#panic attack tw

[alicewritingstories]

Part 2 of that fic idea, based on @kikker-oma's fantastic Whumptober art. (Part 1 is here).

This time it's based on Day 11: Examination

Four groaned as he was shaken awake by Twilight. It couldn't possibly be morning already…

But then he became aware of the alarmed tones in his brothers' hushed voices. He opened his eyes and sat up as Wind - at the other end of the same bed; they were the only ones small enough to share - scrambled off the bed and ran to the window. Four rubbed his eyes. The moonlight flooding into the room looked oddly red.

"I'm going to ask the innkeeper," said Warriors. "Twilight, come with me."

Four gasped as he looked out of the window. It hadn't been his imagination; the moon was blood-red.

"Where's Time?" asked Twilight.

"I'll go check on him," said Four. "You go with Warriors."

Twilight hesitated, but before he could reply Four was climbing the stairs to the attic room, leaping up them two at a time. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

The old man might still be asleep, but he wasn't normally a very heavy sleeper. Four knocked again, pressing his ear to the door.

This time he thought he heard a faint, horrible whimpering noise.

He didn't wait any longer; he shoved the door open.

Time was sitting on the bed, his back to the window, the moon shining behind him. His eye was wide and he was staring blankly at the floor, trembling, visibly struggling for breath.

Four's heart skipped a beat as possibilities flashed through his mind. Poison. Magic. Maybe the red moonlight was doing something, though that wasn't likely given that nobody else had been affected…

Even as he was thinking, he ran to the old man's side. Time took another desperate, strangled gasp.

"Time?" said Four softly, crouching to look up at his friend's face. "Link, can you hear me?"

Time's eye squeezed closed and he nodded, a tear suddenly spilling down his cheek.

"Four…" he managed, the word coming out in a croak. "Help…"

Good, he's aware.

Though the soft plea wrung at Four's heart, he had to stay focussed. The next most important thing was Time's breathing.

"Time, can you take a breath for me?"

Time gasped in another of those sharp, almost agonal gulps of air.

"OK, and out again."

It came out in a panicked whimper.

"And in. Try and breathe a little deeper, it's OK."

Time gasped and slurred, "Gotta go… gotta…"

"It's OK. Once we've got you breathing properly you can go."

More tears were trickling down Time's cheeks as he struggled to take another, deeper breath. Four climbed onto the bed next to him and pressed an ear to his back, listening for any sound of blockage or injury.

"Again, as deep as you can."

A gasp.

"And out. Nice and steady."

A moan.

They kept going, Four coaching Time's breathing. He couldn't hear anything except the frantic pounding of Time's heart.

"No time," whimpered Time. "No, have… have to…"

"Deep breath in, Time. It's OK."

Time's breath was steadying gradually and he slumped. Four grabbed his shoulder to stop him pitching head-first off the bed, but he hadn't fainted, he was just leaning on his elbows, his head hanging.

"Easy, old man. Another deep breath."

"I… It…"

"Shh. I know, Time, but I need you to take a deep breath for me."

This time the breath was deeper, though Time shuddered pitifully as he forced it into his lungs and out again. Four still couldn't hear anything wrong.

"Keep going," he said, rubbing comforting circles on Time's shoulder. "In… and out… In… and out…"

Slowly, Time's breathing eased and shifted into exhausted sobs.

"I can't… not again…" he croaked.

Now confident that there was nothing physically wrong and nothing preventing Time from breathing, Four shifted back to sit beside him, taking his hand in one of his own and continuing to rub Time's back with the other as he kept coaching his breathing.

"Not again… Please…"

"It's OK, Time, you don't have to do anything. We'll take care of it." Four heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up, raising a hand to halt Twilight in the doorway. The rancher stared in horror for a moment, but when Four waved his hand in an urgent shoo! motion he backed away. Four was glad; the last thing Time would want was too many people crowding around him.

Time didn't seem to have noticed his mentee's presence, still lost in his own world.

"Time, can you still hear me?" asked Four.

Time shuddered and nodded.

"Is the problem to do with the moon?"

Another nod. "I… I can't. Not again. D-Don't…"

More footsteps on the stairs and Four looked up again. This time it was Warriors, Twilight behind him. He too paused in the doorway, but he pointed past Four and Time at the moon and raised a questioning eyebrow. Four nodded and started to shoo Warriors away as he had Twilight, but the captain walked in and knelt down in front of Time, taking the hand Four wasn't holding.

"Time, we've spoken to the innkeeper about the moon," he said clearly. "This has happened before. There will be a surge of dark magic in an hour or so, but it is not an immediate danger. Do you understand?"

For a moment Four thought Time hadn't heard, but then he took a slightly deeper breath.

"There is no immediate danger," Warriors repeated, still speaking clearly. "Do you understand, Link?"

Time nodded, taking another hiccupping breath. Warriors gently squeezed his hand.

"Come and join us when you can," he said gently. Then he got up, nodded to Four, and left again, herding Twilight with him. Four turned back to Time and started coaching his breathing again, rubbing his back as the gulping, desperate sobs eased. Slowly, Time relaxed to lean against Four's shoulder, clearly exhausted as the emotion drained out of him.

"I… I'm sorry, Smithy," he said softly.

Four squeezed his hand. "Don't be."

"Shouldn'... have had… to see that."

"It's OK. Take a break for a bit and then we'll go join the others and hear what the innkeeper told Warriors."

Time nodded. "Thank you."

[adrift-in-thyme]

@kikker-oma happy belated birthday!!! Sorry it took so long for me to finish this! But I hope it proves worth the wait <333 (Also I hope you don’t mind some whump)

CW for blood and injury, vomiting, a panic attack, and a cave-in (be careful if you’re claustrophobic)

————————————-

In the wake of the explosion, Sky feels nothing. There is a high-pitched ring in his ears, spots in his vision, warm, sticky blood trickling from his nose. But no pain.

Until there is.

It hits like a claymore, cleaving through the half-consciousness he has clung to thus far. And the next thing he knows, he’s jerking upward, gasping. Only, he can’t sit upright at all.

His mind screams the panicked order, his muscles attempt it, but a weak, agonizing twitch is all he manages. Something is holding him down, something massive and heavy. His chest struggles to rise beneath its constant compression.

Sky blinks again, squinting past the tiny eruptions of light and the dust that floats, thick and suffocating in the air around him. There is nothing much to see in the endless darkness. But he can make out jagged shapes, blocky forms, the outlines of sand-covered objects.

Caging him in. Holding him down.

He’s pinned, he realizes with a streak of mind-numbing terror. And suddenly, what little air he had managed to drag in turns to nothing at all. He gasps, eyes blowing wide, as he thrashes.

Or attempts to. All he manages is to bring on a fresh onslaught of dizzying agony. It strikes through to his very bones, sending sharp pricks of static dancing before his eyes and crawling up the back of his head. And for a split second, everything goes a striking shade of black.

Then, he’s breaching the surface once more, too soon, much too soon, skyrocketing back into a world of pain and suffocation.

Sky coughs, choking on blood and tears. He has never really considered himself claustrophobic, but this experience might just change that assumption. Of all the ways to die…

But you’re not, he berates himself. You’re not dead yet, so think, think. Figure out a way to survive.

He can’t reach his pouch. The rubble piled beside him makes certain of that. It presses against him, crushing his side and tugging at the hem of his sailcloth. But if he can move it just a bit…

Trembling hands press to its jagged surface. With a sharp intake of breath, Sky steels himself and pushes.

Something shifts and for a split second, Sky dares to hope that maybe, just maybe he can get free. But then, the rubble on his lower half crawls sideways with the rest. And Sky screams.

The nauseating numbness that had begun to take root vanishes, replaced with the absolute agony that splits through his legs. He turns his head to the side and chokes up bile.

That one moment seems to last forever, pain dancing along his body endlessly. He lies there, limp and gasping, gazing at the blurred splotches his vision has been reduced to. And the waves wash over him, stealing the air from his lungs and turning his thoughts into incomprehensible things.

Needles streak up his neck, bringing with them unnatural heat. His eyelids flutter, eyes preparing to roll back in his head and plunge him back into the painless deep.

“Sky!”

A hand finds his, desperate in the way it grasps at him. Sky inhales sharply, jolting back into some semblance of awareness.

He had thought no other heroes were near the blast. He had thought they were all clear of the area. So, why…

Wait.

Memories crash back into his mind like waves on the sea. Memories of a building crumbling behind him and a boy by his side, running, running away from the collapse, away from certain death. Memories of the fiery knowledge that had situated itself firmly in Sky’s gut, the knowledge that he must protect him, protect the hero who came after him.

Protect the hero who was the first to feel the brunt of his failures, no matter the cost.

His hands fly out on instinct to shove the small figure in front of him through the doorway. Echoes of a terrified voice in his mind as he leaps, meaning to follow, wanting to.

Only for darkness to catch him before he can.

Four. Sky’s breath hitches, a sob of relief and agony catching in his throat. Four is here with him. Four is alive.

And he came back.

“Sky, can you hear me?”

The Skyloftian focuses all his strength. Weakly, he squeezes Four’s hand. The smithy blows out an audible sigh of relief.

“Thank the goddesses. We’re gonna get you free, okay? We just need a minute. If we move anything now…”

Though he trails off, the words left unspoken weigh on the Skyloftian even more heavily than the rubble. He drags in a thin gasp, swallowing against the growing lump in his throat.

“But I need you to stay awake until we can get you out,” Four continues, forcing a lighter tone into his voice. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” is what Sky means to say. “Hurts,” is the croaked cry that comes out.

Four’s grip tightens. “I know, Sky. I’m-I’m sorry.”

Sky closes his eyes. The darkness there is safer, more comfortable than the dusky dimness floating around him.

“Not your fa-fault.”

“You shouldn’t have pushed me.” The voice is grim and drenched in guilt. Though it aims to sound accusatory, Sky feels that it hardly meets the mark. “‘There was time. We could’ve both gotten out. We could’ve…”

“K-kept you safe.” It is hardly a croak. The word burns in his throat. “Smithy…I w-wanted to…”

He drags his eyes open, stares into the expanse of floating nothingness. He still can’t breathe.

“It’s the least I…could do.”

Four is silent for a long moment. Then, his fingers constrict just slightly. Their warmth is welcome in a world of cold darkness.

“You’re going to get out of there, Sky,” he murmurs and there is something in his tone that Sky cannot identify. Maybe he could if he wasn’t so tired. Far more than usual in fact. This exhaustion drags him down like a leaden weight, pulling at the remaining scraps of consciousness.

“Just hold on,” the smithy says, and Sky pushes back against the endless deep.

Hold on.

He can do that. He can…

“T-tell me about y-your Hyrule,” he croaks.

And Four does. The smithy has many secrets, perhaps, even as much as the old man, and yet, he tells him. Of his grandfather, of Dot, of his home and his world and the tiny creatures known as Minish.

Sky clings to every word that tells him more about the hero who followed after him and the land he fought to protect. He clings to the sound of his voice, the warmth of his fingers, the painting he paints of his life…until his brothers come.

And then, finally, finally, the world is opening back up and the sunlight is streaming in and he can drag in thin gasps of fresh air and…and Four is right there, still holding his hand but gazing down at him now. Concern gleams in his multicolored irises.

Sky offers him a weak smile. “‘M okay now, smithy,” he murmurs, every word agony. “T-thanks for…for staying.”

Four’s face splits into a grin. A teary one, but an expression of joy nonetheless. “I’ll always stay. It’s the least I can do for the person who paved the way.”

There is respect in those words, Sky realizes dimly. Respect and something else…A connection, perhaps, that is stronger even than their bond of brotherhood.

He deserves neither.

But as he lets his eyes slip shut, as the voices of his family swell around him and arms lift him with a gentleness that belies their strength…he is glad to know about their place in the timeline. He understands the look in Time’s eye a little better now, when he gazes upon Twilight.

He is proud of his successor too.

[rp-meme-world]

hurt/comfort starters!! trigger warnings: blood, injury, vom*t, panic attack

❝ lay down. you need to lay down. put your head in my lap. ❞

❝ i think i’m about to pass out. ❞

❝ what happened to you? come inside. come inside. ❞

❝ i know it’s late, but... i need you here. ❞

❝ [name]. you’re bleeding. ❞

❝ the more you freak out, the faster you’re going to bleed. just take it easy. ❞

❝ just keep talking to me. ❞

❝ you’re safe. it’s just a panic attack. just squeeze my hands, okay? ❞

❝ can you talk? ❞

❝ stay with me— hey. [name]? oh my god, please don’t do this. ❞

❝ please don’t leave. ❞

❝ you’re not gonna die. i’m not gonna let you die. ❞

❝ i know you want to sleep, but you need to stay awake for me. ❞

❝ it’s okay. just go to sleep. i’ll be here when you wake up. ❞

❝ it hurts. oh my god, it hurts— ❞

❝ it’s not as bad as it looks, i swear. ❞

❝ i know it hurts. just hang in there, okay? ❞

❝ i’ve got you. you’re safe now. ❞

❝ i need you to tell me what’s wrong. what are you feeling? ❞

❝ it’s okay. it’s alright. let it out. ❞

❝ there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you’re sick. ❞

❝ let me make you some soup. ❞

❝ let me make you some tea. ❞

❝ i didn’t want to worry you. ❞

❝ it’s okay to cry. i know it hurts. ❞

❝ wrap your arms around my neck. i’m gonna carry you. ❞

❝ i’m gonna take good care of you. don’t you worry. ❞

❝ please help me. please. ❞

❝ stop moving, just let me hold you. ❞

❝ breathe with me. in and out... good job. just keep doing that. ❞

❝ i can’t feel my hands— ❞

❝ i can’t move it. i think it’s broken. ❞

❝ i can’t see. ❞

❝ i’m not gonna let anything happen to you. ❞

❝ don’t look at it. just keep your eyes closed, and breathe. ❞

❝ thank you for being here with me. ❞

[movedto-bunny-lovers]

Your f/o would help ground you during a panic attack, helping you breathe to the best of their ability. Your f/o would help you calm down and would make sure you were safe with them, too. Your f/o would be worried but caring and would do anything to be there for you.

proship/comship DNI

[justtorturewhump]

Whumpee who has been free of the torture for a year, who is recovered except for the panic attacks, volunteers to return to the torture chamber in exchange for a loved one’s safety

[whumpneto]

Jamie Dornan as Dr. Leslie Ferrier in A Haunting in Venice (2023)

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I had a panic attack and was consulted by Boris Johnson and those British palace guards.

[squishosaur]

should've stayed home

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Jake's Destiny: New Client

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Jake “Hangman” Seresin, f!reader, stripper!reader Summary: Jake has finally reached his breaking point and just needs a distraction, even for just an hour. Which is how he finds himself at The Hard Deck Gentlemen's Club. But while he expects this to be just a one-time thing, everything changes when Destiny walks through his door. Word Count: 4855 TW: Grinding, Light Thigh Riding, Stress, Panic Attack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Strip Club, Reader's clothes are described Note: Thank you to @green-socks for all of your help and the beta read! Love you!!! 💕

Series Masterlist (but can be read as a one-shot)

Jake wasn’t sure why he was here. While he had been to strip clubs in the past, they weren’t really his thing. If he wanted to see naked girls all he had to do was go to any bar, flash his black Amex as he bought a round of drinks, and he’d have at least three of them begging him to take them back to his place within the hour. But tonight was different. Tonight he was looking for a distraction and he was hoping he could find one here.

He had never been to The Hard Deck Gentlemen’s Club but it had excellent reviews online as well as having a reputation for being incredibly discreet which was a must. The last thing he needed was for his family to find out he was here. He already heard enough about how he was a disappointment who had tarnished the family name; he didn’t need to add any further fuel to that fire.

Looking around, Jake was surprised at the small crowd gathered around the stage. At this time in the afternoon, he had expected the place to be basically empty, however there were at least a dozen men watching the girl currently performing and another four or five standing around the bar. 

Hunching his shoulders and ducking his head in case there was anyone around who might recognize him, Jake searched for where he needed to go. His eyes landed on a shorter man leaning against a podium by the side of the stage. He didn’t necessarily look like the sort of guy to work at a higher-end place like this, but Jake could just make out the staff shirt peeking out from beneath his leather bomber jacket. So, Jake took a chance and walked over to him.

As he got closer, the man looked over to see Jake approaching. He smiled and asked, “Hey there. Anything I can help you with?”

“Who do I see about booking a private room?” Jake asked, forgoing any pleasantries. 

“That’d be me. I just need to see your ID.” The man picked up a clipboard from off the podium. “Anyone or anything in particular you were looking for? A specific girl or request?”

“I don’t care,” Jake grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets to pull out his wallet. “Just send me whoever you have.”

The man nodded as Jake flashed him his ID. “You got it. Looks like I can have someone ready for you in about ten minutes. Until then you can go back to the room and just get comfortable. Your hour won’t start until she comes in so don’t worry about that.” 

He wrote something else down on the clipboard and then offered it to Jake along with his pen. Jake skimmed the page quickly but it just seemed like a standard waiver with a set of rules he was supposed to follow. Although, Jake did raise his eyebrow at the price at the bottom of the page. Now he remembered another reason why he usually stuck to bars rather than places like this. Yet money had never been a concern for Jake Seresin so he just silently pulled out his wallet and counted out the correct cash. Then he signed the form ‘Jake’ and held it and the money out to the man.

The man took a quick look at the form and shook his head. “Full name on the signature. First and last.”

Jake’s jaw tightened. “I thought this place prided itself on discrepancy and anonymity?”

“We do…. from other people. But one of the ways we keep our girls safe and protected is by knowing exactly who we are sending in to be with them. This way if anyone tries to get out of hand or does something we don’t approve of, we know who did it. However, we don’t share that information with anyone, except the police if they have a warrant but that’s never happened before.”

He gestured to the form once again and Jake reluctantly signed his last name as well. This seemed to be acceptable since this time the man took the clipboard and the money from Jake. 

The man quickly did a count of his own before stuffing the money into his pocket. Then, he stuck out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Jake blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Seems like you didn’t read those rules before you signed them– no one ever does,” the man muttered under his breath. He held out the sheet Jake had just signed and pointed to a bullet point near the bottom. “There’s no phones allowed in the private rooms.”

Jake scoffed. “Yeah, well, I’m not giving you my phone.”

“Yeah, well, then you’re not going back there.”

“I already paid you!”

The man dug into his pocket and pulled out the cash Jake had just slipped him. He held it out for Jake to take, but Jake hesitated. Would it really be so bad to get an escape from all the numerous texts, calls, and emails that were constantly blowing up his phone? Maybe a single hour of reprieve would be good for him.

Seeing his indecision, the man sighed. “Look, kid. You either hand me your phone or you take your money and go. It’s up to you.”

Jake’s mind quickly flashed to those boring safety seminars all company employees were mandated to take that emphasized never letting your phone out of your sight in public or never allowing anyone else to see it. Especially if your phone contained any sensitive company information– which was about 90% of what was on Jake’s phone. Yet, it didn’t stop him from pulling out his phone, double-checking it was locked, and reluctantly handing it out to the man.

The man took it with a nod. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He slipped Jake’s phone into the inside pocket of his jacket and gestured to a hallway on the far side of the bar. “Now, go down that hall and into room 3. One of the girls will meet you there in a few minutes. When you’re done, come find me and I’ll give this back to you. If I’m not around, just ask any of the girls for Maverick and they’ll know where to find me.” 

Jake scowled. He couldn’t believe he just handed over his entire life to a man named ‘Maverick’. “Just so you know, that phone has the highest security protection money can buy so don’t even think of trying to break into it.”

Maverick chuckled as he shook his head. “Kid, I’ve got better things to do than to sit here and try to break into your phone. So whatever it is you think you have to hide from the world, believe me, it’ll still be safely hidden when you get back.” He glanced at the stage as the song came to an end and the spotlights dimmed signaling the performer to walk off stage. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I have to get back to those better things. And so do you. Room 3, your girl will join you shortly.” And with that, Maverick turned and left.

Jake watched him walk away and duck through a door marked “Employees Only” before he headed towards the hall. Walking down it, he was soon met with a dead end. To his right was a single metal door with the sign “Security Office” on the front and to his left was another hallway lined on both sides with doors. Each door had a number painted on it in fancy calligraphic font so Jake turned left and headed for the one at the end of the hall labeled 3.

Opening the door, he was pleased with how clean and well-furnished the room looked. Various chairs, an ottoman, a couch, and several tables were scattered around the well-lit room. There was a floor-to-ceiling pole off to one side in front of one of the larger chairs and a small platform that was probably a kind of mini stage on the other side of the room. But Jake ignored all of this in favor of the large red velvet couch.

As he sat down, he eyed the glasses and various liquors displayed on the table across from him. Maverick hadn’t mentioned anything about drinks being provided but then again, Jake had paid a pretty penny for this room. The least they could do is comp him one drink. He grabbed a glass and poured himself a small taste of the whiskey. It wasn’t top shelf by any means, but it was smooth enough and Jake wasn’t in the mood to be picky so he filled his glass and eased back into the cushions to wait. 

It didn’t take long.

A moment later, the door opened and Jake’s heart unexpectedly skipped a beat as you walked in and closed the door behind you. 

You were wearing a pale pink sheer robe with matching pink feathers all along the edges that fell to the floor and brushed against the top of your ridiculously tall heels. Though it was tied loosely around your waist, he could see a set of lingerie a few shades darker than the robe showing through. He was slightly surprised by its style. In the clubs he’d been to before, all the girls wore very skimpy clothing– practically just a tiny piece of cloth held up by a string. But while yours was still revealing, it was also much more suggestive. Clinging perfectly to your body, the material was cut in such a way that it gave a tantalizing tease of what was just beneath without showing off too much. Jake couldn’t take his eyes off where it was molded over your breast or hugged your hips. 

However, whatever hold you had on him shattered the second he glanced up at your face. While you were breathtaking, your blank doe-eyed expression and big pouty lips were an instant turn-off. Jake had been dealing with enough immature babies recently. He didn’t need to pay to deal with another one. 

But before he could say anything, you batted your long eyelashes at him as you bent over slightly- pushing out your breasts as you did so –and bit your lip cooing, “Hey there, baby. What brings you in to see me today?”

Your voice was breathy and dripping with a saccharine charm that Jake was sure worked on some people, but to him just sounded condescending and demeaning. Rolling his eyes, he drained his glass and reached for the bottle in front of him. “You can drop the act. I don’t want it.”

You stared at him for a moment, your eyes wide and innocent. But then your entire demeanor shifted as you straightened up to your full height. No longer this meek, innocent girl looking to please her client, you met his gaze with a self-assured confidence and smirked at him. Now it was his turn to be surprised. It was like he was staring at a completely different woman than the one who had walked in. 

“Oh, thank god,” you sighed in what almost sounded like relief. The breathy quality of your voice was now replaced by a strong, smooth tone that he found very pleasing. “I hate doing the naive little girl thing.”

Sauntering across the room with a flutter of your feather-trimmed robe, you paused in front of the ottoman to the side of the couch. Lifting the top, Jake could see it was actually a storage unit filled with small bottles of water. You picked one up and quickly downed it in a few large gulps. 

Wiping your hand across the back of your mouth, you said, “Before we get started, there are a couple of ground rules you need to know. Are you alright with that?”

“Ye-yeah. I guess,” Jake stuttered, still thrown off guard by your complete 180-degree shift in personality. 

You nodded in confirmation then began to ramble off the rules in a way that made Jake feel as though you had given this speech many times before. “To start with, anything you say while in this room is confidential and I am not allowed to share with any third party so you are free to discuss anything without the fear that it will get back to anyone else in your life. Please remember that I am a stripper, not a prostitute so there is no kissing or sex of any kind. If you have some kink or fetish you want me to perform, you are more than welcome to ask but it is up to my comfort and discretion if I’ll do it. I do allow some touching above the belt but if you try to go too far, you’ll get a warning. On the second warning, we’re done. If that happens, I’ll leave no matter how much time you have left in your hour. If you try to stop me or do anything I or the club does not approve of–” you pointed towards the corner of the room “–the person monitoring the cameras will send security to escort you from the club and you will be banned for life. Also, I don’t date or fraternize with clients once I am off the clock so don’t even ask. Are there any questions or concerns?” 

“No,” Jake muttered.

“Good. Then we are ready to start.” You selected another water bottle before returning the lid to the top of the ottoman.

With the bottle still in your hand, you crossed the remaining distance and stood before Jake. “Sorry about before. They didn’t tell me what you wanted when they sent me in here and usually, men who look and dress like you want one of three types of girls so I took a guess.”

“And what type of girls would that be?” Jake asked.

Dramatically swishing your robe behind you, you sat down on the edge of the table across from him, crossing one leg over the other so your foot just barely avoided skimming his knee. “Oh, you know. Either the sweet, empty-headed young thing who just wants to make daddy happy after a long day at work. Or the submissive who loves being called all those dirty, filthy things a man should never call their wife or girlfriend. Or the dominatrix who loves calling the man all those things a wife or girlfriend should never be asked to call them.” You chuckled ruefully as you shook your head. “If guys would just grow some balls and tell their significant others what they really wanted, what got them off, I would be out of a job in a second. But there is still too much of a stigma about admitting what you want so… here I am.”

Opening your water bottle, you took another small sip. Then, you ran the toe of your shoe up and down Jake’s thigh. “So, which is it? What kind of girl are you looking for tonight?”

Jake shook his head. “None of those. I mean, that’s not… I..”

Putting the bottle down, you leaned forward and gently took his hands between yours. Then, in a soft, kind voice, you said, “It’s alright. I told you, I’m here so you can ask for whatever you need. You paid for this to be a safe place and I won't judge you. But believe me, whatever it is, I’ve seen weirder.”

Looking deep into your eyes, Jake got the strangest feeling that you were right and he could trust you. He might come to regret it later but right now he didn’t have anywhere else to turn. So, taking a deep breath, he muttered, “I don’t know what I want. Or even what I need. I just… I just need a break from it all. It’s just too much.”

Your sweet smile shifted to one of understanding. "Ohhh. You’re right. You aren’t here for one of those kinds of girls. The fancy suit threw me off but you’re just here looking for what everyone really wants.”

“And what is that?”

"Someone to listen. To really hear what’s wrong and tell you it’s all going to be alright. You're a talker. But that's okay. Those are my favorite kinds of clients." You slipped forward off the table and onto his lap so you were straddling one of his legs. Wrapping your arms around his neck and sliding your fingers into his hair, you asked, "So, what is it you wanna talk about, baby?”

Jake flinched and tried to pull back but you held yourself firmly in place. “No. Not that. Don’t.. Don’t call me that.”

“Alright… then what should I call you?”

“Jake. Just…. Just call me Jake.”

You smiled and scooted down his leg closer to his chest. “Okay, Jake. You can call me Destiny.” He snorted at the name before he could stop himself. But luckily, you didn’t seem offended. Instead, your smile widened. “Alright, you’re not a fan of that either. How ‘bout you call me Des? Normally I only let my friends call me that. But I think I can make an exception in your case.”

It was still ridiculous, but at least it wasn’t such a blatant reminder of where he was or who you were. “Yeah, okay, fine. I guess it’s nice to meet you, Des.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Jake.” 

All the snark and attitude from before had melted away and you had once again transformed into another person. Where before the sweet breathiness of your voice had been cloying, it was now calming and reassuring. Almost as if you were whispering each word so only the two of you could hear. And the way your eyes locked onto his with such compassion and interest, he truly felt as if he were the only person in the world at that moment.

Slowly, you began to rock gently against his thigh while at the same time, your nails began to scratch at the base of his neck. “Now, Jake, do you wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Jake felt all the tension and stress of the last few weeks slowly ebbing from his body and you continued to lightly caress his head and grind down on his leg. The repetitive motions were soothing and relaxing and he soon found his eyes growing heavy until he was unable to keep them open any longer– not asleep but just more relaxed than he remembered feeling in a long time.

You continued your gentle grinding for what seemed like an eternity before leaning closer and brushing your nose against his ear. With a soft coo, you asked, “Come on, Jake. What’s wrong? You came here for a reason, so what is it?”

Jake opened his eyes to see your face hovering just inches from his. If he tilted his head slightly, his lips would brush against yours. But instead, he took a deep breath before letting it out really slowly. Then he opened his mouth and everything he had been holding back suddenly came flooding out. “It’s everything. It’s my work, and my family, and my life, and just… just all of it! I can’t get two seconds to myself where I’m not being hounded for answers or opinions or I’m expected to put out another fire yet being told I always do it wrong! I can’t breathe! It’s too much and I– I can’t–”

“Shhh, shhhhhh. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Jake didn’t even realize his voice had begun to rise to a frantic pitch and he was hyperventilating until you placed your hands on the side of his face and forced him to look at you. Your voice maintained its same soothing tone and though you were no longer scratching the back of his head, you continued to rock against his leg as if nothing had changed. 

With the same understanding gleam in your eyes, you smiled softly. "You can breathe here. It's just you and me. No one else. No other demands or expectations, no one asking you for anything. Just whatever you want and you need. That's all."

Jake’s eyes darted up to the corner where you had pointed out the camera earlier, but you turned his face back to face you. “It’s okay. Believe me, they try to avoid watching what happens in here as much as possible. Just enough to make sure us girls are safe. And I can tell I’m safe with you. In fact–” You turned towards the corner and gave a thumbs up before flipping off the camera. Turning back to Jake, you said, “There. Now they’re not even watching.”

“What was that?” Jake asked with a small anxious chuckle.

Grinning, you gave him a thumbs up. “It means ‘I’m all good’—” You put your thumb down and stuck your middle finger straight up “—‘now fuck off’.”

“Clever system.”

“Thanks. We think so.” You skimmed your fingers lightly up his cheek to brush a fallen strand of hair off his face. “Now… back to you. I meant it, Jake. Whatever you need. And if that is for us to just sit in silence while I continue to do this, that’s fine. Or, if there’s something you need to get off your chest, I’m here to listen. It’s whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Jake admitted. “And I guess that’s part of the problem.” He hesitated as he considered his next words carefully so as to not give too much about himself away. “My family owns a very large, very successful company based here in Texas. It was started by my great-great-grandfather and has since become very…. profitable. And with all of that comes a lot of responsibility to not fuck it all up. And yes, I made some stupid mistakes in my past, but since my dad had a heart attack last year and I’ve taken over, I’ve tried everything I can to grow up and do what’s best for the company. But nothing I seem to do, no decision I make, is ever right in my family’s eyes. I’m trying everything I can to live up to my family name and expectations but…. I keep failing. And I just…. I don’t know what to do.”

Jake knew this was ridiculous. You weren’t some strategic advisor or psychiatrist. You were just someone he had paid to be currently grinding against his thigh. And yet, you quirked your head and began to chew on your bottom lip like you were deep in thought. Like you actually wanted to help him solve his problems. And once again, Jake was hit by a wave of emotion at actually being seen and listened to by someone.

After pondering his predicament for a moment, you finally spoke. “Let me ask you a question. Are you happy with the work and choices you’re making? Like, do you think they were the best ones you could have made at the time?”

“Yes,” Jake reluctantly admitted.

“And how do others outside of your family think you’re doing? Co-workers, employees, others in charge, people like that.”

Jake shrugged. “Fine, I guess. I mean, they mostly seem happy with how things are going.”

“Then sweethear– Jake. I don’t think the problem is you. I think the problem is your family.” Seeing Jake’s furrowed brow, you explained. “It sounds like you’re doing a great job so maybe your family’s constant criticism and degradation is their fucked up way of trying to remain relevant or in control. That they don’t like the fact you are succeeding without them or their help. Or that they don’t want to admit you’ve grown from your mistakes in the past and become someone worthy of this position you’ve been given.”

It felt as if you had just punched him in the chest. For a minute, Jake actually struggled to catch his breath. It was a thought that had frequently nagged at the deepest corners of his mind but he had refused to entertain. But hearing someone else say it, hearing the words uttered out loud, he was no longer able to pretend it wasn’t possible. Maybe he wasn’t the fuckup his father seemed to think he was. Maybe he wasn’t leading the company into failure and ruin like his mother always loudly whispered to her friends when Jake walked in the room. Maybe Javy hadn’t just been a great friend when he told Jake the rest of the board was very pleased with his latest decisions and changes. Maybe this wasn’t all on him after all.

As Jake opened his mouth to share this revelation with you, a large red light above the door lit up but you ignored it as you continued to stare at Jake expectantly. He nodded towards the light. “What does that mean?”

“That means your hour is up. But we’re not done talking so we’re ignoring it for now. It seemed as if you just had a breakthrough of some kind.”

Jake gave you a small smile. “I think I did. But, uh, I think for now I need to process things first before I talk about it. Can I… Can I come see you again when I’m ready for that?”

You smiled back as you ran your hand down his face and lingered over his lips. “Jake, you can come see me anytime you want, whether you’re ready to talk about it or not. I’m sure we can find other things to occupy the time.” 

You rolled your scantily-clad body into his one final time and stood up off his lap. Holding out your hand, you helped him to his feet. Then, looping your arm through his, you walked with him towards the door. 

When you both reached it, you slid your arm out of his and took a step back. “I have to stay and straighten up a few things but just head back down the hall and you’ll get back to the main room. And I do honestly hope to see you again sometime, Jake.”

“Me too, Des.” Jake reached for the door handle, but he paused just before opening it. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “You’ve known who I was since you walked in here, haven’t you?”

You winced as you grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I’ve known who you were. It’s hard not to recognize Jacob Seresin when his face is plastered all over the tabloids every few months. But I promise you, it doesn’t change anything. What we say or do in here will always be completely just between us. I promise my clients a safe space, and I mean it. It doesn’t matter who you are.”

Well, thank you for being the person I needed tonight.” Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out three bills that he held up. “Just my way of showing my appreciation.” Then he placed them on the table near the door and walked out into the hallway.

As Jake exited into the main room feeling lighter than he had in almost a year, he noticed the man with the clipboard from earlier standing at the other end of the bar laughing with the young brunette bartender. As he approached, the man – Maverick, Jake suddenly remembered – caught his eye and turned to him. “Well, you look like you had a good time.”

Jake smiled softly to himself. “Yeah. I actually did.” Though he had planned on never returning to this place after tonight, his mind flashed to the tender look in your eyes as you promised him he could relax with you. “In fact, I’m going to be making this a weekly thing.”

Maverick chuckled as he picked up his clipboard off the bar. “Sounds like you really enjoyed your time. Alright, I’ll mark you down as one of our exclusive Platinum members. Basically, it guarantees you a room and discounts on drinks and dances, that sort of thing.”

Jake nodded. “Yeah, fine, whatever. I don’t care about any of that. However, when I come in, I only want Destiny.” 

Maverick paused mid-note with his pen still pressed against the clipboard as he looked up at Jake. “Sorry, kid. I can’t promise that. It all depends on her schedule and if she’s in the middle of seeing someone else and–”

“I’ll pay triple her rate.”

The other man raised an eyebrow as he continued to stare at Jake. “Damn. I’ve seen plenty of guys hooked before but it usually takes more than one dance.” Shaking his head with a grin, Maverick scribbled something else on the clipboard. “Alright. I’ve made the note.” He looked back up at Jake. “You must see something really special in her, huh?”

Yeah. Jake thought as he remembered your smile and your soft, soothing whispering in his ear and the way you really seemed to see him instead of just a tool to be used despite knowing who he was and the feel of your nails scratching at the base of his neck as you rocked back and forth against his leg and— Oh fuck. What have I gotten myself into?

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @lorecraft, @green-socks, @nerdysuperchick, @heart-0n-fire, @mayhem24-7forever, @wildbornsiren @hederasgarden, @the-untamed-soul, @inglourious-imagines, @airhogger, @piscesvancouverite, @straightforwardly, @bonnieelizabethparker, @srry-itshockeyszn, @flyinlove, @fandomhopped, @sweetheartlizzie07, @yjwnoot, @wanderdreamer, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @callsign-fox, @imjess-themess, @callsign-phoenix, @shanimallina87, @forever-sleepy-sloth, @notroosterbradshaw, @dezthegeek, @blessupblessup, @cherrycola27, @phoenix1389, @nicangelinee, @smells-like-perfect-senses, @boringusername3, @petlaufeyson, @cycbaby, @topguncortez, @footprintsinthesxnd, @fantasticcopeaglepasta, @writercole, @onebigfangirlworld, @wkndwlff, @ravenmoore14, @clancycucumber230, @mayhemmanaged, @kmc1989

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #3

Trope of the day: “Make it stop.”

_

Tears run out of whumpee's eyes, who squeezes them shut, averting their face from caretaker who is still sleepy and confused. Whumpee feels their hand on their shoulder and flinches, the panic and pain too much to bear.

They hear the other's muffled voice, their own hands pressed to their ears to make the loud noises stop. All of them are overshadowed by their own racing heartbeat.

“Make it stop,” whumpee rasps through their gritted teeth as their body cramps in pain of old and new injuries, of hallucinations and invisible daggers cutting them. “Please, just make it - make it stop,” they repeat and feel caretaker's hands wrapping around them.

Whumpee is lifted up into the other's arms, holding them close, almost too close. But they don't let go, won't let go. Caretaker removes one of whumpee's hands from their ears, which is pressed against their chest.

The steady heartbeat makes them freeze and catch their breath for a moment, their body still shaking. “I got you, kid. Now breathe with me.”

[keulixeutin]

Breathless

a/n: my plane experience didn’t quite go like this.  would’ve been nice, though.  hope it makes sense, and hope y’all enjoy!  summary: a stranger helps ground you when you feel trapped on a plane. bakugou x reader.  she/her pronouns.  cw: claustrophobia attack, panic attack, anxiety, nausea (no vomiting), fluff, just bakugou doing the best he can. au, but no powers are mentioned so u can pretend its canon if u want lol.  word count: 4,258 words

You jerked awake, suddenly feeling odd.  

There was something—off.  

You didn’t feel right, but you couldn’t pick up on the reason why.  There was an uncomfortable sense of dread growing in the pit of your stomach, spreading throughout the rest of your body. Your hands were clammy; your skin felt sensitive; you were jittery in ways you hadn’t been before, and you couldn’t put a finger on why.

You looked around the plane.  It was dark; most of the passengers had their window shutters closed against the blinding afternoon light.  Many of them were dozed off, too.  You wondered if anyone else felt this—unnerved.

You were sitting in the back of the large plane, sandwiched tightly between the window and the man beside you.  You felt more cramped than you remember feeling in previous plane rides.  You normally handled them well, so what was happening now?  Was this plane somehow more narrow than others?  Was it more narrow in the back?  Did this man with his wild hair and impossibly wide shoulders really have to put his elbow so far across the arm rest into your space?

No, no, that wasn’t fair.  It was tight for everyone.  This uncomfortable feeling—you just needed to stretch.  Just need to shift a little, like a cat circling a spot three times before settling down to sleep.

You straightened your back, trying to soothe out the knots and kinks and pop it.  It didn’t work, didn’t pop and didn’t help.  The odd feeling lingered—intensifying even—no.  No, it wasn’t intensifying, because intensifying would be bad.  It was just there.  It was just uncomfortable.  Disagreeable—yes.  That was a good word, a calm and collected word, a not-too-negative word to describe your situation.  Once you found an agreeable position, you would easily fall back to sleep and bypass the last couple hours, you thought to yourself. 

Optimistic, you leaned against the window.

Then, you leaned back into the chair, folding your arms, hyper aware of his elbow still past the invisible line.

Then, you unlocked the table from the seat in front of you to try and rest your head on it, but you realized that there wasn’t much space for you to curl your back, so you pushed it back up, locked it, and sat, staring at the seat in front of you that began to recline back, toward you.

It was so tight here.  So confined.  You felt restricted.  You felt—

—Trapped.

You felt trapped.

As soon as that thought crossed your mind, you clearly felt the weighted dread on your chest, the difficulty swallowing, the starting heat.

It was a lack of air.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

It wasn’t discomfort; it wasn’t disagreeable.  It was suffocating.  

You couldn’t breathe.

Instead of finding a comfortable position, you found that you were possibly—probably—very definitely having a claustrophobia attack.  

You felt yourself starting to panic.  This was new to you.  You usually flew so easily; sometimes, it got tight, but you never felt stuck.  Sometimes you ached, but you never felt nauseous.  

You closed your eyes, imagining that you were in a car driving through grassy plains, imagining beautiful wildflowers of all types of colors.  The sun was bright, as bright as the tall sunflowers that greeted you as you stared out the passenger window.  

Okay, okay, you thought.  This was doable.  You could do this.  You could manage two (and a half) more hours doing this.

The plane shifted suddenly—slight turbulence—and that was all your brain needed to go into overdrive.  The grassy plains in your imagination suddenly got taller, bigger, growing wildly to eclipse the flowers, the sky, the path, boxing you in, trapping your car—and then the car suddenly wasn’t a car, but a metal box getting smaller and smaller and darker and tighter and—

Your eyes shot open, breaths coming out in short, tiny pants.

You were dangerously hyperaware of all movement and spacing around you, how everyone seemed to take up so much space, how they seemed to take up so much of your space, the elbow crossing the arm rest, the reclining seat in front of you, the child accidentally kicking the back of your chair.  Your nausea was building, your chest was burning, your vision was darkening—shit, shit, shit, what were you going to do—what were you going to do?

“Hey.  You alright?”

You turned to the man beside you, the one whose elbow was two centimeters too far over the invisible line, and logically you knew that it was illogical, but with the way your breaths came out shallow and desperate, with the way your heart was trying to claw its way out of the heat behind your diaphragm as though there were a fire starting behind your ribs, under your skin, it only seemed right and helpful and sane to blame him.

He seemed to see something on your face.  His red eyes narrowed at you.  Maybe he saw the terror.  Maybe he saw the flames.

“I have to get up,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady despite your intense need to double over and cry and throw up and pass out, in whatever order gave you the most relief.  “Please.  Please, I n-need to get up.”

Without hesitation, the stranger woke up the woman in the aisle seat.  Instead of stand up, she stayed seated, twisting her body and moving her legs to the side, expecting the two of you to squeeze through, but the man hissed out an aggravated, “Move your ass, lady!”  She scrambled to her feet with a huff.

You all but fell into the aisle, feet trying to find ground beneath you, but you were furiously aware that nothing was solid ground, that you were in the sky in a metal bin, and it wasn’t the fall that frightened you but the walls, how they wouldn’t expand, and the people, how they could only expand, only take up more space, more oxygen.  

So close to the back of the plane, your eyes caught the back room where the flight attendants sat.  It was empty, though,  so you quickly rushed to the back, trying not to frighten people with your heaving so loud in your ear as you gripped the wall and turned the corner, slowly falling to your knees.

You swallowed a gasping breath—one, two, then another, more.  The darkness that had been dotting your vision was fading.  The space here wasn’t much; you wouldn’t be able to stretch out your legs without leaning against the emergency exit (which you absolutely weren’t going to do), but the fact that you weren’t pressed up against a hard shoulder and a shuttered window was already relieving some weight off your shoulders, extinguishing some of the flames from your chest.

“You need water?”  Same gruff voice—same gruff scowl.

He was crouched in the aisle, peering at you from the entrance.  You were vaguely aware that, though he couldn’t tell his elbow had been encroaching your space, he was mindful of not crowding you here and not hovering over you with his size and height.

You nodded.  He disappeared.  You hazily remembered the flight attendants were pushing their drink cart at the front of the plane.  When he came back, he handed you a cup and sat down on the other side of the little space, legs tucked against his chest.

“Thanks,” you said.  The nausea was still bubbling in your stomach; you didn’t want to give it fuel, so you took tiny sips.  “Y-you can go back,” you told him.  “I should be okay now.”

“It’s fine—I’ll stay.”  He was still scowling, eyebrows furrowed in sharp, angry angles, but there had been a softness in the red of his eyes when he had seen you gasping beside him, when you had asked him to let you through.  “Lean back and keep your chest open,” he said.  “Stop hunching.”  

You slowly adjusted your posture. 

“Good.  Fix your breathing; you’re on the fucking verge of hyperventilating.  In through your nose and out through your mouth to slow down.  Three or four counts.  Whatever you can manage.”

You didn’t realize that you had still been gasping for air.  The initial panic had subsided as soon as you sat down in this open space (open being extremely relative), but you could still feel the anxiousness on the edge of your skin, as though it were lingering smoke, or embers ready to reignite. 

You crossed your legs, tilted your head back, and rested your hands on your knees to ensure that your shoulders didn’t shift back into a cowering hunch.  You closed your eyes, counted three as you inhaled through your nose, counting again as you exhaled through your mouth.

“Good,” you heard him say again.

Good, you thought.

In—out.

In—out.

In—

The plane shook suddenly.  It wasn’t an abnormal shake, just a small, tiny piece of turbulence that was to be expected at that height, but in your delicate and frazzled state, it felt as though you were minutes from the door and ceiling collapsing on top of you, seconds from your breath being taken away.  

You choked out a gasp—

“You’re fine.”  

No, he couldn’t know that, he—

“Hey—look at me.”  

You felt a grip on your left hand that rested on your knee.  You opened your eyes; he was glaring at you—no, he was looking.  Brows sharp.  Angular.  Crimson eyes fierce—intense—but not knife-like.  Not jagged.  Not cruel.

“It’s mild turbulence,” he said.  He squeezed your hand once.

You swallowed a nervous lump.  Your mouth was dry.  Your throat hurt.

“I’m telling you, you’re fine.  You need to keep breathing,” he said, then adding, “slowly,” as though you had forgotten (how could you forget?).

You tilted your head back.  

“Come on—inhale, one…two…three…four… Good.”  

Good, you thought.

“Again—one, two, three, four.  That’s it.”

He squeezed your hand a second time.

He was—odd.  And fucking rude.  You thought people were supposed to be more compassionate in these situations, empathy coloring all their movements, expressions, and voices, but this stranger was sharp, brusque, all angles and hard lines.  

And yet—there was an unusual and unexpected sense of reassurance in his terse honesty, in the tight grip of his hand, in the callouses that brushed against your knuckles every time he shifted and squeezed.  There was an inexplicable comfort in his curtness, in his hard angles, like you could touch him and your fingers wouldn’t sink; and there was something pleasant about holding someone and knowing that they had a weight to them, a structure, a frame that wouldn’t bend or break or flatten.  You felt like you could trust him to tell you without falsities or sweetness whether the plane was landing safely or exploding wildly.  You felt like he’d find space for you in his diaphragm in the fire, in the fall, like he’d give you the air from his own lungs if that was what it took.  You didn’t know why you thought this, or what about him said this, but you held onto that thought with clenched hands and clenched jaws.

It helped you settle against the makeshift wall behind you, made of the flight attendant’s folded seat.  There was still a curling ball in the pit of your stomach, but at least the air was coming in deep and leaving slow, unobstructed.

“How do you feel?” he asked; a question that was normally laced with concern was colored coarse.

“Better,” you answered quietly.

You felt a tender loss as he released his hand and shifted back to his end.  A silence settled between the two of you as you both listened to your breathing.

After a few minutes, he asked, “This happen often?”

You shook your head.

“No medication then?  Sedative, anti-anxiety?’

“No,” you said, shaking your head again.  “This is the first time.”  You would’ve laughed incredulously if you didn’t feel like every energy was being used to keep your chest open and not on fire.

You thought back to the past several weeks, leading up to this trip to visit your friends on the coast.  You thought about the stress from work, the deadlines you couldn’t miss and the projects you couldn’t disregard, your calendar piled on and crammed with events and hang-outs to try and please everyone’s desire to see you, the way you forced yourself to clean the apartment at 1 AM because you couldn’t stand the mess, and then sleep at 3 AM because you had to decompress, and then wake at 7 AM to shower and get dressed, starting all over again.  All of it finally caught up with you in the tiny back of this tremendous plane.

The flight attendant suddenly peered in.  “Is everything okay?”  she asked, looking between you and the stranger.  Her frown seemed to imply that she had initially thought something lewd was happening, but then she noted that you were sitting separately and still straining to keep from boiling over.  Her frown softened.  “Are you okay to go back to your seats?   You can’t really be back here, and the seatbelt light is on.  I can get you more water if needed, ma’am.”

Before any type of panic could bubble in your chest, before the words even had the time to linger in the air with her breath, the frenzy-haired and red-eyed stranger interrupted, saying, “She’s trying to catch her breath.  Give us ten minutes and then we’ll head back."

The flight attendant looked hesitant, but another look at you made her acquiesce.  “I’m sorry.  I can only give you five minutes; we’re almost done passing out drinks and the cart has to come back here, okay?” she said.  Then, turning to you, she asked, “Do you want more water?” 

What you wanted was for her to give you a break.

“No,” he said.

She looked to him, maybe confused as to why he was answering, maybe concerned as to why he was so rough, but she didn’t say anything else and disappeared down the aisle.  You relaxed the best you could against the hard wall, grateful for his gruffness, and murmured your thanks.

“It’s whatever.”

You sat back in silence, focusing on breathing.  You didn’t try to imagine anything.  You just counted.  You almost asked to hold his hand again, but then the flight attendant came back too soon and you were forced to get up.

The walk back to your seat was painful, each step rekindling the embers in your chest.  You took your seat, feeling the dread as a lump in your throat that, when you swallowed, sat in your stomach with a gravity you didn’t think you could keep contained.

“Hey,” the stranger said, catching your attention.  “You got anything to keep occupied?  Fidget spinner?  Games?”

You shook your head hesitantly, feeling small, feeling stuck, feeling tr—

“Focus on me, dumbass.  No games?  No portable consoles?  Like a DS?”

You sighed shakily, trying to focus your unfocusing eyes.  “I know what consoles are. I brought a book and my laptop, and I promise you, I will upchuck if I read right now.”

“Tch.”

He pulled his dark red backpack out from under the seat and rifled through it.  He took out a Nintendo Switch, turned it on, and shoved it into your hands.

“Here.  Play,” he ordered.  He didn’t explain the rules, just plugged in the earbuds, tucked both into your ears, skipped the wordy intro, and then watched you maneuver your character and die.  A lot.  He swore a lot, too, and you found that listening to his harsh mutterings was better than listening to the game’s soundtrack.  You tugged the earbuds off, letting yourself be distracted by his game and his voice.

You felt okay for a moment, whispering back to him—

“This is hard.”

“You’re just ass at it.”

—thinking that you could spend the rest of the flight like this, not relaxed but just okay.

And then the plane shuddered and your stomach clenched and your vision was wobbly, and he was too close to you, the game was too much in your hands, just another thing taking space, and you had to drop it into your lap or you were going to be so nauseous.  You gripped onto the seat in front of you, aware that you were encroaching on the passenger’s space but not finding it in you to care.  You fought the desperate urge to clamber out of your seat and crawl toward the back, quickly forgetting why you even needed to fight it.

“Chest open.”

You were vaguely aware that you were nodding, vaguely aware that he had shifted back from you as far as the seats would allow, even to the point where he was invading the aisle woman’s space, but it didn’t seem like he cared either.

“Keep the count,” he told you.  “You want to sit in the bathroom?”

You shook your head.

“Then you gotta sit fucking straighter than that.”  There was no fire behind his words.  You wondered if swearing was just part of his everyday vocabulary.  He gently grasped your shoulder, touched your back, helped you sit up with your chest up and shoulders back.  You closed your eyes, counting, counting, breathing.  

It felt like there was a blazing in your chest, like something ready to ignite, something trying to—and it felt like you were trying to cover it with just your body, just your small diaphragm, just the little bones of your ribs.  How could so much heaviness, so much fire, fit behind the smallest bones, you wondered.

He must’ve noticed you squeezing your knees, because you felt his hard hand grasp the back of your soft knuckles.  Another hand gently massaged the back of your neck.

“You’re alright,” he said.  “You’ll be fine.  Keep breathing.”  His hand dipped to your shoulders, moved up and down your back, heavy fingers pressing against knotted muscle, blunt nails scratching at clammy, stiff skin.  “Good?” he asked.

You nodded, appreciative of the touch, of a different type of pressure on your body.  Good.

“Focus on my voice.  Just keep breathing.”

“—W-why—” you gasped out softly.

“Why keep breathing?”  He looked like he was restraining himself from yelling.  There was a pulsing vein in his forehead, visible even in the dim light, that would’ve made you smile, that would’ve made you laugh if you weren’t so busy trying to rework your lungs.

“No—why h-help?”

He frowned.  “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

What a bizarre response, you thought.  What a perfect one, for someone whose scowl didn’t quite match his red eyes.

You flipped your palm over, interlaced your fingers through his, and held tightly.  His thumb rubbed circles into the back of your hand.  The callouses right beneath his fingers were dry and cutting.  His hand and hold felt honest.  He murmured encouragingly, the same few lines in the same low tone, choppy and curt, on repeat like he didn’t know what else to say.  His hand on your back was similar.  Sometimes he massaged too hard; sometimes he scratched too light. A clumsy and sweet effort.

You closed your eyes, fighting the mismatched breathing, counting your breaths, counting the seconds, and then counting the circles he drew against your skin and the times he gripped your shoulder, the hold slowly grounding you.

You were on the edge—but you were tied to a lifeline.  Your toes hovered over the black space right past the threshold, but you wouldn’t fall—you wouldn’t fall—you wouldn’t fall.  You weren’t comfortable—but you were okay.

You leaned against the shuttered window, and fell into a light and jerky sleep.  Whenever you felt yourself fall too deep, though, you were wracked with an immediate and sudden fear.  You’d shoot awake, panting, gasping, but he’d squeeze your hand tight, murmuring the same comforting and clumsy words until you settled down—“In through your nose, idiot.  How many times I gotta tell ya?  Good, good, just like that.”

Good, you thought.

It was the same pattern every five, maybe ten minutes.  You didn’t fall asleep for long, the nerves always working you up to a dreadful jerk awake, even if there wasn’t any turbulence.  But he squeezed your hand every time, with a scowl that didn’t meet his eyes, and he’d repeat the words again and again, like a chorus, like a mantra, like a prayer, one you held onto fiercely as you hovered over the edge for the rest of the flight.

&&

The jostling of the plane landing was what woke you up next.  Rather than a panicked gasp, your eyes fluttered open, feeling an ache in your neck and a weight on your head.  The seat before you was crooked—no, you were crooked.  Your head was tilted, resting on the stranger’s shoulders—and his head was rested on yours.   In your lap was his Switch—and the both of your hands, still intertwined.

You smiled and took in a deep and unimpeded breath of stale plane air.

You touched his shoulder tenderly.  “Wake up,” you said.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“We’ve landed,” you said, pulling your fingers out of his warm hold and watching how his hand twitched in your direction, as if chasing your grasp.

He sat up, eyes groggy.  He tried to stretch his arms, immediately hitting the top of the aircraft cabin with an annoyed growl.  You wondered if he ever had claustrophobia attacks.  His frame was so large; how could he move through this world without feeling enclosed, encaged in every room he stepped in?

He caught your eyes staring.

“You good?” he asked, voice surly and shaded with sleep still.

“Good,” you said.  “Thanks to you.”

You watched everyone get up before you, thinking that it’d be easier to let the fast-paced crowd hasten toward the exit first.  The man sat with you; you shouldn’t have been surprised, but you were.  He seemed like the go-go-go type.

When it was finally your turn, the stranger stepped out, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and grabbed his black suitcase from the overhead compartments. 

“Which one’s yours?” he asked.

You pointed to the dark mauve, plastic one behind him.

Without another word, he pulled it out and set it down; his biceps flexed under the weight.  He let you leave first with your backpack over your shoulders and his Switch against your chest, with him following behind, easily rolling both suitcases down the aisle.

When the two of you exited the gate, you pulled off to the side, relieved to be back on solid ground—but a little disappointed, you found, to be leaving him.

“I really appreciate everything,” you said, giving back his Switch.  “I don’t even know how to truly thank you.”

“It’s fine.  Don’t mention it.”  He was gruff, he was scowling—and he was soft.  You could see it clearly in his eyes.  Now that you were out of the dim plane cabin, you could see how his brows had imperceptibly straightened, how his eyes weren’t so much red but a darkened and complicated pink.

“Can I hug you?” you asked quietly, hearing your heart hammering for a variety of reasons that you were too tired to think on.

He didn’t answer, but he uncrossed his arms, holding his hands out to you, the posture as gentle as the pink in his eyes.  You stepped into his embrace eagerly, his larger body engulfing you entirely. 

His heartbeat was strong.  Steady.  Curt, like his words.  His body was all hard angles, all flexed muscles, all sturdy structure and heavy frame.  His cologne smelled faintly of spiced wood, reminding you of summer storms, electricity crackling through a vibrating air.  You took in a deep, deep breath, holding the smell behind your aching diaphragm, behind the small bones of your ribs, inside your tired lungs for as long as he held you.   

You pulled back finally. Reluctantly.

“Thanks,” you repeated, looking up at him and catching the softness in his eyes again, the only part of his body that wasn’t all sharp. 

For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you.

You didn’t know why.  Just a feeling.  Just the way his grip tightened on your waist, the way his eyes flickered down to your lips, the way the air seemed to buzz, your body answering on your tip-toes. 

But he pulled away, dropping his hands to grab your suitcase handle.

“Got anywhere to be?” he asked.

“Not yet,” you said.  “Why?”

“You should hydrate and eat.  Come on.”

”Wait—”

“Stop complaining and let’s go.”

You smiled, touching his arm as you caught up.  “I was just going to ask your name.”

He glanced at you.  “Bakugou,” he said.  “Katsuki—just call me Katsuki.”

“Okay,” you said, breathless in a way you didn’t mind.

But he didn’t ask your name.  Instead, as you followed him down to luggage retrieval, he asked when your return flight was, and when you found that you were both on the same plane again but not in the same aisle, you saw him check the airline app for any available seats near you.  You thought that it was somehow on brand that he didn’t ask for your name.  You thought this was part of his curtness, part of his clumsiness, part of how his hands were so rough but encompassed yours so warmly, so sweetly.

[maybanksbabe]

Rafe has panic attacks. You can't be certain how regular they are, but the one time you catch him in the midst of one it breaks your heart. He's on the floor of his bedroom with his hands around his head, breathing erratically through tears he can't control, eyes squeezed shut. There's no telling how long he'd been hiding up here or keeping this information from you but you do your best to help him, talking to him and trying to figure out what brought it on. He's embarrassed at first, horrified that you caught him in such a vulnerable space, but that shifts to gratitude when you bring him a glass of water and encourage him to drink it. He never knows what to do with himself afterwards, but with you there, everything becomes a lot easier. You start practising breathing exercises with him, grounding techniques and you make him promise to tell you in the future if he feels another one coming on, no matter what.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 1: Helpless (Wild & Twilight)

Read on Ao3

And so it begins...

I'm super excited for another whump-filled month! Thank you in advance to everyone coming along with me on this wild ride! Your support means the world to me <33

CW for a panic attack

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

Wild looks down at his hands. Maybe, that isn’t the best idea at the moment, because they are trembling so violently he thinks that if he picked something up he’d drop it.

And that is not the only thing shaking either. His entire body is. Like the leaves on the trees in Hateno Village, blown wildly about by a hearty wind. 

He breathes in and gains no oxygen from it. This…whatever this is has been coming on all day, squeezing his chest and throat and turning his vision fuzzy at the edges. But now, it has broken free.

He is just glad that he made it to camp before it did. 

Why it even came, he hasn’t a clue. There’s some reason behind it, he’s sure. But it’s not often that he can pinpoint it.

This just happens sometimes, an outpouring of unpleasant emotion he isn’t expecting. A feeling so like the one that had hounded his footsteps throughout his journey to save Hyrule. The terrible, inescapable certainty that the world is going to end. 

But it’s not going to end…at least from what he can see. The sky is a calm, unassuming navy, speckled with stars. The moon glows a golden hue, innocent and merciful. The cheerful voices of his brothers drift to his ears from where they sit, bathed in the warmth of the fire.  

They are safe. He is safe. 

Yet, Wild feels anything but. He feels like a hinox has just sat down on his chest. 

Nearby, someone laughs. Warriors, he thinks. The sound is like a knife driven into his heart. 

Wild curls in on himself. He clasps his hands together, fingernails digging into calloused skin. Desperate tears spring to his eyes and slide hot and fast down his cheeks. Breathing feels useless now, impossible. He’s drowning even as he drags in air. 

His surroundings blur into shades of blue and green.

Get it together, Link, he tells himself, even as a rushing noise floods his ears, followed up by a high-pitched ring. He remembers that sound from before. He heard it so many times – during ceremonies and dances and every other stuffy royal performance that stuck him at the forefront of the people he would fail. When he kneeled before Zelda too. When Ganon attacked and all he could do was run.

You’re fine. It quickly becomes a chant. Everything’s fine. So, just pull yourself…

The sound of footsteps comes crashing through his tumbled thoughts. Whatever wheezing little air he had been able to drag in sticks in his throat. His pounding heart skips several beats.

Wild scrambles to his feet, eyes wide and feet unsteady. He reaches for his sword. But he doesn’t find it.

Oh, yeah. Because it broke the other day. Great. Just great.

The piercing blue eyes that gaze up at him, however, and the slender gray body that curves through the brush with the grace of a serpent are those he knows. A wolf sits down before him.

The panic that has reached a fever pitch dims slightly. Wild chokes out a half-breath.

“Twi.”

Twilight pads toward him, concern in his eyes. 

“Are you alright, cub?” He seems to ask.

“I—” Wild clenches his hands into fists. “I’m…”

Fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing for you to worry about. 

He shakes his head, defeatedly. Tears burn hot behind his eyes. In the next moment, his legs give way beneath him, landing him in a pitiful pile on the ground. 

“I’m not.” It’s a croak torn from a throat too tight for anything else. A truth that Wild wishes he didn’t have to voice and yet, is certain the rancher already knows.

He has never been able to hide anything from him.

Twilight steps forward, as silent as the moon gazing down on them from above. A cool, wet nose presses against Wild’s forehead, hot breath blowing his bangs. Blindly, Wild reaches out. Thick, soft fur meets his clawing fingers. He buries himself in it. 

Twilight smells of the forest and shadow magic — wildflowers and damp leaves and the dew that settles in the early hours of the night. Smoke and something mournful.

Wild breathes it in. His fingertips brush back and forth through the fur, feeling the warmth and fluff beneath them. 

Twilight inhales, and Wild can feel his chest move. His breath hitches. 

The rancher feels real, sounds real, smells real. His presence softens the blows of the terror thrashing about within him, drives aside the sensation that the ground is crumbling beneath his feet. 

He is here. Twilight is here. And they’re okay.

“Okay,” Wild whispers, hoarse and desperate, a plea for his words to be true. Tears streak in steady streams down his cheeks. “We’re o-okay.”

Twilight nuzzles him, gently. “That’s right. We’re okay, cub.”

For now, that traitorous voice whispers, the one that squeezes the air from his lungs and overwhelms him. Until the moment when it all falls apart. When you lose them all. Because you weren’t enough.

“Why?” He can only manage a murmur, strangled and hopeless. “I feel—I feel so helpless, Twi. Why do I — ”

Another sob tears his throat apart. He can’t see past the salty liquid cascading down, can’t feel past the terrible, inescapable pressure in his mind and on his chest. 

It’s too much. Everything is just too much. The noose around him tightens until the breathtaking pain of it is unbearable. 

If he hears one more sound, feels one more sensation, has to fight one more fight, he will explode. He is certain of it.

So trapped in the prison of terror is he that Wild hardly realizes it when fur turns to the soft cloth of a tunic. Arms encircle him and pull him close. A heart beats steadily in his ears.

He clings to that noise and the promise it contains, however temporary it might be. And he clings to the sound of Twilight’s voice washing over him like a wave, assuring him that it will be alright, that he is safe, that he is anything but helpless. 

…That he doesn’t need to be invincible to protect those he loves.

“You’re stronger than you know, cub. And you’ve made me proud. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. You can’t and that’s alright.”

And though Wild can’t bring himself to truly believe that — maybe he never will, maybe that horrible tightness will remain a permanent fixture in his chest — he curls into his brother and tries to trust. 

[exquisitexagony]

// @gollldrush

Sami's hand is shaking as he holds the phone to his ear, glancing over his shoulder every now and again to make sure no one was watching. He's huddled in the corner, slouched so that the phone is tucked against the crook of his neck, voice muffled against his shirt. Shaky breaths blow against the mic of the old corded phone pinned to the wall of the office as a warm tear drips down his cheek. He feels violated. In so many ways. And it was this last session of "therapy" that had pushed him over the edge. He couldn't do this. No matter how badly he wanted his father to love him or his mother to look t him with pride, it wasn't worth this.

They couldn't change. They'd tried. They'd really tried, especially while they were away...but none of it changed the way they felt, the way they looked at boys, at themselves...

When the phone finally clicks on the other end of the line and Leo's voice rings through, Sami nearly jumps in his spot, words tumbling out of his mouth in stuttered sobs, nearly incoherent as he attempts to explain as quickly as he can.

"Le- Leo?! Oh my God, thank- thank God, thank---!" A hitched breath, trying to focus, to not start hyperventilating, but he was getting himself all worked up just upon hearing her voice. "I--J--f...fuck, um.." A shaky inhale, tears streaming down his face, which he promptly rubs away with the fabric of his tee shirt.

"I- I- I- I need-- I need you...to d- do, d- do me a- a- a- a favour, please, fuck...I need you to come get me." He starts reading off the address of the camp, hurriedly explaining that she needed to come at night, which building to pull up to, where to park, but it's coming out so fast it's hard to stop his breath from catching again, the panic settling in.

[miasmaghoul]

Mushy May - Day 4

Prompt: First Kiss

Rating: Teen Pairing: Aether/Rain Contains: hurt/comfort, anxiety, a panic attack, first-time glamouring, Rain having a Bad Time and Aether making it better Word Count: ~3k (lmao what am I doing)

Summary: Rain feels like he's drowning. Aether helps him surface.

“It’s a lot to get used to,” Dew had told him a week ago, holding out a pile of black fabric, “you gotta practice while you can.”

He’d offered to help. To teach Rain how to breathe properly with his gills glamoured, how to cope with the added restriction of their stage costumes. Rain, prideful thing that he is, had refused. Of course he had. Had shrugged off Dew’s words and waved away the offer of help. He was certain he could manage on his own - he hardly planned on using his full glamour anyway, so what was the point in practicing? Besides, if Dew could do it then so could he. Dewdrop had given him a withering look, followed by a scoff.

“Whatever, wet boy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Rain had dismissed him with an exaggerated eye roll, returning to the very important task of filing his claws, and had promptly forgotten about the whole affair.

Until now. 

Because now, huddled in a damp corner of their venue’s shower room, Rain finds himself thinking the unthinkable: 

I should have listened to Dewdrop.

Everything feels too close, too tight. This form, this woefully human shape he’s been forced to take, brings with it an unexpected, crushing pressure. The uniform doesn’t help - it’s all skin tight, the fabric scratching at every inch of him. He feels flayed open, pink and raw; it’s visceral and wholly unsettling, but the vanishing of his gills is far and away the worst part. 

Rain paws at his own chest, tugging the knot of his tie in an effort to relieve some of the pressure. His mask and balaclava sit across the room, tossed away the moment he’d managed to get his shaky fingers to cooperate. It’s only been a few minutes since he stumbled his way in here, drawn by the presence of water and the oddly comforting scent of mildew, but Rain feels like he’s been suffering for years.

He can’t stop trembling, clutching his knees to his chest and fighting the razors in his throat. Clawing with his stupid, blunt, human nails at the places his gills should be - the sides of his neck, the ridges of his ribs. Trying to force them open again through his shirt, to rip away the binding magic trapping him in this sorry state. Gasping. Choking. Suffocating.

Satanas, he’s fucking drowning.

He’s drowning and it’s his own damn fault.

It shouldn’t be this bad. Nothing should be this bad. But from the moment Copia had said that incantation, had bound all of the ghouls to these horribly restrictive forms for the night, Rain hasn’t been able to catch his breath. Dew’s words swim though his head in a vague whisper of regret, one that Rain tries in vain to shake off. It only makes him dizzier.

There’s a call from somewhere outside the attached dressing room - twenty minutes til soundcheck - and it does nothing to help the tightness in Rain’s chest. His lungs ache, his throat burns, and his heart feels like it’s about to crash right through his ribcage. The edges of his vision are darkening already, and he can’t tell if it’s from the hot tears gathered in his lashes or a lack of air. Maybe both.

He’s going to die here. He knows he is. Tucked into a tight ball in some dingy shower, alone and terrified, on the night of his first ritual. The others will find nothing but a pile of damp clothes and the stink of sulfur, their water ghoul having discorporated and vanished back to the Pit. There’s no way around it. 

Rain hugs his knees and whimpers, feeling the knife between his ribs dig in deeper. He’s panting now - shallow, desperate hiccups of air. They’re all he can manage as the walls close in on him. The crushing weight of his own foolishness slams against his skull - he swears he can hear it, a hollow echo. Like distant footsteps on cold stone. Rain’s eyes slip shut, the tears begin to fall, and all he can do is wait for his lungs to give out.

“Rain?”

He jolts at the voice - a distant, low rumble that he doesn’t recognize. Do ghouls have a grim reaper? A being sent to collect their infernal essence and return it home? Is that who’s calling his name? Rain doesn’t know, and he doesn’t answer. He can’t. His voice went with his ability to breathe.

“Rain, where are you?”

It’s like he’s underwater. The voice is so foreign, lilting and accented in a way he can’t place. But it’s…soothing, somehow. Familiar, like a comfortable piece of clothing. He wants to lift his head but finds it immovable. Filled with cement. Those echoing footsteps in his head grow louder with each passing moment, and as his consciousness fades Rain swears he feels himself being lifted.

The next thing he feels is…warmth. It’s so warm. He’s so warm.

“Rain?” A warbling echo at the edge of his mind. “Can you hear me?”

There’s a weight on his chest, but it’s…different than it was before he felt the world slip away. Steady pressure, gentle, running the length of his sternum. It’s wonderfully grounding, puts him so at ease that he nearly forgets why he was so -

Rain’s eyes fly open and he sucks in air like a man starved, great gulps of the stuff that make his throat ache all over again. He thrashes, arches against the pressure on his chest and finds it doesn’t give. Rather, it holds him steady, keeps him pinned to - is he on a couch?

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” It’s that voice again, the one he somehow both did and didn’t know. “You’re okay Rain, I’ve got you.”

Whoever it is, he finds it easy to believe them. Rain blinks as he catches his breath, clears the wet haze from his eyes. He doesn’t know what he expects to see, but it certainly isn’t a water-stained ceiling. At length he manages to turn his still-heavy head to the side. When he does, he’s met with a silver mask...and a pair of familiar lavender eyes. 

“Ae…Aether?” The name comes out raspy and worn, like Rain had been screaming. The other ghoul nods, and Rain realizes that the pressure on his chest is Aether’s hand. His shirt is unbuttoned, and that large, callused palm feels heavenly against his clammy skin. “What…how…”

“The Cardinal sent me to get you for soundcheck,” he explains, eyes scanning Rain’s face. The accent is fascinating, but now that Rain knows who he’s hearing he can pick out the familiar timbre of Aether’s usual voice. “Found you in the bathroom, pale as anything.”

“Couldn’t breathe,” Rain manages after a few moments, clearing his throat with a wince. “Couldn’t…without my gills, I -”

“I figured as much,” Aether murmurs. Rain gives the other ghoul a quizzical look, and Aether cracks the tiniest smile. “This happened to Dew too, the first time. Didn’t he tell you?” Rain stares at him, wide-eyed.

“What did?”

“The panic,” Aether says gently. “You had a panic attack, Rain.”

Rain blinks at him. 

A…a panic attack? No, that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right.

“No,” he murmurs, brow furrowed. “No it - it was the binding spell. It…it took my gills and I-”

“It did, yes,” Aether confirms, canting his head. “But you’re breathing fine without them now, aren’t you?” 

Rain blinks again, finally taking full stock of himself. Of the rise and fall of his ribcage and the now-steady thud of his heart, and finds that he can’t argue. His chest still aches, but it feels more like muscle strain and less like breathlessness. It feels like the almost pleasant burn that follows his lengthy swims in the abbey’s lake, or one of his more energetic romps with Swiss. Rain brings a hand to his throat, just to be sure, and Aether laughs through his nose.

“See?” Aether pats his chest, a reassuring gesture. “Just fine without them.”

Silence blankets them, and it gives Rain time to think. He hasn’t spent a whole lot of time with the ghoul before him in the months since his summoning. Not for lack of wanting - he likes Aether, (very much, if he were to be honest), but with the hectic nature of pre-tour life there hadn’t been much of a chance to…connect. A few shared meals, a handful of fleeting touches in the common room - ones he revisited in the comfort of his own bed - and one very close call on the tour bus were all Rain had to show for his interest.  

So yes, he does like Aether. More importantly, though, he trusts Aether. The other ghoul had earned it with his calm demeanor, the way he carries himself, the way he treats others. They all rely on him, even the Cardinal. That’s probably why he’d been sent to fetch Rain in the first place - Copia knew he would actually do it, not just sneak off in an effort to shirk their duties. If it were any other ghoul, Rain would simply wave off the idea of what he’d just experienced being something as paltry, as…human, as a panic attack.  

But it isn’t another ghoul. It’s Aether. Aether, with his kind eyes and soft smile. Aether, with his broad body and gentle nature. Aether, who is currently rubbing slow circles into his warming skin. Rain realizes in a delayed sort of way that the ghoul’s other hand is in his hair, scratching lightly at the place where his horns should be. He wants to purr with it, but it comes out as a deep hum instead. Aether chuckles.

“I’ll take that as a sign that you’re feeling better,” he murmurs, and Rain can’t deny that he’s right. He rests a hand on top of the one on his chest and gives Aether a shy nod.

“Yeah,” he huffs, voice still strained, “some.”

“Good. Do you think you can sit up?” 

Rain isn’t sure he wants to. Aether’s hands feel so nice, his presence so calming, and Rain doesn’t want to lose either one. Voices in the hall bring him back a bit, though; right, he has a job to do here. He heaves out a harsh exhale and nods, giving Aether’s hand a squeeze. The other ghoul sits back on his heels and Rain sighs at the loss of his touch. He braces himself and forces his body upright, grunting with the effort of swinging his legs over the edge of the couch.

The pain hits him all at once. 

“Oh, my fucking head,” he groans, hunching and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Shit.”

“Headache? Dew had a nasty one too.” Those large hands grip his wrists and give a coaxing tug. “You’re only going to make it worse doing that,” Aether chides. “Here, let me help.”

Rain isn’t sure how he can, given the fact that he’s pretty sure there’s an ice pick lodged in his brain, but he obliges. Allows Aether to bring his hands down and rest them on his own thighs. The other ghoul nudges his shoulder and Rain reluctantly raises his head, finding Aether knelt between his splayed legs. The sight sends a swoop of something entirely inappropriate through his belly, and Rain tries his best to ignore it. It’s hard to do when Aether cups his face with both hands, rough thumbs dragging over his cheekbones. The other ghoul gives him a smile and Rain swallows hard.

“Try to relax, alright? This might feel a bit…odd.”

Rain blinks owlishly, opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his tongue as a wave of hot pressure fills his sinuses. It travels up behind his eyes, fills his ears and skull, wraps around his brainstem and trickles down his spinal cord. It only lasts a few seconds, and as the sensation fades Rain finds every bit of pain and lingering discomfort fading right along with it. He feels lighter than air, dizzy in a way that plasters a dazed look on his face. 

“There we are,” Aether coos, pulling his hands back. “How’s that? Better?”

“What was that?” Rain hardly recognizes the syrupy sound of his own slurred voice. Aether lets out a soft snort, resting his palms on Rain’s bony knees.

“Just a little something to take the edge off,” he says with a wiggle of his fingers. Rain finds himself entranced by the way Aether’s rings glint in the low light of the room. “I can’t do much beyond pain relief in this sorry state,” Aether gestures at his own glamoured body, “but that should at least be enough to get you through the ritual.”

Rain offers a slow nod, but he isn’t really focused on the words. His - well, everything, really, has gone fuzzy. Pleasantly warm and tingly, like he’d been wrapped in an electric blanket. He feels…safe, he thinks is the word for it. Anchored in a way he certainly wasn’t before Aether had rescued him from his breathless spiral. That seems like a distant memory now, a blip on the radar. All he can feel is a delightful buzz in the back of his head and the grounding weight of Aether’s hands on his knees.

“Rain? Are you still with me?” The ghoul blinks, refocusing on the masked face before him. He nods again, gaze bouncing between those stunning lavender eyes and plush lips. 

Those lips…

“Yeah,” he breathes, gripping his own thighs, “yeah, I…I’m…” 

He probably shouldn’t be staring at that unbearably pretty mouth. Shouldn’t be imagining how Aether’s chapped lips would feel on his. What he should do is say thank you. Tell Aether how appreciative he is of his help, of his care. He should say it and offer a handshake, or maybe a hug. Something small, but still affectionate. Something he won’t regret once the fuzziness in his brain fades. 

He doesn’t mean to lean in. Not really. He shouldn’t, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much he’s wanted to for the past few months. 

But, well, he is leaning in. He’s leaning in and Aether isn’t pulling back. In fact, Rain’s pretty sure he’s tilting his head. Making space. Angling himself so his mask isn’t in the way and oh fuck he’s really going to do this.

When they kiss, Rain’s mind goes quiet.

It isn’t long. Isn’t deep or wet or messy. What it is, is wonderfully simple - a humble, chaste meeting of the lips. Short and sweet and somehow completely, utterly perfect. Rain pulls back just enough to let Aether see the enormous grin he can feel splitting his face, and to his delight the other ghoul returns it.

“I was wondering when we’d get around to that,” Aether says with amusement, squeezing Rain’s knees. Rain huffs out a laugh.

“Me too,” he admits, “maybe not quite like that, but I’m not going to complain.” 

“Neither am I.” Aether’s smile is devastating, wide and bright. “But as much as I’d like to carry on, I’m afraid we’ve got a job to do.”

Rain sighs, nodding - he’s held them all up long enough. He busies himself buttoning his shirt and tries not to mourn the loss of Aether’s hands when the other ghoul wanders over to one of the vanities on the far wall. He doesn’t have to mourn for long, though. Only for the time it takes for Aether to fetch his discarded tie, mask and balaclava. Rain eyes them with more than a little trepidation, his stomach giving a weak flip. His discomfort must be obvious - Aether lays a hand on his shoulder and holds him steady.

“It’s alright,” he promises, sitting at Rain’s side. “Let me help.”

Aether is so very gentle with him. So much so that it makes Rain blush. He talks through everything he does - knotting Rain’s tie, sliding on his balaclava, tucking back his hair. Aether checks in on him with every step, and Rain doesn’t think he has enough words for how grateful he feels. There’s still an edge of unease settling in his chest, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. 

Aether tells him about how things went with Dew the first time he’d had his gills glamoured. Tells Rain that he needs to have a talk with their newly minted fire ghoul about ways to cope so the panic doesn’t rear its ugly head again. Rain promises he will - his own pride isn’t worth the black hole in his chest.

“There we are,” Aether remarks with one final tuck of a particularly stubborn curl, “well done.” Rain could chirp at the praise, and at the way Aether’s hand lingers on his cheek. “Last step,” he adds after a moment, “and I think you should do this one.”

Aether holds up his mask, and Rain tries not to cringe at the very obvious scuff across its right cheek. From where he’d tossed it on the ground, he imagines. Hopefully it’ll buff out. He accepts the offering with a small nod and raises the mask to his face, stretching the straps to slip it over his head.

“Oh, hang on,” Aether says suddenly, and Rain looks over at him just in time to watch the other ghoul slide his own mask up with a thumb. “One more thing.”

Aether leans in and kisses him for real this time - lush and full, unyielding. Rain drops his mask in favor of grabbing hold of Aether’s square jaw, luxuriating in the feel of the other ghoul’s lips on his. It’s over far too soon, but the glimmer in Aether’s eye when he pulls away is full of promise. 

“For good luck,” he lilts, and Rain goes warm all over. Aether fixes his mask, Rain slips on his own, and together they stand. Aether gives Rain’s tie one final adjustment before nodding, giving his chest a pleased pat. “Now let’s get going before they send in the cavalry.” Rain nods, fiddling with the end of his tie.

“Thank you,” he says softly, the words long overdue. “For everything.” Aether hums and takes hold of Rain’s hand, thumbing over his knuckles.

“My pleasure,” he croons, and Rain would do anything to kiss him again. But for now, that will have to wait.

For now, the feel of Aether’s hand around his own is enough. 

[salembutnotthecat]

Novemetober (Rescheduled) | Day Seven

@monthofsick

day seven: too feverish to think

i started fics for day five and day six but i experienced some offline health issues (ironic, right?) so i’ll either post them later and tag them or just post them on their own after the event. we’ll see.

decided to write another flashback fic. this time of novak in college. totally, definitely, absolutely not based off true events.

this fic happens around novak’s junior year of college.

if you have questions, comments, or requests, feel free to send!

tw emeto, sickness, overwork, stress, panic attack, fainting

Novak sat on his bed, leaning against the wall. He was hunched over his notes, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to ward off the exhaustion creeping into his bones.

He grabbed his phone. He checked the time.

3:27AM

Benji stirred in his bunk, his sleep-addled brain registering the soft rustle of papers and the occasional frustrated sigh emanating from his roommate's direction.

With a groan, he rolled over.

"Novak," Benji's voice was exhausted, but he still seemed worried. "You still at it? Have you even slept?"

Novak looked up, "Yeah, just trying to cram for midterms," he mumbled, forcing a smile. "I'll crash in a bit, don't worry about me."

But Benji wasn't convinced. He could see the telltale signs of exhaustion etched into Novak's features, the paleness of his skin, the tremor in his hands as he reached for another textbook.

“Dude, you don't look so good. Maybe you should take a break, get some rest.” Benji said, “Your health is more important than acing these exams."

Novak waved off his concerns, brushing them aside with a dismissive gesture. "I'll be fine, Benji. Just a little tired, that's all. I can't afford to slack off"

“Alright, whatever dude,” Benji said, rolling back over to go back to sleep.

-

Despite the mounting discomfort, Novak dragged himself to his morning classes, his head pounding and his body aching with every step.

He was freezing when his alarm went off, telling him it was time for class. He slept for maybe two hours, but he felt like he didn’t sleep at all.

Novak pulled himself out of bed, grabbed his sweatshirt, tied back his hair, and grabbed his things.

Breakfast was the last thing on his mind, but the way his head spun and he stumbled into the wall, he knew he had to eat something.

As he sat in his marketing lecture, Novak struggled to focus on the professor's words, his mind clouded by the persistent throbbing in his temples.

The quick breakfast he grabbed had long settled like a rock in his stomach, a queasy sensation churning in the pit of his stomach.

He tried to focus. He did. Now was not the time to not focus. But, he couldn’t make out what the professor was saying. Let alone take notes or retain anything.

He tried to drink some water, take some medicine. Despite his best efforts, Novak's condition continued to deteriorate. Each step became a struggle? his body weighed down by the relentless onslaught of fever and nausea.

As he stumbled through the halls of his college, Novak's world blurred into a hazy fog of discomfort, his mind struggling to grasp the simplest of concepts.

In class, the words of his professors seemed to float in one ear and out the other, lost amidst the cacophony of pain and fatigue that consumed him.

Desperately, he tried to focus, but the fever had dulled his senses, leaving him adrift in a sea of confusion.

Nausea clawed at his stomach. With each passing minute, the urge to just go back to his dorm room and crash for a week was getting stronger. The desire to escape the suffocating confines of the lecture hall and take a cool shower and just sleep this off.

Novak was still holding out on not being sick. He couldn’t be sick. Especially because being sick was brutal on him, more brutal than it was on others. He had always been that way. And it was horrible.

But if he skipped class he couldn’t go to practice. He couldn’t play.

He had to tough it out. Just until midterms were over.

-

As Novak made it onto the practice field, the weight of his illness hung heavy upon him, each step a struggle against the relentless tide of fatigue and discomfort.

The sun beat down mercilessly, its searing rays only serving to exacerbate the fever that he was sure he had.

Despite the mounting agony, Novak forced a stoic mask onto his face, unwilling to show any sign of weakness to his teammates or coaches.

Novak clenched his jaw, he pushed himself through the grueling drills and punishing workouts, his body screaming in protest with every movement. If he wanted any chance of going professional, he couldn’t afford to lose out on practice or a single game.

As practice dragged on, Novak's strength waned, his limbs growing heavier with each passing minute. Nausea clawed at his insides, threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.

The coach barked out orders, his voice a distant echo in Novak's ears as he fought to keep his focus amidst the haze of fever-induced delirium.

But as the afternoon wore on and the sun dipped below the horizon, Novak was, for lack of better explanation, fucking up royally.

His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges of his consciousness as he struggled to remain upright. With each passing minute, the world seemed to tilt on its axis, threatening to make him pass out. Or vomit. Something.

Yet still, he refused to quit. With every ounce of strength left within him, Novak pushed himself to the brink. Every bit of energy he could pull was put into finishing out the practice.

He had to finish.

-

As Novak stumbled back into the dimly lit dorm room, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, it was evident to Benji that something was seriously wrong.

“Okay. Study, class, practice, now you can sleep, right?” Benji spoke.

Novak shook his head, “Not even close.” He said, setting his bag down by his desk.

Novak grabbed the sweater from the corner of his bed pulling it on.

“I’m… fucking freezing…” Novak mumbled.

Benji watched in concern as Novak sank into his chair, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead as he attempted to bury himself in his books. But it was clear that the fever had taken its toll, the lines of fatigue etched into Novak's features betraying his struggle to remain upright.

“That’s the sweater your mom sent you,” Benji said, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? I think the last time I saw you wear it you were stuck in bed with a migraine…”

Novak waved him off with a weak smile, his voice strained with effort. "I'm fine, just a little under the weather, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

But as Novak attempted to focus on his studies, the fever raged unchecked, a relentless drumbeat of pain and discomfort that refused to be ignored. His vision swam before his eyes, the words on the page blurring into a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols.

With a soft sigh, Novak felt his eyelids growing heavy, his body succumbing to the overwhelming urge to sleep. But before he could succumb to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, Benji's voice cut through the haze, jolting him awake.

"Gwt in bed,” Benji said. Suddenly his roommate was beside him, shutting his marketing textbook.

“Hey I was studying-“

“Novak, you should really get some rest," Benji started. "You look like you're about to pass out."

Novak's stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over him with sickening intensity.

He buried his face in his hands with a soft whine, shaking his head. He could feel his own fever. Could feel the way his stomach churned. God he felt so sick. When did he start feeling so fucking sick?

Novak's heart hammered in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of panic echoing in his ears as he fought to regain control of his trembling limbs. He forced himself to take slow, steady breaths, attempting to make everything feel less overwhelming.

Novak's hands trembled as he fought to suppress the panic threatening to engulf him. His whole body felt like it was buzzing, like despite the fever there was a live wire running through him.

“Novak..?” Benji asked.

"I'm... I'm fine," Novak managed to choke out, though the words felt hollow and insincere even to his own ears. "Just... need a minute."

But even as he spoke, the nausea intensified, a vicious reminder of his body's betrayal. Not only was he sick, but he was sure he was experiencing… something.

His throat constricted, a bitter taste flooding his mouth as he struggled to hold back the inevitable tide of vomit.

With a desperate lurch, Novak lunged for the trash can by his desk, his stomach convulsing as he retched violently into the bin. Hot tears stung his eyes as he emptied the contents of his stomach once more. He felt his nose running.

“Novak… jesus…,” Benji said, pulling back Novak’s hair.

Novak's chest tightened with each ragged breath, the weight of his sickness and panic pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.

The sensation of Benji's hands on his back, trying to comfort him, only served to exacerbate his distress, sending waves of overwhelming stimulation crashing over him.

"Please... just... stop," Novak gasped between heaves, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of his own suffering. "I can't... I can't..."

But even as he spoke, another wave of nausea crashed over him, leaving him trembling and helpless in its wake. He could feel the panic rising within him, a relentless tide threatening to consume him whole.

There was nothing he could do to stop the vomiting. He was sure his fever was making his panic all the worse. But maybe, maybe that he could fix.

Novak did the only thing he knew to do for the panic. He hugged himself, tried to take breaths between waves of vomiting. He clutched his sleeves in his fists.

Benji pulled his hands away, stepped back. Being a psychology major, Benji could see the panic. The overstimulation.

“I'm sorry, Novak," Benji said, taking another step back “I just... I don't know what to do."

But Novak had no answer to give, no solace to offer in the face of his own torment. The fever made the panic worse. The panic made the nausea worse. The nausea was worse. Novak was going to throw up again.

Benji fetched another trash can, Novak braced himself for the next onslaught, his body wracked with pain and exhaustion.

As Novak's body convulsed with each retch, his fevered mind spiraled further into irrationality, the panic gripping him tighter with each passing moment.

The cycle of sickness and distress seemed never-ending, a relentless onslaught that left him gasping for breath and clinging to the edge of consciousness.

Finally, as the last vestiges of bile dribbled from his lips, Novak slumped back in his chair, his body trembling with exhaustion and his mind reeling from the ordeal.

The room spun around him, the walls closing in as if to swallow him whole, and he fought against the encroaching darkness that threatened to claim him.

Benji hovered nearby, his expression a mixture of concern and helplessness as he watched Novak's struggle.

“You really need to lie down," Benji urged, his voice barely audible over the pounding of Novak's heart in his ears.”Can I touch you to help-“

“No… please, please no…” Novak said. The thought of Benji’s, or anyone’s actually, hands on him make his skin crawl.

Novak forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he staggered towards the safety of his bed. Each step felt like he was walking a mile, his vision swimming and his senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his exhaustion.

But just as he reached the edge of his bed, a wave of dizziness washed over him. He felt his head tilt back, felt like his knees might buckle beneath him. He reached for the first thing he could reach, thankfully the edge of his bed. His fingers dug into the fabric as he fought to keep himself upright.

"Novak, are you okay?" Benji's voice sounded distant, as if coming from the other end of a long tunnel.

But Novak could barely hear him over the roar of his own heartbeat, his world spinning out of control as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness.

He moved one more time. Everything gave out at once. His vision, his body, his hearing, every sensation disappeared instantly.

He felt his head hit his arm as he landed on what he could only hope was his bed.

-

As Novak slowly regained consciousness, the world around him swam into focus, his senses gradually coming back to life after what felt like an eternity lost in the void. His head throbbed with a dull ache, a relentless pulse that seemed to echo with each beat of his heart.

Blinking against the harsh glare of the overhead light, Novak turned his head to find Benji sitting nearby, his brow furrowed with concern as he poured over his textbooks.

As their eyes met, Benji's expression softened, relief flooding his features at the sight of Novak awake.

"Hey, man, you're finally up," Benji said, his voice tinged with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. "How are you feeling?"

Novak tried to speak, but his throat was dry and everything hurt.

“Like I got hit by a truck," he managed to rasp out, his words slurred with fatigue.

Benji nodded sympathetically, reaching out to gently squeeze Novak's shoulder.

“You've been out for a while," he explained, his voice gentle. "Like a day and a half or something. You had a really high fever and a pretty bad panic attack. I've been keeping an eye on you, making sure you're okay."

Novak's brow furrowed in confusion, his memory hazy and fragmented. He sat up slowly, pulling a knee to his chest, resting his head in his hand and using his fingers to block out some of the light in the room.

“Here,” Benji said. There was a click of a lamp, then Benji got up and turned off the lights, “That should help…”

I don't... I don't remember much," he admitted, his voice tinged with frustration.

Benji sighed, his expression sympathetic. "Yeah, you were pretty out of it," he said, reaching for a bottle of water on the bedside table and offering it to Novak. "You woke up a couple of times to drink or be sick, but you were mostly out of it."

As Novak took a sip of water, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling of unease that settled in the pit of his stomach.

"I still feel... off," he murmured, his hand instinctively reaching for his head as a sharp pang of pain shot through his temples.

Benji frowned, his concern deepening. "You might be dehydrated from being sick for so long," he suggested, his voice tinged with worry. "Is there anything else we should worry about?”

“My head is just killing me,” Novak said, taking another sip of water before lying back down as the room seemed to tilt a little.

“Migraine maybe,” Benji said, “From being so sick and all.”

Novak nodded weakly, his body still heavy with fatigue and his mind clouded with confusion.

“Still tired… somehow,” Novak mumbled.

“Get some rest,” Benji said, “Trust me. You need plenty for all the makeup midterms you need to do.”