First Chapter Previous Chapter Story Masterlist

Warnings: Anxiety, panic, mentions of past trauma and abuse, very minor self-injury (rubbing a little too hard with a loofah), food, and swearing

Chapter Word Count: 6,174

Taglist: @shade-romeo, @grayson-22, @pixelated-pineapple, @acrobaticcatfeline, @astrozei, @edupunkn00b, @princey-7258, @eternalmoonlight19, @remy-the-lemon-berry, @look-ma-im-on-tv, @mariniacipher, @bigwendymonster, @nonbinary-octopus

Notes: Thank you to Cornybird on Ao3 for betareading the chapter! You’re amazing and I appreciate you <3

It was one in the morning, and Roman was next to his bed pacing in circles so fast he was getting dizzy. It was officially the weekend and he was supposed to relax, but instead his mind was rushing a mile a minute and tormenting him. He was restless and exhausted, anxious and on the brink of tears, and Roman didn’t know what to do. He just wanted it to stop.

His head was spinning from all the pacing, so Roman sat on the foot of his bed and aggressively bounced his leg instead. He felt out of control, like danger was all around him and there was nothing to stop it. He felt like his heart was in his throat, sweat dripping down his face and making it hard to breathe. Roman gripped at his hair with both hands, physically recoiling at the feeling of grease and grime and-

…Oh. Wait. It made sense now. Roman hadn’t showered in a week.

He let out a deep breath, calming a little after finding a solution to his problem. He should’ve guessed, feeling dirty always made him anxious and stressed. He hadn’t had the energy to shower, but he was at a point where he had to force himself. If he didn’t, Roman would collapse from the stress.

He picked up his phone to look at the time again. 1:28 am, possibly the worst timing to sneak into the bathroom and try to shower without waking the house up. But he couldn’t wait any longer. He was exhausted and his brain was rushing through hundreds of thoughts. He needed some hot water to calm down.

Roman took the security bar off his door and slowly stepped into the hallway. He didn’t bother grabbing clothes to change into; his pajamas were clean and he could slip back into them after drying himself off well enough. He carefully turned the knob of the bathroom and snuck himself in.

It was very quiet in the house so early in the morning. Usually when Roman was in the bathroom, he could hear the TV downstairs or people talking outside the door, but now the only noise was the sound of his breathing and a slight buzz from the bathroom light. Roman stepped on the toilet to check for cameras inside of a vent high on the wall. Frustratingly, he found nothing. Patton’s camera-hiding ability was getting very annoying.

Regardless, he checked in the drawers and around the walls as well, flipping over shampoo bottles and toothbrushes just in case. He didn’t find anything, and Roman wanted to yell. Instead, he settled for clenching his fists and trying to move on with his task.

Fortunately, the shower had an opaque curtain that could make it harder for a camera to see, and Roman felt satisfied with that. Once he figured out how the shower worked and memorized where things were placed, Roman could also go back to showering in the dark again. He’d manage.

Roman wrapped himself in a towel in order to take his clothes off, folding them neatly on the toilet so that any water falling on the ground wouldn’t drench them. He skipped turning on the vent fan so he’d be quieter, stepping into the shower and tossing the towel outside the curtain on the floor for later. His legs clamped together subconsciously as he turned on the water.

Roman felt his shoulders relax a little when the hot water hit him. It helped the grease on his face and hair feel less gross, but the heat was also relaxing. He hugged himself and let the water fall down his face for a while.

…This is weird, Roman eventually thought, interrupting the rare silence in his head. He hadn’t felt this relaxed since he left the hospital. He thought after the trial that he’d be living on cloud nine for the rest of eternity, but the opposite was happening. His past and current situation was hitting him like a brick, filling him with constant anxiety and paranoia over the smallest things. It was getting unbearable.

Roman grabbed a shampoo bottle and squirted some out, slowly rubbing it into his hair and sighing. He was probably so on edge because he still hadn’t figured out Patton’s patterns. With his dad, Roman had lived with him for so long, he could guess his feelings by just a ten second conversation. He had detailed methods to work around him, how to sneak out of the house without getting noticed by cameras and how to delay the inevitable. But Roman didn’t know what Patton was thinking, what he even really wanted. Whatever it was certainly couldn’t be good, but at least if Roman knew, he could work around it. But here, there was no such luxury.

He stood back under the shower stream and felt the grease get cleaned out of his hair. Roman needed to change that uncertain feeling as soon as possible. He probably wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway, so he could use this time to sneak around the house and at least find a hiding spot. At Roman’s old house, he had a little nook in a broken cabinet downstairs that his dad never opened, and he never found out where Roman’s hiding spot was. Patton didn’t have a basement, but maybe he had some place Roman could fit where Patton couldn't find him. It’d help him feel better if he found somewhere.

Roman ran his hands through his hair to check for extra suds and considered his hair clean now. Thank the heavens, there was nothing worse than feeling gross and exposed. Roman grabbed a bottle of body wash to clean the rest of himself next.

This was the tricky part. Roman had a habit of scrubbing too hard, and his aunt had a very long talk with him last time he came out of the shower redder than a lobster. He didn’t want Patton asking questions, so he had to watch himself. He couldn’t afford a spiral.

He poured some of the body wash on a loofah and tried to gently scrub. He didn’t realize how gross he felt, no wonder he was having panic attacks left and right. He was covered in grease and sweat and dirt that wasn’t even being rinsed, and Roman was getting more grossed out at the thought the more he realized. He really needed to start showering daily again, his hair was so thick and oily and teenager sweat stink smelled so bad, he couldn’t afford to miss a day-

…Shit, fuck, hang on, Roman thought, pulling away the loofah from his leg to observe the damage. He’d only realized what he was doing when he started to feel a stinging burn, looking away to see pink skin. Thankfully, he’d caught himself early enough where he’d be alright. He scooped some suds from the loofah onto his hand and gently rubbed the rest of the area so it wouldn’t be irritated, careful to focus on his movements from then on so it wouldn’t happen again.

He eventually finished without any further issues, rinsing off his body and turning off the shower. Roman dried most of himself as he stood in the shower, grabbing the towel off the floor and aggressively drying his hair with it. Usually he’d dry his hair with a hair dryer, but that would be too loud, so he settled with having a fluffy dog on his head for the night. Once he was dry enough, he grabbed his boxers and shirt to put on in the shower before stepping out to put back on his sweatpants. Despite the steam in the bathroom making it hard to breathe, Roman felt much better than before.

He turned off the light before he opened the bathroom door, stepping into the dark hallway wondering where to go. He still wasn’t tired, so he might as well look for that hiding spot. But where could he hide?

He slowly made his way downstairs, wincing every time a floorboard under him squeaked. The TV stand was an awful place since it was full of wires and CD cases, and behind the couch was far too obvious for a hiding spot. The entire kitchen was off limits since Patton spent most of his time there, he’d find Roman easily if he was hiding nearby. There was a small bathroom down here that barely fit a toilet and a sink, so maybe that could work?

Roman opened the bathroom door and looked inside, immediately becoming discouraged. There was no cabinet under the sink and everything was visible the moment you walked in, so that was a bust. He closed the door and looked around again.

The dining room off to the side of the kitchen was mostly bare, and hiding under the table wouldn’t work. Roman made a circle back to the stairs and looked around with his hands on his hips.

Suddenly, his eye was caught by a glass case display next to the stairs and it dawned on him. Underneath the stairs was a slight opening, but still too big to be a good hiding spot. But the display was pointed at a diagonal from the stairs, leaving a triangle opening that you couldn’t see by looking underneath the steps. Roman crawled under the stairs to see if he could fit in the hole.

It was a little cramped, but the cramped spots were always the best places. The only downside was that Roman was still visible from looking under the stairs, leaving his pants and shoes visible to anyone who could be looking for him. However, if he could get a box and paint it the same black color as the back of the glass display, he could rest on top of it and no one could see him. It could work!

Roman crawled out from the other end of the stairs and smiled. If he was quick and sneaky, he could hide under here and stay hidden for hours. Now he just needed a box he could paint black.

Roman opened the downstairs closet and looked inside, moving jackets and shoes around to look for what he needed. Nothing.

He walked into the kitchen to open the garage door and look inside, searching for any online shopping boxes Patton was planning to toss out. Nothing. Maybe he should sneak outside and check the recycling bin really quick-

“Roman?”

Roman froze like a deer in headlights at the sound of that voice. It was Patton, he didn’t need to look behind him to know that. To Patton, it must look like Roman was trying to sneak out through the garage door. He felt his breath stop.

“Roman, come back here. Right now.” Yeah, that was definitely what Patton thought was going on. His voice wasn’t angry, but it was firm and demanding, the voice a parent puts on when they refuse to be pushed around by you. If Roman didn’t think fast, he’d be fucked.

I can’t tell the truth, Roman thought. He can’t know I’m looking for hiding spots. But what can I do? Come on, Roman, make an idea! It’s the one thing you do so often!

…But there was that idea. An idea he used very rarely, but had yet to fail him.

Okay then, he decided, it’s go time. Lights, camera, action.

“Roman, I’m not joking. Come here.”

Roman deliberately ignored him, instead slowly closing the garage door and fumbling with the knob like he was stuck in a task. He kept his movements delayed and repetitive, just like people always told him he acted like in the stories.

Patton hesitated, like Roman’s reaction had confused him. “Roman, now.”

“Wait, wait, wait a minute.” Roman mumbled. “It’s gotta break.”

“…What’s gotta break?”

Roman opened the door and stood there looking out at the garage. He didn’t respond to Patton’s question, instead he stood there without moving. He heard Patton step closer.

“Roman?” He asked, his voice becoming softer as he realized what was happening. “Are you awake?”

“That’s a lot off.”

Roman could see Patton smile in the corner of his eye. His plan was a success. “I think you need to go to bed, kiddo. You can break things tomorrow.”

Patton took a hold of Roman’s hand, a grip that was so gentle it was less of a grip and more of Patton holding the tips of his fingers. Roman tensed his toes to prevent himself from jerking away from the touch, letting Patton lead him back up the stairs and to his bedroom. Patton went slowly so as to not lose Roman behind him, but he eventually led Roman back to bed while Roman kept up his sleepwalking ruse. It was a trick that always worked on his dad late at night, and it was good to know it worked on Patton too.

Patton brought Roman’s hand to touch the sheets on his own bed, and Roman reacted by slowly crawling back into bed and relaxing. He felt Patton cover him up with the blanket and tried not to squirm away from him.

“Goodnight, sleepy prince.” Patton whispered. Roman heard his footsteps head toward the door before his door slowly clicked closed, leaving Roman back in his room.

Roman waited until the coast was completely clear to jump back up and put the security bar under his door knob again. He was officially stuck in his room for the rest of the night, but at least he felt more in control now. Maybe he could try to sleep now.

Roman shoved his face in his pillow and tried to drift off, breathing deeply to keep his mind from spiraling again.

Yeah. After all he’d been through recently, tomorrow had to be a relaxation day.

***

“So…” Patton said to Roman with a smirk, handing him a plate with pancakes and blueberries during breakfast that morning. “Roman, I didn’t know you were a sleepwalker.”

Virgil and Logan both looked at Roman for his response. Roman feigned surprise. “…How’d you find out?”

“Last night I caught you walking around the house. I also heard the shower running for a while. Strange thing to wake up to!”

Crap, Roman thought, gonna have to remember that for next time. “Well, yes, I sleepwalk when I’m stressed. So, quite often.”

Patton’s smile seemed to drop a little. “Do you always try to sneak out of the house?”

“Sometimes. It’s not very often, though.” That’s what Roman always told adults. In reality, Roman had never heard a sleepwalking story of him trying to sneak out other than the times he was faking it after being caught. He didn’t even think Sleepwalking Roman had figured out how to take the security bar off the door yet, let alone try to walk into the street. But adults didn't need to know that. It was more convenient that way.

“Well, I might have to see about getting some sleepwalk-Roman-proof locks on the door, then. I don’t want you walking into oncoming traffic or something.”

Roman shrugged, taking a bite of his pancakes. “You can try. Can’t guarantee it’ll work, though.”

“Why do you sleepwalk?” Logan asked, leaning in closer to where Roman was sitting. “Do you know?”

“It ran in my family.”

Logan’s eyes lit up. “That’s quite interesting. I don’t know much about the science behind sleepwalking, but perhaps it’d be an interesting topic to research on. Brain functions during sleep can be quite bizarre.”

“You have fun with that, John Darling.” Roman finished the last bite from his pancake and stood up. “However, I have a nice date with the living room TV, so I’ll be busy.”

“…You consider that being busy?” Logan teased.

“Yes. Disney marathons are self care, and you can’t complain because I haven’t had the TV at all since I got here.”

“You do gotta share sometimes, Logan.” Patton mentioned.

Logan huffed. “Fine.”

Virgil stood up from the table to put his dishes away, placing his cup on top of his plate and balancing it. “He’s a little TV hog, some of us also wanna play games, dude.”

“All you have to do is ask!”

“And face confrontation? No way am I- fuck!”

Everyone jumped at Virgil’s sudden loud swear followed by the loud bang of a cup hitting the floor. Virgil’s balancing act showed to be a failure, with orange juice spilt all over the kitchen floor. Virgil stood deathly still and stared at the mess in horror, practically shaking with his knuckles turning white as he clenched at the plate in his hand. Roman cringed, subconsciously scooting as far back in his chair as possible and tensing. All the kids were silent. Virgil looked ready to cry.

“Oops!” Patton’s cheery voice is what broke the tense silence, crouching down at the mess and picking up the dropped cup. He looked it over. “Well, thankfully this cup isn’t glass, so it’s not broken! I’ll put it in the dishwasher and it’ll be okay, an easy fix. Could you get some paper towels and clean this up, kiddo?”

Virgil still seemed shaken, digging his nails into the metal plate and nodding. He slowly moved to grab the paper towels on the counter and drop them to the floor to dry the mess. Logan didn’t seem bothered anymore, but Roman felt himself prepare to book it upstairs in case things went south. But Patton didn’t scream or throw a fit, just put the cup in the dishwasher and stepped back to let Virgil do his thing.

Once Virgil wiped up the mess, he set his plate in the dishwasher and ran upstairs. Roman and Logan both watched helplessly, but Patton just smiled to himself. “I’ll check on him in a second. I think he just needs space now.”

Roman tensed at the idea of Patton checking on Virgil on his own, still not certain what he did to them behind closed doors. Roman put his own dishes away and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He closed the door and locked it like usual, but he didn’t put the security bar under the knob. Instead, he sat against the door and listened for the sound of Patton’s footsteps.

Eventually, the footsteps did come. Roman heard him knock on Virgil’s door and announce himself, asking if he could come in before the door opened. He heard the door softly close again, and that’s when Roman took his chance. He snuck out of his room and crept his way to the door to listen to what was going on. If Virgil was in pain, he could at least hear it.

“-Mad?” Virgil asked, his voice sounding higher and shaky. Roman clenched his fist in preparation.

“Of course not, kiddo,” He heard Patton say, “I’d never be mad at you. It was just a little cup, and everything’s okay.”

“…Sorry I swore, too.”

Patton laughed. “It’s okay. Sometimes it slips out, just don’t make it a habit.” There was a pause for a long moment. Roman felt something ride in his throat when he heard the bed creak a little. “Can I have a hug?”

Roman didn’t hear a verbal response, but Patton didn’t get angry afterwards, so he assumed that Virgil agreed. The bed creaked a little more, but it was silent. Way too silent, and that creaking was making Roman’s skin crawl. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust it at all.

Despite his better judgment, Roman swung the door open to catch him. He was breathing heavily and staring daggers, ready to throw a man twice his age across the room, but Roman froze when he processed the reality. Instead of whatever Roman was expecting to find, Patton had Virgil wrapped up in a tight hug as Virgil looked spooked from the sudden intrusion. Roman just stared, wishing more than anything now that he could reverse time. Oops, too soon.

“…Kiddo,” Patton eventually said in a confused tone, “You gotta knock before you enter.”

“…Yeah.” This didn’t make any sense. His dad had never gone this long being nice, so how hadn’t he caught Patton yet? What was he doing differently that made Roman not notice?

Patton rubbed Virgil’s back to help him ease up again. “How about you close the door and give us some privacy, then?”

“…No.” It was a trap. Roman was convinced it was a trap, and he refused to fall for it. He wouldn’t leave Virgil alone with him.

Patton seemed confused. “Why no?”

Roman was shaking. “Because.”

“Roman, I can only help if you tell me why you don’t wanna leave.” Patton’s face was still soft, rubbing Virgil’s back and letting him hide in the crook of Patton’s neck. If he was angry, he wasn’t showing it. “Can you tell me more than because?”

“Because.” Roman kept his voice sharp, remembering Patton’s ‘no yelling’ rule and trying not to push his boundaries more. But there was no way he was telling Patton his plans if he still hadn’t picked up on it.

Instead of exploding at Roman for being a brat, Patton seemed to focus intently and consider his options. Eventually, his eyes widened, and he smiled softly again at Roman. “What if you gave Virgil and I some space, but kept the door open? Would that be easier?”

Roman’s chest felt strange. Heavy, but like electricity was running through him around his heart. “Why do you want space so bad?”

“Because Virgil deserves privacy when he wants it, just like everybody does. Right?”

Roman looked at Virgil, who was peeking out from his hiding spot in Patton’s neck. He looked tired, but that wasn’t the only thing Roman noticed. He looked… Annoyed. Staring right at Roman with a death glare saying do you mind?, and Roman’s heart sank. Fuck.

Without saying a word, Roman ran off with the door still open and locked himself in the bathroom. He sat on the floor and put his head in his hands, still listening carefully for any concerning noises that might come from Virgil’s room, but he knew it was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

What the hell was wrong with him recently? He told himself last night he was going to spend today relaxing, instead he was freaking out and speeding up the process until Patton realized Roman knew what he was doing. Maybe that’s why Virgil seemed mad at him. He’s being an idiot and speeding up the inevitable for everyone, taking away the points of ignorant bliss between the horror. Roman should understand that. He was also guilty of wanting to pretend his dad loved him, and he was being a prick. He was going to get everyone in trouble if he kept this up.

Roman went limp on the floor, leaning his head against the door and sighing. He needed to leave them alone for a second and stop freaking out over everything. It seemed like Patton was in a good mood since Roman came along, it’d be bad news to ruin that. He wasn’t going to be the reason Virgil got hurt.

Roman shakily stood up off the bathroom floor and left, making his way downstairs to the TV. Logan still hadn’t turned it on, so he took this as his chance to claim it. He sat on the couch with his knees tucked close and pulled up a streaming service to look for some Disney movies, his eyes lighting up when he found one of his favorites as he switched the language to French and hit play.

He used to watch Beauty and the Beast all the time as a kid. It took place in France, so his mom would always say the movie should be played in French too, and Roman agreed. Now the English version sounded too weird for him to enjoy it the same.

Roman curled into himself as the intro played, the familiar prologue story of the beast’s curse that Roman could recite from memory by now. He slowly moved to rest his head on the couch’s armrest with his arms still wrapped around his own legs, keeping him tightly curled up. Maybe later he could make himself some tea, too.

Roman got through a good portion of the movie without interruptions, up to the point where Belle first came into the castle. Then, Virgil suddenly stood in front of the TV with his arms crossed.

Roman grabbed the remote to pause the movie, taking a moment to respond as his brain tried to remember English again. “What?”

“First off, why are you watching Disney in French?”

“I speak French, next question.”

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Come with me.”

Roman sat up and raised an eyebrow at Virgil. Virgil didn’t respond, just made his way up the stairs and expected Roman to follow. His curiosity got the better of him, so Roman did what he was told.

When he made his way up the stairs, Virgil was waiting in the doorframe of his bedroom. He motioned for Roman to follow him inside, so Roman did.

When Roman walked inside, Virgil moved to close the door behind them. “Don’t,” Roman warned.

Virgil gave him a look. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t close it. At least, not all the way.”

Virgil didn’t question further, just kept the door cracked open and wandered over to sit on his bed. Roman didn’t follow, just waited for Virgil to tell him what was happening.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Virgil said.

“I gathered.”

“Sleepwalker, huh?” Virgil teased. “That’s a load of shit.”

“I am a sleepwalker. It happens sometimes!”

“I was downstairs the same time you were, dude. You definitely weren’t fucking sleepwalking until Patton caught you.” Virgil smirked as Roman’s face dropped. “I’m impressed by the acting though, not gonna lie.”

Roman tried to think of a convincing lie, but he sighed and gave up, crossing his arms as he looked at the floor. “…Alright, it was an act. But I do sleepwalk. I just…wasn’t sleepwalking at that exact moment. But regardless, what were you doing awake? And why didn’t I see you?”

Virgil shrugged. “I’m a master at hiding. Every time you came around the corner, I just moved. I haven’t been caught by Patton in a long ass time.”

“Did you call me here just to boast then?”

“Nope.” Virgil popped the p, then smirked. “I called you here to teach you how to do the same.”

Roman seemed taken aback. “…Why?”

“You’re struggling a lot, I figured I might be able to put you out of your misery.”

“Wow, how kind.” Roman deadpanned. “I don’t need your help, for the record. I know I haven’t been in the system long, but this isn’t my first rodeo.”

Virgil sighed. “Look, I’m not good with emotional shit, we’ve been over this. But when Logan first came around, I had a lot of chances to help him out and I just didn’t, and it was a dick move that I regret now. I want to do different with you, so don’t think too deep into it and just accept it. Deal?”

“Um…alright?”

Virgil walked past Roman and opened his door all the way again, looking out into the hallway before speaking. “Alright, ready for lesson one?”

Roman thought about it. “…Answer something for me first.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you okay?”

Virgil made a face at him. “What do you mean?”

Roman could feel his chest aching. “You were alone with Patton.”

“Patton’s chill, dude. He hasn’t smacked me once in the two years I’ve been here, which I didn’t know was possible. He was just worried about me after my freak-out, but I’m good.”

“The bed was creaking.”

Virgil seemed confused. “Beds do that when you move on them. There might be a loose joint or something I gotta fix, though.”

Roman wasn’t convinced. “He didn’t do anything at all?”

“Patton’s never laid a hand on me.”

“…That’s not true.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“So that I won’t be scared so much.”

Virgil sighed and rubbed his palms into his eyes. “Whatever, believe what you want, you’ll get there eventually. You want my help or not?”

“…Yes.”

Virgil stepped out of the room and gestured for Roman to follow him, just going to the hallway in front of Roman’s room. Once Roman moved to stand in Virgil’s doorway, Virgil motioned for him to stop. Roman stayed right where he was.

“Alright, lesson one, making it downstairs without being a loud ass.” Virgil pressed his foot on a specific part of the carpet where the floorboard squeaked underneath. “The upstairs has a lot of squeaky floorboards, no clue why. But there’s a way to dodge it. When leaving my bedroom, you take one step, skip a step, take two steps, turn left, skip a step, take one step, go right, then just don’t step on the first step of the staircase at all, the whole thing squeaks. You can try it if you want.”

Roman’s curiosity got the better of him, so he did what Virgil suggested, keeping his steps close together so his heel was touching his toe and followed Virgil’s pattern. He skipped all the places Virgil told him to and made it to the stairs without squeaking the floor for the first time since he came here.

“I have a pattern for a trip to the bathroom and to the stairs. Our rooms are pretty close together, so your pattern probably wouldn’t be much different than mine.” Virgil put one foot forward and tested the floor methodically, seeing which areas squeaked and which ones didn’t. He slowly made his way to the stairs where he stopped on the second step, seemingly satisfied with himself. “Skip a step, take two steps, skip another one, turn right, skip a step, then one more step. Though your feet are bigger than mine, so your pattern might be different.”

“Awww, you’re a shorty.” Roman teased.

“Shut the fuck up.” Virgil deadpanned. “Okay, next lesson. Follow me.”

Roman followed Virgil down the stairs, noticing the way Virgil stepped down them. He stepped in specific areas on each step and skipped some entirely as he made his way downstairs, effectively making a lot less noise than Roman did just walking normally. Though, Virgil did say he’d been living here for two years, so it’d make sense that he knows all the tricks to get around Patton. Maybe him and this stormy night could be partners in crime.

Virgil motioned for Roman to follow him into the kitchen and around where the garage door was, pointing to a window once Roman caught up to him. “Lesson number two, this window is your best friend.”

“How so?” Roman asked.

“Well, first off, it’ll help you sneak out without getting caught like an idiot. You know, like last night.”

Roman put an offended hand to his chest. “I was not trying to sneak out!”

“What were you doing then?”

“I was looking for something, and no, you don’t get to know what.”

Virgil gave him a look. “Right. Well, for when you do sneak out, this exit is the way to go. Patton has security cameras pointed at the back, front, and garage doors of the house. This is the only window out of the sight of all of them. Then, you sneak your way around the side of the house and go on your merry way until sunrise.”

Roman crossed his arms at Virgil. “And how often do you use this?”

“Like, twice a week.”

“Twice a week!? Not even I sneak out that often!”

Virgil shrugged. “I don’t go far, usually just to the park down the road. I haven’t gotten kidnapped yet, so it’s whatever.”

“You scare me.”

“Good.” Virgil motioned for Roman to follow him again. “Back upstairs.”

Roman scoffed. “We were just there.”

“And we’re going back up there again.” Virgil smirked mercilessly and walked back to the staircase. Roman rolled his eyes, but he was enjoying Virgil’s tips too much to not follow him. He went up the stairs and met with Virgil next to the closet.

Virgil pointed to the closet door. “This thing right here? Lesson number three, this place is your best friend.”

“It already is my best friend. I use all the paints up there.”

“More than that.” Virgil opened the closet door and turned on the light, motioning for Roman to come inside with him. Roman wasn’t very inclined to because of the cramped space, but his curiosity was greater than his fear for once, so he stepped inside and closed the door behind them while Virgil turned on the light.

“The attic makes a great hiding spot. There’s a lot of drawers and small spaces up there where it’s easy to hide. Granted, it’s easy to tell when someone is up there because you can’t pull the stairs back up when you’re in the attic. But that’s where this comes in.” Virgil grabbed a rope off one of the closet shelves. “Tie it around the doorknob and tie the other end to the stairs. No one can open the door if you do that.”

“Sounds like a great way to give away where you’re hiding if no one can open the door.” Roman pointed out.

Virgil shrugged. “Patton doesn’t try very hard. He might test the handle, but he gives up if the door won’t open. He’ll ask you if you’re okay once you leave, though.”

Roman liked his hiding spot better. It was enough in the open that no one would check it, and there was no indication that Roman might be hiding behind the cabinet. This could be a good temporary spot, though. At least until he could get a black box that could support his weight.

Virgil pulled down the stairs to the attic, grabbing the rope and tying its ends to the stairs and doorknob like he described. He then went up into the attic as Roman followed behind. When Roman peeked his head up into the attic, Virgil was crouched beside a box full of Christmas decorations. Roman walked over to where he was.

“Lesson four, keep your mouth shut about this or else.” Virgil reached behind the box into the corner of the room and pulled out a smaller box that had been hidden behind it. When he opened the small one, he let Roman take a good look at what was inside. Granola bars, a container of salted peanuts, water bottles and chip bags. Roman grabbed a granola bar and a water bottle as he gave Virgil a questioning look.

“Having a spot with hidden food just makes me feel better.” Virgil explained. “I’ve never had to use it, Patton feeds us like he’s four grandmas fucking combined. But if you’re hiding up here and you get hungry, I stash it regularly.”

“Does Logan know about all this?” Roman asked, opening his water bottle to take a sip.

Virgil shook his head. “Like I said, I didn’t show Logan jack shit when he first came. And it’s too late now, and it’s not like Logan would ever use it anyway. Lucky son of a bitch never feels the need to hide.”

Roman laughed. “Lucky is one word for it.”

Virgil didn’t respond, just took the container of peanuts and hid the box back in it’s hiding spot. The two ate in silence for a while; a kind of silence that wasn’t awkward or tense, but wasn’t exactly comfortable either. Maybe because Virgil still felt like a stranger to him.

After a while of them both relaxing next to each other, Virgil finally spoke up. “Tell me your trauma and I’ll tell you mine.”

Roman raised an eyebrow at him, “And knowing your trauma benefits me how?”

“You feel a little less alone. Also solidarity and shit.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not spilling. Share whatever you want, but it won’t be reciprocated.”

“Can’t say I didn’t try.” Virgil ate a mouthful of peanuts. “I have a theory, you know. Less of a theory and more of the truth, but still. Patton purposely fosters abused kids.”

Roman snorted. “Sounds about right. Easy targets.”

“I think it’s more about him wanting to help us.”

“Believe whatever you want, Hot Topic.”

Virgil smirked. “Hot Topic?”

“Am I wrong?”

Virgil rolled his eyes, but he still smiled a little. “Whatever.”

They didn’t talk much after that, only enjoying the silence together in their own world trapped away in the attic. It wasn’t exactly Roman’s plan, but he still felt safe. He sipped on his water and thought a lot about Virgil’s lessons, trying to ensure they were deep in his memory. But he didn’t need them now. Instead, he sat in the corner of the attic, comforted by the knowledge of the door being locked underneath them, with a silent acquaintance a good distance from him.

It wasn’t the self-care day Roman had planned, but he wasn’t complaining. It worked.

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Pulse Point

A/N: Requested by anonymous. Warning for canon-typical violence; minor character death, nightmares, and post-traumatic stress. Also: borrowed Dr. Sweets from the show Bones.

Summary: A near-death experience leaves you with recurrent nightmares. Neal offers some comfort.

Word Count: 5,154

The steady beeping of hospital equipment was driving you insane. It had been hours now of nothing except the monotonous noise of your own heartbeat. If it didn’t shut up soon, you would claw your ears off. With a stiff body and an ache that penetrated down to your bones, you forced your body upright and pinched open the pulse monitor on your right hand.

You let out a relieved sigh as the equipment went silent and dropped yourself back onto the well-padded pillows behind you. The pulse monitor clattered to the floor on its long white cord and you settled down for a nap. The ache in your bones made you feel heavy, like lead. There was nothing quite like a well-deserved nap.

In mere seconds after you had closed your eyes, the equipment started acting up again, this time blaring one long, constant shriek. The surprise made your heart skip a beat, but your eyelids were too heavy to look and see what had happened. Then your heart kept skipping, and your throat tightened. You couldn’t breathe. Your chest burned. It wasn’t a heartbeat; it was a flatline.

You were dying.

The leaden feeling in your body doubled. Your muscles didn’t respond to trying to move and you couldn’t force your lungs to take in a breath. Footsteps pounded around you, incoherent shouts going in one ear and out the other. You were desperate for your paralyzed eyes to open. Was this what you’d have for the rest of your life? Nothing but darkness and unintelligible, mind-numbing noise, punctuated by electrical humming and the pain of a vice clamping itself again to your finger?

The flatline paused for a second. Your ears rang and you thought, for a moment, that you were safe, your heart was beating again. Instead, your stomach twisted and you realized you were losing feeling in your toes. No blood. No life. When the screech of your flatline came back again, it was louder, more piercing. The shrillness reminded you of screaming.

As soon as you remembered it, it was there – the same screaming as before, somewhere in your room, echoing from every corner. In the next pause of the flatline, it turned into a hoarse shriek and a plea. “No! Please!”

You couldn’t hear anything underneath it, no more overlapping voices, and your panic increased. Where were the doctors? Did they think you were gone? Help me!

Your eyes opened with a sudden snap, the droning of your alarm clock replacing the flatlining of the monitor.

As you stared at your ceiling, you panted for breath. Rationally, you knew, you had probably never stopped breathing, but in the panic of your nightmare, it felt like you’d been smothered. Terror powered your desperate gasps and convinced you that your feet and hands were numb, even as you could feel that one foot was poking out from the end of your blanket. After a long moment, you dared to move your arm, ready to scream if you weren’t dreaming after all and still couldn’t move. You turned your alarm off easily.

Soft rain pattered against the glass windows, creating shiny-looking streaks as droplets collected and streamed down the side of the building. It was much more soothing than the silence that usually reigned in Dr. Sweets’ office when he was waiting for you to talk. Maybe he should invest in one of those noise machines with rain as an option. You thought about making the suggestion, but knowing him, he would probably call you out on the procrastination, or deflection, or whatever else he wanted to call it.

You broke the silence. “I’m certain I can wait you out for the next…” You checked the clock. “Twenty-seven minutes.”

Dr. Sweets raised his eyebrows, still leaning his head on a closed fist, propped on the arm of his chair. “I’m equally certain I can recommend you remain on desk duty for the next…” He pretended to check his watch. “Twenty-seven weeks.”

You scowled.

Psychological clearance was a bureau mandate after something traumatic occurred during the course of the job. You’d been lucky enough not to need it up to this point, but after… that, you hadn’t been given a choice. Dr. Sweets was a highly qualified psychotherapist, and you were sure that he did amazing things to help a lot of people, but so far you felt neither amazed nor helped.

“Agent L/N, you went through something incredibly harrowing that you were very close to not walking away from.” The psychologist finally took his head off his fist and put his arm down in his lap. At least he’d taken the bait and you weren’t the one starting the discussion. “You were a half-inch or couple minutes from bleeding out.” He pinched his fingers to demonstrate as if you didn’t have a scar on your body that distance from your femoral artery. You’d never be able to forget what half an inch looked like.

“But I did walk away, and the person who did that to me is in prison for the rest of his life.” You crossed your legs, trying to look more comfortable than you felt. You weren’t sure how effective you were going to be at convincing a therapist that you didn’t need therapy, but it was worth the try.

He looked utterly unconvinced. Actually, the jerk looked like he knew exactly what you were trying for and thought it was cute that you thought you could trick him. “Justice, or even retribution, which it feels like you’re leaning towards, doesn’t erase a wrongdoing or its associated harm.”

“I didn’t erase it, I healed from it. I took medical leave, now I’m back.”

“Physically, you healed. It takes a lot longer to heal mentally from those kinds of wounds.”

“Does it?” You challenged.

“I think your nightmares speak for themselves,” Dr. Sweets said pointedly.

You glared at him, at a loss for a quick comeback. You knew you didn’t look like a million bucks, but you hadn’t thought it was that obvious you were losing sleep. If he knew, then the coworkers who spent a lot of time with you must know, too. Especially Neal – nothing got past him. Oh, that was embarrassing.

The nightmares had been recurring for weeks now. They had started once you had a return date to the office, but after actually resuming your work, they had increased in frequency and intensity. They weren’t identical, but they did all share some similarities: some fatal injury had you dying, alone, in the dark, like you almost had in real life. You never got to the point of actually dying in your dreams, you didn’t think, but you were just fine with that. They were bad enough as they were. Yes, they were a sign of trauma and anxiety. But if your mind didn’t heal itself from weeks safe at home, then you knew returning to normal as fast as possible was probably your best bet at getting over what had happened.

“I’m not your enemy here,” the therapist said to you more gently. You couldn’t say he was heartless, even if you didn’t enjoy the half-hour sessions where he tried to talk about your feelings whether you wanted to or not. “My goal is the same as yours. I want you back at work, safely, able to sleep through a night so you don’t jeopardize yourself or the people around you.”

You let out a deep sigh. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me about the affect this has had on you.” Dr. Sweets encouraged, not for the first time. “You’ve accepted what happened. I can see that. But the next step is processing what it means for you, as an agent, as a person… maybe both.”

You felt helpless. What was that supposed to mean? You couldn’t very well tell him you were terrified your job was going to actually get you killed or cost more lives on your watch. When your employer paid your therapist’s bills, you couldn’t fully trust doctor-patient confidentiality. Maybe it was just paranoia, but you couldn’t bring yourself to risk it.

“I can’t sleep,” you admitted. Your tone sounded mournful. In a way, you were mourning for a time when you could sleep through the night and enjoy your days at work. It wasn’t like white-collar crime was your passion, but you did like puzzles, and you did like being around the people you worked with, especially a certain blue-eyed felon. “I keep having nightmares that I’m… injured, and I’m alone.”

“Your wire was jammed and your team didn’t hear you signal for backup.” Dr. Sweets talked slowly, patient and pragmatic as he validated your nightly anxieties. “You expected help, but they didn’t know to come.”

“They did come,” you said with a shrug. “It just… almost wasn’t in time. I know it wasn’t their fault.”

Your words about time felt glued into your ears. Yours had come really close to running out. And for what? Insurance fraud? No amount of money justified murder, and you likewise couldn’t put a price tag on a life. So why were you so eager to leap back into the same job that almost cost you yours?

It was something you had been mulling over since it happened. Your job was dangerous. You had always known that. You’d been shot at, been near explosives… your partner had been abducted by a murderer not that long ago, and your best friend had had guns in his face so often that, honestly, you’d lost count a while ago. Somehow it just hadn’t clicked, you supposed, that you could legitimately die. You were protected by the bureau and your body armor, until that wasn’t enough. Other agents had learned that lesson in a much harder way; being confronted with that was hard to simply get over.

Apparently, your use of the word “fault” led Dr. Sweets to talk to you about guilt and anger around the incident. You didn’t blame your partner or feel angry, except at the man who shot you, but you let him continue around your noncommittal, half-assed answers. You knew he at least suspected you were putting him on again, but you also knew you hadn’t given him much to work with. Then again, he didn’t call you on your bullshit replies, either, so you weren’t quite sure what he thought.

While Dr. Sweets had yet to approve you for field duty, there was still plenty to do at your desk. You pretended not to notice the itch in your legs to go somewhere while you kept yourself busy, preparing documents, performing research, helping delegate and manage case files, and topping off your team’s coffee whenever they got low. You had become even more of a desk jockey than Neal; at least he got to go out with Peter when given the green light. You missed outings with your partner, or really with any other agent.

Comparing yourself to a caged tiger was likely on the dramatic side, so you put it out of your mind and refused to feel sorry for yourself. You understood the protocols and the routines and they were for your benefit as much as the bureau’s. Besides, your team wasn’t treating you like you were fragile or demoted. They leaned on you to help just as much as they ever did, the assignment of duties just went a little differently.

You doodled a cat on your notepad during a meeting. Everyone had great ideas and you tossed in some ways you could contribute when you’d been quiet for a while. Peter’s proposed field op was going to go smoothly. Odds were high that any hiccups could be taken care of by Diana’s swift running of interference. Neal was raring to go and Jones was a little too excited to play the part of an intimidating brute, in your opinion, and Peter was appropriately apprehensive (someone ought to be, after what had happened to you).

“Let’s sleep on it,” Peter decided after looking out the window and seeing how low the sun had sunk. “If we’re all still in agreement in the morning, we’ll set the ball in motion.”

Jones graciously commented, “Good idea. We can all think on it.” He was probably the most cautious of all of you.

“Y/N?” Neal asked. You immediately looked up from your (admittedly lopsided) cat drawing. The forger was still in his chair, even while the others were pulling on their coats and blazers. “You’ve been quiet. Do you have any concerns?”

You shook your head, but not too quickly that it raised suspicion. You could get away with doodling – Peter often turned a blind eye to it; after several years, he’d developed a soft spot for you – but only if you were still paying attention and participating, so you didn’t want to give him a reason to suspect you weren’t.

Peter, Diana, and Jones all said their goodbyes. The two younger agents left the room, but Peter lingered at the doorway.

“Neal, do you want a ride?” He offered.

Neal looked from you to Peter, and then shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll find my way. You don’t want to be late for roast,” he added when Peter looked unconvinced. After glancing at you, your partner decided that he really didn’t want to be late for roast and left without another look over his shoulder.

Now that you were alone, Neal softened his expression. “Seriously, Y/N, what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’m not worried. We’ve thought of just about everything we can predict.” You said with a straight face, pretending not to know that Neal wasn’t just talking about this specific case anymore.

He wasn’t having it. “Don’t lie to a conman, Y/N,” he chided you with a small, fond smile. “Come on. It’s not just today, you’ve been quiet ever since you came back. It’s not like you.” You raised an eyebrow and pursed your lips, uninterested in talking. Neal reached partway across the table for you but stopped there. It was an invitation but not a command. “I’m worried about you.”

The thing about your history with Neal was that it was a close one. You went from strangers when Peter got him out of Sing Sing to best friends within the span of two years. You trusted him more than you trusted just about anyone, and there hadn’t been a time when one of you needed the other and was turned away. He didn’t come to you when he was upset – seeking out reassurance and comfort was not Neal’s strength, because it involved professing vulnerability – but he never turned you away when you came to offer it, either. Now it seemed to be his turn to do the offering, as he had realized over the last few weeks that you weren’t going to ask.

You reached for his hand and silently sighed in relief at how solid and warm it was to the touch, so unlike the few dreams where you screamed and cried for someone to help and found yourself grasping at tricks that weren’t there. Neal turned his hand to hold yours and gave it a squeeze.

“It’s been so hard, Neal,” you told him reluctantly. “I have no idea how you do it. How you just walk away from all the close calls.”

Neal frowned a little. “I don’t just walk away,” he objected. “I have bad nights. I have bad days. Sometimes I have a whole bad week, or a few bad months.” You knew the latter was a reference to losing Kate, and you sympathetically gripped his hand tighter. “But, you know… there’s always something I can find to focus on instead, and after a while, the things go in the past. I let go.”

That advice was entirely unhelpful. “I’ve been trying to let go,” you said sourly. It wasn’t directed at him, exactly, but moreso at your brain, which was failing in its task of moving past what happened. “It’s not working. I can’t sleep. Sometimes I don’t think I can breathe.”

“It’s not easy,” Neal agreed, stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. It was an intimately affectionate gesture that comforted and eased the nerves beginning to bubble in your stomach. “Company helps. The reminder that I have backup, even when it doesn’t come right away. I’ve got Peter, Moz. You.” He met your eyes with a small smile and raised your hand to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles.

“Company?” You echoed uncertainly. If you were unconscious, how was company going to make a difference to what you dreamed about? Then you remembered what you had said to Dr. Sweets about your nightmares always ending with being alone. If you knew, on some level, that you weren’t alone, maybe you would feel safer. “Like, overnight?”

His expression didn’t change to give away whether you were right or wrong. Instead, he just asked, evenly, “Is that what you need?” The way he looked at you then, without judgment in his eyes, but with determination in the set of his jaw, you just knew that whatever you said you needed, Neal would move a mountain to give it to you.

“I’m not sure, but… maybe?” You hesitantly guessed. If it worked, it would be worth the awkwardness. Even just one night of solid sleep would do wonders for how you felt, and it wasn’t like it would be the first time you had stayed with Neal overnight. Long marathons on slow weekends, and the less pleasant nights after Kate’s death, meant he kept an extra toothbrush and a set of your pajamas in his penthouse.

“Okay,” he said right away with nothing but quiet matter-of-factness. It was so comforting to be proven right that you could rely on him to help you with what you needed. His tone just said, you need this, so we’re doing it, full-stop. You just hoped you were right, both so you could finally go eight hours without fearing for your life and so you weren’t inconveniencing him for no reason. “Let’s get dinner on the way. We don’t have to talk about it,” he quickly said, seeing your face. “Whatever you need.”

Everyone should have a friend like Neal, but everyone should find their own, because this one was all yours. If it weren’t for the table in the way, you would’ve launched yourself at him in a tight hug. As it was, you settled for a squeeze of his hand and a grin as wide as you could muster. “Dinner sounds great.”

The stickiness of your pants along your thigh made your hands shake, unable to bring yourself to look at your palms. You knew what you would see all over them. The fire lancing up your thigh told you what you already knew. So did the weakness in your body and the fog in your mind. It was done. The hourglass on the desk was trickling through the last of its sand. Moretti was nowhere to be seen. You couldn’t even die in the presence of a murderer.

There was screaming coming from another room. It was the desperate wail of another agent begging for their life. “No! Please!”

“No,” you mumbled, using all of your energy to turn your head to the doorway. He couldn’t… not now that you were down… you couldn’t even raise your voice to cry for help. You were completely helpless. You couldn’t save him.

Your chest burned with the effort of your heart, ironically helping you to bleed out faster. Your breaths came labored, and then they couldn’t come at all as your vision faded. The dark carpet blurred from a mass of pilled fibers into a solid navy sea. The pain in your leg was excruciating, it was all you could feel; the idea of feeling peace ever again slipping away.

Screaming. Banging. Footsteps. More screaming. Pounding. Shouting. It was all indistinguishable, a mess of men’s voices and loud gunshots. Then, you heard it. Just your name, barely audible above the rest, in a voice that made you strain to see past the blackness.

“Y/N!”

You’d give the rest of your precious seconds away just to see him one last time, just to know he was beside you and you weren’t alone.

“Y/N!”

Footsteps came closer and the pressure on your chest intensified. The blood loss made you dizzy and your body shook.

“Y/N!”

You jolted awake, eyes snapping open in time to see Neal leaning out of the way just in time to avoid your hand flying at his face. You processed slowly that his hands were on your shoulders – had he shaken you? – and it was still dark. You could barely see his face, but his figure was lit from behind by the lamp next to his bed. You could tell from his messy hair that he had been sleeping not long ago, and you felt awful for waking him up.

After cursing, you sat up and gripped the warm blanket on your lap tightly. “I’m sorry,” you said remorsefully, feeling like a fool. Not only hadn’t you been able to sleep through the night, but now you’d ruined his rest, too. You cussed again. “I really hoped being close… just not being at my apartment, alone…”

It had felt like a safe bet off to a good start. You had gotten dinner together near Gramercy Park, then watched a lighthearted movie before turning in for bed. Neal offered to let you take his mattress, but you didn’t want to put him out and you had slept over enough that he didn’t feel like a bad host for letting you insist on the sofa. You’d been out by ten, but now you could guess it had been less than four hours. Your heart was still racing, your leg still tense with an imagined pain.

“It’s okay,” Neal said, sounding unsettled. He kept his hands on your shoulders like he was keeping you grounded on the earth. “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

Neal’s eyes must have already adjusted to the low light, because his aim was spot-on when he lifted a hand from your shoulder to cup your neck instead. His profile ducked and you felt his lips land on your forehead, checking your temperature, signalling forgiveness, and administering reassurance all at once. He rubbed his thumb across your jaw as he stood up straight, releasing you, and walked away around the couch.

You put your legs down in front of you and rubbed your face, exhausted mentally and physically. Helplessness made you want to cry. Time wasn’t healing. Sleeping pills just made it harder to wake up, letting the nightmares ravage your psyche for longer. Not even the proximity of someone you trusted and adored was enough to let go of the past.

The light in the kitchen came on, bright enough to illuminate the studio but far enough away not to be blinding. Neal came back to the couch holding a bottle of water and offered it to you before sitting down. He looked so adorable, still sleepy and with a bit of pink in the side of his face from sleeping with his arm under his pillow. You scolded yourself for even thinking about how cute he was when you were the one who had woken him up.

You sipped at the water. It was so nice and smooth on your throat. You felt fine, now that you were awake, but the vividness of your nightmares always left you feeling parched and you always expected swallowing to hurt as if you had strep. Neal leaned into the back of the couch and put his arm up along the cushions. You capped the water, bent your knees to pull your feet back up onto the furniture, and let yourself lean into his side. Neal dropped his arm softly on your shoulders, holding you in a tender sideways hug.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized again after a couple of minutes. You felt much better, much faster than you usually did, thanks to him, and if you were being fully honest, you were not ready for him to get up and go back to bed, but it wasn’t fair to ask him to stay up cuddling you at god-knows-what-time just because you were a wreck.

“I told you, it’s okay,” Neal said, his voice firm. If you apologized again, you figured he would start scolding you for it, so you let it go.

“I just – I should’ve expected this,” you said with frustration, feeling like you were confessing to knowingly bothering him. “I haven’t been able to sleep well in ages. I keep having these nightmares, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Neal was quiet for a few seconds, making sure you had said all you were inclined to. Then, knowingly, he asked, “This is about the Moretti case, isn’t it?”

“I can’t let it go,” you said with a whimper. “It won’t leave me alone. Every night, it’s a little bit different, but at its core it’s always the same.”

Neal’s voice cutting through the fog of your nightmare had been a saving grace, giving you peace even in your unconscious, but now that you were awake, you realized with clarity that his voice saying your name wasn’t the only voice you could make out. In fact, you always heard the same thing, every night, no matter what else changed.

“What’s the same, Y/N?” Neal asked you, trying to help. He stroked your upper arm with his open hand. You were already shaking your head. Neal could comfort you all he liked, but he couldn’t bring back the dead. In grief and shame, you turned your head and bent your neck to bury your face in his shoulder. Neal tilted his head so his cheek was resting gently on your hair. “Tell me, darling,” he coaxed in a whisper.

You felt like someone’s hands were wrapped around your throat, strangling your reply. “Agent Flynn,” you answered dryly, barely more than mouthing his name. “In every nightmare, I hear… I hear his last words. Begging Moretti not to take the shot.”

Neal was quiet for a long time, but never pushed you away. He held you closer when you started to shake, crying against him as quietly as you could manage. The artist rubbed your arm and periodically kissed your head, but he knew that there was nothing he could say to erase the horror of what you had heard or take away the guilt that you had survived because Moretti was distracted by taking out the other agent.

Moretti was part of a family gang, often in conflict with the Barellis, who, interestingly, paid a little deference to the white-collar division ever since you and Peter had recovered a stolen Book of Hours. The Morettis had no such connection or gratitude, so their response to the FBI sticking their nose into an embezzling scam was violent and bloody. Moretti shot you in the leg and intended to finish you off, but one of his own men had reported you came with someone. He left you to bleed out, and only a few rooms over, you had heard Flynn’s pleas – and the subsequent gunshot. Your team, wising up to the dead signal, arrived for a takedown before Moretti could make his way back to you, but it was too late for your teammate.

Neal shifted after what felt like forever, only to pull you closer to his chest and wrap both arms around you. You trembled in his embrace, but that just made him hold you closer, like you were delicate and breakable. When he next talked, his low voice was quivering, just like your body.

“I thought we lost you,” he said, cupping the back of your head in a gentle hand. He massaged his fingers into your scalp, even as he kept you cuddled in his lap. “I thought I lost you, Y/N. Two gunshots. I thought…” He struggled to find his words and you hiccuped, trying to stop crying. “I was the one who found you, and I was so scared I was too late.”

You sniffled and uncrossed your arms to melt against his chest and hug him tightly around his waist instead. “I didn’t know you…”

“We found him first, but you weren’t there and I needed to find you.” Neal now sounded equal parts frightened and furious. “If he had taken you away, I would’ve…” He shook his head and pressed his forehead to yours, as desperate to be close to you as you felt to be close to him. “I would’ve shattered. I can’t lose you, Y/N. I just can’t lose you, too.”

“I’m so glad I didn’t die,” you blurted, almost in a sob. You felt so safe with him, but now you knew for a fact that your own safety wasn’t what had been tormenting you. It was a nearly debilitating case of survivor’s guilt. “I just wish I hadn’t been the only one who survived.”

“No one wants that,” Neal promised you, untangling his hand from your hair and stroking it down instead. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could fix this and take it away, but all I can do is be here and hold you and tell you it’s going to be alright. It wasn’t your fault.”

You sniffed. Neal’s words were more of a comfort than you had thought they would be. They changed nothing about the situation, but… you weren’t alone. You hadn’t been alone since you met him. You just agonized that Flynn had been. “Neal, I can’t lose you, either. I love you, you’re… you’re who I’m going to heal for.” You had to find a way.

Neal seized your lips with his in a searing kiss. It wasn’t as sexy or patient as you may have imagined, but you gripped his shirt and gave as good as you got, and wow, the man gave verygood. It was a desperate kiss, needing to bring you together and reaffirm your life. To you, it was the seal of a promise that you wouldn’t let the past crush your spirit. When you could sleep through the night and had a handle on your post-traumatic stress… if he would just be patient, you would be his the way you wanted him to be yours.

He released you to breathe, eyes opening wide as if he only just realized what he had done. Before he could pull away, you pressed your forehead to his again, urging him to stay close. Your breaths mingled between you and you were sure you could feel his heart beating through his chest.

“I love you, too,” he said once he had caught his breath.

[remsmoonlight]

— title : just drive

— word count : 1.6k words

— pairing : rick grimes x reader

— summary : never had the inability to drive been a reason to divulge, nor had it been a problem. until a horde of walkers are trailing behind you, that is.

— warnings : swearing, implication of anxiety, mentions of death / potential car accidents, mentions of blood and gore

note: two imagines in two days i can’t believe my productivity, i thought it would be funny that being unable to drive in a zombie apocalypse would be funny because it would be such a useful ability to have ( ahem ahem my non driving ass ) this was meant to be like 500 words but it got away from me, anyways enjoy three hours of my nonsense!

                               ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*   requests are open ! *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Burning. The sensation is fierce as you fight your own body to force more oxygen into your airways, to power you along to escape the deathly growls that follow behind you. Paranoia stokes its own fire, the feeling that walkers are much closer than they actually are push you to lighter steps in the barren dirt, the only tracks laid into its path are the ones you are currently forming with every inch you put between you.

Exactly how you’d gotten into this situation is not something you mind wants to visit currently, more concerned with your current predicament.

“ We’ll turn left up ahead, we passed a few cars a while back. “

“ That's as good a plan as any. “ You rush out in one breath, the words with a ghostly tone while you try to find your voice. Everything hurts, the idea of more running is not something you find appealing.

You wonder if the walkers are able to run, any thought to distract yourself from the aching your muscles feel at the physical exertion you’re being put through. For a fraction of a fleeting second, you turn your gaze backwards, your eyes running across the line of walkers that want to make the sky above you rain with your blood across the greenery as you flee. They do a very good job of speed walking, the amount of energy they have for being dead is something that unnerves you. Even after you have caffeine in your bloodstream, you have never had this much energy. What is their secret?

Tears blur your sight as you set your eyes on a graveyard of cars, dust that covers every inch of the metal machines show their age.

“ Rick! “ You exclaim, a new flower of hope blooming in your voice as your finger shakily raises to point in the direction of the car park. “ Over there! “

Both of you split instantly as you reach the space, your hands tugging at the handles of the vehicles, wishing with every fibre of your beings that one is unlocked — or at the very least, there is a key to unlock them nearby. Extremely nearby.

“ This one! “ Your voice carries over the distance resoundingly, the door opens with a click that blesses your hearing.

“ Yeah.. We’re lucky today. “ Rick mumbles to himself, flinging the bags that had been weighing on his shoulders into the back.

In the suddenness of the situation, your heart plummets below with a steep drop that you swore will not end. I can’t fucking drive. You gasp at the realisation of it, desperation twisting and contorting around the entirety of your body.

“ Rick.. “ Turning towards Rick swiftly, you pause in your confession. An uncomfortable heat warms your cheeks as you study him, unsure of how he would react during the worst possible moment for the disclosure. “ We need to switch places! “

“ What? “ His brows knit together as he asks you, confusing misting him completely. “ Why? Start the car! “

“ I do — I can’t drive! “

The confession leads Rick to momentarily splutter in response, his words cowering under the veil that is his tongue. Colour drains from his features, a continuous slap against the back of the car’s window from a lone walker ahead of the horde pushes him into a brisk movement. The action is awkward, the lack of space threatening to cause harm in the form of bruises from knocking limbs against various parts of its interior.

“ Just drive! “

With a haggard start, you examine the way your surroundings appear to move, realising that the vehicle is awake and increasing with speed as it puts space between you and the dead. You lean your head against the window, one of your hands moves towards the temple of your head to message some of the tension of almost being eaten away. That had been too close for comfort.

“ Uh, y’know I gotta ask — “

“ How I can’t drive, right? “ You finish, your eyes roll in response, you know he’s going to  find too much amusement in making fun of you.

“ And how you made it this far. “ He drawls, humour embedded in his response as his eyes continue to survey the road ahead.

Your teeth bite the side of your cheek, with strength that almost is able to draw the crimson liquid that lays beneath your flesh. Lips purse at the enjoyment you can feel radiating off of his body, as it wishes itself into existence.

“ I don’t know! “ You grumble loudly, your shoulders lift temporarily in response. “ I’m just always with someone who knows how to operate one of these things. “

“ You never learnt before? “

“ I mean.. I always had a fear of driving. No reason, just the thought that one wrong move and.. “ a shudder rips through your body with a blinding pace, your fingers lay tapping at your thigh. “ I could cause an accident, or even be in one would scare me to death! “

“ That’s understandable. “ Rick nods, glancing in your direction before breaking out in a grin. “ Kinda. “

A heavy groan vibrates inside of the car, you throw your hands up in the air as you realise he’s one of the worst people to divulge this information to. Your addition to the group hadn’t occurred as earlier as most of them, they’d been kind enough to accept you into their family after escaping Terminus. On a rare night, nightmares of that cursed location shatters the mirror of a dreamy slumber into a thousand shards that scar your mind for the nights that follow. Echoes of screams from those captured, treated no more than a prize cow that awaits its slaughter to service those with the butcher’s knife.

Truthfully, you’d gravitated towards the man. With the amount of trauma you’d been through, the way that when he speaks, you craved the comfort his words never lost. Certainty and confidence are still with him today, often leading you to believe everything will be alright. Even if the road between Georgia and Alexandria had been filled with gore and tears, everything has turned out fine. So far.

“ You are being so annoying right now. “ Cursing the man, you show him your middle finger.

Rick says nothing, he merely chuckles in response. You almost allow your mind to tread into the murky waters of the man you used to know and the transformation into the man he is now.

“ I just.. “ shaking his head, the cheeky glint in his eyes only sparkles more as it grows in size. “ How d’you not run into this problem earlier? “

“ I don’t know! “

“ It’s nothin’ short of amazin’. “ a gust of air is released from his lips, only now does he realise they’re dehydrating from the amount of running done that afternoon.

Trees and bushes blend into one another, creating a vivid merging of shades, providing a soothing palette to paint the most tranquil of artworks. You envy the way life has flourished under the lack of human traffic, trampling the environment without a care, you wish you could undergo the same change the way it has. The human mind has a way of making obstacles difficult for itself.

“ I just.. Can’t help but find it funny. Drivin’s.. It’s a way of survivin’ when you got more than one of them on your ass. “

“ Well I guess I am an outlier to that rule. “ your brows move with the motions your head makes as you try to muster an air of superiority over the notion.

You find yourself wishing you hadn’t succumbed to your fears, that you’d bit the bullet and studied and practiced as much as humanly possible. The fear of driving hadn’t been the only thing that stopped you from pursuing the ability, but the idea of having to take a written exam and an actual driving test? The two often colliding in an infinite clash of wills that left your insides in a constant, battered wreck every time you thought about the idea.

All you want is to be able to do that one thing, after all, so many had done so before. You’re sure that everyone, minus the children, are able to drive. Such a simple thing, you’d never thought would prove to be such a thorn in your side when you’d take the train to work. Life has a way of stitching together a set of circumstances only to treat them like dominos, destroying the work with little regard as it watches them fall one by one. The carefully nursed structure is a shell of what it used to be, the resting place of what could have been.

“ You didn’t give up, y’kept fightin’. I’ve seen people able to hotwire these things taken down. It ain’t the car that keeps a person alive, it’s them. “ He assures you warmly, as much as he wants to continue to find amusement in lacking what is now deemed as a life skill, it doesn’t take a genius to realise you’re becoming annoyed by the poking and the prodding his humour brings.

“ That’s oddly.. Uplifting. “

“ I do say these things from time to time, no need to sound so surprised. “

“ They’re so rare I forget. “ A smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you eye the man from the side. It is your turn to laugh now.

Light hearted chatter fills the limited space, conversation flowing just that little bit more freely now that danger no longer pursues you in earnest. You’re thankful for a drop of normalcy in a sea of skeletons that surround the world now, you can pretend that — even for a little, it’s a normal day.

“ What d’you say to havin’ some drivin’ lessons? “

[lcnebcnes]

❛❛   scout ellis .  ❜❜   ― 💫 ― the ghost of clawed earth ever present beneath your fingernails, proof you will never be free of of your haunted past... the constant paranoia of being found despite a targeted glamor (he found you once he can do it again, he knows you’re not really dead)... time lost equating to two weeks  buried in a shallow grave, but you do not mourn the missing memory...

BASICS.

full name : victoria marie blake scout victoria ellis

name meaning :

victoria : latin | “victory”

marie : french | “star of the sea”

blake : old english | “dark”

scout : old french | “to listen; sent to discover”

victoria : latin | “victory”

ellis : welsh | “kind, benevolent”

nickname / alias : n/a

title : miss

gender / pronouns : cis woman / she/her

sexuality : pansexual

date of birth : november 17

age : 25

zodiac : scorpio

place of birth : savannah georgia

accent : light southern

languages : english, latin

species : familiar shapeshifter

APPEARANCE.

faceclaim : abigail cowen

height : 5′7″

eye color : blue

hair color : ginger

build : slim

glasses : yes; prefers contacts

MEDICAL.

mental : ptsd, paranoia, insomnia, depression, anxiety

physical : a scar across her neck, a scar in the center of her chest 

EDUCATION.

high school :

private school - graduated at 18

college :

n/a

PERSONALITY.

alignment : chaotic neutral

positive traits : vehement, adroit, charming, indomitable, meticulous

negative traits : sly, volatile, resentful, morbid, paranoid

hobbies : working on cars, music (singing, guitar, piano), sketching & painting, reading

RELATIONSHIPS.

parents :

victor blake; father, shapeshifter - deceased

katherine blake, née grey; mother, shapeshifter - deceased

other :

marjorie ellis; benefactor, witch - alive

siblings : n/a

children : n/a

pets : 

zara [rottweiler]

ADDITIONAL INFO.

history :

for the majority of her life, victoria blake lived under the impression that she was a familiar. it was what her parents had believed, after all, and theirs before them. likely due to the rarity of shapeshifters. perhaps it just seemed more plausible that they’d been meant to serve witches? regardless, it was a mistake that would start the child on a path towards life altering trauma.

victoria was thirteen years old when she first met the witch who would change her life, ms. marjorie ellis. she became the benefactor of the young girl, funding her private school education and eventually introducing her to one hudson king, another witch. the pair instantly hit it off, growing incredibly close in a very short time. it was as though they had always known each other, every conversation an easy one. it was never anything near romantic, but there was no denying that they’d found a soulmate in one another.

a few weeks following her high school graduation, victoria’s parents were found murdered in their home. she’d discovered the bodies herself, a sight she wouldn’t soon forget. marjorie took her in immediately, with hudson right there to comfort his dear friend. 

two years later and victoria had moved in with hudson, committing to being his familiar. it would be three years until tragedy struck again in the form of victoria’s own murder.

it was at the peak of their bonded companionship that hudson found himself craving more power, a desire that slowly began to corrupt him. it wouldn’t be long until he came across a ritual that would provide him the power he desperately sought. its cost? his familiar. he didn’t even hesitate in his preparations, making the apology uttered just before knocking victoria out that much more cruel.

TW GRAPHIC MURDER DESCRIPTION:

victoria awoke to the pain of her chest being cut open, hudson ignoring her screams even as his left hand closed around her heart. with his right, he slowly slit her throat, silencing her cries as she began to suffocate on her own blood. he never released her heart, watching the life drain from her face even as he felt the very last beat of vital organ. he immediately moved her into a shallow grave.

TW OVER

two weeks victoria lay dead in the ground before suspicions arose from the one soul left to care for her. once realizing something was wrong, it didn’t take long for marjorie to locate the young woman’s too soon resting place. a tracking spell performed on victoria’s late mother’s ring, as she never took the piece off. a ring that would quickly become the host of a cloaking and glamouring spell meant to keep her hidden from hudson. 

in addition to the spell, she chose a new name for herself. victoria marie blake had died, after all. scout victoria ellis, surname taken from the woman who saved her, was born. she would spend the next two years trying to heal from the trauma of her murder and learning the truth of who she was. not a familiar, but a shapeshifter. it was a distinction that held some sense of power to the lost soul, as it meant she was not a of species meant to serve and die for some witch who claimed to care. she was free, and with marjorie’s blessing and promise of protection, she set out to find more of her kind.

more coming soon…..

CONNECTIONS.

roomate / bestie : this seems fairly self explanatory ➢ 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐙𝐈𝐎 “𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐆” 𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍

tba : tba ➢ 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍

[demonic-silver-and-gold]

Well hello there! I’m back to writing for this fandom and I decided to go big this time! A full 1.2k angst (possibly multi chapter) fic where MC isn’t happy but will be at the end.

Warnings: angst (no comfort), paranoia, fear, anxiety, trauma, lesson 16 typical warnings and spoilers, talks of death, broken promises, food and intake control mentions

If any of that could trigger something for you, please don’t read this piece and instead look at some of my other works. If you’re reading it regardless, please take care of yourself, your health should always come first.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

What Makes Home

Smiles and putting up with the constant pulling for attention was really getting to them. Even more so when Belphegor was the one asking for it.

They could see the way it wasn’t them that the brothers were really interested in — at least not for the last part of the exchange program — but their lineage instead.

Funny, they thought with a bitter laugh, how one can make a big impact in their lives but are only recognized for who one isn’t instead.

For so long they had sucked it up. So long. Being forcefully taken from your life, waking up in a strange and malevolent environment only to be told you’re going to stay there for a year surrounded by creatures who only saw you as prey to be caught in a moment of weakness? Well, after being told this by one of said creatures you can’t really say no.

So they sucked it up, put on their best face and did their best to pretend they were strong. Even as every night for a month they were unable to properly sleep for long enough. Even as every single dish presented as edible food was so foreign looking and tasting that they were pushed to have a smaller appetite than they actually did just to avoid it enough. Even as the whispers and lingering gazes and wicked grins they felt as they walked through the halls of RAD never really ceased, especially after they had made pacts with the demon brothers. Even as said brothers saw them as inferior and a nuisance, only seeing them as a being after they had either purposely or inadvertently helped them. Even after they realized who they were related to and instantly latched to their sides as if they were her.

They really didn’t appreciate it. The comparisons, the compliments, but it was somewhat to be expected. After all it wasn’t like they were truly valuable at the start until they were due to their help. But the constant craving for hugs and touches? Even the cuddliest of people would’ve gotten sick of it by that point.

Every time that they listened to the brothers it was just the same stuff as always, just in different words. Never truly paying attention to them but using them as a stand in for someone long gone.

They never bothered to bring up their own identity anymore or the fact they’d died at the hands of the one brother who they were now constantly wanted by.

They let out a small sigh as they mentally prepared themself to go to the planetarium, knowing that Belphegor would end up cuddling them while they detached themself from the situation, every breath coming short and quick as the memory of what he’d done replayed in their mind.

Of course, it was never only with him. Every time Lucifer would hold their hand or ask them to dance, phantom pains pulsing in their hand. When Leviathan raged due to a match not going his way, their instincts told them to run and hide. Whenever Beelzebub would begin to feel hungry, they pushed all the food they had at hand to him to prevent the panic from coming back. These are only the physical ones, of course, but sometimes the mental ones get harder to forget.

Almost every time they mess up, they instantly call themself a stupid human. Whenever they’re feeling good about themself, they end up looking in the mirror and finding their imperfections. If they do something that will certainly get them in trouble, they expect death threats and a punishment greater than the crime.

But they just had a few weeks left to go — just one more month before they’re out. Back to their home. Back to their friends. Back to their life. Back to humanity.

So they put up with it. Just a little longer.

~~~~~~

One more week — just one week to go. They were really trying their hardest to hide their excitement, but of course it was bound to come out in parts.

That’s what prompted a very emotion filled dinner with the brothers, all of them questioning their smiles and reminding them of how much they were going to miss them. Their emotions, though? It was a mixture of regret, discomfort, sympathy, and even a little sadness.

Of course, leaving at that moment would have been very suspicious and hurtful to them so they stayed, half honest words of care and love coming out of their mouth with practiced ease. But still, the excitement of going back home after a year in what could be called their own personal hell in hell was still present in the back of their mind.

They made a bunch of empty promises at that meal, nodding and stuffing their mouth every time one of them begged for them to stay in contact or to call every day. They put on their best grateful smile as they gave them gifts and letters that were hidden and unread under their bed that night.

Certainly the demons who took them where they died don’t want them to be in pain with memories they can’t change, now would they?

~~~~~~

They had made it back. The sky never seemed more beautiful than it did for them at that moment, its cloudiness not hiding the fact there was a shining, brilliant sun right behind them. Even the smell of the wind was different. Instead of the contracting of their muscles and the inevitable pain from the air, their body instantly relaxed, allowing them to fully close their eyes for as long as they wanted without worrying.

They knew that the demons that had gotten attached to them would likely be texting as they stood outside, souring their mood slightly but shaking away the thought, going inside the home they had left for what felt like eternity.

It shouldn’t have been surprising to see it in the state it was, but it was such a foreign sight after this long that they couldn’t feel but as if they had interrupted something. Shoes set haphazardly by the door, a pair of more comfortable ones ready to be used by their owner. Mail laid on the table and ready to be looked through. The TV remote laying on a couch cushion as if the TV had just been turned off. Dishes still on a drying rack and ready to be put away. A life completely on pause. Their life completely stopped.

They took off their shoes, slipping on their indoor shoes as old habits began to restart in their mind. They went to the kitchen, glad they hadn’t left dishes unwashed like they had wanted to do the day of the exchange — how had they even forgotten about the state of their home?

After looking around their home to see half messes and unfinished activities, they sat down on their bed, noting to change the bedsheets before sleeping and pulling out the DDD they’d set on silent.

Instantly they saw too many messages of those they hoped never to hear from again, taking a deep breath before letting them all know that they wanted to be left alone. They never said for how long or why, but they hoped they’d get the message as they shut down the device for the last time.

They looked at their bedside table, a small smile on their lips as they took their phone and plugged it into the wall, waiting a few minutes before turning it on.

They were back home, and this time they were sure they were going to enjoy it for the rest of their life.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

If anyone’s interested, I’m thinking of making a continuation of this from the point of view of the brothers and the dateables. I hope you liked my comeback to Obey Me! fanfic and keep looking out for more of my work! Request should open soon (within a week), so be sure to read the request rules and ask away when the time comes. Have a nice day! <^•w•^>