#completely dissociating trying to cope by putting his head down and doing the work without a pull anywhere

[mobius-m-mobius]

- Loki S01x01 - Glorious Purpose - Loki S02x06 - (contrapuntal poem credit to @too-bees-poetry)

[aggressive-positivity-network]

Do you have any autistic Scout headcanons? :P

Hell yeah!

I’ve actually thought about this a lot. A lot of people might think that Scout has ADHD, but I think he either has both ADHD and autism or just autism.

This is both because labeling Scout as having just ADHD is kind of a low-hanging fruit, and I also want to explore his symptoms a little more. So, in a word, I do, and thank you for asking about them!

*****************

Scout’s Spectrum:

So, where exactly does Scout fall on the autism spectrum?

First of all, he probably has both ADHD and autism, but wasn’t diagnosed with the latter until much later. This means that some of his symptoms were taken into account, but not all.

The ones that were paid attention to ramped up out of control, and the ones he didn’t hear about were stuffed away.

His ADHD symptoms include impulsiveness, need for stimulation, hyperfixations, forgetfulness, and insomnia; his autism symptoms include trouble with social skills, stimming, near inability to remember names and faces, lack of eye contact, hyperfixations again, and sensory processing issues, especially with noise and touch.

He used to have a lot of meltdowns when he was younger, usually about wearing new clothes and the amount of noise his eight brothers generated.

However, he was teased and pushed into masking nearly all the time, and made his whole personality about his ADHD, since that was what everyone accepted.

As he got older, he usually wrote off any autistic tendencies as either his ADHD or just “little habits” of his.

During his middle school years, he used energy drinks to bounce back from being exhausted every day after school. This would work, except those energy drinks would upset his ADHD, and would make it much harder to focus on even basic conversation.

After a while, he got such bad grades and had such a hard time making friends that Scout just stopped going to school altogether.

Baseball helped his focus, and the quick movement and thinking made a lot of sense to him. He never had to wait very long for the next development, and the instant gratification and community it provided supplemented what he never got at school.

With sports on his side, he rarely ever drank any energy drinks (the coach would never let them on the field), and he drank bucketfuls of water during every meet and game. Those teenage years were probably the healthiest he ever was.

However, with the amount of rumbles he got into with his brothers, and the turf wars that constantly raged in those neighborhoods, it was only a matter of time before his crime caught up with him.

After his first incarceration, he was booted from the team, which led to a downward spiral of unhealthy coping mechanisms - which included fighting someone tooth and nail whenever he could.

Even if he lost the fight, it not only catered to his impulsive nature and impatience, but also gave him roughly the same sense of friendship and camaraderie that baseball had.

One thing led to another, and by the time Mann Co. found him, Scout was a monster in hand to hand (and bat to bat) and had racked up quite the criminal record.

A perfect mercenary, ripe for the picking.

On The Team:

Scout very quickly adopted the “stupid, scrappy Boston boy” persona.

It was the only thing that made sense, and it kept him from having to try too hard in both the battlefield and socially.

Besides, that meant that he could be as silly, forgetful, and fidgety as he wanted, and no one would bat an eye.

And if he ever needed to take a break from the team, he figured everyone would appreciate the quiet.

The only thing that ever gave him away was him occasionally dissociating right when battle began, especially if the day had been stressful.

It was usually how he calmed down after a fight when he was young, but now he sometimes slid into that state when he was overwhelmed.

However, a yell from one of his teammates would usually snap him out of it.

Medic noticed this pretty early on, and wanted to look more into it, but Scout would keep making excuses not to get a mental examination.

He would blame it on zoning out, being tired, drinking too many Bonks - whatever it took for people to stop asking.

And, eventually, they did.

Even Medic stopped asking after a while - he couldn’t get a thing out of Scout.

This “try so little that when you do try it’s above average” charade worked for a long time. In fact, it went on for so long that Scout forgot how much he was actually capable of.

He began to internalize the stupidity, the exacerbation, the many comments on how dumb he was, everything.

The only time he ever gave his all was on the battlefield - moving fast, memorizing strategies, doing complicated footwork, knowing exactly how much force it took to crush someone’s skull with his bat.

That was one of the only things that he felt good doing, the only thing he could really work on without him being “found out.”

That and drawing, though he never showed the actual pieces to anyone. It was all stick figures and crooked lines with everyone else.

Sometimes, though, Scout wouldn’t be paying attention and he’d let something slip.

One time, Engineer was looking for his screwdriver, and couldn’t seem to find it anywhere.

Scout, not looking up from his comic, said, “Under the couch cushion, hard hat.”

Engineer bent down and reached into the couch, and his hand came back with his red and yellow striped screwdriver.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

At first Engineer thought Scout had just hid it, but Scout explained, still not paying attention:

“Last time we went out on th’ field, you had it on your belt, like always. But I was walkin’ by your workshop, you were usin’ a quarter to tighten a screw or somethin’. Your screwdriver had to be somewhere between the battlefield and your workshop. Engie, you’re like freakin’ clockwork. Every day, after a fight, you go to the kitchen, get a water, go to that couch, between the second and third cushion from the left, and sit there. Then ya go back to the fridge to get lunch and a beer, and ya go to your workshop until somebody needs you for somethin’. Your back loop in your tool belt is looser than all the others, ‘cause the screwdriver pulls against it when you sit down. The shank was probably in between the two cushions, and when you got up, it fell in. Demo, Pyro, and Heavy all sit on the second or third cushion at some point, so it got shimmied down. And since that’s the only time you sat down, ‘cause you woulda heard it if it dropped on the floor, and I…uh…”

“I’ll be damned,” Engie repeated, and felt the back tool belt loop. It was indeed loose.

Scout finally looked up, and realized what had happened.

“Uh, uh - l-lucky guess, huh Engie?”

Engineer squinted behind his goggles. “Yeah…real lucky…”

What ensued was Engie trying to get Scout to turn into a B.L.U Spy by chasing him around with his wrench. After a few good hits, though, Engineer saw that it was the teammate he knew and loved.

“But…how didja…?”

Scout threw his hand up, the other rubbing the back of his head where he’d been hit.

“I toldja Engie! Lucky guess! Jesus!”

Ever since then, Scout chose his words more carefully.

The Breakdown:

But, unfortunately, Scout could not pretend forever.

There was one week where Scout’s assignment count was so high that, if he wasn’t in a fight, he was on a mission.

Usually, Pauling wouldn’t trust him with so much, but no one else was available - or willing - to do the jobs.

Even when she was getting concerned about the amount of hours Scout was putting in, he blew it off.

“It’s no sweat, Miss Pauling! Their practically givin’ me the pay day. Those yahoos don’t know who they’re messin’ with.”

Over time, though, Scout had a harder and harder time staying focused and alert.

He’d sleep through alarms, stare off into space, zone out completely during briefing (not that he didn’t already do that), have a hard time hearing people in battle - even through his headset - ignore Spy’s taunts, and even forget to bring his bat onto the field.

Nothing seemed to help - Bonk!, warming up, stretching, cold showers, setting reminders, nothing.

And the team was starting to notice.

At first it was with the regular frustration - maybe Scout was just being lazy.

But as time went on, and his condition grew worse, their scorn turned into worry. They implored Medic to do something, but he had no way of getting through to Scout.

The doctor wasn’t above simply sedating him and dragging him into his lab for a check-up. However, he had a feeling that this was more than a physical issue.

The worst came when Scout was doing a routine battle with the B.L.U team on the field.

Everything had started out okay - he even remembered to bring his bad this time - but suddenly, everything was ear-splittingly loud.

He couldn’t focus on more than one sound at once, much less communicate the best course of action to his teammates.

He ended up hiding in a dilapidated shed, in a dusty, dark corner, somewhere between zoning out and panicking.

Scout’s head was in his knees, he was shaking, close to crying, when a sudden splitting of wood roused him.

A B.L.U Soldier had kicked his way into the shed, either having heard Scout or to hide from the other team.

Scout was stunned at first, but something of a blind terror filled him. He picked up his bat, screamed, and started pummeling the surprised Soldier.

At some point, he threw aside his bat and began to swing punch after punch, just like he did in his gang days when he had felt overwhelmed. Still screaming. Still crying.

By the time Scout had dissolved into a rocking, sobbing mess, the Soldier was long dead, with a gigantic pool of blood staining Scout’s shoes.

No one even knew where Scout was until a few hours later, when Spy heard a faint note of “Sexbomb” coming from Scout’s Walkman.

Scout had crawled into the shed’s framework, between the outer and inner wall, and was playing a specific verse over and over and over again, looking like he was on another plane of existence.

Spy immediately called for Medic, who had to lift Scout out by the underarms through a jagged hole in the side of the building. By then, the fight was over, so they could take him directly to the lab.

Medic’s Evaluation:

“I’m guessing zhis is your first mental breakdown?”

“Mental…doc, I ain’t crazy. Wait, you’re not goin’ to put me in a straight jacket, are ya?”

“If you’re not doing anyzhing later.”

Medic started to laugh, but quickly realized this might not be the time.

“No, Scout, everyvun has a mental breakdown at least vunce in their lives. It’s a…how do you say…a vake-up call of sorts. Vhen your body has no other options left.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“For zhe past few months, you health, both physical and mental, has been deteriorating. You eat less. You talk less. Your attacks are lackluster. You have bags under your eyes. You flinch vhen somevun yells for you. You stare off into space. Your routine, vhich usually has at least some changes, has become stringent, as if you can’t possibly expend any more energy into extra activities. You have avoided Demoman on zhe battlefield, even though you usually use him for cover.”

Medic flipped through his notes.

“I have pages and pages of your decline. However, as a scientist, I believe it is caused by zhe same source. And, though I usually respect my patient’s right to privacy vhen it comes to these sorts of matters, I believe you’ve been keeping something from me. Something that I should know as your general practitioner…your doctor.”

Scout shrugged, already shutting out the conversation.

Medic sighed.

“Maybe I tried to talk to you about zhis too soon. After all, you’ve just had a very sudden and exhausting episode. But…perhaps…”

Medic took a sheet of printer paper from his clipboard and a spare pen from his pocket.

“…zhere is an alternative.”

Scout was still unresponsive, but Medic continued.

“Zhere is a patient in my vaiting room vis a metal pole through the chest. It vill take me at least an hour to properly remove it, and a few minutes more to heal zhe area. Vhile I do zhat, vhy don’t you draw how you feel?”

Medic smiled.

“I know how much it grounds you.”

It wasn’t until Medic left that Scout actually picked up the pen, but he began drawing immediately.

For the first time in a while, he wasn’t trying to hide his strokes or scratch up the cleaner lines. No more stick figures. No more pretending.

Five minutes later, he was fully engrossed.

Medic started to walk in at one point, but, seeing how relaxed Scout was, decided to give him a few more minutes.

He deserved it.

[hotchley]

by any other name

So I wrote the fic inspired by this post. It's too long for a drabble. I kinda hate it. It's not been proofread and there's little plot. It's a bit anticlimactic, but it was fun in the moment and I need to go to sleep so... yeah. We're going with it. There's a happy ending!

Trigger Warnings: intrusive thoughts, past child abuse, trauma, trauma responses, implied panic attacks, food mention, blood mention, death mention, slight implication of past dissociative episodes, religion, religious trauma, religious themes

read on ao3!

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Aaron remembers being told that as a young boy, shifting in his seat because the clothes his mother made him wear to church were uncomfortable. It had confused him. He'd spent so long being told hell was for bad things- sometimes he was included in that list- that good seemed to be the exact opposite of that.

He'd tried to ask his mother, but she had silenced him with a look. He didn't even bother looking at his father.

Later he realised what it meant, and found himself agreeing. After all, his father was a terrible man who hurt everyone he touched, but he always said it was with good reason. Aaron hasn't set foot in a church since Haley was buried, yet he still finds himself wishing one of the men who made his life a misery is burning in hell.

He tries to not think about the implications of that too much.

The proverb comes to mind again as he argues with Jack. Not over anything serious- not in the grand scheme of things. But to a seven-year-old boy, navigating life without his mother, it is the most important thing in the world.

They're arguing over shoes.

Jack wants to wear sandals. His father wants him to wear trainers. Hotch had checked the weather forecast that morning- it was going to rain. And he didn't want Jack catching a cold because of it.

But then Jack's bottom lip starts to quiver, and he looks to his father like he's being told his mother is in heaven and Aaron thinks of the meaning behind the words. If he doesn't let this go, then what's to say he'll need to have the next thing go his way. And the thing after that. And the thing after that.

What's to say that when Jack looks back, wondering where everything went wrong and he stopped being his father's son, he will realise it was this moment?

"Okay. Okay, wear the sandals, and then let's get going," Aaron says.

Jack, completely and blissfully unaware- as he should be- of what his father has been thinking, grins, his earlier sadness forgotten. He puts his other shoe on and then runs out the door. Aaron picks up his bag and coat, smiling slightly at the trust Jack has in his ability.

Jack's teacher smiles at them when they get to his classroom. Knowing Aaron is running late, she just takes Jack's things and bids him goodbye. The relief visibly crosses his face as he realises he won't have to make small talk. He goes to tell her about Jack's bag, but she waves him away.

She's seen enough interactions between children to know what's going on. It's why she's so unsurprised when she opens his bag to see his trainers and favourite socks are neatly tucked away for when it does inevitably rain and soak him.

Aaron makes it to work on time. Of course he does.

"Morning Hotch," Anderson says when they get into the elevator together.

He's one of the few people to follow the "no inter-team profiling" rule, so he doesn't notice how some of the tension seems to bleed out of his boss' shoulders once the nickname is used. Doesn't even realise how Hotch gives him a slight smile when his back is turned.

He steps out, and everything is as it should be.

The ghost of his father may be haunting him more than usual, but Aaron spent most of his life being ignored. He knows how to hide. He knows how easy it is to forget about someone when you bury yourself in something else.

So that's exactly what he does. He logs into his computer, and he starts making his way through emails. By the time Emily- always the last to arrive, yet always on time- sits down, taking a few minutes to speak to the others, he's gotten through all the ones that came in last night.

His ear is hurting, but he chooses to ignore it as much as he can. Halfway through his second file, he opens his door. Spencer taps Derek, and a few minutes later, the rest of the team is assembled to collaborate on a profile. It means lots of talking, and the occasional shuffling of papers. It means noise, but not so much that it's unbearable.

Aaron smiles, and it feels like the ghost of his father fades. He is loved. He is cared for. He is worth time and effort.

Despite the nature of their work, he's in a good mood as the day continues.

By lunchtime, the memory of his father is breathing down his neck, criticising everything he does. His posture is crooked. His notes are too messy. His profile isn't good enough, and the killer is going to get away with their crimes.

Just like Michael Hotchner.

He has no idea where the sudden bad day is coming from, but he can't shake it now. He will not waste the day and he will not give in, but it is just one of those days where the pain is so much more than he thinks he can tolerate. He wishes he knew how to cope properly, but he doesn't.

His pen suddenly snaps. He'd been holding it too tightly, and now his hands are covered in red ink. He was annotating. He always annotates in red, but now, as it stains his hands, all he sees is Haley's blood. Foyet's. Elle's. Kate's.

There are no tissues in his room. So he goes to the bathroom, hoping the team doesn't see what's happened. They don't, but they do hatch a plan.

Again: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

The short walk does nothing to clear his head, and every second he spends looking at the file is a second in which he thinks about the pen just suddenly breaking. How did he not realise? How did he not know? This time it was the pen. A thing.

What happens when it's a person? Then what?

He thinks he hears someone call his name. But that's ridiculous. It's too late for lunch, and too early for anything else. If someone needed something, they would've knocked on his door, especially with his ears acting up the way they were.

"Aaron Michael Hotchner," Derek shouts.

He doesn't like using Aaron's full name, but they got him a doughnut from his favourite bakery, and he can't be bothered to walk all the way up to his office. Also, Aaron didn't respond the first three times they called for him, so if anything, the shock will force him away from his desk for a few moments. God only knows how much he needs it.

Aaron doesn't hear Derek's voice.

He hears the echo of his father.

His throat starts to close. His vision starts to blur.

There is nowhere to hide. Not in his office. He used to have spots, just in case, but Jack hates it. Jack cannot stand it, so Aaron got rid of all the things that made it possible. He would never make his son hurt the way his father made him hurt, and maybe to him that is nothing, but when Jack grows up- because he will, in time- he will realise how brave his father has always been.

But that is the future.

In the present, Aaron has nowhere to turn.

The walls are closing in.

The voice is getting louder. It is getting closer. The danger is coming towards him, and he has nowhere to hide. He has nowhere to turn.

"Aaron?" Someone says.

He lets out a sound. He presses his hand to his mouth. He cannot take it back, but he won't make another one. It will only make things worse for him. He learnt that lesson long ago.

"Hotch." A different voice. A safe voice.

He turns in that direction.

He doesn't see it, but Derek Morgan's face is filled with relief and anger and sadness all at once. Because it suddenly makes sense.

"Aaron" has been tainted by the mouth of the man who gave his friend his middle name. That man and his actions are the reason Jack's middle name is Derek, not Aaron. "Hotch" has never passed Michael's lips, and it never will. "Hotch" is the man, who didn't even flinch when a bullet wedged itself in the wall next to his head.

Aaron is the boy that cried himself to sleep, wondering why his father couldn't love him the way he was meant to.

"Hotch. You're safe. Breathe with me," he says.

Hotch does.

When the panic passes, the heat rises to his cheeks, and he silently pleads with Derek to not say a word. He realises now that the other voice was Dave. Dave, who has left the room. He feels like he's failed another father.

The door and blinds are closed. He's lost all sense of time, but he feels grounded, so it isn't too concerning.

"Thank you," he whispers. For everything, goes unsaid.

"You don't need to do that," Derek replies. Because it's not difficult. Not when it's you, are the words unspoken but still communicated.

Aaron manages a weak smile. It will be a silent understanding between them, just like so many other things.

"Would you like a moment?" Derek asks him.

Hotch doesn't trust his voice, so he just nods. Derek leaves him.

Only once he stops hearing the footsteps does he break.

He doesn't scream, even though he wants to. It has been thirty years. His body stopped knowing the touch of that man long ago, and yet every waking moment feels like it is ruled by him. He hates it, but Michael- for better or for worse- made him the man he is today, and there is no way to shake that.

Realistically, he knows that he is responsible for his actions, and that he was only influenced by his father up to a certain point, but when the tears are falling and dampening his trousers- not his shirt, they'll be too obvious- rationale is hard to cling to.

He walks down ten minutes later.

The team has been guarding his doughnut. Of course they have.

Hotch's eyes are red. Nobody comments. But everyone knows. Everyone understands now.

It is an uncomfortable silence, and it is uncomfortable to watch him try and pretend he is perfectly fine, but at least he got his treat, even though it tastes like dust in his mouth.

They get it now. Why he is always so adamant about being called Hotch. Why he hates the use of his first name. Why he so violently objected to the tradition of giving Jack his name as a middle name. Because he doesn't want his son to never be free of him.

Jack will one day give his children their grandfather's name, citing him as the greatest man he's ever known.

Again, that is the future.

In the present moment, Spencer calls him Hotch without a second thought. Dave stops calling him Aaron when he wants to get a point across, realising it only works due to fear. Emily continues to make slight alterations to the nickname that either get her an eye roll or look of horror. JJ and Penelope make sure any notes written to him use Hotch.

Derek doesn't change a thing, because their bond has always been different.

Jack comes home in trainers, understanding how much his father loves him.

It makes Hotch understand that his wishes are valid. His needs matter. His comfort is important to people.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the personalities attached to Hotchner, Hotch and Aaron merge into one.

And then Hotch introduces himself as Aaron.

The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but intentions and actions are very different things that can completely alter the destination someone finds themselves at. And a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, so whether he is Hotch or Aaron, he is a good man, who found a way to defeat their father.

[maybedefinitely404]

Day 19: Prinxiety/Loceit (pt 3)

Part 1

Part 2 

Part 3 is here, with a little added something thrown in! Hope you enjoy!

@tsshipmonth2020

Day 19 - Everyone is born with a compass on their wrist, the needle of the compass points towards your soulmate. 

Trigger/content warnings!! Dissociation, PTSD, talk of conversion therapy and aftereffects/internalized homophobia, food mentions, nausea, anxiety/panic attack, unintentionally skipping meals, emetophobia/vomiting, pulling hair (does that count as self harm?).

Word count: 5k 

He barely remembered the hospital. It was all just a blur of doctors and police officers and more sleep than he’d gotten in weeks. After the first night of twitching in the dark confines of his hospital room and waking up screaming from nightmares the few brief seconds his consciousness faded, he was given sleeping pills, and the rest of the visit was quickly forgotten. The clearest part of the two week stay was near the end, when he was deemed physically well enough to give a statement to his social worker and a policeman, describing his ‘therapy’ and his life at the foster home, which quickly dissolved into a panic attack. They had enough though, and he was left with a sick satisfaction that they weren’t getting away with what they’d done to him. 

They’d lied to him. They had told him the system agreed with what they were doing, allowing it, condoning it. At first, he’d refused to believe them, because that made no sense. But they took his only form of contact, didn’t allow him to leave the house except for therapy, and his eventual addition of medication far too strong for him made him paranoid. Maybe he didn’t believe them as much as he was just trying to survive. He still didn’t know how they’d managed to keep up the charade when they were being checked on bi-weekly; he hadn’t even known when said visits were happening. 

“They’ll be spending some time in prison for child abuse. Not nearly enough, but still,” A social worker said quietly as he drove him back to his old group home. Virgil stared numbly out the window. “The kids were taken from them for the time being. They were deemed unfit parents. Foster care until they can find either some relatives or the parents are allowed them back.”

He didn’t react, although his heart nearly stopped in his chest. The parents hadn’t been great, but the kids had been happy enough. And now they were forced into a shoddy system… because of him. Virgil blinked rapidly to stop the tears that threatened to flow.

“You alright, Virge?” 

He finally turned from the blurry mass of green trees out the car window, turning blankly to the man driving. The worker glanced from the road to meet his eyes, sighing. 

No, he wasn’t alright. But he’d never say otherwise. Volunteering information about himself was how he’d gotten himself into this situation in the first place. He wasn’t about to do it again. 

----------

That had been almost a month ago, and he was still to break out of his selective mutism. It wasn’t as if he was choosing not to speak; it wasn’t stubbornness. He felt as if his brain and his mouth were disconnected, like his thoughts were less coherent and more just abstract emotion, and he couldn’t turn them into words. Any question that couldn’t be answered by a simple nod or head shake was met with a blank stare, a far off gaze, that was unnerving to anyone. They’d tried to put him back into therapy, but the moment it was mentioned, Virgil spiralled into the worst panic attack he could ever remember having. 

He’d gotten his old room back, with two new kids as his roommates. He quickly built up the same reputation as before: this room is mine unless you’re sleeping. No kid wanted to be near him when he was awake, staring at nothing, his only movements being his occasional blinking. Frankly, the younger ones were scared of him. 

And he didn’t care. 

Some days he fell so deep into dissociating that he didn’t even react when he was called for dinner. The world around him dissolved, blurry and unfocused and just quiet, retreating into his own mind where he could breathe. Reality was too much. It was just… too much. One of his doctors had said it might be a side effect as they eased him off his criminally high dose of antipsychotics they’d hidden in his drinks, but that was an afterthought. He was warm, he was full (when he was aware enough to eat), and so he faded into his head. He’d cope with his trauma another day. 

“You haven’t eaten all day, honey,” A soft voice said and he blinked, looking up from his bed sheets at the worker. She was one of his favorites; gentle, quiet, respecting his boundaries. In her hands was a plate with dinner on it.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, barely more than a single bob, and she sat across from him on the bed, placing the plate in front of him. With heavy hands, he lifted a cold green bean to his mouth. It was gross, but the plate was empty in minutes. Apparently it had been a whole day. 

“Virgil, I want to talk to you,” She said. Now full, his brain would let him stay present for a little while until dissociation took over again. He pushed himself back against the wall and brought his knees to his chest, watching her movements. 

“It’s not anything bad, I promise. I’ve been talking with some other workers, some connections I have across the state.”

He didn’t like where this was going. 

“One of them suggested a couple that’s fostered for over a decade. They have a fantastic record, so I got into contact with them-”

“No.” The first thing he’d said in weeks, his voice scratchy from disuse. For once, the mess in his brain came together to form the single word, an immediate rejection. He pushed himself farther away from her, shaking his head violently. “No, no, no.”

“Virgil, breathe,” She reached out a hand and Virgil flinched so hard his head hit the wall. The hand retreated. “You don’t have to go with them if you’re uncomfortable, hun. Please just trust me, though, they’d never do anything that they did.”

He glared at her, trying to read her expression in the dark room. Silence stretched between them as Virgil’s thoughts drifted back to their state of quietude, leaving him unable to form words, beginning to drift away from reality. His eyelids flickered as focusing became harder, his mind’s eye suddenly alight with the blinding white lights of the therapy room. 

“Will you meet them at least, Virgil? Just for a few minutes? And if you still say no after, I’ll never bring them up again.”

He found himself nodding without properly meaning it. He just wanted her to leave… he just wanted to be alone. So he could drift away, without having to fear anyone hurting him anymore. 

She left, taking the empty plate with her. 

----------

Just because he knew today he was meeting his potential (not gonna happen) foster parents, it didn’t mean he was allowed to be present for the rest of the day. His favorite worker had come back again, motivating him to get ready and dressed, since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to find the energy to even just put on a sweater, much less get himself completely ready. 

Looking in the mirror hurt. His hair was starting to grow back, just barely long enough to run his fingers through, never mind getting anywhere long enough to cover his eyes like it used to. The bags under his eyes were darker than he could remember them ever being and his hands shook as he brushed his teeth. Biting down on the bristles, he grabbed a towel and threw it over the mirror, feeling a slight tinge of relief when he was no longer forced to look at himself. The social worker watched from the doorway, silently. 

He was tempted to go to sleep when he was done, completely exhausted from the little bit of work. But she brought him breakfast and his stomach growled in agreement, so he ate enough of the oatmeal to satiate his hunger, and not a bite more. A nervous nausea was already swirling in his gut and he didn’t need to add to it.

“Would you like to be left alone?” She asked, taking the empty bowl. 

Virgil nodded, already feeling the heaviness and emptiness that came with dissociation starting to creep through his limbs.

“I’ll come let you know when they’re here, okay?” He had no recollection of her leaving the room, but the next time he drifted back to the present, she was gone. 

He took a nap around noon, too tired and overwhelmed to stay awake for any longer. Plus, with new rushes of anxiety flooding his system every couple seconds, he was ready to not be conscious for a hot minute. He tried to convince himself that it would be okay, he’d struggle through an awkward meeting where the foster parents would eventually give up on him and leave, and he could spend his remaining year and a month in the system. Hopefully in that year he could figure enough out to survive when he was alone. 

A joyous child screeching downstairs woke him up three hours later, jerking him awake with a pounding heart. 

It wasn’t an hour later when there was a soft knock at his door and he threw himself into the corner, pulling his blanket up to his chest. No, no, no, he wasn’t ready- The door opened painfully slowly, spilling the light from the hallway into his pitch black room. 

“Virgil? I’m here with one of the foster parents, can I come in?”

She poked her head into the room and squinted to meet his eyes in the darkness, eventually finding his hunched form on his bed. Wordlessly, she opened the door all the way and walked up to him, flicking on the bedside lamp. A pleasantly soft light filled the room, illuminating the man standing at the door. Virgil began to shake. 

He wasn’t overly tall, probably just a head or so taller than Virgil, dressed in a plain yellow button up and black jeans. At first, he didn’t seem too intimidating, but neither had the other family at first glance. When he walked into the room, just so he was less of a silhouette, Virgil eyes were drawn to the large burn scar covering the left side of his face, just a shade darker than the right, but the skin mottled and textured. 

“Virgil, this is Janus Oakmen. His husband was unable to join him today, but-”

Husband? Virgil’s breath hitched. His husband, his husband, he’s gay, gay gay gay- His anxiety skyrocketed, and he couldn’t help the electric-like impulses that ran up his spine and out his fingers. He clenched his fist to hide the remaining twitches. 

She seemed to stumble over her words, trying to hide her shock. To her luck, the man interrupted, smiling softly down at Virgil.

“I’d like to speak to Virgil alone, if he’s alright with that.”

“I’ll be waiting just outside the door,” She said hurriedly, rushing out and closing the door behind her. And they were alone.

Janus looked at him for barely a second before taking a seat on the bottom bunk on the other side of the small room, folding his hands on his lap.

“Technically, I asked if you were okay with it, but…” He gestured weakly to the door. “Oh, well. I was told you don’t talk, Virgil.”

He stared in response, wrapping his fists up in the blanket. The man gave a breathy chuckle, but there was no animosity behind it.

“That’s okay. Just wanted to double check. Is it okay with you if I just talk, then?”

No adult had ever asked Virgil for permission for anything twice in under a minute. His social workers kind of just did what they had to, and he’d never been in a home where that kind of thing was the norm. It was more ‘the kids ask for everything, and the parents get what they want, no questions asked’. Needless to say, he was taken aback. 

He nodded weakly, realizing the man was waiting for a response. 

“Fabulous. Ignoring all the boring details you wouldn’t care about, my name is Janus. Like, from mythology, not a PTA mom. I’m thirty-five, and my husband Logan and I have been fostering since we were twenty-two, so we know what we’re doing. We love it.”

Virgil slowly let his legs unfurl, stretching them out in front of him under the blanket.

“We actually weren’t intending to foster this year, since Logan is looking for a new job. His current one just made it necessary for him to travel more than he would like to, so we wanted to press pause until he was happy at a new one. And then we got a call from good ole Bev out there.” He waved at the door again, cracking a smile. “She told us a little bit of your story, and Logan and I instantly said yes. If you’ll have us, that is.”

The vague idea of “why?” crossed Virgil’s mind, and it must have translated to his face, because Janus continued. 

“When I was fifteen, I came out to my parents as gay. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but they weren’t such big fans, and they put me in conversion therapy.”

His heart stopped. Another round of shocks through his arms. 

“We can talk about that more another day, if you want. I know that’s a tough topic for you. Needless to say, it didn’t work. Because it doesn’t work,” He shrugged, an annoyed tone finding its way into his words, “I understand what you’re going through, to an extent. If anyone can help you, it’s us. I’ve been there. And I promise, we’re fiercely protective. We’d never let anything bad happen to you.”

He stopped, leaning forward on his hands. Virgil realized he probably couldn’t see him that well except for his outline, due to him being pressed into the darkest corner of the room. Despite every cell in his body screaming that it was a trick, he scooted forward into the light of the lamp, still shaking. 

“There you are. Hello, Virgil.”

Virgil raised a trembling hand in a half hearted greeting. 

“I know this is a big, terrifying thing to ask of you. And I’ll understand if you say no. But if you feel safe, we’d love to have you for however long you’re comfortable with. Would you like to think it over?”

He nodded immediately. It wasn’t the hard ‘no’ he had expected himself to feel, and that was more unsettling than it should have been. 

“Okay. You do that. Take however long you need,” Janus said as he stood up, straightening his shirt, “It’s been great to meet you, Virgil.”

And he was gone. The social worker came back a short while later, but Virgil was completely gone by the time she did. He didn’t respond to her dinner calls, didn’t eat when the meal was placed in front of him, safely retreated into the silent part of his mind where he was safe from panic attacks and hard choices.

--- 

He said yes. Of course he did. He was far too intrigued by the man he’d met to refuse. He was scared shitless, that was a given; the first week after meeting Janus, he’d refused to leave his bed, refused to eat or shower or leave his huddle against the wall until the caretaker was basically pleading with him. Even then, it was a struggle to not throw up from sheer terror. 

But his social worker must have seen the way he was giving in, yearning for a grasp of hope in equal parts as his fear, because she set about to convince him. Promised more thorough checks once a week, daily phone calls to keep in touch, and an immediate pick up the moment he was unsure. Bit by bit his resolve was broken, until he finally agreed to give it a try, rushing from her presence moments later to hurl his dinner into the toilet. Hopefully his nerves would relax over time. 

The day came when he was to leave the group home, and he spent none of it in the present. He was so dissociated, so deeply embedded within his own mind, that he wasn’t even able to pack his belongings. His social worker was kind enough to do it for him (though the task itself took less than half an hour- he didn’t own that much) and he didn’t even notice she was in the room, talking, until his black garbage bag was placed on the bed in front of him. 

“ -unresponsive like this all day. We’re not sure what to do.”

“No doubt a response to his overwhelming fear of being placed in a new home after the disaster of his previous one. May I speak to him alone?”

“Of course.”

“Want me to leave too, Lo?”

“No, Janus, you can stay. It may be nice to have your expertise in the subject lest it become pertinent.”

There was some shuffling at the very corners of his consciousness, the light from the hallways lighting up the divots of his rumpled clothing bag, and one of the people were gone. His bedside lamp was flicked on.

“Thank you, Janus.” 

A weight on the bed was the first thing to really snap Virgil back to the presence, for the first time noticing the two men before him. The one standing, he recognized as Janus. The other sitting in front of him, though, he didn’t know. Virgil blinked rapidly, slowly pushing himself further back into his bed frame, despite how it dug into his shoulders. 

“Hello, Virgil. My name is Logan. I take it you’ve met my husband?”

Janus shot him a soft smirk, copying Virgil’s little wave from when they’d first interracted. He barely restrained a rush of twitches, playing it off as a shuffle to rearrange his blanket. 

“Do you think you could move forward just enough to place your feet on the ground? You don’t have to stand, just to begin the process of grounding?”

Virgil didn’t trust this guy for anything. He didn’t know his intentions, knew nothing about him, and his repressed mental state wasn’t making his cognitive reasoning any better. If Logan could help him ground, maybe it would be easier to figure out if they were trustworthy. Odd, that for this to work, he had to trust them enough to ground around them.

He scooted forward, letting his feet flutter off the bed and rest on the floor.

“Well done, Virgil. Press them to the floor firmly. Janus, do you have- ah, wonderful.”

Virgil looked up, nearly throwing himself back as Janus reached out a hand to him. There was something clutched in his fingers, but all the youngest could suddenly think was electrode electrode it’s going to hurt they’re going to hurt you don’t let it touch you don’tletittouchyou DON’T!

“It’s just gum, Virge, it’s okay.”

Oh. His hand paused as he reached out for the offering, a new thought coming to mind. Should he trust food from strangers? What if they’d drugged it, like his old foster home? He bit his lip, slowly retreating back into himself. 

The man seemed to see his hesitation, popping the piece into his mouth and offering one right from the package.

“I didn’t mess with it, I swear.” 

He took the gum, recoiling at the harsh taste almost instantly.

“Yeah, it doesn’t taste great. But I chewed like a pack of this a day when dissociation was a bitch. Snaps you back to the present like-”

“Language, Janus.”

“I’m sure he’s heard worse.”

“That doesn’t mean we should encourage it.”

Virgil couldn’t help the tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. He hadn’t seen just casual bickering in a long time.

“We brought one more bribe-”

“It is not a bribe-”

He outright snorted at Logan’s aghast tone, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the noise. Janus looked utterly pleased with himself, slowly handing over a bundle he’d had wrapped under his arm. 

“Again, to help with grounding. And it’s a bit of a drive to our place, so maybe you can get some sleep in the car.”

It was a deep purple blanket, almost impossibly soft to the touch. Virgil couldn’t help run his fingers over the plush material, fighting the urge to just smash his face into it. Keeping an eye on the two, Virgil unfolded it and wrapped it tightly around himself, settling to just let his cheek rub against where it was draped over his shoulder.

It took another twenty minutes for him to feel able to walk without stumbling, but if he left the group home in a fuzzy blanket and starting to feel safer than he had in months, that was his to admit. And he wouldn’t… not yet.

-----------

Virgil stared down at the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand, re-reading his shitty handwriting for the millionth time. He knew it was proper grammar, and nothing was spelled wrong, and it was clear and concise, but a part of him was still nervous about the idea of giving it to Janus. He was still hesitant to speak, and his new foster family was more than accommodating, giving him a small white board to write on, and even teaching him the most basic sign language for simple questions (courtesy of Logan). One day, he hoped he’d get his confidence back enough to speak, but right now, he felt no rush. 

Being surrounded with these new people, even for the three short weeks he’d been there, had already been enough to minimize his dissociating spells. Logan didn’t have to leave for another work trip for another week, and Janus worked from home anyways, so he was getting way more love and affection than he was ever used to. He hadn’t quite given in to Janus’ offered hugs, or any casual touch at all really, but he was getting used to one of the two just sitting with him for hours, covering him with weighted and fuzzy blankets, and gently distracting him with puzzles or that god-awful gum or just repeating where he was, and that he was safe. Was this what being loved was supposed to feel like?

So he trudged down the steps, hearing the shower running as he walked past the master bedroom, and slowly approached Janus at the dining room table. The man turned to greet him, giving him that soft smirk.

“Morning, kid. Happy birthday.”

Virgil smiled shyly, remembering the sign for thank you after a moment, and dropped the note onto the table next to Janus’ mug. He took a seat across from him, hiding his shaking hands in his lap, and watched with bated breath as he took the slip of paper and read it.

“‘How long did it take you to feel okay with Logan after CT?’ As in, feel okay dating a man?”

Virgil nodded and then, just for practice, signed yes. 

“The short answer? Probably two years, and I was still hesitant going into the relationship. It took us a longer time to get to the comfort level we’re at now. You need to go at your pace, Virgil. You shouldn’t force anything.” 

And then, as he tended to do when no one was there to fill the silence, he began to rant. This was also something Virgil was surprised he had come to enjoy, pulling up his feet so he could sit cross legged on the chair and setting his chin overtop his folded arms on the table. 

“I think it’s ridiculous that our basic human rights are still up for debate,” Janus sighed, taking a long sip of his tea, “Soulmarks are more than enough proof that we have no control over who we love- not that we should need that kind of proof to be validated. But people are afraid of what they don’t know, so they portray us as monsters who need to be fixed.” He’d begun rubbing absentmindedly at his wrist and Virgil’s eyes tracked the movement, noticing for the first time the small compass that was just a couple shades darker than the man’s skin. It almost blended in, and he probably never would have noticed it, if the small needle in the center weren’t slowly rotating towards the stairs. 

Logan entered the dining room from that direction, greeting his husband with a small kiss on the head and his foster child with a relaxed smile. He must have noticed Virgil’s occasional glance at the other’s wrist, wordlessly flipping over his own arm. His matching compass was pulling towards Janus’, an ever present symbol that they were meant to be together. Then, he patted his husband’s shoulder, going to get the coffee his husband always made for him. 

“You’re not broken, Virgil,” Janus murmured. Virgil’s head shot up, surprised at his bluntness, “You’re not. And if anyone tells you differently, they’ll have to deal with me,” He said firmly as he took a long sip.

“No threatening, Janus!”

Virgil snorted into his fist, grinning as Janus winked at him and said, “Sorry, Logan,” into his mug.

“Incorrigible.” Logan sighed as he exited the kitchen with his coffee, dropping into the seat between the two. “And happy birthday, Virgil. Would you like to choose what we have for breakfast, or would you like us to decide?”

That was something they’d learned about him quickly; he had awful choice paralysis. Choosing between two choices was already anxiety inducing, but a variety of things, like having to narrow it down to one food item? Lethal. Virgil quickly pointed to Logan, who chuckled. 

“French toast, then?”

Virgil nodded.

“I’ll get started on that in a moment. Janus, do you have his gift?”

“It’s in the living room, let me go get it.”

And that got his heart racing. ‘Gifts’ weren’t good things. They were leverage, blackmail, with a promise of a ‘returned favor’ in the near future. Virgil didn’t like things held against him like that. What if they gave him a present, and then demanded he pay them back for it the moment things weren’t peachy? Who was he kidding, he was in the honeymoon phase of this new foster family. It would take a month, like it did with the others, and then they’d find something about him that they hated and they’d force him to change it and he wouldn’t be able to refuse because they gave him food and shelter and above all, a gift on his birthday, and he would owe them a debt and he was stuck and-

“Virgil? What are five orange things you can see?”

His head popped up- when had he grabbed his hair like that?- and he noticed how heavily he was breathing. His foster parents were looking at him in concern, not pity, but legitimate concern for his well being (wack), Janus holding his hands behind his back. It was Logan that had spoken.

“Five orange things you can see, Virgil. You can just point.”

Don’t disappoint them more, his mind screamed, so he pointed at the far wall, near the entryway.

“The bridge on the calendar picture, very good. What else?”

Point through the pass through window into the kitchen.

“The sponge, well done. Three more.”

In front of Janus’ empty seat.

“The letters on the mug-”

Quick point to the book shelf in the living room.

“-and the book on my shelf. Last one?”

It took Virgil a longer moment before he found a cup of pens on the small coffee table behind the sofa, gesturing to the orange capped pen amongst the others. 

“Wonderful. Are you feeling a bit better now?”

He didn’t respond, choosing to track Janus’ movements as he sat back into his chair, adjusting his hands so they were on his lap, most likely holding the gift he was hiding. Logan leaned against the couch as his husband spoke.

“Kid, I need you to understand something, alright? You don’t owe us anything. We want to give you a gift because it’s your birthday, and we want to celebrate you. This isn’t some favor that you have to return.”

How Janus understood Virgil’s distress, the younger could only guess. But his words of reassurance were enough to get Virgil to accept the wrapped package as he presented it with minimal shaking, for once demanding his brain relax. Neither of the men mentioned how delicately he unwrapped it, carefully tugging at the tape as to not rip the paper. Why risk it?

His mouth gaped when he saw the present for the first time, holding the box in a white knuckled grip.

“We were told yours was taken from you and never returned, and figured that you needed a new one,” Logan said. 

It was the first new thing Virgil had ever gotten. His clothes were from thrift stores or hand downs, his school supplies consisted of a found pencil and a ripped binder from the group home’s storage, forget ever having his own computer or video games or…

“This is a phone!”

“That it is.” Janus was smiling, taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea.

“I can’t- You can’t just- I don’t-” 

“We can, and we did. You’re seventeen, you kind of need a phone just for everyday life. And unless you give us a reason not to trust you with it, we have no worries.”

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t- 

Janus slid the tissue box across the table, but Virgil elected to ignore it, refusing to take his eyes off the box in his hands. 

“Thank you,” he barely choked out, “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome, Virgil,” Logan responded for the both of them, returning back to the kitchen nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just given Virgil more than he’d ever gotten in his entire life combined. “I’m going to start on breakfast.”

“I can help you set it up. Then you can download some music… maybe contact the soulmate of yours again.” Janus switched chairs so he was next to Virgil, careful not to touch him, and Virgil couldn’t help grinning blindingly up at him.

It would only be after breakfast that Virgil would realize that he’d spoken. It would be a longer journey until he’d be able to talk again effortlessly, but he was a step closer. 

Part 4 HERE!

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[butterflyinthewell]

Some stuff about wheelchair!Vegeta with headcanons everywhere:

Vegeta was chronically ill before his injury due to medical abuse by Freeza. He was meant to be stronger than Goku, but will always be a half-step behind because of this, but even he doesn’t know that.

The illness stunted his growth and damaged all his organs. He recovered with lasting damage to his heart and kidneys. Saiyajin bodies compensate for damaged organs until they no longer function, so his liver and spleens(yes two) do some of the work his kidneys used to.

He gets drunk on less alcohol than other Saiyajins because of this.

In human terms he’s in chronic heart and kidney failure. He has to be very careful taking any meds that are toxic to the heart, liver and kidneys.

A human in his condition would be dead in a week. He’s been this way for decades.

His medical rap sheet is many pages long, and he paid huge amounts of money to have his medical records sealed so Freeza wouldn’t use them against him in the future. Medicines dangerous to him due to his organ damage were listed as allergies.

The Androids caused his spinal cord injury and the violent beating left him with PTSD. He already had sub-clinical PTSD symptoms before and this incident is what made it manifest fully.

He lost his ‘little’ spleen because of them. (Which is fine, it’s like a human appendix. He needs the big one, though.)

The damage to his body made his kidneys fail temporarily, so he was put on dialysis until they spontaneously started working again.

For a short time he was a quadriplegic on a ventilator because the surgery to repair his shattered 10th thoracic vertebra caused massive swelling in his spinal cord and brain. Nobody knew if he would survive the night after surgery, and the true extent of how the spinal cord injury affected him couldn’t be assessed until the swelling went down.

Saiyajin central nervous systems swell up when their brain or spinal cord gets punctured or exposed. It’s a vestigial trait from billions of years ago when their evolutionary ancestors’ bodies became toxic to any predator trying to eat them. This “immune edema” normally isn’t survivable, so Vegeta is the first and only Saiyajin to experience it and live.

He was in a coma from May until August. Nobody knew what condition he would be in if he woke up at all. But he did, and spent a long time in a minimally conscious state before becoming alert enough to communicate.

For awhile, he couldn’t use his vocal cords even if he had a Passy-Muir valve attached, so he communicated via AAC through a tablet and a mouth switch.

The brain edema caused neurons to sheer apart. While Saiyajin brains are capable of more neuroplasticity than human brains are, he still sustained a traumatic brain injury. He was diagnosed with epilepsy (he has tonic clonic seizures) caused by scar tissue all over his brain, and it’s inoperable because of the immune edema response. He takes meds to control his seizures and only has breakthroughs when something drastically lowers his seizure threshold.

Vegeta understands epilepsy because Raditz was born with it. Raditz’s was a lot worse and no medication controlled it. (Raditz had focal aware, atonic and tonic clonic seizures. His could be triggered by strobes, but Vegeta’s aren’t.)

Raditz was shameless about his seizures. They were just a thing that happened. Vegeta, in contrast, finds it humiliating if anyone other than Bulma or Trunks sees him have one, doubly so if he wets or soils himself during it.

Raditz tended to get confused, hyperactive and giddy the day after a seizure. Vegeta is bone-tired, struggles with brain fog and has trouble with his short term memory the day after a seizure. It takes him two days to fully recover.

Once all the brain issues settled down, it became clear that Vegeta is a t10 paraplegic, but he still gets autonomic dysreflexia because Saiyajins are more easily prone to it than humans. His experience of it is also worse than humans because he goes right to high blood pressure and a pounding headache. This drops his seizure threshold and it’s a mess. The only thing to control it is stopping the pain signal that’s happening below his lesion and keeping his head above his heart until his BP goes down.

Saiyajins have redundant nerves throughout their spine, so Vegeta can feel his toes, the soles of his feet, his tail scar and some spots on his butt. He can flex his butt muscles, but can’t wiggle his toes. He has no sensation from his belly button to the tops of his feet.

He can hobble along wearing knee-ankle-foot orthotics and using forearm crutches (four point gait) because those muscles in his butt give just enough movement to initiate a leg swing while gravity does the rest. He walks therapeutically to keep his legs from completely atrophying, but prefers his chair to get around.

He’s more prone to G-LOC in the gravity room due to orthostatic hypotension. Bulma programmed the computer to check his blood pressure periodically and tell him to power up if it drops too low since powering up raises blood pressure.

He tends to have seizures if he passes out from G-LOC. His brain is very sensitive to lack of oxygen since his injury.

He can exercise and train in up to 700Gs, but can’t fight in anything above 95 because his blood pressure and unhealthy heart can’t cope. He can die of anoxia if he’s turned upside down, abruptly flipped right side up again and held there while all the blood goes to his legs.

Vegeta doesn’t measure his disability by human standards. He measures it by Saiyajin standards. To able-bodied humans he doesn’t seem all that affected by what happened, but from his perspective he’s extremely affected.

The PTSD can make him violent and quick to anger. He has flashbacks and nightmares. If he gets triggered hard enough, he dissociates to the point of memory blackout. Sometimes he has bouts of depression.

Manual wheelchairs made for humans can’t survive him. He goes to push the wheels and they fly off, or it flies apart if he powers up, or it collapses in the gravity room, so Bulma made him some Saiyajin-proof chairs.

His current wheelchair LOOKS like an ultralight rigid open frame manual wheelchair, but it actually weighs about fifty pounds and is made of similar material to his old armor and attack ball. Unlike us in the real world, he’s got a button to push that’ll poof his chair into a capsule if he’s getting in a car or something. Btw, his chair has a white frame (hanger at 90 degrees and tapered to fit his legs), a hard backing, dark blue upholstery, a silver open tube footrest, black wheels, black push rims, white spoke covers, gold casters and gold bolts.

A regular human probably wouldn’t be able to use the wheelchair at all due to its weight.

His chair can survive up to 700 Gs in the gravity room, can survive him powering up and can take direct ki blasts without falling apart. This is because the frame is solid, not hollow tubes, and the wheels are also solid so they can’t pop or go flat.

His wheels have micro-treads, but he’s got “off road” wheels with huge treads he can switch to if he’s going somewhere outdoors or muddy.

He’s gentle about moving his chair around inside the Capsule Corporation compound, but give him a straightaway with no obstacles and he can shoot himself forward at 50mph on one full-strength push.

One of his fighting moves is to knock someone down, pop a wheelie and slam his casters down on them. Sometimes he keeps going by running them completely over. This could kill an ordinary human.

He can cheat stairs by flying, but finds that annoying and will use a ramp if it’s available.

He can still fight how he used to, just no kicks or leg movement.

All the pills he has to take (extended release Tegretol for his epilepsy, Valium for when a panic attack won’t stop) require a special coating so he metabolizes it with the full benefit instead of getting all the medication in his system at once for an hour. Injected meds work on him the same as a human, though.

Morphine is the go-to pain med when he’s having AD because he metabolizes it the fastest (he sprays it on his gums) but it zonks him out so it’s literally ever only used in dire emergencies where the cause of pain can’t be found or fixed by external means. Using morphine requires he gets blood work after to check on his liver.

Trunks is the only one in the story who grew up with Vegeta in the wheelchair and seeing him being tended to by Bulma whenever his health issues came up, so all his dad’s medical stuff is normal to him. He’s a sweet helper of a kid too and will sometimes ask if he can push Vegeta somewhere.

Actually, Vegeta kinda hates being fussed over, but he feels loved when family does the fussing. If it’s anybody else, though? He gets irritable and embarrassed.

He HATES it if people touch, lean on or move his chair without permission. Gohan makes the mistake of moving the chair exactly one time and learns a really hard lesson to never do it again.

Bulma can sit in the wheelchair without asking when Vegeta isn’t in it, and sometimes she does if she’s sitting at his bedside after he had a medical issue or seizure.

VEGETA’S DISABILITY WILL NOT BE CURED, EVER, NOT EVEN WITH THE DRAGON BALLS.

Vegeta sees his wheelchair as a reminder that he survived something that killed all the other Z-fighters. It’s a source of pride, not shame!

Sometimes he refers to his wheelchair as his throne.

Wheelchair!Vegeta is sexy af.

[readyplayerhobi]

Flower | 17

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Angst, very slight fluff

; Word Count: 6k

; Warnings: Emotional breakdown, depiction of a panic/anxiety attack, in depth discussion/description of depression, brief mentions of suicide, lack of self-worth, self-hatred, self-doubt, dissociation

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: I haven’t proof read because...well I don’t really want to re-read it. So forgive me for any mistakes! It’s early by a day because I’ve missed a few weeks so I want you all to have something on what is a rainy night here in England <3

PLEASE make sure to read the warnings on this one. This chapter is very hard hitting for anyone who has suffered depression/anxiety. I put myself back in the position I was in last year when I had my own breakdown and I know people have said before that I write in a way that makes you feel what the character is feeling. Therefore, please don’t read if you’re going to be affected by the warnings! And please also be kind if you don’t agree with the way I depicted this. This is how my own depression and anxiety affected me, only I didn’t have a Hoseok in my life. The experiences the reader goes through in this are the ones I personally have experienced. It’s still a reader insert, don’t worry. She after all has a lot of things I don’t, and I’m also okay, so don’t worry on that front either! If you feel upset about anything after reading this, please consider reaching out to friends, family, professionals or a helpline that specialises in it!

And remember throughout everything...you’re not alone! You’re not worthless and you are loved. <3

-

Leaning against the railing outside your work building, you let out a deep and heavy sigh as you read through the email you’d just received. It’s a rejection email. The third rejection email you’d received today and the twenty-third you’d received in two weeks.

After an in-depth talk with your parents and support from Chungha, Soyeon and Hoseok, you’d decided to finally try and get that career change you’d always wanted. Though you’d pointed out that you didn’t know what you wanted from life anymore.

You didn’t know what you wanted full stop. 

One of the things that you’d been most afraid of when you’d realised that your relationship with Hoseok was turning into something genuine and real, had been what was going to come after. Not in terms of breaking up, though that did terrify you as well, but how your mental state was going to cope.

You’d tried to explain it to the girls a few times in an effort to get them to understand what went on in your rollercoaster of a mind, and you’d clumsily told Hoseok a few months ago. Or you’d tried at least. 

Talking about your emotions wasn’t easy for you and the fear of being too honest about something so crippling with someone who meant so much to you already had scared you away from telling him too much. Your mind had balked at it, afraid that if he found out just how bad you got sometimes that he might just leave before he got in too deep.

So you’d given him a very bare bones explanation of what happened to you sometimes. He probably didn’t think too much of it at the moment as you’d been pretty cheerful throughout the start of your relationship; the bliss of him overriding any of your deep seated depression and anxieties.

Hoseok was obviously aware that you suffered from anxiety and had been very caring in regards to that, but it was entirely different to be with someone in the grip of a depressive episode. Your form of depression could almost be charted, it was that easy to see what was coming, and you’d been so afraid for the last few weeks.

The lethargy and disinterest that associated itself so strongly with your depression had been creeping back into your life slowly. It had frightened you, but you just didn’t know how to combat it. Doing things that were big or made you extremely happy always seemed to come with a huge cost, and the cost was unfortunately your mental health.

Every single time you felt exhilarating highs in your emotions, the feelings so joyful and euphoric from your excitement and pure happiness, you suffered a plunging crash afterwards that often felt like it sucked the joy out of your life. It was something you’d tried to cope with for years now, and sometimes you could go months upon months without feeling like it was affecting you.

But the happiness of finding Hoseok and all of the early stages of your relationship, from the first kiss to sex and meeting your parents, had finally waned. The last few weeks had the deep sense of unhappiness that plagued your negative moods spreading quickly.

It had started as usual with the slowly losing interest in going out; the energy you’d once had to be social outside of your apartment dying until the idea of anything other than work or grocery shopping was too much effort. Then had come the lack of interest in anything.

You’d always found it hard to see that you were slipping, only recognising it properly when you would realise that you’d been laid on your bed or the couch for hours on end, doing nothing at all. Any attempts to find something to watch on television failed as your brain couldn’t find anything interesting enough to keep it’s attention, games sat unplayed as you couldn’t find the energy to turn them on while even just reading bored you.

In particularly bad spells, such as your final year of college when you’d been so afraid of failing but also afraid of having to go into the real world, you struggled to find the energy to even get out of bed. Hygiene only became a thing because of your severe distaste of being unclean, but other than that your bed often became your home.

You would sleep for hours upon hours, napping the day’s away as you consoled yourself with the knowledge that you didn’t have anything to do and so therefore didn’t need to get up. Even though a small voice in the back of your mind told you that no, you should get up. You should do something.

That small voice was drowned out often though. Vanishing on a fast current of melancholy. It frightened you that you were experiencing that now again, even with the wonderful light and joy that was Hoseok in your life. Waking up long after he’d already gotten up on the weekend and realising that you didn’t want to get up and follow him, that not even the comfort of his arms was enough to soothe the jagged hole inside your soul that seemed to grow deeper and wider with every day that passed.

Applying for the jobs had been an appeasement to those in your life who were worried about you. You knew that Hoseok could tell something was wrong, but he just didn’t seem to know what to do or how to help. Understandable really, as you didn’t tell him what was wrong.

But staring down at your phone screen, the black letters bold against the white background that once more proclaimed you weren’t good enough, you felt something deep inside you break. Something that you hadn’t realised was holding on by the thinnest thread, chafing away with each negative thought that had passed through your mind over the years.

What’s the point?

The insipid question whispers through your mind.

Why am I trying?

A second slithers into place, taking comfort with its neighbour.

Why am I doing this?

A third nestles safely between the two brooding thoughts.

I’ll never be good enough for anything.

Leaning your head forehead, you let it rest on your hand on the railing, eyes closing as your other hand tightens on your phone. The hopelessness that your mind has spun to life explodes to life, multiplying into countless thoughts of desolation and gloom that somehow combine together to make your head feel heavy and your limbs tired.

Slumping down onto the ground, you turn and let your back press against the railings. It was your lunch currently and you were at the back of the parking lot that faced your building, the facade blank with no clue as to what was going on inside. 

Blinking slowly, you realise that your breath is stuttering, almost choking itself. Like your throat is closing around nothing while your heart races a thousand miles a minute. Glancing down, you realise that your hands are shaking violently and you try to swallow, the movement so hard. And then you press a palm to your chest, a small whimper leaving your mouth as you simply try to breath.

But it all feels too much. It’s all just too much.

There’s nothing inside your head but despondency and yet your body feels too much, like it can’t cope. Your mind swings violently between the white fuzz of nothing and the sheer panic of a looming sense of dread, the fear of failure, rejection. The fear that you meant nothing and your life was nothing.

I can’t do this anymore.

It’s a simple thought, only five words long and it dances through your mind like a leaf on the breeze. Effortless and simple. 

For a few seconds you think nothing of it, the part of your mind that wasn’t well agreeing with it and conceding that there was no point anymore. You weren’t doing anything useful in life anyway and you doubted anyone would truly notice if you’d gone. A cog in the machine of life, that’s all you were.

And cogs could be replaced after all.

But then that tiny voice that had been washed away earlier appeared again, resolute and defiant against the tidal waves of desolation that swamped it. The tiny kernel of hope and happiness that you’d once had, that had slowly grown and blossomed into a tree with roots so deep it couldn’t be moved. It was a little dejected and a little threadbare from lack of nourishment, but it was there all the same.

The part of you that didn’t want to give up, the part of you that wanted to fight for your life. The part that had spurred you to confidence to message Hoseok, that had encouraged you to keep going in college. The part of you that told you it didn’t want to give up, didn’t want to give in.

Your lungs are heaving now, body hunched over as you grip your legs so tightly, head pressed to your knees while salty tears drip down your face. A heartbeat that feels like it’s working overtime is so loud you can feel it in your chest, the tension in your arms and torso so strong that your muscles hurt from the ache of holding them for so long.

Eyes hot and stinging as the tears overflow, you press hard on your chest and try to regulate your breathing. Try to calm yourself down, to bring yourself back from the precipice of the pain and panic that you feel. The overwhelming rollercoaster of your emotions is giving you whiplash, the melancholy you had been swept with being beaten savagely by the fear of your inability to breath and the panic of how dark your thoughts had gotten.

You needed to talk to someone, you needed to see someone. You needed someone there, someone to tell you that it was okay. That you weren’t worthless. That you had value, that you were loved. That you would be missed. That life wouldn’t be okay without you, that you were needed and necessary. Someone to push away your thoughts for long enough to just let you think clearly.

You don’t even realise you’ve dialled his number, fingers moving on autopilot as if your body is trying to help when your mind has become so paralysed. It’s not until his voice finally manages to pierce through the incessant self-flagellation that your mind is undertaking that you blink in confusion, brow creasing as you wonder why he’s here.

Glancing up, you wipe away at the tears that keep falling and stare at your phone, squinting to focus. The familiar smiling face of your boyfriend stares back, a photo taken weeks back on a date day to the beach. Your heart clenched tightly and your breath shudders, the wheezing sound as your lungs work hard to try and get oxygen loud as you have the odd mixture of desperation to talk to him along with the dread of annoying him.

One of the things you’ve always hated was talking about these personal issues with people. Even though you knew rationally that people would rather you tell them about what was worrying and upsetting you, the gleefully self-destructive part of your mind told you that you were annoying them with your concerns.

But Hoseok was talking through the small speaker, his voice loud against the quiet scenery around you with only your hyperventilated breathing being the odd noise. And then his words finally made sense, the syllables that had broken through your ennui turning into sounds you understood.

It was the confusion in them that caused you to listen properly at first, the way he said your name repeatedly before the ragged sound of your breathing obviously began to register. Then your name became more frantic, the fear in his voice slicing through your own inner wail of despair.

“Y/N? Hello? Y/N are you there? Hellooo? Y/N? Are you okay? Hey, are you...Y/N are you crying? Y/N? Talk to me, come on. Answer me sweetheart, baby answer me. Y/N what’s wrong? Are you crying? Y/N please answer.” His voice is getting progressively louder, the concern and worry louder and you suddenly feel even more self-loathing at the knowledge you’ve panicked him.

“Hobi.” It’s all you can get out though, the word pushing past the tightness of your throat as it contracts so violently, air struggling to get past. Clutching your chest, you recognise an odd wailing sound that escapes with each breath outwards. Hands shaking, you press the phone to your ear and let out a broken sob, trying to talk to him.

“Baby, baby what’s wrong? Has something happened? Are you okay? Have you had an accident? Is it your parents?” He fires questions at you quickly, trying to find some answer as to why his girlfriend has called him in the middle of a workday only to be sobbing and wailing down the phone at him.

Particularly when you both knew how much you despised talking on the phone.

But just the sound of his voice is soothing to the frayed nerves within you, a balm to the deep and aching pain that lurks inside. It’s not enough to pull you out your breakdown, not yet at least. This isn’t a film and television show and you’re aware enough to realise that real life doesn’t happen like that.

God you felt warm, so warm. So unbelievably warm but the sweat on your skin is cold, like you’re ill. Squeezing your eyes shut, you choke as you inhale too fast and your diaphragm jerks in a way that has you almost hiccuping.

Even though he doesn’t actually know what’s happening, Hoseok still manages to do the right thing. Because he stops his own panicked questions, his voice suddenly stabilises and a calm tone taking over.

“Okay baby...baby, listen to me. Okay, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. It’s going to be okay sweetheart, I swear. Come on, can you hear me?” A torn sound of acknowledgement leaves you, your muscles aching with tiredness from how hard you’ve held yourself.

“That’s good, that’s really good baby. I want you to listen to me, okay? Listen to what I say and then do it for me. I want you to try and breathe in, take a big breath. Really big, come on, do it with me,” You hear him inhale loudly and you try to follow, the shakiness overtaking. “And now it let out. Nice and slow, come on. Do it again.”

He continues on encouraging you through it, his deep voice that you’ve fallen so deeply for so soothing and reassuring. It almost makes you want to cry just hearing it, but you listen to what he says. Closing your own eyes and simply focusing on inhaling and exhaling, pushing all the negativity away until all that’s left is breathing.

Finally, after what feels like an hour, you realise that your breaths are jerky but almost stable. Deep breathes in and out help your body to relax itself, muscles releasing while the demons of depression and anxiety take a step back in your mind. They’re still there, you can feel them hovering over the edges, but you feel like you can cope again.

Wiping at your face once more, you sniff and almost burst into tears again when you realise how utterly pathetic you feel. How stupid you are to fall apart like that over a job rejection of all things. And those demons inch forward, whispering into the fragile parts of you.

“Y/N, are you with me? Are you okay?” Leaning your head back against the railing, you nod quietly before remembering he’s not actually there. The first time you try to speak, your voice is croaky and what sounds like a bubble pops in your throat.

The second time works though. “I’m here. I’m...Hobi...I just...I can’t.” 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the words cause you to start crying once more. But this time, there’s none of the panic and fear behind them. These tears are blazingly hot, your skin prickling from the salt of them while your head pounds from the previous crying and emotional ride you’d just gone through.

This time, your tears were because you simply wanted him there. You wanted to just bury yourself in his arms and try to forget what had happened.

“Okay, okay. I don’t know what’s wrong, but do you think you can go back to work? Or do you need to come home?” The very idea of going back into the office, sitting at your desk and doing all the mindless jobs that you loathe and despise with every fibre of your being fills you with a surge of feelings that makes you gasp in pain, head shaking rapidly.

You can’t, not today. You can’t go back to that, you can’t go back to the thoughts that this is going to be your life. That this is all you’ll ever be. All you’ll ever be worth. That you’ll never be good enough for anything.

“No.” It’s whimpered out, so soft and quiet but carrying a level of pain that you can’t even begin to properly explain to him. He understands though, a quiet sigh of his own as he obviously considers what to do.

“Okay...go in and ask them if you can take the rest of the day off. Tell them you’re ill. That you’ve been throwing up or something, whatever it takes. Are you okay to drive? Or do you want me to come get you?” Glancing over at your car, the Hyundai your dad had helped you to buy that was a dream compared to your previous car, you chew on your lip as you wipe at your face.

“I can drive. I can drive, it’s not far.” 

“Good. Go home and rest. I’ll be home when I can. Do you want to talk about whatever just happened when I do?” Looking down at the ground, you consider it before sniffling quietly.

“Yeah. I think I should.” Your voice cracks on the last word, yet more tears filling your eyes as your lip trembles dangerously. The thought of telling him is terrifying, but you feel like you’ve gone too far down this dark road now. And you don’t want to walk down it alone anymore, not when what you’re finding is so terrifying and scary.

“Okay. I’ll see you at home then.”

-

It was surprisingly easy to get your boss to let you go home early, easier than you thought it would have been. But maybe you looked a little worse than someone who had been throwing up, given the puffiness of your eyes and the overall haggard appearance you’d managed to take on. You didn’t look well, which worked in your favour in terms of being able to go home.

But you didn’t look well because you weren’t well. And you knew this.

As soon as you got home, you’d practically torn off your clothes before slipping on a well worn pair of soft grey leggings and a fuzzy sweatshirt, the material so soft on your body. It’s approaching the end of November and you revel in the warmth it offers you, curling on the couch into a tight ball with your head buried into the velvety Pusheen pillow that Hoseok had bought you a few weeks ago.

The soft padding of tiny paws on the wood floor alerts you to an incoming presence and you smile tiredly when Kasumi jumps up onto the couch with you, chirping at you quietly before butting her head against yours. Gently, you stroke at her fur and sigh as she settles, her head buried firmly into your neck and her small body vibrating as she purrs away happily.

“Are you happy my little purrbaby? Yeah?” You whisper to her, running your thumb over her silken ears before pressing your nose against her sleek fur. “My favourite little girl, aren’t you? A purry baby.”

The next few minutes consist of you just muttering nonsense to her as usual, your hand stroking automatically as you revel in the solid warmth of her against you. She remains where she is, paws flexing open and closed as the she pads at your chest and you can’t help the tiny smile that escapes as she does so.

“I love you, yes I do.” Maybe it’s a sign of how bad of a person you are that the only person you feel even remotely comfortable saying that to is your own cat. A cat who can’t answer back. Though maybe that’s the point. She relies on you for survival, therefore her love is a given.

Other’s though?

Her ears twitch suddenly and her eyes widen, that familiar look of alarm taking over her feline features and causing her to jerk upright. Frowning, you coo to her before realising you can hear the door opening.

A quick glance at the clock tells you that it’s not even 2pm and your brow creases in confusion. You go to question whoever it is, only he appears from the hallway into the room and your throat tightens immediately.

Hoseok isn’t wearing a fancy suit this time, instead just a pair of black jeans with a black button-up, his socks a contrast in white. His work had since changed their dress code policy to smart-casual, hence his jeans. But he wasn’t supposed to finish until 5pm.

“Why are you here?” Your words aren’t nearly as solid as you intended them to be, the sounds shaky and he lets out a tiny sigh.

“You really think I was gonna stay at work for the next few hours after my girlfriend, who hates using the phone, calls me and all I can hear is hyperventilating and crying? And then she’s so not okay that she actually goes home? No way. I’m gonna work the time back later but I felt that you shouldn’t be alone right now.” He makes it all sound so simple, like there wasn’t even a question in his mind about what he’d do.

It chips away at something inside you, a chink in the solid wall of protection you’d built over the years that held back all your deepest and darkest fears and concerns from others. And in an instant, that wall shatters in a tsunami of emotion.

Lips trembling violently while your vision blurs from the tears filling it, you simply open your arms to him and whimper out his name in a tone so broken and lost that it almost makes Hoseok cry just hearing it. Not that you know that, nor can you see the way his face crumples for a moment at seeing you break so quickly.

You don’t see because the tears block your vision of him, but you feel it when he sits on the couch next to you and wraps you in his arms. Without a word, you squeeze your arms around him so tightly, as if you were afraid that if you let go then he’d vanish.

And you let yourself break in the comfort of his embrace, in the safety of presence and the reassurance of his stability. A horrible sound of pure agony escapes your throat, dragged from the deepest depths and a part of you is surprised at it. At how much pain it encapsulates.

Once you start though, you can’t stop and you simply cry into Hoseok’s arms, letting yourself go in a way that you never have before. Exposing your vulnerabilities and all the jagged points of pain inside your psyche that you’d kept hidden for so long, afraid that no one would care or would see them as a sign of weakness if you let them out.

Hoseok doesn’t judge you though, he doesn’t complain or sigh in annoyance. Instead, he spends the next ten minutes simply hugging you so tightly to him, his hands stroking your back in long movements that soothe you and reassure you that he’s here, that he cares. Vaguely, you recognise him whispering things to you but you don’t put enough thought into what he’s saying.

The earlier breakdown you’d suffered had been frightening and painful; the fear of not understanding what was happening properly combining with the gaping hole of self-hatred and feelings of inadequacy. This didn’t feel like a breakdown though. It felt cathartic almost, like each sob that escaped you, each tear that wet Hoseok’s shirt was another weight being lifted off your mind and shoulders.

By the time you finally calm down enough until the tears are silent and the only noise you make is the hiccuped breathing of someone who’s cried so hard their throat and eyes hurt, you feel almost relaxed. Maybe crying was a good thing sometimes, but you knew that it was because you’d come to terms with the fact that you had to talk about your issues and most importantly, you had to reach out to others for help.

Now the room is completely quiet, only broken by the occasional sniffle from you. You’d expected him to start asking questions immediately but he doesn’t, instead just holding you in a protective embrace while you calm down.

Oddly, it makes you feel a little better that he doesn’t freak out or pepper you with questions. His reassuring presence helps to calm your frayed nerves and you find yourself playing with one of the buttons on his shirt, bottom lip pouting out as you realise his shirt is plastered to his chest from your tears.

“I’m sorry about your shirt.” You whisper, voice hoarse and low. There’s no response for a second before he lets out a breathy laugh, warm lips pressing to your hairline affectionately.

“That’s fine. It’s just a shirt,” Hoseok pauses, shifting to hug you in a more comfortable position on the couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The way he leaves the question open for you lets you know that he’s giving you an out, a way to turn him down. You know he wouldn’t be particularly happy if you didn’t talk about what had caused you to have such a breakdown, but he would acknowledge your decision.

“I just...I got another rejection.” Fingers smooth at the wrinkles in his shirt, the text from the email running through your mind once more and you can practically feel your spirit sinking again. “I don’t know, it just...it got too much. I know it sounds really stupid and I can’t really explain it all or anything but...it was just too much. Everything has been too much lately and yet I just feel so empty and uncaring.”

Hoseok doesn’t interrupt you, letting you spill out your inner thoughts to him, even if they don’t make a lot of sense. 

“I’ve been...I mean...lately I...I’m not...I’m not okay.” Your voice wavers dangerously, lip trembling and you tighten your hand on the fabric of his shirt. “I just feel...I can’t...I can’t, I just can’t. I don’t feel like I can do this anymore, it’s just so hard. So hard to get up and go to work when I hate my fucking job. It’s like my mind is dying every second in there and my soul is shrivelling up too. But I’m not good enough to get out and I’ll never get out and all I can think is...is this it? Is this going to be my life? Is this all I’ll ever do? Is this all I’ll ever be worth? Is this all I’ll do? And the thought of this being all I do for the rest of my life is...I mean...I just...I can’t Hoseok. I can’t, I can’t do it. I don’t even want to wake up if I have to do this forever.”

The words are rushed from you, blurring together as you feel the deep hysteria and panic rising within you once more. Hands clenching his shirt are shaking while your breath is coming a little faster again and your poor, swollen eyes are stinging from the heat of yet more tears. You’d have thought you had none left to cry.

“It’s like everything is weighing me down, all of it. My job, my lack of career, my finances and just me as a person. It’s all building in my head and I just...I can’t. But at the same time I feel nothing inside. I wake up and wonder why I’m bothering to get up because I have nothing to do, I can’t focus on shows or games or books. I’m lethargic and unhappy and the idea of going out just makes me want to cry. I drove home from the store the other day and the entire time I felt like there was a hive of bees in my stomach, all angry and my heart was racing. I didn’t even know what I was anxious about! That’s not normal and it happens all the time. I’ve tried, for you and my parents and friends but it always comes back. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t.” You’re not entirely sure what you can’t do, but you say it so forcefully that Hoseok simply nods.

He doesn’t speak at first, contemplating what to say and trying to remember what his therapist had discussed with him all those years ago when he’d gone. It was hard, because obviously your case wasn’t like his. But he wanted to help, or at least try and guide you in the right direction. Because you were reaching out, and he wanted to be the one to hold you steady while you fought your way out of the darkness.

“How long have you been feeling like this? I’ve noticed you pulling away recently, I didn’t want to push you on it though.” Hoseok admits, his voice soothing as he runs a thumb along your cheek, wiping your tears away.

Almost childishly, you shrug. “I don’t know. It comes and goes. I always...I hate doing things that make me happy or excited because I always crash after. And the longer my happiness goes on, the harder and further I crash after. It’s like my mind can’t cope with just...being...normal.”

Hoseok shakes his head firmly then, pulling back slightly to get you to look at him. His eyes are worried and his expression is concerned, but you can tell he’s determined. You can also tell that you’ve just said something that he disagrees with.

“Don’t call yourself not normal. At the risk of sounding like some lame quote from the early 2010s, there’s no such thing as normal. You’re just...you’re not okay right now. I think we can both tell that. And there’s nothing wrong with not being okay. There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re having mental health problems and I hope you won’t be angry with me for saying it but...this...today...baby I think you need to see a doctor or something. I can’t tell you what will help because I don’t know, and I don’t want to mess it up. But you have to want to get help.”

Looking down at your hands, you sniff quietly as you contemplate what he’s said. As per usual, he’s said it sweetly and in a way that isn’t offensive. The very idea of admitting that you had mental health issues made you quail inside, wanting to tell him that he was wrong and you were fine. 

But he wasn’t wrong...and you weren’t fine. 

“What if they don’t believe me? Or tell me it’s just in my head? Or that I’m just sad or something? And what if work finds out and they get angry at me? People will tell me I’m just faking it or something, looking for attention.” The stereotypes slip from your lips without you realising it but you’re worried.

Despite the push for being more open around mental health lately, you know that people still don’t view it positively. That admitting depression or anxiety can often come with an eye roll or an exasperated sigh. You knew how it went, you weren’t depressed you were just tired or weren’t willing to put in effort and so forth.

But you knew it wasn’t that. It couldn’t be, not when it felt so real and strong.

“Sweetheart, if they think at your work then fuck them. You already hate that place and you’re looking for something new. Don’t let them get to you, you are more important than anyone there. And if they want to act like shit around something as serious as this, then they don’t deserve you. Your doctor should listen, and if they don’t then make them listen. They’re there for you, not the other way around. It’s in your head purely because it’s your mental health and it can be helped. I won’t lie, it’s probably not gonna get cured. But you’ll find ways to cope. And I’ll be here for you. So will your parents and your friends. We care for you and we want you to be okay.” He rubs at your arms then, his touch warm even through the soft material of your sweater.

“I’ve watched you draw into yourself and it’s worried me for a while now. But if you’re willing to reach out to me at your lowest, which I’m going to assume that breakdown was your lowest, then I think you want help. I can’t make it go away, but I can help support you while you get your feet back under you. Will you consider going to the doctor? Please?”

Pushing your head into his neck harder, you sniff hard and pushing the sleeves of your sweater past your hands. Your heart races at the thought of discussing your personal issues with someone you don’t know, but you know Hoseok is right. You need help, you need to reach out.

Swallowing hard, you realise that you need to do what he’s suggesting. You don’t want to get back to that point where you realised you didn’t care if you lived or died anymore. Because you wanted your life to get better. You just didn’t have the tools to pull yourself out of the swamp.

“Okay. I’ll go.” His body relaxes imperceptibly at your agreement and you feel bad, realising how worried he must have been for you. But that worry vanishes when he tilts your head up to his, a sweet smile on his face before he kisses you gently.

“Good. You won’t regret it, I swear. And thank you. For trusting me enough to call me when you were afraid and for telling me now. I want to try and help you anyway I can. I know what it’s like to feel very lost and afraid. I just got angry at the world though. So...please talk to me when you’re not feeling okay, even if you think I’m going to be annoyed or can’t be bothered. Because I’d rather you talk and vent to me than do something else.” And suddenly, you realise he’s got tears in his own eyes.

Reluctant tears you can tell, the way he gives a small smile that’s forced, his dimples showing but no real happiness behind it. Swallowing, your own smile wobbles too as you realise that he must have been so worried.

“I will. I swear. I swear.” His lips press to your forehead, resting there long after he’s finished his kiss and you simply embrace it, absorbing his deep feelings to you that you can tell he has even though he doesn’t say a word. Unsurprising really, because you feel all the positive and warm feelings you have towards him blossoming through the hollowness in your chest.

He’s not going to fix you and you both know that. But you’re surprised to realise that you don’t want him to either. That this is something you have to start yourself. For your own peace of mind but also so that you don’t become reliant on him while pressuring Hoseok with something as precarious as your mental health.

You’ve reached out for help finally, and now you just need to accept the help you’re given in turn.

[utterlyinevitable]

Do We Have A Future?: January

Part 1 | Part 2: November

Paring: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Rebecca Lao) Word Count: 1.9k Warning: Adult themes, mental health triggers, themes of depression, pregnancy complications and termination Summary: Rebecca told Ethan and now they have to live with the aftermath of their decision.

Author’s Note: Sensitive subject matter means I really suggest only reading if you are 18+ years old.

Taglist: @ohchoices​ @dulceghernandez​ @aylamwrites​​ @binny1985​ @ramseysno1rookie​

________________________________________

Becca stood alone in the middle of Ethan’s dimly lit bedroom one morning after a scalding hot shower while flecks of snow flurried outside. She stood in front of the double wide full length mirror taking in her full form - the unchanged curvature of her hips and abdomen. 

“I’d be in my second trimester…” she whispered to herself as she ran a hand delicately from her breast and lingering down to the blank space of skin below her navel. 

It would have been born in June. 

It was 6:30 in the morning and they needed to be at work in thirty minutes. When Ethan didn’t hear the familiar scuttering of his girlfriend hastily getting ready after choosing another twenty minutes of sleep he grew worried that something may have happened. 

He gingerly opened the door to see his love transfixed in front of the mirror. He crossed the distance quietly in four long strides. Snaking his arms around her he whispered into her ear, “Are you okay?”

There Ethan stood in his standard work attire holding Becca’s cold naked body close to him, his left hand securely wrapped around her midsection and his right hand placed on top of hers at her stomach. His clean shaven chin rested on her shoulder and his bright blue eyes searched her features for the explanation he knew was never coming. 

“Yeah,” she breathed as she snapped back into reality. Ethan could feel the goosebumps beginning to prick her skin and eyes started to glaze over as she pulled away from him. “Give me a minute. I’ll be ready in five.” 

Becca still cried at the thought of what's been lost. She still couldn’t walk past the neonatal wing of the hospital, or any babies for that matter. Even infants on social media or television bring tears to her eyes. Some days the extreme emptiness hits harder than others. 

Ethan still refused to talk about it. He wanted nothing more than to know how exactly he could help her without having to guess each and every day. But that would be breaking their solemn vow. He couldn’t break his promise after she explicitly asked him not to all those weeks ago at her appointment. Ethan couldn’t let her down; not now, not ever again. 

Unbeknownst to him, Rebecca wanted nothing more than to confront the fact head on, she’s done her self deprecating wallowing and was ready to divulge. She wanted to know what’s going on inside his head. But after the last time she tried to bring it up she feared that if she continued it would be to the detriment of their relationship. 

They were sitting on Ethan’s couch watching a Blue Planet documentary. Ethan comfortably laid back with his feet perched on an ottoman and Becca’s legs draped over his lap. She had the purple fleece blanket she brought from her apartment snuggled around her torso. Neither were too intrigued by this segment on flying fish, so Becca picked at the chipping paint on her fingernails and Ethan closed his eyes, relishing in the feeling of how this woman beside him could make him feel so at home.  

Out of nowhere the demons eating at Becca’s core shakily asked, “What would we have done if we kept it?” 

Truth be told Becca had been thinking this since the moment she swallowed the first pill. What would their life be like here and now? 

“Stop, Rookie,” he sternly admonished. Ethan knew she was treading down a slippery slope. She had finally started going through a routine like normal and he believed entertaining this notion would have her regress back into the shell of the woman he once knew. “No point in dwelling on the past.”    

Becca pursed her lips and gave him an unsatisfied nod. She could push the subject but she wasn’t strong enough for that. She used every little bit of courage she had to let the thoughts slip off her tongue without the twin tears rolling down her cheeks. The topic seemed like taboo. 

Why can’t we talk about this? she thought.

***

Becca had been back at Edenbrook for six weeks. She enthusiastically threw herself into her work hoping it would help fill the void and bring her joy. However it did nothing to soothe her like the way it once had. Rebecca was barren; the things she loved didn’t carry enough weight anymore. Her moods had also frequently gone on a roller-coaster ride, more times than she or Ethan would care to admit. She lived in the realm of fury, rage, disinterest and disdain. But at least she was talking and willing to leave the apartment. 

Thankfully, Ethan thinks to himself every day she gets up and goes through the motions of her past self. 

She still didn’t spend much time at her place. The awkwardness and permanent ball lodged in her throat at keeping this secret from her dearest friends had put distance between them. Becca didn’t actively want to put a strain on her friendships; she just couldn’t bear the thought of them pitying her. It was easier for them to think she’d let her new job title and relationship become her most sacred of priorities. 

When Ethan noticed her dejected and hopeless look day after day he thought now was a better time than any to help move her mind on to something else.

“I was thinking…” he trailed off as they sat at his kitchen island having her favorite spaghetti bolognese dish he ordered for them from Don Luigi’s. Looking down and twirling the noodles around his fork he said softly, “Maybe you’d like to move in?”  

“What?” Becca’s eyes went wide as she nearly choked on the two bits of pasta in her mouth.   

“You’re here all the time anyway,” he rationalized with a shrug of his shoulders. Ethan dropped the fork and swiftly swung around on his stool to face her. There was a gleam in his eyes that involuntarily made the corners of Becca’s mouth twitch. He reached out for her hands, cradling them between his own. 

“How about we make it official?” Their eyes met and Becca took a bated breath. The corners of Ethan’s lips pulled into the biggest grin - a smile Becca knew was just for her. It had been months since she’d last seen him glow like that, all the wrinkles and cracks in his features coming to light just for her. “Make me the happiest man alive and turn this place into a home, Rookie.” 

Looking at the man before her she thought maybe, just maybe everything will be okay.

“Okay,” she nodded with a small smile, trying her best to give him the genuine declaration of adoration that a moment like this deserved. 

*** 

The move didn’t help. If anything it made her mental state worse. Rebecca was completely dissociated from her current life and there were two versions wandering around in her place. 

The first version; the doctor and third year resident who focused solely on her patients needs, continuously going above and beyond for them. No matter the turmoil raging inside of her. For the first time in a while she was back at the top of her game, she didn’t need Ethan to shadow her or reassign any of her potentially-emotionally damaging cases. In the halls of Edenbrook all that mattered to Becca were the lives of her patients and helping as many helpless individuals as she possibly could. 

Ethan knew she was deflecting but as her boss he was overly impressed with her performance as she tirelessly solved case after case in no time at all. He came to accept that the concern he had for her well-being was better felt behind closed doors, whether it be at home or with his father figure. Ethan did consistently speak about her with Naveen for both of their sakes. The two men discussed and debated on how they can support her without her knowing, while the older doctor simultaneously consoled and navigated his mentee’s guarded emotions whether Ethan liked it or not. 

The second version of Rebecca was simply Becca. A girl who’s new coping mechanism was throwing herself into packing up her life and slowly turning Ethan’s luxury and sterile bachelor pad into a home. As she packed alone in her room she let her mind project a new, better reality. One where she was still carrying. She’d pass the time singing and speaking to her flat belly of the great life awaiting the three of them. The undeniable love still coursing through her veins. 

‘What are we doing today?’ she said softly with a smile as she taped together a cardboard box on her bed. ‘We’re packing up my apartment and we’re moving into daddy’s place!’ Saying those words made her heart swell, feel fuller than it’s ever been. 

Rebecca wasn’t alone. Although science and any rationale would say otherwise, she still felt that the baby, her baby was still with them. 

Moving about her room she categorized the objects of her life out on the floor into piles of winter clothes, summer clothes, general clothes, books, household objects, and miscellaneous. As each pile started to grow and moving around became difficult she exclaimed, 

‘I have so much stuff! Where are we gonna put it all?’ She chuckled to herself as she haphazardly threw one of the piles of clothes into an empty suitcase.  

Patting her abdomen she happily added, ‘Dad’s gonna have a fit; we’re gonna take over the whole place.’ 

This quite well may be the only time she’d get to say those words out loud with Ethan. This could have possibly been the only time she’d be pregnant. Ethan was being more than careful now that she was not on any form of contraception. Her doctor noted that the typical thing to do after a termination would have been to start on the pill but Becca refused, wanting time for her body to readjust before adding more hormones in the mix. Not like we’re gonna be intimate any time soon... she thought bitterly in her OB/GYNs office back then. 

In her mind Becca was now moving and creating a nest egg at Ethan’s for their little miracle. She allowed herself to indulge in this fantasy keeping her together - keeping her happy. She had made the mistake of getting attached in those first and last two weeks of knowing and now couldn’t shake the thought. As much as she’d wanted it gone, she grew fond of the little ball of cells and all the possibilities it held. Now she felt unfulfilled; something was missing from her life, from her body and she couldn’t understand why. Why something she didn’t want and didn’t have could hurt so much. 

As a woman of medicine, Rebecca is a woman of proven science. She never did believe in a higher power. 

But there’s so much unknown in this world. Maybe, just maybe... 

If there was even the slightest chance the soul - her baby’s soul was wandering aimlessly around in the unknown, she needed to do something about it. After much internal deliberation and listening to her heart she decided it was a girl and gave her a name, Avaline Dolores Ramsey. She thought of her dark brown hair on the top of her tiny head, Ethan’s eyes shining bright with possibility, their skin colors mixed together to give an olive complexion. 

A little bundle of joy staring back at her in her mind's eye every second of every day.

__________

A/N: writing this is the most cathartic thing ever. thank you for reading. we’ve got 2 more parts to go!

[internalsealpanic]

I Will be Your Tim Drake for Tonight (3) (Jason Todd/ Reader)

Summary:  Preferring to do anything but your physics project, you decide to accepts Tim’s proposal. It’s simple. He does your project, you try to figure out whether Jason Sionis is criminal. Easy, right?

masterlist

A/n: This takes place in a world where Jason is adopted by Black Mask. Inspired by Building Interest by Zoeleo.The events and characterization in this story are very heavily based on Zoeleo's Long Term Investment series. It is fantastic and I really highly recommend all of her fics.

a/n: For clarification, Reader does have psychic powers but it only lets her sense people's emotions physically. No mind-reading. Her power is more like an overactive sense of empathy which may force her to dissociate into someone else.

There will be violence and mentions of alcoholism (used as coping mechanism for physical pain) and chronic pain.  

As for the additional warning, an animal is harmed but it is barely described. I could not bring myself to actual describe it but the aftermath is described.

I also just converted this from an OC so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes.

Without further a do:

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

Of course, Damian just had to be the one to pick up.

"Hey baby bro, could you pass the phone to dad?"

"I'm sorry who is this?"

This little shit.

"You're such a kidder! Dami, it's me, Tim. "

“Ah yes, Drake-” You can hear Tim choke in the background. “What do you want?”

“Please Dami just pass the phone to dad, I- I really need to talk to him”

“Very well,”

“Tim?” The voice sounded like Bruce’s but the intonation was all wrong. The voice changer Tim and Babs were working on seems to have made progress.

“Hey dad, I- uh. I might have gotten kidnapped.”

Tim makes another choking noise. “Might have?”

“I was at the party. I think I had around 13 drinks. 13 ! Can you believe it? I felt like a right sailor after that, like the harbor workers, y’know? Anyway, I was taking a smoke-”

“Enough!” The large man roared, snatching the phone from you. “Send us $100 million by tomorrow or your kid’ll be shark bait!” Who says that anymore?

“Of course! Of course! I’ll have the money sometime this evening. Please don’t hurt him.”

Tim, God bless him, does not laugh. Tim’s acting needs some work but he sure does know how to act worried.

The line dies and they tie you back up to the post.

“What the hell?!”

“We have to make sure you don’t just runoff.” The large man says tightening your bonds. Truthfully, you’ve felt far worse. After all, corsets exist. However, this was still a close second.  

“Do I look like I could outrun a snail?”

“He’s got a point boss. He looks like he hasn’t even seen the sun in ages.”

This, you decide, is true for Tim. When was the last time he went out before dark? Maybe he got sunlight when he stayed over at Eddie’s place.

The large man grabs Jason by the collar and throws him to his men.

The 3 men kick and curse at him. They mock him and beat him down. They wail on him with their fists, their steel-toed shoes, and sometimes brick. Jason takes it all with a crooked grin and a sharp tongue. You watched in awe. Even on the floor, Jason looked sturdy, ferocious, and indomitable.

"They all break, sweet girl."

Jason is on a tiled floor. No, he should be on concrete. His blood is on the tile. They’re hitting him. They’re hitting him with a bat. No. They aren’t supposed to be holding a bat. They were kicking him but now they’re holding a bat. No, She’s holding a bat. There's supposed to be three of them, three men,  but their forms coalesce into her .  You can hear his ribs cracking. Next are his legs. His legs are always next. Then his arm. She'll break each bone in his arms and his hands.  He’s wheezing. His voice sounds hoarse. His voice is too hoarse. He sounds like he’s been starved and dehydrated for at least a day. They’ve only been here for an hour. That isn’t right. Oh God! Now she had a cleaver in her hands.

No!

No!

He doesn’t need to die. She can’t.

no.

No.

No!  

 The scene crescendos as the tall, dark, sinewy silhouette towering over Jason raises the butcher's knife above her head.

“Harder, daddy!”

“Son?”

The scene of the kitchen fades and the shit-eating grin on Jason melts into view which shifts from amusement to confusion then back to amusement.

You blink seeing his stupid grin far too clearly.

You let a bark of gut-busting laughter out as you strain against the rope. Your brow pinches with concern but based on the scowls you’re receiving they're more focused on the fact that you were laughing like a mad man.  

Jason looks like he’s about to laugh from the absurdity as well when the man in charge picks him up again tossing him into a chair. The other men tie him down binding his wrists and ankles.

"I've had worse." He spits out.

The phone rings again, the dial tone echoing. Jason looks like hell with his face swollen and bruises beginning to bloom on every surface but he still looked like he was 5 seconds from starting a fight.

The large man punches Jason hard in the gut knocking the air out of his lungs as the dial tone cuts off.  “Hear that, Sionis? Your little bitch is pretty soft.”

Oh God, are they serious?

“Who is this? Nevermind. You ok there, sweetheart?” Roman Sionis’ ‘concerned’ voice carries over the line.

They are.

“Nothing I can't handle, daddy.” Jason chuckles with the utmost casualness. You, on the other hand,  instantly want to disinfect your brain. Thankfully, before your mind could wander somewhere it can't return from,  the big man growls into the phone.

“Don't you recognize the voice of the man whose life you've ruined?!”

“You've gotta be more specific than that. I've ruined quite a few lives but I would like to know whose brain I need to put a bullet in.”

“IT'S ME  BRUNO HARDIN!”

“Doesn't ring any bells.” Roman deadpans almost sounding completely disinterested. “Sweetheart, you remember anyone like that?”

“Nope,” Jason replies letting the p pop. It seemed like a strange sort of triumph before it all crashes down with another swift punch to the ribs.

You stare at the strange scene torn between amusement and horror.

“Take this seriously!” Bruno roars.

"I'm taking this about as seriously as it deserves."

A part of you thought 'yeah this is ridiculous enough to warrant nonchalance' while the other part wanted to scream.  On one hand, even you found his identity anticlimactic. Doesn’t he know just how many small-time businesses Roman has ruined? He’d be lucky to get into the top 50. It’s not like he was running a pretty ethical establishment either.  On the other hand, your freaking kid is getting the shit kicked out of him. Emote damn it.

“Jason. Don’t you worry. Daddy’s going to take care of this. Your Uncle D happens to be in town. He’s on his way to pick you up. Love you, baby. See you soon.”

The line dies. Your stomach sinks further somehow. You don’t know if the nausea is due to the fact that the line died, the threat, or the number of times the word ‘daddy’ came up. Who the hell is Uncle D? How is he supposed to help? Your gaze trails to Jason who is now lowering his head to the floor seemingly tired. Maybe that last punch finally drained the fight from him.

“You're all so fucked.” Jason barks out in a fit of laughter. The men around him, jumping from the volume of his voice.  

Bruno grabs Jason by the collar and begins to shake him as if the  “Shut the fuck up you little bitch! Whoever your Uncle D is he's-”

“Deathstroke”

You feel like someone kicked you in the chest. First of all, Uncle D? Really? You guess that there are worse hills to die on. This was somehow weirder than hearing Faust and her siblings call him pops. Second of all, Fuck. You'd never gotten your asshanded to you by Deathstroke but based on how banged up the Titans looked after fighting him this wasn't gonna be pretty.  All you could hope for was that you wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. Although, the image of Deathstroke grudgingly letting a kid call him Uncle D lightens your mood a bit.  

Bruno throws Jason on the floor hard enough for his body to bounce. Like Jason earlier, Bruno is radiating murder.

Just run, you thick motherfucker.

You, being the ‘nice’ Wayne kid that you are,  try to tell him as much but sadly that was halted by shattering glass. A flurry of black, orange, and metal crash through the glass and cut through the crowd of men.  

They fire at him, panic making their faces even paler. They hit him, bullets sinking into his flesh, blood splatters but none of it fazes him. He skewers and cuts them down with ease. His swords and suit are liberally decorated with their blood when it’s all done.

He steps over Bruno’s body. From the grunt that comes out, Bruno is still alive. Dumb bastard doesn’t know how to play dead. He’ll die from blood loss anyway.

“Hey, kid-” Deathstroke greets tersely,  picking up Jason’s nearly limp body.  “We’re gonna get you home.” He slings Jason’s arm over his shoulder.

“Wait!”  

Deathstroke stops sounding slightly annoyed.

Jason turns to you, who’s still unhappily tied to a post.  “We gotta get him out.” He rasps.  

“Kid, you’re the only one I’m getting paid to rescue.”  Deathstroke helpfully informs as he carefully adjusts his hold on the struggling young man. You blow out a breath somehow more irritable than scared.  “Just cut me out. I can make my way back just fine.”

“Walk in Gotham, are you stupid?” Jason hisses. The concern bleeding through.

“Which one of us charged at their captors while they were armed?”

Jason scowls at you with a petulant twist in his lips. “Yanno what,  Leave ‘im.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry and yeah I’ll be fine. I know where to avoid. Just please don’t leave me with them” you plead, throwing away any pride you held as you glance at the most likely dead bodies. Deathstroke cuts you out. Your skin feels raw but you’re otherwise unharmed.

You walk out of the warehouse and Dick practically throws himself at you. “Oh thank god, they didn’t shoot you in the head.” He mumbles into your wig.  

"Why would you think they would shoot me in the head?"

Dick pulls back and frowns at you through the domino mask.  “You aren’t exactly the most pleasant-”

“ We were model hostages.” you squawk.

Jason snorts far too loudly to be helpful.

You glare at him but you weren’t about to say fuck off to him while he has one of the world’s deadliest assassins right next to him.

Deathstroke coughs.  “Well if you don’t mind we’ll be taking our leave.”

Dick holding you protectively, glares but says nothing. Maybe he does but you faint before you can hear it.

A/n: Thanks for reading!

[variantia]

HEADCANON   //   YOON BUM.

Characteristics of borderline personality disorder / emotionally unstable personality disorder that Bum tends to exhibit.

Borderline personality disorder (  BPD   ) / emotionally unstable personality disorder (   EUPD   ) is a mental illness, often something that’s lifelong, which manifests with symptoms of unstable relationships, intense emotional reactions, a warped sense of self, and other long-term patterns that are often harmful or self-destructive.   Bum (   in my interpretation, at least   ) is affected by BPD in several different ways.

There are characteristics or symptoms of BPD that are possibly also explainable by the C-PTSD (   complex post-traumatic stress disorder   ) that he also suffers from, but brief descriptions of characteristics that are probably a result of BPD, which affect Bum in his daily life, are outlined in the bullet points below.   Read on if you think it may help you understand and interact with him more easily, or if you’re simply interested in how his mind works !

SPLITTING : Bum often views the world in black and white terms.   People fall into vague categories like good or bad, kind or cruel, just the same to him as people might fall into specific categories like tall or short.   Cognitive behavioral therapy is helping him break these thinking patterns, but it’s a process and he still falls into those things sometimes.   When confronted with two opposing traits existing in the same person, such as a cruel person being kind occasionally, it’s difficult for him to accept that one person can be both.   If that happens, he usually defaults to the first category his mind decided they were.   For this reason, he can appear very stubborn and set in his ways and like he doesn’t want to change, when he does, and his mind just has a lot of difficulty reconciling the positive and negative.

INTENSE OR DISPROPORTIONATE EMOTIONAL REACTIONS : Bum seems to feel or express his emotions in a way that seems like an overreaction to most people.   He’s depressed instead of sad, manic instead of happy, furious instead of irritated ; his emotions frequently jump to the extreme end rather than starting out mild and building up to the extreme.   If someone does something nice for him that is very small, i.e. perhaps letting him go in front of them in a grocery store line, he feels as if it’s a huge gesture that he should be incredibly grateful for, even if it wasn’t that big a deal.   Conversely, if something slightly bad happens, i.e. he’s late for an appointment, he feels as if he’s an inconsiderate person who can’t keep track of time, even if he’s on time on every other occasion.   The medication he’s on is aimed at ‘ turning down ’ his emotions so he doesn’t react as intensely to things that don’t merit an intense reaction, but just as with his therapy, the medication can only do so much, and intense reactions are definitely something he still experiences, just not as often as if he wasn’t on medication.

FEAR OF ABANDONMENT : Bum is terrified of being rejected and left alone, and will go to extreme lengths to keep it from happening.   He, personally, wouldn’t go so far as forcing someone to stay with him, but he will absolutely make promises about being better, being whatever the other person wants him to be, begging them not to leave him alone, to the point of probably accidentally manipulating their emotions.   It’s not a conscious decision to make them feel bad for leaving or not wanting to be in his life anymore, but rather he truly feels like he’s not worth anything on his own.   Predictably, most people don’t enjoy being put in that position, so it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy in that the more he begs and promises, the more most people will want to leave.

UNSTABLE RELATIONSHIPS : Bum often gets very attached, very quickly, to anyone who shows him kindness.   He has trouble maintaining relationships with other people because he wants all of their attention, and is very sensitive to what he perceives as rejection.   If the other person says that they’re busy and can’t be with him right now, but they will later, all he seems to process is the first part.   He feels as if they don’t care about him or don’t want to make time for him.   This can lead to him treating them with anger, such as giving them the cold shoulder or saying things he doesn’t mean to them.   Once the fight is over, he will usually apologize ... but he often expects an apology from them, too.   It also happens that he seems to move very quickly in a relationship ; saying “   I love you   ” within the first few weeks of a romance, calling someone his best friend after maybe a month, etc., which typically scares a lot of people off.   Dialectical behavioral therapy is helping with improving his relationships, but these issues will almost certainly still crop up from time to time in any relationship he has.

DISSOCIATION : Bum will sometimes ‘   zone out   ’, but in a more extreme way than daydreaming.   His mind and his body experience a disconnect, and when this happens, he seems to be staring off into space.   It takes effort to make him respond, to the point that it might be worrisome to those around him.   This will sometimes happen during extremely negatively emotional moments, where Bum will dissociate completely from himself, his mind’s effort to avoid the physical and emotional pain which comes with strong reactions.   He describes it as a sort of “   empty   ” feeling, like he’s suddenly ceased to exist for a few moments, like his whole being is filled with static, like he has no idea what’s happening to or around him, before he suddenly snaps back to awareness.   He seems numb immediately following an episode of dissociation, but he’s actually often distressed by it and doesn’t like the feeling.

SELF-DESTRUCTIVE OR RECKLESS BEHAVIOR : most of the time, Bum’s self-destruction takes the form of things like self-harm.   His typical method is cutting, usually along his arms, sometimes on his legs.   It’s not something he engages in daily or even weekly, monthly.   It is, however, something that when it happens, he does it several times within a short period.   He may make several cuts a few times a day for several days, then not again for months.   It depends.   Doing this causes his brain to give him a rush of endorphins to combat the pain, and that makes him feel ... good for a moment.   Then he feels guilty that he hurt himself, and wants to feel good again, and it becomes a cycle of addiction to his own hormones.   Again, it’s not a ‘   regular   ’ thing he does, but it does happen.   Other things he does are to engage in risk-taking - things like crossing the street without looking to see if a car is coming that might hit him, or going out in the rain for long enough that he’s almost guaranteed to get sick.   When he comes out on the other side of those things still alive and relatively okay, boom, rush of adrenaline that makes him feel good.   Therapy and medication are helping a lot with these behaviors, but he does still fall into them occasionally, especially when he’s experiencing a lot of stress, needs to feel in control of something, or is attempting to cope with an intense emotion where his healthier coping mechanisms haven’t helped.   He’s attempted suicide in the past because of emotional pain, and still sometimes has those ideations in his head, particularly as intrusive thoughts when things are actually going well for him.

POOR SENSE OF IDENTITY AND SELF-IMAGE : Bum doesn’t truly know how to describe himself to others, and doesn’t think he’s really worth much.   He thinks of himself as having only two big interests (   frogs and sweets   ) and the rest of his personality is simply nothing.   Often he feels like he’s only ‘   interesting   ’ when he’s with someone else.   When asked to pick a few words to describe himself or a few things he enjoys, he will struggle with doing so to the point that he might break down in tears because he feels like he doesn’t know who he is.   He’s working hard on discovering himself, but it’s a long, slow process that involves steps such as trying new things, which is very scary to him.

Bum is a man who has a lot of issues, and even though he’s working on trying to put the pieces of his life together and be healthier, many of the BPD symptoms he experiences will often inform his behavior.   It’s a struggle, but he really is trying.

Patience, understanding, and encouragement, coupled with the willingness to not enable or reinforce his unhealthy behaviors, will go a long way in helping maintain a good relationship with Bum !   Be kind to him, but also be willing to stand firm if the situation calls for it.   Even if it’s hard and upsets him at first, he appreciates those things, because he knows it will help him in the long run.

[soncfseed]

REPOSTED FROM MY OLD BLOG: Probably my most important headcanon, so please take the time to read this!!

spoilers ahead, but im gonna look at ethans cutscenes and talk about how his bpd (borderline personality disorder) affects his actions and his perceptions throughout the story of new dawn. this is all just headcanon and my interpretation of ethan and how bpd would affect him. none of this is meant to excuse his more nefarious actions, but explain why my interpretation of ethan doesnt pin him as a selfish, horrible, awful monster, but rather a young man with a lot of unresolved trauma and a serious mental health condition who ended up making some terrible choices that resulted in a lot of pain for a lot of people.

0:05 - ethan’s introduction

in this scene ethan experiences some pretty quick and dramatic mood shifts, and has a pretty significant emotional outburst. these are characteristic of the mood swings and emotional dis-regulation experienced by many people with bpd. he starts off catching the captain off guard, sneaking up behind them. ethan has been taught to distrust outsiders, and a symptom of bpd he experiences is suspicion of others and sometimes brief bouts of paranoia. this kind of behaviour makes sense when this is taken into context.

he says that he might not be what the captain expects. this is part of his low self esteem and struggles with his self image and how others perceive him. he constantly feels as though he can never truly be his own person, outside of joseph seed, and that his existence is a disappointment to those who know him.

once he sees the book, he is triggered into a bit of an emotional rollercoaster. acknowledging that the deputy is the one who found the book, and according to joseph’s prophecy will be the true ruler of new eden, is what sets him off. once ethan goes into his rant about it should’ve been him, he’s experiencing a mood swing and sudden spike in his anger and irritability. due to his issues w emotional regulation and control over his expressions of emotion, ethan lashes out by screaming and knocking over the podium in the church. mood swings for bpd sufferers can be only minutes long. what pulls ethan back down to earth a bit is a sudden rush when he realizes he can work with the captain to enlighten new eden to the truth: that joseph is a man, not a messiah, and kind of a shitty one at that who abandoned them all.

3:50 - ethan’s first speech in new eden

ethan’s posturing here is just that; posturing. he’s putting on a bit of a show with the “non believer” bit. he does, however, not entirely trust outsiders nor would he trust that the people of new eden wouldn’t turn on him if he suggested that the captain go north. no, instead he plays off of what he expects the people will do to avoid potential rejection or rebellion. this plays off of his mistrust and suspicion of others, as well as serves to protect his secret interests (getting proof that joseph is dead to get new eden to move on from him) and his ego (tied to the bpd symptom of self image issues and unstable self realization).

ethan can’t help but be a bit sarcastic with “we are all his children”. sarcasm and unwarranted aloofness can tie into bpd, and here it definitely does due to his poor relationship with his father, and with the rumours surrounding his paternity in new eden.

while bpd does not inherently make people manipulative, manipulation of others is often something those with bpd adopt as a coping mechanism to manage their unstable relationships or unstable self image. ethan has adopted this trait in some ways and this is definitely one of them. he does not trust the people of new eden, and knows they wont listen to him fully. this is his main motivator for keeping his plan secret.

the fact that ethan feels he has to act a certain way when he’s the leader of new eden further contributes to his unstable self realization. he puts on different fronts to different people to try and both please them and protect himself.

when he says “they will at last understand that i am their prophet…”, this is in part because he feels he’s worked hard to be the inheritor of new eden. he’s not only joseph’s son (and even if he doesn’t like joseph he wants to be recognized as his biological son, making the rumours about his paternity even more hurtful) but he’s been a successful leader as far as we can tell. to think he will lose it all over a book is damn near panic inducing for ethan. well this is in part a kind of arrogance, it’s fueled by his extreme emotions/mood swings as well as how closely he ties his identity to his position within his community. because his self image is so unstable, threats to that cause him to act in ways that may seem irrational or extreme in order to try and protect his self image. also, ethan will only help the captain in exchange for something in part bc of his suspicion of others. he doesn’t want to offer new eden’s archers and resources without knowing that he will benefit in return. after all, if something goes wrong in new eden bc of this outsider and he allowed it, it’s his responsibility to take the blame and fix it.

5:20 - into the bliss

theres not much in this scene to tie to his bpd. one line i think is important though: “bring me proof of my fathers death and i will make sure you are remembered as a friend of the prophet”. well this can be interpreted as ethan saying to kill joseph, i dont think he is. ethan believes joseph is long gone, that he could never survive all alone for this long. ethan isn’t evil, he’s not asking someone to commit murder, he’s asking them to confirm that someone is already dead. sure, he’s self serving and he wants something in return for his allyship, but to him this is how he can ensure a fair trade, and that an outsider won’t take advantage of him or new eden as easily.

14:18 - ethan, interrupted

ethan’s big speech where joseph fuckin crashes it. at first, he literally does not even see joseph in the crowd. he truly believes he’s dead and that the captain will bring back proof of this. to him, adherence to his rule makes sense; he’s the leader, and things need to change. it is arrogant, because ethan has partially internalized a sense of superiority and entitlement because of his position as joseph’s son, and now heir to the rulership of new eden (he thinks). this combined with an unstable self esteem and self image makes him want total compliance to his rule. criticism, disobedience, they threaten his self worth and that can send him into an emotional spiral or severe mood swing. so, to try and avoid the negative consequences he experiences from perceived slights and rejections, he wants a clean slate and total adherence to his new rules.

when he actually sees joseph, he stops, stammers, and says “father?”. not the father. just father. in this moment, his father who abandoned him (who went out for smokes and never came back) has suddenly shown up in the middle of his speech about him being dead. his arm drops and he stands there, stunned and speechless. his first question is “where have you been?”. he wants to know why and he asks why. why did his father abandon them? abandon him? the answer is completely meaningless to him. it’s basic, it has no detail, and isn’t sufficient. he’s speechless again for a bit, breathing heavier and hyperventilating. he steps away from joseph. when joseph calls the captain god’s sword, ethan damn near does a double take. he’s literally standing in his father’s shadow while he exalts an outsider in front of his own son, after interrupting his speech and embarrassing him in front of everyone.

one of ethan’s symptoms is his overvaluing and undervaluing people in his life. this is when he switches from overvaluing the captain, putting too much faith and hope into them, to undervaluing and practically hating them. his relationship with his father is tenuous, and rocky. it is characterized by ethan’s intense desire to be josephs successor and publicly recognized as his son. ethan even calls out to joseph, upset about the fact that hes now suddenly and publicly being dethroned; joseph doesnt even look back at him. ethan rejects josephs words in anger. he has a sudden outburst in front of the crowd; yet another sudden spike in his emotions from a stressful situation causes him to say what he’s really thinking. “you abandoned me. you abandoned us.” ethan says joseph didn’t leave instructions or a message, just left ethan to lead with no idea how. he does the best job he can under these extreme circumstances, and now all of his hard work is for nothing. that would make even the most level headed neurotypical person upset. whenn ethan starts to lose the support of new eden, he breaks down a bit. the anchor of his self image has been completely ripped away from him in a moment. he storms off partially and his body language is pretty dire; head down, shoulders moving sharply like he’s breathing harshly, and then he turns to watch the crowd walk away from him. imo, part of why ethan doesn’t completely lose it in this scene is that he might be partially dissociating or beginning to dissociate or experience some de-realization from the sudden, acute emotional distress this moment causes for him.

17:45 - ethan’s response

this is when ethan says that the captain betrayed him. they had a deal. he completely put his trust into the captain, idealizing them as the person who could solve his problems, only for them to bring joseph back and make everything in ethans life worse. now, the pendulum swings to the other side where ethan begins to loathe the captain. saying that the captain should have killed joseph themselves is an expression of 1) the intense reactions people with bpd can have to certain situations and 2) his skewed logic because of it. what seems totally irrational to someone else might seem like the only logical solution to a problem for someone with bpd. the stress of such a painful, emotionally charged situation like this one. he never wants to see the captain again; on a dime he flips, from putting all of his trust and hope into one person to saying he never wants to see them again and that they betrayed him. this quick switch of very intense perceptions of others is a cycle of idealization and undervaluing that people with bpd may experience.

18:07 - ethan’s prayer letter

in this letter, ethan discusses how he feels he hates his father for the abandonment; how joseph “expected everything and gave nothing”, how ethan never got to really have joseph as a father for himself because he was too busy being THE father. he says wrath and envy grip him tight to the point he feels he can’t breathe. this is definitely indicative of ethans mood swings and intense emotions, especially the irrational anger and aggression many people with bpd can have. then, he says nobody but himself, his mother, and god can know about how he feels, and that he must put on a front for new eden and be a leader to them “no matter what”. this is absolutely something i can see being tied to his bpd. he is aware that expressing his thoughts, feelings, and reactions to others would probably get a negative reaction. he seeks to avoid that, as well as to avoid the judgment from others he thinks he would get. his unstable self image is complicated by the fact that he feels obligated to hide the symptoms of his illness, and pretend to be someone he isn’t. this only makes it worse, as he ties his social and therefore individual identity to “ruler of new eden”. he relies very much on the responses and reactions of others to gauge whether or not he seems “normal” or capable of doing his job.

18:27 - npc dialogue

ethan says that josephs followers see the prophecy coming to light, but ethan sees it as a chance for new eden to make its own path. this is also when ethan says that he is josephs biological son, and that his mother raised him outside of hope county and brought him there when he was young to be raised by joseph. she died from an illness on their journey. this is some pretty significant baggage for ethan. he wants new eden, and himself, to become independent. the only reason he stays in new eden is because of his mother. he loves her, and idealizes her in a way that never flips to undervaluing because the relationship is one sided since her passing.

19:23 - megan’s letter to joseph

this is important just bc it states megan raised ethan as a non believer but after the collapse taught him about joseph’s word. this is important for ethan because it means he had to relearn some pretty significant things after the apocalypse, including a whole new religion and worldview. this can be very confusing for a child, and in part explains why ethan isn’t totally on board with josephs word, or the all of new eden’s beliefs surrounding him; his earliest formative years had nothing to do with joseph seed or prophets or collapses. he had to convert, and did so as a child who couldn’t really understand or make that choice for himself. he is tied to new eden solely because of megan, and without her wish to have him be josephs heir, he would’ve left long ago.

20:08 - intermission/flashback

this is when we see a young babby ethan get nasty with joseph. this is an early sign of his bpd developing. he has an intense reaction and says something very hurtful to his father over not getting what he wants, which isn’t just the apple but his father’s approval. to him, this is another rejection by joseph, or it is perceived that way by a young ethan. constantly being told something wasn’t gods plan, or it isn’t part of a prophecy without further explanation was confusing and frustrating for ethan growing up. he wanted the apple to be like his father; he wanted the apple to feel integrated into his community like the others who were given the gift. this denial, one that is permanent and leaves no room for ethan to change or grow and become capable of handling its strength leaves him feeling defeated and angry. his reaction of “you are an old man, and when you die i will take one” shows a very quick emotional shift and a shift from idolizing his father and wanting to be like him to practically hating him, becoming cold and distant in mere moments.

21:16 - joseph’s worry

“ethan’s sin is pride. there is something deep inside him that no word of mine can touch. i worry that now as an outsider appears to take his place that beast will feed on resentment and grow stronger. ” YEAH ITS BPD YA DINGUS fdpgpfd but more seriously, ethans pride is a coping mechanism to deal with his ever changing self image and self worth. its a rigid barrier to keep others from knowing how weak he really feels, and how uncertain he is of himself.

23:25 - ethan’s betrayal

this is where ethan betrays new eden and sets them up so the highwaymen can destroy the settlement. he tolerates the highwaymen laughing at him only so he can get what he wants: revenge. this extreme response is from his bpd. his impulsive anger, and the extremes his mind goes to won out and he acted on his violent thoughts.

26:26 - ethan and the fruit

when joseph asks ethan what hes done (referring to betraying new eden), ethan says: “i did what i had to do. i freed myself, i freed us all from you, from your rules.”. to ethan this was logical. this was something he had to do. he didn’t take pleasure in it, he didn’t go into new eden and kill everyone himself. no, he handed them over to the highwaymen in a desperate, out of touch moment. the spark was there and his disorder was gasoline that helped the flames to spread. he reacted intensely, out of irrationally extreme anger, towards an entire group of people he had shifted to undervaluing. he felt betrayed so he returned in kind, but no matter how wrong that was ethan couldnt see it.

“i will have what you denied me. you gave it to an outsider but you wouldn’t give it to me. i am your flesh and blood” and explosively tells joseph he doesnt know gods will. he lashes out against his father, arguing with him and rebelling directly by taking the one thing joseph kept him from that he truly wanted. to ethan, in my hc, the apple is more than just power and more than just something he covets. its a symbol of joseph’s fatherhood, of his love; he gave it to everyone but ethan, his own son, and now he would take what he wanted from life with or without josephs input.

31:08 - the death of ethan seed

the first thing ethan says after he sees joseph is “father… i’m sorry”. he’s scared. he knows he’s going to die. he asks if joseph can forgive him. he knows he’s fucked up, obviously, not just by eating the apple but by betraying new eden. his last word is “father”. no matter how torn his relationship was with joseph, he wanted his father’s love. he wanted connection with his father. he wanted to feel validated, have his identity confirmed, even in his last moments.

[anthracenes]

Rivers | Chapter 9

Tags/Trigger Warnings: Non-Con/Rape, Self-Harm, Abuse of Authority, Anxiety, Childhood Trauma, Abduction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Victim Blaming, Dissociation, Forced Orgasm, Creampie, Kidnapping, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Humiliation, Crying, Angst, Dark, Psychological Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Grooming, Fucked Up, Slut Shaming, Asphyxiation, Spitroasting

[read on AO3 here]

The light switches on. A single lightbulb flickers dimly from one end of the room, casting odd, terrifying shadows across the faces of his two predators.

“Oh? Why, just look at that face,” Robertson coos, climbing onto the bed with them. “He really did fall for it. Just like you said he would.”

Richard shakes his head. Trembling. He can’t process any of the events unfolding before him as anything but a dream: some horrible figment born of his subconscious mind. How else can evil like this exist otherwise? How else can he rationalize to himself ever deserving of such a thing?

Yet—in all of his time here, and with all of his nightmares—he knows none were so cruel as to torment him like this before. There is something beyond vile at play here, something that surpasses even the extent of Richard’s wildest imagination.

He understands even then, deep down, that this is one nightmare he’ll never wake up from.

“Cute little thing you have there, Andrew. You should’ve seen him. The kid was practically melting in my arms—all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, thinking he would finally get to run away from you.”

“Is that so..?” Rivers croons, running his fingers in Richard’s hair. “What a pity. And here I thought you’ve promised to be good for me from now on.”

Rivers sighs—a hint of eagerness in his expression that does not go unnoticed. His gray eyes lock with the pair of fearful ones looking up at him.

“You’ve disappointed me again, Dick. You do know what has to happen now, don’t you? Let’s find out what happens to naughty little boys who go on breakin’ their promises, tryin’ to sneak away...”

The dam bursts, upon hearing this imminent threat. The tears Richard worked so hard to hold back comes streaming down his face, all at once. It’s not the first Rivers has levied against him in all this time, but Richard knows him far too well to doubt the validity of his intent—or the severity of his actions.

“... Mr. R-Rivers… p… please! I… I d-didn’t mean to…! I’ll be… good… please….”

Both Robertson and Rivers only chuckle at his outburst.

“You hear that? Poor thing didn’t mean it,” he insists, pinching his tear-stained cheeks. The officer licks away at Richard’s tears, wearing a smile on his face that betrays just how much he’s savoring this moment. “Did you, Richie? You were just trying so hard to be good. You didn’t mean to break your promise, did you?”

Richard shakes his head, sniffling. Between the men surrounding him, he can’t be sure yet who was the more sadistic of the two. Still, Richard can’t help but to gravitate towards the saccharine poison, clinging to any bit of softness he can get.

He certainly can’t afford to get on the other’s bad side now—not after having upset Rivers this badly.

“He’ll get the wrong idea if you keep spoilin’ him like that, Paul. Wouldn’t want the boy thinkin’ he can get away with anything now, just by battin’ his eyes and utterin’ a little apology.”

“You may be right there…” Robertson hums, considering the possibilities in his head. “... but I have a feeling that a bit of tenderness will work better to teach this one.”

“What do you think, Andrew? Should we…?”

After a few seconds of silence between them, Robertson and Rivers both break into laughter. Watching their eerie grins, illuminated by the faint lighting, it’s as if their lighthearted banter were only part of some coordinated performance Richard has no script for. He’s left to let his imagination run wild, guessing at what they could have in store for him as both men take their time undressing.

“Why, you bring up a good point,” Rivers says, chuckling. He lifts him off his lap, propping Richard’s head atop a few pillows before sliding off his own trousers. “I think we should. After all, I should know just how much my little star student here craves love and tenderness more than anything in the world.”

Rivers grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand. He dribbles a generous amount onto himself, palming his own cock to hardness.

“Alright, Dick. We’ll give you one more chance to do right by us. Why don’t you show us a good time, to demonstrate how sorry you are for tryin’ to run away?”

“All you’d have to do is have us finish,” Robertson chimes in. “Put that mouth and hole of yours to good use, while you reflect on what you’ve done. If you do a good enough job, we’ll forgive you. That should be easy enough, for a star pupil like you?”

Before Richard could think to respond, however, Rivers cuts him off.

“Not so fast, Dick. There’s just one more thing…”

Rivers brushes a lubed finger against Richard’s flaccid dick, running it across the tip and drawing a shiver from him.

“See this? This right here?” He leans in close, whispering into his ear. “I want you to keep it just like this until we’re all finished. No having fun yet until we’re done with you. We all know how much of a cockslut you are, but this is us givin’ you another chance.

“Consider this your only warnin’, Dick. If you come before either of us, I’m personally doublin’ your punishment from before. Understand?”

Richard swallows. Knowing Rivers, there’s no way he’d make something like this easy—but he can’t help feeling a little hopeful despite himself. It’s not like he wants any of this, anyways. The thought of either of them makes him ill. And even if his traitorous body decides it has other plans, lasting longer than two middle-aged men shouldn’t be that difficult either. If this is what it takes to avoid another one of Rivers’ punishments, it’s certainly not the worst situation he could possibly find himself in.

He nods slowly, throat going dry.

“Now there’s a good boy…” Robertson murmurs, stroking his face. “I can see why you’re still Andrew’s favorite student, after all these years.”

The officer grabs his black uniform from the discarded pile of clothes on the bed. Before Richard could tell what he was planning to do, Robertson had rolled up the shirt and placed it over his eyes—fastening it into a makeshift blindfold.

With how securely the cloth is tied around his head now, Richard could no longer see a thing.

“Wha—”

“Shh… It’s nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over, Richie.”

He feels a finger gently placed onto his lips.

“You want to show us how sorry you are, don’t you? Why don’t you start right here then, with that lovely mouth of yours?”

The finger works its way in. Richard does his best, licking and suckling on the digit, turning it over and under around his tongue. One finger becomes two, which eventually becomes three and four in his mouth. With his vision gone, it was hard not to get lost in the sensation of it—sucking blindly for some time like that, as if these fingers were Richard’s only connection to the world outside his blindfold.

“There you go… Just like that. Doesn’t this feel good? It’s so much better when you let go and obey…”

He’s almost lulled into a sense of complacency this way, because the feeling of rough hands on his hips catches him by surprise. His legs are hoisted atop what he thinks is Rivers’ shoulders and, before he could think to react, Richard suddenly feels the twitching, wet head of the man’s prick pressed against his entrance.

“Wait no, not y—”

His next words are lost to him as Richard cries out, throwing his head back as the head of his cock pops past the tight ring of muscle. He’s panting, breathing heavily through his open mouth as he feels himself stretching and stretching impossibly around Rivers, who slides inside him in one slick thrust.

Within seconds, he’s become so unbelievably full.  

Richard moans, feverish and sick. It’s so much. It’s so much. The feeling of Rivers’ cock against his walls, the way his hole flutters and tenses around the wide girth—he’s forced to feel every bit of it, in far more detail and clarity than the night he’s lost his innocence. He rolls his eyes back behind the blindfold as he feels Rivers slowly pressing in, further and further until the man eventually bottoms out. Somehow, without being able to see for himself, Richard could picture the older man now: balls deep inside of him, jutting obscenely out of his stomach as he fills it to the brim.

In all the times he had been taken by Rivers, never once had he felt anything remotely like the way he feels now, blindfolded and stretched wide around his prick. It fills him so much, so completely, that it leaves him speechless—no room for words, thoughts, or anything else. By the time he realizes it’s only his lack of sight playing tricks on his senses, it’s much too late for him.

Richard is already hard, cock swelling and twitching to life in between his legs.

“Oh? What’s this now?” Rivers drawls. He wraps his fingers around his shaft, rubbing his thumb mercilessly against the head. “We’ve only just started, and you’re already gaggin’ for it here. Little slut. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re just beggin’ to be punished.”

Next to him, Robertson chuckles. The man pulls his fingers out from within his mouth, using them instead to pry his jaw open. Holding his head steady in his hands, he slides his length inside of Richard’s mouth nice and slow.

“I suppose you were right after all, Andrew. The kid cries and protests around you, but slips into his role just fine at the end of the day. No need for foreplay at all with this one; eager little thing. I’m even willing to bet he’d done it just for the punishment all along.”

Richard’s a mess; inside and out. Tears stream down his cheeks as he sucks and rocks his hips back and forth, doing his best to keep pace and pleasure both men while desperately holding his own at bay. Between the perpetual darkness and the mind-numbing assault on both his holes, however, it’s getting harder to even remember why.

He can hear voices around him talking, but none of the words make any sense in his ears.

He keeps trying to remember something, but it slips away from his mind with each hit to his prostate.

Every thrust, every drag against his tongue, his insides, is only made that much more in this overwhelming darkness—magnified tenfold until he feels little more than simply a mouth and a hole to fuck.

Everything feels hazy.

His mind’s in pieces.

Before long, there’s nothing left of him but his basest responses. His tongue laps up the salty, musky taste of the officer inside his mouth. His hips grind against the older man, mindlessly chasing his own orgasm. He groans, delirious, as he feels his own cock heavy and leaking with precum—ready to burst at a moment’s notice.

“Are you going to come, Dick? Do you want to be a naughty boy and come before us?”

Richard nods, head lolling back and forth on the bed.

He moans as hands roam freely about his body, stroking at his nipples, his cock, and every erogenous zone in between. There’s no place they touched that hadn’t felt electrifying on his skin, burning his nerves raw with sheer bliss. He’s gasping with each stab of pleasure thrust into him, each little drag closer to throwing him off the edge. By the time the blindfold is pulled off of him, his eyes are rolled back to his head—little strips of white on his otherwise blank expression.

The shock of spilling his brains out is the last thing he feels.

[stevie-steven-stevington]

wake up and smell the coffee

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: MCU Prompt: Dissociation Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Warnings: Dissociation and mild panic attack Word count: 3.3k

Generally speaking, Avengers meetings are not boring.

It's kind of hard for meetings to be boring when everyone on the team is constantly clashing, constantly butting heads on any and every issue. The arguing is annoying, to say the least, but Tony is beyond used to it at this point. He's come to expect it.

This time is no different. They haven't gotten to the yelling yet -  he's sure they will eventually - but they've been going back and forth for the past half hour and nobody has been willing to compromise.

Oddly enough, the de facto leader - Captain Freedom himself - has been silent.

Tony doesn't notice at first. There's so many voices in the room that the lack of one doesn't register very easily. But there's only so much senseless squabbling he can take, and Rogers generally drags the team down from the ledge.

"Hey, Cap," Tony says, and all eyes turn to him. "You usually have an opinion - a wrong opinion, but an opinion nonetheless. What's your take?"

Steve doesn't turn his head. Doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.

Huh. Okay.

Across the room, Sam Wilson leans forward, elbows resting on the table, and says, "Steve? You alright?"

Still nothing.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This just in - Steve Rogers, the Steve Rogers, has issues just like the rest of them.

Because Tony knows what this is. Even if the other don't recognize it right off the bat, Tony does. He's been in Steve's place more than enough times to know when someone is dissociating and Rogers has clearly lost it. The only question is just how far gone he is.

Judging by his complete and utter lack of reaction when Natasha waves a hand in front of his face, he's pretty far gone.

Well. Tony can handle this one.

Not to brag, but this is his area of expertise.

"Guys, guys, hey." Tony looks between Sam and Nat, because he knows that they trust him as an Avenger but that doesn't mean they trust him with Steve. He's just glad Barnes is out on mission right now so he doesn't have to deal with his overprotectiveness too. "I can handle this one - been there, done that, got the t-shirt, y'know?"

Nat nods pensively. Sam just squints at him.

Tony rolls his eyes and tries his best not to look too gleeful (Captain Perfect has a flaw! A flaw! And not only that, it's a mutual flaw!) as he moves to Steve's chair.

It's entirely possible that the method he knows won't actually work. The two of them manage to be incompatible on pretty much everything else, so it's entirely possible that what works for Tony won't bring Steve any closer to Earth. But nobody else has stepped up to the plate yet, and Tony's default philosophy is, in fact, what would Rhodey do?

Rhodey's the one who usually talks people (Tony, sometimes Barnes, occasionally Bruce) down from these sorts of things, but he's busy being an Air Force Colonel so it's Tony's turn now.

Tony kneels down next to Steve's chair. "Alright, Stevie. How d'you feel about joining us back in good old reality?"

Steve's gaze stays locked on a random spot on the wall. He's tense, practically rigid, and Tony wonders if it's this disturbing when he dissociates.

No touching until given permission. No loud noises. No panicking. No added stress.

"Everyone, get out," Tony says, careful to keep his voice low. There's a noise of protest and he shoots a glare at Sam. "The more people are around, the more stressful it'll be for him. I've got this, alright? Go away. Quietly."

A long moment passes in which no one moves. Some of them are clearly reluctant to leave him alone with Steve, while others just keep looking between him and Sam like they're watching a tennis match.

Natasha puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. An entire conversation seems to pass between them in the space of five seconds, despite not a word being spoken; after, Sam gives a begrudging nod, throws one more look to Tony that says fuck this up and we're going to have a problem, and walks out with Nat at his side. Everyone else shuffles out after them.

He's sure they'll all be standing right outside the door, but he'll take it.

"FRIDAY, dim the lights by 40%." Not enough to plunge them into darkness, but enough to ensure it’s not accosting Steve's senses. "Okay. Alright. Steve, buddy, you're dissociating. I know you're not really processing anything right now, but we're gonna fix that, yeah?"

In most cases, Tony is way too out of it to catch the specifics of what Rhodey says until he's already come halfway back down, but he knows the gist.

Narrate everything. Tell them who they are, where they are, what's going on, and anything else you can think of. Give them simple statements, basic facts to latch onto. Assure them that they're safe and that you want them to come back.

Once they've regained partial awareness, walk them through a coping exercise. Engage their senses, engage their brains. Make them interact with not only you, but also their surroundings. Repeat as many times as necessary for them to find their way back to reality.

"Your name is Steve Rogers," Tony starts, entirely more gentle than he thinks he's ever spoken to Steve. The next logical step is his age -  a quick calculation tells him that Steve, at this point, is exactly 102 years old, if they're including the time he spent in the ice, and...Jesus fucking Christ, that doesn't exactly seem like the thing to bring up. Instead, he says, "It's Tuesday, October 6th, 2020. You're Captain America. You're an Avenger."

He could be imagining it, but Steve's eyes do seem to deglaze, just a little.

Steve's story is a fucking minefield, though. Especially when he's not even sure what triggered this episode, if anything, so he doesn't know what pieces of information would end up making it worse instead of better. And if he makes it worse, Sam will come for his kneecaps.

"You're at the Avengers tower, in the conference room. You're sitting in a chair. I'm - Tony Stark is talking to you." Steve's fingers curl on top of the table. Progress. "I'm gonna keep talking to you until you can understand what's going on. You're safe. It's just the two of us in here. I'm not going to hurt you; I won't even touch you unless you say it's okay. I need you to come back to me, though, if you don't terribly mind."

Would cracking jokes make things more real for Steve or would that be in bad taste?

Bad taste, he decides. "We miss you back in reality, man. We were trying to come up with a plan for our next mission and we could really use your input. I know it's a lot, but you'll be alright. I'll be right here, Steve. You're okay."

Steve blinks quickly, the haze that had settled over his face clearing just enough to confirm that Steve is, in fact, still in there. Tony watches him glance around, gradually beginning to recognize his surroundings.

Eventually, his head turns to Tony, eyes darting over his face. His brow furrows as if he's not quite sure who he's looking at. Voice strangely hoarse, he says, "Tony?"

Tony gives him a bright smile. "Yep, you got it. How ya feeling?"

"I...huh?"

"Yeah, alright." Never in his life did Tony think he'd see Captain Eloquence so incoherent. "I'm gonna need you to do something for me, Cap. I need you to look around and give me five things you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Steve is practically swaying in his chair, but he does as told. “Uh...the - the table. You. The chairs.”

He talks slowly, like the words are being dragged out of him. There’s pauses between phrases, between words, almost between syllables. It’s hard to watch, especially as someone who’s had to do this exact exercise God knows how many times.

Jesus. Tony’s been putting Captain America on a pedestal for so long that he forgot there’s a man underneath the ridiculous costume. Underneath the star-spangled facade.

He can’t forget anymore, because this - this right here is so irrevocably, irrefutably human.

"The glass," Steve continues, making a vague, half-assed gesture toward the glass of water in front of him. "The water...thing."

In any other context, Tony would snort at that. As is, the new official Avengers term for a water pitcher is water thing. Patent pending.

"Good, that's great, Steve." His knee is starting to hurt from kneeling. He ignores it. "Now, four things you can touch, yeah?"

"The table," Steve says again, after a moment. His left hand pats around while his right comes to rest on his thigh. "My, uh, my jeans."

The hand that's roaming around finds the front of Tony's AC/DC t-shirt and clutches tightly. Tony stiffens - he always does when anyone who isn't Rhodey, Pepper, or Peter touches him without warning - but he lets Steve have this. “Your shirt.”

Steve releases his shirt and then immediately drops his hand right on top of Tony’s head. It takes everything he has not to flinch, breath hitching and both hands curling automatically into fists. He thinks Steve speaks, giving the last thing on his list as your hair, but he’s a little preoccupied.

The hand leaves his hair, but the instinctual fear lingers.

Fuck. Fuck, he can’t do this right now. He can’t panic right now. Steve needs him to be here, fully here, and to be calm and collected and not having a fucking anxiety attack because someone touched him.

His fingernails dig into his palms as he inhales (one, two, three, four), holds (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven), and exhales (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight). Repeats. Then repeats again. All the while, he can hear Rhodey’s voice in his head, coaching him through it.

He’s okay. Nobody’s trying to hurt him. He’s safe.

“Three things you can hear,” he tells Steve, once his breathing has evened out. He’s gotten good at this, the whole fending off a panic attack thing. “You’re doing really well, Steve, just a couple more, alright? Three things, go.”

Steve’s fingers tap, absently, against his knee. “Your voice. It’s...annoying.”

Tony barks a surprised laugh. Steve’s tone is still bordering on blank, but a hint of a smile crosses his face, making it clear that he’s just teasing, even when he’s barely coherent.

“My breathing,” Steve says. “And, uh - there’s a...bird. Outside.”

So there is. We’re getting there, Tony thinks. He’s not sure if he’s surprised that this is working or not.

“Fantastic. Now, two things you can smell.”

Steve’s breathing is starting to quicken. Typical, really, that they’d both end up on the edge of a panic attack within two minutes of each other. Dissociation and anxiety attacks really do go hand-in-hand, he supposes. He makes no move to touch Steve, still, just places his hand on the table, palm up, and leaves it there.

As hoped, Steve slips his fingers into Tony’s and squeezes and holy fucking shit, that hurts, does Steve not realize that he needs that hand? Tony can’t stop himself from wincing this time, but Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway, blissfully unaware that he’s cutting off Tony’s circulation.

Which is fine. Totally fine. Tony’s had worse, after all. And it appears to be helping Steve, so there’s that.

But God, Steve is strong.

(It’d be kind of hot if it was...literally anyone else. Steve is attractive, conventionally speaking, but it’s still a hard pass.) “I can smell coffee.”

Full sentences now, huh? Sure, it was only four words, but at least those four words didn’t have choppy pauses between them.

“Last but not least, Cap - one thing you can taste.”

The answer comes in short order this time, weirdly enough - this part is always the one that takes Tony the longest. “Mint.”

Makes sense. Steve drinks mint tea constantly. At meals, at meetings, at random intervals throughout the day. Tony’s gotten so used to the smell of mint in the compound kitchen that he doesn’t even notice it anymore; he’d thought it was annoying until he realized that Steve uses mint tea the same way Tony uses stress balls.

Steve’s grip on Tony’s hand loosens, ever so slightly. He looks...clearer. Sharper. Solid.

He looks, finally, like Steve Rogers.

Tony taps his thumb against Steve’s knuckle and asks, “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” He runs his free hand through his hair, then wraps his arm around his torso. “Uh - thanks, Tony. Did I…hold up the meeting?” “Yes.” He sees no point in lying. “But it’s no big deal. We can figure out how to save the world later.”

Steve hums vaguely, but otherwise doesn’t respond.

Tony’s knee is still aching. He lets go of Steve, trying his best to be discreet as he shakes out his hand, then stands and moves to hop up onto the table. Kicks his feet against the carpet and says, “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No,” Steve says bluntly.

Damn, okay. Not what he was expecting, but...also not surprising when he thinks about it. This is Steve he’s talking to, after all.

On the list of who’s most to least likely to talk about their problems, Steve is pretty low. Below Peter, but above Natasha, Tony thinks.

In all honesty, it’s hard to get anything out of anyone on the team. Whether it’s trust issues or secret agency or just an unwillingness to ask for help, most members of the Avengers have a shit-ton of unresolved issues. Including himself, but at least he’s working on it.

Steve, on the other hand, seems to have no interest in dealing with his shit.

It’s not Tony’s problem. Not on a personal level, at least. He’s not Steve’s therapist. All things considered, he’s barely even Steve’s friend.

But Tony knows firsthand how bad things can get when nobody’s forcing you to talk about your problems (the memories of his birthday party are blurry, but he distinctly recalls shooting watermelons out of the air with his repulsor), so with his infamous birthday party in mind, Tony says, "That's cool. If you don't wanna talk, then fine."

Steve narrows his eyes. "There's a 'but' coming, isn't there?"

"But. In my experience, not talking never works. I've tried it. It sucks. I get it if you don't want to talk to me, but you should talk to someone, if you aren't already. Sam or Nat, maybe. Or a therapist."

"I don't need a shrink, Tony."

Tony holds up his hands, placatingly. “It’s your choice. Just - it’s not the 1940s anymore, Steve. Going to therapy doesn’t make you weak. If you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.” It took a long time for him to realize this. He’s been in therapy off-and-on for seven years now, and he probably should’ve started years before that. But he knew that, with how public his life is, as soon as he stepped foot into the office, everyone and their mother would know that Tony Edward Stark was seeing a therapist.

Eventually, though, the need outweighed his worry about his image.

He half expects Steve to brush him off. After all, Tony brushed off Pepper, Rhodey, and Happy’s first few vague mentions of therapy. And then their next few pointed mentions of it. It wasn’t until the anxiety attacks started that he even considered it, and then it was still months after that before he actually went to his first session.

Steve doesn’t brush him off. Not really, anyway. Slowly, he asks, “Does it work for you? Has it helped?”

“Yes.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I go once a week, my therapist is brilliant. She could probably recommend someone for you, if you want.”

“Right…” Steve’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I - look, Tony, I’m not really a therapy kind of guy. I’m glad that it works for you, but I don’t think the whole ‘talking about it’ thing is for me.”

Ah. So he is being brushed off.

Still not surprising. Though when you’ve seen aliens come out of a portal in the sky, accidentally created a robot intent on destroying the human race, and watched your pseudo-son crumble to dust in your arms, nothing is really surprising anymore.

“What set this off?” Tony asks.

“Huh?”

“The dissociation, I mean.”

Steve gives him a blank look. Jesus fucking Christ.

“The - this - the thing that literally just happened. When you were physically here but your brain checked out? That’s called dissociation. And judging by how unconcerned you are about it, I’d say it’s not the first time it’s happened.”

“Oh, that,” Steve says, like the self-satisfied bastard he is. “It’s just zoning out, it’s not a big deal.”

Is he fucking serious? He can’t be fucking serious.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Tony says.

Steve just tilts his head and blinks up at him. Tony can't tell if the nonchalance is an act or if he's actually being serious. "Why...not? It's really not a big deal, it happens all the time."

He's going to have an aneurysm. That's it, he's calling it. This isn't real.

He knows Steve. He knows this goddamn nerd has done his research. He knows that Steve knows exactly what he's talking about.

Steve has to know this isn't normal. He has to.

"You do know," Tony says, "that that statement is not helping your case, right? It's not just zoning out, and it's sure as hell shouldn't happen 'all the time'. I should know, it's one of the many things I'm working on in therapy."

"The fact that it's a problem for you doesn't mean it's a problem for me." Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. Tony is so close to choking him. "It's just stress. Being the leader of the Avengers is stressful."

Just because he can, Tony says, "Mm, I wouldn't say you're the leader, per se."

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. "That's not even the point, Tony."

He's aware. The point is that Steve is totally, completely, 100% fine and does not need help of any kind. Which is the biggest load of bullshit Tony's ever heard. He wonders if Steve has said this to anyone else and actually had them believe it. There’s no way in hell Sam “I run a PTSD support” Wilson would’ve bought it.

Dissociating as a reaction to stress is neither normal nor healthy. It's exactly the kind of thing that people are supposed to get help for.

Clearly, Steve doesn't want to hear it. At least not from Tony.

Fine. But Tony will definitely be keeping a closer eye on him - he's seen too many people spiral into nervous breakdowns (including himself, more than once) to ignore Steve's blatant mental instability, even if Steve himself is content to ignore it.

Hm. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Compare notes.

"Tony." Steve flicks Tony's knee. Tony's left eye twitches. "Don't worry about me. I'm alright. And if I ever think I'm not, I'll ask for help, okay?"

No, you won't, Tony thinks. Because he's Steve Rogers and, in Tony's experience, Steve Rogers is never one to ask for help.

"Okay," Tony agrees. "I'm here if you ever need to talk."

And he leaves it at that, because he knows that pushing further won't do anything. Because he'll be here when Steve finally reaches his breaking point.

Maybe (hopefully), Steve will see himself spiraling before he actually crashes. But the likelihood of this, apparently, is pretty slim.

So when Steve inevitably falls apart, Tony will be there, right alongside the rest of the team, to pick up the pieces.

"You can call the others back in now. And, uh - thanks, Tony. Really."

Tony says, "No problem," and gets up to go find the team.

All the while, he's thinking, Don't thank me yet.

The hard part hasn't even started.

[daesungindistress]

@fangirl-2007 replied to your post: jkevldje asked: “Call me crazy but I actually can’t imagine...”

That sounds like a very interesting fanfic prompt

Sorry this reply is so late! I started writing it the day you commented, but then it got put aside in favor of... other things.

So here are a few thoughts (um, more than a few, whoops). Warning for some seriously depressing content behind the cut:

MPD/DID (Multiple Personality Disorder / Dissociative Identity Disorder) typically manifests as a coping mechanism following a traumatic event or continued trauma. For the purposes of this fic idea, I imagine it would manifest in the aftermath of Daesung’s 2011 accident. He took it so hard, struggling under the weight of his guilt and self-loathing until it all became too much. Before he knew it, he’d dissociated to escape it (more on this later).

Though he doesn’t publicly disclose it (of course he doesn’t, only close friends and family know), this is Daesung’s main reason for refusing to create a public social media account for himself. He’d like to for the sake of his fans, sure. But he can’t risk that kind of vulnerability. He’d be throwing himself at the feet of netizens who are quick to cast stones and slow to forgive, trusting them to be merciful and kind. (He knows better than that. It had been one of life’s hard lessons... that the anonymity of the internet brings out the very worst in people, even years later. He won’t go looking for mercy where he knows he’ll find none.)

So what’s the problem? Hateful comments about the accident might bring one of his “alters” (alternate personalities) to the surface at the worst of times.

The rest of Big Bang have become pretty good at this by now-- at knowing who they’re dealing with. Most days it’s Daesung at the wheel. But some days they’re not so sure.

Two of his alters Daesung doesn’t mind much; they function as extensions of himself, their appearance little more than an inconvenience. The one they’ve dubbed Smiling Angel he trusts enough not to land him in any serious trouble. He and Daesung share enough similarities that the switch is subtle and easily overlooked. He’s cheerful and bright and, okay, sometimes a little more sugary than necessary but it’s not bad, all things considered. He comes and goes without incident, leaving in his wake smiles and laughter and warmth. And when he fades into the background once more, stepping aside to trade places with Daesung in a manner that’s surprisingly considerate, most are none the wiser.

Yabai Kang can be a handful. As such, his presence is harder to hide. Because he doesn’t try to hide it. Yabai Kang wants to be seen and appreciated. And yet, for all his claims of being dangerous, he’s harmless enough. His intentions are good-- definitely not pure, no, but good-- and the fans love him. He spices up Daesung’s image, that’s for sure.

So those two are... tolerable. Daesung accepts them as extensions of himself, choosing to view them as different sides of the same coin (not the best analogy because a coin only has two sides, but whatever). He’s learned to live with them, even though relying on others (his bandmates, his manager, etc) to fill in the blank spaces in his memory never really gets any easier.

But there’s one alter in particular he wants-- no, needs-- to avoid more than all the others.

Loser Daesung (they don’t call him that, of course; they don’t know what to call him) doesn’t come out often, but when he does the guys of BB panic a bit-- okay, they panic a lot-- and have to keep an extra close eye on him. Because he has these intense mood swings, fluctuating between deeply depressed and explosively angry. One moment he’s so deep in his head he can’t move, as if trapped in the cage of his mind. In the next the bars are gone and he’s springing at whoever’s nearby, attacking at the slightest provocation.

For the rest of BB, they aren’t sure which is more unnerving: when he’s still and silent as death, eyes open but unseeing, by all appearances an empty shell of a person. Or when he’s flying at one of them in a rage, out of control, out of his mind.

It took some time to understand that when he strikes at them he’s not trying to hurt them. He’s trying to get them to hurt him.

Of all the alters, Loser Daesung was the first to appear... and is arguably the worst. That it had been an accident didn’t matter; Daesung took full responsibility for what he’d done... until he couldn’t take it anymore. Suffocating under the weight of his self-hatred, he’d fled his suffering by separating from himself. Without realizing, he’d balled up his pain and pushed it into his new creation, removing himself from the worst of it.

Loser Daesung scratches at his neck a lot, and when the others ask him about it he says it’s because his scars itch. “What scars?” they ask, spooked. Because Daesung’s neck is attractive, his skin clear and unblemished; there are no scars. But Loser Daesung can’t forget how the rope bit into his neck as it took all his weight and whoops, maybe the scars aren’t on his skin after all; they’re in his head.

Because no matter how real the memory is to him, no attempt was ever actually made. No rope has ever touched his neck. The burden he unwittingly took from Daesung included thoughts of ending it all. In his mind it’s played out many times: dragged down too far, too fast, he’s only acting out what he already feels... strangled, unable to breathe. He carries these dark fantasies with him, keeping them locked away in a dark corner of his mind where the others, including Daesung himself, can’t reach them.

In a way, Daesung is grateful to this alternate for safeguarding something so damaging, even as he feels selfish for unloading it on him. Truth be told, it’s because of him that he’s been able to carry on as he has. Now if only he would stay down.

Imaginary or not, the “scars” still itch, Loser Daesung insists, so he carries on with the scratching, tearing with blunt nails at the skin of his neck until it’s red and inflamed and the others have to force his hands away. They try to keep him occupied in whatever way they can, because there may be more than one of “him” in there but they all share one body. Without supervision he just might self-destruct and take all the others with him. Including Daesung.

Distraction doesn’t always work. Sometimes Loser Daesung gives up completely; Daesung reawakens and finds his hands behind his back, bound, with one of the others nearby to keep an eye on him. Sometimes his legs too. He’s safe, they’ve made sure he’s comfortable enough, he just can’t... move.

He knows why. He keeps his eyes low, afraid to face whoever is attending to him this time. Nothing makes his heart sink more than to see them staring back at him with such concern. Or worse, if he’s been violent: fear, distrust. It’s a long time before he can work up the courage to speak.

As for the rest of BB, they’ve learned to love the alters-- well, most of them-- but none are so dear to them as Daesung. Not Smiling Angel with his million watt smile or Yabai Kang with his sex appeal and daring moves. And certainly not Loser Daesung, who needs some serious help (he’s never around long enough or often enough to attempt any kind of treatment; it tends to be more about managing him until his hold weakens enough that he sinks below again).

They really just want Daesung. Daesung, the boy who joined them more than a decade ago and has been with them every step of the way as the five of them have matured and grown into the nation’s biggest boy band. The Daesung they touched hearts with before the accident, before his “others” came in one by one and began slowly crowding him out.

Yes, they’ve learned to love those others... in more ways than one. There have been times they’ve fallen into bed with Daesung only to learn the next morning that Daesung doesn’t remember any of it. Or he remembers up to a certain point until one of his alters shoved him aside and took over (the culprit? Usually Yabai Kang).

Daesung is understandably frustrated while the others are a bit guilt-ridden. It’s not like it happens often. And sure, sometimes it’s just getting off together. Nothing he can’t stand to miss. It’s not all that different than hooking up after a night of drinking and finding gaps in his memory the next day.

But there’s more to it than the missing memories. It’s the helplessness of being a passenger in his own body. At least the decision to drink, dance, and get down with the others in BB is his. The decision to hand over the reins at random to these strangers residing inside his head? (Strangers? Is that what they are? Whatever happened to “extensions of himself”?)

It’s beyond his control, the switching, and there are times when his own powerlessness gets to him. Forget acceptance; hello, resentment. He doesn’t want to share his consciousness, or his body-- or hell, his life-- with these people. And what about his bandmates? He swallows the disappointment and humiliation and wonders, can’t they tell the difference? Or do they just not care?

The angst! I should probably stop there. lol

I may be taking waaaay too many liberties with this. Additional research would be required for the sake of realism. I’m all for claiming creative license but there’s a certain balance to maintain...

Anyway, I don’t make a habit of sharing notes or plans for things I truly intend to write. It’s partly because I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up when most likely nothing will come of it, and partly because I’m oddly self-conscious about letting people see the early stages of my process. Things change a lot along the way. Even after all I’ve written here, there are currently no plans for this to become finished fic. But I won’t close the door on it completely. How about I just... add it to the pile.

[alllthingsme]

A note you'll probably never read.

I haven't posted on here in a while. Mainly because of so many changes happening with moving to nyc and starting grad school. But sometimes on nights like these, it feels nice to write out what I'm feeling. To certain people even. Knowing they will probably never read it but atleast knowing its out there should they one day stumble upon it...

It's been almost a year now since my ex left me. And it was a really rough breakup for me. Already dealing with and trying to find the best treatment for my anxiety and depression, I put a lot of strain on my ex that he didn't deserve. I'm not going to pretend he didn't have his faults in the relationship because he certainly did and I'm sure he would still agree to that. But even after the breakup I just fell apart. I lost control and had a total breakdown. I harassed him. Texted and called him incessantly because I was terrified of being abandoned.... Again. I know now had I just given him the time and respected the distance he needed, the outcome may have very well been different. But you know what they say. Hindsight is 20/20. And now there's nothing I can do to change the person I ruined. And though that person was myself I'm a lot of ways, the person I really destroyed was my ex. I, being the damaged and broken (still am, but you know shatter a plate a few times and you'll never put it all back together) person that I was (am) I brought down another human being. Someone I love and care immensely about. Someone who literally and I mean LITERALLY put their entire life on hold for me. And I am so ashamed of myself for everything that I did.

This past year I've been through a lot. And had to admit things and discover things about myself that I'm really not proud of. I fell into a major depressive episode. I had panic attacks daily. I wasn't eating. I didn't sleep for 8 nights straight. I missed several days of work.Had panic attacks at work and had to be relieved so that I could go home. I was literally on a very dangerous and terrifying path to a mental breakdown. One I ultimately ended up having the night I attempted to take my own life. Thankfully my roommate came home and found me, but I hardly remember that now. It took months to recover and I still haven't. (Clearly I'm writing in my blog at 3 in the morning almost a year after he dumped my sorry ass) I ended up seeing a counselor for a while before I moved and discovered a lot about my mental health. More precisely my diagnosis. I also had several visits to my primary care physician to trial and error about 6 different psychiatric drugs before finding the combination and cocktail if you will that has worked most effectively. (The one I'm on now... One mood stabilizer, one antidepressant, and one sedative later and here we are--- all better right?) that in itself was truly draining and exhausting. Switching and weaning off one med and on to another. Going from one side effect to others. I have never felt so emotionally drained as I did when I was trying to find the right medicine.

However, more importantly I began to really understand why I was feeling and acting and behaving the way that I was. I later came to find out that along with my anxiety and depression I have a borderline personality disorder. Which didn't surprise me because it's hereditary and my grandmother had it as well. Including the others. But with it I finally found the answer to the irrational and terrifying behaviors I hardly remember or have an recollection of doing. On the night I attempted suicide, I got off work and drove (hysterically crying and having a panic attack) to my exes house calling him on the way and begging him to talk to me and see me. And to this day I don't remember driving there or back. I don't remember getting home. I don't remember doing any of it. I remember parts of it as if I were watching someone else do it. But not as myself. I remember feeling like I was watching myself open the bottle of trazadone and throwing back a few thousand milligrams. I remember it as if I were watching a movie. a bystander screaming at me to stop. Like I had lost all control of my own body. I guess I heard myself screaming though because that's when I immediately stuck my finger down my throat to try and throw up every pill I had swallowed. I began to vomit and dropped the rest of the bottle in the toilet before passing out from hypervenalting in the bathroom floor.

To this day it remains one of the most hauntingly terrifying moments of my entire life and I don't even remember it as if it happened to me. I remember it as if I were watching it happen to someone else. Which I would later understand to be symptom of a dissociative personality disorder. Also a symptom of BPD which now all makes sense. Dissociation occurs when your mind separates itself from your physical being and detaches from reality. It's a coping mechanism used by people who undergo serious trauma in life. As a way to protect themselves by detaching from the moment and seeing the events unfold from a third person perspective so as to not be the direct victim. Given my childhood emotional, physical and sexual abuse... I guess that now all makes sense. It's something I later realized I experienced during my severe panic attacks. A loss of control. Impulsive and obsessive behavior free to inhabit my body while I was temporarily "out for lunch- be back when the trauma is over".

It's truly terrifying to experience and also quite shameful. It has caused a lot of havoc in my life and made me realize how much I am to blame for so many fights and arguments. And breakups. Abandonments. Which brings me to the real point of this post- acknowledging the role I played in tearing apart the relationship I lay here at 3:30 in the morning crying over despite the fact that it ended a year ago.

I was controlling. Manipulative and just all around a really shitty boyfriend. I have/had deep rooted insecurities that constantly made me feel as if I wasn't good enough or that I was going to be left or abandoned again (guess I was right). I constantly feared he would find someone better or realize that he already had it with his best friend and didn't need me anymore.

Because of that, I ruined everything. I ruined me. Us. And him... Him. I did that. This man put his life on hold for me. Put off his dream of moving to New York so that he could stay behind and be with me. Take care of me and start a relationship with me. He did all of that for me and I was too fucking blind to see it. Though I wanted to support and push him to move he wouldn't. He stayed for me and then when everything fell apart, I left. He slipped up and made stupid decisions to which he is now suffering from... He lost his security. His apartment in Manhattan. He lost his way and it was and is... All my fault. And I am so torn up about it because everyday I just want to drive down, throw his shit in the car and drive him up here where he belongs and I can't. There's nothing I can do now. He won't talk to me. He won't answer me. He wants absolutely nothing to do with me to the point that I can't even reach out to him without the fear of being charged with harassment. I failed him. And us and I dropped all the pieces of our relationship into his lap and expected him to fix it all without ever taking 2 seconds to think about him and what he needed.

He later confessed that he never felt like he could share anything with me because I always changed the subject to myself. I used to hate that he wouldn't open up to me because it made me feel like he didn't care enough to. I could feel him drifting apart in the final months. He got less intimate. He stopped caring as much. He wouldn't hold me in bed. He wouldn't kiss me as long or hug me as hard. I slowly felt him slipping through the cracks of my fingers like sand, without ever once trying to tighten my grip and take initiative to turn things around. Instead, I made them worse. And continued doing so after he left.

Now. I'm in grad school. I'm in way over my head with a double masters program at a prestigious world renowned university that I am terrified I'll fail out of. Living in a city I love without the one who made me fall in love with it. 500 miles away from a man I haven't seen in months but still find myself crying over at 3:30 in the morning on a Saturday night. And on top of that, he is stuck in the shit hole town I handcuffed him to and feeling like a complete failure because of my Bullshit.

I posted something a while back out of anger. That I never should have said. Let alone post. I called him out. On everything. The mistakes he'd made. The mistakes I had made but had blamed on him. I called him names I never meant. And worst of all. I called him a failure for not moving away and making it to the city. A dream he's had for years. A dream he put on hold, to be there and support me while I chased after mine. And I called him a failure for that.... Yeah. No wonder he doesn't want anything to do with me. I don't blame him. And while he didn't know it at the time, I posted it to my blog but not publicly. It was a private post I had written just to vent. Which was suppose to be the extent of it until I spiraled into a rage of anger and sadness that led to me sending him the post directly via email. I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I wanted to hurt him that way. Because he didn't and never deserved it.

He doesn't know it but every now and then I lose what little self control I've developed and scroll through his tumblr. Often times just to see how his mood is that day and if he seems to be okay. Because I worry about him so much. Even still today. Sometimes there will be a post with a hash tag or comment that I almost guarantee Is about me. Sometimes I wonder if he knows I do it and post certain things on purpose. Who knows?

I guess part of me secretly hopes he does the same. And that one day he'll stumble across this post and read it and see the apology I so badly want to give him in person. An apology for so many things that I'd never deserve forgiveness for but would love the opportunity to atleast tell him. For the way that I acted both during. And after our relationship. The way I handled it. The breakup. The way I failed to respect him afterwards and give him space and time. The way I didn't listen. The way I selfishly did what I wanted with out ever thinking about how it would affect him or what he specifically wanted. I've since tried to do those things. I've accepted and acknowledged the fact that I'll probably never hear or see from him again. And never get the chance to say I'm sorry the way he deserves. Not that any amount of apology can make up for the turmoil and emotional damage I have caused. And not that I even deserve the chance to apologize. But maybe one day? Right. Probably not but I can't help but hang on to a little part of me that hopes I'm wrong.

Tyler, If you ever read this I want you to know that I am sorry. Truly and gunienly sorry for everything. I had something extraordinary right in front of me and I took it for granted. I lost site of what I had and I let it get away from me. I was emotionally abusive and will never forgive myself for the pain that I caused. I want you to know that I blame myself every day for the fact that you aren't where you wanted to be In life right now. Had it not been for me, I know you'd be in New York right now. Probably with some man who would have made you twice as happy as I ever could have and chasing your dream and your career. I know it doesn't do any good to say these things now but I want you to know that I am sorry I derailed your train.

But I know you enough to know that despite your fears, your hesitations, you'll find a way. You will make it out of Radford. You will move To new York. You'll slowly but surely work your way towards every dream you've ever had. You'll meet some great guy along the way and he will be truly blessed to have you. I just hope he knows that and doesn't make the same mistakes that I did. I hope the road gets easier for you. I hope you start to realize the beauty and worth in yourself that so many other people do. Because you deserve it more than anyone. You are more than meets the surface and although our journey together didn't last, I'm so glad that I met you and that you took me on it. Meeting you was one of the best things to ever happen to me and is a big part of why I am where I am today. And I'll never be able to thank you or give that back to you like you deserve. But for now I'll continue to think of you every time I pass a "2 bros pizza". When I'm sitting at the bar and look out the window. I'll remember shivering in front of you when you took me outside and told me you loved me for the first time. When I go to boxers, I'll remember you taking me there. Everytime I past Amsterdam, I'll think of you. When I get off the Turnpike and see the toll lane for "ticket" customers, I'll remember how you accidentally drove into a booth that was closed and had no one to hand your ticket to. I'll remember all of those things as I live here to constantly remind myself that you are what drove me to chase my dreams here. And the Hopeless romantic in me will always hope that one day, after you've moved up here, we will run into each other on the subway or downtown somewhere and we can try to work through our past. The Hopeless Romantic in me hopes we can one day work through it all and rebuild a life together because nothing would make me happier than the chance to give you back what you deserve.

I know realistically that will probably never happen but for you it will with someone else and they will be truly blessed and lucky to have you. I hope you know that I never meant to hurt you. I know you don't want to hear from me so I'll continue to keep my distance but just know that even still today...

I love you.