#description of a panic attack

[dcxdpdabbles]

Saw that you said you like Wes/Tim. Can you write something about it?

Wes isn't sure what he was expecting when it came to being kidnapped by a man who willingly answers to Joker. It was one thing to have your whole city dragged into the realm of the dead; it was another for a random man dressed like a clown to pop up from a portal and hold you at gunpoint.

Portals in Amity Park were so common that people reacted with an escape plan and a phone app to update traffic delays due to ghost attacks. We had just received the notification at Nasty Buyer when the clown burst into the restaurant with a cackle.

He waved his weapon at the people sitting, who only stared at him in confusion. The man did a little introduction, dramatically twirling in place and bowing after shouting, "Hello, people of Amity. Joker here to give all a much-needed sense of humor!"

Joker was trying to be frightening, which only caused a few people to smile amusingly.

No one was scared of a man with a gun, even when he had everyone get on the ground. They all listened, primarily out of curiosity, as he went on a small ramble of humor and one bad day leading to a lifetime regret; after all, every Amity Park civilian wore a Fenton Force Field.

Some even style the belts and bracelets with their outfits.

It barely held back ghost possession on a good day, but small, fast-moving metal? Bullets bounced right off of them.

(Sometimes Wes was grateful the government didn't take Fenton seriously. He shutters to think how they would use their technology in warfare)

That amusement then turned to caution when Joker revealed he wasn't wearing makeup but was actually that skin tone. He was missing the glow, but suddenly they wondered if the man was a ghost, which made him far more dangerous.

The Joker had walked around his hostages, waving a little box computer over their heads. It beeped slightly higher on some but the one that really set off the machine was Danny.

Because, of course, Phantom would mark high on any readings, even if they didn't know what the Joker was checking for. The clown had laughed madly, dragging Danny to his feet and trying to march him out of the restaurant. Everyone watched with even more curiosity, no one bothering to stop the outsider from taking Danny.

Now, Wes isn't much of a hero; he's the type of guy who will run at the first sign of trouble, but he's also very well aware Danny can't go ghost unless he's alone. Being held hostage and kidnapped meant Danny wouldn't have the chance to slip away to become Phantom.

This is a big problem since Phantom is the town hero. The last time the town hero was out of town, the city got abducted into the death realm, and that really cool arcade was turned to pieces. Phantom only handled ghost-related crimes, but Amity rarely saw any crime, and things like these events span generations.

Wes still heard about Old Man Jankins's car being stolen in the '60s by gossiping women at the food market as if it had happened that morning.

The clown's appearance through the portal meant the local police force wouldn't even attempt to save Danny. They would simply wait for Phantom, thinking the clown was some kind of ghost.

Phantom was not coming because his human side was already there as the victim.

As much as he wished people would make the connection between the two- how can you be so blind? All Danny did was dye his hair and put on colored contacts!- he knew no one else realized that Phantom was literally being taken away. So he had to step in.

He rose from the floor, sprinting as hard as possible at the Clown. Throwing his total weight in a tackle, Wes managed to wrap his arms around the Joker, throwing them through the portal and giving Danny a chance to back away.

He figured Danny would pretend to run away- maybe round the restaurant building to the back where the cameras didn't work and fly back in a second as Phantom. He thought falling through the portal wouldn't be an issue since Phantom would fly after them and rescue him.

Wes was not expecting the damn portal to close before they hit the ground on the other side.

He caught a flash of Danny's panic-green eyes just as it was sealing. The ghost had literally just shown up to the scene to watch him vanish from sight.

"You really messed up, my fun kid," the Joker sneered, dragging Wes to his feet. The strange machine he was waving went off as it got closer to him, causing the clown to stop.

He checked the screen, smile stretching wide at what he saw. "Looks like I did end up with a meta after all."

"Meta? What's a meta?" He asks, not even blinking at the sudden increase of guns being aimed at him. There were more people here wearing similar outfits to the Joker, all that armed to the teeth.

The Joker didn't answer him. Instead, he had his goons drag him into a tube, where they started filling up with some kind of tar. Now, here Wes did panic a little. The Fenton Shield could keep him from being shot or beaten, but it would not help him breathe.

He slammed his hands against the glass, screaming as the tar went up to his chest. Across from him, Joker was smiling like a loon while the scattered people working on some machines and computers monitored his reactions with the detached expression of a scientist conducting an experiment.

That's what I am to them. Wes realizes as the tar reaches his chin. He stands on his toes, tilting his head to get air. An experiment. Why are they doing this? Do they work for the GIW? Why take me? I am nowhere near a ghost.

The horrific sensation of drowning is starting to set in as he tries to gather as much air as he can. There is pressure all around him, but the worst is in his chest. Wes's struggles to get out of the tube increase with far more depression, but the black liquid is now in his eyes, and he fears he won't be able to hold his breath for long.

Nothing is wet darkness for a moment, as the burning in his lungs aches. He feels the tar cover his head, meaning he is running out of time. The sound is mutated, and his movements are sluggish. There is this offering moment where he can't tell which way is up or down, and he thrashes about, trying desperately to find an escape, any escape from the sparkling pain that is spreading from his toes to his forehead.

It feels like his entire being was being pulled apart and put back together again.

Just as he thinks he's going to die here- if he becomes a ghost, he will definitely haunt Danny- that the glass shatters. The tar falls outwards once its containment is broken, dragging a weakened Wes with the flow onto the ground.

He gasps in the air hungrily, only realizing what a dumb idea that was as his lungs protest and seize up. His chest rattles with coughs so extreme that Wes can only curl up into a ball, blinking tears away, trying to breathe.

He feels someone push him onto his side, which helps his throat a little, but the coughing doesn't stop. In fact, it becomes worse once he realizes his whole body is rapidly falling out of control because everything is too much all at once.

Around him, shouting and bangs indicate some chaos has exploded alongside the glass, but Wes can barely see through the pain.

He squits up at a teenager wearing a strange outfit and a little mask over his eyes. The guy is saying something but he can't understand him over all his senses being cracked to overdrive.

Wes has never known the world to be so bright, loud, and big. Everything is causing white hot pain to rest behind his eyes. Noises that he had never heard before are assaulting his ears—a car is jamming somewhere, a baby is crying, someone is singing, machines are humming, someone is grinning coffee beans—and he presses his head to the ground, trying to get it all to stop.

The man says something else urgently, but it's drowned out by the office sound of a bug buzzing too loudly to his left. Wes is not prepared for the teen in red and black to pick him up and fling him over his shoulder.

Wow. He's strong.

He quickly carried Wes out of the building. The basketball player could do nothing but let it happen as he bounced slightly over his bony shoulder.

He just makes out the image of a huge bat fling itself at the screaming Joker before everything goes black. Wes is happily surrounded by the blissful silence of the darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he arrives, he finds himself in a hospital room. Machines are hooked up to his arms, and he's been changed into a gown. Wes is pleased that the world is not so bright or loud anymore as he blinks around the room in a haze.

Did Danny save him? If so, where were his parents? Why did he wake up alone?

Danny would have stayed with him, at the least. The boy always did whenever Phantom rescued anyone, and people whispered about Danny being far too soft-hearted to be the Ghost Hunters' child.

It takes him a moment to sit up.

His body is aching everywhere as if he had done HIT training with Dash during hell week. It takes a few moments to get his muscles to move without the stinging sensation of a bruise, but after struggling, he can fling his legs over the edge.

Trying to stand is terrible, as his legs give out the second he puts weight on them.

He tries to catch himself on the bedside table, but he misses. His hand instead lands on a little tray, sending everything airborne and crashing along with him.

At once, pain flairs up like his body had been tasered - Dash ones brought a tazer to school, and everyone on the team took turns to feel what it was like. It was stupid but they all boasted they could handle the pain. They couldn't.

The door to his room is flung open as Wes cries out, body spamming in agony.

Hands grip his shoulder- sending more waves of torment through his muscles- as they drag him up. The person, helps him back into the bed, the cool sheets a blessing on his burning skin. "We need a nurse!"

"What happened?" He gasps, trying to get his blurry vision to clear. He can't tell who the blob of unrecognizable blur is, and he certainly didn't realize that voice. Wes isn't even sure they are human. "Where am I?"

"It's okay. You're safe. Batman and Red Robin rescued you. You're in the Drake Hostpial's meta ward."

Meta. There was that word again.

"Who..." His voice catches his breath as Wes struggles to get his vocal cords to function. The ache makes it hard to focus on anything. "Who are you?"

"I'm Tim Drake," Tim whispers to him, likely knowing lowering his voice was easier on Wes' ears. Who knew ears could get sore? "Everything will be alright now."

Wes' eyesight is clear enough to finally focus on Tim's face. He breathes a sigh of relief. He's missing his mask and not dressed like a bizarre spandex performer, but he recognizes the teenager who had carried him out of Joker's strange lab.

Danny didn't save him, but he was safe all the same. This is the last time he played hero.

He offers Tim a grateful smile. "Thank you for rescuing me."

"What?"

Wes goes under the darkness again as the door is burst open by a team of medical staff. He misses Tim's expression of shock, having not expected Wes to clock him as the one that carried him out.

How did this meta-trafficking victim recognize him?

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

protect - @femslashfortnight

i think about how deb got turned first in tgwdlm every single day, and, in those many hours of consideration, i've decided that, entirely off stage, she got to have a tragically hot, good girlfriend sacrifice-herself-to-get-alice-in-the-choir-room moment

[syn0vial]

most relatable Boba Fett Moment™ in the expanded universe is when he very calmly and curtly walks away from what should be a highly emotional conversation (much to the annoyance and disgust of the person he's speaking to), locks himself in a washroom, then proceeds to have debilitating panic attack for several minutes before standing up, composing himself, and walking out in the exact same unruffled manner like nothing happened :^)

[walkingstackofbooks]

If I ever stop doing this in my fic, something's wrong :P

[kidvoodoo]

Käshweek24 Day 6: Comfort

Thank you @hotcat37 for hosting Käshweek! This has been a lot of fun!

(Drabble under the cut ✌️tw for description of panic attack)

Jere doesn’t even remember how it got this bad.

He’s been here before, the same spinning room with the same walls closing in on him. He was here in a hospital bed as the doctor explained a life-altering surgery, but he was high on medication so the room only pulsed and shook, not the ceiling threatening to collapse on him like right now.

But the screaming is the same, like a rush of noise and sensation only he can hear, a thousand voices and shrieking sirens and metal scraping. Above him, the lights turn to muzzle flash and bolts of lightning.

He can’t remember how he got here.

He was flying, where did he fly too? Somewhere too far away from comfort and home. He’s in an airport. The language on the automated announcements is foreign to him. He’s not in Finland.

Someone is saying his name. Not Käärijä, if Käärijä were here right now he wouldn’t be dying like this. He wouldn’t have frozen stock still in the middle of an airport with people around him. Käärijä would have walked right through the curtain of anxiety and shame. Käärijä doesn’t get panic attacks.

But Jere does.

And Jere is all alone in his head with no one to pull him out of the whirlwind of fear that threatens to swallow him whole right now.

He had a therapist say the panic attacks don’t always have an easy to understand trigger, that sometimes it’s from anxiety or fear, from anger or even excitement. Sometimes the air is too sharp and the lights are too hot and all the noise turns into tidal waves. Overstimulation, the doctor said.

Käärijä thrives in the storm of color and sound, Jere drowns.

But someone is saying Jere’s name again and it’s a clear and crisp sound that easily slices through the screaming, crushing walls.

His paralysis is broken when his knees crash to the ground. A moment of sharp pain snaps his vision focused again. He sees a tall man with pale skin and long brown hair approaching, Jere’s name comes out of his lips.

Jere’s breath and vision are swallowed by the panic and his body seizes. He is dying.

He is dying in an airport in front of strangers all alone. His mind can’t even begin to comprehend how he must look to the unsuspecting public right now.

He is dying.

Someone is calling his name again.

Jere doesn’t think he has the strength, there is a rushing in his ears that makes it hard to move but he tries. He tries to force his eyes to see past the explosion of color and light and find the person saying his name.

His eyes lock on a face in the storm. A pale man with long brown hair and worried looking eyes. The voice he hears comes out of the man’s mouth. He knows that voice.

He’s heard it laugh and shout and sing. Heard it groan from satisfaction and whisper filthy things in his ear at night. He’s heard it say his name before like a prayer, a secret and a spell, soft and sacred just for him.

Tommy.

Jere tries hard again, he tries so hard to find sensations outside of his head but it’s hard. He opens his own mouth to try and tell Tommy but the sound that comes out is a breathless whimper. That’s right, he still can’t breathe.

He’s going to die in front of Tommy and in front of strangers in an airport from a panic attack. What a way to go.

Tommy says his name again and this time there are other words too. Jere tries really, really hard to hear them but it’s hard. It’s too difficult and he’s so embarrassed he can’t understand Tommy, he tries to apologize but it’s a choked gargle of words that make no sense.

Tommy’s hand moves then, slow and deliberate. Jere watches it from behind the smokescreen of light and color.

And with a gentle touch of his hand on Jere’s cheek, there is a break in the storm.

Jere’s vision clears first and he’s looking into Tommy’s familiar eyes, the worried look is gone and only calmness remains. Tommy always had a knack for composing himself. It was a game sometimes for them, see how Jere could get him to lose control.

But now Jere is grateful the control is there in Tommy’s eyes, he can see it’s safe there. It’s going to help.

And just like that, the sensations of reality come crashing back into him.

Where once his body was being shaken apart and floating away, he’s slammed back into it so jarringly he lurches forward, only Tommy’s arms catching him keeps him from face planting into the ground. The pounding in his ears is his own heartbeat, the stinging on his skin is cold sweat, his muscles are seized and aching, his knees hurt from falling, the sound around him is his own panicked breathing.

Tommy holds him gentle and comforting, commanding him softly to count back from ten.

He does so shakily in Finnish, the familiarity of his mother tongue grounds him further, he can hear Tommy counting with him in English. They count back from ten several times. At one point they reach zero together and Jere’s vision is clear again. They are no longer in the airport.

“Where-“

“Someplace safe and private.” Tommy whispers back. He must have pulled them off to a secluded spot. Safe.

Safe. Quiet.

“Shh, it’s okay baby,” Jere hears gently against his ear. “You’re okay, just breathe for me.”

And so he does. How could he refuse when Tommy says his name so sweetly? He lays there in Tommy’s arms and breathes, his heart slowly returning to normal rhythm and his blood cooling and calming.

The color storm is gone, everything is slightly blurry and he realizes he’s crying and the tears in his eyes are warping his vision. He shudders and Tommy holds him firm.

Tommy tells him they are staying in here as long as they need too, that there is nothing to worry about, Tommy can take care of it. All Jere needs to do is breathe. He can do that.

The panic is gone and Jere feels hollowed out afterwards. It’s a fugue state that happens and he doesn’t remember much of what happened before. But it doesn’t matter right now. Right now Tommy is holding him and whispering sweet nothings into his hair and Jere can’t remember the last time the storm subsided with something like a happy ending.

Jere closes his eyes and soft colors fill the darkness behind his eyelids. The screams are a distant memory fading to the quiet calm, he buries his face into Tommy’s neck.

[quinns-shadowy-arts]

Feel My Heart Beat Against Your Palm

Day 5 of @steddielovemonth‘s Steddie Love Month Event!  Rating: T CW: Recreational Use of Drugs, Detailed Description of a Panic Attack, Detailed Description of a Nightmare.  Tags: Love Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Living with the Aftermath of Trauma, Panic Attacks, Nightmares, Recreational Use of Drugs, Robin is Really Trying to get Steve and Eddie Together.  WC: 2,198  Prompt:  Love is being seen and known; Submitted by @acasualcrossfade  

Eddie’s staying the night, as he does every Friday. They’ve started a tradition. Eddie, Robin, and sometimes Nancy, Johnathan, and Argyle go over to Steve’s every Friday to watch movies. They all take turns picking the movie. Tonight was sort of a group decision. Robin had spotted Labyrinth in the “New Releases” section of Family Video. The group would’ve gone to the theater to see it when it first came out, but they were all still recovering from Vecna. So they’ve only gotten to it now. 

Robin thought Labyrinth sounded weird enough to satisfy her taste, Jonathan and Argyle thought it sounded fun, Nancy didn’t really have anything to say for or against the movie, Eddie wanted to see the puppetry and fantastical world, and Steve liked that David Bowie was in it. It seems that Steve has taken a liking to David Bowie more than he usually does, if Eddie has anything to say about it. Compared to the usual argument that would’ve unfolded, it seems that Labyrinth was the perfect pick for the group. 

After the movie was over, everyone sorta hung around for a bit. After discussing what they liked about the movie and other general topics, Nancy left to drive Jonathan and Argyle home. Robin stayed to help clean up a bit; chatting with Steve and Eddie further. Then the phone rang. 

“Hello?” Robin had answered the phone after a silent stare off between the three of them.  She nodded her head, followed with a bundle of ‘yeah’s and ‘mhm’s. She hangs the phone back up and turns to the other two. 

“So… My parents want me back home.” Robin says while twisting the ring on her middle finger. 

“What, why?” Steve questions. Robin usually spent the night with Steve and Eddie after their movie nights. 

“Um, something has just… come up.” Robin says while staring into Steve’s soul. She raises her eyebrows at him, trying to telepathically convey something to him. Steve furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head. Eddie thinks he looks like a puppy dog. The thought makes something warm swirl in his belly. 

After a couple of minutes, Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in understanding. 

“Ohhhh, yeah ok. Here, let me walk you to the door.” Steve walks over to Robin. They walk to the door and hushed whispers spill after them. Eddie is nosy, always has been and probably always will be. He tries listening to them while mindlessly moving things around, trying to look like he’s busy and not eavesdropping on their conversation. But alas, they’re too far away for any words to be coherent enough for Eddie to understand. After a couple of minutes, Steve walks back into the room.  

“Robin’s riding her bike home, something came up.” Steve says, walking over to walk some of the collected trash into the kitchen. 

“Is everything ok?” Eddie asks, following after Steve. Steve stands with his back turned to Eddie,

“Yeah, her parents just need her for something” Steve responds, barely turning his head in Eddie’s direction while stuffing the empty plates and cans into the trash can.    

“Oh ok.” Eddie nods. Sure, Robin makes things fun and he loves her, but Eddie is definitely not too upset about being able to spend some alone time with Steve. 

After finishing up cleaning, Eddie turns to Steve with a mischievous smirk. He pulls a baggie with joints out of his pocket, 

“Hey, want to maybe light up with me?” Eddie raises his eyebrows at Steve, still holding his smirk. Steve smiles back, 

“Yeah, dude. Why the hell not” Steve walks over to Eddie and plucks the joint out of his hand. 

“Let’s go up to my room, yeah?” Steve asks while not looking back, knowing that Eddie is already following. 

Once they get up to Steve’s room, Steve pulls open his window and stands against the ledge. He starts patting his pockets, trying to find his lighter. He sticks the rolled paper into his mouth, using both hands to dig around in his pockets. Eddie walks over and strikes up his lighter. He cups the end of the joint while lighting the end. 

Eddie makes the stupid decision to look up, making direct eye contact with Steve. His eyes are absolutely devastating. The moon hits off of them, lighting them up. The chocolate brown of his eyes meld together with an earthy green and flecks of pure gold, creating an all encapturing sight. His eyes look like a mossy forest, deep and enchanting. 

“Thanks, man.” Steve says, breaking the moment. He pulls a deep breath in, holding the smoke in before exhaling back out, aiming the smoke through the open window. Eddie blinks away, looking back down to put his lighter back into his pocket. 

Steve passes the joint over to Eddie. Eddie grasps the joint in his fingers. Steve’s hand brushes against Eddie’s, his hand warm and solid.  An electric feeling passes through Eddie. He shivers before taking his own hit. 

They stay there for a while, sitting in a comfortable silence while passing the joint back and forth. They don’t technically need to share, Eddie has another joint in his baggie. But they share anyway, they always do. Soon enough the joint has dwindled down, they’re both high enough to hopefully have a peaceful sleep. Steve turns to Eddie, looking into his eyes before speaking up,

“I’m tired, man. Ready to go to bed?” Eddie nods his head. His eyes feel as droopy as Steve’s look. Despite staying over every week, Eddie always ‘just happens to forget’ his pajamas at home. 

“Can I borrow some clothes? I forgot mine again.” Eddie tries to feign innocence by bringing his hand up to rub at the back of his neck. He can’t be blamed that much, though. He likes to feel close to Steve by wearing his clothes. He likes to pretend that he’s wearing them for different reasons, like maybe he belongs to Steve. That maybe Steve belongs to him, too. 

“Sure” Steve says as he walks over to his dresser. He pulls out a set of sweatpants and a soft, worn T-shirt. 

“Here, Eds” He says, tossing his clothes over to Eddie. He turns back around and starts changing into his own sleep wear. Eddie turns and starts undressing. He puts on the sweatpants first. They’re slightly too big on him. The length is fine, but the fabric hangs loose around his calves and thighs. They’re a light grey in color, soft and perfect. 

Eddie pulls on the shirt. It’s a dark, navy blue. The front reads “Hawkin’s Community Pool Lifeguard”. It’s probably one of the darkest shirts Steve owns, ironic due to it supposedly being worn out in the sun all day. It’s soft and a bit on the thinner side from being worn for so long. Eddie’s seen Steve wear this shirt around the house quite a bit. Knowing that he gets to wear one of Steve’s most comfortable shirts makes Eddie’s face warm. 

He turns back around, Steve already done changing and looking at him. Eddie smiles at him, 

“Well, good night, Stevie.” Eddie says, wiggling his fingers in a flirty way as he turns to leave the room. 

“Wait-” Steve says, grabbing onto Eddie’s bicep. 

“Can you…Can you stay in here?” Steve asks. He looks at Eddie despite his hesitation.

“Yeah. I’ll stay with you, Stevie.” Steve softens at Eddie’s affirmation. He doesn't let go of Eddie, but instead pulls him towards the bed. Steve pulls back the covers and slides in first, leaving a side open for Eddie. 

Eddie crawls in, grabbing the blankets and tucking them both in. He leaves a gap in between them. He wants to close the space, to cuddle with Steve and fall asleep wrapped around him. But he doesn’t. Instead he turns onto his side, the one facing away from Steve. It kills him, not being able to look at Steve; but he knows he won’t be able to go to sleep if he looks for any longer. 

“Good night, Stevie. Have sweet dreams, don’t let the bedbugs biteee” Eddie chants, teasing Steve while meaning every word. 

“You too, you dork,” Steve says. Eddie can hear the smile in Steve’s voice. Sleep soon starts taking over Eddie’s body. His eyes droop closed, his breath evens out, and he melts into Steve’s absolutely delightful bed. 

He can’t breathe. The bats are after him. His legs sting as he peddles faster. He needs to do this. He needs to draw the bats away from Dustin. He needs to go. He needs to stand up. 

He jumps off of the bike, throwing it to the ground. He swings back around and stabs at the bats with his spear. He tries holding up his shield, but there’s too many. They’re swarming him

. He falls to the ground. They bite into him. It hurts. They’re eating him. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die. He’s going to die. He can’t breathe. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t- 

“Eddie!” Steve shakes him awake. His lungs hurt. He’s sweaty and panic is still stuck in his throat. His heart is beating too fast for his body, he’s going to die if it keeps going like that. He’s going to die- 

“Hey, hey, look at me.” Steve says, still holding onto Eddie’s shoulders. His eyes shoot over to Steve’s. His heart is still beating too fast, he still can’t breathe. 

“Here-” Steve says. He moves his hand down Eddie’s arm and onto his hand. Steve grips his hand and pulls it up. He presses Eddie’s hand to his chest, right above his heart. 

“Feel that? It’s my heartbeat, we’re ok. Feel my chest, Eds. Follow my breathing,” Steve’s skin is warm under Eddie’s palm. Eddie focuses on the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. He tries matching his breathing to Steve’s. 

Inandout. Inandout. In and out. In…. and out. 

“There we go. Good job, baby. You’re doing amazing for me.” Eddie flushes at the pet name. He feels better now. He can breathe. He still feels taught, like a string pulled too tight. 

“You remember where we are? We’re in my room. You’re in my bed. It’s Friday, remember? We watched Labyrinth with Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Argyle? We’re safe, it’s ok.” 

Right, right. It’s Friday. He’s in Steve’s room, in Steve’s clothes. He’s here because Steve asked him to stay. He remembers.

“Ok….I’m ok.” Eddie says after a minute. Steve moves his free hand up from Eddie’s shoulder and onto his face. He cradles Eddie’s face in his hand. His hand is rough from calluses. His thumb swipes away the tears on Eddie’s face. When did he start crying?

“You did so amazing, Eddie. You just had a nightmare, we’re ok.” Steve reaffirms. Eddie feels shame coil in his gut. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that. I didn’t wake you up, did I? I’m so sorry-”

“Hey, No. None of that. You don’t need to apologize, Eds.” Steve says softly, continuing to rub his thumb across Eddie’s face. 

“No, I do. I know sleeps hard and I took that away from you-” Eddie tries to say, but Steve cuts him off again. 

“Eddie, it’s ok. I know. I know what the nightmares are like, Eds. You went through so much, Baby. It’s ok to still be scared. I’m still scared too. You don’t need to apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.” Steve looks at Eddie with something so soft. It’s not demeaning, but genuine and light. Eddie wants to fight back, to convince Steve to let him apologize. But Steve makes him feel so safe. He can’t argue back, but he still can’t agree, either. 

“Hey, I know that look. You have to believe me, Eddie. Do you know how many times you’ve helped me after a nightmare? So many times, Eddie. So many times.” Steve smiles at him,

“You always tell me it’s not a hassle. That I’m not a hassle. You make me feel seen, Eddie. I see you too. I see you, Eds.” 

Eddie’s heart swirls. Steve sees him. Steve sees him for him. All the excitement and fun and liveliness of the day. All of the bad and pain and fear of the night. He sees Steve, and Steve sees him right back. Eddie nods this time; his walls have been tumbled down, Knocked over by Steve’s assurance.  

“I love you, Eddie.” Steve presses his forehead against Eddie’s. His hand’s still holding Eddie’s to his chest. Eddie can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. Eddie can almost feel the love pumping through Steve. 

Eddie’s face breaks into a smile. Steve sees him and loves him despite it, Because of it. A warm flourish blooms through Eddie. A tear runs down his cheek for a different reason, now. 

“I love you too, Stevie.” Eddie says. The love they share is caught between them. The small space still there is filled with love. Eddie can’t deny it, he can only embrace it.  

Steve’s skin is warm against his, their hearts beat together, and they love each other. Eddie sees Steve, and Steve sees Eddie.    

[blorbobutworse]

It takes a month or two for Logan to become attached to Beast. He's a Doctor, and Logan Does Not like doctors. Seeing anyone in a lab coat means Experiments and Pain and Magnets. But when he sees the Beast destroying Sentinels to protects his students, roaring and baring his teeth and using all of himself to fight, well. Like recognizes Like.

Better yet, Hank is much more patient than any Doctor he's had before. He asks before jabbing him with needles and cold metal stethoscopes and doesn't even use the Collar to drag him around!

The first time they spar, though, it tiggers a memory (and a subsequent panic attack). The Beast just holds his wrists, murumurs reassurances, and rubs his thumbs against the outside of Loans knuckles, uncaring of his claws. After that, they really do start to bond. So much so that it causes...some codependency issues in Logan when he has to be appart from His Person. But, that all comes later.

:)

@mybrainsautocorrect , @silverflowers14

@geekyforever

Here u go guys!!

[loz-the-noob]

Athena Analysis complete! I started by stating the essential defining aspects of her character, pulled out some of the language she uses, and finally listed more in-depth relevant traits. I couldn’t fit them all on the document, but every point has a quote to back it up, so if you’d like to know what evidence I have for a certain point, just ask! Feel free to add to the last list, too. I’ve probably forgotten something and the more Athena info the better!!

[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.

[serenefreakgeekao3]

Ever in our favour... Masterlist

PEETA MELLARK X GN!READER

You wake up with a migraine, surrounded by forests and kids that are more than willing to kill you. What have you fallen into the middle of? And why can't you remember getting here?

Arena fanfiction, cannon-typical violence, descriptions of blood injuries and death, descriptions of a panic attack, temporary memory loss, mentions of familial abuse, depictions of mutated creatures, established relationship, romance, kissing, fluff and angst, minor character deaths, action/adventure

Table of Contents:

Archive of Our Own

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT (FINALE)

[seven-thewanderer]

okay I was listening to The Lobotomy (by Maebi) for the past hours, and managed to make this!!

I don’t usually tend to draw Angst, but I really wanted to make this and I’m proud >:3

[sleepyfan-blog]

Helping Hand

Author’s Note: This is another fic in Cedric’s Adventures in Astartes Husbandry! First. Previous. Next Thank you to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for allowing me to borrow her OC Zariel! 

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @whorety-k

Warnings: past physical punishment, descriptions of physical punishment, panic, Alpha Legion Shenanigans, cw panic attak

Summary: Cedric and Zariel have a little chat after he returns to base after having a wonderful day out with two of his older brothers.

It was amazing how fast a person’s mood could change, depending on where they were. Cedric had spent the rest of the day with two of his firstborn Brothers and his anxieties over making a good first impression and how they might react to his existence had entirely melted away by the end of the first hour that he’d been blessed to spend in their presence. The young Apothecary hadn’t noticed the hours slip by until they’d guided him back to the base, well after sunset.

Apothecary Zariel was waiting for him at the entrance of the base, a small smile on the Ultramarine’s fair features as he waved a cheerful goodbye to Brothers Arnault and Roland. “There you are, lad. I was beginning to wonder if they’d decided to steal you away from us.”

Cedric shuffled his feet a little and blinked in confusion at the older Apothecary “Why would they? Neither of them is part of a Crusade of wandering Black Templars. They live with their bonded humans, and we’ve only just met.” He’d not make such a decision to leave lightly - especially not since Jophiel was still recovering in Cedric’s assigned quarters on base. He hadn’t quite informed anyone else that he’d found the injured Primaris Blood Angel… But given how weird they could be about Jophie’s wings… He felt that it was a bit too much of a risk just yet.

Besides, the firstborn marines knew about the other three Primaris Marines on base! And once Jophiel was back to full health, he’d promised to introduce himself to Captain Ash’val at least. 

“I suppose that’s fair. How was your outing with your older brothers?” Zariel asked, the warm smile on his face brightening a little further.

“It was great! They showed me to some of their favorite places around the city! I got to stretch my legs and see  more of Ancient Terra and I got to talk to firstborn Brothers who-” weren’t disgusted by me and wanted to kill me on sight. Was the rest of Cedric’s sentence. He bit that off, Claude’s warning about the Teal in Zariel’s armor ringing loudly “-were really nice and friendly!” He really hoped that the older marine hadn’t noticed the brief pause in his speech.

The slight narrowing of the other’s eyes as the older apothecary guided him with a hand pressing against the small of his back caused Cedric’s hearts to sink a little. As was the fact that the other led him to his office “I’m glad to hear that, Cedic. Now, there’s something that I’d like to ask you about. A little incident that happened earlier today, in fact.”

“Oh, what might that be?” Cedric asked, tilting his head a little as he looked at the other.

“Well, as you’re well aware, the only humans allowed on base are ones who are bonded to a marine. As much for their safety as our own. This base is one of the places where we can truly get privacy, but that privacy only exists when our boundaries are properly enforced.” Zariel explains, gesturing for Cedric to sit down in one of the chairs in his office as he closed the door behind the younger Astartes.

“... Is there a reason why you are reiterating this, sir? I am well aware of all of the rules and regulations in this base, unless something has changed while I was out with my older brothers?” Cedric asked, deliberately staying still, not allowing his eyes to widen in anxiety, nor to hide his hands behind his back, or fidget them in his lap, betraying his rising anxiety. 

So he had been seen on one of the cameras with the teenage humans, despite his best efforts. Damn. But why talk to him like this, rather than order him to confess by one of the chaplains, where his punishment would begin? He could hear the whistling-crack and the familiar sting of an electro-whip across his back and chest already, and was silently bracing for the pain, before mentally dragging himself back to the present.

“I happened to be in the security camera room, as one of our watch officers had a minor arrhythmic episode with both his primary and secondary hearts - he has since recovered from that episode and is in the infirmary for overnight episodes for further monitoring. While I was tending to him, I just so happen to catch you, running as fast as you can with four baseline human teenagers holding onto you. Considering the speed at which you were moving, and the fact that I’d only seen you scurry around on a couple of camera edges… I can only assume you were sprinting around with the intent to not be seen. Care to explain yourself? I’m sure you had good reason, I just… I’d like to hear your side of things before I escalate this issue to captain Ash’val, or to one of the chaplains on base.” Zariel asked, his smile warm, his voice pleasant… 

And his armor ever so slightly the wrong shade of blue. 

Fuck. 

This was not the kind of situation that Cedric wanted to be in, especially as he had no idea if this was an attempt to give him enough synth-rope to hang himself, or a trap to snare him in, or a mixture of the two. Should he try and deny everything? But with… Him potentially still being on base and available to Pry The Truth from his lips should Cedric decide not to cooperate… And his Primaris brothers unaware of the.. Of the… of Him potentially still on base, waiting to find them like the threat he had categorically proven himself to be… Cedric’s mouth went dry and he hung his head, eyes on the floor. “I am absent of reason or excuse, sir. I found four baseline teenagers who had snuck into the base and aided them in leaving, rather than bringing them to holding to be properly processed.”

That was true enough. Cedric didn’t want to admit to the cowardice he’d shown in fleeing with them, rather than facing the monst-... Honorable Firstborn Brother Chaplain with them in tow. 

“Now Cedric, please don’t make things more difficult for us both. I know very well that there is nothing that you do without deliberate reasoning and intent. For example, I know for a fact that you are taking more dry rations than you normally do because you have hidden an injured Brother in your personal quarters. Again. Please tell me the truth, I can help you if you do. Explain to me what was going through your head, what made aiding these baselines the best decision in the moment.” Zariel sighed, shaking his head a little, one cool hand touching Cedric’s chin and forcing him to look upwards into the Firstborn’s eyes.

Eyes that were more teal than true ocean blue. 

“I… I heard Chaplain Feldarim speaking to someone nearby who I… I was not prepared nor ready to face. Who is heavy handed in his punishments of others and who would have taken a keen interest in the harmless intruders, even if I had taken them to another superior officer to be processed properly, sir.” Cedric explained, hating the fact that his eyes were swimming with treacherous tears that he refused to let fall, that his breathing was fast and shallow and that his hearts were beating rapidly at the back of his throat, making his voice small and trembling.

“... I see. What were you concerned that this… Strict disciplinarian would have done to these baseline teenagers, had he known that they were there and in need of punishing? If, say for example, they were neophytes who’d misbehaved to the degree that baselines had.” Zariel presses, raising an eyebrow at him.

“A thousand electro-whip lashes, followed by a salt and vinegar treatment of their injuries, orders to not seek treatment for those lashes and harsh physical labor and additional training, sir. Not just for them, but for their squads if they were from separate squads, sir. They would have been trained until they dropped where they stood and whipped awake after an hour of rest for weeks, with minimal food and water to sustain their basal metabolic systems.” Cedric answered in as a calm, measured tone of voice as he could manage. “I have no idea what he would do to Terran born baseline humans and had no desire to find out. He’s… I’ve been put in charge of the clean-up of his past… Punishments before. Before both of us were brought to Ancient Terra, and I’d rather not… Not do that again.”

Zariel let out a low whistle, and finally let go of Cedric’s face, gently patting him on the head. “Thank you for telling me about that. I’ve heard that Black Templars are particularly strict with each other, but I hadn’t known for sure, as I haven’t interacted with many Black Templars before, other than you, and by the Reputation of your chapter alone, I know that you are unusually gentle and kind. This particular disciplinarian, I suspect he’s going to be staying in this base for a couple of days… Which would make it difficult for you to avoid him, if you remained here.”

A low, panicked wheezing sound filled the room for several seconds. Cedric slowly started to slide out of the chair in abject embarrassed horror when he realized that he himself was making that sound. 

“Woah… hey, hey, hey… It’s okay… Okay, floor time, huh? Breathe with me, nice and easy. Follow my breathing pattern, okay young one? I’m not about to allow anyone to hurt you. Especially not someone who scares you this much. Shhh, shhh.. Shhh… it’s alright… Just breathe with me… In… and out… In… and out…” Zariel soothed as he knelt on the ground next to Cedric, slowly lowering him the rest of the way to the floor. He grabbed one of the younger medic’s hands and placed it on his chest, so that he could track more easily how he was breathing. One of his hands kept Cedric’s on his chest, the other started to rub soothing circles into the younger marine’s back.

It took Cedric minutes to calm himself down, and he found himself leaning into Zariel, face hidden in the other’s shoulder, tears soaking into the other’s scrub top.”S…Sorry sir… I… I didn't mean to lose composure like that.”

“We all have our moments of being overwhelmed, young one. Now, let’s get you out of this base for a couple of days, yeah? Hura needs help wrangling a panicky loyalist thousand son freshly transplanted to Ancient Terra, and I’m quite certain that you would be the best fit to check him over and help him calm down.” Zariel murmured soothingly. “The sooner the better. You wanna go in about… Ten minutes, give or take? I’ll fill out the formwork to give to the commander, and Hura will escort you to the Chaos Base the Thousand Son is at. It’s gonna take a couple of days to get there, and the wandering warband of Templars never stays in one place for more than three days if none of them are injured.”

Cedric nodded “I… Alright. I don’t… I don’t mind helping Apothecary Hura with tasks like that.”

“Good lad! I’ll go vox him. You stay put.” Zariel ordered him with another pat on the head and an encouraging smile. “Yes sir.” The young Black Templar agreed with a nod, content to wait, even if he was struggling with feelings of guilt and the creeping sensation that he was being cowardly by not facing him.

[ygodmyy20]

He wants to open his skin and crawl into it and never come back, he wants to wrap himself in his powers and never come out, he wants to crawl into a hole and never return, he wants to turn his organs into nests for him to lay, and burry himself under their crimson comfort. Go deep into his head, away from all this pressure.

[thesiblingsoftheblackandwhite]

Poor Tnoy! Mixing up timelines sounds like a nightmare. He's always been the one we relied on for that. Also if you can't tell normal time, you're going to have a terrible time in school with schedules. I feel your pain. I can't tell time either.

[[PANIC ATTACK]]

T'noy Karaxis doesn't seem to hear the reassurance. The sudden loss of control is hitting him harshly. Too quickly for his liking. He shivers suddenly, a sick feeling building in his stomach. His hands, which had been gripping his jacket, tremble and lose their hold.

this, obviously, doesn't go unnoticed. Especially when Tinky stumbles to the floor, panting.

Tinky?!

[ask-thearchivists]

Now I’m curious, what happened last time you helped Charmer?

The Cartographer: It was during the mission with the Titans. Charmer knew it would be a lot of work to get rid of them, so she wanted one of us to help her train and command the slayers she was going to use to kill them all. Because it was anticipated to be a mission that would ultimately require Cleaning, Coordinator was busy writing down all the information on the species, societies, and food webs as quickly as possible, while Curator was expanding the Archive in anticipation of a great sudden influx of mortals. So I was the only one not currently busy.

The Cartographer: So he brought me down and explained his plans, what had happened and what was planned to happen. She explained her idea to trick the babies and children into trusting the mortals she had enlisted, by taking the skins and skulls of little Titans that had already been killed and having the mortals wear them. He wanted me to try on one that he had made so he could see how convincing it looked.

The Cartographer: I'll never forget the smell inside the skull, the way the fur felt on my arms. I had to leave immediately. I came back to the Archive. I pulled that horrible thing off me. I'm probably not allowed to tell you how else I reacted. But who cares? I got sick onto the floor. I knew it was going to happen, which is why I left, because we're not allowed to show any perceived weakness to mortals. The Coordinator was angry and yelled at me for leaving without saying anything, I think. All I remember is the way my arms were still itching from the fur, like things were crawling all over me. The Curator grabbed my hands and the Coordinator stopped yelling. I had scratched my arms until I started to bleed.

[istilldontlikemyusername]

As someone who has read I was Born for this and listens to Noahfinnce's music, No Point Pretending and I Know Better are so IWBFT-coded!