#tw: anxiety and paranoia

[brain-bumbler]

Parentified Dion Yes-

I have this Mental Image of Post Game Dion going up to one of Agent Nein And is Basically like "I don't trust you but I think that Frazie has Adhd and Raz has Autism and you're the only person qualified to test for that that we have access to."

And Neins just like ...He should *not* be doing this.

Nein, seeing another traumatized boy in need of help who may start to grow on him too much: I don't get paid enough for this Dion: well I'm not getting paid AT ALL so suck it up Parentified Dion is really good (probably canon) it's this level of angst many an oldest child can relate to. A lost childhood, having to grow up too fast, resenting the responsibility he feels for his siblings, but the absolute love and care that drives him to see that they get the help and support they need. I like this compared to my "Paved with Good Intentions" AU where Dion secretly helps Raz run away- well, more like he notices but doesn't snitch. Dion always going that extra step because he has a good heart and wants his little sibs to do well, but grumbling about it all the while.

I had this headcanon that with his extreme anxiety and awareness of how shitty their circumstances are, because his parents share too much (because he's like a mini grown up! He can handle it) since he has no outlet to cope with the feelings, Dion records all the family's injuries/doctor visits/sicknesses as best he can and keeps it all stored away. Some of it is written on fast food receipts and wrapping paper but it's there! Quiets the voice in his head screaming "WHAT IF SOMEONE NEEDS A DOCTOR BUT NO ONE KNOWS WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM SO THEY GET SICK AND DIE BECAUSE NOBODY KNEW THEIR MEDICAL HISTORY!!!"

Also, he's totally not also got ADHD and/or Autistic himself. And also not psychic!!! So no tests for him needed no-oh sir! No he's not scared uncomfortable ha h a ha ha! He's there talking to Agent Nein, whose spider sense is tingling, and he's like oh, well just come into my office and we'll talk about getting that all set up, would you like a biscuit? Some tea?

I want to see this conversation play out. Dion jumpy on the edge of his seat, does not trust this guy at all, but determined to advocate for his siblings because his mom may not think they have anything and dad is not in a position to do this work right now. I think Sasha would be impressed by his determination! Do his best to put Dion at ease, and maybe start a conversation. If he handled it well enough- would Dion agree to come back another time? Who knows....

[abnormalpsychology]

SPAMTON HAS BEEN FREED. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

GREEN= ILLUSION OF SAFETY.

YELLOW = BE ON HIGH ALERT. DO NOT CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

RED = GET THE [$&?!] OUT OF THERE.

PRAY YOUR HARDEST. KEEP YOUR [CUNGADERO] CLOSE. GOD HELP US ALL.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Caught Between a Monstrosity and An Abomination

(Disclaimer: Only one of the characters in this story belongs to me. You can find more information about him here. EldritchPlier belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe.)

(Trigger Warnings: implied nightmares, implied insomnia, descriptions of stormy weather, feelings of fear/paranoia/confusion, technical home/space invasion, implied body horror, mentions of death/injury/sickness, mentions of eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(If you’d like to use distorted fonts like the ones you’ll be seeing in this story, then I recommend going here or here. Also, to be clear: Lêvïå†håñþå†'§ Ðïålðgµê lððk§ lïkê †hï§.  E̶l̵d̵r̸i̶t̵c̸h̶P̴l̷i̸e̵r̴'̸s̶ ̵d̷i̷a̷l̷o̶g̸u̷e̸ ̷l̶o̴o̸k̵s̸ ̵l̸i̸k̴e̷ ̸t̶h̵i̴s̶.̷)

Your eyes snap open. An involuntary shudder runs through your body. You shakily prop yourself up on your elbows, your hands grasping at your comforter to make sure you’re actually awake. You spend the next couple minutes taking deep, slow breaths as your eyes adjust to the darkness. You recognize your desk, your bookcase, all the things decorating your bedroom.

You’re safe. All the horrible, twisted things you’d seen earlier...they’d just been in your head. None of them were real; they can’t hurt you. For once, you’re glad you have such a hard time remembering dreams.

You can hear rain and hail pellets drumming down on your roof, which is occasionally accentuated by booming thunder. The sounds of a storm have always been calming to you, so you smile in spite of how tired you are.

You slowly rise out of bed, crossing the room to sit at your desk. There, you fish a pen from one of the drawers, then reach up to the calendar hanging on the wall and mark tonight’s date with a red X.

You’ve officially woken up from nightmares for almost two weeks straight.

And you have absolutely no idea why. You’ve taken several different types of sleeping medicine, researched all sorts of bedtime rituals. You’ve talked to your doctor about this—and while you obviously can’t try out too many prescriptions at once, you’ve made sure to follow every other piece of advice she’d offered. But nothing has worked.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the digital clock on your nightstand, which reads 2:45 AM. You groan, raising your hands to massage your temples.

“What’d I do to deserve this?” You mutter.

"̵N̷o̸t̵h̵i̸n̸g̷ ̵a̵t̴ ̵a̵l̵l̴,̶"̵an unfamiliar voice replies.

Welp. So much for being tired.

You jump nearly a foot in the air, heart stuttering. You glance all around your bedroom, your mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. Are you still asleep? You get your answer via digging your fingernails into your arm.

But. . .you have to be dreaming. It’s completely impossible for anyone but you to be in here right now. And yet, that voice had sounded so clear, so real—

"̵O̵v̴e̵r̵ ̴h̸e̵r̵e̶,̴ ̷p̶a̷l̸,̶"̸ the voice calls. You then hear the unmistakable sound of knuckles rapping against wood. You slowly turn your head to stare at your bedroom door.

An uncomfortable silence settles down on you.

“...I’m going insane,” you eventually whisper.

The voice hums at this. "̶I̷ ̶d̶o̸n̶'̵t̵ ̵t̸h̷i̶n̶k̷ ̸s̵o̴.̸ ̷T̸r̴u̷s̴t̷ ̵m̴e̸,̷ ̷I̵'̶v̷e̶ ̴s̵e̵e̴n̷ ̷p̷l̶e̴n̷t̵y̷ ̷o̶f̵ ̵i̴n̴s̸a̵n̵i̶t̸y̶ ̵i̶n̶ ̶m̸y̷ ̴l̵i̸f̵e̵,̴ ̴a̷n̴d̶ ̸y̷o̴u̵ ̶d̶o̸n̸'̸t̶ ̵q̸u̶i̸t̴e̴ ̸f̸i̵t̵ ̵t̵h̴a̷t̶ ̷c̴a̵t̸e̷g̸o̸r̴y̸.̸ ̵N̷o̴t̴ ̸y̸e̷t̵,̷ ̶a̷t̴ ̷l̵e̷a̷s̵t̷.̵"̶

“Nice of you to say ‘yet,’” you snark. “You can’t be real. I can’t be talking to anybody right now.”

"̷H̴e̷y̴,̶ ̶t̸h̵a̸t̶ ̶h̸u̴r̷t̸s̷,̴"̷ the voice complains. "̵J̶u̸s̶t̷ ̸b̴e̷c̷a̵u̷s̴e̶ ̴y̴o̷u̶ ̷d̸o̷n̸'̴t̴ ̷k̴n̵o̶w̷ ̵m̶e̸ ̸d̸o̷e̸s̴n̷'̵t̸ ̴m̵e̷a̸n̵ ̶I̵'̷m̵ ̴n̶o̴t̴ ̵r̴e̵a̸l̴.̸"̵

You’re shaking now. Your stomach is tying itself in knots. You keep pinching your arm, and the pain you feel insists that you’re fully conscious. That leaves you with two explanations for what’s going on: either you’re having some kind of mental breakdown due to your recent sleepless nights, or someone has broken into your apartment and is now trying to make smalltalk right outside your room. 

You genuinely can’t tell which scenario is more likely, but you don’t like your odds at all.

And to make things worse, for seemingly no reason, the voice seems to be aware of your current mental state. "̴W̷a̵i̷t̴,̵ ̸p̵l̵e̴a̵s̵e̵ ̵d̴o̵n̴'̴t̷ ̷b̴e̸ ̵a̷f̵r̵a̴i̴d̴!̸ ̵Y̷o̵u̵'̸r̸e̷ ̸n̸o̵t̵ ̶i̴n̴ ̸a̵n̸y̸ ̴d̶a̷n̷g̸e̷r̷.̸ ̴I̶.̵ ̷.̸ ̷.̷j̴u̵s̴t̸ ̶w̸a̸n̸t̴e̶d̶ ̷t̷o̵ ̸h̷a̴v̷e̴ ̵a̶ ̵c̶h̸a̶t̴.̷"̴

Thinking quickly, you scour your room, looking anywhere and everywhere for your phone. Unfortunately, you come up empty-handed and realize that said phone must be somewhere else in the apartment.

That means you have no way to call for help.

That means you’re trapped in here.

A moment passes before you begin to walk across your room, shifting your weight as you move, staying on the very tips of your toes. You come to a halt once you’re facing the door. You strain your ears; aside from your own thundering pulse, you can’t hear anything from the other side of the threshold.

You draw a quick, deep breath before craning your neck to peek through the thin space between the edge of the door and the frame.

It takes everything you have to not scream at the sight of a glowing, quivering, watery, bloodshot eye peeking right back at you. Your gut tells you that the eye’s owner has been watching you this entire time, has been waiting for you to see him for yourself.

Acting on instinct, you claw at the doorknob before backing away, now on the verge of hyperventilating.

The audible click of the lock being engaged earns a gasp from whoever is on the other side.

"̶D̸i̶d̸ ̸y̶o̷u̵ ̶j̷u̷s̷t̵ ̷l̶o̵c̷k̵ ̷t̸h̴e̸ ̸d̸o̵o̸r̶?̵"̶ the voice asks, sounding vaguely disappointed.

“Yeah,” you answer, trying your hardest to not let your voice tremble. “Yeah, I did.”

"̸W̷h̵y̷?̴"̶

“What do you think? Some creep is standing right outside my room in the middle of the night! Why the hell would I not lock my door?!”

"̵T̸e̷c̵h̷n̴i̴c̴a̵l̵l̴y̷,̴ ̶i̶t̵'̴s̷ ̶t̵h̴e̸ ̵m̵i̷d̷d̸l̶e̸ ̴o̶f̴ ̴t̷h̸e̸ ̶m̴o̴r̸n̸i̵n̵g̴,̶"̶ the voice says. "̵P̵l̶u̶s̸,̸ ̴i̵t̵'̴s̴ ̶a̶w̴f̶u̴l̵l̷y̶ ̴r̷u̵d̸e̷ ̴o̴f̷ ̶y̷o̵u�� ̵t̴o̴ ̷c̶a̶l̸l̸ ̵a̵ ̴g̸u̴e̵s̸t̷ ̷a̵ ̷c̴r̴e̸e̶p̸.̷"̵

You scoff. “If we’re going by that logic, then it’s awfully rude of you to have broken into my place!”

You attempt to keep your heart rate under control. Panic will only make this worse. You need to focus on not panicking. So, you distract yourself through analysis.

Your eyes have adjusted by now, and as you stare at the door, you can see a dim red light outlining the frame from the other side. The voice, while muffled, sounds masculine, deep and smooth. It has a bit of an echo to it, and for some reason, it seems...staticey around the edges.  

“̸T̸o̶u̸c̴h̵é̴.̶ ̷B̶u̸t̵ ̸I̴ ̸c̸a̷n̷ ̶p̶r̸o̷m̵i̸s̷e̴ ̵t̴h̵a̵t̵ ̷I̵ ̷h̷a̴v̸e̷n̸’̴t̴ ̴d̸a̵m̷a̵g̷e̶d̸ ̶a̷n̶y̴ ̷o̸f̴ ̵y̷o̷u̶r̷ ̶t̴h̶i̴n̵g̶s̶.̴”̵

You’re about to retort, but Mr. Behind-The-Door heaves a sigh.

“̴L̶o̶o̵k̵,̶ ̸t̶h̷i̵s̴ ̵i̷s̵n̶'̴t̵ ̵g̷e̸t̸t̶i̴n̶g̴ ̴u̷s̷ ̷a̴n̵y̶w̸h̷e̴r̶e̶.̷ ̶I̵ ̶j̷u̶s̵t̴ ̵w̷a̶n̵t̴ ̶t̷o̷ ̸h̴e̵l̶p̴ ̶y̷o̶u̶.̵ ̴S̶o̸,̵ ̵l̶e̵t̷'̷s̷ ̶j̴u̵s̴t̷ ̴s̸t̶a̶r̶t̶ ̶o̶v̷e̶r̴,̴ ̵o̷k̸a̷y̶?̸"̷

“‘Help me?’” You echo. “What exactly do you think I need help with?”

“̴S̸l̶e̸e̶p̵,̸"̵ Mr. Behind-The-Door answers. “̸Y̸o̴u̴ ̷j̶u̷s̴t̶ ̴w̶o̵k̸e̸ ̶u̷p̵ ̸f̶r̶o̵m̸ ̷a̷ ̸n̷i̷g̶h̶t̸m̷a̴r̷e̴,̸ ̴d̷i̵d̶n̸'̷t̸ ̶y̵o̴u̴?̴"̸

You legitimately freeze in place; the momentary shock is enough to make you stop shaking. “...How do you know that?”

Mr. Behind-The-Door lets out a small laugh. “̷I̷ ̸k̵n̵o̴w̷ ̶a̵ ̴l̷o̴t̶ ̴o̶f̷ ̶t̴h̴i̸n̷g̵s̵.̵ ̴A̸n̶d̴ ̵s̶o̴m̷e̶ ̷o̵f̴ ̸t̶h̴o̷s̸e̵ ̵t̶h̷i̷n̶g̸s̶ ̵m̷i̸g̵h̴t̵ ̴j̶u̷s̸t̵ ̷s̴o̴l̴v̸e̸ ̷y̷o̴u̴r̸ ̵l̸i̷t̷t̴l̷e̵ ̷p̴r̴o̸b̵l̴e̶m̷.̵"̸

The entire door trembles in its frame; the wood creaks, the hinges squeal. You have to assume that Mr. Behind-The-Door is leaning against it in an attempt to get closer to you.

You back away, hovering by your bed. Your best option is to just ride this out until daylight, so that’s what you’ll have to do. You’re still scared out of your wits, and yet you can’t help but wonder: how is...whatever this is so specifically linked to your nightmares? Why is the voice offering assistance?

“̸B̸e̴c̷a̴u̴s̵e̸ ̶y̸o̷u̷ ̴s̵e̷e̷m̴ ̴l̵i̸k̵e̶ ̶a̴ ̵n̶i̴c̸e̶ ̷p̴e̶r̵s̶o̶n̴,̵"̶ Mr. Behind-The-Door responds.  “̶A̵n̶d̶ ̷I̵ ̷e̶n̸j̶o̸y̵ ̶m̷e̵e̴t̴i̸n̷g̷ ̵n̴i̸c̷e̶ ̵p̴e̸o̶p̷l̸e̵.̷ ̵D̵o̶e̶s̸n̴'̷t̶ ̷e̷v̸e̶r̴y̴o̵n̸e̸?̵"̵

Great. Just great. Apparently Mr. Behind-The-Door can somehow read your thoughts.

“How can you tell I’m nice? We’ve never met before—we don’t even know each other’s names.”

“̴W̴e̶ ̶m̶a̸y̵ ̵h̸a̶v̵e̴ ̵m̶e̸t̷ ̷a̸t̷ ̷s̷o̶m̶e̶ ̵p̴o̶i̵n̵t̴ ̶i̵n̸ ̸t̶h̶e̴ ̶p̵a̵s̶t̶,̴"̴ Mr. Behind-The-Door argues. "̴B̶e̸s̶i̶d̸e̵s̵,̶ ̴w̶h̴i̸l̴e̴ ̷m̸y̷ ̵n̶a̴m̵e̷ ̵i̶s̸n̵'̵t̸ ̷i̶m̷p̸o̸r̵t̵a̸n̵t̷,̸ ̷I̷ ̶k̸n̵o̸w̷ ̴y̴o̵u̵r̸ ̴n̶a̷m̵e̵.̵ ̴S̵h̷o̸u̷l̸d̵n̶'̵t̸ ̴t̶h̵a̴t̸ ̶c̷o̴u̴n̴t̷ ̸f̷o̷r̵ ̸s̶o̴m̸e̵t̵h̸i̶n̶g̴?̸"̴

You let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, really? What’s my name, then?”

Mr. Behind-The-Door proceeds to recite your full name. Your face falls, and you can practically feel the color drain from your skin.

“̴A̷n̸y̴w̵a̵y̶,̶"̸ Mr. Behind-The-Door continues rather casually, as though he hasn’t just terrified the living shit out of you even more than he already had, "̸l̸i̷k̸e̷ ̴I̷ ̸s̵a̶i̴d̷ ̷b̷e̴f̸o̷r̶e̷,̷ ̵I̷ ̸h̵a̷v̸e̶ ̶s̵e̷v̸e̶r̴a̸l̸ ̷d̷i̴f̵f̶e̷r̶e̸n̴t̶ ̷r̴e̷m̸e̶d̵i̶e̸s̵ ̵f̴o̴r̷ ̸n̶i̸g̸h̶t̷m̸a̸r̴e̷s̷.̵ ̶A̷n̶d̶ ̶I̷'̷m̵ ̸w̷i̵l̶l̶i̴n̸g̵ ̵t̸o̴ ̷s̷h̶a̸r̵e̴ ̵t̵h̷e̵m̶ ̴w̶i̴t̶h̶ ̶y̴o̵u̸ ̶i̵f̷ ̶y̶o̸u̷'̶d̵ ̷l̵i̴k̶e̵.̷ ̷A̶l̸l̴ ̴y̸o̷u̸ ̸h̵a̶v̷e̸ ̶t̴o̷ ̴d̶o̵ ̵i̵s̴ ̸o̵p̶e̷n̴ ̴t̶h̷i̶s̶ ̸d̴o̷o̵r̷;̵ ̵t̶h̴e̵n̸ ̶w̸e̵ ̷c̶a̵n̴ ̵s̶e̸e̸ ̶w̷h̴i̷c̶h̶ ̷o̷f̸ ̴m̶y̶ ̴s̴o̴l̸u̸t̷i̸o̴n̶s̸ ̵w̴o̷r̷k̴s̸ ̵b̸e̸s̴t̶ ̸f̷o̶r̸ ̴y̷o̷u̴.̶"̷

You blink. You blink again. All the stranger-danger programs from grade school start echoing in your head.

"̴W̸e̵l̷l̸?̴ ̵W̵h̵a̵t̵ ̶d̴o̴ ̸y̷o̴u̸ ̶s̵a̷y̸,̶ ̵f̴r̸i̶e̶n̸d̶?̷"̸

“Um. . .” you stutter, chewing your lip. “That’s very kind of you, but. . .I don’t think I’ll be needing any remedies.”

"̷A̶r̶e̶ ̶y̷o̷u̸ ̵s̵u̴r̷e̴?̷"̸ Mr. Behind-The-Door asks. "̷I̷ ̷k̸n̷o̴w̸ ̴t̵h̷a̴t̶ ̵n̷i̴g̴h̴t̷m̸a̶r̷e̶ ̴w̶a̷s̶n̴'̶t̵ ̸t̴h̸e̵ ̴f̵i̸r̵s̴t̶ ̵y̵o̴u̷'̴v̷e̷ ̸h̴a̵d̴ ̸l̵a̶t̸e̵l̵y̷.̶ ̷Y̴o̷u̶r̶ ̵s̵l̸e̴e̵p̵ ̴s̶c̶h̸e̵d̸u̵l̴e̶ ̴i̵s̷ ̷o̴b̴v̵i̵o̵u̸s̸l̸y̷ ̷b̷e̴i̷n̷g̴ ̶a̵f̴f̴e̴c̵t̶e̶d̷.̴ ̴I̵t̸'̶s̸ ̶n̵o̸t̷ ̷a̷ ̵g̷o̵o̸d̶ ̶i̶d̷e̶a̷ ̷t̶o̷ ̵j̴u̶s̸t̵ ̵l̵e̸a̶v̴e̶ ̸i̵t̸ ̸t̴o̴ ̷f̷e̸s̵t̶e̶r̵.̴"̴

He’s trying to sound concerned, but you immediately notice a change in his tone. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His voice is now impatient, and that is a very, very bad sign.

The door shudders yet again; this time, the movement is punctuated by a scraping melody that grates against your ears. Having grown up with dogs and cats, you instantly recognize the sound of claws dragging along wood.

You try to use logic on him. “If you know that, then you should also know how I’ve tried different medicines already, and that they haven’t really gotten me anywhere.”

"̶W̶e̶l̷l̶,̷ ̵y̶e̵s̴,̴ ̸I̶ ̸d̷o̸ ̵k̸n̵o̷w̶ ̵t̶h̷a̶t̴,̸"̷ ̷ Mr. Behind-The-Door begrudgingly agrees, "̶b̶u̵t̸ ̸t̵h̴e̴ ̸t̴h̶i̷n̸g̷s̷ ̶y̵o̴u̵'̸v̶e̸ ̷t̵r̴i̴e̷d̶ ̷a̶r̶e̵ ̷s̶t̶i̷l̷l̵ ̷s̶o̷ ̴m̸u̴c̷h̷ ̵d̷i̵f̷f̷e̸r̷e̴n̴t̶ ̸f̴r̵o̵m̷ ̴t̸h̵e̴ ̵t̴h̷i̶n̴g̶s̵ ̴I̵ ̵c̷o̶u̷l̶d̵ ̶o̷f̷f̸e̴r̵ ̶y̴o̶u̸.̴ ̸I̷ ̷d̷o̸u̷b̷t̴ ̴i̴t̵ ̷w̸o̵u̶l̴d̵ ̷h̵u̶r̴t̷ ̴f̶o̵r̷ ̸y̵o̸u̵ ̴t̴o̵ ̵t̵e̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶h̴e̷m̶ ̴o̵u̴t̶.̵"̶

“What if I’m allergic to what you’re offering?”

Mr. Behind-The-Door, growing increasingly frustrated, lists off your allergies without fault. While he’s doing this, you finally remember the fact that there’s a window next to your bed. If you can open it and remove the mesh screen outside the glass, then you might be able to escape your room. You live on the ground floor, so you wouldn’t have to worry about being injured from a fall. Where exactly you’d go afterwards isn’t clear, but it’s still a new chance for you to get away from Mr. Behind-The-Door.

Eventually, having completed your list of potential medical no-nos, Mr. Behind-The-Door clears his throat. "̶I̸ ̴c̸a̵n̷ ̴a̸s̸s̴u̶r̵e̷ ̶y̴o̴u̶ ̴t̴h̵a̴t̵ ̵m̷y̴ ̷r̸e̷m̶e̸d̵i̷e̶s̷ ̸w̶o̶n̴'̸t̶ ̴r̷a̶i̷s̵e̵ ̶a̸n̴y̵ ̶i̷s̶s̸u̸e̴.̴ ̸I̵t̸'̴s̸ ̵p̸e̶r̶f̴e̶c̸t̷l̵y̸ ̷n̵o̷r̵m̴a̸l̶ ̶f̴o̵r̷ ̴y̴o̶u̸ ̶t̵o̷ ̵b̴e̴ ̴n̷e̵r̵v̸o̸u̷s̶,̴ ̷b̷u̶t̸ ̵t̷h̷a̸t̵'̵s̸ ̶b̴e̵s̷i̵d̴e̸ ̶t̴h̵e̵ ̸p̷o̷i̶n̷t̷.̶ ̸W̷h̶e̷n̶ ̵w̵a̴s̸ ̴t̶h̴e̴ ̵l̷a̸s̸t̵ ̵t̵i̴m̴e̴ ̸y̵o̷u̵ ̵s̸l̸e̴p̸t̷ ̴p̶e̷a̵c̷e̶f̶u̷l̶l̶y̸?̵"̷

“...I can’t remember,” you reply honestly. Even before the nightmares started becoming a regular thing, you’d been struggling with insomnia. Your headaches have been getting worse and worse, and the bags under your eyes have truly started to resemble bruises.

Mr. Behind-The-Door tuts at this. "̶I̷ ̶t̸h̴o̷u̶g̶h̵t̸ ̴s̷o̵.̵"̷ His tone has gone back to dripping with honey, and it’s still obviously fake. But now that you’ve heard his frustration, you feel more scared than annoyed.

"̸A̷r̶e̶n̵'̸t̸ ̷y̸o̷u̸ ̴s̸i̵c̵k̵ ̴o̴f̸ ̸t̷h̶e̴ ̶e̵x̸h̷a̶u̸s̶t̵i̷o̵n̶ ̷y̶o̸u̷'̴v̶e̴ ̶b̵e̸e̷n̴ ̸f̷e̷e̴l̴i̷n̷g̵?̷ ̸D̵o̸n̴'̸t̶ ̴y̸o̴u̵ ̴w̵a̵n̵t̵ ̵t̴h̸e̷ ̸n̷i̸g̶h̸t̵m̸a̷r̴e̷s̶ ̴t̶o̸ ̸s̴t̵o̸p̴?̷ ̷I̵ ̸w̴a̵n̸t̸ ̸t̴o̷ ̸h̴e̵l̵p̷ ̵y̴o̶u̶,̶ ̴b̷u̸t̷ ̴I̵ ̸c̴a̴n̶'̷t̵ ̴d̶o̷ ̵t̶h̸a̵t̵ ̸i̶f̷ ̸y̵o̸u̸ ̶s̵t̴a̵y̶ ̵i̷n̵ ̷t̸h̶e̷r̷e̸.̸ ̵S̴o̵ ̴p̸l̸e̷a̶s̵e̷ ̵j̷u̶s̵t̵.̸ ̴.̵ ̸.̴o̴p̴e̸n̶ ̴t̸h̶e̷ ̴d̵o̵o̷r̸.̴ ̵A̶l̷r̸i̵g̷h̷t̶?̶"̴

While he’s speaking, you’ve been edging closer and closer to the window. As you reach for the sting to pull up the blinds, you’re trying to think of what else you can say to put Mr. Behind-The-Door off.

Your train of thought suffers a horrific crash as an erratic chorus of tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap suddenly reverberates from the other side of your window, followed by a cry of, “H-hêllð? Hêllð?!”

Your jaw hits the floor.

Another new voice—this one not as deep as Mr. Behind-The-Door’s, with a unique edge to it, set in something of a Midwestern accent—can now be heard outside your window.

“Ì jµ§† gð† hï† ß¥ håïl †hê §ïzê ð£ åñ êgg! Èvêr¥†hïñg’§ §þïññïñg. . .Ì–Ì †hïñk m¥ hêåÐ ï§ ßlêêÐïñg! þlêå§ê hêlþ mê!”

Mr. Behind-The-Door goes silent, and you wonder if he’s as surprised as you are.

At first, you feel a spark of hope. Another person means another chance for you to get out of here. You also feel concerned for this stranger, because the storm has grown much harsher over the time you’ve been awake, and you wouldn’t doubt someone getting hurt due to being caught in it. 

But as you look at the window and listen to your new visitor, both of those emotions up and vanish.

You must have left the blinds open before you went to bed, because when the storm sends down a bolt of lightning outside, you can see the vague silhouette of...something. It could almost pass for a person, if not for the way it just seems to ripple the longer you stare at it. The only things about your new visitor that don’t seem fluid are a pair of stark-white specks. Eyes.

Not only that, but it’s impossible to not notice how your window is fogging up. Obviously, this is due to the visitor’s breath meeting the glass. And as you continue staring, you realize that the aforementioned fog shouldn’t be spreading to cover the entire window. As though it’s exhaled by a much larger creature...

Obviously you don’t know who Mr. Through-The-Window is, but you’re certain that he isn’t human.

“Çåñ ¥ðµ hêår mê? þlêå§ê, þlêå§ê ðþêñ †hê wïñÐðw!"

“I can hear you,” you sigh. “And I’m sorry, but you can’t come in.”

“W-whå†?!" Mr. Through-The-Window asks. His voice still sounds panicked, but you can tell he’s been thrown off by your statement. “ñð, ¥ðµ Ððñ'† µñÐêr§†åñÐ! Ì ¢åñ'† gê† †ð †hê hð§þï†ål £rðm hêrê! þlêå§ê, Ì jµ§† ñêêÐ §ðmê §hêl†êr!"

“If you really needed help,” you reply, “you’d be pounding on my front door, not my bedroom window.”

Mr. Through-The-Window blinks at you, and despite not being able to make out any other features, you can tell he’s more disappointed than shocked or fearful. 

A bout of snide, echoing laughter erupts from your bedroom door.

"̵T̵h̵e̵y̵'̵v̶e̷ ̶g̴o̶t̶ ̶a̸ ̵p̶o̴i̴n̶t̶,̶ ̶d̶o̷n̵'̷t̸ ̶t̵h̵e̸y̴?̴"̵ Mr. Behind-The-Door asks, still snickering. "̴I̴t̴'̴s̸ ̸a̸b̷o̴u̸t̵ ̴d̸a̷m̷n̴ ̷t̸i̵m̸e̶ ̸t̴h̵a̵t̴ ̴l̸i̷t̴t̷l̷e̸ ̴w̵i̵n̶d̶o̶w̴ ̸s̶h̸t̵i̶c̵k̵ ̶b̸a̵c̷k̸f̶i̷r̸e̸d̶ ̴o̸n̴ ̶y̵o̵u̷!̵"̸

Mr. Through-The-Window’s confusion quickly turns to aggravation. “Öh. ¥ÖÚ'RÈ hêrê. †hå†'§ jµ§† þêr£ê¢†.”

"̵D̵'̴a̵w̸w̵,̶ ̵y̴o̷u̴ ̵t̶h̴i̷n̶k̴ ̴I̵'̶m̴ ̸p̶e̷r̵f̴e̶c̶t̸?̸ ̵T̴h̷a̴t̵'̸s̶ ̵s̶w̴e̵e̴t̵.̴"̷ Mr. Behind-The-Door says smugly.

“Ì †hðµgh† Ì †ðlÐ ¥ðµ †ð §†å¥ ïñ ¥ðµr låñê.” Mr. Through-The-Window snaps.

"̴F̵i̶r̶s̵t̶ ̵o̷f̵ ̸a̸l̷l̸,̶ ̵t̸h̷i̸s̴ ̵i̴s̸n̸'̵t̶ ̸m̵y̶ ̸L̵A̵N̴E̶;̷ ̴t̶h̴i̶s̵ ̶i̶s̶ ̸m̷y̸ ̵H̸I̶G̴H̵W̸A̸Y̶,̴"̶ Mr. Behind-The-Door growls. "̶A̵n̶d̴ ̷s̶e̴c̸o̶n̴d̶ ̸o̶f̸ ̶a̶l̶l̶,̸ ̶I̷ ̶g̷o̸t̵ ̸h̴e̴r̷e̵ ̶f̸i̸r̸s̶t̵!̸ ̴I̵f̶ ̶a̶n̵y̴o̴n̶e̵'̴s̴ ̷s̸t̴i̴c̸k̴i̶n̸g̸ ̴h̵i̶s̴ ̴n̷o̷s̵e̶ ̷w̸h̴e̶r̷e̶ ̴i̸t̴ ̵d̸o̴e̴s̴n̷'̷t̶ ̷b̴e̵l̷o̵n̵g̷ ̴r̸i̶g̶h̷t̶ ̴n̷o̷w̷,̷ ̶i̵t̷'̶s̷ ̷y̶o̵u̴!̸"̸

You look back and forth between your door and the window, chewing your lip. It seems these two have some kind of history. And not a good one.

You’ve always hated being involved in the arguments of others. This situation is no different—in fact, it’s even worse, considering it’s between two cryptid-nightmare-things that clearly don’t have your best interests at heart. 

You’re still scared, sure, but the fact that A. You’ve been unnecessarily dragged into something that shouldn’t concern you, and B. It’s happening during the hours that you should be using to SLEEP. . .well, it makes your anger almost as strong as your fear.

“Frankly, I don’t think either of you need to be here,” you announce to both of your visitors in particular.

Silence.  

You remain tense, waiting. Have your words actually done something?

“Wåï†," Mr. Through-The-Window states. “Wå§ hê †ålkïñg †ð ¥ðµ ßê£ðrê Ì §hðwêÐ µþ?"

"̴O̶b̶v̵i̸o̷u̵s̶l̷y̴,̴"̷ Mr. Behind-The-Door remarks. "̵H̸o̴w̶ ̶e̷l̸s̶e̶ ̸w̸o̶u̴l̸d̴ ̸y̶o̷u̶ ̸h̶a̸v̸e̸ ̵i̵n̶t̵e̵r̷r̶u̴p̶t̷e̴d̶ ̷o̷u̵r̴ ̴c̴o̶n̷v̶e̴r̶s̸a̴t̴i̶o̵n̵?̷"̷

Of course not. Why the hell would you have any power here, let alone be that lucky?

“Ì ÐïÐñ'† å§k ¥ðµ." You watch as Mr. Through-The-Window’s eyes bulge out of their sockets. The swelling goes down as he takes a few seconds to seemingly collect himself. He calls your name and leans further against the glass, though you still can’t make out what he actually looks like.

“Hå§ hê †rïêÐ †ð ßrïßê ¥ðµ? þrê§êñ†§, mðñê¥, åñ¥†hïñg lïkê †hå†?"

You hesitate before replying, “Medicine. Some kind of medicine to help with sleep.”

“†hå†'§ å ñêw ðñê," Mr. Through-The-Window murmurs. “ßµ† ¥ðµ ¢åñ'† ßêlïêvê hïm. Hê Ððê§ñ'† håvê åñ¥†hïñg £ðr ¥ðµ."

“I sort of already knew that,” you say tiredly.

Mr. Behind-The-Door emits an offended growl. "̵Y̴o̴u̵ ̶d̵o̴n̸'̴t̸ ̴k̸n̷o̶w̶ ̴A̴N̸Y̸T̸H̸I̴N̸G̶.̴"̵

You can’t stop yourself from flinching at this, but you’re still able to fold your arms and narrow your eyes. “Some way to talk to a ‘friend.’”

While Mr. Through-The-Window snorts a laugh, Mr. Behind-The-Door sputters. "̴W̶-̶w̵a̸i̵t̵,̸ ̴n̴o̷!̴ ̷I̶.̶ ̸.̵ ̷.̴o̶n̴l̸y̷ ̵m̴e̶a̶n̵t̵ ̸t̸h̶a̷t̷ ̵y̸o̸u̵ ̷t̸e̵c̶h̸n̴i̵c̶a̵l̸l̷y̷ ̴C̵A̸N̶'̴T̸ ̶k̶n̶o̴w̷ ̷a̸b̸o̶u̷t̸ ̵h̷a̵v̷e̸ ̵I̴ ̸h̸a̸v̴e̸ ̷t̵o̶ ̷o̷f̷f̶e̸r̴.̵ ̷B̴u̴t̵ ̸y̷o̶u̵ ̵c̴e̷r̵t̶a̷i̴n̸l̷y̸ ̷c̷o̸u̸l̶d̴ ̸i̷f̶ ̴y̴o̷u̴ ̸o̷p̶e̸n̴e̸d̷ ̷t̴h̵e̵ ̷d̶o̵o̵r̸ ̴f̷o̴r̷ ̴m̶e̵,̶ ̶o̶f̷ ̴c̸o̶u̵r̷s̷e̷.̷"̴

“¥êêåååh, †hå†'§ ñð† §ðmê†hïñg ¥ðµ wåñ† †ð Ðð." Mr. Through-The-Window interjects. “Èvêñ ï£ hê ÐïÐ håvê §ðmê†hïñg £ðr ¥ðµ, ï†'Ð ßê ¢µr§êÐ †ð måkê ¥ðµ §†år† rð††ïñg £rðm †hê ïñ§ïÐê å§ §ððñ å§ ¥ðµ †ðµ¢hêÐ ï†!"

Your stomach churns at the thought of that. It sounds awfully similar to one of your earlier nightmares; the one where you’re pretty sure your teeth fell out of your mouth one by one, followed by your withering tongue. . .

“̶H̷o̵w̵ ̵d̸a̶r̶e̵ ̷y̷o̶u̶?̷!̸ ̴A̴l̵l̵ ̴t̸h̴e̸ ̴g̵i̴f̴t̷s̸ ̷I̸ ̸m̴a̸y̸ ̵o̸r̸ ̴m̷a̵y̶ ̴n̷o̸t̴ ̶h̶a̸v̸e̴ ̷a̴r̷e̵ ̵P̶E̷R̶F̵E̴C̷T̶.̵ ̸O̸n̴l̶y̶ ̵t̶h̶e̶ ̶b̵e̵s̵t̷ ̸f̴o̷r̶ ̵m̴y̵ ̵d̶e̶a̵r̷ ̶f̵r̸i̴e̸n̷d̶ ̴h̸e̴r̷e̸.̸ ̴S̸p̴e̸a̴k̴i̷n̴g̸ ̷o̴f̸ ̴w̷h̸i̸c̶h̸,̵ ̷I̸ ̷s̸u̷g̸g̴e̴s̷t̴ ̴y̶o̷u̸ ̸m̵o̴v̶e̷ ̶a̸w̸a̵y̴ ̵f̴r̸o̴m̵ ̷t̷h̸a̶t̸ ̶w̸i̶n̵d̸o̶w̸.̸ ̸T̶h̵e̷ ̶o̸n̸e̷s̵ ̵w̷h̴o̷ ̷g̵e̴t̴ ̴t̷o̵o̷ ̶c̵l̶o̷s̸e̷ ̴t̷o̷ ̸H̵I̶M̵.̵ ̶.̴ ̷.̸w̴e̸l̵l̸,̵ ̴l̴e̶t̸’̸s̵ ̶j̸u̸s̴t̸ ̸s̵a̷y̴ ̵t̷h̶e̷y̷ ̴l̷o̵o̵k̵ ̵v̵e̴r̷y̷ ̶d̴i̶f̸f̸e̶r̷e̴n̸t̴ ̸a̶f̵t̶e̴r̸w̶a̷r̷d̵s̸.̸”̴

“Hå! ¥ðµ §å¥ †hå† å§ ï£ ¥ðµ håvêñ’† jµmþêÐ ðñ åll ¥ðµr ‘£rïêñЧ’ åñÐ rµþ†µrêÐ †hêïr êårÐrµm§ wï†h ¥ðµr §¢rêåmïñg.” Mr. Through-The-Window’s eyes slide in place, as though he’s tilting his head towards you. “Ì’vê §êêñ ï† £ïr§†håñÐ. Úñlꧧ ¥ðµ ïgñðrê HÌM, hê’ll êñÐ µþ hµr†ïñg ¥ðµ. ÄñÐ ï† wðµlÐ jµ§† ßrêåk m¥ hêår† †ð §êê ¥ðµ gê† hµr†!”

“No it wouldn’t!” You whirl on him, clenching your fists and shaking your head. You can’t afford to make it seem like he has your trust.  “You’ve just been trying to trick me the same way he is! Or did you forget how you were pretending to be stranded and bleeding just a few minutes ago?”

Mr. Through-The-Window stares at you. His eyes sporadically shift from white to green, then from green to red, then from red to yellow, then from yellow to blue, his pinprick pupils shaking all the while. A cluster of sinuous shapes materialize behind his back, twisting and writhing around his shoulders and sides; they resemble a mixture of tree roots and worms.

"Älrïgh†," he finally sighs. "Ì'll åÐmï† †hå† Ì wå§ñ'† ßêïñg hðñ꧆. ßµ† Ì'm ñð† lððkïñg £ðr åñ¥ †rðµßlê! Ì rêåll¥ Ðð ñêêÐ ¥ðµr hêlþ! Úñlïkê HÌM."

The worm-root-tendrils quickly disappear from view, apparently reeling back to wherever they came from—you almost gag, unable to stop yourself from imagining those things coiling around his spine and ribcage. 

His tone is even. He’s trying to sound more calm and agreeable than Mr. Behind-The-Door. And although you do respect good acting, you don’t feel moved at all.

Especially not when Mr. Behind-The-Door declares, “̶O̴h̸,̸ ̸t̵h̴a̵t̵’̵s̷ ̷R̶I̷C̴H̸ ̵c̷o̵m̵i̸n̶g̸ ̵f̸r̵o̸m̴ ̴t̵h̸e̵ ̵g̸u̴y̴ ̴w̷h̴o̷’̶l̴l̷ ̴s̴c̵a̷l̶p̴ ̴y̸o̶u̵ ̷a̶n̸d̷ ̸e̴a̴t̶ ̷y̴o̷u̵r̴ ̷g̸r̵a̵y̴ ̴m̴a̵t̶t̴e̸r̶ ̸t̷h̴e̶ ̵s̶e̵c̶o̴n̴d̴ ̵y̸o̵u̶ ̷o̴p̶e̴n̷ ̷t̷h̶a̴t̷ ̵w̴i̵n̸d̶o̶w̶!̵”̸ ̷

Mr. Through-The-Window hisses at this, instantly on the defensive. The two of them start squabbling again, leaving you to periodically glance back and forth between the door and the window. 

The fact that you’re still utterly helpless crosses your mind, but it doesn’t seem to matter as much as it did before. You’ve actually gone back to feeling more exhausted than scared. Adrenaline is funny like that.

You waver for a few seconds, then quietly lower yourself onto your bed. You move your pillow to the far side of your mattress, where your bed is touching the wall. You crawl under your blanket, then awkwardly press yourself against the wall and curl up. This position isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s the best you can do in order to keep some distance from both the window and the door.

You wonder how much longer this situation could last. Sunrise has to come eventually. Then again, you have no way of knowing if either of your visitors will leave by daylight. 

Considering your luck, you wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up staying trapped between them until either their voices or your sleep deprivation drove you insane enough to open the door and window at the same time.

“Ì wðµlÐñ’† êå† åñ¥ þår†§ 𣠥ðµr ßråïñ! Ì’Ð. . .jµ§† håvê å £êw 𣠥ðµr †hðµgh†§, †h冒§ åll. ¥ðµ wðµlÐñ’† êvêñ ñð†ï¢ê, Ì þrðmï§ê.”

“̶T̶r̴u̶s̵t̷ ̶m̷e̴,̷  ̶y̶o̸u̸’̴d̷ ̶n̷o̶t̴i̴c̵e̶ ̷a̴l̶r̵i̶g̶h̴t̸.̷ ̷S̸n̶a̴c̴k̴i̵n̵g̸ ̴o̴n̷ ̶t̵h̷o̸u̸g̸h̸t̸s̶ ̵i̴s̶ ̵a̸ ̵s̴l̸i̸p̸p̶e̴r̵y̸ ̸s̴l̸o̷p̷e̵.̵ ̷E̸v̵e̶n̵ ̸i̷f̴ ̵t̶h̶a̴t̸ ̵w̸a̷s̷ ̸a̴l̸l̶ ̴h̷e̸ ̸d̶i̶d̶,̵ ̷y̸o̶u̴’̵d̷ ̴s̴t̶i̸l̶l̷ ̸w̶i̷s̸h̸ ̴h̴e̶’̴d̶ ̸j̶u̸s̷t̷ ̸k̵i̸l̷l̵e̶d̵ ̸y̸o̴u̵ ̶i̴n̷s̵t̸e̶a̷d̶.̵”

“§hµ† µþ!”

“̴N̶o̴,̷ ̸Y̶O̷U̵ ̸s̴h̸u̷t̷ ̶u̶p̵!̸

@sammys-magical-au  @insane4fandoms  @canceltheact  @callmegkiddo @that-bat  @ayoreneehere  @neons-trash-blog  @anxious-ace  @dleep-deprivation-idk-jelp  @overemotional-cactus  @butterboyfly  @cmaniac123  @echoing-night  @i-dont-like-it-here-please-help   @xyzkiss  @congratscat  @sw33tst4rs

[420technoblazeit]

it's all fun and games trying to pull an all nighter until u start hearing hsit in ur ear and become convinced that something's in the corner watching you. which is to say. i did not in fact pull an all nighter to study for my bio exam bc my paranoia and anxiety took the wheel lmao

i also got jumpscared by fanart of blue kermit on my dash but that's another thing entirely

[immrbrightsideeee]

Having anxiety and paranoia is like one second you're looking at the moon like 'ah, the beauty of nature and nighttime" and the next you're running inside like "holy fucking shit something is about to kill me"

[tommy-and-tubbo]

about the public “cc blogs” on tumblr: (negativity, dereality and anxiety mention, and impersonation cw!)

if you’re not aware, there is a rapidly growing trend of tumblr blogs claiming to be ccs on the dreamsmp.

first, for anyone confused whatsoever if these are authentic or not:

the cc blogs are not genuine. full stop. not a single blog on this site claiming to be a dreamsmp content creator is actually telling the truth. if this were not the case, the cc would 100% announce it elsewhere, like on their twitter or during a stream. there is no reason for them to not plug their tumblr, not even “hating twitter” or wanting to “keep it quiet”.

i am so, so sorry if you have been duped by one of these blogs. just know that you are not alone, and that there are plenty of others that have also fallen for the same trap. in the future, please continue to be wary of any cc blogs on tumblr, because unless they are announced elsewhere i can almost certainly guarantee that they are not genuine. here are some of the harmful effects that a cc roleplaying blog can have:

triggering paranoia and derealization

impersonating real human beings, with no regard to the fact that people they actually look up to would not want to be mimicked while fooling people

causing immense amounts of anxiety as people try to figure out if they’re being lied to

harming the actual ccs by toying with their brand and reputation (even if you think you’re only saying nice things, seriously, drop it)

literally just lying to people. i’ve seen countless people send art, kind messages, and other words intended directly for the cc—not an impersonator. imagine for a second how it feels to realize the response you thought was genuine is actually roleplay.

tricking neurodivergent people that struggle with reading the tone of jokes/disingenuine content

next, i want to talk about what to do if you do see one of these blogs:

just don’t interact. don’t. block and carry on. anon telling them off, or even proper callout posts directed at them, will just make them dig into the act more as an attempt to garner sympathy and cause more of a stir. don’t reblog from them, don’t send an ask, block and move on.

pass it on to mutuals, telling them to block and pass on the message themselves if they feel up to it.

if one of your own friends is running one of these, talk to them about it.

now, if you’re one of the people running these blogs, you might be realizing some of the consequences past a simple prank and freaking out. don’t worry!! as far as i know, none of the ccs have openly spoken out against roleplay blogs that are specified as such. however, plenty of ccs have specific boundaries about rpf, which this falls under, so please check a blog dedicated to cc updates or boundaries for the exact guidelines.

if you are the runner of a content creator roleplay/“kinnie” blog, i implore you to make an announcement to your followers declaring it as a roleplay blog, and if you don’t want to continue recklessly hurting and triggering people, please tag your goddamn posts as “#dereality tw” or something similar. /srs

i know that not every one of these blogs is going to suddenly change overnight, or even read this post. i know that they’re going to keep lying to people, and that the overwhelming majority of them refuse to triggertag. in that case, i direct you back to earlier in this post where i say to just block and carry on. additionally, this post is not about people with delusions, or fictives. i am specifically talking about the people that are actively choosing to harm others.

i have no illusion that my post is going to make the internet stop being, well, the internet, but i hope this manages to reach at least one person and make them reconsider their actions.

additionally, if you have any concerns over whether a cc blog is genuine or not, you can send me an ask with the url and i will confirm or deny it for you.

please consider boosting this post so others in the fandom can see it! thank you so much for reading. ❤️❤️

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

Hey Kat, do you have any tips for managing delusions? In general, but especially medical ones? I keep having reoccurring paranoid delusions of having a terminal illness or some other illness that’ll kill me. So far one thing that’s helped is having people I trust tell me that it’s not true and that if it were they would support me. But I was wondering if there was any coping mechanisms or strategies you know for managing them alone? I feel bad having to constantly message my friends and beg for reassurance that I don’t have cancer or whatever my brains fixating on in that moment

No, unfortunately I don't have any strategies beyond that because my antipsychotic medication has managed my psychotic symptoms so well that anything which has popped up beyond it has been manageable with reality checks by people I trust, extra medication and occasional advice from professionals. So I actually don't have much recent experience managing delusional thinking!

[fishybehavior]

@impulsivefanwriter u told me to write it soooooo /lh

TW: PANIC ATTACK

----

Opening his eyes Zane saw Jay sitting up in their bed, his back was facing him so he couldn't see his face. But he could see him shaking as if he was cold. Zane reached his arm out to his lover. As he touched Jay's arm, Zane immediately recoiled as shockwaves of electricity ran through him.

"DON’T TOUCH ME!!" Jay screamed, scrambling away from Zane. Zane could see him sweating and shaking, and his breathing was short and quick. Recognizing the symptoms, Zane sat up. Jay shook his head and pulled at his hair as his breath became more erratic.

“It’s ok Jay, just breathe. It’s just me Jay, I'm here for you.”

“No you're not,” Jay mumbled as he hugged himself, shaking like a leaf. He wasn’t looking at Zane, more past him. “You’re not my Zane.”

Zane took in a sharp breath. Jay had told him about the erased timeline after his first breakdown, along with some of his trauma. But it took months for Jay to tell him about his fear. Jay described it as paranoia. A paranoia that the world was fake, a trap for him set up by the cruel djinn, and that everything was fake and flat, a fear that became amplified when he had a panic attack like now.

“I am Zane Julien. A nindroid made by Fredrick Julien. I am your boyfriend of 1 year, 3 months, and 15 days. We first kissed in the closet hiding from Kai after we switched his hair gel to temporary hair dye. My right arm was made by you after it was ripped off during a mission. You drew on that arm a smiley face with a sharpie. Here- “ Zane opens the panel of his arm, showing him the simple black smiley face. Trying to show Jay that he was his Zane, a person not here to hurt him, or here because of a cruel hearted djinn.

Jay stares at the smiley face, he still trembled and his breath was still erratic, but Jay looked him in the eye, suspicion mostly gone, replaced with mostly panic and some relief.

Zane offered his hand, “May I touch you?” He asked, and Jay nodded, taking his hand. “Ok, copy me. Out for four, in for seven, then all the way out.”’ Zane coached Jay through their regular breathing techniques, holding both of his hands and smiling warmly. “You’re doing really good,” Zane said as Jay slowly relaxed. His eyes were closed, but he still was shaking a bit, but his breathing was under control as he followed along with Zane.

“How are you feeling?” Zane asked as they finished a fourth round of the breathing exercise.

“Like I’m not going to die.”

“Do you want to move?”

“Yes please,” Jay said, immediately getting out of their bed, Zane following behind.

“What do you need? Distraction or to talk about it?” Zane asked as he let Jay lead him to the kitchen.

“Don’t know,” Jay mumbled as he let go of Zane’s hand and opened the cabinets, digging around for something. Zane started the kettle as Jay found the hot cocoa mix hidden in the back of the cabinets. Two mugs were prepped, and warm water activated the mix, and then Jay was pulling Zane, both of them with warm mugs, into the living room, sitting on the couch. The two sat in the darkroom for a second. Jay was quietly tapping his foot stuck in his thoughts.

“Do you want to talk, or do you want to watch stupid infomercials for a bit?” Zane asked, knowing the habit, hot cocoa, and either talking about it or watching funny infomercials as a distraction, both of them were good and helped Jay. But Jay seemed to be stuck, there was something he wanted to stay.

Reaching for the remote made his decision. “We’ll talk in the morning,” Jay said, and the two of them relaxed and joked with one another as they watched Dareth try to sell gold-plated toasters.

[symphonicsoul]

100% Honesty || Accepting

Anonymous asked:

Asking young Kumo specifically:

How strict are your parents? Are there any rules you wish you could break?

Trigger Warnings: Religion, self blame, high standards, depression, anxiety, panic, negative self talk, gaslighting, arguing, pressuring, rumors, death, fear, fighting, war, paranoia

It's a young boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen years old that stands before them. An upturned brow of snow with hands laced together awkwardly before his chest.

"It depends on the day but extremely." He says in a nervous tone. "Mother is not so forward about it but they both expect much of me so there is no room for error. I am the Celestial Mother's Holy Vessel you see, I cannot fail my people or the blessing that Lady Tiamat has given me. As the Child of White it is my duty to serve them and uphold her teachings.

I wouldn't say say they are strict so much as they have high expectations. What they expect of Usva is not even half of what they expect of me and there is no room for failure. Father, he - he is most displeased when I show difficulty with a task. I am good at most things naturally however, so it is rare for me to do so. As the Celestial Mother's chosen I shouldn't be struggling with such things anyhow so it's only natural that he gets upset with me when I do. "

He shifts as he gives this stranger an awkward smile while jade eyes look forward only to drop and sway off the side.

"As for rules I - oh I wouldn't dream - Father would be so cross with me. Mother too. Oh they would be so disappointed in me. I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing but I - but I - if I could - if I could change something - I - Oh this is blasphemous you must never tell another soul. I wish - I wish I did not have to fight the Demon Gunman. He sounds... he sounds terrifying and I am ... I am scared to do so. Windaria pushes to break the ceasefire every day and there is only so much Father can do to hold them back. I am the Demon Swordsman by right but fighting - it - I am trained but it - it terrifies me .

Oh I do not want to fight him. I do not want to fight anyone. I have disgraced the Celestial Mother and I have sullied her blade. It was made for the salvation of our people and it is my sworn duty to them but I - I do not want to fight with Windaria. I am scared. I've never met one but they say that it's a land of giants with guns that make cracking sounds that spew fire. They say the Demon Gunman commands an army of the dead that he can summon forth to do his bidding with a single command. They say if he looks you in the eyes and you stare for too long you'll go insane from what you see inside them.

I do not want to fight. I do not want to fight him.

But Father pushes me a little more every day. I've heard Mother and Father fighting about it when I was walking in the palace halls. I had finished my lessons early for the day so I do not think they were expecting me to be in the area but I heard... I heard them and I do not want to fight. Mother says I should not have to fight until I am an adult but Father pushes for me to engage them a little more every day. It's like his opinion changes by the day.

One moment he will agree with me, and hear me fully. Father will listen to concerns I have and will treat me kindly and the next he will be so cold. The next he will not listen to a single word I say. I fear there is something wrong with him.... I fear his soul is storming. "

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

I just realized- eating someone for the first time was frightening enough for Caliban… but what happened when the cravings returned? What happened? Did he tell his sister? When did the feelings strike?

(Apologies in advance for how long this got 😅. Dramatic effect just be like that, y'know?)

The aftermath of Caliban's first time was frantic. Neither he nor Azalea were prepared for it. The body on their hands was. . .not technically whole, perse, but it could still be used as evidence. Unfortunately, the siblings couldn't afford to dispose of said body in a more traditional way. Instead, they were forced to merely hide it until a better opportunity arose.

Once that was done, things were quiet. Tense. Caliban and Azalea trusted each other, of course, but waiting for the other shoe to drop never does your psyche any favors. Especially when there's a corpse in your house.

When Caliban's hunger reared its ugly head, he initially thought it was normal hunger. The type he'd felt before the incident. After all, food had been frequently withheld from him before. Since the cause of his malnourishment was. . .gone, he was free to eat as much as he wanted.

And he did just that. Though it didn't take long for Caliban to realize that, despite finally feeling full more often, he never felt satisfied.

Caliban didn't understand. He was getting proper meals now, wasn't he? Did he have some kind of disorder? Was he missing something that he specifically needed? Sure, he found himself wanting meat more than most foods, but meat is very nutritious, so that just made logical sense.

However, Caliban was quick to come to yet another realization. A horrifying one. His mind had been a blur at the time of the incident, but now? Now he was suddenly able to remember the awful sense of relief and joy he'd felt when he'd. . .

It took some time, but Caliban did tell his sister about this. He had to and he knew he had to—the thought of her becoming afraid of him just made him feel sick. Azalea was just as confused and anxious as her brother, but she still did her best to reassure him. She tried everything she could think of in order to help him.

Inevitably, the siblings were forced to make a gruesome conclusion. They'd both been getting better at cooking. . .nobody else knew about what Caliban did. . .and the body was still safely hidden. . .

The rest, as they say, is history.

[br4insoup]

[alex-finechi-is-back]

Panic

[thisblogisblank]

Me, about to consume a new piece of horror media: Oh boy! Hope this doesn't make me irrationally paranoid for the next few days and be terrified of looking out the window at night and walking by pieces of furniture with gaps underneath them like beds and couches and make it impossible to go to sleep at night and-

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

i have surgery like three hours and im super worried i’ll come out while still under the effects of anesthesia

That's not something which actually happens frequently enough to be considered a potential risk. I was also super nervous the one time I had to go under full anesthesia, but everything went just fine - and I'm sure you'll be just fine too!

[t4tstarvingdog]

spiderman pointing meme but it’s the me who needs to sleep or write versus the me that’s about to fine-tooth comb all of my followers to make sure i don’t have anymore [redacted] in there

[aidensm8]

Is it love you fear? Or the rejection itself?

(Virgil angst delivered, anons and @brenpop345 )