#like i will snap out of dissociating just to think about screaming

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

How to Find a Werewolf (a week before the full moon)

The title will probably change lmfao

7 days

Sirius notices the signs from the moment Remus is awake. He's flinching every single time a fork hits a plate in the wrong way, for starters. Sirius ends up gently kicking both James and Peter, forcing them to catch on. It's clearly much too loud in the hall itself, Remus is barely contributing. Not for lack of trying, but he seems more than a little dissociated.

Then it's the walking.

As much as he's trying to hide it, the slight exhales that come with every step is enough to show Sirius that he's in pain. The hip's usually the first of his joints to start acting up, so Sirius wordlessly starts picking up and shoving Remus' textbooks into his own bag. Thankfully, Remus isn't ready to bicker about that.

No, it's much too early for that.

5 days

It's two in the morning when Sirius notices.

He's a light sleeper, so Remus' tossing and turning is more than enough to wake him up.

For a moment he just observes carefully. He knows full well that Remus is going to be exhausted, and the fact that he's still up means his skin must be crawling.

"Moons?" He says softly, and Remus stops in his tracks.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Nah, s'fine," Sirius waves him off easily. "We can go sit by the window, if you want?"

For a moment, he thinks Remus is going to say no and resign to a sleepless night, but instead he just sighs.

"...yeah. If that's okay."

Sirius is already sliding out of their bed, glancing at James and Peter to make sure they're still asleep. Then, he reaches out and offers Remus his hand. Remus takes it, letting himself be led to the big window. The windowsill was charmed years ago. Initially it was to fit the four of them, but four seventh years can't fit on it even when it's been extended. Two, though? It's absolutely perfect.

That's how the two of them end up sitting together on the sill, Sirius wedging the window open slightly and letting the cool air hit them both. He can see the way Remus relaxes as he starts to cool down, eyes sliding shut. He leans his head back against the wall, and Sirius smiles to himself as Remus finally starts to fall asleep.

3 days

It doesn't take long for the anger to hit.

Remus isn't what people expect when they think of a werewolf before the full moon. He doesn't have all consuming, blinding rage. There's no world where Remus Lupin will turn and start screaming at teachers.

Instead, it usually starts pretty suppressed.

At breakfast, he sees Remus' hand tighten around his goblet the moment Snape strolls past, making another snide comment about the moon. It's enough for Sirius to make a mental note not to push anything too far. Bickering can turn into real fighting and hurt feelings much too quickly around the full.

James, however, hasn't caught onto the timeline the way Sirius has.

They can all see Remus fighting his own tiredness in the common room, quill in hand as he absentmindedly tries to do his homework. Remus' handwriting is shit at the best of times, but before the full? It's barely legible.

Sirius' solution is to walk over and sit beside Remus, not saying a word and just making sure Remus knows he has support.

"Moony, you might need to take a break," James says softly, and Sirius almost sighs.

Poor bugger.

"I'm fine," Remus starts, and Sirius feels him tense up beside him. He tries to shoot James a glance that essentially means 'stop fucking talking', but he doesn't get the hint.

"Minnie's offered you an extention. It's probably best to wait until you feel better."

"Christ, I said I was fine! Get off my fucking back!" He snaps, James lapsing into silence.

Okay, it's hit him too.

Sirius tries to wrap an arm around Remus' shoulder, but he's shaken off like it's nothing, Remus standing. He winces as he does it, and Sirius forces himself to take a breath, not get too het up about that.

"You all just need to fuck off! You're all so bloody clingy!"

With that, he's gone. He turns and walks upstairs, and Sirius just shrugs at James.

"Give him a day, it'll be fine."

1 day

Remus doesn't get out of bed the day before.

Sometimes he does, but recently his good days before the moon are getting fewer and further between. The only reason Sirius actually bothers to go to his morning classes is to take notes for Remus, and he makes Pete promise to get Remus' notes for his last few.

That sorted, he heads up to the dorm, a hot chocolate he got from the kitchen in hand. Knocking once, he pushes the door open to find the curtains drawn in the room, the whole dorm flooded in darkness.

"Moony?"

For a moment, he thinks he's asleep, until-

"M'fine." His voice is rough, sounds almost like he's been crying.

Yeah, this is definitely one of the bad ones.

He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as he gets to Remus' bed. At first, he sits on the edge of it, Remus not moving.

"I've got hot chocolate?" He tries.

"...could you put it on the bedside table?" Sirius nods, setting it down.

"D'you need anything?" He asks gently. Not that he needs to ask, he knows what the answer is going to be.

"If you- maybe you could... stay?"

He doesn't waste a moment in climbing into the bed with his partner and wrapping his arms around Remus' waist from behind.

"Sorry I was such a twat before," Remus says quietly, and Sirius smiles to himself.

"Don't worry about it."

To be fair, his body is literally getting ready to break itself. In what world is he going to have boundless excitable energy?

Sirius just wants to take care of him.

"I love you," He says softly, shifting his weight to reach up and press a kiss to Remus' temple.

"I love you too."

#i've been writing a fuckton of hogwarts or war shit #canon compliant and all that #i'm not sure why #but i'm kind of living for it #i miss my muggle aus though #expect at least one of those soon #wolfstar #sirius black #wolfstar oneshot #marauders #remus lupin #remus x sirius #young marauders #moony x padfoot #atyd marauders #marauders oneshot

[blindmagdalena]

May I request something with a homelander x assistant! reader? The reader would be kind of like a new assistant for both homelander/Ashley , since the stress would be getting to Ashley at that point. Ashley plans the interviews and all that, while the reader would be sort of like the “human face” of Vought, who would be there to talk to talk to any people at meetings while Homelander glares in the corner. She also fixes his meals and his “special drinks” Vought says he likes so much.

Reader takes the job to help pay for college, since the pay is just that good. She only knows the basics about The Seven that most people do. She doesn’t watch the news much. Her family had a “thing” about TV in the house, and the habit kind of passed along to her. She’d rather read or something.

Therefore, she only knows in a vague sense what Homelander does on a day to day basis while saving people. Doesn’t know how bloody it gets, so to speak. Maybe this is what saves her when on her first day Homelander loses it and snaps at her on her first day on the job. Homelander flashes his red eyes in warning, and she kind of dissociates, and instead of getting scared, she gets angry at his attitude, then deathly calm.

“You’re upset. I’ll talk to you tomorrow when you’ve calmed down.”

She stupidly turns and starts to walk out from the room.

While, subconsciously, her body might be screaming at her that she’s in real danger, her mind doesn’t realize it. She’s angry because she thinks the Homelander is just being a jerk and trying to intimidate her. Like some kind of, weird, first day hazing that superheroes have. It doesn’t enter the reader’s brain that he could be dead serious.

The walls around her light up red as Homelander’s eyes grow more red, about to fire. He screams her name, the sound bouncing off the walls unnaturally.

The reader’s mind grows more numb. The words escape without her having to think about it.

“See you tomorrow when you feel better, sir.”

The red light on the walls start to dim.

She walks out the door, gets into the elevator, and goes home.

It’s not until she’s home that the weird numbness wears off and she calls her friend, ranting about her new boss’s stupid “intimidation” routine. She’s been through way too many jobs to quit that fast, she scoffs to her friend.

She’ll never realize how close she came to dying.

Interestingly enough, she’ll never realize this exact fact is what caught Homelander’s attention so much.

Things go strangely smoothly between them after that.

A few days later, she receives a bouquet of flowers, with a letter from Vought “congratulating” her on her achievement.

Almost like she passed some sort of test.

Huh.

omg?? anon this is such a good premise!!! i wrote something kind of similar here, with a wholly apathetic and disinterested assistant, but you did such a good job with this ficlet, and it's so well thought out, i feel like you should be the one to write it!

and if you do i am BEGGING to be tagged in it, this is so good!!!

#like fr you basically wrote me a ficlet and i'm just sitting here like #i want more???? #WHAT HAPPENS NEXT ANON #darling anon #homelander x reader #ask and you shall receive #homelander x you

[dairy-farmer]

How differently do you think the dicktim biosib AU would have gone if the reveal happened before Jack and Janet Drake were alive? Dick snapped by the end of the first part of the AU. He didn't trust any of the family and it was likely made worse by Tim regressing in mind.

Speaking of regressing, what if the reveal was brought on by some magical mishap. Robin aged down by some amateur magician's spell. And Nightwing was called on by Bruce who needed help watching over Gotham because the spell didn't age Tim down to the age 3 but 4 or 5, during the earliest years of Tim's ECT when the trauma of seeing your parents fall and being kidnapped was really, really fresh in Tim's mind so he's on a dissociative state. Bruce has no idea what to do. Clearly he needs to investigate what happened to Tim, both in the present and the past, but he can't leave Tim alone (he tried doing that earlier but then little Tim went into a panic attack).

Nightwing comes, albeit unsure how he'll react because he's still having a hard time with Tim sharing his brother's name and looking like him and now being the same age as him. Then he sees Timmy. In hindsight, Bruce thinks that maybe he shouldn't have called his eldest who had a hard time during his first few years, adopted. But then Tim responds!! He recognizes Dick? He called him Dickie?? Suddenly, Bruce has a feral oldest son and a dissociating almost son. Where is Alfred when Bruce needs him? In a sabbatical in England. I need him there to make sure the whole situation really blows up in astronomical proportions.

-🦆

!!!!!!!!!!OH MY GOD!!!!! THIS IS SUCH A TOP TIER CONCEPT!!! the idea that dick found out tim was HIS timmy while jack and janet were still alive would really put dick through so much trauma.

i honestly think that a lot of dick would regress to that same pained bloodthirsty hatred he had for zucco and attack anyone including bruce, clark, and his friends when they try to reason and talk to him. because as hard as he was trying to find timmy, part of him wasn't expecting to find him alive because why would someone kidnap a kid and then just keep them alive (unless they were doing truly despicable things to them)????

but then he does find timmy. he finds him ALIVE.

but terrified. scared. and sobbing in petrified fear when he's not stone cold silent and catatonic.

dick is devastated. if there was a better word to describe he'd be that. he's absolutely gutted and so relieved he could cry. he feels like he's on the verge of throwing up and crying so hard he just stops breathing. when dick finds out that tim had been hit with some magic he'd been concerned. a few magic users had been called in to help with clean up and through the grape vine dick had heard that robin had been hit with something particularly nasty, some kind of time spell.

when bruce had called him he hadn't been surprised to hear him mention tim but he was surprised to be asked for help. bruce's voice is noticeably strained and he tells dick about how alfred is out of town and he really had his hands full with gotham and normally he wouldn't ask but things have really taken a turn with tim and-

dick can hear a child start cryng and screaming on the other end of the line. he can hear what sound like little frantic fists starting to bang on a door and the muffled cries grow louder and bruce curses and presumably tries to get to tim. he can hear bruce's strained voice go from a low whisper to assurance and comfort as a little boy sobs in a way that has dick's chest going tight.

it's not that dick doesn't like tim. it's just that tim...he just...he brings back bad memories for dick and being in the cave and hearing bruce yell 'tim' or alfred say 'master tim' or even dick being forced to say the name tim and not mean his...

it hurts. dick hasn't been to see a therapist or a psychiatrist ever but he's fought enough of them and he's pretty sure being close to tim is not good for his health. he'll get over it. he'll overcome the mental barrier eventually but until he does he resolved to keep his distance.

but hearing a child cry and hearing bruce plead with tim that it was alright and he was here now and he was sorry for leaving while tim was asleep-

dick isn't heartless. and something...something about hearing some try and console a sobbing child named tim just twists something in dick's gut and he can't, in good conscience, tell the lie about being too busy that was on the tip of his tongue.

bruce sends him a batplan on autopilot to his location and dick arrives in just a few short hours. bruce tries to call a handful of times before giving up and just forwarding the case file of what he's accumulated so far.

dick reads it over, growing more disturbed the closer he gets. tim had been been hit with a spell by the magician in custody of the league. initially it had knocked him out but after getting medical attention and a consult from a magic user it was determined that tim had been affected by a time inversion spell. those spells are tricky because they can only be removed by the one who made it and as far as they could tell the magic user was an amaeteur and nowhere near the level to undo a spell of this complexity.

their recommendation was to get tim somewhere safe where he could be contained.

bruce had done that.

only to greatly regret it when tim woke up as a five year old and immediatly started panicking about being locked in a room, begging bruce to let him out.

bruce suspects tim to be the victim of some kind of domestic abuse. it hurts dick's heart to read that. bruce notes about how the sight of bruce in the cowl had frightened tim so terribly he'd urinated over himself.

somehow dick can detect the shame in bruce's writing as he reads that.

the picture painted is not a nice one. tim is anxious, skittish, he's frightened of loud noises, and of being left alone. he vomits when upset and he has a stutter in his voice. bruce has noted that tim gets out of breath quickly and is easily fatigued by too much physical or emotional activity.

the part that disturbs bruce the most is the borderline catatonia where tim will withdraw and enter a sort of headspace where he's almost... mind-controlled. he obeys bruce's every word but doesn't respond back even when prompted. he'll eat and drink if encouraged which he won't do normally because tim suffers from nausea which won't allow him to keep down food for long.

bruce has run blood panels, scans, and even pulled tim's decade old medical files. only for nothing to be physically wrong with him. tim's medical file is suspiciously thin and bruce notes how he just gets a weird feeling as he reads it over. he needs to look into it. there's something in his gut telling him something isn't right.

tim is terribly traumatized and bruce gets the feeling that it's not from him seeing dick's parents die at the circus. tim had told him about how he'd nightmares of that night for years but never in a way that told bruce that it would result in this kind of state.

tim's hair is so thin and bruce has included photos where it can seen that there are small patches where the hair is so thin it's nearly a bald spot and it's with dawning horror that bruce realizes it's most likely because of telogen effluvium. hair loss brought about by extreme stress.

tim's blood test results also show similarly concerning results. tim at five years old has the cortisol and catecholoamine levels of someone six times his age.

it's bad.

dick feels concern for tim deepen when he lands. he has no idea what he's walking into.

the cave is empty and dick remembers how the file said tim hadn't liked how dark the cave was so bruce had moved the operation to the manor. dick heads up. he changes out of his uniform first because the last thing he wants is to upset a toddler even more.

dick passes through the cuckoo clock entrance into bruce's office and can hear some soft crying distantly. so dick follows it.

he's not sure what it is in his mind that 'clicks' when he walks into the sight of bruce in a wife beater and pajama shorts carrying and rocking a little baby that can't possibly be five because he looks no older than two. bruce looks haggard and tired because he'd made it three days before calling dick for help in gotham. there are dark circles under his eyes and he looks like he hasn't shaved as he softly whispers to a whimpering child curled up in his arms. tim is in little yellow duckie pajamas. there's still a tag on the collar of the shirt hanging out of the back of it. at the sound of dick's footsteps tim lifts his head and bruce looks so relieved as they both turn to look at him.

tim lifts his little head and turns a chubby red-cheeked and tear stained face to him.

something in dick stops cold. it's like the entire world slows down and part of him distantly wonders if this is what wally feels all the time.

tim's sweet baby eyes settle on him and his expression crumbles as small arms stretch out for him and a fresh wave of tears as tim brokenly reaches for him, little voice hoarse as he yells "daddy!"

something snaps in dick. it's almost audible in his ears. it sounds like a bone buckling under pressure and just...snapping.

that face. that voice. that call of daddy that was always so joyous and followed by shrieking laughter as dick and timmy's dad would lift tim up and toss him in the air before catching him. only now that voice had none of the happiness. just pure desperation and fear and it's like dick gains tunnel vision. all he sees is his precious baby timmy who was taken from him being held back in the arms of a man who tugs tim back as tim tries to escape him.

his timmy screams and a decades worth of rage and pain races to the front of dick's mind and turns him into an animal.

dick's first instinct is to get his innocent baby brother away from the thing holding him. but he takes two steps and tim is pulled further away with that THING blocking his view and that's when dick just decides to kill it.

it'd be easy. like snapping the neck of a dog snapping at him. at some point in the scuffle dick has his teeth in the thing's arm and tim suddenly gets thrown onto a nearby couch. tim shrieks as he's in the air and starts sobbing when he lands.

and as much as dick wants to get rid of this THING as much as he wants to make it pay for scaring his timmy- dick is not about to lose his timmy again.

so dick runs. he snatches his timmy and runs, weaving and dodging and ignoring the yelling behind him. all he cares about is the little, warm body curled up against him and shaking.

dick finds an old crawlspace, a corner that sparks something in his memory about aged hands pushing food and juiceboxes in and a light shining in as his new guardian begged dick to come out.

it's a tight squeeze with timmy but dick recalls the big space at the end with a little window thining down on the lawn below. dick knows they will be safe there and that THING behind him is too big to fit through it.

timmy is softly sobbing against him, nuzzling close and hiccuping and he's cradled close and dick is only barely biting back his tears as he hastily examines tim. his little hands, his face, his little legs, and baby tummy. dick bites back a sob at tim's bald spot and pushes down the vicious snarl that wants to rip out of him. his timmy is too thin. his cheeks aren't as rosy and there are dark circles under his eyes, his timmy isn't as round and sweet and chubby and dick wants to cry at the thought of his timmy starving to death. it'd been one of the nightmares that haunted dick the worst. of timmy falling into the sewer or some big hole and crying but no one coming to save him and slowly wasting away. nightmares of timmy clutching his baby timmy and sobbing at ever rumble, crying out 'dickie! dickie i'm so hungry!'

dick trembles as he cradles the back of tim's tender head, stroking his baby fine hair and rocking the two of them, murmuring how it was okay dickie was here, dickie was here now just like he'd promised tim he would be.

and his baby timmy makes a soft sound at that.

"dickie?" he asks in that heartachingly sweet voice that haunted dick's every living moment for years. "dickie? dat you?"

dickie can't hold it back and lets a sob burst forth from his chest, sniffling as he nods, pulling timmy's sweet baby body back far enough so he can see him. timmy's eyes are dulled and there's something....broken in them. it's like he's looking right through dick.

"dickie." tim says in soft voice so low dick has to strain to hear it. "you look just like daddy."

tim breathes it so reverently but as soon as the words leave his mouth it's like a puppet with it's stings cut. tim goes limp, blank eyes somehow clouding over like a dead fish's.

to say dick panics would be an understatement. his timmy is hurt somehow even though dick has carefully checked his body, feeling every single one of his little ribs and with each one swearing he will make the one that did this pay. there is nothing dick can do but hold his baby timmy tighter to him. hot, vengeful tears burn trails down dick's cheeks and he holds back so much of his anger in favor of being able to gently touch his timmy. his timmy is in his arms now, his timmy is safe with him now and dick will make sure nothing ever happens to him again. dick will never let anyone take his timmy from him ever again.

bruce of course freaks out because dick has clearly gone completely crazy and taken tim with him. they've retreated to a little crawlspace dick used to go into when he first moved to the manor, he'd spend hours inside before coming out for the bathroom or food. those first few months with dick had been terrible. bruce had never had to care for a traumatized child but after they caught zucco dick had waited for days beside the phone, waiting for any news about tim. until it became clear none was coming and that's when....IT started. the fits of violence, the screaming, the crying, the hiding away.

it's like dick became a completely different person. he ended up accidentally cutting alfred with a shard of glass once and bruce had needed to hold him down. bruce had tried asking child psychologists, doctos who specialized in child development. they'd all wanted to get dick committed or put on medications and so bruce had stopped asking them. bruce knew grief, he knew it well. he knew there was a howling beast in dick's chest that was sobbing for that innocent baby that had been stolen away. so bruce hadn't held it against him. and eventually...dick started getting better. he didn't remember those first few months, all those instances of violence and self harm when he'd bang his head against the wall before bruce could stop him were evaporated from his memory and bruce didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.

that flash....that glimpse of...something else that had crossed dick's expression just before he attacked was something that bruce only saw in his nightmares.

bruce doesn't know why dick took tim. what inspired such a violently animalist streak in him that bruce had only ever seen one other time in dick when he-

....

bruce is a detective. he gets all the facts and he gets the truth no matter how much it hurts. bruce's mind is not flawless and it's not perfect and sometimes it takes him awhile to put things together.

but everything starts fitting together so rapidly.

that day, that first day tim had come into their lives. when he told them that he'd been present on the day of the flying grayson's murder, that he'd been in the crowd with his parents....

this doesn't mean that the drakes, a family of significant wealth in gotham...kidnapped a child in broad view of strangers. the risk associated with such a move, the uncertainty of success....

what if tim had screamed? what if someone had seen?

it doesn't make sense. a family like the drakes don't lack resources. if they'd wanted a child they had so many options. their money gave them so many options it doesn't make sense for them to ...to see a child and then decide to take them.

but don't some of the most mentally disturbed criminals never act in ways that make sense.

and all bruce can do is think.

think about how they could've adopted, used ivf, had a surrogate. if they weren't willing to wait they could've purchased a child as well.

bruce had no proof the drakes were the kidnappers. it's entirely possible a trafficker had seen tim and taken him because the opportunity was there.

but that's not how traffickers function, not good ones at least, not ones that wanted to keep their operation up and running and away from the attention of the police. it pissed bruce off to no end to see on the internet how grossly people would spread lies and fear monger about trafficking. traffickers didn't stalk random people and then put zipties on their windshields or mark their front doors with paint so they can be identified later. kidnapping a person draws unwanted attention. most people don't even realize when they're seeing real trafficking. they think it's only poor neighborhoods but it could be anywhere and it could happen to anyone. but one thing that's certain is that it's almost always someone the victim knows. a friend, a boyfriend, an uncle, a father. somone you trust, somone you're not suspicious of, someone you might even depend on.

traffickers don't just see children walking around by themselves and decide to take them.

so it was the drakes. the drakes stole a child.

tim's thin medical file, his strange birth certificate from florida a state notoriously difficult to extract copies of documentation from, a state that hasn't yet digitized it's state clerical office and records so bruce can't just pull up the documents.

bruce knows that dick is unstable at mentions of his little brother. he's seen the aftermath of the breakdowns of how he'll become recluse at particularly brutal cases involving children. he knows that dick on some level hates him for security measures he instilled to protect him like getting his blood enchanted so enemy magic users won't be able to track him down if they ever get dick to bleed or get a lock of his hair. they were measures that protected dick but ultimately assassinated his changes of finding tim through their biological connection.

bruce knows dick's regrets, he's tried so hard to make dick not feel the pain of losing his last family member. bruce worked tirelessly those first few months because a little boy couldn't just disappear. but he had.

sometimes bruce wondered if the never-ending pain of wondering what happened to your loved one was worse than having them die. at least if they died you'd have the closure of knowing what happened to them. the uncertainty of his brother's fate tormented dick every day of his life.

and now they'd reached the climax of that lifetime of pain.

bruce hissed as carefully irrigated the wound where dick had bitten a chunk out of his forearm. he was going to need serious antibiotics for this. dick was somewhere in the manor and bruce was near certain he wouldn't hurt tim but at the same time...there was no telling what he'd do in his current state and tim was already so fragile as it was.

bruce needed to find out what had been done to tim while with the drakes. it'd been slow but bruce had managed to pry tim's birthday out of him.

timothy grayson disappeared when he was 3 years old meaning that at 5, his abduction was still fresh and who knows what had been done to tim in that time.

as a thirteen year old tim was better adjusted. he was smart and social and he didn't appear to have any clear indications of past trauma. but clearly bruce had missed something.

he'd missed something big.

he'd already dropped the ball but he couldn't again. he needed to make sure he did everything right this time. no more mistakes.

when it comes to the drakes being alive i do think that dick is fighting within himself to go after them. he knows where they are, they send tim, his baby brother, the baby they STOLE post cards of their approximate location. dick had been nice to zucco when taking him in but he was not going to be nice to the drakes- not after he sees how they've tortured his baby timmy for years.

but he also doesn't want to leave tim to go after them. and bruce knows that and for dick's sake and not the drakes, bruce is hurrying to put the case together to have them arrested and put away before dick can find away to care for tim and hunt them. dick isn't going to take tim with him to take down the drakes, not when he knows how panicked and distressed his baby brother becomes at the thought of them. but spending more time with tim only makes his hatred grow. when tim is lucid he cries about how he thought dick was dead- how THEY had told him they'd all died and tim was alone now.

tim had tried running back to the circus but he was always too slow and they caught him. they showed him posters and newspaper articles about haly's circus in other cities and told tim that they left him behind that they didn't want him anymore.

each word and confession just fuels the rage and hatred in dick's heart.

dick has spent his entire life fearing the worst and now the worst has faces and names. and although tim never says it, dick thinks the worst of them. they're murders, pedophiles, kidnappers- every horrible fate, every moment dick lay awake thinking of his timmy, he's going to pay the drakes back for every single second.

bruce gets to the drakes before dick can. but dick's hatred for them never goes away. even the barest mention of their names has him near snarling so people know not to bring it up.

tim is still a baby and bruce can't even imagine what tim will feel getting turned back to normal and learning what has transpired. dick is so possessive of tim, he won't even let clark get near tim.

but bruce can't blame him. if someone had brought jason back to him all those months ago he would've held him and never let go.

but even though these two brothers have been reunited a decade after they were tragically torn apart, it all still carries the heavy air of devastation.

tim will be back to normal eventually and when he is how will both of them cope to the changes in their lives?

bruce wishes he had an answer. but he didn't. he really didn't.

#anonymous #asks #answered asks

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — compromises #8

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: captivity, restraints, punishments, shock collar, electrocution, dissociation, emotional whump, intimate whumper, non-con touching (not sexual), blood and injury, whumper caretaking (whumper is the reason they need it in the first place?)

Leo was exhausted.

Each question buzzed through his brain, sinking straight to his stomach, and he hardly even had the strength to brace himself against the shocks everytime the mercenary pressed the button.

He was slumped haphazardly in his seat, a cold sweat beading on his forehead, panting so hard his chest was burning irrevocably. Whimpers spilled from his lips, mumbling weakly in an attempt to find his voice and tell him to stop.

Leo had begged and begged Roy to stop.

He’d wanted nothing more than to avoid those questions; those prodding, personal ones that he was shooting at him, but he caved under the pressure nonetheless.

Caved until he was sobbing and screaming at him, telling him just about anything he asked for.

Leo felt painfully miserable, as he shifted in the restraints. His ankle was numb. He was sure the agony was blending into each other, and Roy must have aggravated the injury, making the long stretch of recovery even longer.

He sucked in a horrible breath, throat and mouth painfully dry.

Roy had asked all about his home life. All about everything that had made him run away, everything that he was still gripping onto. His stomach felt pitted with dread at the mere thought of what he’d said.

“M-My mother...” He remembered blubbering, after begging Roy to stop the shocks. “...she left us. She didn’t want anything to do with us and she packed her bags and left...”

He remembered the way his voice had cracked, barely able to suck in a violent breath before he was choking on his sobs again.

“My father became depressed a-and he...he couldn’t handle it. He didn’t want anything to do with me either. H-He stopped teaching me violin, he stopped talking to me, he, he...”

He’d sniffled, feeling shame creep up his spine. He was truly pathetic. He could hardly keep his hyperventilating hiccups in his throat, head hung low and hair falling haphazardly in front of his face.

“I ran away, b-because he couldn’t handle her leaving, a-and he pushed me away too,” he’d continued, breaths low and deep. “I couldn’t live with it. That’s it, that’s it, I swear...please, stop. Please, I’m begging you.”

Roy had, his lips barely twitching into a smirk, and his expression satisfied. He’d praised Leo in a twisted form of affection, taking the collar off his throat and gently pushing his hair back. He’d promptly left up the stairs, leaving Leo to shiver in the chair, numb.

He stared blankly at a spot on the ground, struggling to keep his eyes open.

He just wanted to drift off into the depths of his mind and never come back; he didn’t want to deal with this situation anymore, and he didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to do anything, but shut himself off and try to imagine himself anywhere but here.

Roy returned with another bag, this time full of medical supplies. His steely eyes watched Leo for a moment as he closed the door behind him, before approaching him with those ghost-like footsteps.

“Lion?” He drawled, leaning down and tilting his head to try and get a look at his face. He noticed the way the secretary’s eyes looked — glazed over, completely fixed, as if he was in a strong trance. The mercenary pressed his lips together, before straightening up with an abrupt sigh.

“Fuck, get a hold of yourself,” he grumbled, pressing a hand to his forehead and tilting his head back. Leo didn’t react, not even when Roy firmly patted his cheek, trying to snap him out of it. Closing his eyes, the mercenary decided that he would have to call it a day.

Slicing the duct tape keeping him trapped to the chair, he easily hefted the light man into his arms, patting his back as he did so.

“You’re so thin,” he sighed, gently lowering him down onto the mattress. “You’ll be skin and bone soon, lion.”

The man got to work on what he intended. Gently dabbing down the purpled marks collaring his throat, and checking his tongue to make sure he hadn’t bitten it took up only a fraction of his time, as he tipped the contents of the bag onto the ground, and began to wrap his ankle in a splint.

He worked expertly, as if he’d done this plenty of times before, tipping a number of different pills onto his hand to help with the swelling and pain, and wrapping an arm around Leo’s shoulders.

He was so much smaller compared to him, Roy felt as though each grasp engulfed him. He helped the disoriented man swallow down the medicine, before lowering him back down, setting his ankle on the pillow, and chaining him him.

When he stepped off, he heard a faint crinkle.

A frown found its way onto his face as he swept up the remains of the glass he’d shattered, tutting softly under his breath.

After clearing everything up, Roy shrugged off his jacket. He was always radiating pleasant heat, so he draped the jacket over Leo’s form, drowning his figure. He didn’t hesitate to pick up his bag, and make his leave.

It wasn’t like he was much fun like this anyway; Roy much prefered making him squeal and squirm when he had the inkling of freedom just in his grasp.

When he made it to the top of the stairs, he stilled.

His eyes drifted down to hand, wrapped in tissue. The blood was soaked through, reflecting in his eyes, making his throat bob. He clenched it, letting his fingers dig painfully into the flesh, and a trembling exhale fell from his lips before he could stop himself.

It was making his heart pound in his chest. The adrenaline that had sparked when he’d seen the man coming for him, milking the confession out of him through his tears, was something that made him shiver with excitement.

Keeping him down in the basement wasn’t much fun.

Roy knew the bird would try to fly if the cage was left open. So open, it would be.

–

It must have been weeks of being trapped down there.

Leo felt like he was starting to lose his mind, waking up every morning — could he even call it that when he didn’t have a single grasp on the time? — to the same, bleak walls, windowless space, same mattress and chair.

A diet of porridge and water hadn’t changed, as it didn’t seem Roy knew how to make anything else.

Dark circles had easily formed under his eyes, and his ghostly complexion stood out from the black jacket the mercenary had laid over him the night of the interrogation. It had become the only sense of comfort and warmth during the mind numbing experience, and he found himself curled up with it, or sitting with it draped around his shoulders and pulled around his body at every chance he got.

The mercenary hadn’t hurt him since then; Leo knew it was because he had been as obedient as could be, not attempting an escape when he was blindfolded and lead upstairs. The secretary was grateful each time he could stretch his legs, and the weight on his healing ankle improved everytime he did.

Roy placed pills on his tongue, checked his splint, and came down to either give or retrieve his food and water.

Leo’s body was overcome by a horrible depression, lay subject to being sprawled on the mattress and counting away the seconds in his head. Soon, even that became too much effort for him, and he let his body shut off, imagining himself elsewhere, playing the violin or having a lunch break with his co-workers.

He weakly gripped the jacket, drawing it further over his shoulders until it was under his nose.

The fabric even had Roy’s scent clinging onto it, and Leo’s stomach coiled at the fact it was the only thing bringing him comfort.

He liked it; the warmness, the comfort, having another person’s scent to accompany him while he slept. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep if it wasn’t constantly bunched over his face, blocking out the lights and cacooning him in a pleasant warmth.

He gingerly licked his lips, the flesh dry against his tongue. His fingers deftly traced the markings on his wrist, lightly dragging along each line. It wasn’t sore anymore; Roy had applied an ointment to it every once in a while, which took the redness out of his skin. The cuts were slowly healing, leaving noticeable scars in their wake.

When the door clanked open, Leo didn’t get up. He closed his eyes, hoping Roy might mistake him for being asleep, and leave him alone.

He didn’t have that much luck, since the mercenary had already tugged the jacket off his body, and it made his eyes snap open in surprise, turning to face him with a shocked expression.

“Shake yourself awake, sleeping beauty,” the mercenary smiled, his tone leaving only a slither of emotion as it always did.

Leo tensed at the sight of him, his eyes drifting over to the jacket, before snapping back to him in fear. Roy tilted his head, and it was then that the secretary noticed he was clutching two crutches in his hand.

He gawked, confused.

“I’d like to ask you a question,” Roy perked up, his eyes fixated on him. Leo barely found the strength to speak, but the words were slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

“Yes?” He croaked softly.

“So eager,” he chuckled, lip quirking with a subtle quirk at the corner. “How well can you cook?”

Leo blinked. He processed the question once more in his head. Then he blinked again. “...what?”

“I’m asking you if you can cook.”

Leo didn’t dare shift into a sitting position, staying on his elbows. His lip quivered as a breathless squeak left his mouth.

“I-I...do you mean...drugs?”

Roy squinted his eyes. “Drugs? No, lion. Food. I’m talking about food. Can you cook food?”

His face went scarlet red in embarrassment, the heat rivalling that of an oven as it pooled into his skin, and warmed the shell of his ears. He shut his mouth in humiliation, letting his eyes drop to the ground swiftly.

He nodded.

Leo had lived alone for a few years; cooking came easy to him.

“Good,” the mercenary hummed, straightening up and letting the crutches balance on the floor, jacket draped over his arm. Leo stared at it with begging eyes, his bottom lip tucking in. “Here’s the arrangement, lion. In exchange for cooking, for me, yourself, and whoever else might come along, I’ll let you upstairs.”

Leo’s eyes lit up, expression switching almost instantly.

“You can take a spare room. Sleep in a bed, and start walking around on that ankle.” He rattled the crutches for good measure. “It goes without saying — don’t try to escape. Don’t attack me again, and don’t think you can find a way to call for help. I won’t hesitate to ring that pretty little neck of yours if you step out of line.”

Cold sweats broke out along the back of his neck, hairs prickling to attention. Leo didn’t doubt Roy would do just that. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat, nodding his head eagerly.

Anything to get out of here. Anything to sleep in a proper bed.

Roy smirked, and bent down to ruffle his hair. The secretary winced under the touch.

“Good boy.”

It took a moment for Leo to get to his feet, barely able to stand by himself without Roy’s thick arm secured around his waist. His trembling fingers dug into his shirt, pressing tightly against his chest as the man released him for just a moment, only to drape the jacket over his shoulders and fix his arms inside.

It was far too big for him while he was wearing it, drowning his malnourished body, yet it was hard to resist those pretty eyes when Leo couldn’t take his gaze off the thing.

“Come on, arm through,” Roy murmured under his breath, helping Leo fumble his way into the crutches, gripping onto them weakly. He wobbled as a horrible wave of dizziness gripped him, something that had often started to occur when he was on his feet for too long.

But he bit down, and ignored it. There was no way he was coming back down here. No way.

Hobbling up the stairs was difficult, but Roy guided him easily, seemingly amused by his struggles. Leo had a clammy forehead and hands by the time they made it up to the top, and his shallow breathing almost made him miss the sight in front of him.

A house.

He had been under a huge house the entire time, one he could only assume was Roy’s. It made his stomach curl, not being here without a blindfold, but he made sure to drink in every little detail he could. All the framed paintings on the wall, the furniture, the huge television...

His fingers curled around the crutch, almost turning white.

“Mercenary business pays good,” was Roy’s only remark, watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Let’s get you to your room, hm?”

Leo’s heart was thrumming in his chest.

tag list – @unorganisedalienrubbish @d-cs @rabidrabidme @sordayciega @burningkittypoet @whumpawink @mannerofwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @welcome-to-the-whumpfest

#whump #whump writing #whump scenario #whumpblr #whump drabble #whump fic #whump series #whump snippet #whump tropes #whumper #whumpee #guns for hire #leo and roy #writing #my writing #series #woof woof #avvail whumps

[vivisection-and-vampyrism]

Home Sweet Home part five

Content Warnings: Sunlight, Severe Burns, Stockholm Syndrome, Dissociation, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Human Whumpers, Vampire Whumpees

Note: I didn't front yesterday so I missed Home Sweet Home Wednesday. Have this a day late.

October was having one of those… reality dissolving episodes. For lack of a better description.

The kind where nothing around it felt quite real, and it could barely process what anyone around it was saying or doing. It hated these episodes.

They were annoying, but not quite aggravating. Like a mild itch it just couldn't reach. Only inside its brain rather than on some odd patch of skin.

Keeping track of what was occurring would prove important. Just until it got over itself.

They were outside now. A bright sun shone in the sky, its light painful despite October's red tinted glasses. That was probably what had caused the episode, even though it knew it wasn't the one about to be punished.

Odessa's wrists and ankles were bound to the railing of the porch, with the nasty silver chains Falkner kept in his garage. Not particularly surprising. They couldn't have her running away, now could they?

Finally able to apply rational thought to its situation, October began to feel better. Just a little more thinking now, and it could find its way out of the mental fog just in time to enjoy the spectacle those hunters were about to put on.

They were talking. It needed to pay attention to what was being said. That was important.

But all it could hear was the neighbor's sprinkler, and the mildly busy suburban roads surrounding the neighborhood. All the words coming from human tongues sounded like gibberish.

It was as though October had completely forgotten English after all its hard work to learn. Then again, it doubted it could even understand its native Arabic in this peculiar state of mind.

Falkner snapped his fingers under October's nose. "Are you listening?"

Suddenly, under threat of punishment, October could understand what he was saying. The world around it was still covered in a dream-like film, but that would pass.

"No, sorry," October apologized. "I was spacing out. I'll do better, I promise."

"You didn't miss anything important," Crawford said dismissively.

"Do you think we actually need to tie the boy out in the sun, or should we just shove him out there and watch him melt?" Hydra asked. "I doubt he'll make it very far."

"Let's see," October said, a sudden sadistic mood overcoming its anxieties.

Technically, it wasn't supposed to be the one punishing Odessa via torturing Pavel. But it wasn't like Falkner actually gave a fuck. It could get away with murder, so long as its victim wasn't human.

Pavel still had a blank eyed expression, and only reacted to being shoved off the porch when sunlight made direct contact with his skin.

Then he simply screamed bloody murder, desperately trying to cover his face, hindered by the chains binding his arms behind his back.

It was frankly pathetic.

October fell utterly in love with the sound of Pavel's screams. It secretly wished for Odessa to fuck up again just so it could continue listening to him. Or maybe it would just find its own ways of tormenting him. His crying was probably even prettier.

"Very nice," Falkner said appreciatively. "You're right Hydra, don't think he's going anywhere."

"I'm sorry!" Odessa shrieked. "I'm sorry! I don't know what else you want me to say, but I'll say it! Stop it! Just stop!"

"This is a punishment," Falkner said, sounding almost bored. "The more you complain, the longer it'll last. Maybe now you'll learn something."

Odessa bit her tongue, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. For once, she didn't look angry, but terrified beyond all reason. This filled October with a twisted sense of satisfaction. If she had listened to it sooner, this wouldn't be happening.

Unlike his sister, who couldn't even bear to look upon Pavel's misery, October took great pleasure in watching his burns graduate to first degree to second degree. It leaned forward on the balcony, getting as close as it dared without risk of being burned.

"He's not as tough as October was," Ivor observed. "How strange. You would think all vampires would react the same."

October was used to being talked about like it wasn't there, and didn't bother responding to Ivor's words.

Pavel's burns were now reaching the third degree stage. The bubbling white blisters charred over in a deep shade of gray, and the half of his face not pressed to the ground was beginning to look like, well, not a face.

The only mercy afforded was that he had been allowed to keep his clothes, so most of his body was protected by several layers of cotton. He had stopped screaming now, probably because his tongue was too badly damaged.

"I think that's good," Falkner said, showing a little more restraint than usual. "Go get him."

Ivor and Hydra stepped off the porch, and hauled Pavel to his feet. He couldn't support his own weight, but it still wasn't difficult to bring him back into the shade.

October thought he looked even cuter with half his face charred into oblivion, but didn't say so out loud.

"Now," Falkner said. "What have we learned?"

"I'm sorry," Odessa said, choking back her tears. "Please, do whatever you want, just don't hurt him anymore."

"That doesn't answer the question. I suggest cooperating, unless you want to see your brother hurt again."

Odessa stared down at the ground as she spoke, deeply ashamed of every word that came from her mouth. "I learned to behave. I won't talk back. Or make a fuss. I care too much about my brother."

"Very good. You're a fast learner." Falkner smiled, more cruel than happy. "I think we can go back inside now."

Taglist: @sulnusoup13 @heavenlyeden @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @excessive-vampires @pigeonwhumps

#Hart rambles #Whump #Pet whump #Vampire whump #Whump writing #Human whumpers #Vampire whumpees #Whumpblr #Whump series

[3mutantsinatrenchcoat]

Juicy jury angst

@angelpuns owns Eugene (no hate towards him PLEASE, I wrote this on my own and with permission to show Eugene angry)

Don't worry guys! They are still family, just having a little bit of a fight

Tw/cw: cigarettes, fighting, dissociation, alot of guilt (from three), slight descriptions of feeling like body melting, Three not taking accountability for half of the story

Hurt no comfort

---

Now, he will admit he is a thief. He steals from big Mama, he steals from yokai, people on the street, stores…anything shiney he can get his hands on. His greedy little hands.

If he could, Three would probably steal candy right from a baby. Not because he is mean, not because he is evil. Simply put he doesn't understand the world, he sees people have things he thinks people he cares about should have…and,...well. He takes them.

He usually never steals from those close to him but his boss, Eugene…well, he wouldn't let him have something. And he wanted to be just like him, but stores won't let him buy it and he can't get behind the counters so he went into his room.

He snatched the plastic lighter and the carton of cigarettes and sat in the middle of the room. He struggled to strike the lighter before he decided to use the flames coming from his jaw to light it.

It didn't take long for the smell of the bitter smoke to fill the air in the room. He didn't have a lower jaw but he did his best to copy how he remembered Eugene using them, breathing in….

And oh that BURNT. It burnt his throat and his chest, leaving him coughing it up, only adding the burn to his nose hole and the roof of his top jaw, some of the smoke coming out from his eye sockets.

Three cringed at it, he didn't understand how Eugene could do it. But Eugene was cool and strong so of course he had to do it too!

Eugene would never do anything that's purposely bad for him! So maybe it's just a new experience he had to live through.

He never saw Saturn do it, or Ra. Only Eugene and a few of the guards off at the hotel.

Or the people in their fancy get ups and makeup and masks, hair heavily sprayed with hair products and longer cigarettes that smell even worse than these ones.

But what hurt more was when Eugene found him not even a few minutes later. He could see the anger in his flames as they raised a little higher. He could feel the anger through his stomps, how he snatched the cigarettes out of his hand, how his voice sounded rougher as he screamed at him.

He couldn't hear what Eugene was saying, it was as if he tuned it out. It wasn't intentional he just…couldn't. It was as if Eugene was screaming at him from under water. He just…couldn't hear him.

He could only hear bits and pieces of it as Eugene took the items from his hands.

"DON'T TOUCH MY SHIT"

"LITTLE CROOK"

"GET OUT!"

It wasn't everything he said but it's what he caught onto the most. He starts zoning back into the conversation as Eugene grabs him by the arms and takes him out the room, firmly planting him outside the door before slamming it shut.

Three turns and looks at the door, frustration growing in his chest. Eugene could smoke so why couldn't he!? And so what if he touched them he was going to buy a new pack next time he went out!

He gets up and storms to his room. He doesn't even know what Eugene said, he doesn't. He knows three sentences. So it isn't like he can just figure out exactly what to say when Eugene calms down.

He closes his door and climbs onto his bed. He hated this, when they fought. Not…not play fought like genuinely fought. When the two would get angry and snap at each other and walk away. Sure they would be okay later but…this time it felt different, it felt worse.

It didn't help that the frequency from Eugene was off, it felt angry. It felt…somehow worse than how Big Mama's angry was.

What was he to do…what could he do?...

Nobody was home, he wouldn't be allowed down the stairs because of the baby gate…he doesn't know what exactly got Eugene so mad about it. I mean he knew that taking the cigarettes was bad, but it isn't like half the gifts he gives them aren't stolen! He's never gotten in trouble with it before so why was he now?..

Not only that Mama Saturn and RA were out in town for the whole day…so what could he do. He couldn't ask them what to do.

He didn't like this, his throat still burned, his chest hurt and his hands hurt. He didn't like this, he sat there in silence staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever.

He gets up and hops off the bed, heading down the hall to Eugene's room, he turns the handle and opens it, seeing the baby gate put between him and the room.

"Eugene I wanna sit in there with you" he looks at him sitting at his desk. He watched Eugene glances at him and then go right back to what he was doing.

"Eugene! I want to sit in there remove it-" he pushes on the baby gate.

He huffs and watches Eugene through the bars before he tries to climb it, struggling. "Eugene! Are you still mad!" He huffs and grunts as he slips and lands back on the floor.

He huffs and looks between the gate at Eugene, who still ignored him. Three felt the hurt in his hands get worse as he stands up and sticks his arm through it. "Eugene!.."

He couldn't get to him, he hated this. He wanted to be in there with him like he usually is. He grunts as he tries to reach him, even though Eugene was a good few feet away.

"Brother!" He shouts at him, his voice cracking with desperation before Eugene stood up. Three's tail wags slightly and he backs up to be let in only for Eugene to reach over the baby gate and slam the door, without so much as a look at him.

His tail slowly stops and he stares at the door, blinking a few times.

"... Eugene..?.." his voice cracks slightly, he must have really pissed him off now. He didn't understand, all he did was try to be like HIM. What was wrong about that? He knew it wasn't taking the cigarettes because he's from other people before.

He looks at the stairs and notices the gate was moved from there to Eugene's door. He looks back at the door and tries to open it only to hear the clicking of the lock protesting.

Eugene locked him out. He never locks him out. Three slowly heads back to his room, hugging himself. He must have really messed up…and this time he didn't know how to fix it.

He didn't know what to do, he messed up so bad that his brother won't even look at him. Was Eugene mad about him calling him that? Was that why Eugene was mad?

Thoughts flood into his little skull as he tries to figure out what needs to be fixed, he can fix it he swears he can. He doesn't want to end up back at that void if he can't fix it. It's COLD.

It's cold and he doesn't have anyone there. But if he can't fix it...

No, no it's okay. Three has to reassure himself. Because Big Mama has the bracelet, not Eugene.

Speak of the devil and he shall arrive because as soon as he thought about her he felt the center of chest squeeze. He gasps slightly and takes a few steps to his bed before the squeezing tightens, his legs crumble quickly and he drops to the floor, his flames dying quickly and dripping into liquid on the floor, he swore he felt half his face melting, even though it wasn't.

He couldn't feel Eugene's frequency, and it scared him but as soon as the grip loosened it was right back to where it was, thrumming through the floor and the air.

He gasps softly as tears build up, he feels nauseous. The liquid slowly stops dripping and goes back to the fine mist then back to the flames.

He had to get ready to go. He would be gone a whole week…and. He needed to talk to Eugene right now.

He couldn't leave Big Mama waiting but he couldn't leave Eugene mad. He slowly gets back to his feet and walks back to Eugene's door. He hesitates before knocking. "Eugene?..."

No answer. So he tries again…still no answer.

Final time, Eugene swung the door open, his hands shaking. "Three, leave me the fuck alone. I don't want to see you right now"

Three hesitates before looking at him. "I gotta-"

"I don't care!" Eugene drags his hand down his face in annoyance before huffing. "Leave me alone, you stole from me. I can't TRUST you right now."

Three stares at him, realizing he was in trouble for taking the cigarettes. He didn't get a chance to respond before the door shut again.

And just like that three felt the warm tears building up, he messed up. He messed up and there was no time to fix it. He slowly turns and walks down the stairs, hand on the wall.

He had to leave, to go fight and he didn't even know if Eugene would text him at all while he was gone. Would he even care?...would he pick him up at the end of the road?

Three walks out the house and lets in a shaky breath. While he is gone…he can go find something to fix it. And when he gets home…all will be better.

#threewrites #juicy jury #rise sonas #rottmnt sonas #tw guilt #cw guilt #tw fighting #cw fighting #tw cigarettes #cw cigarettes #tw mentions of body melting #cw mentions of body melting #tw dissociation #cw dissociation

[white-poppie]

Stuck in a vicious cycle

Request: @canthebest1 After your midterms can we have more Illumi content A/n: I gotcha pretty~

Genre: angst, reverse hurt/comfort Synopsis: In his 'made-up' world, you are the only real thing. Song Recommendation: She likes another boy (Oscar Lang) TW: dissociation: depersonalization mention of SH, blood and disturbing imageries Note: I have seen my elder cousin having dissociative episodes so many times...It's so scary to see someone you love just looking like a shell, I hope this helps people with this issue and/or people who have witnessed

(this is from Illumi's POV so extra TW)

"Yes, I understand," I replied, I did reply right? They want me to kill someone---what about it. I don't know who to kill, but apparently, my body does?

I felt the faint lingering warmth on my arms, like warm water shrouding my senses, covering me. I was blissfully aware that I was drowning, but the water was in my lungs and I couldn't help but flow with the waves.

The warmth--I must be outside the mansion. I sat down under a tree...it was a tree, right?

With great difficulty I lifted my fingers to look at their tips, tunneling vision made me crease my brows in anger. I didn't have control over my own body.

It doesn't feel real-- like a sick dream I would be aware from you shook me hard enough.

T̴͔͖͎͇̞͊̃͆̾̑̂͌ͅH̵̗͚̪̲̘͕̪͊̂I̷̛̙S̸̢̰̪̠̰̥̜̘̞̏͆̿̓͘̕ ̶̱͇̲̻̪̫̣̰̬͑Ì̸͙͎̱̦̼̤̲̠̇̌̇̄̆̽ͅŜ̵̰̊͒̀͐̈͝N̸̢̨̥͚̲̱͍͛͑͑́̽̕̕T̴̨̢̯͇̗͕͉̖͕̈́͗̇ ̶͖̣͙̩͔̙̟̰̌R̴̗̓̔̑͝E̷̛̟̳̲̍͗̀̿̌́̓̅ͅĄ̷̧̘̖̼̯̱͙͒̃́̓͑̄͠Ḷ̵̡̟͐́́̚͜

I'll wake up...please wake up.

It felt as if I was being gutted from the inside out, but I was high on tranquillizers. I was holding the knife and I was screaming 'murder', but the voice died in my throat. It never left.

I could hear the faint chirping of birds like they were far away--like someone had grabbed them by their neck and crushed their oesophagus.

I was looking at my own body, like in a panorama movie, blissfully unaware, thoughts running wild, thinking and not thinking at the same time.

"Illumi?" Y/n? it was Y/n right? They are near.

"Illumi, baby can you hear me?" their voice was muffled and foggy, I wanted to say yes, but couldn't. I wanted to hold onto their arm. I wanted to hold onto them, to ground me, to sedate me, to not let me run wild.

I felt their hand on my shoulder, slowly squeezing it. Their grip was tight, inducing pain so I snap out of it, but I could only feel pins and needles at their touch.

"Illumi, try to look at me, please," your voice grew concerned, the white noise was reducing to fuzziness, uncomfortable. So irritating, I wanted to hit my head on a tree to snap back.

With all my left strength, my head lolled towards you. You pressed your thumb between my brows and pinched my nose bridge. Cold, your fingers were cold, it's usually the other way around.

"The grass is sure prickly today, huh?" you said rubbing your thumb on my temples. My focus shifted to the grass near my hand, the strands feeling pricklier than before, as if stabbing my skin, but in a comforting way.

"Illumi," you sat next me to me and whispered softly in my ear, "I'm here, I'm real." It wasn't a dream, you were real, I was real, the grass, the birds; everything was real.

"Come back to me," you said while kissing my eyelids, your warm breath fanning on my face as I blinked slowly.

My head fell on your shoulder as I closed my eyes in tiredness. Your fingers knit in my hair and your scent overwhelmed my senses.

You were real.

🥀 Welcome to Wonderland (byi/dni)    Etiquettes of Mad Hatter's tea party  (request rules)  ▬▬ Wonderland's citizens (taglist) ⏜

♠︎ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲-- (fan-fictions)

TAGS: @denkis111, @jazzylove, @lordmypantsaresocool, @futuristicallykawaiiturtle, @kristaline2dmensimp,@rintaroubby @nanaseishiro @innerpurple.

#illumi #illumi x y/n #white poppie🌼 #illumi zoldyck #hxh illumi #illumi x reader #hisoka #hisoka morrow #zoldyck family #hxh fluff #illumi fluff #illumi x reader fluff #illumi hxh #illumiii #tw dissociation

[thought-42]

WIP amnesty is a thing right?

Good morning tumblr would you like to see an excerpt from a modern au that I’m never going to finish so that I can officially remove it from my WIP list?

Of course you would.

Do not let the bit above the cut fool you, this is primarily Caleb having a very bad dissociative time

"Woah, woah, what the fuck are you doing," Beau says. Essek's eyebrow arches.

"Poisoning your drink so I can live one day in peace," he says, mildly.

"The fuck you are," Beau says. "Why the fuck are you putting cinnamon in your perfectly good wine?"

"Firstly, don't lie to yourself, we haven't seen perfectly good wine in literal years. Secondly, it was Jester's idea."

"Why are you taking Jester's drink suggestions, she's not even old enough to drink."

Jester frowns over at Beau. "I could drink if I wanted to, I just like my dignity intact."

Fjord chokes on his hot chocolate.

Essek snaps the lid on the cinnamon shut. "To be fair, you really couldn't. You are an actual infant." He says it with affection, but Jester still looks annoyed.

"Don't listen to him," she tells Caleb, squeezing his forearm with both hands. "He's just defensive because I showed him the meaning of friendship and also the meaning of being blatantly manipulated by older men from a foreign government when you're a teenager."

"You were so nice when I met you," Fjord says sadly.

"I'm 117," Essek says primly.

"And you look great for your age, buddy," Beau says, and Bren yanks his arm away from Jester because he really should have predicted that the casual banter was going to go this direction, he really should have been preparing the defective mess of misfiring neurons and screaming in his skull to cancel the lurch of jarring dissociative horror that is a hilariously disproportionate reaction to an entirely unremarkable comment.

He watches a stranger's reflection in the window.

Essek says, "Time is one of my specialties."

Frumpkin rests heavy on his shoulders.

The reflection in the glass fades.

Bren stretches out his hands and-- oh, that is the floor. The chair disappeared from his immediate vicinity, and object permanence is shaky at best.

A cork pops, somewhere behind him, and he only lights a tiny flame. Bren had always said healing potions tasted better than wine. Astrid said his tastes hadn't matured yet.

"Caleb," says Essek, and means the stranger in the window.

Bren had tried to grow a beard one winter until Wulf had pinned him down while Astrid shaved it off of him, all of them laughing because to be held down for a blade had many different connotations in those years. All of them good. He has not looked at his arms yet. He presses and presses on the skin but he does not bleed. He pushes and pushes but the magic comes sirup slow and lethargic.

Scar tissue can take up to a year to form fully, according to the glossy smooth tablet at the public library. A year isn't that long but his arms don't hurt. He rubs a hand across his a forearm but he doesn't feel anything. Caleb's forearm, Bren's hand.

He has not looked at his arms yet.

"Caleb," someone else says, and means 'eleven years'.

"Time is one of my specialties."

He presses his hands against the floor and breathes in, holds it, breathes out, because Caleb is someone who has memorized a list of grounding techniques for moments of dissociation or anxiety. In for four, hold for seven, out for three. The pattern is helpful.

Bren watches Caleb in the window until he can feel the swirls in the linoleum under his fingers and he can track the conversations happening around him through logical progressions for more than ten seconds. He has lost time. An hour and seventeen minutes, which is a fucking spike in the graph that he does not want to think too closely about. An hour and seventeen minutes can get you killed. An hour and seventeen minutes is long enough that at least one person of the additional four in this fucking flat must have tried to engage with him, and no one is shaking him or calling an ambulance and yelling in his face, so his autopilot must be getting better.

That's helpful.

Bren wants to tear his brain out through his eyeballs.

Essek sits down on the floor beside him. Sits down is a generous descriptor-- It's more of a controlled fall, sudden and graceless and lacking the fluidity of drunkenness. Given Caleb just stared at the wall for an hour and seventeen minutes, he supposes he is in no place to judge others' blatant weaknesses.

"Do you want to learn a spell?" Essek says.

"Always," says Caleb, and then "You mentioned Chronogy," which is approximately seven thousand percent more transparent than he ever wants to be in his entire life.

Essek laughs brightly. "Perhaps something a little simpler for your first, hmm?"

Bren wants to shove him down and hurt him or kiss him until he stops laughing. Bren has never had to struggle to learn anything and a Crik traitor is not going to be the first to challenge that. Caleb chuckles, self-effacing, and says "I am maybe a little over-eager, I admit, but it is not often I get the chance to learn from someone as skilled as yourself."

"I suspect you have your own skills," says Essek. "You cast like you've had formal instruction and you look for exits in a room the way my brother does after a bad campaign."

"Please stop," says Caleb, because he does not want to know that Essek has a brother who is important enough to him for his emotional wellbeing to be of note. More immediately, he does not want to know what he's unwittingly given away to Essek.

"My apologies," says Essek. "I will not pry. But please know that I have seen shame in those who choose to remove themselves from a battlefield by any means necessary. Warfare is a barbaric practice, mostly unsuited to mages of skill such as ourselves."

Bren bows his head and glances up at Essek through his eyelashes before looking away. Let him think Caleb a deserter warmage. Let him think Caleb a beggar, a veteran drowning his traumas in alcohol. Let him think Caleb anything but what he really is, which is a disappointment, a murderer, a proven flight risk, a naive child not nearly as smart as he thought he was. Sometimes he thinks about how he would kill Trent if he gets the chance, but it's never satisfying. Trent knows Bren can kill. He'd probably be fucking proud, just for that last archetypal mindfuck. Bren does not need to prove he can kill Trent-- Bren needs to prove he is smarter than Trent. He's either going to do that by publicly exposing his widely varied and horrific crimes to the entire world, along with the rotting apple that is the Cerberus Assembly, or he's going to invent time travel. Both would, obviously, be the ideal outcome, but Bren knows how to be realistic (see: pragmatism, newly developed skillset).

#Caleb Widogast #Essek Thelyss #Shadowgast #cr2 for ts #tumblrfic tag

[dandylovesturtles]

Okay so two things:

1. I was wondering why Donnie reacted this way after Raph told Mikey and Splinter "Donnie didn’t react initially, still staring at the ground like he hadn’t heard Raph at all. When he finally got to his feet, he gave another stiff shake of his head.

“I… I have to…”

He turned on his heel without finishing the thought, rushing not to the medbay but his own room, closing the door of the subway car with a loud snap."

2. I was wondering if we are gonna get an explanation for what Donnie was thinking in this scene "“Hurt but didn’t knock you out,” Donnie repeated, his brows furrowing together. He looked away, off somewhere in the distance, and Leo could tell he was fully lost in some other thought."

I love your story so much it's in my top 5 of the 50+ I'm currently following lol

Thank you so much, and thank you for commenting so often! I really appreciate it!

Also why are you guys so worried about Donnie, does this not look like a mentally stable and healthy child to you-

We're stuck in Leo's POV so we don't get to see why Donnie ran off but he basically went to his room to (poorly) deal with his emotions where no one could watch him do it: crying, dissociating, probably stress vomit a lil (if they're gonna make Vomitello a thing I'm gonna use it), basically having a meltdown. He's had a few of those. Leo has just missed a lot of them so far (he's been a little busy).

You will get an explanation for that. I'm just not telling you when :)

I love the Disaster Twins equally and that means that Donnie also has to suffer. He's basically been having his own angst fic just off screen.

The hypothetical Donnie POV version of this fic is just

#fic: i may be invisible but i still look good #rise donatello #I love him and that means I must cause him anguish #it's all for the CATHARSIS later ok

[pxppet]

what foods will they not touch and how do they cry for all 6 egos?? :3c

Jameson definitely is the type to have super specific foods he doesn't eat, from a mix of potential triggers and being picky. The main ones I can think of are things like grits, rice, and mashed potatoes, because those are some of the only foods Anti would buy during his captivity. Just very bland, basic foods that are cheap and instant. Eating food like that tends to trigger him.

Jameson cries without making noise aside from heavy breathing and sniffling. His throat condition stops sobs from coming out, but his face still contorts as though he is. He hugs himself and tends to curl up as small as he can to comfort himself.

(The rest below the cut!)

Henrik absolutely will not touch pork, and not just for kosher reasons - he's convinced himself he'll get every parasite known to man just from touching the stuff. He has health anxiety that can be nonsensical at times. He tends to get that way about most meats, and even if he does eat it, he can't prepare it by himself or touch it raw. He eats like a vegetarian due to this.

When Henrik cries, it's not fun for anyone. He tends to really cry only during panic attacks, and so that usually involves screaming until his throat is raw, throwing things at the perceived danger, hyperventilating until he throws up, etc. His whole face is soaked and covered in tears and snot. He's always incredibly embarrassed after calming down and doesn't like to talk about it.

Jackie has a lot of foods he won't touch, but to list a few: green beans, onion, mushrooms, poptarts, specifically apple jam or apple butter, eggs, and most types of fish. Jackie isn't diagnosed, but he has a lot of the symptoms of ARFID, so he has a mental list of foods he absolutely will not eat.

I've mentioned before that Jackie has barely ever cried in his life. Every time he's distressed, he tends to tell himself, 'not now, save it for later' and bottle it up. When he does cry, it's not that big of a show either. He goes very, very quiet and still, subtly shaking in place for only a few moments until he can pull himself together. Only a few tears get shed, typically, and he's insisting he's fine only moments later. When he finally does let himself cry, when he does snap in half, it's going to be rough.

Marvin will eat almost anything honestly, they're kind of a vacuum cleaner when it comes to food! But they do really hate super cold foods like ice cream after having their fangs pulled. Their mouth is too sensitive for extreme temperatures.

Anti doesn't need food to survive, so he barely eats anything typically. But he genuinely really hates fruits. They all taste too sour and strange to him. Even sweet things like peaches, he mainly tastes the acids, and it disgusts him.

Marvin is an angry crier. Their own emotions make them mad & embarrassed, so they tend to lash out while crying, hitting things and screaming at people to leave them alone. If they get to cry alone, they hide their face against something and sob very openly. They're the only one that really just lets themselves feel their feelings.

Chase is also kind of a vacuum, but he's not fond of most spicy foods. He can barely handle any spice, and so most foods of that type are untouchable to him.

Chase cries the most openly, feeling no shame about expressing his emotions. He tends to get very snotty and dramatic, babbling about whatever upset him for hours sometimes. He likes to have someone to cling onto when he cries, preferring to share in his emotions with someone who loves him.

Anti can cry, but no one except c!Jack has ever seen him do it. He gets strangely childlike and small, clining to people's clothes or a blanket. He gets a confused look on his face as if this shouldn't be happening in the first place, distant and dissociative, hugging himself and rocking in place. He tends to be out for the whole day if he gets distressed enough to cry and will need to just lay in bed resting until he can feel like himself again.

#writersofjack #writers of jack #pxppet lore

[adrianasunderworld]

so i dont see anywhere on your bio or pinned that says if your requests/asks are open so i will tentatively assume they are

(trigger/content warning for manslaughter, suicide (in that it is manslaughter disguised as suicide), dissociation, hanging, descriptions of blood, etc. like seriously its wack. also spoilers for OMORI if you haven't finished that game)

so in the headmistress rosehearts au with all of the bs going on, there has to come a point where yuu simply snaps. and many people break differently, some have a fit, some cave in on themselves, etc.

and in this state, its common to do things without thinking, things that you may even regret. and since omori is currently my hyperfixation, and i hate myself, lets do a thing, shall we?

so imagine this.

-----

ms rosehearts is, once again, making a big stink about something not very important. lets assume you goofed on a potion in class that day, and the mistress is here to deal with that personally.

from an outside perspective, you are clearly not there. you're standing there, head down, completely silent, nearly deaf to the belligerent nonsense spewing from ms rosehearts mouth.

you clench your fists, and start to try to walk away.

you are alone here.

ms rosehearts grabs your wrist, yelling about how she isnt finished, and that disobedience like this will not be tolerated. standing against the staircase, her voice taking on a whole new volume as she screeches endlessly about their insolence.

but you are. you are finished. all these emotions, hatred and resentment, and an overbearing exhaustion weighing on every bone.

why cant she just shut up?

a hand grasps the lady's dress.

another braces itself against the railing.

and

you

pushed.

the headmistress fell like a tower of cards, a flash of terror washing over her face in a fraction of a second. there was barely a moment to let out an aborted scream before her skull crunched against the railing, and she plummeted limply to the ground, sprawling out against the tile floor.

a race of footsteps quickly approached, alerted by the noise.

you stared down blankly from the top, your shadow blocking any light from reaching the woman's face.

ms rosehearts was faced downward, so its not like anyone would see her expression as is, but a faint part in the back of your brain told them it wouldn't matter anyway.

voices sounded from a nearby hall, getting closer. some were familiar, but you couldn't tell what they were saying.

you kept your eyes on the body, even as red began to seep from its skull in a puddle, like a perverted halo.

staring, waiting. for something to happen? you didn't know. should you feel something here? you thought you should. maybe. maybe not. maybe if you kept looking at it, you would.

why doesn't it feel real yet?

somebody is climbing the stairs. approaching you? passing you? you can't tell. you don't really want to know, anyway. so you keep staring.

"--u."

"y-u. pl--s-."

"yu-, pl--s- t-l- -- w--t -a--en-d."

"y--, a--w-r -e. a-- y-- o-a-?"

...

"YUU!"

it was only reflex that made you look. someone was there, crouching down to you, staring you down with emotions you didn't feel like parsing out. were they scared? you thought they shouldn't be. nothing was wrong.

you look back down again.

she was still there? why was she still there?

... maybe she needs to sleep. is she tired?

you don't look at the person, they should agree with you. maybe while ms rosehearts is asleep you can have some peace.

that would be nice.

you pull her up by her arms, ignoring the red that drips down onto your uniform. its okay. it'll go away.

head wounds always look more severe than they usually are, right? thats what ms rosehearts taught you, anyway. she'll be fine.

she's just tired.

but she's not really that heavy, like you thought she would be. she's pretty light. she really should be heavier.

it doesn't take long before you bring her down on a bed.

and wait.

you wait a while.

maybe she's just really tired.

what if..

what if she won't wake up?

no, no... she has to. she has to wake up. you don't know what you would tell everyone if she didn't. riddle is your friend, you wouldn't do that to him.

she has to wake up.

"yu-, -le-se."

"she -s no- waki-g u-."

"-uu, lo-k at me. she is dead."

she is dead.

she's dead? you bring back your gaze to her body.

lifeless.

oh my god.

she is dead.

what do you do?

how. how are you going to explain this? nobody will believe you if you tell the truth.

.. it was an accident, right?

a soft grip holds your hands.

"listen to me. we can fix this. nobody will have to know."

SOMEONE's eyes glow in the darkness. it begs you to trust it. it says... that everything will be okay. all you have to do is follow its lead.

you don't have a choice, do you? this is the only way out. even if it's unspeakable. everything has to be okay.

you pick up the body, and carry it down the staircase. nobody is here, but you feel eyes on you anyway. you ignore it. she is light in your hands. this is a dream.

faintly, you hear the creak of an opening door. SOMEONE beckons you forward. a light breeze presses your face, and the evening light meets your eyes, but you ignore it. you need to wake up.

you lay down ms roseheart's body in the grass. you do not look at her, keeping your eyes on the trees. everything will be okay.

you think you see a figure pick something up from the ground. you aren't sure. you dig your nails into your palms, hoping for one last shock to bring you out of here, to leave this nightmare. nothing happens.

SOMEONE paces back and forth in the corner of your vision. you keep looking at the trees.

shuffling... dragging... creaking... and pulling... all these sounds come and go, yet you refuse to acknowledge them. something is happening. you don't know what. maybe you can wake up again.

a hand rests on your shoulder. gently, another guides your face back down. a voice tells you to look at them.

its... riddle. his eyes are so tired, and tears are making their way down his face. the grey of his eyes looks almost white.

it dawns on you. this is real. everything was real.

he leads you back into the building, hand on your back urging you forward. you look back and you see it.

it sways in the wind.

haggard and unkempt, ms rosehearts would have never allowed herself to look like this. but she isn't here. her body is a shell.

everything should be okay now. it's over, you did what you were told to do, so now everything should be okay. you feel like you should feel bad for thinking like this. yet still you feel at peace. this is it. everything is okay now.

(you're a murderer.)

riddle follows your gaze, and stops. his eyes are wide awake, frozen in terror. you follow his line of sight.

an eye meets yours. your body grows cold.

you shouldn't have looked.

-----

anyway that'd be so fucked up right??? (yes halfway through is basically a rewritten version of the truth photo transcripts, stfu). WOW this is long my apologies oof

like just imagine how ruined riddle would be. his friend accidentally fucking murdered his mom, dissociated for like 20 minutes- totally unaware of how exactly both their lives have fallen apart, mind you- and then he had to help cover up what yuu did by making it seem like a suicide because otherwise yuu wouldn't be able to live at the school anymore, with no way to defend themselves because they currently had no understanding of what they did or what happened in the last hour.

riddle is a basil kinnie and that is the worst thing that he has ever discovered about himself

Literally your timing with this could not have been more impeccable. Literally the day before this ask was submitted was when my brother started Omori. I have not played, I was only with him for the very start, only up to the part where they go to the picnic and can save. So I don't know what Basil did.

Anyway, I love dark/horror stuff like this. It's fascinating to think about the state of mind of the character. Like what could have been going through Riddles mind in that moment? The decision to help Yuu and not avenge his mother. Very telling of who in this au is more important to him.

Also ngl, I thought for a second the SOMEONE beckoning Yuu was going to be Crowley. Like he was going to pop out and this was his revenge on Mrs.Rosehearts for taking his job and so he can come back, and this would be yet another thing for him to dangle over Yuus head to get his way.

#twisted wonderland #tw blood #tw suicide mention #tw manslaughter #riddle rosehearts #headmistress rosehearts au

[transhawks]

Ok but like what do we think Keigo's breakdown is going to look like? Do we think that he's going to like explode into a complete mess and spiral, tears, screaming, everything, or is it going to be quiet? Like he finally snaps, and just dissociates and depersonalizes the shit out of himself and the situation around him, so he's just there but only physically? If he were to breakdown on the outside, someone, like Shōto or Tokoyami (if he's still on the battlefield) will most probably tell him, that this is no time to get emotional, but I feel like Keigo would be too far gone to suppress it again. So, I had an idea. Since we can see some parallels between Takami Tomie and Junji Ito's Tomie, and Ito makes horror manga, what if we we're shown the inside of Keigo's mind in that moment. Horikoshi has already said that he wants to do horror manga in the future, so it would be interesting, if we got some horror panels that are essentially the inside of Takami Keigo's tired, breaking mind.

I just wanted to know your opinion on this, since I LOVE your analyses and frequently come here to get my daily dose of Hawks angst. Have a good day :)

(Also, I'm sorry if I spelled anything incorrectly, english is not my native language 😅)

This I don't know - currently he's acting more and more ruthless and tearing down that false facade of being cheeky and cute. Much like we sometimes have him break uncanny valley with an "off-human" sort of thing (places he looks very raptor-ish), I think Horikoshi might go that route, perhaps. The mangaka's done small things that make me think of Hawks being trained like a raptor (I'm sure Hori has a hand in that one ending where Keigo was blindfolded) for falconry, and perhaps he just has a moment of losing himself to his instincts. He might hurt someone he doesn't intend to in a moment of intense rage.

Remember, Hawks's quirk is all about control. He's in amazing control of himself and his abilities, so a moment where that breaks and he's out of control would show his state of mind as abnormal well.

But I do think he needs let himself feel a full range of emotions and like however that rage/feralness happens, it might give way to him crying eventually. There is an emotional stuntedness to Keigo, as I mentioned yesterday. The reliance on human emotions as predictable is one of these things, and I think Hawks has been abused in such a way that he might have a very childish response to stress when he can show it instead of repress it. So would there be crying? Maybe.

What it won't be is the fake Hawks that he wears as an aspiration - the cheeky, loud, funny hero with a tragic story he's been pretending to be. Because Hawks has always been far more complicated than that initial impression and we do a disservice by focusing on that veneer.

Essentially, what needs to happen is Hawks coming to terms with everything he's done and everything done to him, and where he can stand on it. I also think a lot of his story is about accepting agency and choice.

#asks #hawks

[mynameishazard]

ST3 AU where Billy lives and becomes like Will....kind of

Okay, so I had this idea and I'm going to try and write it out as truthfully as possible. If anyone has a problem with any part of it, please GENTLY let me know(ie don't be an asshole, I'm not doing it intentionally) and I will change it accordingly. I would really like to keep the idea though, but if it upsets too many people, I'll take it down.

So, Billy lives after ST3 and because Neil decided to swan off or whatever, Steve offers his house for Billy to heal in whenever he gets out of the hospital.

His time in the hospital is long but he's eventually released into Steve's care, because Max and Susan live in a two bedroom trailer at the trailer park, he's trying to be nicer to Max anyways and Susan can't really afford anything better than that, so he stays with Steve.

Everything seems normal until, one night Steve hears screaming coming from Billy's room and runs in with his bat to find Billy curled up in the closet, crying into his knees.

He looks different, somehow, and he's acting childish even for Billy and Steve is trying to calm him down and Billy introduces himself.

"I'm William. What's your name? Why do you have a bat with spikes in it? Are you okay?"

Over the next year, Steve learns-and therefore the entire party learns-that Billy's brain fractured when he was possessed by the mind flayer and he's got multiple personalities. (I know it's Dissociative Identity Disorder but this is also the 80s).

There's Billy, the host personality.

William the eight year old who just wants to spend all his time swimming in Steve's pool. Steve has to constantly reapply his sunscreen so he doesn't get sun poisoning and he has to make sure William doesn't run into danger headfirst.

Pidge is an older woman, as far as Steve can tell. She's his Nan's age and she only comes out when Billy is anxious about something but feels safe enough that he just need to mother someone. She bakes a lot of cookies and is obsessed with the party.

Bill is one smooth motherfucker and he is constantly trying to get into Steve's pants and has very nearly talked Steve into hot, kinky sex before Steve snapped out of the haze he was in and turned him down. For now. After he's talked to Billy about all of this.

They only find out that Billy has powers when Vecna starts attacking people in ST4.

He's already torn up about Chrissy and he's worried sick about Eddie, because in his repeat of his senior year, he'd become friends with both of them and suddenly Chrissy is in the hospital in a coma and Eddie is missing, everyone blaming him for Chrissy's attack.

They find out about Thirteen because Vecna is attacking them and Billy is with Dustin and Eddie. Eddie makes a break to be a hero and Billy drops back into the Upside Down, furious. He's already stressed because Max is being used as bait and now Eddie is doing exactly what Steve told him not to do.

All Eddie knows it that he's being attacked by a flock of demobats and suddenly, they're gone.

He looks up to see Billy standing there, eyes somehow both dead and murderous at the same time and Dustin is flat on his ass, staring up at Billy in horror.

"What...just happened?" Eddie asks Dustin as the three of them make their way back to the trailer and Dustin stutters out.

"I'm not sure exactly. One second Billy was running towards you the next he's standing there with a hand out and the demobats imploded."

"Imploded?"

"I think? It looked like something swallowed them up and they were just gone."

So, yeah. Billy has a superpowered identity called Thirteen whose power is like a black hole.

He has DID. He has superpowers. He bonds with El. He falls in love with Steve(who loves him back.).

(Neil didn't swan off. He showed up to Billy's hospital room and, with only a hiccup of flickering light, vanished into the void when he was met with Thirteen instead of his "weak, crybaby son")

#stranger things #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #eddie munson #chrissy cunningham #max mayfield #dustin henderson #dissociative identity disorder #superpowers

[painsandconfusion]

i have to write a short story for english and i was wondering if you had any tips for writing someone who is having a mental breakdown and just cant deal with normal things. (my example is a ticking clock and theyre just going crazy mad because they cant stand the ticking any longer)

kind of weird but u r good at this stuff sooooooo

❤️❤️❤️❤️

Oh yea, I got you, boo!!

Make every feeling and sound have a physical grounding. Parallel the ticking of the clock to the pounding of their heartbeat in their ears. Play them against each other.

Play with the formatting to enhance the stressors as you go. eg:

X clamped their hands over their ears, but it didn't stop. It never st- tick -opped. It rattled against the inside of their skull, each beat st- Tick -opping their thoughts. stranding th- Tick. -em in a sea of jittering, clicks. Each more abbras- TICK. -sive than the last. (not very careful writing but you see how it builds with that? you can parallel your character's state of mind with the manifestation of the external factors taking up more or different space like that)

Start small. The bigger the issue, the smaller you should write. Instead of, say, freaking out over a death they just witnessed, talk about how impossible it is for X to force air down their throat, how their lungs convulse and clamp down, not letting them drag in a full breath. the panic builds from there. Both in sensation, building tension from the lack of breathing, and the displaced anxiety letting the original source go unchecked.

I love rhythm and alliteration assonance in stuff like this. eg:

"The silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with terrors ne'er felt before. So that to still the beating of my heart, I stood, repeating: tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door..." -Poe, The Raven ((See how those consonants hit hard? the rhythm they create? it mirrors the frantically beating heart in that panicked moment))

Take your time. Don't structure the scene by actions that happen. Let a single second drag into a paragraph. Describe every overwhelming sensation and how it beats against their brain, drowning them, suffocating them, corralling them and shoving them down until all they can see is the blur of the world spinning away without them.

Don't be afraid of that internal monologue or the metaphors X might pull up in your mind. Let them come and let them take over. It seems counterintuitive but it works. Especially if something horrific is happening and you want to show them dissociating a bit? eg:

Chaos was a funny thing. It wasn’t chaotic as it should be. It was controlled. Measured. A burst of lighting that wouldn’t rip through the skin. Contained to her - her nerves. Her bones. Her ripping ligaments. Her lungs that refused to scream. His words - his rules and his hands. Everything so out of control. Yet, everything measured and portioned. Contained. Even when harnessed, forced into the rules of the universe, the fire ripped through her. It gave no heed to the logic. It didn’t care that the pain would stop in a few moments. It didn’t falter at the wrongness of her bones jamming out of place, sliding and creaking against each other and snapping apart. It just grew. It ate through her blood. Her air. It sucked her lungs dry and folded her legs until she was tumbling to the ground. Cement bruising against bone. Her cheek pressed against the icy wall. ((Chaos))

Alright love, I think that's all the ideas I have for right now, but feel free to hit me up if you'd like more tips or a proofread!!

Good luck have fun!!

#sand asks #writing tips #writing advice #whump writing

[noonegetsleftbehind]

i debated saying anything, or talking about this at all. i know it's super personal and a very touchy subject and one that a lot of people shy away from or even hide. it's frowned upon to talk about and, for some, i know it's triggering to see it talked about it, but i kept thinking of one thing....

so, if seeing or discussing this is triggering to you? i understand. i get it. look away and don't click the readmore if discussing heavy mental illness topics and struggles/mentions of self-harm and suicide are something that you cannot handle. that is so valid and you need to keep yourself safe. skip this post and read the next and know i love you.

please understand that i am not looking for pity or for judgment. i am simply being transparent and real. i am advocating for mental health and for others that may be struggling too.

i will not go into much detail on what my bad news was. just know that it means another very crushing blow to my already non-existent self-worth and our financial status. it was such a crushing blow that it pushed me off an edge i had barely been hanging onto from months worth of physical health issues (christ i have had 3 surgeries since december and been in and out of the hospital.) it's been hard. it's been real hard and this was something i had put a ton of fucking work into and fought like hell for for over a year all for... nothing. all to be de-humanized and be forced to question what my worth at all is anymore or why i'm even here or why i should bother to keep going at all.

i won't lie. it got dark. it's still dark. i'm still struggling. it caused me to spiral into a near catatonic dissociation. i spent all day in bed crying before i just sat staring and out of it. all my brain could even think of was how much i wished i was dead. it's still there. i still question why i'm here, but i'm getting to the part where that gets a little bit better.

this is not a new fight to me. it's not. i had a complete, ugly mental breakdown in feb of 2020. jesus, february is a shitty month for me historically. i broke while at work - my job that i thought was going to be the career of my life and at the time i was going to college to further my study in. too much stress and too many years of masking and pushing everything away and ignoring...things i hadn't even realized i was doing.... and it was like someone had built a fucking damn around niagra falls. everything came rushing out all at once. these are things i am still trying to even begin to process. and when you snap, find yourself under a desk screaming and crying and trying to claw at your face at work? you don't come back from that. you don't get to stay at that job. my dreams and plans for the future washed away that night.

i didn't give up then. i went into intensive outpatient after several hours in a ward. i spent nearly 4 months in near daily several hours therapy and this was in the heart of the pandemic. it was at this time that i started attempting to finally transition. in the midst of everything, i was denied hrt for health reasons which only set off my shitty feelings and body image more. i closed myself back off and went non-binary again and convinced myself i didn't fucking deserve to live my life as the right goddamn gender and i needed to just accept and live life as a cis-woman. spoiler alert? that shit doesn't work. it will eat you alive.

i attempted to get jobs again. i had a seasonal job that i lost in jan of 2021. i got another job that i was placed in while working with a state vocational program. that one worked out well. it wasn't a fancy or great job by any means, but it was one i could do and could make money from. my boss was nice and i found parts of it interesting, but can you guess where this is going? my health popped back up. first i broke the scar tissue in my right hand where i had carpal tunnel surgery in 2020. then i got a concussion. then, out of nowhere, i started getting violently ill and was in and out of the ER like 4 times in 2 weeks for the worst pain i have ever felt. basically? my gallbladder went to fucking shit. i had to have it removed. in order to do that? they made me quit my job and come back when i was cleared post op to lift again.

i went back to the job. it didn't last long until a mishap with the pharmacy caused me to be off my meds for 5 days. this caused me to have a black out episode where i have no idea how i got there or why i was doing it but i was in the bathroom cutting myself. again. another trip to the psych er. they corrected the med issue and i got to go home. the takeaway from this? please please please please do NOT fuck around with your meds. don't just stop taking them. it's dangerous as shit. take care of yourselves.

i was fine for about a month until more stresses started to come back at me one after the other. they were piling up and i was breaking more and more. i admit it. i have next to none stress tolerance. i can't deal with change, especially sudden and a lot. i can't deal with blow after blow. i literally cannot process it or cope. it sucks and it sounds like i'm just being dramatic or a baby, but i mentally and physically just... can't. it's debilitating.

i found myself walking back home from a doctor's appointment and my ideations were running rampant. the next thing i knew, i started to make a move to walk into traffic. luckily, my brain pulled me back out of it and i damn near ran the fuck back home to tell my wife i was not okay and i needed to go to the er. this time? landed me in a full week of inpatient stay. that entire ordeal caused even more ptsd than i already have. it was traumatic as fuck and took me MONTHS of working with my therapist weekly on to even begin to process. it sucks, it does, but the mental health system is broken as fuck. a place like that should have been helpful and healing to me in a time like that, but it was anything but. it just kept me alive and i suppose that was part of the point and good enough.

by the time i was released, i had lost my job. they didn't even fire me to my face. just told my wife. the end of that year was... not good. nor was the beginning of 2022. i took the opportunity to go ahead and get my other wrist operated on for carpal tunnel and got both elbows (cubital tunnel) done in january and march of 2022 as well.

it was around this time-ish last year that my body image issues started to tank. my dysphoria was so bad i wouldn't even look in a mirror. i hated myself. everything about myself. the body i saw was not me and and i could not continue long that way. i met who became my closest friend and ally in this time. with his help and support.... i fought to fully transition. I literally do not know where I would be without him and I hope he knows that and how much he means to me. i came out publicly and socially completely and in july i finally got to start T. i am just over 7 months in and in may i have my consult for top. i'm getting there.

you would think this would mean i was finally happy and things should be good, right? while i am on a journey that has been a lifetime in the making and am changing daily and week to week closer to my true self? it's a very slow and long process. especially in a time like now when the rights of trans and lgbtqia+ people are constantly being threatened and challenged. it's scary and it's a struggle daily to be who i am. there are a lot of challenges that come with this and it is not an easy road and anyone who thinks we just up and choose to be this way can eat shit and fuck right off. nobody would choose this kind of pain and struggle.

to top that off... in case all of this wasn't clear? i have a giant list of things diagnosed and wrong with me. cptsd, ptsd, mood disorder, severe treatment resistant depression, anxiety disorder, borderline, gender dysphoria, panic attacks etc. these are things that don't just disappear. it means i still go to weekly therapy. it means i keep having to adjust to and come off meds and start new ones etc. it is a constant trial and error and a constant fight to keep going and be able to be better and just be okay. some days i'm fine and some days i'm not. sometimes i can be fine one moment and not the next. this is the nature of the beast.

so that brings us to now. once again... too many stresses.... too many blows one right after another snapped me. i broke and this time the difference is i knew it. i could feel it happening and see all the signs. the positive light here? in recognizing this, i knew i needed to fight like hell. i needed to get help. i knew i couldn't do this by myself. i can't keep going like this. so, i took the steps necessary yesterday to get in touch with my therapist and the location that handled my inpatient stay to get an assessment. this was so fucking hard to do because you run the risk of them saying you need to go inpatient. i took the risk because i knew i couldn't do this alone. bad things would happen.

so, that brings me to where we're at now. after being discussed with the psych on call, my assessment was recommended i do partial hospitalization. php is basically as intensive and the same thing as inpatient except you get to go home at the end of the day. this is the best possible outcome for me. i am scared shitless and it's a huge change and my social anxiety and ptsd for being back in the facility are through the fucking roof. i start monday. i'll be there monday-saturday 8am-3pm basically for 2-4 weeks. after that time, i will more than likely be moved into intensive outpatient for another 4-8 weeks. but you know what? i'm committed. i want to learn. i want to get better. i want the fucking help. it's not going to cure me, but it can damn well help me. that's all i want. (it's also breaking my heart that i now have to miss my best friend's wedding because i can't get out of the hospitalization. once i'm in, i'm in. it breaks me and i know he understands, but i wanted to be there for him and with him and it was important to me, but this can't be helped and i know that. it still hurts.)

so... that's my story. that's where i am. every day is a struggle, but right now... the struggle is damn near impossible. it is excruciating and it is draining of almost all of my emotional/mental/physical spoons/capacity. it makes daily life hard to even get through the day, it makes talking with people like i normally do extremely hard and it makes having enough brain power to be on here and get to anything substantial a crapshoot. some moments i can do it and have a lot of muse and feel the need to distract and writing has always been my favorite coping tool. but i just can't guarantee. i can't make promises about my activity and i hope that's understood and okay at this point. just know i WANT to be here. just know i am TRYING.

again... let me reiterate that i am not looking for pity in all of this. i'm not. honestly? i hope this HELPS at least one of you. i hope it shows you that sometimes it is okay to not be okay. it sucks, but it doesn't make you broken, even when it sure as fuck feels like you are. i hope it inspires someone to get help. i hope it makes someone remember to take their meds. i hope it lets someone know they are NOT alone. i hope it reminds someone to check in on a friend/love one. i hope it nudges someone to come out and be themselves and fight for who and what they are. why do you think i resonate with chris so much? why i love him so much? he fights. he never fucking gives up. no matter what. he grits his teeth together and he fights for himself and everyone he cares about.

"No one gets left behind. Not on my watch."

be kind to yourselves. know that you can always talk to me if you need to. if i have the spoons i will be here to listen and help if i can. know you are not alone. and most importantly?

remember that everyone behind one of these blogs that you're writing with or following... everyone on the street you see... we're all fighting our own invisible battles. you never know what someone is going through. you never know the struggle they're hiding. be kind to people, especially your fellow RPers. respect each other. lift each other up. befriend and love each other. nourish each other's creativity and hobby. stop fucking being so quick to break each other down.

mental illness is just as valid as physical illness.... you just can't SEE it. it's time to start treating it that way. it's time to stop looking down on people for what you don't understand. be glad you fucking don't if you haven't had to experience this shit then you're lucky. listen. be kind. learn. advocate.

Love, J

#|| bsaa file: ooc || #|| bsaa file: psa || #tw mental illness #tw mental health #tw suicide mention #tw long post

[mkmgwrites]

Anxiety Is Orange

Anxiety is orange.

Sunrises and sunsets of days you cannot keep track of.

Orange is a warning.

It’s roadwork signs and high-vis vests.

Traffic lights that tell you to slow down.

It’s prison uniforms that do not differentiate between severity, so you avoid them all.

It is persistent and nagging and encompassing.

Thinning hair and loose pants.

Sleepless nights and heightened days.

A game of tag where you’re always It.

It’s brick walls that block windows and doors.

Endless scenarios and repeated questions.

What if. What if. What if.

“Everyone gets anxious,” they say.

As if you choose to be like this.

You long for the days when orange was few and far between. When it had reason.

But now everything is painted by the glow of a fire only you can see coming

The whole world is orange.

Panic is red.

It’s danger signs and alarms and screams.

Fast heartbeats and burning blood.

It is not fear, it is instinct.

Raw, primal terror.

The act of dying without the commitment of death.

An apex predator that you never see coming.

How could you? You were to busy staring at fire and brick walls and roadwork signs.

Stupid little prey.

You learn that orange was a privilege.

Red is the snapping of a cord when loved ones walk away after promising they could handle it.

No one handles the red.

The red holds you.

Its a beast that can only ever be caged, for instinct is incurable.

White coats giving out orange locks that do not hold.

Advice about coral and burnt amber.

Red is a colour that is only seen by those who have already seen it.

There is no warning or tears or time.

No positive thinking or repetitive exercises.

You’re too busy drawing air into collapsed lungs.

Containing exploding hearts and bleeding brains.

Attempting to control a body that is no longer yours.

Fingers that curl and stiffen as their blood is stolen.

Pins and needles and pain you swear is real.

Electrification with the switchboard off.

It never gets easier.

Each time you swear this is it.

And when red leaves on its own terms, when you die without death, you wonder how anyone can mistake orange for red.

Depression is blue.

It’s oceans of grief and lonely skies.

Bruises that can be hidden away.

It’s messy rooms and unwashed hair.

Blue sheets that hold you hostage.

The bursting of a bladder that you just can’t find the energy to empty.

You forget what life was like without blue.

Forget the heat of flames and what it felt like to die.

They battle for dominance and you still cannot decide which victor is worse.

There are rivers collected behind clogged tear ducts with nowhere to go.

And the weight of it keeps you under.

It’s waiting rooms and couches dented to one side.

Pills and pens and promises.

A perpetual twilight. A passive night.

They tell you to keep your head above water, while they stand in the shallows.

They cannot differentiate between shades of blue.

They cannot see that you live in winter.

A surface frozen solid, leaving no choice but to drown.

Suicide is black.

It is the absence of colour.

Of light.

Not even blue can get through.

Because colour is to feel and to feel is to live.

Only the dead enter the black.

Black is a midnight tunnel with blockades on either side.

Urging you to nothingness. Empty space.

There is no past or future. No thought. No you.

Dissociate during the play, lest the red kicks in and spoils the show.

Eyes through screens. Hands on strings.

There is only the act and no conclusion.

End credits that roll on unwatched.

And if you somehow manage to swim out of the depths of blacks embrace-

Well.

You’re still beneath the ice.

And to chip through takes time and energy you no longer have.

So you tell yourself that drowning isn’t so bad.

Blue is a beautiful colour after all.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if I had been born a kaleidoscope.

If my existence was not dominated by orange and red. Blue and black.

Fire and ice.

A wound and a bruise that never heal, trading places but never trading lessons.

To run from death or run towards it.

I have only ever been too much or nothing at all.

What I would give for a glass half empty.

To breath without burning.

To drink without drowning.

But I have learnt that colours without names cannot be seen.

Philosophers spilling the secrets of skies without ever uttering the word blue.

I write in ink about ancient languages with lost words.

Pen strokes in the colour that is missing.

If they read my words, could they then see?

Or is it as alien for them as it is for me, when I hear how people describe a rainbow.

A melody in frequencies my ears cannot reach.

The Himbas gave green three names.

I only gave it one.

Maybe that’s why all the trees are on fire.

I have forgotten my native tongue, failing to catch the rainbow in my haste to define the four shades that haunt me.

Names hold power.

Perhaps that’s why I am colourblind.

My parents never taught me anything else.

I never knew wine-dark seas could be sailed upon.

But I think that one day I could travel there with my pen.

If I write yellow enough times maybe I could begin to see it.

Watch the orange break as the sun rises.

I could claim that red is love.

Convince myself that some shades of blue are actually green.

If I can paint myself with enough colors, I think I could keep the black away.

Maybe then my eyes would open.

And if I’m patient-

If I can find my balance between careful and courage.

I may fall somewhere between orange and blue.

Hold fast against the red and the black.

And then, one day-

My words could open a window.

One I could finally see through.

And with sight and names now familiar, I could find the door.

Find the rainbow I have been blind to my whole life.

Catch it.

Step into it.

See…

Light.

- MKMG

#poetry #original poem #poem #mental health #anxiety #panic #panic attacks #depression #writing