#mild panic attack

[kinglazrus]

The Cracks in the Mask

Sequel to The Moment it Breaks. Written for @invisobang 2023!

AO3 | FFN

Rating: T

Words: 9156

Warnings: mild panic attack, nondescript mention of vomiting, temporary dismemberment, graphic description injury

Description: Danny has been struggling for months. Balancing ghost hunting, school, and keeping his powers a secret has drained him both physically and mentally. And it all comes crumbling down when an identity is exposed—but not Danny's. Tucker Foley, his best, is a ghost hunter. And not just any ghost hunter, but the Tech Hunter. The same hunter who, just three days ago, pressed a cannon to Phantom's chest and fired without mercy.

This is fine, right? Everything is fine.

Check out the amazing art made for this fic by @popjeckdoom!

Cover | first scene | second scene

—

Danny can still feel Tucker's hands on him. Not in some aching, metaphysical way like when they bump shoulders, and the warmth of that contact lingers for hours afterwards. This isn’t warmth, but heat. Tucker’s fingertips had only brushed the hollow of Danny’s throat during that final grab, yet the spot burns now.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning toward a storefront window as he checks his reflection, pulling the collar of his hoodie down. Splotches the colour of old bruises litter his throat, tinged green around the edges and dotted with red. The rash and micro-cuts left by Tech’s nanobots are unmistakable. Had Tucker noticed how the nanobots coated his fingers as he reached for Danny, seen how they wounded him?

Of course, he didn’t. There is so much Tucker never notices.

The hoodie isn’t damaged, but that doesn’t surprise Danny. Tech’s touch has always hurt, and it was always designed to hurt ghosts.

It never destroys anything man-made.

Never harms anything human.

Danny clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. It’s getting harder and harder to lift his feet with each step. The wobble of his left knee, the stabbing in his chest every time he breathes, the itch of his throat. It all weighs him down. And atop that, something far heavier bears down upon him, a bone-deep dread that twists his stomach into knots. He has felt the press of that unseen force from the moment Tucker stepped into Lancer’s office.

Danny sways under a bout of dizziness, nearly stumbling into the street when he tries to catch his footing. Unable to breathe deeply, he compensates with quick, shallow breaths.

And the itch on his throat persists, like bugs creeping under his skin, gnawing on his insides. They skitter from his throat to his chest, spreading from his ribs to his heart, his lungs, burrowing deep.

Danny doesn’t notice his hand roaming under his hoodie until a nail slips between the bandages on his chest and pricks the open wound. A passing woman glares at him when he yelps, muttering something about delinquents under her breath. Danny ignores her.

At least he isn’t thinking about the itching now. He presses the heel of his palm into the bandages, grimacing through the lingering sting, waiting for it to dull into the ever-present throb. To be safe, he clasps his hands in his pocket, so he won’t scratch again as he continues down the street.

Despite how bright the sun shines, the air is cold. Or, it had been when he left for school that morning. He remembers looking out the window—seconds before realizing he was three hours late for class—seeing how crisp and clear everything looked, how the snow sparkled in the sunlight, and knowing it would be cold. But he's not cold now. He almost feels too hot, and the temptation to rip his hoodie off grows along with his weariness.

A red-hot coil burns in his chest, hissing as it brands the inside of his ribs. He exhales the steam in shallow puffs and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Something yellow glints at the edge of his vision, causing Danny's heart to leap into his throat. He throws himself to the side, slipping in the snow as he tries to get out of Tech's reach.

But Tech's not here. Tech is at school.

The taxi that caught Danny’s eye passes harmlessly by.

He leans against the nearest wall as he tries to catch his breath, which is hard when the bandages around his chest are so tight that his ribs creak. He reaches under his sweater again and probes the bandages, finding the loose loop his scratching had created. His fingers come away damp, but that could be blood or sweat. He doesn’t want to know which, wiping his hand on the inside of the hoodie.

It's too damn hot out here. His skin crawls. There's so much yellow everywhere, every flash cranking Danny’s nerves up. It all becomes too much, and he crashes to his knees as his stomach revolts.

No one pauses at the sight of a kid gagging on the sidewalk. Danny wonders what they think of him but decides he doesn't care as he retches again. Nothing but bile comes up. When was the last time he ate or drank anything besides ectoplasm? When did he even have that last? He has a foggy memory of opening the box he keeps his supply in and downing the last three vials at once, but he can't say when that was. As for actual food, that must have been on Friday, before the fight. That was three days ago, and he hasn’t had a bite to eat since.

Danny's head spins.

He should go home. Lancer told him to go home. Actually, no. He said he would send Danny home. With a parent, probably. Parents who already hadn't been answering the secretary's calls, which would have left Jazz as the remaining option. Danny won’t be surprised if she had put herself down as one of his emergency contacts the second she turned eighteen last month. But going home with her would either mean waiting at school all day for classes to end or pulling her out of class so that she could take him home.

Danny's stomach churns again. No. He wouldn't have let that happen. Even if he hadn’t stormed off, he still would have left.

He slumps against the wall behind him. During the fight on Friday, he landed poorly, and his left knee has been smarting ever since. It protests a bit more loudly now, especially after getting jostled around by Tucker. A few seconds to rest and stretch it out will do him some good.

Snow soaks into his jeans, but he doesn't care. Taking a handful of snow, he shoves it in his mouth, swishing it around until it melts, trying to get rid of the bile taste. He doesn't have anything else to wash it down with. He doesn’t even have his backpack, for that matter. Maybe it's still at home, sitting by the front door. Or he left it in the school office. He can't remember.

He doesn't remember much of anything since Friday. Just the pain, and the blood, and the cracking of his heart as he glimpsed those familiar green eyes underneath the visor.

A few snowflakes fall onto Danny's lashes. His eyelids flutter.

Why is it so hot?

After checking that people still aren't paying attention to him—they aren't—he closes his eyes and tugs on his core. Cold floods his veins as his ice powers activate. It soothes the bruises that spread across his back and stomach. He focuses on the palm against his chest, concentrating on his worst injury.

The cold is a balm. It pushes back against the heat in his cheeks and helps him forget about the burn of Tucker's hand.

Danny doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a vehicle pulling up. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but his cheeks are still far too warm. He still hasn’t caught his breath.

He hears tires rolling over broken concrete. This must have been where he fought Johnny a couple of weeks ago. The city is usually pretty good at cleaning up Danny's messes, but sometimes the smaller debris gets missed. Most people have learned to ignore it by now, but Danny always notices.

A window rolls down.

Danny squeezes his eyes tighter, hoping he hasn't been mistaken for a vagrant. A scrawny kid with no backpack, huddled on the street during school hours in winter, wearing nothing but a hoodie. He pulls his knees up to make himself smaller. Bending his left knee hurts a bit more than it should, more than it ever has with bad landings in the past, but he ignores it.

“Danny, do you need a ride?”

It takes Danny a second to recognize the voice and the truck. Mr. Foley leans over the passenger seat and peers at him through the open window.

It takes another second for Danny to remember his ice powers and cut them off. He misses the cold as soon as it's gone. He always feels better when the cold comes from within, numbing his body from the bones outward. But he can't have Mr. Foley noticing the glow in his eyes. Despite the delay, Mr. Foley doesn't react.

“Where's your jacket? I almost didn't recognize you and had to turn back around,” Mr. Foley says.

“I don't need a jacket.”

“Everyone needs a jacket. You're going to freeze.”

Danny brushes the snowflakes off his lashes and stares hard. “Where's Tucker?”

“At the school. We got him set up with that student tutor program, and he's working on that for the rest of the afternoon. He has to catch up on all the work he missed from ghost hunting.”

“Oh.” Isn't that nice?

Danny almost says no. He has known the Foleys his whole life, considers them family, and would go so far as to call them his honorary aunt and uncle. There had once been a time when, if he couldn't go to his parents for something, he would go to the Foleys. But he almost says no.

Mr. Foley must notice his hesitation because he rolls his eyes and says, “Just get in the damn truck.”

Danny gets in the damn truck. Hot air blasts into his face once he's inside.

Mr. Foley waits until Danny, who first closes the vents on his side of the truck, has buckled himself in before speaking again. “I'm disappointed in you.”

How diabolical of him to wait until Danny can't easily escape.

“There's a jacket in my locker,” Danny mutters.

“Not because of that. Although, yes. You're going to get sick if you aren't already. Do you remember when you boys were little? Whenever you and Tucker played in the snow, you always took your jacket off. We couldn't leave you alone outside, or you'd come in three hours later with the worst cold we'd ever seen.” Mr. Foley shakes his head with a smile, although it fades quickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tucker, but it’s not like you to lash out,” he continues. “It’s obvious you’re going through something, and I’m here if you need to talk. But what you did in there wasn’t okay.

Danny watches the sidewalk as they pull into traffic, staring at the indent he left behind. He hadn’t noticed how much it was snowing when he was sitting, but a pile nearly three inches tall marks where he had been.

“I can’t say I’m not mad, but… I’m just disappointed.”

Danny wants to say he didn't mean to hurt Tucker, but he can't. Tucker is his best friend, but Tech? Thinking of Tucker's alter ego makes Danny's heart pound, and not in a good way. Not the way he's used to. Thinking of Tucker as Tech? He wants to throw up again.

Every bruise, every burn, every little cut Danny has gathered this past month throbs at the thought of that golden armour. He checks over his shoulder, but no one is there.

Tucker's at school. Tucker's at school. Tech is at school.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mr. Foley asks.

Danny shrugs.

“Tucker's okay, by the way. You didn't hurt him any more than he already was.” Mr. Foley pauses, giving Danny space to respond, but he doesn't. “This is an upsetting situation. Tucker is hurt and has been getting hurt for some time. Going out and hunting ghosts—” Mr. Foley shakes his head. “It's funny how much a mask can trick you. Tucker made me follow all the 'official' Tech Hunter accounts. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything there is to see of Tech online. It seems obvious now that I know. I always thought he was just a fan.”

Mr. Foley's grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But some of those videos…”

Danny doesn’t need to hear it. He has seen them, too. Clips of Tech zooming through the city, using gadgets and gizmos to take down ghosts with ease. They started fun. Even Danny enjoyed the videos at first. He felt a kinship with this new hunter, who didn't seem much older than him. But then the tech got bigger, the fights more brutal, the targets more… familiar. Danny stopped watching the videos a while ago, after he became the ghost in them.

“These last few weeks alone… I swear he was hunting down Phantom every day. I was starting to feel sorry for Phantom until—well. Until.”

Danny rubs his knee. Despite having time to rest, it still hurts. Touching it is like pressing on a fresh bruise.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Foley says. “It's been a stressful few days, but it's not appropriate for me to dump this all on you. You need to worry about school, not ghosts. I just always thought Phantom was a good one. It doesn't seem right that all ghosts could be bad.”

“Well, you were wrong. Everyone knows ghosts are bad.”

“Danny, your parents—”

“Were right all along. We all should have listened to them. Ghosts aren't good.” Danny squeezes his knee. “They can't be good. They're monsters, right? Because only a monster would hurt Tucker like that. Wouldn't see the person behind the mask. It—Phantom—Tucker was there the whole time, and Phantom couldn't see that. He just kept hurting him. He should have known!”

The soft voice of the radio fills the cab. And then Mr. Foley turns it off, and there's only silence. Danny can't look. He lets go of his knee, flexing his fingers. They're numb from how tightly he clenched his hand.

He wants to make himself small, curl up and disappear into nothing. He doesn’t want to be seen or heard or perceived. If only a portal would open up beneath him and take him to an endless void—there must be one somewhere in the Infinite Realms—where he can stop existing for a while.

“Danny,” Mr. Foley says.

Stop it.

“Danny, I'm worried about you.”

Stop looking at me.

“Your parents are good people, but I don't like it when you start saying these things. And you've been different lately.”

No, no, no!

The heat of the cab bears down on him. His bandages are damp, and he is cold and hot and too many things all at once. Mr. Foley keeps talking, but his words don't reach Danny. The pounding of his heart drowns them out. The truck turns a corner, making Danny's view spin, but when the vehicle straightens out, the world does not.

“I—” a voice says. “Please. I need—”

“Are you okay?” Something hot touches Danny's forehead. “You're burning up.”

A hand reaches for the door. A monster's hand with pale, bony fingers and scabby knuckles. It pops the door open. The truck screeches as Mr. Foley slams on the brakes, but Danny is already out the door, part of him phasing through the metal when it can't open fast enough. He hits the ground running.

“Danny!” Mr. Foley shouts after him, but Danny is gone before the truck stops.

He doesn't know where he's going. Snow pelts his face, nearly blinding him. The wind has gone from nipping at his cheeks to slicing through him, whipping into a storm. In the distance, a haze of green and orange glows behind the snow. Danny veers away from it and pivots down the nearest street. As he turns, he skids on a patch of ice and loses his footing, careening into a mailbox. The corner drives into his chest, and his world goes white.

Danny comes to face down in the snow with ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it is long enough that the flood of adrenaline has ebbed. As the tide recedes, it uncovers all the aches he had ignored for the past few minutes.

Every breath drives a dagger through his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry, puke, or collapse. Or all three at once. Through the flurry of snow, he hears a shout.

“Danny!”

He has to keep going.

“Danny, where are you?!”

Leaning on the mailbox for support, he drags himself up, pivoting on his left leg.

He hears a pop. A crackling, like stepping on broken glass. Danny crumples with a scream as a searing pain tears through his knee. It’s here and gone in seconds, leaving his whole body trembling as he lays in the snow. He tries to rise, but his knee immediately gives out.

A hand touches his shoulder before he can try again.

“Daniel.”

He tries to clamber away from the hand, the voice, but his leg can’t bear the weight, even when sliding across the ground. His entire side spasms when he accidentally knocks his knee, and he lashes out at the hand reaching for him, stopping just sort of crushing those fingers in his grip.

He whimpers. “Leave me 'lone.”

“Don't be stupid. You're coming with me.”

Danny is scooped up before he can protest. He doesn't even have the energy to squirm. Anything that isn't snow is just a blur of colour. The face above him. The car ahead of them. As they approach, Danny’s shaking stops. Not because he adjusts to the pain, his body just stops. No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing. All at once, everything has become very far away.

“Not so much fight in you today, little badger.”

He tenses as the car door opens, but inside is barely warmer than out in the snow. Danny lies in the backseat, cheek pressed to the chill leather. He tries to keep his eyes open, but staring at the seat ahead of him while the car moves turns his stomach. Again, nothing but bile comes up.

He closes his eyes, drifting into nothing as the darkness takes him.

—

A tether pulls Danny along. His body moves, and he moves with it, but he isn't moving it. “Danny” and “Danny's body” are not the same right now. His body feels the arms around his shoulders and under his knees. Danny does not. His body lifts its hand to stare at its scarred fingers. Danny does not.

Danny drifts behind, watching but not seeing, as the world moves around him. It is dull and flat and not quite real. It’s like possessing his Doomed avatar all over again.

That changes when he is set down on a cold table in front of a glowing expanse. The swirling green fog beckons him forward. He tries to rise, but those hands grab him again and sit him back down. This time, he feels the pressure on his shoulder as if through layers of thick cloth. One hand moves to his head, dragging through his hair. Danny doesn't try getting up again after that. He sits, content watching the ebb and flow, breathing in the sour air.

The one time Danny's friends had been in his parents' lab, they called the air acrid. Danny would have agreed with them before. Now, that smell comforts him. The same way people enjoy citrus, vanilla, or pine, Danny savours the scent—and taste—of ecto-rich air. The longer he sits there, the more “Danny” and “Danny's body” feel like one thing again. The table beneath him becomes solid, real. His breathing, although far from easy, evens out. The haze over his mind creeps away like fog in the sunlight.

The trembling starts immediately. Danny closes his eyes, taking as deep a breath as possible, ignoring how shaky it is. He wants to curl into a ball and wallow, but this isn’t the place for that. Not anymore. Instead, he gives himself ten seconds.

One.

Ten seconds to be miserable.

Two.

To wonder how badly he screwed up this time.

Three.

Four.

To wonder if he cracked a rib when he hit that mailbox.

Five.

Six.

Or what he might have torn in his knee.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

To pretend he’s just a normal kid having a shitty day.

Ten.

Danny sits up straight and turns. Now that his panic has retreated—not gone, but tucked into a corner of his mind like a wild animal—he realizes where he is. Who he's with.

Danny didn't notice when Vlad pulled away. Part of him, much larger than he wants to admit, laments the loss of contact. Now, Vlad leans against the console of his lab. A large monitor rises behind him, with several smaller screens angled beside it. They can function as individual screens or act as one massive display. Danny has played Doomed on those screens many times in the past year. He can see the game's case just behind Vlad, alongside his NASA mug and a pair of headphones he has never seen before.

Vlad follows Danny’s gaze to the items on the desk. He smiles and picks up the headphones. “Do you like them? They just came in. I know your old headphones got damaged in a fight.”

“Yeah.” The ear pads on the headphones are planets, and stripes like the rings of Saturn decorate the headband. It will not be the first gift Vlad has given him. Danny swallows before adding, “With Tech.”

Vlad puts the headphones down and comes forward. “I'm sure you heard the news by now. It's all over Amity Park. I'm sorry your best friend turned out to be a ghost hunter.” He rests a hand on Danny's head in a paternal gesture, which Danny normally finds comforting. “It must be hard. Are you all right?”

Danny takes in the lab, which has grown more familiar to him than his own home. The day Vlad showed him this place and revealed himself, something in Danny changed.

You're like me, Danny had thought. You understand me.

Any ghost can stumble into Vlad's lab, but he and Danny are the only humans able to reach it. It became his haven. Here, he could be himself without worrying about anyone else seeing. And Vlad gave him that.

Tucker's words, which had never left Danny's mind, resurface.

Vlad told me to.

Danny jerks away from Vlad's hand, leaving it hanging between them. Something changes in Vlad's expression. It's so minute that someone else might not have caught it, but Danny has spent too much time with the man not to notice. Vlad's nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches downward. Danny blinks, and Vlad's smile is back at full brightness, but it's too late. Danny saw the mask crack.

Vlad clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. “I heard about your suspension. Your father added me to your list of emergency contacts after I came to Amity, and when you left without waiting for an adult, the school contacted me. You're lucky I found you. Have you even treated your injuries yet?”

“Vlad.” Danny's tone could make a ghost shiver.

Vlad pauses for a second. “Daniel. What did I do to lose my uncle privileges?”

“Whatever you did to Tucker.”

“Oh, dear. Is this about the press conference? I promise it won't be anything bad, but this is a big revelation for the city. I would be remiss not to address it.”

“No, I—press conference?” Danny shakes his head. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Tucker told me.”

Vlad's jaw tenses. Another crack. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

“Everything!”

Vlad looks Danny up and down, then swivels, heading back for the console. He swipes the NASA mug up and swirls around the liquid inside. Some week-old energy drink, probably. He sniffs at it and makes a disgusted face, then dumps the contents over a nearby floor drain. Vlad takes his time going to the eyewash station, filling the mug with water and cleaning it.

Two minutes pass before Vlad returns to the console and leans against it, giving Danny a long stare. Unable to straighten with the gnawing in his chest, Danny curls in instead. Vlad smirks.

The expression makes Danny bristle. He knows that face. It's the smile Vlad gives him when they've both seen something stupid—a private joke passing between them. Danny doesn't smile back. He doesn't see any jokes around here except for himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Is your fever getting to you?” Vlad says.

“You knew who he was! Tucker said so!”

“Oh. I found out by mistake. I knew it would only hurt you, so I gave him some advice. I would have told you sooner if I thought it would end like this. But you know how unstable you—”

“LIAR!” Danny howls, the sound tearing from Danny’s throat, shaking the lab. It cracks the monitors and shatters the mug in Vlad’s hand. He scowls, shaking off glass and blood, while Danny cries out. “Why would you make me hurt him?!”

“I didn't make you do anything. You said you wanted to help, so I gave you a task. You did get the relic, didn't you?” Vlad pauses, but not long enough for Danny to answer. “How exactly you went about getting it was entirely up to you. I have plenty of resources you could have used to track it down before Tech got to it.”

“I wasn't going to use one of your ghosts!”

“Oh, that's delightful.” There is nothing friendly in Vlad's smile now.

The shift takes Danny aback. Despite the cracks he saw, he doesn’t want to believe the mask is there, to see it crumble. This isn’t supposed to happen. Vlad should be smiling at him—warmly—and offering some sage advice that sounds pompous but ultimately helps Danny figure this out. And, after taking care of Danny’s wounds, they will go upstairs and watch something in Vlad’s home theatre. An old Packers game if Vlad reaches the TV first, during which he’ll recite the same hundred facts Danny has heard a thousand times over. Some kind of monster flick if Danny gets there first, or a space documentary if he wants to annoy Vlad. But no matter what they watch, they’ll spend the hours crafting a perfect lie about his behaviour for Danny’s parents, and when Danny goes to sleep later, he can rest easy knowing that Vlad has his back. Even if no one else does.

Danny wants his Uncle Vlad.

He doesn’t want this.

“You really think you're a monster, don't you?”

Danny fights back tears, saying, “I'm not like them! I have a heartbeat. I still feel things. I don't just hurt people because I can!” He doesn't even convince himself.

“There's more than one way to be a monster.” Vlad presses a button on the console.

The screens, cracked but still functional, light up. All seven show the same thing: a clip from Friday's fight. It isn't in the video circling online, but Danny remembers this moment. It happened not long after the fight began.

Phantom grabs Tech by the chest piece, lifts him, and then slams him down on the ground. Hard enough that the pavement beneath Tech fractures and his suit glitches. The video closes in on the ghost's snarling face. Its bared fangs. The wild, inhuman eyes.

“Shut up!” Danny launches himself at Vlad. In the second it takes to cross the lab, he transforms from human to ghost. His claws tear into Vlad’s suit as they collide and crash into the main monitor. It shatters, glass raining down around them, but the video doesn’t stop.

The screens on either side show the clip on a loop. The same scene is happening here, in a different place, with a different friend, but the same feral look on Phantom's face.

“I didn't want to! You made me do it!” Danny slams Vlad down again and again and again. All the while, that recording taunts him from the edges of his vision. Danny's attention snaps to the screens on his right. Beams of ectoplasm explode from his eyes and carve through the screens, scorching the walls as he turns from right to left.

Vlad shoves his palm under Danny's chin and fires. Pink overtakes Danny’s vision as the ecto-blast goes off, throwing him across the lab. The smell of smoke and singed flesh overpowers the comforting tang of ectoplasm. Danny stares at the ceiling, panting, and swallows. It hurts.

“Little badger, look at yourself. You're not in the right state for this.”

Danny pushes himself up and finds Vlad, now transformed, floating closer. The front of his suit is torn, but the injuries beneath are little more than paper cuts to him. Danny flicks the blood off his claws and tries to stand. His knee gives out beneath him.

“You can't walk.”

Danny tries to respond but cuts off with a sharp gasp. He touches a hand to his throat. When he pulls away, he finds ectoplasm dripping from his claws.

“You can't speak.”

Danny snarls.

“I thought you said you weren't a monster?”

With a screech, Danny throws himself forward again. Vlad dodges to the side. They've been here before. How many times has Danny tested himself against Vlad, tried out new powers on him, and sparred in the lab?

How many times has Danny lost to Vlad in these friendly sessions?

That doesn’t stop Danny from throwing himself, again and again, at the man he trusts. The man he sees as a mentor, an uncle, and maybe even a father figure. He lashes out with claws, and teeth, and ectoplasm, but nothing hits. Vlad keeps slipping out of the way, unbothered, as if this means nothing to him. Danny's whole world is crashing down around him, and no one cares.

He tries to duplicate, desperate for any edge he can get over Vlad, and gets so far as having two right forearms sprouting from his elbow before something inside of him fizzles.

“No, no, no!” Danny croaks. A ring flickers around his chest. He forces it back, barely, and leaps at Vlad again, charging ecto-blasts in all three palms.

Vlad dodges the first blast and the second but slips right into the path of the third. Triumph fills Danny as the ecto-blast explodes, until a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t forget who taught you all of your tricks.” The duplicate Vlad left behind to take the hit melts away as the real Vlad steps back, claws sinking into Danny’s flesh. He smiles before wrenching Danny’s arm upward.

Danny screams over the squelch of the limb tearing from his body. He crumples on the floor, groping at his elbow. Threads of muscle coated in blood and ectoplasm twitch beneath his fingers. Their tattered ends dangle from the arm in Vlad’s grip, a jagged bone poking out between the flesh.

Danny retches when he feels the muscles twitching. Darkness creeps into his vision, and he has to fight it back.

His arm. His arm. Vlad ripped off his arm.

A string of muscle slips out of the severed arm and hits the floor. Globs of ectoplasm follow, splattering against the tile. The flesh shrivels, sloughing off in chunks, followed by the remaining muscle, and the bones crumble in Vlad's grip as the arm corrodes from the inside out. Danny flinches at each wet smack, unable to tear his eyes away from the decaying limb. Every time a piece of it falls, his elbow spasms. He cups the wound, expecting his hand to close around a stump, but finds solid flesh instead. Slowly, his gaze lowers.

Ectoplasm oozes between his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he watches the last dangling thread of muscle fall, joining the mass on the floor. The ectoplasm on his elbow bubbles and smooths out into pale, unblemished skin.

Between the swimming in his head and the darkness creeping into his vision, it takes him a while to truly process what he sees. His right arm, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, is still there.

The melting limb is fake—the duplicate.

It is the duplicate, right? Danny flexes his real—please, please be real—hand. The crumbling remains of his other fingers twitch, sending a jolt up his arm. Muscles that did not exist before—and exist no longer—strain to move a part of him that isn't there.

The limb is fake.

But it feels real.

Every second of agony as his flesh decays before his eyes.

When the rings come again, Danny doesn't have the energy to fight them off.

“Remember: it didn't have to be like this, little badger. If it weren't for your stubbornness, we could have kept going as we were. But I suppose you've ruined it.” Vlad waves his hand, creating a shield of ectoplasm. With a push, it shoots forward, pinning Danny to the ground, moulding around his body as it binds him.

The last chunks of his arm dissolve, and Danny’s eyes widen when the puddle inches toward him. He squirms, breath hitching as he tries to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. His bindings tighten, forcing his elbows into his ribs, cutting into his wrists until his fingers go numb.

The ectoplasm seeps into his hair. When he whips his head around, droplets splatter against his cheek. One lands on his lips.

The taste of lime. The smell. Burnt. Rotting.

Vlad rests a foot on Danny's chest, on his injury. It draws Danny’s attention, but one word lingers in the back of Danny’s mind.

Acrid.

“And I could have done so much for you,” Vlad says, then digs his heel in.

Danny is too busy howling at his cracking bones to see the foot come for his head next.

—

Danny was bleeding the first time they met. It was the standard for their first few run-ins, spread over the following weeks. Even now, it seems that Danny always bleeds in Vlad’s presence.

He had been late coming home from school, caught in a fight on his way. He pelted toward the stairs, clutching his backpack against his stomach—the fifth backpack he would lose after his accident. Before he started climbing, his dad beckoned him to the living room. Danny didn't have time for whatever his dad wanted. He could feel the wet spot on his side growing. If he didn't get behind a closed door soon, someone might notice the stain spreading on his shirt. He cared more about that than the grey tint slowly overcoming his vision.

“Danny? Are you coming?” his dad called again.

Danny made the mistake of looking back. His dad’s eyes were filled with so much hope. Danny knew his parents were eccentric and that put people off, but how could anyone ever say no to Jack Fenton when he radiated such joy?

Danny's earliest memory is the glint of his dad's smile. The warmth of his arms.

At that moment, Danny was bleeding into his backpack. His vision was growing dimmer by the second, and he wasn't sure if he could walk straight. But his dad smiled and waved him forward, and suddenly Danny was a toddler again, taking his first wobbling steps toward his favourite person in the world.

His dad’s beckoning hand pulled him toward the promise of that warmth, and he stumbled into the living room.

He didn't know the man sitting on the couch. Didn't hear anything his parents said, either. Danny rushed through an introduction (Hi, I'm Danny, nice to meet you—I'm going to my room now) and fled as soon as possible.

Once locked behind the bathroom door, he stuffed his bloody shirt into his bloodier backpack and started fixing himself up. He had to dig a pellet of ice from his abdomen and was surprised it hadn't melted yet. That ghost—what was his name… Klemper?—had been tossing snowballs left and right. Danny hadn’t expected it to hurt once he got hit with one, much less bury a chunk of ice in his stomach.

So much for making friends.

Once the shard was out, blood flowed freely from the wound. Danny nearly passed out at the sight of it. It was the first time he had bled so much from a ghost fight. He impressed himself by holding it together, until he tried to stitch himself up with a travel sewing kit. As the needle dug into his skin, his world went black.

An hour later, Danny was bandaged—but no stitches, never again—and the bathroom was clear. He had stuffed the toilet paper and towels he used to mop up the blood into his backpack, intent on tossing the whole thing in the dumpster once night fell. Satisfied with his cleanup job, he slunk into the hall, shirtless, once again hiding behind his backpack.

Danny had been so busy checking if Jazz's door was closed that he hadn’t noticed the body before him until he buried his nose in a cashmere jacket. He looked up into the stunned face of the man his dad had wanted him to meet. Some old friend of his parents’ from their college days. Danny had already forgotten his name.

He wouldn't find out for weeks how the man noticed the only drop of blood Danny had missed—a stain the size of a quarter on the hem of his jeans. In the moment, all he saw was the man's shocked expression melting into amusement, and something else, something Danny couldn't name but recognized on an instinctive level. Something that made him take a step back.

The man surprised Danny with a pat on the head. “Try dish soap. And cold water,” he said before gliding past into the bathroom.

Danny spent the rest of that evening hiding in his bedroom, afraid that at any second, his parents would come bursting in because their friend saw him bleeding. They never did.

To anyone else, that interaction would have been insignificant—a few harried seconds easily forgotten. But to Danny, who had already been through so much, it meant one thing:

There was an adult he could trust.

—

Danny wakes up to a fever and a ceiling covered in stars. Not the dollar-store, glow-in-the-dark stickers he grew up with, which his dad helped him put up when he was five, but a light projection from a lamp on the nightstand. With the curtains drawn, only the stars provide light for the room. Danny is thankful for that. He can barely keep his eyes open with how much his head pounds.

He reaches to peel off the blanket, but freezes. His right arm hovers in front of him, trembling. It comes back to him quickly: the sound, the smell, the taste. The slow decay of the phantom limb.

It was fake, he tells himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. That wasn’t real.

The rest of his body feels stiff, fresh bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like there’s a knife in his back, held in place by Vlad’s heel, and even the smallest inhale pushes Danny’s chest back into the blade.

His throat is a footnote in comparison, barely worth his notice.

But his knee… This morning, Danny’s knee twinged. There was discomfort, but he could walk. Comparing his pain from then to now is like comparing a bruise to a bullet wound. He knows the disparity between those two injuries.

He pushes himself up, peeling away from the sweat-soaked sheets, and bites back a cry when his leg shifts. He has to stop twice and grit his teeth before he manages to sit upright.

The blanket falls into his lap just as he spots his reflection in the mirror across the room. His chest and throat have been bandaged with care. The edges of his injuries creep out from beneath the bandages, flares of red skin touching his collarbone and ribs. The bandages on his throat are also damp, but not from sweat. Danny recognizes the slightly tacky sensation of Vlad’s healing salve—a concoction made to soothe ectoplasmic injuries. It works best on surface wounds.

Beneath the blanket, he discovers unfamiliar pyjamas. Pulling up the left leg reveals a compression bandage around his knee. If it’s supposed to help, it’s not doing much.

There is little else in the room besides him, the bed, and the mirror. The projector and the nightstand, of course. A dresser beneath the mirror. A Dumpty Humpty poster on the door. This room is one of many that Danny had yet to explore in Vlad's manor. Despite this, he immediately knows what, or who, it's for.

This is Danny's room.

Only a day ago, that realization might have warmed him. Now, it fills him with disgust. He needs to leave as soon as possible, but he can't go out in a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see his hoodie or sweatpants, but he notices a stack of clothes on the corner of the bed.

Designer jeans, a Vladco polo shirt, and a fur-lined leather jacket. No way Danny is putting those on.

He goes to transform, tugging on his core, but a jolt of electricity stops him. It rips through his body and leaves him breathless, clutching his chest. He doesn’t try again.

He should. If he wants to get out of here quickly, he only has one option. But just turning his hand intangible makes his insides itch. He doesn’t want to know how intense that would feel across his whole body. Doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

Danny berates himself for his weakness.

He changes into the clothes and hates every second of it, but he doesn't have another option. It takes an embarrassingly long time since he has to manoeuvre his bad knee. Bending it hurts. Straightening it hurts. He can’t even let it lay limp without some discomfort. But he manages, grimacing when he catches his reflection, and starts the arduous process of limping through the manor.

He may not have explored every inch of Vlad’s home, but he knows the layout well enough to find his way to the front door. He keeps one hand on the wall to help his balance, but he still falls a few times.

By the time he reaches the stairs, the wall is the only thing holding him up. Every time he puts weight on his left leg, his knee slides beneath his skin. His right thigh aches from hopping across the manor on one leg. While ghost hunting keeps Danny in shape, the last few days have drained him so much that he feels like a weak freshman again, barely able to run a mile.

As he peers down the stairs from the third-floor landing, part of him whispers that he should go back and collapse into that soft bed. But he hasn’t sunk that low yet. As he debates the least painful way to make it down, a voice floats up to him.

“—wake him up. I don't want to take up more of your time,” Jazz says.

“It's not a problem, dear.” Danny's heart quickens at Vlad's voice. “Danny visits often enough. I don't mind him taking up one of my spare bedrooms for a few hours. I'm just glad I found him so quickly.”

Danny clings to the newel post as he lowers himself to the floor, starting the long process of scooting down the stairs one step at a time.

“Thanks again for calling the school back. Lancer said he didn't want to pull me out of class, but someone needed to be here for Danny.”

“He was fine with me.”

“Family, I mean.”

“Right. Of course. But you could have waited for school to end.”

Danny glances at the grandfather clock on the main floor, visible at the back of the hall now that he's worked his way down to the second landing. It's not even three yet. Jazz had to leave school early because of him. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He swallows a few times, but the taste lingers. He can't get rid of his guilt that easily.

“Yeah, that's not happening. Danny comes first.”

He wishes she would stop saying stupid things.

When Danny finally reaches the bottom floor, he stops to gather himself. A few quick breaths, so close to hyperventilating that he wonders if his panic has reared its head again, before he strides over to the doorway leading to Vlad's sitting room. He almost makes it all the way, but on the last step, his leg buckles, and he clings to the door frame to keep himself up. Jazz’s head jerks up at the sound of him hitting the doorway, and her face lights up when she spots him.

“Danny!” She is upon him instantly, leaping across the room to reach him, rubbing his hair, touching his forehead, and fussing with the jacket. “Oh. This is new?”

“His clothes were soaked, and he didn’t have a good coat. I couldn't in good conscience leave him like that.”

While Jazz frets, Danny stares past her. Vlad sits in a lavish armchair with his back to them but watches through the mirror above the mantle. He has a thing for mirrors.

Their eyes meet, and Vlad's flash red. Danny pales.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jazz asks.

Danny, unable to speak, nods. The way Jazz fusses, she keeps pushing him back, forcing more weight onto his injured knee. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, Danny.” Jazz lifts a hand to wipe the tears away, but Danny flinches back.

“Careful.” Vlad rises from his chair. The movement yanks Danny's attention back to him as he approaches. “I think I might have bruised his ego when I had to carry him inside. He must be sulking.”

Danny can feel Jazz's eyes on him, but he can't look away from Vlad. Danny hasn't stopped shaking since they made eye contact. Vlad raises a hand to fix his sleeve, and Danny flinches again.

“Oh.” Jazz's hand finds Danny's wrist and squeezes it once. “Well, thank you again. I'm taking Danny home now if that's all right.”

Her tone says she doesn't care if it's all right; they're going home now.

“By all means,” Vlad says.

No one moves. Danny doesn’t want to look away from Vlad, afraid of what might happen the second he turns his back. Jazz must pick up on his wariness because she keeps looking between them as if she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

Vlad finally breaks the spell over them by gesturing to the door.

Jazz takes Danny’s hand and pulls him away. He stays behind her, so she can’t see him limping. Unfortunately, they’re nowhere near the wall, and he has no way to hold himself up when his leg gives out again. His hand rips from Jazz’s as he stumbles, barely catching himself from face-planting.

Jazz spins around, lips parting, but Danny snaps, “What?” before she can say anything.

Hurt flashes across her face. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He drops to one knee, ducking his head to hide his grimace, and mutters, “Tripped on my shoelace.”

Jazz doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t lift his head to see what face she’s making. Danny fiddles with his perfectly tied laces until Jazz’s feet turn away from him and head for the door. He stays on the ground, breathing softly through his nose until he’s ready to stand, rising on one leg. His left knee spasms.

He massages it through his jeans, although it doesn’t help. The compression bandage doesn’t seem to be doing anything, either. It feels like someone sliced his knee open, chipped the bone to pieces, and filled the hole with oozing ectoplasm.

The front door opens and shuts.

Danny only has a second to process what that means before he jerks toward Vlad, just in time to see a syringe of orange fluid jabbed into his arm. Danny rips his arm away, but Vlad is faster. By the time Danny stumbles back, the syringe is empty.

“I've done a lot for you, little badger. I still will.” Vlad closes his fist around the syringe. There's a flash of pink, and then ash falls from his hand. “You'll be thanking me in a couple of hours when that kicks in. Remember, I only want what's best for you.” He turns but pauses halfway. “Oh… and keep that relic safe for me, won't you? I'll be needing it soon enough,” he says before drifting out of sight.

—

The car shakes as Danny drops into the passenger seat, and once more when he slams the door shut.

“Hey, not so hard,” Jazz says.

Danny ignores her, facing the window as he scrubs his face. He can still taste the salt on his lips, and the red around his eyes is prominent. He tries to rub it away, but there’s no helping it. After a few fruitless seconds, he gives up, pulling the bar under his seat to slide the chair back and give his legs some room. He cranks the lever on the side as well, putting the back down, and drapes a hand over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jazz prods him. “Upright, seatbelt on. That's not safe if we crash.”

“Do you plan on crashing?” The words drag at his throat, which quickly went hoarse during his minute of alone time. His voice comes out raspy and quiet. Danny doesn't know what Jazz sees, or what she makes of him right now.

After a few seconds of staring, she sighs and turns the engine on. “Just wear your seatbelt.”

Danny clicks it into place with the hand not draped over his eyes. If Jazz sees the redness, she’ll know that he was crying. Stupid. Fourteen years old and crying like a child. Danny's fingers dig into his scalp. His nails aren't quite claws when he's human, but they're sharper than normal and prick his skin. Every time he cuts them, they start growing back to a point. He always trims them before it gets too obvious.

They drive in silence. Danny grits his teeth, focusing on not hissing in pain every time they hit a pothole. Hold it together, he tells himself. Only a few more minutes to home, and then he can fall apart in private. Until then, he just has to be okay.

Everything is okay.

Everything is okay.

Jazz doesn’t try to talk again, which is better for Danny. He’s unsure if he can open his mouth without some strained sound escaping him. The inside of his lip is already ragged and bleeding from how hard he bites down.

When they turn onto their street, he thinks he’s in the clear. Jazz parks on the backstreet, in front of their garage, and Danny hears her shuffling around. At first, he thinks she’s getting out, and hopes he can wait her out and go inside a minute later. His hopes are dashed when something drops onto his chest.

Danny bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

“You left your backpack at school,” Jazz says. “After you got suspended. Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny clenches his jaw, breathing as deep as he can through his nose, and swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. Once he can speak without gasping, he says, “Yeah. I put it down, and then I forgot it was there, and then I left because I'm not allowed to be there anymore.”

“Only two weeks, and you still have to do schoolwork. I'll be bringing it home for you. Maybe you can use the rest of the time to get caught up on everything else you haven't done yet. And then you can tell me what the hell happened with Vlad back there.”

“Can we just… not do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out angry, but there’s a bite to her name that he can’t take back. Being in this car, with her, is too much right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs things back to the way they were when he was oblivious and hurt, but not as hurt as he is now.

Jazz purses her lips. “Okay. I'll tell Mom and Dad about the suspension. You can talk to me—and them—when you're ready.”

“Yeah. Right.” Danny gets out before Jazz can say anything else. She follows, but he refuses to look back, fighting to hide his limp. He doesn't stop until he's inside, up the stairs, and in his bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the bed, crumpling against the door, curling over his knee as tears prick his eyes.

There are daggers under his skin, chipping away at bone and muscle, driven deeper with every step he forced himself to take. He thumps his head against the door, mouth open in a soundless scream as he lets the pain wash over him. It tears through his body, every bruise and burn throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Outside his room, the house comes alive as his parents return, their voices filling all the empty spaces. Danny's room stays dead and quiet.

For hours, he leans against his door, staring up at the stickers on his ceiling. While his eyes trace the familiar constellations, his mind has receded deep within himself. Moving from his head to his toes, he focuses on all his aches and pains, giving himself a few moments to feel each one before shoving them out of mind.

Some pains are worse than others. The bruises, he files away without a second thought. The headache and the twist in his gut take a bit more effort. But his chest? His knee? Danny doesn’t have the words to describe how much they wreck him before he can push them away.

It’s just pain. He can handle pain.

At some point, someone comes by and knocks on his door. Danny doesn’t answer, barely conscious enough to hear it. His chin dips to his chest as he watches the shadow until it leaves, relaxing only a fraction when it does.

Eventually, the sounds outside dim. Jazz whispers goodnight. The floorboards in the hall creak, first under his mom’s light steps, and then they groan as his dad traipses across them. A door closes. Everything goes quiet. With the quiet comes an all-encompassing numbness.

The clock on Danny’s nightstand reads two a.m. by the time he drags himself from his stupor. In his backpack, abandoned at his side the second he sat down, something glows. Danny reaches inside and gropes around until he finds it, small and cold to the touch. He draws the item out.

“This is all your fault,” Danny mutters. Whether that is to himself or the relic in his hand, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. Both are true.

As Danny opens his palm, the Ring of Rage glows brighter.

#invisobang #invisobang 2023 #danny phantom #Tech Hunter AU #No One Knows AU #Danny Fenton #Vlad Masters #Maurice Foley #Mentor Vlad Masters #Manipulative Vlad Masters #danny phantom big bang #danny phantom fanfiction #phicc #phanfic #mild panic attack #nondescript mention of vomiting #graphic description injury #temporary dismemberment

[liarian]

Past (III)

Shigeo had been sitting on the sidewalk in front of the house for some time with the sleeping child in his lap as he waited for the ambulance to show up. Since they had left the house, the boy hadn't let go of the fabric of his knitted sweater for a moment. Shigeo brushed the bangs away from the boy's forehead. He couldn't help but smile when he saw him wrinkle his nose.

As soon as he woke up things would be different but at least for an instant, Shigeo was all that kid needed. Or maybe by then Mob would be awake. Shigeo had never quite been sure what it was that made them change but having to deal with everyone was exhausting. And it wasn't like anyone wanted him there. Shigeo was too used to being nothing more than an undesirable entity once things got back to normal.

The first thing he heard was the sound of the siren in the distance before the lights illuminated the street. The ambulance came to a double stop, the rear doors swinging open.

"Where's the emergency?" One of the ambulance drivers asked as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle, the briefcase with the first aid supplies in hand.

Shigeo stood up, with the child slung like a baby monkey against his chest, arms around his neck. The thought of releasing him made him shudder, but the best thing to do was to leave him in the care of the ambulance crew.

"Is that the one on the posters?" The driver got out as well, slamming the door shut.

Shigeo nodded, maybe he would have had to call Reigen-san but in his stupidity, that little detail had completely slipped his mind.

" His mother asked for my help." The nervousness was apparent in his voice. "She told me this was the last place he'd been seen. He only appears to be dehydrated but his mother said he'd been missing for three days."

"Okay, put him on the gurney." The man bent down and pulled out a clear bag that appeared to be nothing but water and hung it on the rack on the inside roof of the vehicle.

Shigeo barely had time to let go of the child, when Arataka's eyes shot open. He almost seemed to have seen a ghost. Or maybe that was what had happened. The memory of Mogami must still be fresh in his mind.

"No!" he cried out clutching at his neck, nails breaking even the skin, with more force than a boy his age should have. "No!" His whole body seemed to be trembling. His patched lips cracked, blood staining his mouth.

"Hey, champ," one of the ambulance men crouched down to his level, "nobody's going anywhere, okay?"

"Really?" Arataka loosened his grip a little, his reddened, tear-bare eyes seeming not to know whether to look at the ambulance man or Shigeo.

"Really." Shigeo gave a little bounce, putting all the weight of the kid on one arm and showed him the hand he had just managed to free. "See? All yours."

Arataka grabbed it as if it were a life buoy, almost cutting off Shigeo's circulation. The next few days were going to be fun when he finally called the police as well, but with any luck that would already be a problem for Mob.

***

The boy had barely complained when the needle had pierced his skin, except for a slight grunt, but at no time had he let go of his hand to the point that they almost seemed to be stapled together.

It was a strange sensation.

No one had ever needed him before. He was sure Mob would have been a better choice. Shigeo didn't even know what to say, but the kid seemed to have enough with his company.

"How did you do that?" the kid, slightly more animated after half a bottle of serum, looked at him as if he had never seen anything as mind-blowing as Shigeo in his entire life.

"How did I do what?" Shigeo stared at him blankly.

"Suddenly the sky turned red and started to split into pieces! And then I don't know what happened but I saw you in the middle of the black tornado!"

"You saw me?" Shigeo sighed resignedly. "You didn't imagine it, how could there be someone in the middle of a tornado?"

"I'm no idiot, I know it was you." The kid replied indignantly. "And besides, it was really cool! With all those lightning bolts and the eyes glowing and all the bad things have started running away."

"Cool?" No one had ever described him as cool. He didn't even understand how the kid could have seen any of that while Shigeo hadn't noticed his presence in Mogami's consciousness. "Are you insane?"

The boy fell silent suddenly, as if Shigeo's words had slapped him in the face.

"Arataka?" Shigeo asked nervously.

What had he done wrong this time? The kid had seemed excited just a second ago. But as usual, Shigeo had ended up screwing up. Maybe Mob was right and he wasn't cut out for dealing with other people.

"What an imagination he has."

Shigeo had almost forgotten that the driver and his partner were still there, listening to the conversation. Imagination... If only those men knew. But the boy had not imagined anything.

"I know what I saw" Taka mused, letting go of his hand and curling into a ball on the gurney. "I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy."

The kid seemed to have lost himself in the litany, as if his mind had gone far away. Shigeo almost preferred not to think about what the kid must have gone through the three days he had been missing.

"Taka, look at me." Shigeo pressed his hands against his cheeks. "You're all right. There's nothing wrong with you."

Shigeo felt his power vibrate beneath his skin, but there was no spirit or curse to attack. Only his anger, completely useless, ruffling the hair on the back of his neck and rattling the ambulance cab.

"Is it a panic attack?" The medical technician walked over to the boy, "Arataka. Your name was Arataka, wasn't it, can you hear me?"

Taka nodded his head without moving from where he was lying on the stretcher. Shigeo didn't need the ambulance man's words to recognize the symptoms. He had never experienced them firsthand, but he remembered them. Mob had often had them one of the times Ritsu had ended up in the hospital because of him.

"Take a deep breath with me, okay?" The man tried to get the kid's attention but Taka was getting more and more nervous. "His pulse is starting to race."

"Taka, you're fine, okay? It was all real, the wind, the lightning and that black shadow but you have to promise to keep it a secret." Shigeo wasn't sure it would do any good but maybe. "You promise?"

"And then he won't be able to come after me anymore?" the voice was barely a whisper when at last the kid looked him in the eyes again.

Shigeo didn't even know what it was that the kid was seeing as he looked at him when anxiety still gripped his chest, his power seething to get out.

"Mogami can't hurt you anymore." Shigeo tried to smile but he wasn't too sure he had succeeded.

That would have been a perfect moment for Mob to take the reins but his other self was still asleep in the depths of his subconscious.

"Promise?" The kid looked unsure, eyes still red-rimmed and breathing ragged.

"I promise." Shigeo held out his pinky.

#mp100 #mp100 ageswap #shigeo kageyama #DID system Shigeo #reigen arataka #mild panic attack

[asinglemindcreates]

"Breath Now, Worry Later"

Fandom: The Owl House Rating: G Characters: Hunter | The Golden Guard/Willow Park Tags: Missing Scene, Episode: s02e21 King's Tide (The Owl House), Panic Attacks, Hunter | The Golden Guard Needs a Hug (The Owl House) Summary: In the wake of Luz's illusory swap with Hunter, Willow finds a way to comfort the panicking boy. (887 words)

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#the owl house #my fics #huntlow #hunter the golden guard #willow park #toh willow #toh hunter #the owl house hunter #hunter x willow #mild panic attack

[blitz0hno]

Drabble about the whole mikotosys-night-terror chronicles cuz I don't get to write much.

Post trial 2: Mikoto, still deep in denial (although deep denial doesn't mean ur as unaware as you let on/feel all the time), cries himself to sleep again. He hates the long-time habit, but thinking about his life up to this point, especially now... It makes sense, and unfortunately a lot more starts to make sense too.

It was happening again.

Mikoto was laying on the bed in his cell, staring at the ceiling. It was the only time he knew which way was up these days.

And today had been long, and stressful.

Why must he be this kind of person?

Chained up and interrogated.... Es trying to explain why the words "I saved you" echo in his mind.... a fuzzy ringing in his ears overtaking seemingly every conversation he had with the warden; Mikoto did his best to be attentive but was purely pretending. He was sure he dreamed the crime he was accused of, sure of it. It wasn't real, he couldn't do that! He had a future to look toward, and even if some people in his life were holding him back, his urge for quick relief had been but a horror-movie fantasy. A place for his brain to put his anger so he couldn't find it.

He had always wondered where his emotions went when he made them disappear. It didn't look good that nearly every moment now felt like a dream, either.

Answering questions with pen and paper had been particularly difficult. He didn't remember much of that either. He remembered the first couple questions. He remembered waves of frustration flooding his train of thought. He remembered feeling sick when he realized it was over and he thought he had only answered two or three out of the twenty questions.

Mikoto had started off this strange "Milgram" experience intrigued, but the more he thought about the events that led up to this "reality show," the more scared he got. He had always been a forgetful guy, but felt confident enough in his ability to keep track of important things. School, work, home duties, everything was always nearly lined up in his thoughts. Sometimes he had strong feelings about a task, but he was easily able to power through. He was oddly proud of that ability, from his adolescence up to his office job.

Sure, he had been picked on for living outside the city and never going anywhere. But he was reasonably popular with girls and very on top of his grades, which made other students like him well enough he supposed. No reason to feel lonely with how busy he was anyway. Taking care of home with his mom and sister, making sure he remembered to eat and study before shifts, and cramming for tests had all paid off, hadn't it?

He had a career he was passionate about, an end goal, and a stable job at a famous company. Although this job was... Not as glamorous as he had hoped. Nonetheless, he had worked so hard for it. He wouldn't just throw it away.

Not even when his meal times got shorter and shorter.

Not even when his boss made him redo weeks of work on a whim.

Not even when 60 hour weeks turned to 80 hours.

Not even when he broke down and cried after coming home to an onslaught of texts informing him of a deadline being shortened yet again.

He needed to sleep. Without sleep, he became irritated easily, and hiding it with a polite smile always left him with a permanent lump in his throat, as if he could burst into tears at any moment but wouldn't let it happen. When it all got too loud, Mikoto knew how to put it away for later.

Now was later, and he was crying.

He wished people listened to him. If they got to be cruel with no consequences, chain him to one thing or another, tell him to come and sit and stay until 3AM doing paperwork, he should get a say too. A say in how he was spoken to, in his rest, in his mind, anything.

But he second-guessed himself every time, coming up with nothing and doubling down on his polite diligent worker persona.

His chest heaved as he sobbed. How pitiful and pathetic, if they saw him like this. And to think everyone was scared of him now, not only because he apparently really killed people, but now more things he didn't remember were coming up. Torn up clothing he had tried so hard to laugh about reporting to Es; but all the morning he couldn't stop himself from crying, even through his mask. He had heard from others in the past that he talked in his sleep, but the noises? The shredding and screaming and destroying?

That was all new.

And embarrassing.

And mortifying.

Mikoto had no memory of any of it. He thought and thought, but only recalled feeling overwhelmed, perceiving the stares and the body language around him as tense, and the rush of anxiety which was renewing itself again. Out of habit, he searched for the smile he always tried to force through the tears, even now that he was alone.

Another sob.

Alone.

And everyone knew it. His boss, his mom, his baby sister, his peers EVERYONE watched him go it alone, pushing and pushing and succeeding at any cost to himself. But that was the goal, too, to be left alone. Not screamed at, following the rules in place, breaking them if it meant a more pleasing outcome for his current audience. His breath picked up as he remembered every comment, every stare every sneer every nitpick EVERYTHING others did to belittle his hardest work. His sweat, blood, and tears turned into a cycle that kept piling more on his back.

He held his hands against his ears as his sobs turned to a choked wail. Again tonight, he felt like he couldn't stop himself. "I HATE THIS! I'm not smart enough to even remember what I do, not strong enough to even control myself! FUCK!"

Again his uniform shirt felt far too tight. The restraints he had become more used to were suddenly like snakes whose every movement he could feel through the fabric, writhing on his skin. Mikoto screwed his eyes shut and begged to disappear, pulling at the jumpsuit.

Then John screamed.

He tore, he ripped, he fell off the bed and threw himself against the wall as if it would give him more force against the restraints. He couldn't stop. He knew it was his fault, and he knew why it was his fault, but they were hurting Mikoto all the same.

John forcefully wiped the tears from his face. His breathing was ragged as he felt himself grabbing at his hair. This was bad.

He couldn't calm down. Mikoto was beyond upset, he was terrified. John's own anger and Mikoto's fear had them in a frenzy, their hands pulling at anything they could grasp. What could he do? He had to help Mikoto. After all, it was John's fault, John's anger, John's actions that caused him this agony. Mikoto wouldn't hurt someone like that. He couldn't!

"I COULD. I DIDN'T WANT TO!" A shriek escaped his mouth. John didn't feel like that words were his. He took a deep breath, one hand still keeping his hair in a death grip.

The other was over his mouth. John had heard enough of what the other prisoners were able to hear. He was sure that they would be punished if they were any louder; or maybe Mikoto was sure.

He just didn't know anymore.

"They were killing you," John whispered, voice strained. "Even if you didn't do i-"

The words caught in his throat, and John's breath hitched as he felt the world start to blur around him.

"I do remember that I wanted to," came a choked whisper from Mikoto. "I wanted nothing more. Those people - those men... My life was hell. I was too slow with turnarounds no matter how long I submitted before the deadline. They called me day and night like a dog to their side. And th- the way they spoke to me and my coworkers - realizing their contempt toward the working men alone but god the WOMEN-" He sobbed loudly, burying their head in his hands. "The- these are the people our baby sister gets to meet next. The ones our mom married, the ones who lie and cheat and demand and force- they should be GONE they SHOULD. BUT- but I never thought-" he trailed off, curled into a tense ball. He could hardly feel John anymore -

Oh god.

He could feel John.

Like another person in the room, he felt another presence almost by his side. Another sob turned into a laugh at the absurdity of it all. The warden had no dog - Mikoto did.

And it was himself.

And that's why there was another "him," blaming his newfound self for Mikoto's plans and actions.

He felt terrible, in a hundred different ways. "John, it wasn't your fa-" Mikoto stopped mid-sentence, torn between guilt for his other self and the terror of realization hitting. He pressed himself against the cold wall and breathed slowly as he could, suddenly overcome with a clammy, nauseous feeling.

It wasn't a dream.

Mikoto had been sick in his cell once before, during a particularly bad panic episode. He had cleaned it up well and told no one, but somehow he was still met with looks of concern and pity and fear ten times over the following morning. Damn thin walls. The already isolated prisoner was not about to let that happen again. He slumped against the wall, closed his eyes, and grit his teeth as the room spun, wanting only to sleep. If only he could shut down, wake up in his apartment and cry about his shitty day at his shitty job surrounded by shitty people that his shitty singular self did not kill.

The weight of that possibility leaving forever made him feel like he would never eat again.

John felt the pressure mounting in their head and body, powerless to help. Just behind front, able to listen to the perspective he'd been wishing to hear for so long, and unable to do a damn thing. After all the begging to be acknowledged, he still hadn't saved Mikoto. Not by a long shot.

They were both stricken with panic by now, John beginning to pace around the cell and breathing deeply to the point of pain. Anything to keep from spiraling, from causing a mess, from snapping again, from hurting someone or even needing them.

And then they froze, a third voice that felt equally unreal catching their attention. Difference was, she and another were outside themselves , and outside the door to their room.

"He's at it again..." John heard Kotoko sigh faintly, breathing shallow as he stood at a standstill. He was so at a loss that he forgot to be angry at her treatment of Mikoto. Mikoto wasn't a killer. John was. Leave Mikoto out of it, let him live without this pain. It's why John was here to begin with! Did he fail? Did he drive any other help away?

"Ugh. I'll wait here, as you requested. Give him this." John heard a small acknowledgement from Es as they took the mystery item. He flinched, bracing himself.

Were they chaining him up again? Drugging him? What did he get Mikoto into now??

Whether he knew it or not, Mikoto was feeling the same guilt towards John, ashamed for not having noticed and feeling cowardly for running from him.

"John..." Es brought the protector to attention, gently holding out a water bottle. He hadn't even registered that they opened the door. He stared for a second, feeling shamefully and ridiculously dog-like, but took the offering. "How did you know..."

"Because Mikoto puts on airs," Es replied plainly. "He would have forced a posture that was more relaxed, perhaps greeting me as 'Guard-kun.'" Their voice went up a tad as they imitated Mikoto's tone, first amusing and then startling John. Was the switch that obvious? Had he ruined any chance of Mikoto being normal again?

"So you can... You can tell. We really are that different?"

"Afraid so," Es replied. "John, do you two... Do you know how DID happens?" They stood across from him, gauging his reaction. John seemed to be struggling to stay grounded as he explained.

"We never thought we had any sort of amnesia... We once read that it happens when... Oh," John sighed. "I have no idea what happened. But I know... I know..."

"When a child is hurt badly over a period of time, in their very early stages-"

"Yeah I know how it goes." He snapped like John, but John felt the words come from elsewhere. The voice also sound absolutely defeated, the truth having come to reveal itself.

"Mikoto...?"

"..."

Mikoto felt.

He was aware, he knew what he was saying, but his voice was bitter and monotone. He didn't know what to feel. He just felt.

"I don't fuckin know anymore," he sighed. Es was not entirely convinced it was only him - his voice was cold, and while quieter than John's, Es wasn't even sure they had heard Mikoto curse before. Of course, Mikoto was subject to change as any other prisoner, and his demeanor almost reminded them of Fuuta's current state.

Mikoto took a deep breath, standing a little straighter. "I... Suspected it, when I heard about it from some class, and then forgot about it. But yeah, when a mother and a father hate each other, and possibly you, very very much... I know how it happens." His eyes darkened. "Life got better, I think, when Dad left. Mom wouldn't talk about him, and she'd get mad if I even said something that she thought he would... But I could tell she missed him. My baby sis seems okay for her age, on track development and all, but despite all the responsibility I could handle I could never quite get it right."

Es nodded thoughtfully. "So you were ridiculed and blamed for things you weren't even aware was upsetting to your parents? Did they take things out on you, because you were older?"

"I... I guess. I never thought it was that bad," Mikoto sighed. "But living on my own, I started to feel more and more disconnected. More angry, more paranoid... And I started having nightmares. I forgot about those for awhile too. When it started affecting my work, I even tried to forget I was stressed at all."

"Or rather, your mind helped you forget," Es mused.

"It should have stayed forgotten," the prisoner growled. "I can't believe I ruined everything, and I didn't even know it. John wanted to protect someone who forced him to exist because I COULDN'T protect me!" He pulled at the strap over his chest, struggling to keep composure. There was no trace of his fake smile.

"You didn't force anything," Es corrected him softly. "The brain is an organ that adapts to survive. Even had you known, it's not something that can be harnessed and commanded. It's adaptation." It was a simple matter-of-fact, complex as it was. Es hoped they had their facts straight now, anyway.

"So how do we go back to normal?!" Mikoto cried. His hands were shaking now and was sobbing again; he quickly realized how dizzy he was becoming. "I-I need to sit." He lowered himself back to the floor and slumped against the wall, arms childishly wrapped around his knees. He felt nothing but shame presenting himself this way. He was 23, he was a graphic design agent, a working man! He couldn't break down like this! He couldn't have it this bad! Even if he didn't even feel like himself at the moment, even if reality felt completely made up... "There's got- there's got to be a way to fix this."

To his surprise, Es didn't look at him with judgement or pity. The only thing that stood out was curiosity, and they gently sat beside him as they gathered their words. "It's not a matter of fixing, Kayano-kun. You all need... Healing," Es spoke carefully. They figured the nickname would do for now.

"Can't heal from a murder charge," the prisoner scoffed. Mikoto felt reality spin as John spat out his remark. John ran a hand through his hair, smoothing some parts and causing others to stick out awkwardly. "It's still my fault. Those urges, those feelings... They're mine to carry, to protect him from."

"John... maybe you can protect each other. Share the burden. It was one body and, according to Milgram, one prisoner. Maybe if you can forgive yourselves... Milgram will show me a better outcome for you both." That was the best Es could think of to help right now. To think it was upon them to say whether this man was forgivable; he had seen so much of the real world that they themselves had yet to remember, and they couldn't even imagine the stress of his perfectionist lifestyle on top of it all. They wanted to cry from how unfair it all was, but prisoner 009 was the priority right now.

As the warden... They had to do what they thought was best. They almost felt guilty for having Kotoko on standby, even though it was she who insisted. But that didn't mean Mikoto, or even John, was dangerous.

"I know I didn't do the right thing," Mikoto sighed, sitting up as he regained composure. "And it still doesn't feel real. I can almost feel the memory slipping again. It hurts, Guard-kun!" He gripped the sides of his head. Es instinctively reached gently for his hands to discourage him from pulling his hair out, and Mikoto flinched. He hit the barrier between them with his hands as he automatically covered himself.

"Shhh... Mikoto..."

"I'm sorry!"

"You didn't hurt me. I startled you," Es said. "Mikoto, you don't need to remember all the time. That's what your alter John, and any others there may be... Are for," they looked away, thinking bitterly about what may lie in their own memories. "It can hurt to remember, Mikoto. Sometimes it's even dangerous."

"I was dangerous when I didn't remember, too," Mikoto sniffed. "John... He wanted to protect us - protect me - so badly that we hurt a lot of things. Even you."

"Well as for me, Mikoto, my physical health is no worse for wear," Es replied. They were only partly lying - they were exhausted constantly, but John's outburst was long down the list of incidents by now. "I forgive you. Do you... Forgive you? Forgive John?"

"John... I barely know John..." Mikoto sighed, feeling defeated as the words he tried to form seemed to fade from his mind. "But I... I forgive his mistakes. I hope he can forgive me too." Mikoto then felt lightheaded again, but although his throat felt stuck and his chest was tight, his left hand gave a small thumbs up.

Es couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "Well, there you go."

Mikoto heaved a sigh, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. "Thank you..." He whispered. He began to cry again, but smiled a smile that seemed to come more from genuine gratitude than fear. "Thank you, Guard-kun. I know... John will be happier now. I'm... I'm really scared. But we don't have to be lonely."

Es stood up slowly, offering a hand to help him to the bed. 009 sat still on the floor for a moment, a small frown forming on his face as he took their hand. "It's... It's John." He whispered, although they were partly holding him upright, Milgram ignoring his presence and giving him away. It felt strange, announcing himself like that, but comfortable too. "I know we can't undo what we did... Thank you for helping Mikoto."

"You deserve help, too, John. Mikoto wants to be there for you, too," the small warden looked up at him with almost a sense of urgency, praying John wouldn't try to take it all on himself anymore.

"Well he can start..." John mused, "by not giving away my cigarettes anymore. How's that?"

"Oh yeah, he did tell me to stop giving those to him even if he asks. I think..." They almost didn't suppress a laugh as they walked the system to their cot; although the situation wasn't funny itself, it was an interesting process. "I think finding those over and over is when he knew he forgot more than he knew."

"Damn right..." John sat down on the bed, the body falling over nearly instantly.

"Goodnight, John-kun, Mikoto-kun," Es said softly, heading towards the cell door.

"Goodnight, and thank you again," John's low voice replied.

As they went out the door, they heard another.

"Oh! Goodnight, Guard-kun!" A soft whisper said from across the room. "...And thank you."

That night was the most restful sleep Mikoto's body had gotten in years. He almost felt like he could finally get used to this. He would never get used to "being a killer," though. He didn't know much about the social perception of DID, so he sure hoped that wasn't a general stereotype.

End.

#milgram #mikoto milgram #john milgram #milgram fanfic #character study #cw vomit mention #cw panic attack #cw rapid switching #? #idk if anyone needs that but it's there lol #cw mild self-injury (unintentional) #switching my be written confusingly but we did our best lol it's confusing on this end too #ambiguous third mikoto #longer than i intended but wasn't sure where it was going anyway lol #freeform yaaaaay #Es 009 siblings for life

[okkennymay]

Speaking of said dad, he went on a lil mini 10 day holiday across the country to Perth to sight see nature and go on a boat ride to see some Orcas (he's retired, it's his way of getting out the house and not turning into an old man potato, and comes back with hundreds of photos of landscapes, plants and flowers and points of historical interests to show my Mum and I, with cool facts and stories in a slideshow~)

Unfortunately i was still sick at the time and didn't get the chance to join my mum in dropping him off at the airport, let alone the chance to give him a big 'ol hug before he left- so I drew him this 💖

You can't escape the 'Ken hugs.

#fun fact I actually have mild OCD when it comes to hugs especially with family members #sometimes they have to deal with me hugging them many times over until its right #and if I don't hug them before they leave I get anxious as hell #it used to be to the point of panic attacks- my brain would tell me because I didn't hug them they will die before I see them again #and they would never know how much I love them #Family gatherings are a hug fest- my family and their partners know the moment I bust through the door I must run the circuit #everyone gets hugged and neither of us have a choice in the matter #at least it's hugs and not something else like turning on and off the lights a number or times or closing and opening doors or some such #sure hug OCD sounds nice but when it's been like 5 minutes and 15 hugs it's not fun for either party-it's better these days but it took wor #or running out the door to your sisters car because the hug wasn't right and they're about to drive off and if I don't catch them in time- #-I'd cry for hours feeling dread and anxiety down to my bones until i end up sick and in bed- that's not so nice #the brains a bitch

[the-scungles-of-crungles]

Mutuals save me from the mood I'm in

Pleas lmao

#(Sometimes when I get into discourse even if mild. I have a mild panic attack type thing) #(And then my chest feels weird for a while)

[ygodmyy20]

Hey anyone want to read my *looks at doc name* Pukes Words On A Page? From a teru pov of him having a panic attack?

SURE

Also I dunno if what I write is body horror or just regular old descriptions but I'll tag just in case. Also I used to never share these but...I am kinda proud of these crazy writings I do. So. Yeah.

If panic attacks are triggering maybe don't read.

Anxiety is eating him alive.

It crawls through his skin like worms through soil, burrowing its way upwards and settling in his chest. He feels sick, his fingers rattling and ribs tightening like a rope around his bones. His insides are rippling with hums and wheezes and he can’t breathe.

Teru doesn’t know what to do with anxiety.

It’s like his body is being eaten from the inside out, rusted talons scraping out his ribs for meat. Dull as they dig into his liver and the bottom of his spine. Blood rushes away from extremities and his head lightens and maybe he will pass out that would be nice but there is nowhere to go. He can’t seem to shake it. He needs to get things done. But his brain is rampaging with thoughts and ideas and he can’t seem to sit still, legs shaking, fingers clawed.

He is distracted but aware, fully present but his mind is lost in space. Nothing is working, like dragging his feet through the mud. Pouring buckets of sand into his eyes and ears and the thoughts are so loud and screaming at him. Crystals pierce the sides of his tear ducts. He wants to call for help, but he wants to talk to no one. He desires a hug, but also wants to go out and find a random ex-CLAW and punch them so hard they fly into the sky.

Panic is settling in.

He is so exhausted.

His powers barely register under his skin.

He never used to feel anxiety when the world was moving so fast and he had no time to even think about being anxious. But now, it is like an extra layer on top of his skin weighing him down. Was it better when I ran off of adrenaline? He thinks briefly before quickly shaking his head.

No no, that was worse.

He knows that was worse.

It was worse

….right?

But at least it made sense before.

You get chased, you run. You get attacked, you fight back.

Not like whatever convoluted hellscape this is where he feels like he just ran a marathon but is sitting at his desk, homework laid out in front of him, hand fisted in blonde hair that comes loose from his sad excuse for a ponytail. He pulls at his hair, noting as some locks come out. He tosses them to the side, the blonde strands floating to the floor.

He is behind in every class, and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to catch up. He can’t seem to figure out why.

He keeps using his powers to get to school faster because he is sleeping in too much.

He can’t sleep because he can't seem to keep his eyes closed.

His powers are drained and he knows it but he just just barely treading through waves.

All he wants to do go over to the Kageyama’s and play video games with them and Shou, and eat too much and be too full and stay up so late that he starts to imagine that the walls are moving into shapes of figures he can’t describe. Shadows and molten black and figures that reach for him but then he feels the flutter or purples and greens and reds from his friends and everything settles back into the walls from where it came.

If he could just take in a full breath maybe he'll be okay.

#I am okay #No really I actually am! this is just what we do round here #write out the feeeeelings #teruki hanazawa #sorry teru you’re on my brain a lot so uh #you get panic attacks sorry #tw body horror #mild #panic attacks #tw panic attack #writings #one-shot #is this a drabble? I guess it is #like my other drabbly one-shots I may make this a little more polished and post to ao3 #my art #Matraca writes

[unsurebisexualcore]

#this is my constant mental battle on this app #byler #< target audience #or > target audience #I actually don’t know how to use that tag #Or what the hell it means #istg u guys r so cool I’m too intimidated to talk to u #I LOVE MY MOOTS BUT I ALSO HAVE A MILD PANIC ATTACK WHENEVER I TAG U GUYS IN POSTS I CANT HELP IT

[ayyy-imma-ninja]

New Fairy AU drabble!

It's a fairly heavy angst drabble so tread lightly.

Come learn more about how nightmares work! Nothing will go horribly wrong :D

#fairy au #dca fairy au #moondrop fairy #sundrop fairy #blue moon fairy #lunar fairy #fnaf daycare au #ao3 #archives of the celestial fairies #angst #hurt with little comfort #mild gore #fake deaths #nightmares #heavy angst #panic attack #violence #nightmare hunting #nightmare jars #meddling with the work of moondrop fairies #moondrop magic #fnaf sun and moon #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf sundrop #fnaf moondrop

[moo9395]

Martyn/ Jimmy/ Scott/ Tango - ship fic

For @entropicthymes as part of the @mcytblrholidayexchange​

It was new years eve and Martyn, Scott, Jimmy, and Tango were all sitting in their living room watching the end of something on the TV.

Scott was lying on the sofa with his feet in Jimmy’s lap idly flicking through a magazine. Leant up against the sofa between Jimmy's knees was Tango with Martyns head lying in his lap as the former absentmindedly combed his fingers through the latters hair. 

As the programme came to an end Scott tossed his magazine onto the coffee table and moved to get up. 

“I’m going to pop the kettle on” He said as he stretched and ran a hand through his hair.

Tango shuffled Martyns head off, ignoring his protests, and stood up to help Scott.

Seeing as his pillow had gone, Martyn stood up and plonked himself down on the sofa next to Jimmy.

Said pillow then reappeared, popping his head round the door to ask who wanted tea.

Jimmy and Martyn answered simultaneously with a polite “Me please” to Tango rolled his eyes fondly. 

In a few minutes Scott returned with a tray of mugs in his hands which he gently placed on the coffee table before squashing himself between Jimmy and Martyn.

“Room for a little one?” Tango asked, grinning.

Jimmy shifted up pushing the other two with him “Always room for you”. 

“Are we doing presents then?” Martyn inquired, hands wrapped around his warm mug.

Jimmy bobbed excitedly causing Tango to squeak in alarm and Scott to nearly spill his tea.

“Sorry” he babbled apologetically as Martyn laughed. 

Once Jimmy had stopped apologising, Martyn stood up and made his way over to the ‘certainly not over decorated’ Christmas tree (Scott had been in charge) and began pulling out the gifts underneath. 

“Right, who wants to go first?” he asked, settling himself down cross legged on the floor, four wrapped gifts beside him. 

“Lets just go in a circle” Jimmy answered “Start with Tango and end with Martyn” 

“Alright sounds good to me” Scott added as the others hummed in approval. 

Martyn turned to his pile of presents and ruffled through a few labels before handing a soft, flopping looking package to Tango. 

The blaze-born flipped the tag over which read ‘To Tango, from your secret santa x’. 

He then carefully unwrapped the present.

“Wow,” he murmured, holding up a knitted sweater decorated with intricate designs and patterns in shades of red, orange and yellow. 

“Do you like it?” Martyn asked nervously.

“Well that's sort of given away the ‘Secret Santa’ aspect of this but oh well” Jimmy said under his breath.

Tango ignored him “It’s gorgeous Martyn,” he replied, still staring at the gift “Where did you get it?”

Martyn mumbled something under his breath as his cheeks flushed and he began to play with the carpet.

“You what?” Scott inquired curiously.

“I made it” Martyn answered, cheeks flushing even further as he glanced up grinning at the looks of shock on his partner's faces. 

The three of them just stared open mouthed at him until Jimmy broke the silence “I didn’t know you could knit”

Martyn smirked “Well a mans gotta have some secrets doesn’t he?” he answered, recovering some of his usual bravado. 

“Well sure but you don’t usually expect the secret to be world class knitting skills do you?” Tango added smiling fondly as any bravado Martyn had managed to claw back vanished in the blushing mess.

“Alright who’s next” Scott asked loudly pulling Martyn back to reality “Right yeah, Jimmy” he babbled handing Jimmy a package.

Jimmy tore off the wrapping rather unceremoniously and pulled out a large blanket.

It was cream with tassels at each end and covered in colourfully embroidered flowers.

Jimmy squealed (it was a very manly squeal) in delight as he ran his fingers over each design.

“Happy new year” Scott giggled and Jimmy leapt on him pressing kisses to whatever he could reach.

“Alright let him breathe” Tango chided but his smile was evident in his voice.

Jimmy pulled back still beaming and went back to examining the poppies, carnations, bluebells and other flowers that Scott had expertly sewn into the blanket.

Scott accepts the package from Martyn with a polite “thank you love” and a peck on the cheek.

It’s smaller than the others but Scott knows size is no guarantee of worth (Minds out the gutter please) as he carefully undoes the bow and slowly peels back the wrapping.

“It’s like watching a strip tease” Martyn quips, the comment earning a stifled laugh from Jimmy and a glare from Scott who tosses the wrapping paper at him.

Having finally unwrapped the gift Scott is now holding a small box, he removes the lid and peeling back the layers of golden tissue paper pulls out a pair of earrings.

“Oh they’re gorgeous” he exclaims holding up one of the pairs, it's long and dangling with four large crystals connected by rows of tiny clear beads. 

“There’s a crystal to show each of us” Tango explained, he was too excited to care about giving himself away.

Scott inspected the gems further, he was familiar with gemstones and recognised each, a chunk of yellow jasper for Jimmy, a piece of prehnite for Martyn, a bit of red sunstone for Tango, and a segment of amazonite for him.

“Are you crying?” Jimmy asked amused.

Scott sniffed “Mind your own business” the others laughed and Tango reached out a warm hand and ruffled Scott's hair.

Once Scott had recovered himself it was Martyns turn. 

“I wonder who this could be from” the blond said, lifting his gift into the air and shaking it with mock confusion.

Jimmy rolled his eyes affectionately “Just open it”.

Martyn pulled the red ribbon of the small (and surprisingly neatly wrapped) box, before pulling off the wrapping.

Underneath the holly covered wrapping paper was a velvet box, Martyn gently lifted the hinged lid to reveal a small, ornate ring.

After lifting the ring out of its box he rotated it with his fingers examining the finely carved lettering.

“It’s all of our initials and our anniversary” Jimmy said with flushed cheeks “I know it's similar to Tango’s.. I didn’t mean to.. obviously.. I didn’t know-”

Martyn cut him off with a peck on the lips “It’s lovely Jim, thank you”.

Jimmy beamed, obviously delighted before pulling Martyn unceremoniously down onto the sofa.

Scott and Tango sat laughing at Martyn’s muffled protests to being suffocated in feathers. 

—————

After a couple games of Mario Party, Jimmy leapt up from the sofa “The fireworks are starting!” he cheered as he ran over to the window peering out into the dark.

Scott and Martyn heaved themselves up to go and look, Martyn opening the window as he reached it.

The sound of fireworks filled the small apartment along with the small shrieks of excitement from a certain canary.

“Jimmy you’re getting feathers in my mouth again” Martyn muttered, pushing yellow wings out of his face. 

Then he paused as he heard a soft whimper behind him “Tango?” he whispered as he turned.

Tango was crouched in the corner of the room, back to the wall and hands clamped over his ears.

Martyn rushed over to him, noticing his sudden absence Scott and Jimmy also turned. 

Martyn crouched down beside his boyfriend whose eyes were screwed up and his hands were still clamped over his ears.

“I think it's the noise” Scott muttered gently, noticing the blazeborns tail flicking agitatedly.  

Jimmy shot up and tripped over himself in his hurry to close the window.

The sound of fireworks was muffled, for good measure Jimmy closed the curtains before returning to his boyfriends.   

“Tango sweetie, can you hear me?” Scott probed softly but the blaze-born didn’t even acknowledge the statement.

“We need to ground him” Jimmy whispered as he gently began tracing patterns in his partner's folded knees.

Martyn and Scott followed his example; Scott rubbing smooth circles in the blond's back and Martyn opting for gently playing with his hair.

After a few moments Tango's breathing relaxed, his hands moved away from his ears and his eyes fluttered open.

“Hello sunshine” Martyn breathed lightly “Are you feeling better?”.

Tango nodded shyly before rasping out a small “thank you”.

The three of them smiled softly before Jimmy stood “Come on let’s go back to the sofa”.

The others murmured in agreement as the canary pulled them to their feet. 

They all settled down on the sofa and Scott grabbed a soft blanket placing it over them, Jimmy reaching over to grab his blanket and placing it on top. 

Martyn switched the TV and put on big hero six before settling back to playing with Tangos hair.

Jimmy was lying curled across the blaze-borns lap and the latter was gently preening his wings.

Scott had his head on Martyns shoulder gently tracing stars onto the shorter man’s thigh.

Eventually Jimmy dropped off to sleep and was soon followed by Tango. 

Martyn stopped playing with his hair after a few moments and turned his head to look down at Scott before reaching his hand round to stroke the younger’s cheek.

“Happy new year” He murmured softly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

A smaller hand found his own as Scott gently ran his thumb across Martyn’s fingers “Happy new year”.

#life series #traffic smp #jimmy solidarity #trafficblr #martyn littlewood #traffic series #tangotek #scott smajor #life series fic #tango/ jimmy/ Scott/ martyn #new years #gift giving #traffic shipping #fluff #mild hurt/comfort #panic attack #fireworks #tangotek blaze hybrid #jimmy solidarity canary hybrid #domestic fluff #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #mcytblrholidayexchange2023

[detentiontrack]

CZ has discovered he likes ice cream. I can already tell he’s going to be a menace about it

#my little sisters gave him a tiny bit of ice cream while I was out of the room #I had a mild panic attack about it and told them not to do it again bc cats can’t have ice cream #but he LOVED it and then started scream meowing at them to feed him more #I think this will be a problem the next time I eat ice cream #he already doesn’t hesitate to steal food #(he only got a teeny tiny amount) #the beast

[yvtro]

not to post whump on main but tbh i think we should get to see jason’s first reaction to the memorial and it should be straight up just throwing up or something

#in fanfics it’s usually him getting angry or getting a mild panic attack #nah i think seeing a costume that you died in #that someone had to take off your dead body and mend back together! #is far for traumatic than that #but maybe it’s just me #jason todd #dc comics #jay ramblings

[superconfusedcoryn]

So this week's motto is apparently 'Do it scared, but do it' ?

(Drove a scary big ass truck not once but twice, made an unpleasant phone call and asked a stranger for help)

#me from last year could never #i would've been sick for days #to be fair in 3/4 chases i had a panic attack #but a fairly mild one compared to the ones i had till last year

[boyslit]

just so we're fucking clear. i don't give a goddamn rat's ass what your position is on the anti/proshipping thing is. if it's got you making threats of violence against other real living people for no other reason than you disagree with how they engage with FICTION, i'm not fucking with you. catch yourself a shiny new block. and god, i hope you grow and learn better

#pinpostlog #you people have GOT to be able to make the distinction between fiction and reality #this has also triggered a mild probably ptsd induced panic attack so hahahaha fucking thanks for that shithead #i sure hope this isn't about anyone here because i just blocked a whole post;s worth of people talking about harming the other faction #even as a joke! stop! #if you identify yourself as one of these factions and think i'm overreacting fucking block me! and let me know so i can block you back

[the-raging-tempest]

🍪🍫🍕🍟 for lariel and zrise!!

Thank you Romeo!! Sorry this took me a minute. Also I do be doing the classic Dolly rambling. Hope I make sense. LMAO A heads up for general content warning for the last answer from Zrise.

🍪: What is something that's sentimental to you OC?

Lariel allows herself to be much more sentimental than Zrise. She's the type to horde letters, books, flowers, objects. Things she ties to memories. She's the one who I imagine keeps all the gifts she's received and writes heartfelt thank you cards. I think to think of specific objects I can think of three off the top of my head. The letter Eithon sent her saying he would attend her birthday party. The stuffed bear honey Zrise treasured as a child. A necklace given to her by Venan. It's cheap junk that broke at the clasp after she got it but she still keeps it. Lariel is a very objects oriented person. Not in greedy or materialistic sense. She just likes to have little emotional totems and remembrances. It's also why she likes to keep a journal.

Zrise is more sentimental than he really allows himself to be. He strikes me as the kind of person who gets rid of/loses most of his things. Because he believes he'd rather not remember. He'd rather not be attached to the past, and wants to live in the 'now'. That doesn't stop him from actually regretting getting rid of those things when the whim of nostalgia strikes him. He also just doesn't own a lot of personal items. Anything he collected in Galt he had to leave behind. He doesn't often stay at the estate in Nerosyan. So if you were to see his childhood bedroom it would be surprisingly not personal. If things are kept in their it's usually because of Lariel. That said. Tattoos are the one way I see him being sentimental. Some might see it as strange for a guy who sees his mortal form as something he's fighting. But his first tattoo was of the black swan with the dagger. Baby Zrise who was edgy but not as jaded and missed his sister. I believe Zrise has a third tattoo I have yet to share (because I haven't decided on it's appearance exactly.) I also always joke that if Zrise were to fall for someone he's the type to get a sappy sentimental tattoo and then worry it's cringe as he's about to show it.

🍫: Where does your OC go to think?

Lariel can think almost anywhere. Unless she's doing some soul searching, then I imagine she'd actually like to be alone but where she feels connected to he world in other ways. Like a were nature is flourishing, where she can see the sky. I imagine she's prone to wondering and walking as she thinks. (I also project onto her as I do this irl) She sometimes just bursts out random words. Like when she remembers something embarrassing or funny.

Zrise is often avoiding thinking. He doesn't often WANT to go and think. I imagine if he really is soul searching willingly… (rare) similar to Lariel he'd wander. Until he found a place secluded enough that he felt like no one could find him. I imagine he's locking himself away or just so far off everyone's lost sight of him. Something he used to do as a child. Go hide. But often he's thinking against his will. LMAO

🍕: How does an OC spend a lazy day?

Lazy days for Lariel is an interesting idea. She spent so much of her life locked away. If she wasn't studying or doing lessons she was doing 'leisure activities' that could be seen as productive. I think if she were to just 'be lazy' for a day. She'd eat sweets, read a romance novel, and take a nice bath.

My boy struggles with this kind of idea. He kind of needs something fun and distracting enough that he doesn't have to all his negative thoughts surface, but also something that isn't important enough that the 'obligation' part of his brain activates. So I see him more so needing a 'lazy day' still needing to be something where he goes out and does something he hasn't before, or has multiple activities. Like a party where there are games. He can be competitive, but not overly invested as too ruin the mood lmao

🍟: What does your OC admit to be their guilty pleasure? What actually is their guilty pleasure?

I love how this one is phrased. Because there's a huge difference between one's characters are willing to admit or not.

For Lariel, her easy to admit ones are things like, sweets, indulgent novels, basically what I said would be her 'lazy day' Hehe.

As for ACTUALLY guilty pleasure…. this is hard… I think a part of her that would never admit it is that she revels in a certain kind of person getting taken down a peg. She'd never admit it nor would she ever be the person who DOES it, but I can see her not putting up much of a fight when certain people start facing harsher consequences. She has a prideful streak. Which means she won't often 'stoop so low' but she is drawn to people who often WILL. Characters who will be rude where she will not. (Unless they just do it to be mean. She doesn't like that.)

For Zrise, the ones he admits and wears like armor are vices like, drinking, sex, and drugs. He doesn't mind advertising.

The middle point would be dangerous risky behavior verging into self-harm because he believes he must 'suffer' or 'repent'. He would not explain himself but he does act in a self-destructive nature often.

This kind he doesn't admit… Would be things like his deeper sense of sentimentality. Reading things that remind him of 'simpler times'. Holding fondness for things honesty and kindness. Things he enjoys that do not serve a greater purpose. The moments where he wears his heart on his sleeve. People watching, in the sense of just not wanting things from people and just watching them. But he thinks that's weird.

#ask game #ask #oc: zrise #oc: lariel #hope i make sense #been wildly whipping between emotional states #recovering from a mild panic attack lmao #when the anxiety hits me it hits me bad on the meds #not to do with questions or anything like that #just some random unprompted dread

[frodo-of-the-nine-fingers]

boats boats boats boats Boats Boats Boats Boats BOATS BOATS BOATS BOATS BOATS BOATS BOATS

#i had to check halfway through that that is actually how you spelled 'boat' because the word broke in my brain #the sea #boat #i actually am having a mild mild mild panic attack re the spelling of this word and doubting reality #i still would like to be on a boat right now though #bow@ is how its pronounced i believe