#caretaker having a breakdown

[letitbehurt]

An immortal/self-healing Whumpee with nothing to show for the months of torture they endured.

[belovedwhump]

sometimes all you need is a good cry and then you're good to go again

[cloudmancy]

how ARE we feeling about raphanielcolin everyone

[sweetlacerations]

whumper accidentally getting attached to their (held against their will) whumpee, and having the worst breakdown ever seen when caretaker takes whumpee away

[ding-dong-the-bitch-is-dead]

@north-peach @halfagone

Prompt 102

 Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. In for ten seconds, out for eight. Alright. Okay. “Let me get this straight,” he didn’t motion to the three teens- or not teens even if two apparently looked like they were- but it was a close thing. “You-” 

 Phantom perked up, white hair flickering with what he was pretty sure were stars as they turned away from the window looking out into space. “-are two years old.” The fae-esque being who looked more like a fourteen year old gave a half-distracted nod. Which, for a toddler, they were paying attention pretty well. 

 “You-” Klarion looked up from where he was fiddling with the cuffs that had been on him, cat sprawled on his shoulder now that it was out of the carrier. “-are six?” Another distracted nod, the apparently-child seemingly enamored with the sounds the cuffs made when they clinked together. 

  “And you-” He turned towards Marvel, who shrank back before seemingly steeling themself. “-are in fact ten.” The… well they had thought demigod but apparently all three were some sort of realms-being, which had apparently made Constantine pale and start cursing before stomping out of the Watchtower. Another nod and shaky thumbs up. 

 Alright. Okay. They had in fact let a ten-year old join the league, which wouldn’t have been so bad if they had known. Especially the fact that apparently Marvel was only half-human, which suddenly explained so much about how he didn’t know so many things about a human life. Which-

 “You,” he turned towards Phantom again to make sure he was listening before returning his attention to Marvel. “And you have both lived at least a year in the human realm with human companions, but your-” He turned his gaze towards the ravenette in the center. The six year old apparently. “-experience with the human realm is literally just with the Light.” 

 Yet another distracted nod. Okay. Bruce was tempted to scream in a room for the entire situation that had cropped up from the single action of taking Klarion’s familiar and then the boy himself into custody. Then again, it was honestly a much better thing they had apparently caught this. 

 “Alright,” he sighed, suddenly feeling incredibly exhausted. “To make sure I have all of this correct-” Because it was already a shitshow and the amount of shouting had absolutely spooked the child. To the point he’d- according to Marvel- made what was apparently some sort of very distressed noise that had made both him and Phantom running. Or rather flying and portaling. 

 “-in the realms, people there make friends through fighting,” Bruce pauses to make sure he got that part correct. The origin of this entire misunderstanding with the chaos-lord. Lordling? 

 All three nodded, Klarion losing interest in the cuffs and starting to pet his cat. Familiar. Everyone had referred to it as a familiar and Marvel had appeared utterly horrified that they had taken said familiar away. Somehow he was the one the trio were currently trusting and weren’t doing the same towards any of the other league members. 

 “And you have been trying to make friends with the Jr team, which they have been taking as an attack due to this miscommunication.” Honestly they should have gotten more information, though he couldn’t exactly blame any of the teens, what with everything they were currently dealing with. 

 “... is there any sort of guardian or something you might have, that can be contacted? Or anyone that could help prevent a situation like this from happening again?” All three avoided his eyes, suddenly finding things like the table and walls very interesting. 

 Oh. Hm. This could be a problem.

[15-lizards]

The Pitt has every character I could ever wish for:

-Competent fatherly figure who is two minutes away from a mental break. Representation for guys who stare into mirrors while have ptsd episodes

-His relatively unhinged hyper competent friend who belongs on a battlefield probably .

-A third beautiful hyper competent doctor who keeps getting beat with hammers by the universe when she tries to smile.

-Efficient and hardworking single mom with beautiful blunt bangs. And threatens her deadbeat baby daddy

-the most beautiful princess Diana in the world who keeps getting reprimanded for being too good with patients. They literally said ohhhh pretty girl let’s hate on her

-mean cocky lesbian who threatens pedophiles. Only been there seven hours and already has an age gap toxic situationship yuri thing with another doctor. I live

-autistic queeny who’s actually proving to be the #1 communicator and caretaker in the whole hospital. Pure of soul and mind. Keeps following her resident around like a puppy dog

-said resident who only likes his little autistic intern. Has crazzzyyyy beef with the mean lesbian. Is also stealing pills from the hospital. Love his vibes

-child prodigy med student who is also on the verge of a breakdown. Intellectual prowess but has absolutely no game. Makes sense bc she’s 20. needs to yell at her mom

-worlds mousiest pathetic white boy with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen like actually. You know the bisexuals are going crazy over him

That’s family

[kryaaas]

I think its important to remember that harry's noticable mental decline happened just in the last 4 months

Jean words seem to imply that harry started wearing "disco" clothes fairly recently too

All these years Harry wasnt some wildcard who just did whatever he wanted nor Jean was his caretaker. He had such a violent breakdown because he was so heavily repressing himself, fully dedicated to his work but also becoming more and more disillusioned with it. He is not even drinking or taking drugs for *himself*, he is doing his for his *job*, to be able to achieve better results, save more people, solve more cases despite his work wearing him thin.

"Half the town will be dead" Harry is worried that if he isnt going to give his all to the case regular people will suffer the consequences. Part of the appeal of drinking or taking drugs, gameplay-wise, is that it makes the passing the checks so much easier. So Harry is not even wrong, like there is much higher chances to get an innocent civilan killed in the tribunal if you dont have alcohol or drugs to assist you. is his sobriety really worth risking people's lives?

He did his best to be a good cop, help people as much as he could and had fewer kills about possible

all of this + seasonal depression + realizing that his job doesnt actually make any difference + capitalism + his mind and body not handling the strain he has put himself through for years resulted in Harry's breaking point

[hurtcember]

Above is the official Hurtcember 2024 prompts list.

Below are alternative prompts in case one doesn't want to do a few of the prompts (but still do the whole challenge) or for those who just want to write/draw more.

Both lists are typed out at the bottom of this post.

RULES 1. You can write/draw for any fandom or pairing 2. You can write/draw SFW or NSFW content, just label it accordingly 3. Please tag any Tumblr posts sharing your prompt fills with #hurtcember2024 so that we can find and repost them 4. If you post your works to AO3, please add them to this collection and add "Hurtcember" and/or "Hurtcember 2024" to the additional tags of your prompt fill(s) 5. The challenge officially starts on December 1st but feel free to write/draw before then and/or submit things after the month ends officially, whatever works best for you 6. Be kind to other participants 7. You DO NOT have to do every single prompt if you don't want to. The point is to have fun and spark creativity, not to feel like you're doing a chore

Prompts List (Text Copy) 1. Collapse 2. Breakdown 3. Blood 4. Scars 5. Faint 6. Touch-Starved 7. Abandoned 8. Cuddle 9. Exhaustion 10. Touch Aversion 11. Caretaking 12. Cry 13. Nightmare 14. Near Death 15. Trauma 16. Bruise 17. Concussion 18. Fatigue 19. Desperate 20. Panic 21. Afraid 22. Self-Harm 23. Bed-bound 24. Dissociate 25. Accident 26. Guilt 27. Pain 28. Captive 29. Dehydration 30. Dizzy 31. Hyperventilation

Alt Prompts List (Text Copy) 1. "Don't leave" 2. "Help me" 3. "Leave me alone" 4. "It's my fault" 5. "Take my hand"

[p0orbaby]

magic 8 ball

summary: What starts as Leah crashing your pity pint spirals, predictably, into something far less wholesome and far more hands-on.

warnings: SMUT 18+, just general sex stuff so you know the drill

a/n: i was inspired, not sure by what, but here we are

word count: 2.5k

-

“I’m not having a breakdown,” you say, peeling the label off your beer with such deep concentration you forget you have to breathe to survive. “I’m having a perfectly rational response to the current state of the world. And also to my boss, who thinks ‘relevance’ is when a TikTok account reposts our gallery’s Instagram.”

Leah makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sigh, and slides onto the stool next to you as if she owns the place. She probably does. Or knows someone who does. She’s wearing a camel coat from The Row that looks like it’s never seen a hanger. Soft, fluid, draped like wealth. Her hair is up—one of those deliberately lazy ponytails that costs £80 at a salon and makes people call you effortless like it’s a compliment. She probably just didn’t bother sorting it after training.

She orders a double gin and tonic. Not with Bombay or Tanqueray or any of the pedestrian options available to people who wear polyester and say OOTD. She points, without looking, at a bottle of something artisanal. Something with botanicals. Something brewed by a man with a beard who lives in Hackney and forages moss recreationally while naked.

“You’re twitching,” she says, when the bartender walks away.

“I’m fine,” you reply, tight. “I’m absolutely fucking fine.”

You’re not. You’re vibrating with the same energy as a microwave that’s just been asked to reheat a bowl of leftover soggy chicken chow mein.

Leah squints. “Your eye does this thing when you’re on the brink of homicide. It’s cute, all things considered.”

You think about stabbing her with the cocktail stick that came with the complimentary olives you got when you ordered. Instead, you finish peeling the label. The bar is now covered in neat, sticky curls of Beck’s branding. You take a vicious sort of pride in it—like this bar owes you something and you’re slowly destroying it molecule by molecule.

“I had to explain post-conceptualism to a man who unironically collects Funko Pops today.”

“God.”

“He said, ‘So it’s like Banksy but sadder?’”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“And then he asked me if Damien Hirst invented fruit winders.”

Leah bites her lip to suppress a grin. You hate that she finds this funny.

“I’m in hell,” you say. “I live here now. It’s beige and the lighting’s fluorescent and all the curators wear Balenciaga in the wrong way.”

“There’s a wrong way to wear Balenciaga?”

“Yes. It’s when you do it with sincerity.”

Leah hums, amused. Her drink arrives. She picks it up like she’s in an advert for skincare. You hate her glass. It’s too clean. You hate how she sips, like the liquid is trying to earn her respect. You hate her in general, really. But it’s a specific, curated hate. The kind that comes with longing. Jealousy. Proximity.

“You’re not angry,” she says, “you’re heartbroken.”

“I am not heartbroken.”

“Fine,” she shrugs. “You’re artistically blue-balled.”

That, unfortunately, lands. You clench your jaw. You spent two months assembling an exhibit that got described as visually competent by someone whose own work consists of melting Barbie heads onto coat hooks. The only person who seemed to get it was a caretaker, and even he asked if it was “about feminism or something.”

Leah’s watching you with the sort of curiosity she usually reserves for rare mushrooms or political scandals. You feel exposed, like she’s mentally peeling your skin back to check for rot.

“I just—” You stop. You sip your beer. You stare at its froth like it insulted your mother. “I just want to make something that doesn’t immediately get filtered through someone else’s idiot-brand algorithm of what art is supposed to do. I don’t want it to do anything. I want it to exist. And I want that to be enough.”

There’s a pause. A proper silence. A respectful one.

Then Leah says, “Well. That’s depressing.”

You blink. “Do you ever have a normal human reaction?”

“I do,” she says, “just not to tantrums disguised as philosophies.”

You groan. Loudly. Obnoxiously. “Why are you here?”

She takes another sip, smacks her lips, says: “You texted me the words ‘I hope my body gets mistaken for a performance piece when I die.’ So I cleared my schedule.”

You rub your face. You did text that. You thought it was funny.

“You’re a masochist,” you mutter.

“You’re dramatic.”

You look up at her, eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than me.”

Leah leans in, her face maddeningly calm. “Sweetheart. I know I am.”

You want to throw something at her. A pint glass. the chair you’re sitting on. Your entire unresolved emotional history. But instead you say, “Do you ever get tired of always being the most emotionally detached person in the room?”

She tilts her head. “Do you ever get tired of pretending your anger is intellectual when really you’re just sad and lonely and catastrophically underfucked?”

You nearly choke on your drink.

“I am not underfucked.”

“I can see how tense your jaw is from here. It’s clenched like a Victorian child repressing her feelings about having to crawl up another chimney. Go home and look at yourself in the mirror. Tell me that’s the face of someone getting railed regularly.”

You want to die. You also want her to say it again, slowly, in private, with less clothing.

There’s a long, crackling pause. You both know it’s no longer about art.

Leah sets down her glass. She taps the rim once, twice. Rhythm. Precision. Her nails are short, square, coated in clear polish that you don’t normally notice but have now because you can’t look her in the eye. Then you catch yourself staring at her hands for too long and quickly look away.

She doesn’t comment. But you know she notices. Leah notices everything. She notices the hair tie on your wrist has snapped and been retied in a knot, twice. She notices you’ve stopped wearing mascara, which you used to call your “armour” in that stupid, performative way you used to talk about beauty like it was actually important. She notices the crack in your lip that won’t heal because you’ve been biting it every time you think too hard.

She says, eventually, almost to herself:

“Right. That’s enough tragic brooding. Come on.”

You glance at her sideways. “Come on what?”

She lifts her chin, shrugs like it’s obvious. “It’s time for the three F’s.”

You blink. “The what?”

“The three F’s,” she repeats, counting them off on one hand like she’s listing dinner party ingredients. “Food. Fucking. And… I haven’t decided on the third one. It’s usually ‘forgiveness’ but tonight it might change depending on my mood or how close you are to bursting into tears.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you having a stroke?”

Leah ignores this. She taps her temple. “It’s a system. A trifecta. A deeply spiritual practice.”

“Sounds like a religious cult run by Gordon Ramsay.”

She smirks. “Exactly. Chips first. Sex second. Existential clarity optional.”

You stare at her, arms folded. She’s smiling now, that crooked, smug half-smile that suggests she knows she’s funny, even when you want to shove her face into a vat of chip grease.

“You offering?” you ask, dry. “For the second F?”

Leah shrugs again. “No. I saw a homeless man outside and thought you two might hit it off.”

You snort, despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She sips her drink like she’s just said something unremarkable and bureaucratic, like we’ll be closing early due to maintenance. She doesn’t look at you. You’re glad. You’re not ready for the look she gives you when she’s being sincere. It’s like being x-rayed.

Then she adds, almost as an afterthought, “Of course I’m offering. Don’t be daft.”

You freeze. A beat. Another.

“I thought I was a neurotic, emotionally volatile husk of a woman with a martyr complex and an inflated sense of artistic purpose.”

“You are,” she says. “But you’ve got a decent face and you’re good with your hands. So, you know. Swings and roundabouts.”

You scoff. And you’re trying really hard to stay calm because your doctor has informed you your concerningly high blood pressure is a direct correlation of your erratic emotions.

“What happened to chips first?”

“Oh, I still want chips. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since three and I’m craving something fried and disgusting. Preferably served by someone with a name badge and an attitude problem.”

You nod slowly. “That’s the most grounded thing you’ve said all night.”

“Thank you. I’m a woman of the people.”

She drains her gin and stands, smooth and sudden, like movement happens to her rather than from her. You watch the line of her coat shift across her hips and hate her a little more. In a nice way. A respectful way.

She glances back at you, already heading toward the door. “You coming, or are you going to sit here frowning into warm beer like the ghost of failed gallery interns past?”

You mutter something under your breath and follow. Of course you do. It’s Leah.

It’s always Leah.

-

“You’re making that face again.”

Leah’s looking at you from the other end of the bed—half undressed, half mocking, propped up on her elbow like some god-awful, lesbianised version of a Greek statue who knows exactly how fit she is.

You’re topless and regretting all your life choices. “What face?”

“The one that says, ‘this is a terrible idea but I’m already wet so fuck it.’”

She’s not wrong.

You shoot her a glare and yank your bra off in one not so smooth move. It slaps the floor with the exhausted whimper of cotton that’s held too many disappointing breasts over the years.

“God, you’re hot when you’re angry,” she says, and you want to laugh. Or hit her. Or sit on her face. All three feel valid.

“Shut up and lie down.”

She does. Immediately. The smugness fades slightly, replaced by something quieter. More concentrated. She watches you crawl over her like a lion stalking its prey. Or more realistically like you’re some slow-motion car crash she wants to get hit by.

You kiss her. Sloppy. Unapologetic. More tongue than technique. It’s not romantic. It’s hot. It’s urgent. It tastes like gin and old rage.

Somewhere between biting her lip and grinding down against her thigh, you lose track of how long you’ve been pretending not to want this. Leah’s skin is warm and annoyingly soft. Her bra’s still on. She’s still wearing her bra.

You reach for it, fumbling. “Why are these always like a NASA launch?”

She laughs into your neck. “You’ve never undressed another woman before, have you?”

“Only emotionally.”

You finally get the clasp and she shrugs out of it, tits bouncing slightly. You both pretend not to notice how your brain flatlines for a second. You’re supposed to be cool. You’re supposed to be in control.

But her nipples are hard and you’re throbbing and when she reaches between your legs without warning, you gasp—loud and unedited.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Warn a girl.”

“You’ve literally been grinding on my thigh for five minutes.”

“That’s different. That’s friendship.”

Leah slips her hand down your knickers. Finds you soaked. She hums like she’s impressed. Or smug. Probably both.

“Jesus, babe,” she says. “You’re soaked.”

You scoff. “Don’t call me babe. You sound like some weirdo on Love Island.”

“Fine. Darling?”

“Worse.”

“You’re tight when you’re annoyed,” she murmurs, and then pushes two fingers in. Just like that.

You moan. Too loudly. Your hips buck automatically.

“Oh, fuck—”

Leah grins like a wolf. She curls her fingers and your whole spine tries to fold in half.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says, pumping slow, deliberate, unfair. “There. Right there. Don’t move.”

You immediately move. “Fuck, wait—fuck, there.”

She groans, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re so annoying.”

You kiss her to shut her up and reach down between her legs. Her knickers are drenched too. You laugh.

“What?” she says, breath hitching.

“Nothing. Just didn’t know England’s golden girl got this wet.”

“I’m a footballer,” she pants, “not a cardinal.”

You pull her knickers aside, push two fingers in easily. She’s hot and slick and all kinds of fuckable. Her eyes roll back for a second. She grabs your arm, anchoring herself. Her nails dig in.

“Oh my god. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t—don’t fucking stop.”

You thrust harder, matching her rhythm, both your hands moving now—sloppy and synchronised. Her hips are rolling. Yours too. There’s swearing. Lots of it. You’re both flushed and swearing and laughing in between grunts.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Harder.”

You give it to her harder. You give it to her like a promise. Like revenge.

At one point you both reach for each other at the same time and bang foreheads. Loudly.

“Ow,” you groan, blinking.

She’s laughing. “This is the least elegant sex I’ve ever had.”

“Good,” you growl, sucking a bruise into her neck. “I’m not here to be elegant.”

You push her legs wider. You go lower.

“Wait—are you—oh fuck—”

You don’t bother answering. You just get your mouth on her. One long, filthy lick from her entrance to her clit and she arches like she’s being electrocuted.

“Jesus CHRIST,” she chokes. “You’ve done this before.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You just moan into her cunt and keep going.

Her hand finds your hair and tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make you feel owned.

She’s close. You can feel it. She starts talking like a woman possessed.

“Yes. There. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t. Of course you don’t. You flatten your tongue and she breaks.

She cums hard, loud, practically shaking, her thighs closing around your head like a vice.

When she collapses, she pulls you up, kisses you like she’ll die if she doesn’t, and flips you over. She doesn’t even hesitate. Her mouth is on you like it’s home. She licks you open, groaning like you’re her favourite meal and she’s been fasting.

“Oh fuck me,” you cry, gripping the headboard like it’s a lifeline.

She hums against your clit. You nearly black out.

“Yeah?” she says, lifting her head. “That good?”

You nod, dazed.

“Use your words.”

“More.”

“More what?”

“More Leah.”

She moans like that’s the final straw and fingers you hard, mouth locked around your clit as if it belongs there. You cum embarrassingly fast. Practically scream. Collapse against the pillow like a dramatic Victorian wife.

There’s a beat. Silence. Both panting.

Then:

“I think I saw god.”

Leah wipes her mouth and shrugs. “Tell her I said hi.”

You both dissolve into hysterical laughter, tangled up and sweaty and slightly horrified.

“So,” you say, catching your breath. “The verdict on the third F?”

She grins. “I think I'll stick with forgiveness. For all the shit we’re about to pretend didn’t just happen.”

You nod. “Fair.”

And then you kiss her again. Because honestly, what else are you going to do?

[therebetterbepie]

--- "i know!" his response came tight and maybe a little louder than he meant. a month. he didn't need jason to remind him that it was nothing all things considered. a month to prepare. prepare because that was all they were going to be able to do at first. there was no hope in curing jason before then. people had been looking to cure lycanthropy for....ever. dean was at least realistic in the idea that there was no way they were going to have it figured out by then. "i know." he stated a little softer. he was sure that jason was grappling with this too. after all, it was happening to him.

the pain shooting through jason had dean wincing in sympathy. he could only imagine how bad it actually had to hurt if he was showing signs of pain. jason was one of the toughest people he'd ever met in his life. it only made dean want to help him more. he could at least ease that suffering tonight.

"you're already feral," he pointed out with a touch of a smile on his lips before he slipped out of the door. it was a very small attempt at humor. dean always deflected like that and was a sign of how this weighed on him. as soon as he got outside he just stood there for a moment, staring and unseeing into the distance as he processed what happened, still clenching the silver bullets in his fist. the idea of losing jason came crashing down on him suddenly and the sting of tears burned at his vision. he refused to let them fall. jason didn't need that; he didn't need to worry about him on top of everything. dean was just overwhelmed. he had so few people in his life already and he consistently failed at being able to protect them. logically he knew jason would have gone after those wolves even if dean told him what they were. it didn't change the guilt in his heart any.

"get it together winchester," he mumbled to himself and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. he took his moment, dumped all the bullets into the trunk of the impala and then pushed back into the motel room with determination to help with what he could help with now. everything else would have to come later.

he blinked when he found that jason had moved to the bathroom but he understood. he figured it would be more comfortable for him on the bed but he wasn't going to judge. dean just moved around him, his hand gently brushing at his back as a warning of where he was more than anything so he could get to work. "you're gonna crave a lot of meat," he answered peeling open packages, starting with alcohol wipes. "gonna sting," he warned and gently wiped over the wound. his touch was light, practiced and tender. dean had patched up far too many wounds in his time already. "your sunny disposition might take a little dive a couple days before. you're gonna be tired but that's just your body prepping for the change." he worked on identifying what would need stitched and what could just be bandaged. "usually wolves run in packs but considerin' you roasted what would have been yours..." he squinted in thought. "i dunno. guess we'll see what it's like lone wolf status. well...not really lone wolf -- breathe in --" he kept talking, kept moving and trying to do this quick. the needle was in and out of jason's skin smooth and controlled but dean didn't leave jason time to linger on the pain. "you'll have me. guess we'll see how a human and wolf pack works." he mumbled the last couple words as he focused. luckily it was over with quick. dean knew what he was doing. very shortly dean was dressing the wound with gauze and crumpling up wrappers. "you want somethin' for the pain, tough guy?"

Fingers were far too aware of his Dean’s wrist flexed under his grip, half tempted to yank the bullets out everywhere but sensing it might be a lifeline. He would have been pissed if someone ripped it from him while making a choice like this. 

A month. 

It processed immediately how little of time that was, better than a fucking day but this would fly by. Dean said it would be the worst and that caused Jason’s frown to tighten. It meant a whole new way to suffer, as if he did not have enough of that in his life. Once again, hope squirmed its way into him like a worm at the mention that someone might know something. It was something. “Dean, one month.” Repeated as if wanting to make sure they both knew the time limit. 

His own hand tightened and then loosened, only a quick intense pressure before he was told to sit down. Right, they had wounds to stitch up if this was not happening tonight. Fingers uncurled and let go so he could take a step back and carefully lower himself down, face twisting in pain as the burn shot right to his spine. Was that the infection setting in or was his mind playing tricks? Palms rubbed against those scarred, thick thighs back and forth as a way to think and comfort when stretching his arm up to rub that shoulder was out of the question. 

That chin rose so eyes could look across the room and see Dean standing in the doorway, promising him. No one promised Jason, not with a good out come. Fuck, he was not going to be a sane werewolf. “Good. Cause I will go feral otherwise. We both know it.” That voice was hoarse as the rough fact was spoken in return. 

He waited and tried not to think too hard on what transformation would feel like for Dean to return with the items needed. He stood again, with care before moving to the bathroom, an easier place to clean up the blood and always better lighting. Hands gripped onto the sink, thumb curling underneath that cheap material as he half lunged forward, both legs straightened but leaning to give Dean a chance to reach front and back without hindrance. 

“What do I need to look for during this month? Could I change sooner?”

[weirdlookingsnakewithlegs]

Seekers are natural caretakers.

It comes with being in a trine, with being in a flock. It comes with being a Winglord especially, so I imagine in TFP Starscream is so jittery, he needs something to fuss over. He doesn’t have his trine anymore and his remaining seekers are all scattered around the universe.

The need to preen and fuss and groom grabs onto him and refuses to let go. Often times he’d find himself looking over Knock Out or Soundwave, on rarer occasions Megatron or Breakdown, searching for gunk. He eyes their joints for anything stuck between them and sometimes he’ll reach out to itch something off only to pull his servo away when he catches himself.

I imagine Soundwave is the first to fully understand, he understands the need to fawn and fuss and care for others, Lazerbeak was prime proof that he understands. So he hands her to Starscream, making some lie that she was hurt on her last scout and needs a watchful optic while he’s busy. He almost doesn’t expect Starscream to jump at the offer.

And that’s how it starts, because when Lazerbeak returns to Soundwave at the end of the cycle she’s about eight times cleaner and seems rather happy about her visit. Primus she’s even covered in fresh polish and Soundwave hasn’t seen the cassette so excited. She shows Soundwave everything, the overzealous grooming, the careful polishing in which Starscream had to very gently hold her steady, and they even played.

It nearly blows Soundwave away, he hadn’t expected such gentleness from the seeker, he hadn’t expected the seeker to take it so seriously either. Well, he had his suspicions, but this is much more than what he thought.

And it just starts with grooming, before Soundwave knows it, Starscream is catching scraplets for the cassette. When the seeker first brings one he almost thinks it to be alive, its frame slightly twitching after he dropped it on Soundwave’s desk. Though, the energon leaking from its frame and the crashed in helm make him realize otherwise. Lazerbeak isn’t sure what to make of it as well and it’s a standstill until she, before Soundwave can stop her, sips up some of the leaking energon.

She loves it.

And it doesn’t take long before Starscream is almost always focused on her, foreground and background. Soundwave often finds Starscream staring at Lazerbeak while she rests against his chassis during their conversations. He senses Starscream’s worry in his EM field every time Lazerbeak is on recon. And Lazerbeak soaks up the attention like nothing else, happy chirps going back and forth between seeker and cassette.

Something about catches Soundwave’s spark but he stays quiet, happy with watching for now.

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

I find it interesting that many of us, including myself, tend to focus on characters whose grief and trauma are more outwardly expressed, like Nat and Shauna, while often overlooking those who cope through deflection and minimization, like Van. The audience’s response to Van arguably mirrors her own experiences with her teammates and family: her pain is easily dismissed because she masks it so well.

She’s been through absolute hell and back (absent father, neglectful alcoholic mother, nearly fatally mauled by wolves, nearly getting burnt alive multiple times, having her entire face stitched up with a sewing needle by a teenager with no pain medication, constantly managing the safety of a girlfriend who may be dissociating into someone dangerous, ETC). And yet, she’s rarely recognized as one of the most traumatized characters because she copes through humor. It’s her job to lighten the mood, to be the emotional buffer, to make everyone feel better.

Van is a caretaker through and through. There’s no doubt in my mind that she raised herself and had to care for her mother on top of that. The praise she likely got from adults when she was growing up wasn’t comfort or support; it was, “You’re so strong,” “You’re so independent,” or “You’re such a ray of sunshine.” I think she internalized that, it’s become integral to her identity.

We rarely see Van cry, she doesn’t have the emotional outbursts and breakdowns that the other characters express, but her trauma is just as present and impactful. Van copes by denying, minimizing, and toughening up. Nearly burned alive on a funeral pyre? Crack a joke. Forced to eat an innocent kid to survive? Focus on being grateful you’re still alive. Diagnosed with terminal cancer? Refuse to acknowledge it, never let anyone see what it’s doing to you emotionally. Van is even calm and witty when she’s on that dream plane being told by her younger self that she’s actively dying. This is why small moments like Van wanting to call her mom with the satellite phone feel so prominent, they are small glimpses into that vulnerability she keeps hidden all in service of staying strong for the people around her.

[lumieresdreams]

an: self-indulgent thoughts from an underweight and mentally unstable caleb enjoyer <'3. this was also inspired with one of his notifs saying "your takeout is here. is that all you're eating? let me whip up something quick for you"

cw: ED mention, hurt/comfort, there's fluff somewhere i think, use of 'you', follows canon loosely

it's been years since the peak of your worst struggles back in school, all the stress from making sure you keep your grades up while trying to find your place in a society that seemed to change on a dime right before your eyes was overwhelming. from the get-go, everything has always felt impermanent, like anything and everything can disappear easily, so when you do get a hold of something that's tangible and consistent, you hold onto it for dear life.

one of which was caleb. he's seen you through most of it, if not all of your lowest lows. he was there when you cried about having to break things off with your first best friend, or how someone was mean to you unintentionally when you were already having an emotional field day, or about that one exam that you feared you'd trash so much so that you had an anxiety attack in his arms.

one unhealthy coping mechanism that came out of this was saving eating meals for another day, it came about unintentionally. a missed meal because you were so tired from school and socializing that you slept the night away, eating at a weird time, prioritizing homework over preparing food... this pattern wouldn't go unnoticed by caleb's keen eye, he always had a habit of giving you tight hugs once in a while to squeeze a laugh out of you when you're being playful together, and he could feel the physical difference, no matter how big or small.

the next time you came home, the place smelt of a freshly cooked dinner that came from the kitchen, but before you could even take a step towards the source, caleb pulled you aside and gently reminded you that you can rely on him. that he understands that you're an adult now, but he'll always be in your corner when you need him and as simple as it was, that was enough to bring you to tears. you found yourself gently sobbing into caleb's shirt, gripping onto him as your cries made your body tremble in his arms.

then and only then did you finally find the courage to let him know about the lack of appetite you've grown accustomed to lately and how it feels so wrong, that you didn't want any part of this. caleb listened and cooed at you softly, gently rocking you both from side to side to help you regulate your emotions, making noises of confirmation here and there to let you know he's listening. this was a norm back then and no matter how many times it happened, caleb will always be there to pick up your broken pieces and hug you back into shape. then offer you his heavenly cooking for comfort right after.

so why is it now, years later, was the same ailment coming back to haunt you? you've graduated, found a job you like that cares about your own wellbeing, you have friends that you can actually genuinely claim as close to you, and caleb is back in your life. unbeknownst to you, it was actually the last reason that stressed you out. he was gone for so long, someone you thought would always be in your life disappeared and that basically shattered your entire world. with the time he was absent, you've started overworking while also agreeing to going out with friends after, leaving you with barely any room to even think about food unless the hangout involved it.

when caleb came back and discovered this returning habit of yours, he was heartbroken. he immediately fell back to being your caretaker, making your favorite food, offering you small snacks, as well as sneaking in a small packet of snacks in your uniform once in a while. his quiet yet proactive encouragement and apology made you feel emotional, having breakdowns in your lonesome multiple times, sometimes even at your workplace bathroom when you finally find a snack in your bag or work uniform.

and once you have free time to visit him in skyhaven, it feels like having to relearn to be around caleb again. was it okay to hug him? tease him? pinch his cheek even? would that be weird? this would happen for the first few times you spend time alone together, every single time caleb would give you the time and space to feel comfortable enough to give him affection, and every single visit to each other's place you find these old and comforting habits easier to do again.

little by little, food would stop becoming unappetizing again, not with how mouthwatering caleb would make them. he helped you work your way back from snacking all day, to full on meals throughout a long span of time, making sure it was never rushed. and overtime, you find yourself cheering up again. despite the complexities of caleb's current situation as colonel, having him around and a call away in case of emergencies feels just right, as if your world was being bandaged up and put together again.

[bestlilithian]

Home is the first grave.

[ Moon-Pluto, Pluto in 4th house culture ]

tw for various mentions of abuse and death as well as mental problems, sh and su!cide, also needles (dont ask)

- may have experienced a lot of death in thr family or in the close neighborhood

- feel more connected to your dead relatives than your alive ones

- there mightve been a death in your family before you were born

- feeling peacful in graveyards

- may have fantasized about death/su!cide, might percieve death as something that brings peace (hence the fantasies, because really all you ever wanted was peace)

- wanting peace but knowing you cannot have it because of your nature; feeling like theres just something in your blood in your soul that is uncontrollable and overwhelming

- your household was always a house , never a home

- being raised by very old people, enjoying the presence of much older wiser people (like, literal elders not hot teachers 💀)

- enduring literal psychological warfare in your home (usual your mother waged war on you as soon as you were old enough to form a coherent critical thought)

- "I hate you, dont leave me" (might be the attitude of your mother towards you, or yours towards others you love)

- Your mother always knew when you were lying or hiding something. Especially if she had a scorpio moon or moon/pluto aspects herself. You grew up extremely fearful of her.

- moon pluto culture is hearing your mother talk lovingly about her own fucked up mother, she never accepted the severity of her own abuse, until of course she needs to use it in an argument against you "Im a great mother, my mother was so much worse"(basically Im good because I abuse you differently than I was abused 😍 same shit different package)

- not liking motherly women or women who try to be mother figures to you, feeling uncomofortable around them; youre uncomfortable with how much you crave motherly love and people who can provide you that become threats because of the power they could have over you if you opened up

- being betrayed by the women in your life, especially those who were much older and supposed to take care of you (teachers, tutors, family members, therapists, babysitters..)

- toxic female friends 😁🔫 bonus : really close but toxic female friendships in youth that feel like death when you end them even though you know it was necessary

- feeling pain so deeply you think you will drop dead or have a heart attack. (When I was little and depressed I wrote in a diary of mine "My body will kill me before I get to")

more on this : when you start crying because of immense emotional pain and suddenly your heart is burning and beating too fast and youre getting light headed and throwing up , and suddenly youre not crying because of the pain, youre crying because youre afraid youre about to have a heart attack and die

- fearing that your mother will k word herself or you if you try to leave her (harsh aspects mostly)

- learning what emotional violence is very early, how to wield it and defend against it

- turning your emotions off completely for a while and then having a nervous breakdown when it all rushes back

- reading up on psychology, psychiatry and works of psychotherapists so you can heal and never become your mother

- wanting to put a bullet in your head when you notice yourself thinking or behaving like your mother

- going home after you spent time somewhere where you felt good and safe is extremely dreadful

- your mother doesnt see you as a human being (harsh aspects especially), and may take you a while to figure this out

- extremely controlling behavior from your mother or other caretakers (for example my mother threatened to send people to stalk me when I moved to a diff city, to 'make sure Im not doing something bad')

- deeply grieving the loss of your childhood and your inner child

- almost choking while crying or passing out

- feeling like youre a horrible person and dont deserve your family [because youre in deep denial and are seeing the flaws of your family as your own and denying your own trauma]

- learning about sex early on, perhaps early sexual obsession but not like promiscuity more like craving for deep intimacy (also you were probably deeply ashamed of it)

- not telling your family (esp mother) anything because they will ruin it for you

- being accused of being a psychopath, uncaring, selfish for "not loving your family enough"

- not knowing how to feel about the members of your family that played a more passive role in your life because they didnt do anything wrong but they didnt do anything right either; surely they knew , why didnt they stop it? why didnt they save you? (Im talking about adults obviously)

- your parents mightve been much older when you were born, you might have siblings much older than you

- doing anything to avoid your intense emotions and then when you break down and feel everything you realize how freeing it is and how comfortable you actually are with the intensity

- gutteral reactions to songs you deeply relate to (I hear 10 seconds of 'Slipping through my fingers' and I am dead on the floor)

- being afraid of your mother or just of your family in general

- you could probably kill someone with your bare hands if you were angry and hurt enough

- scary as fuck when you actually show your anger

- if you cry in the midst of a fight (verbal or physical) ... someone tell that person to make peace w God . cause thats you crying because of what youre about to do, because thats you loosing the last crumb of humanity you had for them and that can only end one way.

- you would probably kill for your loved ones

- your friends feel like you would help them hide a body (and you probably would)

- recognizing people by footsteps and breathing patterns (especially family members)

- deep deep eyes, people can see war and death them, and they feel like you see their pain too (because you do)

- reading people easily

- enjoying? cruelty (to yourself or others), like getting impulses to do something that would cause you or someone else that ugly feeling of facing cruelty

- finding comfort in the cold and the dark

- insane nightmares since youth, growing to be used to them

- its very hard to shock you

- you know when someones lying

- you might dread certain types of pain yet feel pleasure from them (personally I hate having my blood taken for a test but then I end up immensely enjoying the feeling of a needle pricking my skin and going deep into my vein)

- feeling the need to "kill" some your habits; most likely to drop things cold turkey and be extremely strict in breaking bad habits

- might enjoy really dark, emotionally and morally complex media

- immediately recognizing other moon pluto people and trauma bonding

- extremely good pain endurance. not necessarily tolerance , but endurance. you feel the pain and do it anyway.

- might not react to physical pain at all from a young age

- fantasies about drowning or slipping away peacfully

- either loving deep waters or hating them

- randomly breaking down in the middle of the day because of some pain you buried 5 years ago

- might self harm a lot because of your complex relationship w pain, it genuinely helps sometimes

- home feels like literal prison

- seeing the value in suffering, you might reject the idea that suffering is bad and should be avoided and prevented at all costs

- you might become religious as you mature (but usually in your own way, not necessarily according to tradition)

- forced to eat or denied food in your home, this mightve fucked up your relationship with food

And lastly, I need you to engrave this in yourself :

Wrong love is not love.

[whumpster-dumpster]

A tough, stoic whumpee with an equally tough, stoic caretaker. Caretaker who's on their same level, who can see the cracks forming in their stoicism when no one else can. Caretaker giving Whumpee permission to break down after everything they've been through because it's just them. If anyone understands, it's them. They won't judge. They'll keep it together for the both of them (and then have a private solo breakdown about it later where Whumpee can't see because it hurts so much to see their strong friend crack and crumple like that)

[wolfeyedwitch]

Oh my heart. These two are so incredibly dysfunctional separately and together, and I really, REALLY hope that this is going to turn out okay.

Fresh Start

cw: panic attack, obsessive/compulsive behaviors. leo's usual dubious/clueless caretaker vibes. tiny mention of aiden's self-destructive behaviors. shaky trust being tested, my beloved.

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Movement sends pain radiating through Leo’s back and shoulder. His memory connects the discomfort to the hospital recliner and he bolts upright. 

But they’re home. Safe. 

He’s just paying the price for deciding to sleep on the floor outside Aiden’s room after a bought of anxiety convinced him he wouldn’t be able to hear if Aiden needed him. He—

Aiden’s bed is empty. 

His mind races through worst-case scenarios, heart tripping along to keep pace but as soon as he fully turns around, Aiden is right there. Curled up on the hardwood, no pillow or blanket, just shy of reaching the doorway. Fallen out of bed? Collapsed? Had Leo slept through him needing help after all? He reaches for his shoulder. What if— 

“Aiden? Aiden?” 

The kid startles awake, a small gasp escaping his lips as he clumsily but quickly straightens to kneel. Dark eyes wide even as he blinks away sleep. He crosses his arms, hand cradled carefully in the center of his chest. 

“What happened? Why were you on the floor?” 

“I—I—mmm…mmm…” He shakes his head and lowers his gaze. Not a good sign. “Mmm’sorry—I’m’sorry—” 

 “Are the stitches okay? Is there blood on the bandages? Are you in any pain?” Leo reaches for him and Aiden flinches back, hard. Now he’s certain something is wrong. 

“Mmm’good,” Aiden says, voice wavering. He still won’t make eye contact and he’s slowly, almost imperceptibly inching away from Leo. 

“Did something happen? We’ll call Delia if we need to. I just have to see that you’re okay.” He reaches for him and again Aiden cowers back. He hits the futon frame and whimpers. 

The sound strikes another cord of fear in Leo, doubling his panic. “You’re not in trouble but if the stitches tore or you’re in pain, I need to know.” 

Aiden swallows. “I—I—mmm…mmm…” 

Leo strains to hear him at all and considers just grabbing him. He has to see— 

“I—I—” Aiden shakes his head, gaze still lowered. His hands tremble as he lifts his arms, turning them toward Leo. 

It’s the most anguished surrender he’s ever seen.  

“Hey, woah. Look at me, it’s okay.” 

Aiden lifts his chin. For a split second, his expression looks incredulous before its replaced by a more familiar one of distrust and fear. 

But it was enough. 

The kid’s not even breathing, eyes filmed with tears as he obediently holds Leo’s gaze. 

You’re scaring the shit out of him.

Leo pushes himself back quicker than necessary, earning another flinch from Aiden who crosses his arms back over his chest protectively, curling against the bed frame. Leo moves to sit in the doorway, heart still pumping adrenaline through his veins, and tries to focus on his breath. 

Aiden watches him with open wariness. As defensive as day one. 

This is supposed to be a fresh start, their second chance. In the six weeks since finding Aiden in the snow, Leo succeeded in isolating him and not much else. And here he is, only driving that wedge deeper. He’s supposed to be better equipped now that he’s not completely ignorant but it doesn’t seem to make a goddamn lick of difference. Leo should have admitted months ago that he wasn’t right for this but his selfish denial carried them way past the point of return.

Too little too late isn’t going to cut it anymore. The kid deserves more. Someone who’s going to fucking listen to him. Someone he can trust and rely on. He’s going to need so much support. He can’t shower without wrapping his arms and hand, which he can’t do himself. He’ll need help changing the bandages. Not to mention the antibiotics. He probably never slept well to begin with, if last night is any indication. He barely eats. He was hurting himself all along right under Leo’s nose. He fucking tried to—

Aiden sounds like he’s trying to breathe through a straw, inhales shorter and shorter. Leo looks over to find Aiden already watching him, brow furrowed. 

When Aiden tilts his head, Leo realizes it’s him. 

He’s the one gasping like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. 

Great.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, but it’s barely audible. “I just—I need—” 

He stumbles down the hall, sparing both of them from a backward glance, and shuts himself in the bathroom. 

Leaning against the door is no good, he feels pinned there by the pressure in his chest. 

God, like he just cornered Aiden. 

He fumbles to turn on the sink, hands shaking. His fingers feel like precarious stacks of marbles rather than joints, skin slick from perspiration. Why did he have to replace the valve with stupid spoke handles? It takes a few tries before he can cup his hands together to hold onto any water. Given how little he’s breathing, the first splash feels like he’s waterboarding himself. He straightens, gasping and sputtering, but the innate reaction overrides his anxiety and he manages to pull in some deeper breaths. He keeps his hands under the tap and forces focus on the sensation of the cold water against his skin, the air in his lungs. 

One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…

The panic recedes the more he breathes but guilt is quick to fill the vacancy. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, letting his prescription run out. He’s useless when he’s like this. 

His hands still shake as he twists off the faucet, nerves wrung out and cold. He avoids his reflection and turns to leaning against the counter while he towels his hands dry. His phone’s almost dead from not being charged all night. He stares at the chat with Delia, his string of blue bubbles filling the right side, unanswered. The last one, “What time do you get off today?” is a poor cover for his real question, “How soon can you come over?” Without hesitation, his anxiety is all too happy to supply countless awful explanations for why she hasn’t had three fucking seconds to send a single thumbs up in the last six hours. His pulse steps up again, his fingertips start to tingle. 

Leo drops his phone back into his pocket and scrubs his face with his hands, forces another few rounds of deep breaths. There’s a headache building right behind his eyes. More sleep will help but he has to take care of Aiden first. Starting with an apology. 

He finally turns to meet his tired, bloodshot eyes in the mirror. The lines of his face, deepened by exhaustion, make him look like he’s pushing forty and the fact that he hasn’t shaved since last weekend isn’t exactly helping. He scratches the corner of his jaw where there are a few traitorous white hairs. When he reaches for his toothbrush, he knows he’s stalling but how will he even start explaining his reaction to Aiden? 

At some point, he replaced his toothbrush on the charging stand and started washing his hands. Based on the suds caught in the drain, he already washed them more than once. He can’t get stuck here, not now. His heart starts rushing again and his throat feels tight, panic and frustration balling in his chest. How many times has this happened in the last day alone? 

“It hasn’t been this bad for years,” he whispers in his defense to nobody. 

But he still can’t stop. Not yet. He meets his eyes in the mirror again, ignoring the flare of self-pity and disgust. Just one more time, he tells himself, trying to believe it. 

Four pumps of soap. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

The door opens and he immediately loses count; isn’t sure if he wasn’t finished yet or if he’d already started over again. Aiden peeks through the crack, crease between his brow telling Leo he’s also biting his lip. When Leo meets his gaze in the mirror, Aiden ducks back into the hallway. 

Shit. 

Aiden wouldn’t have taken such a liberty without knocking first, probably more than once and only then after Leo was in here for way too long. Another total failure for the list. But at least it was enough to knock him out of the loop. 

The poor kid looks like he’s expecting a hell of a lot more than Leo suggesting breakfast when he comes out into the hall. He’s pressed against the span of wall between the top of the stairs and Leo’s bedroom. Not quite adjacent to where Leo stands in the bathroom door but clearly trying to find some middle ground that isn’t retreating to his room at the end of the hall. 

Leo buys them both a little space by turning to the washer and dryer to switch their laundry from last night. He wonders if Aiden notices the two extra towels he used when he needed more than one shower to feel like he could sleep. God, he’s completely unraveling. 

Aiden is no more relaxed when Leo faces him again. 

“Aiden, look—” he says at the same time Aiden says, “M’sorry.”

He holds up a hand and Aiden flinches. 

Well, that’s about right after what he pulled. But man, if it’s not a kick in the gut while he’s down. To make matters worse, Aiden seems to think it’s his responsibility to set things right after being subjected to Leo’s irrational panic. His guilt starts to turn in to a physical ache in his chest.  

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Aiden watches him carefully like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, long fingers worrying the cuffs of the hoodie. “You’re not in trouble,” Leo adds, taking a note from Delia. “Just finding you on the floor—” 

“Mmm….you…w-w-w—” Aiden shakes his head, swallows. “Mmm…here…” Leo waits but Aiden doesn’t say anything else, just huffs out a little sigh of exasperation before letting his gaze slide to rest on Leo’s make-shift bed. Which of course he tidied, blanket neatly folded and pillow set on top. His eyes lift to dance around Leo’s face, searching for some sign that he’s getting it. 

“I was sleeping here…” Leo feels obtuse stating the basest fact he can pull out of this exchange but Aiden nods. 

“I—my—” He scrunches his face up and shakes his head. He’s pinching and pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves now, grip tightening. He swallows hard twice before he tries again. “I’mmm…you…here…” 

“You…” Leo hopes he’s not taking too far of a leap. “...moved onto the floor when you saw me there?”  

Aiden turns his head away like he’s expecting to be slapped, gives a tiny nod. 

“That’s okay, it’s okay,” Leo says quickly. “But you didn’t have to sleep on the floor just because I was. Anyway, that runner is actually pretty thick, I—” Aiden bites his lips together like he wants to say something else. “What is it?” 

He knots his fingers together then separates them after a quick glance up at Leo, smoothing them against his thighs. “I—I—mmm…” He takes a deliberate step closer, halving the space between them. Does it with the air of stepping up to the chopping block. He waits for Leo to connect the dots. When he doesn’t, he lifts one of his hands, stopping just shy of brushing the back of Leo’s, before letting it fall again and tucking both behind his back. 

“Oh.” 

Despite his countless missteps, Aiden wanted to be closer to him. 

“Well, that’s okay.” When he realizes it sounds like giving permission he amends, “I mean, of course it’s okay. You can do whatever you want. Sleep wherever you want.” 

Aiden furrows his brow.  

“Sorry. I just mean— We never— I was worried—” Leo takes a breath. “You…” Cried yourself to sleep in my arms. “...fell asleep and I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay. I didn’t want you to be surprised when you woke up.” He sighs. “But I guess you were anyway…” 

Aiden shakes his head. “S’okay.” 

This kid would let him get away with murder…and then try to apologize like he invented death. Leo has to learn to get out ahead of these things if they’re ever going to have a chance.

“Were you—Did you have bad dreams or…” 

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug but doesn’t meet Leo’s gaze. 

“We’ll figure something out for tonight, yeah?” 

Aiden nods. He keeps his eyes down but he’s dropped his shoulders from his ears, hands in the pocket of the hoodie. Leo wants to wrap him up in a hug, make sure knows he was never in trouble, and tell him he never has to sleep alone again if he doesn’t want to. 

“I shouldn’t have freaked out like that,” he blurts instead. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Dark eyes search his. 

“It’s just— I panicked and I wasn’t thinking straight. After last night— After everything— It’s worse when I haven’t slept enough but it’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you—” This word-vomit explanation is doing him no favors but he can’t seem to stop. “I promise it won’t happen again. I just want to make sure you know you didn’t do anything wrong, it was all me and I’m going to—” 

Aiden opens his mouth and closes it again. 

“What?” 

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze. 

Leo scrubs a hand over his face. “Short story long, I’m sorry for panicking.” 

Aiden peeks up at him then looks down again. Slow and deliberate, he pulls his good hand out of his pocket. He keeps it low, arm bent just enough to allow him to turn his palm up. A suggestion of an invitation, rather than an overt one, and one that could easily be missed.

Leo can’t help but smile as he squeezes Aiden’s fingers. 

Now Aiden ducks his chin against his chest in a good way. Not quite smiling but almost. 

“How about some breakfast?” 

“Mmm’yeah…mmm’thank…you…” Aiden parses the words carefully.

“Eggs and toast sound okay? I think we’re out of bacon.” 

Aiden nods. “Mhm.” 

He’s agreeing too quickly, making himself easy and accommodating. Is it because he’s afraid or does he think he has something to make up for? Either way, it feels like backward progress and Leo wonders all over again how he will ever rise to this occasion. 

But he can think of worse ways to spend the rest of the day than trying to get a real smile out of Aiden. So at least he has somewhere to start.

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump