#I’m Ocd With My Floors

[theoddsideofme]

I talk dirty to my vacuum cleaner all the time. Yes baby, mop it good, yesss that’s the spot. He’s the most sexiest beast ever. You encourage him, he does a fantastic job. Yes I’m insane. God I love you robotic cleaner.

[seventh-district]

OCD will literally remove your brain's ability to register when a task is Complete and then create 10,000 incredibly ridiculous and extremely specific rules for you to follow in every single aspect of your life (to keep you safe, of course, it tells you.) and then tells you that if you don’t do them Correctly and Completely every single time it tells you to (it tells you countless times per day) then the Entire Fucking World Will End and then it’ll do this fucked up thing where it makes you believe that nonsense.

and then people that don’t have it will make silly little jokes about being soooooo OCD and make t-shirts with fun little acronyms on them like Obsessive Coffee Disorder and tell you how much they like it when things are organized and clean, too!!

and then you’re supposed to just. laugh. like you haven’t been robbed of your entire being and potential and been taken over by a mind and life altering disability

[unusual-ly]

Twisted my ankle dancing to Kinky Boots in the spare room at 12 o’clock at night :/

[ceruleansol]

Mildly triggering my ocd so I can negate the bigger trigger

[southislandwren]

The milk inspector came (inspect her? I hardly know her) and she said “barn looks nice!” So if anyone needs a dairy milking parlor/barn painted and cleaned for inspection, I’ll do it for 50 bucks and a tank of gas

[akutakillz]

Not to get non mentally ill personal but I am running around trying to get the place immaculate because we have to call the landlord about an issue.

[motheyes]

i think i’ll make a little note or wrap up for new years

[luveline]

this may sound crazy, but i have really bad OCD in terms of cleanliness. for example, always need clean clothes (has to be exactly “correct” level of clean), hand wash always over and over, i also don’t like anyone sitting or laying in my bed uncleaned or in outside clothes.

eddie is, well eddie. how do you think he would react to a gf or potential gf that has this same issue?

You can’t wear the same sweatshirt twice, you can’t not wash your hands three times before dinner. He doesn’t think much of it, to be totally honest. Eddie’s been called weird his whole life, and he knows that behaviour like yours is out of the ordinary, so he refuses to make you feel bad about it. 

“Sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay,” he says, putting his backpack on the floor. You’re wringing your hands nervously in front of the bed, having just told him Please don’t sit on my bed. I can’t– It’s the contamination, it’s not you.

He unzips his backpack to unveil the extra clothes he brought with him. “I got these fresh out of the washer, but if it’s still not alright, I can just sit on the floor.” 

“Eddie, I’m not gonna make you sit on the floor.” Something in your expression softens. “You promise they’re clean?” 

“They still smell like detergent, but it doesn’t bother me. I can sit on the floor. Or at your desk?” 

“You can’t sit on the floor, Eddie. If they’re really clean, you can come and sit with me.” You smile weakly. “I want you to sit with me. I can’t deal with the idea of, like, your outside clothes on my bed, that’s all.” 

“That’s fine.” He makes sure not to put the clean clothes against his chest. “I get it, babe, the van is gross, pollution is disgusting, I’m gonna save the world for you to make it less icky. Can I get changed?” 

Your smile strengthens. “Yeah, course you can. I won’t look, much.” 

“Much!” Eddie’s joy at your teasing is palpable. 

He changes. You don’t watch, but you don’t avert your eyes either, which Eddie thinks is a good sign. It’s a little nerve wracking to be standing there in his boxers and socks while you’re fully clothed, until you smile at him with your face in your hand and he remembers how sweet you are.

“How many tattoos do you have?” 

“You don’t know?” he asks. 

“I’ve seen them all. Just never counted.” 

Eddie puts his worn clothes in his backpack and sits on your rug to change his socks. “I have sixteen.” 

“What?” you ask incredulously.

“I’m counting the bats separately.”

“Of course you are.” 

He springs up, squeezing the hand sanitiser on your desk into his two palms, and cleaning down to the middle of his forearms. Then, when they’re cold from the air in your room but mostly dry, he meanders his way to your side, giving you a long and loving stare. “You look really pretty when you do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“When you hold your face. Can I…” 

You lean back. He replaces your hand with his own, rubbing a soft path into your cheek. “I can’t believe you sanitised for me,” you say with a smile that’s half embarrassed and half pleased. “Thank you.” 

“Thanks for what?” He strokes your cheek back. The soft skin there pulls. “I should be saying thanks, do you know how big of a deal it is, to get to touch you? I’m on cloud nine. I feel like such a fucking winner.” 

Your nose crinkles as you laugh. “Very passionate.” 

“I’m saying goodbye to grunge. No more unwashed jackets or crust pants, I swear. I even cleaned behind my ears.” 

“You weren’t cleaning behind your ears?” 

He leans down to touch your nose tip with his. His eyes close, but not before he sees your nice smile. Getting to be here joking with you in your bedroom is worth sanitising his hands, are you kidding? He’d do a full body bleach bath three times a day if it meant he got to breathe the same air as you. 

“Tell me if I do something gross, okay? I know you think about things a lot, I just need you to tell me.” 

“I don't want you to get caught up in my stupid rules.” 

“They’re not stupid.” He noses at your cheek, his lips touching skin as he speaks, “Don’t worry about it. Tonight’s about you and me and the Amityville Horror.” 

“Okay, I won’t. I won’t worry.” Your breath warms his lips.

He kisses your cheek gently, a quiet thank you. It’s nice to be trusted with something as important and intrinsic to you as this, nicer to be touching you. He can’t believe he’s allowed. 

[jellinuy]

(saw your announcement so imma get this in real fast) post jjk! ( everyone lives bc gege is a menace) gojo, reader, and suguru living together :3

( roommates! )

౨ৎ incl. satoru and suguru.

౨ৎ a/n. first time i've actually written something that's NOT a drabble in like forever. can't decide on a format!! also i thought of reader being like their shoko, so this is completely platonic! urrghhh sorry this took me forever

living with the strongest duo would include...

Big house, first of all, because Satoru bought it. I’m talking, like, the three of you live in a penthouse, big.

Two VERY different sides of the house. Satoru's messy room consisting of strewn socks on the floor and food containers littered across his desk and an unmade bed and not a single cell in his brain to fix any of it until you or Suguru get on his ass: he says he has other things to worry about.

On the other hand, Suguru is something of a nagging mother when it comes to his sector of the house. Clean sheets every week, clothes in the hamper immediately after taking them off, shoes in his closet in a neat row, etc. You and Satoru like to joke about him having OCD.

Late night snack runs!! It usually starts with one of you complaining about being hungry at an ungodly hour, way too late for snacks but craving snacks anyway. It’s usually Satoru who gets you two up by video calling you from his room, making noise until you can’t take it anymore and decide to get up.

Suguru does most of the cooking. Satoru isn’t bad at it, per se, but he’s too lazy to try and so are you, let alone make big enough batches for three people.

Suguru is also lazy at times, but less than Satoru, so you two designated him as your personal chef.

Of course, there are always days when none of you feel like cooking — those are Satoru’s favorite days. You’ll order takeout (with his money), heaped in a tangle of legs and arms across the couch as you eat and binge watch whatever you three happen to find.

Suguru usually makes you guys lunch for work or school if you ask. Or even if you don’t.

Pillow fights! Or any kind of play-fight that involves throwing things at each other. They're usually initiated by Satoru when the mood strikes, and he'll literally beat you and Suguru over the head with pillows until the stuffing is everywhere or until you physically can't breathe.

A group chat! Satoru’s a frequent texter, Suguru not so much, whether it’s to show you two a picture of a stray cat he found, to ask what’s for dinner, or to beg for something.

Strangely though, when you or Suguru question him on why the trash isn’t taken out, he goes quiet.

Those two are the kind of boys who come into your room to knock something over and just leave without closing your door.

Movie nights are a must on weekends, unless one of you is extremely busy. That’s how the three of you unwind without really saying you need to unwind. You cuddle up on the couch in pajamas in one big messy heap and turn on a movie (based on who wins rock-paper-scissors) with a mountain of sugary and salty and spicy snacks at your disposal.

The three of you trust each other completely, so deep conversations are occasional, but comfortable. Neither of them would judge you for crying or being anxious or anything, and vice versa. When you need a hug, they’re there for that, too.

It’s not rare for the three of you to share a bed, or even cuddle. Granted, it took some getting used to at first, but now none of you find it weird, and it’s comforting to have a 6 foot heated body pillow, especially during the winter.

You three have an insane amount of inside jokes, and you bicker like siblings. Anyone who doesn’t get it would probably be concerned how much you insult each other.

“Shut the fuck up Suguru, didn’t you used to swallow balls?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Satoru, aren’t you still a virgin??”

“Fuck you! Y/N, what the hell are you laughing at, didn’t your date flake on you the other day??”

“Suck my dick!”

And then you’ll go back to whatever you were doing before like it didn’t even happen.

Whenever you or Suguru need to go shopping, you usually ask Satoru to Cashapp you before you go. He pretends to put up a fight, but to a guy who sees $2,000 as pocket change, he really doesn’t care. Hell, take one of his cards, go nuts.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 Part 4

Jungkook wants to create a home for you- not knowing that that's already what he is to you.

Tags/Warnings: Non-Idol Jungkook, Dog Hybrid!Reader, former criminal!Jungkook, mentions of past neglect/abuse, reader has some pretty bad psychological problems (OCD, Anxiety, Selective mutism, hints at an eating disorder), hypersomnia, road to recovery, hurt and lots of comfort, angst, Jungkook has some problems with aggression and swears a lot, more TBA in future chapters

Length: 1.2k Words

There is no taglist for this fic.

-> Masterlist

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

Jungkook is wary as he walks into the rather.. unique building, old school reformed into what looks like a daycare for hybrids of different ages it appears like.

Some rooms are furnished, others are clearly meant for younger hybrids, and he even walks past a room that’s only filled with pillows and blankets and stuffed animals of all sizes, flooring entirely made up of mattresses. Overall, this is not what he thought the correctional facility would look like- as the man with the cat eyes approaches him, soft smile on his otherwise rather stoic face. “I’m happy you decided to come by so soon.” He tells him, black cat ears moving a little between his equally dark long hair. “Min Yoongi. I assume this bag is for her?” He asks, and Jungkook nods, still not quite understanding.

This man is a hybrid himself. And yet he’s clearly wearing a staff-badge on his casual clothing.

“I’ll explain some of the structure to you while I’ll let staff look through the things- just for protocol.” He tells him, giving the bag to an elderly woman who takes it, after Yoongi writes your tag number on a plastic card and attaches it to the black sportsbag Jungkook brought with him.

“They’re currently having lunch together.” Yoongi says, as he walks down a hall with Jungkook right behind him. “But she’s not very social- and she seems to be wary of most foods, so she eats by herself with the help of staff.” The cat hybrid hums. “We don’t know much about her, only have her paperwork- but we usually like to paint the picture ourselves.”

“Did she... eat well here?” Jungkook asks, hands in his pockets.

“So-so.” Yoongi admits. “The seperation from you clearly made her shrink back into her shell quite a bit. She refused to come out of a corner in her room for hours after she arrived.” He explains, and Jungkook frowns.

“She likes.. Mild cheeses. Like, the animal shaped kind you can get at the supermarket.” Jungkook mumbles. “And simple stuff. Like chicken soup. Or you know.. Anything I eat, really.”

Yoongi chuckles. “You eat animal shaped cheese?”

“Shut up.” Jungkook snaps a little bashfully, when Yoongi opens a door.

“This is her room. Temporary, of course.” Yoongi explains as they both walk in. “See, here’s how it’s going to go down.” Yoongi offers, sitting down on a chair in one corner of the tiny room, while Jungkook awkwardly stands in front of your bed. “I know who you are, and what you’ve done. Your situation isn’t ideal to say the least.” The worker tells him. “But- I filed in for mutual rehabilitation. And the court agreed.”

“Mutual.. Rehabilitation?” Jungkook repeats, unsure. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what you think it does.” Yoongi shrugs. “You told the janitor back at the carecenter that you’d take on a job if she was to live with you?”

Jungkook fidgets a little, shrugs, as he looks down at his shoes. “Yeah. Maybe at a grocery store. Night shift, or something. So she’s asleep when I’m gone, and.. Won't miss me or something.” He explains.

“Do you have room for her at your apartment?” Yoongi continues to question.

“She could have my bedroom.” He shrugs again. "I could just sleep on the pull out couch in the living room, no big deal-” He tells the hybrid, who chuckles.

“What about food? Do you know what a hybrid needs?” He wonders, leaning back a little with crossed arms.

“I know that she needs supplements? Like, I looked up some, and there’s like.. Little packets? That you can mix with water and it apparently tastes like fruit or something.” Jungkook explains. “and there’s other stuff you can use in meals that don’t taste like anything.”

“You've done research?” Yoongi smiles. “Even though you were so sure you’d never get to adopt her?”

“I.. Was thinking that maybe a friend of mine could. Instead of me.” He explains, carefully sitting on the very edge of the bed. “And he’s never owned a hybrid before so I wanted to make sure I.. could like, give him advice if needed.”

“Well, it might not be so impossible for you to take her in after all.” The cat hybrid jokes. “I’d say, after you go home today, clean up back there. Get stuff ready. They’ll send someone to check your home in a week or so, just to make sure. It’ll be random. Just so you can’t prepare.” He informs Jungkook, who nods, suddenly determined.

If there’s a chance at getting both his freedom, and you at the same time- then he’ll take it.

“Then, you’ll get three weeks trial.” He explains further. “If there’s no hiccups during that time- meaning she runs off, gets hurt due to negligence, or otherwise has complaints- you'll sign a permanent housing contract.” Yoongi tells him.

“Housing?” He asks, confused.

“We.. Don't like to call it ‘ownership’. A little outdated, don’t you think? She’s not a pet after all. Neither am I.” He jokes, grinning a little.

“...true.” Jungkook mumbles, when a woman is heard laughing.

“Hey, careful, you’re gonna trip sweetheart!” She calls out with a clear smile in her tone, when the door suddenly swings open, revealing you- wide eyed, tail wagging fast, instantly tearing up as you spot Jungkook on the bed.

You can’t help it.

You basically tackle the young man, making everyone laugh at how he desperately attempts to not have you fall off the corner of the bed with him together, though you miserably fail at that, ending up on the floor where you squeeze yourself as closely to him as you can, now on his lap.

“I hope they set out an extra plate?” Yoongi asks the elderly woman who laughs.

“Oh, they did!” She laughs.

And indeed, they did.

Though, technically, they did not need an extra chair, as you’re still sitting on his lap at the lunch table, most hybrids already finished and washing their dishes- some with help, others by themselves. You’re happily eating your soup now that you’ve seen Jungkook eat it too- seemingly taking his actions as a sign that whatever you’re eating right now is safe.

“Are they being nice to you?” Jungkook asks you as you finish your bowl of soup, making you nod, before you press yourself back into him. “Yoongi said I can visit you every day if you want.” He offers, and at that, he can feel your tail wag against his thigh. “Though I gotta get your room ready back at my place.”

You look over your shoulder at him in surprise, and he can’t help but laugh.

“What, did you think you’re gonna stay here?” He asks, and you just shrug. “Nah.” He shakes his head, before he smiles.

“You got somewhere to call ‘home’ soon.”

[dancingdonatello]

Heeeey! I'm currently hyperfixating on rottmnt sooooo... I'd like to request a scenario (if you don't want to do this, it's totally fine) in which reader has celiac disease and/or is lactose intolerant. Sooo they can't eat pizza with the guys! Maybe reader eats pizza with them anyways and gets super sick and tries to hide it (badly). In the end, reader cracks and tells the boys about their dietary restrictions . After that maybe something cutesy in which reader teaches Mickey some gluten-free recipies and they cook together. Or Raph goes all overprotective after learning about it and "cross-contamination" is his new favourite word like "CAREFUL Y/N that piece of letuce is in a plate that contained mac and cheese 3 weeks ago, it might be cross contaminated!!!" Lol Idk... I'm just bitter that pizza is my digestive system's natural enemy and I need some cheering up from my favourite turtles.

Love your writting. I've been going over your masterlist all morning :D Wether you do this or not, have a nice rest of your day 💜

rottmnt x reader

You got sick once. Once.

You had tried to feel included by eating some pizza and had immediately regretted it. Not only because of the pain but because of your turtle friends’ reactions.

You think you might’ve triggered Raph’s OCD. That guy obsessed over the dishes now, fearful of any plate or bowl that may have something that triggered your stomach issues. He would stare at you as you ate, constantly asking how you felt.

It was a really nice bonding moment between you and Mikey. He learned a lot from you and you two cooked together often now. He was really the only one who took the information in like a normal person. He often made you safe food to eat whenever you came over so you didn’t have to worry.

Unfortunately, the last two were… odd.

“You’re not cleaning it hard enough!” Leo grabbed the bowl from Donnie who held onto it tightly to prevent him from stealing it.

“I am cleaning it just fine, Nardo!” He tugged it back and they started a tug of war. Over a plate.

You and Mikey glanced at each other, unsurely. Raph was biting his claws, a nervous wreck as he watched the plate. “There was mac and cheese on that last week… Or was it a salad? No, it had to be mac and cheese.”

“Raphy, I’m sure it’s fine…” You patted his shoulder. It did nothing to reassure him.

As expected, the two turtles ended up dropping the plate and shattering it on the floor.

“Maybe it was for the best!” Raph relaxed. At least he’d never have to worry about that plate again. But what about the all the other plates they had? He tensed up just thinking about it. He should make a chart or a list… Or…

“Raph, why not just get a few plates and keep them separated and only let them use it, if you’re so stressed about it?” Mikey suggested while you tried to protest. They shouldn’t buy new plates for you—

Not only does he get new dishes and new forks and spoons, Raph gets an entire new fridge for food for you.

Well, you’ll never have to worry about the food here ever again.

[cameronspecial]

hi! are you taking requests rn?

if so, i would love to read about rafe x reader with ocd like cleaning, checking windows & doors. how would he handle it? like pls soft!rafe calming her down when she’s having a meltdown after the hopper etc step inside with dirty shoes

ty<3

Dirty Floors And Wrinkly Hands

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x OCD!Reader

Warnings: Swearing

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.8K

Masterlist

It’s a constant voice in her head. Telling her that it needs to be clean. That any possible germ could enter a family member’s or her body and get them sick. She spends so much of her day obsessing over everything being clean and then the other half just making sure she did something right. She knows the way she obsesses over things is unhealthy, but she does it to keep herself safe. To keep her loved ones safe. The compulsions are just as bad because they make her feel like she is in a constant state of déjà vu. She gets home and locks the door. As she steps away from it, she doubts that she did it properly. She locks the door again. But what if by relocking it, she did it incorrectly? She has to try again. After all, the third time’s the charm. She relocks it one more time before stepping off of the doormat. Shit. She forgot to take her shoes off before she did it. Now, the floors are dirty. The germs from her shoes are slowly infecting the whole front entry room. She takes her shoes off and heads to the laundry room. She thinks about taking the mop out, except if she uses a sponge, she can really put elbow grease into getting the floor clean. 

That’s how Rafe finds her when he gets home an hour later. She is on her knees, hunching over the tile floor. Her fingers are shrivelled up and ache from the pressure she is putting into digging the sponge into the floor. Rafe locks the door as hard as he can to reassure Y/N that he did it. He wipes his shoes on the front mat and then takes them off. Before he greets his girlfriend, he washes his hand like a surgeon. Even if she can’t see how he washes his hands, he will know he didn’t do it correctly. 

He pads back to the front room and carefully walks over the drying floor. He squats down to be closer to Y/N, cringing at the sight of her hands. He slowly reaches out to place his hands on hers. Her movement stops as she flicks her eyes over to him. “I stepped on the floor with my shoes,” she cries, trying to get back to cleaning. The corner of his lip curves a little, “And it’s okay that you did, Sweetheart. Remember what Dr. Palmer said. You only need to clean things once. The germs can’t hurt you if you do that.” “Yes, but I cleaned it and then I accidentally touched it before I washed my hands. So it made it dirty again,” she explains, wiggling her hurting fingers. Rafe shakes his head, “I understand, Sweetheart. I just saw you clean it now, so it means it is clean. Right?” She nods her head. “Then how about we go wash our hands now? It would mean your hands and the floors are clean.” He stands to his full height and offers his hand. She takes it so that she can stand as well. He leads her into the bathroom and steps back while she washes her hands. When he sees she goes to wash it again, he gently pulls her away from the sink under the guise of needing to wash his own hands. 

———

The next day, Y/N is watching TV in her living room when a knock comes at the door. Rafe calls out that he is going to get it and he lets Topper in. The boys are stuck in a conversation, so Topper forgets to take his shoes off before stepping off of the floor mat. The boys don’t notice it, yet Y/N does. They turn at the sound of her running to the laundry room. Topper looks down and notices his shoes are still on. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Man,” he apologizes as he takes his shoes off immediately. Rafe claps his hand on the other boy’s shoulder, “It’s okay. Do you mind just going into the other room while I help her out?” Topper’s head moves from side to side as he makes his way into the living room after putting his shoes away. 

She comes running back into the room with a bucket of soapy water and a sponge. Rafe’s hands drop on her shoulders. “Hey, why don’t you let me clean it? You know I know how you like to get it clean and you can watch to make sure I do it right,” he offers, taking the clean tools into her hand. She quietly agrees and steps back. Her eyes observe as he follows every single step she has talked about when it comes to cleaning. He goes over every square of tile twice and puts as much pressure onto the sponge as he can. Once he is done, the nagging voice in her head has died down. He looks at her for approval and she gives him a tiny nod. He gets up, putting everything away for her. He washes his hands under her surveillance before giving her a kiss. They make their way hand and hand to the living room so they can watch TV. Y/N can’t help but thank the universe for giving her a boyfriend, who is so understanding and doesn’t mock her for her OCD.

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @victory-in-the-llama @wickedlovely121 @starkowswife @drewsmusee @maybankslover

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for asking my roommates to clean the bathroom in a specific way, or pay me to do so for them?

I (21F) live in student housing with 3 roommates, all 20-21F. We started living together in August and will continue living together until we all graduate a year from now. Our apartment has four bedrooms but we all share one bathroom.

When we first started living together we came to some agreement on cleaning things, like that dishes are the responsibility of whoever dirtied them, rotating trash duties, and importantly for this post we decided that we would alternate who cleaned the bathroom each week and posted a calendar that says who’s week it is with a place to leave a check mark when it’s complete.

This ostensibly works fine, as people are roughly on time with their cleaning and check off their name as they are supposed to. However. Each of our ideas of cleaning the bathroom are vastly different. For example when I clean the bathroom I scrub the toilet bowl, wipe down the toilet seat top, lift up the seat and wipe down under there, wipe the flusher and the back of the toilet because it gets dusty and gross, wipe down door handle as you have to touch it with dirty hands to get out of the WC to the sink, wipe down the countertop and and the sink, spray and then rinse the shower with cleaner, take hair out of the shower drain (bc they refuse to use a drain cover), vacuum up the insane amounts of hair that end up on our floor, and then mop the floor as well as take out the bathroom trash.

my roommates will maybe clean the inside of the toilet bowl and spray/scrub the shower before checking their names off the list. It drives me insane bc it means that I have to clean everyone else’s weeks of grime off the floor and toilet seat, and pull so much hair out of our shower. There have been weeks where I’m not convinced any cleaning happened at all, and I think people just checked their names off without doing anything. I’ve discussed this with my roommates both individually and as a group in the past but they say that they are cleaning the bathroom so there shouldn’t be an issue

This is where I may be the asshole: enter The Cleaning List. Basically I made a list of requirements for the bathroom cleaning. It’s formatted with headings of areas to be cleaned and bullet points underneath of specifics. (For example one heading is “TOILET” with the bullet points “-clean top of and underneath toilet, -seat scrub toilet bowl, -wipe flusher.”) I then took a picture of this list and texted the group saying that I would like to implement these as the new cleaning requirements and post the list next to our calendar of who’s turn it is to clean. I also told them that if they couldn’t commit to the time/effort that these new rules would add, they could pay me 30 dollars on their weeks to do it for them.

My roommates did not appreciate my idea for The Cleaning List nor the idea of paying me to clean on their week. They called me a controlling and said I wasn’t appreciating the work they do to clean the bathroom already, and just because I have ridiculous standards doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to pay me. They said the current system works fine so we should just keep doing what we’re doing.

I don’t think I’m the asshole because I’m doing more work than everyone else to maintain the cleanliness of our shared space and I think we should either split the work fairly or that I should at least be compensate for making up for everyone else’s refusal to clean the bathroom in a way that’s productive. But I could be the asshole because I did ask them to put in more work to meet my own standards, or ask them to pay me to do it for them if they can’t even though their standards aren’t the same.

So, AITA?

Extra info: 1. it’s worth saying I have contamination OCD and cleaning other peoples grossness gives me intense anxiety but the anxiety is far worse when I have to interact with the grossness on a daily basis with no recourse. Some of my roommates are aware of this some are not. 2. When I claim I don’t think the bathroom is being cleaned properly, it’s not because the bathroom isn’t sparkling and spotless. It’s because there’s consistently pee stains on toilet seats, shit streaks in the toilet, a visible layer of hair strands on the floor, and enough hair in the shower that if I don’t clean it the whole thing clogs.

[chaotic-orphan]

Intoxicating Fear (XX)redraft*

Revealing the Monster

Read part one here // Masterpost // Continued from here

Here's the tea, I am redrafting PART XX of this series and uploading it here, this is the canon - but I WILL POST THE NEXT PART TOMORROW!

The new part starts about halfway down XD

I am sorry, I wasn't happy with part XX! SO part XXI tomorrow, thank you for your time. :)

~*~*~*~*~*~

Kit was wary about following Ambrose down a very dark, a very concrete set of stairs. “If this is the fucking torture basement I woke up in initially—”

Ambrose waved the accusation away, as if it was daft for Kit to be wary. “It’s to the garage,” he told him, keying a code into the pin-pad beside the metal door.

Ambrose walked through the door and held it open, rolling his eyes when he noticed Kit still lingering at the top of the stairs.

“Come on.”

“I’m not going to willingly follow you into your torture dungeon.”

Ambrose blinked, tilting his head. “The sex dungeon is two floors down, Mallory.”

Ambrose laughed at the face that Kit pulled. “Come on. I can always force you to come if I want, and we’re kind of a time crunch here.”

Kit glared daggers at the man and begrudgingly walked down the stairs. He stopped at the last step, trying to get a peak into the room. Ambrose walked away from the door letting it close before Kit could. Kit lunged forward to catch the heavy metal door, but relaxed immediately when he saw it was in fact a garage.

Kit let out a long low whistle after stepping into the garage. The door shut with a buzzer after him. Ambrose opened a lock box with keys hung up in a numbered order.

He grabbed the keys named ‘01’.

“You’re such a control freak,” Kit snorted. “Do you have OCD or something?”

Ambrose shrugged, taking off through the cars covered by different tarps. The only car that wasn’t covered was the one closest to the garage door. The same car that Ambrose kidnapped Kit in last night.

He hated that Ambrose had a good taste in cars. He hated that Ambrose had this many cars when Kit couldn’t even afford one, nevermind a garage full.

Ambrose grinned at Kit over the roof of the Wraith as he unlocked the door. “If you like, I can give you one of the ones I don’t like.”

Kit rolled his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay out of my head,” he said, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat. The cream leather was so comfortable under him as he put his seatbelt on.

“Seriously,” Kit went on, anger curling around him the more comfortable he became with all of Ambrose’s luxury. “Don’t you have any thoughts of your own?! It’s fucking creepy, man. Just ask questions if you want to know my thoughts.”

Ambrose laughed as he opened the garage door with a remote and they rolled out of the house and onto the road again.

“I mean, don’t you have any friends?” Kit demanded hotly. In all honesty, he didn’t know why he was getting pissed all of a sudden, it’s not like Ambrose invading his mind was a new thing, but now? It pissed him off. “Don’t you know how to talk to people?!”

“Relax, Mallory. You’re the only person I relay their thoughts to. It might shock you, but generally, people love when you know what they’re thinking. It’s why humans seek connection. To feel understood.”

“Okay, Socrates,” Kit grumbled. “It’s just fucking weird. I don’t like it when you do it.”

“All of a sudden.”

“Yes!” Kit snapped, glaring at the villain beside him as the forest zoomed past them. “All of a sudden!”

What had Ambrose seen? What parts of him did he know? Could he see everything or was it selective?

“After you found out I’m Mentor’s son,” Ambrose said pointedly. Kit scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring out the passenger window. They drove in a terse silence for a while, cause Ambrose was a psychopath and didn’t have the radio on.

“We have to talk about it, Kit.”

“Well, you already know my thoughts on it all, so enjoy having a conversation by yourself.”

“Mallory,” Ambrose said with a tired sigh, flicking on the indicator as they pulled to a stop. “I know it must seem like a weird coincidence to you, but I swear I didn’t know you were Mentor’s s—”

Kit’s hands tightened into fists. Son. He was about to say son.

“Prodigy,” he settled on, taking a right and messing with the gears until they were coasting again. The air seemed tighter. “I didn’t know that he meant anything to you. I swear— I just assumed that when you were scared of me turning you into him, that you had heard the horror stories in the academy, or Superhero told you. Not that you… not that you were personally affected.”

Kit’s eyes burned as he stared out the window, the forest growing sparser the closer they got to the city. “I didn’t know. You have to believe me.”

“And if you did?”

Ambrose hesitated.

Kit turned his head to look at him, studying the villain’s reactions.

“And if you knew that he was like a father to me.” Like a father, not an actual one. “If you knew how much it hurt to see a man who plucked me out of nothing be destroyed. Would it have been any different?! Or would you have laughed and rubbed it in like salt in a wound?”

“Kit—”

“Oh, come off it. There’s no one here, Rosey. It’s only me and you,” Kit said, his voice dripping with a horrible hysterical knowing. “You can be your usual sadistic, unfeeling, monstrous self and I can tell nobody about it—”

“Mallory—” Ambrose tried to interject but Kit spoke over him again.

“But you know the funniest part in all this? You already took away the one person who would have given a shit about this! About me, not the Hero. Me. And you made him a monster!” Kit roared, something wet hitting his cheeks and flowing like a stream down his face. “And now, because clearly God hates me, I have to team up with you of all people, to go and stop — the one man who ever treated me like a person — from becoming a monster like you.”

The silence was deafening. In some strange way, it was comforting. No electricity crackles or malfunctioning lights accompanied his breakdown with the power dampeners locked around his wrist.

It was cathartic.

They had just pulled into the main road that brought them to the outskirts of the city, the skyline visible over the horizon when Ambrose spoke.

“He wasn’t a hero to me,” said Ambrose quietly, almost imperceptibly. Kit glanced at him, but his eyes settled on the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

“Don’t fucking tell me you have daddy issues.” When Ambrose didn’t answer Kit let out a strangled laugh. Blinking in bewilderment, Kit raised his brows. “Are you telling me you have daddy issues? Mr Big Bad villain?”

“Oh fuck off, Mallory. At least I had parents.”

The words stung. They cut deeper than Kit would have ever admitted out loud or shown physically, but Kit knew that Ambrose was in his head after the villain winced.

Shifting in his seat, he said: “I’m— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off snarky. I just—” Ambrose let out a groan. “You just rub me up the wrong way.”

“Well who’s fucking fault is that, dickhead?!”

“Do you want me to explain, or are you just going to argue with me the entire drive to the hospital?” Ambrose snapped. “I can only do one of those things in our limited time, so choose.”

Kit clenched his teeth, glaring forwards at the car in front of them. “Fine. Tell me.”

“Mentor is my father. As you know, he only rose to prominence within our lifetimes, though you may be too young to remember. Before him, heroes and villains weren’t really a thing. There were a couple dotted here and there, but mostly they were vigilantes. The good guys and the bad guys.”

“Yeah. I remember learning about that in the academy.”

“Right. So after my father rose in public opinion and word of mouth, well the government started stepping in and trying to regulate it. Which they did and the rest is history, but he wasn’t the same heroic good man when he came home.”

Kit swallowed, tightening his fingers into fists. He didn’t want to hear this, he realised. He really wanted Ambrose to shut up and not tell him anymore, but he asked for this, didn’t he? To know the side of Mentor that Ambrose knew?

“He wasn’t abusive,” Ambrose said softly and Kit released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Not physically, anyway. When he discovered that I was born with powers he sought to train me, to make me in his image. A family of Superheroes. My Mom, she didn’t want that for me. She saw the toll it took on him to be the city’s saviour everyday, and that’s when they started fighting.”

Kit sat rigid in his seat, staring forward. He couldn’t imagine Mentor fig— well, no. He could, actually. How many times had Kit walked in on Mentor and Mr Silver arguing? Or Superhero trying to tell Mentor that the next step was a bad idea, that it was too risky.

“I trained hard. When he wanted me to push myself, I pushed myself. When he wanted me to commit 100%, I did 200%. It was never enough for him. None of it was. He wanted a son and a wife who adored him, who worshipped the ground he walked on, and instead he had a family. His ego was a problem.”

Kit cringed at that. Even he knew that Mentor wanted people to adore him, no matter who or why. He wanted to be the city’s saviour, the man on everyone’s tongue and in their thoughts.

Kit let out a breath of a laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“I guess… that’s why he adopted me, isn’t it?” Kit asked, his voice hollow. Ambrose didn’t answer, and that was answer enough. God, how could he be so stupid? How could he not have seen that to Mentor, Kit was just some charity project he knew would always support him. Worship the ground he walked on, defend him even when Kit knew he was in the wrong.

Ambrose opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, setting his lips into a thin line.

“Mallory…”

“No. It’s okay,” Kit replied, letting out a long breath. “It’s fine, go on.”

Ambrose hesitated, fingers lifting from the steering wheel, before curling around them again. They passed the memorial garden in silence, taking the diversion around the square towards the hospital. They weren’t far away now.

“He started the Hero academy when I was twelve. A school for children with powers to develop their abilities to become heroes. I saw it for what it was though, incentive and resentment. He failed to teach me to control my abilities, and found a fault in me that I couldn’t rectify. My ability wasn’t flashy enough, or showy enough for him, for the great Mentor.”

“He wanted a child who would make the world stop and look at them. Someone who was as fast as him, as strong, but not stronger. In his eyes, I may as well have been born with strong charisma because you couldn’t see the effect of what I could do, only experience it.”

Kit looked down at his wrist, at the power dampeners locked around it. Lightning was flashy. Lightning gave Kit strength and strong reflexes, he was fast, he was flashy. He trained hard, to the point of exhaustion everyday in the Hero Academy. Not caring if he had no friends. Not caring if he passed out from pushing himself too hard. He just had to be the best. It was all he had. It was all he could do.

It wasn’t until he was beating people three years above him that Mentor started to pay him any attention. It felt good at the time. It felt like somebody finally recognised him for what he was.

Mentor made him feel seen. He saw that Kit had put his everything into training, because everything in him was all he had to give.

He didn’t have a family to worry about him getting hurt.

He didn’t have friends that would mourn him if he died in action.

All he had was being a hero.

Of course Mentor would latch onto that. Of course he would pick up on the fact that Kit was desperately trying to prove himself. Of course he would take pity on the orphan and bring him home like a trophy. Show him off to the world.

But that… that wasn’t the Mentor that Kit knew.

He brought him home, but it was after Kit denied him so many times. Told him to piss off, and asked if he was a pervert that prayed on boys his age. Kit had grown up on the streets, he knew what happened to skinny kids like him. One day they’re there, and the next, you never see them again.

Mentor was patient, and kind. He didn’t push Kit after Kit said no, told him he had everything he needed in the academy.

“Then my Mother got sick, and well…” Ambrose said, trailing off, pulling Kit from his memory and back into the car. “After she died it was like he… he didn’t even care. All he cared about was building the city up, saving everyone from possible Villains that lurked in the night. He didn’t sit with her in the hospital because he knew he couldn’t rescue her. He wasn’t there when she—”

Kit was quiet beside Ambrose, head tilted down. He knew what loss was like. He knew the absence a parent can leave behind, but losing someone who meant that? Kit didn’t know how to relate to that. When Omen destroyed Mentor’s mind, it wasn’t the same as if he died because Kit could still go and see him. Still talk to him, even if the Mentor he remembered was dead.

“I’m sorry,” Kit said softly. Ambrose cleared his throat, turning his head so Kit couldn’t see his face.

“Yeah,” he agreed, going rigid. “Me too.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. It wasn’t far. Five minutes in the car, and two minutes to park.

“Are you…?” Kit began, then cut himself off when he met Ambrose’s black eyes. What was he going to say? Are you Okay? Alright with going into see the unfeeling man who wasn’t a good father? The man you cursed for being…

Ambrose shook his head, no. “Of course I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Kit said with an awkward shrug. They got out of the car, closing the door in unison. Kit thought nothing of it.

It was borderline awkward in the lift. Ambrose kind of just, stood there like a totem pole. His hands behind his back, standing straight up like a serial killer.

“Would you relax?” Kit said, rolling his neck. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Ambrose said slowly, voice cold. Kit shrugged and said: “fine.”

He ahead and almost cried in joy when the doors opened to the ground floor. He stopped at the reception desk. Ambrose was walking and stopped when Kit stopped, two steps ahead and glancing back to see what Kit was doing.

He joined him a moment later, standing beside him and glowering at Heather when she turned and beamed at Kit.

“Hi Heather.”

“Hey, Kit. You goin’ up to—” her big blue eyes trailed to Ambrose beside him, who looked as if he was under a storm cloud, or extremely constipated. “Oh. Hi. Is this your brother?”

Kit’s eyes blew wide, but Ambrose didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Older. We’d like to see—”

“I didn’t know you had a brother, Kit. Of course, darlin’s, go ahead. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Ambrose nodded stiffly and stepped back. Kit blinked, shaking his head, and smiled at Heather. “Oh, actually. Was there anything strange with him? Any new visitors or—”

“I’m sorry, hun. I’m just the receptionist for the main desk. You’ll have to ask the nurses up there.”

Kit nodded, standing up. “Thank you, Heather.”

“Anytime. And nice meeting you.”

Ambrose nodded at her. “You too.”

Kit clapped him on the back, a wide grin on his face. “Let’s go, bro.”

Ambrose made a noise and Kit had to stifle a laugh until they were in the stairwell. “What was that!” He barked, laughter bubbling up his throat.

“I— panicked.” [***RE-DRAFT STARTS HERE***]

“I thought you weren’t nervous,” Kit teased. He was turning to walk up the next set of stairs when Ambrose slammed his forearm against Kit’s throat, shoving him back into the corner of the stairwell, pinning him there.

Ambrose’s nostrils flared, his eyes blazing with cold fury down at Kit. “Of course I’m nervous, you fucking child. Tch. Don’t you ever switch off?”

Kit pushed Ambrose’s arm off him, and to his surprise, Ambrose let him, running a hand through his hair and letting out a breath.

The realisation only dawned on Kit, his mouth opening into a small ‘o’.

“You’ve never been to see him.”

Ambrose straightened. The villain returning as he stared down his nose at Kit, a sardonic smile on his lips. “And why should I? He didn’t give my mother that courtesy.”

Kit put his hands up, showing Ambrose he meant nothing by it. “Hey. It’s your decision. Not mine. He’s your dad, not—” the words choked up before he could say them. Ambrose didn’t pry. He knew what Kit was going to say.

Ambrose stared for a moment longer before glancing up the stairs and nodding stiffly.

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and started walking up again. “What floor is it?”

“The fifth,” he replied, starting up the stairs beside Ambrose. “Top floor. They don’t want anyone stumbling amongst the crazies.”

“Probably for the best,” Ambrose muttered. Kit had meant it as a joke, but, he didn’t disagree with Ambrose as they climbed the stairs. Thankful that their footsteps filled the silence he couldn’t in the lift. They knew something had happened when they got to the fifth floor.

Kit stepped in first, Ambrose craning his neck around the door into the hall. Kit breathed a sigh of relief. No police tape, no police, no anything. That meant there was nothing to worry about.

Kit smiled at Ambrose and slapped him on the back, walking towards the door to the locked ward. “See! You were irrational. Overthinking everything. Nothing’s insidious about Mentor. He was here the whole time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if he did somehow magically vanish, there would be police and Superheroes and politicians here to interrogate him about what happened.”

“And if they just moved him down to the station to do that?” Ambrose asked, raising his brows. Kit’s smile dimmed a little, but it remained on his face.

“Too much risk. Trust me. Everything will be fine.”

The door buzzed open after Kit waved to the camera and the pair stepped through. Kit walked his usual path to Mentor’s room, and only realised halfway there that Ambrose wasn’t following him anymore. He paused, looking over his shoulder for the villain, before turning after laying eyes on him.

Ambrose stood in the middle of the hall, his eyes blazing and his little finger twitching by his side. A muscle in his jaw clenched and tightened when he met Kit’s questioning eyes.

He swallowed. “This was a mistake.”

“No,” Kit said, coming to stand beside the Villain. “It wasn’t. He’s out of it most of the time anyways, Rosey. He probably won’t even recognise you.”

Black eyes flashed like two burning coals. “He’ll recognise me.”

Kit didn’t tell him that Mentor didn’t recognise Kit for months after his accident. Then again, he didn’t have to. Something smoothed out in Ambrose’s face as Kit remembered his first meeting with a stark raving mad Mentor, who screamed at Kit to get out and leave him be. Kit thought for a minute that Ambrose could see the memory, but quickly remembered that the ward was built of the same power dampening material as the supers-prison and power dampeners.

Ambrose swallowed. “Let’s get this over with,” he said through clenched teeth. This time Kit led the way beside Ambrose, and let Ambrose walk into the room first. Ambrose didn’t falter as he stepped through the door, black eyes settling on his father for the first time since he drove him insane.

Kit followed him in, leaning against the wall beside the door. Mentor was sitting in an armchair, gazing out the window when they arrived. He turned his head and locked eyes with Ambrose and didn’t even glance over at Kit.

The tension was palpable in the air, tied like a three-way noose over their throats as nobody dared breathe in the room.

“Oskar,” Mentor said softly. Kit’s eyes blew wide, glancing at Ambrose who stiffened at the mention of his name. Mentor recognised him? He— remembered Ambrose?

“Hello Father.”

Mentor grunted a huff of a laugh. Almost like a derisive scoff, but Kit had never heard Mentor make a sound like that. A sound so like— well, Ambrose. Kit didn’t dare move, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Mentor didn’t notice, or if he did, didn’t care, that was Kit was in the room too.

“Is that all you can say to me, boy?” Mentor demanded, his voice hard, like gravel grating against gravel.

Ambrose shrugged, but Kit noticed the tightness to his usual casual gesture. “I can say a whole lot more, but word on the street is you have trouble remembering things lately, old man.”

Mentor’s eyes were cutting. “I remember the important stuff.”

The words came like a sharp slap to Kit’s face, almost staggering him out of the room, but Kit didn’t move. He just stared, eyes burning at the man that helped shape him into who he was today. But this man he was staring at may as well have been an alien. This wasn’t Mentor. This was the cold father that Ambrose told Kit about. The man who looked like Mentor, but was a monster beneath skin.

“What are you doing here?” Mentor spat. “Have you come to take more from me, hmm? The breath from my lungs.”

“Well it would be a wasted trip if I didn’t take something from you,” Ambrose replied with the cold smile that Kit was so used to seeing.

What he wasn’t used to seeing was Ambrose flinching. Kit pressed off the wall, eyes wide as a cold, dark chuckle filled the room. An empty laugh that caused shivers to run down his spine and freeze him in place.

“You’re still good at talking, Oskar.” Black eyes met Kit’s across the room, aware that Kit had just seen him flinch at Mentor’s raised hand and it was like the world slowed down around him, his heartbeat rushing in his ears.

Then it was as if a switch flipped of indifference. Ambrose straightened, black eyes smiling as he faced his father again. He slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, shifting his weight to lean on one leg and shot Mentor a cold smile.

“You’re still good at being a piece of shit, only, now you’ve exposed yourself to a witness.”

Mentor’s eyes narrowed and he got to his feet, turning his body to face Ambrose. He had only just turned when his eyes found Kit’s frozen blue ones staring as if he were a deer in headlights.

Mentor’s expression shifted into something softer, something kind. “Kit my boy—”

Kit’s eyes burned, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t.”

“This is-” Mentor began, gesturing between himself and Ambrose. “Family issues. They go back a long while.”

“I don’t care about your explanation,” Kit told him, shaking his head.

Mentor’s hard eyes looked between Kit and Ambrose, scrutinising. “What are you even doing together? Aren’t you a strange pair.”

“Not at all,” Kit said before Ambrose could even open his mouth. Kit stood talk, feeling Ambrose’s black eyes slide over to him as he commanded the space. “He’s helping me on a case. A new Supervillain.”

Mentor scoffed, folding his arms over his toned chest. “Have you considered him?” He asked, nodding his head to Ambrose.

“I have,” Kit ground out through clenched teeth. “But it turns out this new Supervillain has telekinesis. You wouldn’t happen to have an alibi for last night, would you?”

Mentor’s mouth fell open. Even Ambrose raised a brow at the accusation in Kit’s hard voice. He had never seen him so angry. It was very entertaining to watch, especially when it was directed at his father.

“I was here,” Mentor said, spreading his hands in a helpless shrugging gesture. “Obviously.”

“Can anyone corroborate that story?” Kit demanded, spitting venom at his old Hero and Mentor. Mentor glanced between Ambrose and Kit, his expression tightening as some understanding flashed across his face.

He rubbed his temple with the palm of his hand, kneading it into the soft flesh, letting out a disbelieving huff. “I can’t believe this. You’re seriously trusting this man over me, Kit? You're like a son to me.”

“Clearly I wasn’t,” Kit practically yelled, but he didn’t shout. His voice was surprisingly level despite everything. “Or you would have told me you had an actual son.”

Mentor’s gaze was cutting. “Surely you know what he did to me,” Mentor said, his voice a quiet fury. “What he did to our family, to this city! He—”

“Is Omen,” Kit finished, his eyes flashing. Mentor took a step back as if he’d been hit. Kit didn’t stop there though. “Yeah. I know. And I know he’s not a liar. So do you have an alibi or not?”

Ambrose was quite happy to let Kit take lead on this interrogation. It was true, Ambrose wasn’t a liar. If he said he’d torture you, he would. If he told you he liked you, he did. If he said he was Omen, he was. Something Ambrose didn’t think Kit picked up on, but was happy by the turn of events all the same.

Mentor was halfway through stuttering out a reply when a Doctor walked into the room, a clipboard in hand and already speaking. “Mentor, how are we tod—” Doctor, sensing the tension looked up and smiled at his obvious intrusion. He put the clipboard under his arm and stood taller. “Ah. Sorry, Mentor. I didn’t know you had visitors. Ah, hello Kit.”

“Doctor,” Kit replied not taking his eyes off of Mentor. “Can you confirm Mentor was here last night?”

Doctor’s eyes went around the room before bouncing back to Kit. “Uh, yes. I mean, CCTV and the hospital logs can probably. I wasn’t on personally, but as Mentor’s doctor today I can tell you there was no anomalies last night.”

“Great. Thank you,” Kit said, nodding at Ambrose. “That’s all we needed to know, we’re leaving.”

“No, wait—” Mentor protested, but Ambrose was already talking to the Doctor and walking back out the door. Kit turned to do the same when a hand was on his wrist, stopping him from leaving. Kit glanced back over his shoulder to see Mentor clinging to him like a desperate, old man.

“Kit…” he said with shining eyes. “M’boy. Please, let me explain.”

“You lied to me,” Kit hissed, finally letting the hurt shine through his features. “You told me, you— you made me feel special.”

“You are special, Kit, and not just to me.”

“Was I only special to you because I was strong?” Kit asked. Mentor hesitated. Kit pulled his arm from Mentor’s grasp. “You never saw me as a son. You saw me as a tool that you could mould and use to further your great image. Superhero. Saviour. Good charitable man,” Kit spat, tears springing suddenly to his eyes. “He even rescues orphans, the übermensch. Mentor: The great man.”

“Kit—”

“You were everything to me,” Kit said, his bottom lip trembling. “My only normal in the world. My family. My father. I worshipped you, and you used me!”

“Kit, please. Let me explain.” Mentor said again, pawing at Kit’s jacket. Kit recoiled, shrugging his hands from his shoulders.

“You have two minutes before I’m walking out that door.”

“In the beginning, yes, I wanted to be close to you because I saw your potential. Nobody else in that academy ever came close to you. You were extraordinary. I wanted a sidekick when I walked through those doors on the day of your exams, and instead I found a second chance.”

Tears streamed continuously from Kit’s red rimmed eyes as he listened, occasionally wiping them on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I found a son in you, and from that day onwards I decided that I wanted to help you. To give you the start in life that you deserved, not the one you were given. I patrolled the Rookery looking for you every night because one of the other kids told me you slept rough on the streets. I wanted to offer you kindness, and you had such hard eyes. It was weeks before I ever saw you smile, and when I did, m’boy, I swear the heavens themselves opened.”

Kit sniffed, his breath catching in his throat, taking in fretful breaths once he saw the glisten in Mentor’s eyes, and the tears welling up behind them.

“I never wanted to use you as some piece of equipment to further my image. I wanted to make sure you had bread, and safe water to drink. I wanted to give you a home.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you had a son?” Kit asked, barely above a whisper. “Why… why- why didn’t you tell me you had a family? I would’ve understood.”

Mentor shook his head. “I had already left them at that time, Kit, and I was too ashamed to tell you. To tell you that I fucked up my last family. How could I tell you that? A child yourself when I was trying to gain your trust so I could help you, and the way you looked at me…”

The pair of them stared at each other, tears streaming down their faces the longer they spoke. “You saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in years, and it made me feel special, Kit. It made me want to be the better man you thought I was. To change, for the better, for you. For us. I thought it was my second chance when I met you, and I can tell you now for certain, it was.”

Kit looked away, afraid he might collapse if had to listen to any more of this. Mentor touched a hand to his cheek, thumbing away the tears, drawing Kit’s attention back to Mentor.

“Just please,” he blubbered. “Please say you don’t hate me. I will fall to my knees and beg for your forgiveness, Kit. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please.”

Kit didn’t say anything. He just stepped in and hugged his old man, wrapping his arms tight around him and holding him up when Mentor sobbed harder into Kit’s jumper.

“I’m sorry,” Mentor cried into Kit’s jumper, muffling the sound. “I’m so sorry. I love you, I’m so sorry.”

Kit held him tighter, trying to compose himself but there was nothing to be done except wait it out. Ambrose stood outside the door, leaning against the wall to his father’s room, downcast eyes staring unseeing at the clinically clean floor in front of him.

Kit stepped out after a few minutes, his tears dried but the red rimmed eyes gave him away. Ambrose stood, face impassive as he took a deep breath. “You good to go?” He asked.

Kit nodded dumbly. They walked to the exit of the ward, but Doctor shouted from down the hall and the pair turned. “Oh good, I caught you before you left. Here. I’ll walk you out.”

Doctor quickly caught up to them, half-jogging towards them with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. Shall we talk outside?”

Kit glanced at Ambrose before nodding. Doctor fell into step with them, flashing his keycard on the control panel and the doors to the locked ward opened with a beep. He pushed through them and held it open for Kit and Ambrose to walk out. They stood just outside the ward, Kit tilting his head at Doctor.

Doctor smiled at the pair, a handsome smile. He was a little older than Ambrose, his eyes crinkled at the edges when his smiled. His tan skin contrasted against Ambrose’s paleness to a stark degree that Kit would’ve laughed if he didn’t feel so drained.

Kind green eyes found Kit’s. “I double-checked the log’s after you asked about Mentor’s whereabouts last night,” he said. “He was here all night, I can confirm with 100% certainty.”

“Okay, thank you Doctor.” Kit said nodding.

A copycat? Ambrose said in Kit’s mind. Kit glanced at him, but Ambrose was still looking at Doctor.

Maybe. Or maybe another telekinetic… Kit thought, pushing it towards Ambrose.

“Well,” Doctor said, clapping his hands together. “I hope that is everything you need?”

“Yes, Doctor, thank you for confirming the alibi,” Kit said. Kit reached his hand out which Doctor took and shook it. Doctor turned to Ambrose as well, offering his hand which Doctor took with a smile.

“Nice meeting you.”

“Thank you Doctor,” Ambrose said coolly before withdrawing his hand and stepping away. The pair walked down the stairs, hearing the buzzer of the ward door open and close again.

“What now?” Ambrose asked. Kit ran his hands through his hair, letting out a sigh.

“I don’t know. I need to get my phone from my apartment, just to see if anyone’s been trying to call.”

“Right. Of course.” Ambrose said as they walked to the car. Sensing the stiffness in Ambrose’s body language, Kit kept quiet, not wanting to poke the bear, but feeling too bad to just remain silent and not say anything.

They got into the Wraith in silence. It was only when Ambrose turned the key in the ignition that he broke the silence. “It’s not your fault, Kit.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Ambrose turned his head to look Kit head on. The expression on his face would’ve floored Kit had he been standing up.

Ambrose’s eyes were like two rainbows, his eyebrows drawn low over them, his lips were curled up on his face, exposing his smile lines that usually looked so annoyed.

Was Ambrose smiling?

When Kit wasn’t even covered in blood or bruises or struggling to breathe?

“Really, Kit. It’s okay. I don’t have any ill will towards you. Just think of it like, we both had one good parent and leave it there. Okay?”

Kit nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. Ambrose’s face went back to neutral and Kit felt like he could breathe.

Then his eyes narrowed as they pulled out of the parking lot. “What?”

“I just—”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I don’t think you should smile, Rosey. It doesn’t suit you.”

Ambrose almost hit the roof. “What?! My smile is charming.”

“I feared for my life. It is mortally terrifying. Do you smile at babies like that?”

“Babies love me,” Ambrose hissed.

Kit laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Actually can you drop me off at a therapist before we go back to my—”

“Oh yeah yeah,” Ambrose grumbled, turning the indicator on and taking off onto the main road. “Laugh it up.”

Kit did, and he felt good after it. The laugh smoothed everything out in his chest, unwinding the tension that weighed heavy on it and for a little, fleeting moment, he felt lighter than he had in a while. Ambrose turned the radio on.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie e @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer r @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @tippytappytyping @shinokoro @bedtimescenarios @whatwhump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @ehobep @acer-whumpstuff @fa1rie

[adventuringblind]

Poison Needles

George Russell x Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort

Request: yes! I hope this gives you the comfort you need :)

Summary: reader had OCD and it presents in mostly extreme paranoia. When the intrusive thoughts take over at the Doctor, George is there to help.

Warnings: OCD, Doctors, intrusive thoughts, needles,

Notes: so I don’t have OCD but I hope I was able to do it justice. Also, George seems like the kind of guy to be very sweet in these scenarios.

Italics are for thoughts

Masterlist

Doctors.

Evils creatures who’s entire purpose is to get in your personal space and tell you your problems.

Who’s to say it’s not them anyways.

Absolutely not.

Doctors are their to help.

Their job is to save not hurt.

But without humans getting sick then they have no job. No purpose.

You internally scream at the unwanted thoughts in your head, fighting the voice that is telling you lies. It’s exhausting. You can’t help but jump out of the car just to get it to go away.

The car that is taking you closer to the doctors.

It’s never going to end at this rate.

“What’s going on in the pretty head of yours?” Asks the tall Brit in the drivers seat.

“Nothing.”

Maybe he’s also trying to poison you.

It’s for my own good.

If it’s good why does it hurt so much?

“I’ve been with you long enough to know when your struggling.”

“What if they try to kill me?” You look at him. Your hands shaking with anxiety now. The urge to escape getting worse.

“I’ll hurt anyone who tries.” He glances at you for a brief moment and send you a charming smile. “Want me to hold your hand?”

His hand in yours stops you from trying to jump out of that car.

Not that it would matter because then you’d just end up at the hospital anyways.

~

The waiting is going to kill you.

That’s the doctors job.

Your foot is tapping a hole into the floor and your mind is telling you to run out the door and never look back. But George is still holding your hand. He’s sitting right next to you using his thumb to rub circles on it.

The tears start as soon as the doctor comes in with the IV kit. Your body tries to lurch from the seat but George was prepared. As always.

The needle is sealed is can’t be poisoned.

Maybe it’s not the needle. Maybe it’s in the disinfectant.

“Hey, look at me, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” George’s calming voice sounds like it’s being drowned out, but it’s there.

“It’s the disinfectant, it’s going to poison me and the needle will push it in my skin.” Your whole body is squirming now. You can see the doctors mouth moving but there is no sound.

The doctor locks the front of the chair in place. Another evil tool. It’s supposed to make sure you don’t fall out of it if you pass out, it really it’s to prevent your escape.

George sets himself in front of you, making it so you can only focus on him. “I promise when your done I will take you out for whatever comfort food you want, but you have to give the doctor your arm first.”

You rapidly shake your head no. Silently pleading with him to not let the doctor touch you.

“Is there anyway I can do this first?” George turns his attention to the doctor.

You watch as George lets the doctor get everything ready. Not a blood draw, just some fluids. To show you that he won’t let anything happen.

He’s going to die.

Your going to let him die.

Your sobbing now. He’s still holding your hand and reassuring you as the needle slide into his skin and hits his vain. The fluids leaving the tube and push into his skin.

Then it’s over. Your thoughts are screaming as the doctor finishes and leaves to get a new kit.

“See, I’m okay. I promised to always protect you, and that applies to the doctors also."

The doctor cones back in, and you take a deep breath. Your free hand clings to George while the doctor sets things up.

It feels like forever in your head when, in reality, it was less than a minute.

The doctor gets the blood samples and the leaves to give you and George a minute to calm down.

"How are you feeling?"

"Alive."

"That good." He smiles, running his fingers through your hair as you slump in exhaustion. "Do you want comfort food?"

You nod your head, yes. Words are too difficult, and your mind still feels like it's reeling.

It's not until you get out of the doctor's that you can finally breathe. And you only let yourself relax when the building is out of eyesight.

"Thank you, for getting me through that."

"You're stronger than you think, love. Fighting your own mind must be so difficult."

"It gets harder sometimes and today was one of those days."

"Well, I promised I'd help you through it, and I always will."

[sulkybender]

the poem of you: a Zukka fic

tags: established relationship, hurt Sokka, hurt/comfort, Sokka has OCD, loving and protective Zuko, modern au

He finds Sokka curled on the floor next to the bed and his heart falls.

He always looks like he’s trying to make a shell with his body, a shell against the world he doesn’t have. 

Zuko gets down on his knees, touches his back. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, and Sokka starts to cry. Zuko covers him with his body, protection. The soft weight of Sokka crying underneath, the raggedness of his breath. 

“I’m here,” Zuko says, kissing the back of his neck, that vulnerable place, the short hairs delicate under his touch. “Baby, I’m right here.”

“It’s bad,” he weeps, inarticulate. 

“I know,” Zuko says. “I know. I love you.”

He curls around Sokka and tries, so hard, to protect him. 

—

Sometimes the thoughts are bad; they don’t relent. It’s like being kicked in the head, Sokka tells him, by the same thought over and over. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

Fuckup. 

He helps Sokka from the floor and tries to be gentle with him. Zuko spoons him in bed, pressing kisses to his hands. His whole body is stiff, delayed, fighting an infection from within. And the infection is Sokka, and the infection is killing Sokka. Or trying its best. 

“I love you so much,” Zuko says, arms slipping around his waist, snug. “You’re my baby, you know that? You’re my turtleduck.”

Sokka is cried out, hunched in on himself, hurting. The shakiness of his breath is painful. Zuko wants to take the pain away. It’s always seemed so unfair that he can’t. 

He would do anything for Sokka, but there’s nothing he can do. 

“You want me to tell you about my day?” he asks, and Sokka nods. 

Sokka is the talker—Zuko isn’t the talker—but Zuko can do this, can talk for him, fill the silences that Sokka’s mind would try to fill with unkind things. 

“Hmm, let’s see.” Zuko noses at his ear, nuzzling kisses. “It was a slow day. Did some client research. Ate a shitty croissant.”

He hums, thinking. 

“I wrote poems for a bit.” He can feel Sokka smile a little. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” Zuko says. 

He falls into silence again for a while, feeling the soft rise and fall of Sokka’s chest. He’s no good at this, the steady patter, the lull of it. He tries to think of other topics but all he can do is wonder how long Sokka was on the floor. 

“What kind of poems?” 

Sokka’s voice is hoarse. 

“Nothing special.” Zuko kisses the back of his neck. “I wrote them on sticky notes and then I hid them in my desk.” He can feel the little motion that means Sokka is laughing, suppressed. “Yeah, yeah. Go on and say it.”

“Nothing,” Sokka says. 

“It’s never nothing.”

“I just love you,” Sokka says, his voice cracking slightly, and Zuko feels warm all over. He could cry. 

“I love you so much it’s crazy,” he says. He cards his fingers through Sokka’s hair. He wants to take care of Sokka so badly. It’s this ache in him all the time. 

“Were the poems about me?” 

Zuko snorts. 

“I wanna know,” Sokka whines. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says. 

“That’s why you love me.”

He rolls over onto his back, smiling up at Zuko. And the smile is hesitant, his eyes still bright from crying, but he looks so handsome Zuko doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hair spills on the pillow, rich brown flecked with gold. He cradles Sokka’s cheek, thumb stroking the line of his jaw. 

He wants to write about the way Sokka’s hair looks, the way his face looks, the particular tilt of it, the thoughtful way his lips purse. He wants to write about wanting to take care of Sokka. Inadequate: his care, his words for it. 

“I would write such shitty love poems about you,” he says. 

“I’d love that,” Sokka says. 

“I’m sure you would.” He kisses Sokka’s head. “Only the shittiest.”

Sokka gestures, a little beckoning movement, and Zuko lies back in his arms, warm, Sokka’s hand protective on his hip. He can feel the tremor in Sokka’s hand, the exhaustion. He’s exhausted himself with the thoughts in his head, been pummeled by them. He’s pummeled still. 

“You’ll read them to me sometime,” Sokka murmurs. 

“I will not.”

“Someday you’re gonna be a famous poet,” Sokka says. “And then I’ll have to see your poems. There’s no avoiding it.”

He’s tracing circles in Zuko’s hipbone, delicate enough to make Zuko shiver with love. He wants to make Sokka dinner; he wants to wash his hair. He wants to do everything, because he can’t do the one thing, the thing that matters. He wants to fall asleep holding Sokka safe from the world. 

“Can we go on a walk later?” Sokka asks, hesitant. “Just to, um.”

It helps when he’s tired, too tired to think circles around himself. Zuko nuzzles him. “Of course, baby. I’d love to walk with you.”

He feels Sokka slump a little in relief. 

“God, you’re fucking lovely, you know that?” he says. 

And Zuko doesn’t know that, because there’s an infection inside him too, the thing that makes him doubt himself. The thing that makes him write poems on sticky notes and hide them away. 

He takes Sokka’s hand, presses it to his cheek. He’ll write a poem someday about that—the feeling of Sokka’s hand on his cheek. 

But he doesn’t have the words for that now. His words are so much less beautiful than that, such ordinary things. 

“You can always ask me to walk with you,” he says. 

And Sokka smiles like it’s a poem anyway.