#physical attack tw

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumpuary Day 29: Alt Prompt 1: Stabbed

Warning for Physical violence, physical abuse, verbal abuse, physical attack, weapons, blood, spitting

[theamphibianmen]

"low support needs disabled people are often not believed to have a disability at all and therefore struggle to get accommodations."

"high support needs disabled people's accommodations are often seen as 'too much' and therefore are not met."

"neurodivergent people's needs are often dismissed because nothing is physically wrong with them."

"physically disabled people people often cannot physically access buildings and people refuse to do anything about it."

"invisibly disabled people are seen as lazy by society."

"visibly disabled people are ostracized from society."

IT'S ALMOST LIKE THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE DISABILITY

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXI)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Wonder Woman! Robin! Impulse! Danny! Dick drawings! Who says that occupational therapy and learning a second language can't be fun?

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

EXTRA TW for: vomiting, panic attacks (this chapter only)

Danny can hold a spoon now. He is unstoppable.

So, when the lady isn’t there to feed him dinner (more mush), one of the not-the-lady nurses gives Danny a tray, and lays a mat over his lap so that he can eat without completely messing up his bedsheets.

Eat he does. Slowly. Maybe a little messily, and it’s kind of embarrassing to have to admit to himself that food definitely spills out of his mouth and onto his lap. The doctor/nurse/medical person, whoever they are, turns on the television, and Danny doesn’t try to ask for the remote. The television only gets something like ten channels, and none of them are cartoons at lunch hour.

So. News it is.

Most of the news follows the same cycle; the weather, sports teams Danny can now recognize the colors of, traffic cameras, and events with long, scrolling text to detail the happenings onscreen. There’s something about dogs? That’s fun. The scientist/nurse/tech, whoever they are, says something in the tone of Aaw, aren’t they cute? as puppies run about and wrestle on screen.

Danny kind of misses Cujo. He picks at his bedsheet, and doesn’t say anything.

The dog program transitions away— there’s a bright banner in its place. Danny’s seen it before: it’s something to the equivalent of Breaking News. It’s usually weather, or crime, or something.

Um. But it’s not that. Danny’s spoon drops, because a ROBOT LADY lights up the screen with a glistening silver suit, not unlike the Ecto-Skeleton his parents used to keep in the basement. Or, well…this one might be more streamlined?

Danny shifts. He can’t help. He’s here, in the hospital. Or. Uh. The space…hospital. His body is very broken.

But there’s a robot lady wrecking a town on Earth.

And Danny can fly.

…Could fly. Could have flown. If he was. Well.

Danny’s not well, and his body aches and his hands don’t work and his legs work even less, but there’s people out there who need help. People who are getting shot at with rays and Danny can fight them, and humans can’t. Danny can help. He—

His core throbs. Danny chokes. He pulls at his chest, trying to find some kind of purchase on his medical gown to tug himself—up?? Out?? He can’t fly right now, but maybe—?

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, abide, abide.”

Danny grits his teeth. “Look!” he snaps, and jams a finger at the television. “There’s—look! There’s a giant robot out there punching buildings!”

“Wacie,” the human protests, but at least turns up the volume so that Danny can see better. “Wacie, þær eart firas þær nou.”

What does that mean?!

Danny hasn’t lifted himself in forever. His legs don’t work, but his arms…might.

He presses his palms down to the mattress. He pushes.

There is a liberated fraction of a second where Danny’s whole weight is on his arms.

—And then he comes crashing back to reality, his elbows snapping back into place. His butt slams back onto the bed and the whole frame jitters.

Danny pants. His arms quake.

The medic completely barrels through Danny’s usually meticulously-kept personal bubble, trying to make sure Danny didn’t dislodge his IV or rip his ligaments and tendons or tear his muscles or. Something. Danny barely notices, barely cares, because someone else blasts onto the television screen in a red bathing suit and gold boots.

And suddenly, both the people on screen are fighting. It’s brilliant. It’s bloody—it’s physical, in the way that flesh and bone and metal must be. Danny’s never seen serious fighting like that before.

And the new woman flies.

Danny stares.

She flies. She fights. She wins—narrowly dodging or displacing lasers with something shiny on her arms, and getting long hair singed in the process. In the end, the robot is tethered down with some kind of shiny metal rope, screaming and kicking all the way.

…Danny barely remembers to choke in air. That's so cool.

The medical person says something reassuring, but Danny’s too tired to listen. He watches this new woman take her applause, floating down on nothing but air to meet the reporter and answer questions. She looks poised. Confident. People clap. People shout things out. People smile. People cheer.

…No one is screaming. No one is running.

There are no ghost hunters in the crowd.

Danny’s exhale is manual. So is his inhale. His heart monitors are making all sorts of funky pictures most likely, but that’s not his business—he watches a woman in armor who flies take off into the sky, free to come and go as she pleases.

It…it hurts. It’s so beautiful and so peaceful and gentle and it hurts so much.

His eyes well up with tears. Why did she get this? This…niceness? Everyone had hated him when he'd tried to help—the teachers, Vlad, the town, his parents. They’d hated him! All he ever wanted to do was help like she did!

What made him so different?! Why was it Danny who got hunted down and shot at? Why was it Danny who got kidnapped and taken hostage?!

Tears burn his eyes like fire. It’s got to be the salt. Danny’s strangled whine turns into a choked off sob before he can catch it. His hand goes to his mouth, but he can’t stifle the noise.

He doesn’t want to. He wants to cry. He thinks he deserves it.

The tears come until he is sobbing, crying, wailing—because WHY WHY WHY was it so easy to hurt him?! WHY DID THEY HURT HIM, WHY DID MOM HURT HIM, HE DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WRONG!

A towel appears in his hand. They’re so nice to him here. So much nicer than when Mom and Dad had—

Danny’s cries are as much screams as they are anything else.

There are hands on his shoulder. On his back. Rubbing. Danny wants to shove them off but the lady isn’t here, which means that it’s one of the staff-members who isn’t supposed to touch him. They’re not supposed to touch him in case Danny hurts them but one of them gave Danny a clean towel to scream into and is rubbing his back because he’s crying.

They’re trying to be so nice and gentle but EVERYONE JUST WANTS TO HURT HIM.

They’re smart, though. They notice before Danny does, and have a bucket ready by the time heaving sobs turn into outright vomiting.

At least the mush mostly makes it into the bucket.

*

…So.

Having a breakdown…sucks.

Danny has to carefully brush his teeth with an extra-soft bristle brush and rinse out his mouth before he gets more water.

Someone is being very nice. There’s artificial fruit punch flavoring in his drink. He wants to feel grateful but he mostly feels dead.

…His eyes slide listlessly across the room. Ha. Dead.

Danny is horizontal and wrung dry and too tired to do anything but pant by the time the lady comes back to his room. She’s in quicker than usual—her gown is sort of sloppy, hair sticking out of her hair net, and she’s still looping her mask around her ear.

She gets down on her knees beside his bed. She asks him if he’s alright.

Danny’s not alright. He isn’t sure he’s been alright in…ages. Ages and ages. Before he was trapped and tied down. Before he was hated. Reviled.

…Before he was Phantom, maybe; before Danny Fenton had died a shocking, senseless death.

Tears try to wring themselves out of his aching eyeballs, but he’s too dry-eyed to cry; the lady make sad, wet eyes for him, and that’s probably enough between the two of them. Danny’s misery is a vast, gaping void, and all he has to show for it is the shovel he’s been digging through all this shit with for the last few years.

The lady brings her hands closer to his hairline, curled fingers hovering in the air. Her word’s don’t mean anything to him, but the gesture is clear: May I?

“…Mm,” Danny agrees. His eyes fall closed when she gently scratches at his scalp with her fingers.

No one’s touched him gently, on purpose, in…ages. When he was little, Dad used to pop him between him and Mom in bed. Mom would brush out Danny’s bangs with her fingers and Dad would hum. It was always something ill-fitting and silly. Guns N’ Roses. Led Zepplin. Santana. Sometimes Jazz would sit with them, crushing him until Dad had to pull him up and out of harm’s way.

In the quarantine lab, hurting him had just been part of the scientific process. What if there was some new discovery under his fat layer? On the other side of his ribs? Nestled between his alveoli?

Danny sniffles. He’s too dry to cry. He blinks invisible dust off of his eyelashes, and focuses on the weird lady who’s with him now.

Up close, when his eyes work, she looks nice. She has blue eyes, like him. Like Dad. They’re kinda…glowy, maybe? Sparkly? They remind him of ice in the Far Frozen—inhumanly brisk, and impossibly clean. She has eye crinkles where she smiles, tan skin making them more defined than their actual depth. Between her hair net and her medical mask, little wisps of black baby hairs shine through.

She pets him. She smiles. Danny isn’t sure why, but. Whatever. Jazz used to insist that human skin-to-skin contact was an essential need, so this is probably, like, also medical care.

Yeah. Danny squints. …Sure.

Whatever. It’s nice.

So Danny gets petted and it’s fine. He almost doesn’t notice the giant gauntlet under the paper sleeve of her gown, but then it’s right in his field of vision, and. Hey. Didn’t he see that on TV, like, an hour ago?

Danny stares.

He can’t actually tell if they’re gold under the pale blue color of the gown, but. The color is certainly some sort of unusually colored metal, cold to the touch even through the paper-like material of the gown.

…He doesn’t want to touch her, or let her know that he’s touching her. But. He brushes the back of his wrist against the bracelet, and it hums against the paper gown between it and his bare skin.

The lady blinks. She looks down at where they made contact, and asks him if he’s alright.

Danny looks away.

She knows she saw him reach out to her, though, so she takes her hand off of his hair (…hey…) and pulls back the sleeve on her gown. “Sest,” she offers. See?

It is the same kind of bracer he saw on TV. Up close he can see the designed etched into it—geometric lines stretching down from her fingers to her elbow, terminating in something structural. Not quite diamonds. Just…strong.

There’s a couple of very, very tiny letters down towards the bottom. His eyes strain when they try to make any sense out of them; they’re too small for him to actually focus on, which sucks.

She steps back, and pushes her sleeves down to show off her gold bracers. She lifts up the hem of her gown, revealing red boots that go waaaay up her thigh. They have the same gold metalwork as she does on the bracers.

Danny just saw those on the television. His eyes widen.

“You—“ he starts, and then remembers their difference in language. He points his hand at the television. “You fought? You were on TV?”

“Hwæt?”

“The TV?” Danny repeats. She doesn’t understand. Danny doesn’t know how to tell her what he means. “The…you were there?”

She looks at him to expand. Danny looks back at her.

…So they just stare at each other silently.

The door cracks open; the person who’d mediated Danny’s breakdown pokes their head in and says something. “Eower feoht wæs an þe box todæge.”

The lady blinks. Danny blinks. Wait. Did they just call the television the box?

“…Box?” Danny clarifies, and lifts a hand to shakily point at the television again.

The lady blinks, and grins. “Yea!” she returns, pumped up. She stands, to the powerful height she’d had on the television—excuse him, the box—and flexes her now-exposed arms to show off massive biceps.

Holy moly. Danny hasn’t seen any bigger biceps on his Dad.

She flexes one arm, the other, both—in front, and behind. If Danny had that much definition, he’d be showing off too! She leaps back impossibly far—and holy crap she can fly— to show off some mock punches at invisible enemies at speeds that Danny would be hard pressed to follow even with supernatural abilities.

He goggles.

She laughs at him, but she doesn’t sound mean—she sounds show-boating and silly, and teasing and playful, but not mean.

She’s like him. She’s not a ghost but she flies and she’s not human. She’s not human just like Danny. Just like that one green guy. Like the fast kid who visits him.

It’s such a relief. It’s so scary. Who are these people? Why are they healing him? Why are they keeping him?? Why do they have access to so many non-human people? What do they want him for? Is Danny supposed to fight like that?

He would fight. If he had to. He’s done it before.

If they make him fight, Danny’s pretty sure he’s going to fall apart like cheap glass.

The lady comes back when Danny goes quiet, her gloved fingers brushing up against his knuckles. The sensation is enough to bring Danny out of his…fog. Sometimes everything is so cloudy and vague. The pain medicine makes it go away, and the pain medicine brings it back.

Danny curls his hand into a shaking fist. He bumps her knuckles against his.

She makes a surprised noise. Danny feels her gently move his fingers, rearranging, moving where his thumb goes—

He huffs out a laugh. His fist wasn’t good enough to her standards. Her fist bump meets his in the middle with a smirk and a laugh, victory written all over her face.

[writingforstraykids]

Hii, can you write something Minchan x reader where Minho gets out of an abusive relationship and ends up at Chan's/your place? 🥺

A/N: Hey there, this started as a short drabble before I edited it and turned this into a fic. I hope this is what you wanted and you like it. Thank you for the request💕🥰

Second Chance

Word Count: 4725

Summary: Chan and you help Minho the night he gets out of his abusive relationship. Due to your shared past Minho seems anxious to intrude. A year later things seem to be going well until a situation escalates and triggers a panic attack.

Warnings/Tags: angst, fluff, tw!physical abuse, tw!emotional abuse, tw!panic attack, bruises, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, poly!skz

You hum softly against your boyfriend's lips, indulging the warmth of his body against yours. You feel calm and loved here with him in the safety of your home. Smiling, you brush back his curls and nudge his nose with yours. "Come on now, you promised Min that dinner ages ago." 

"Didn't I tell you? He texted me half an hour ago that he can't make it tonight," Chan says and kisses you lovingly. "That means I have time for you tonight, baby." 

You frown softly as Chan starts kissing down your neck. "You think he's okay?" 

"He didn't say anything else," Chan mumbles against your skin. 

"Yeah, but-," you start and stop as he pulls back with a groan. 

"Please, I don't want to think about our ex when I'm kissing you," he tells you. 

"You mean our best friend, dummy," you giggle and Chan laughs, giving in. "I'm just worried. It isn't like him to cancel plans last minute without a reason." 

"I don't know, maybe his boyfriend had plans?" he asks and you huff softly. "I know you don't like that guy, but-." 

"You've seen the bruises, Channie, something's off," you say firmly, thinking of the last time Minho visited. He looked tired, sad even, and there had been a heavy bruise on his wrist that looked like someone grabbed him too hard. Chan asked him about it of course, but dropped it at how defensive Minho became. 

"Listen, doll, he'll let us know if something's off," Chan says. 

"Not when it's what I think it is," you shake your head. "What if he's being manipulated into thinking it's his fault? Or if he's too embarrassed to tell you? You know how hard it is for him to open up and-." 

"Fucks sake," he climbs off the bed and searches for his phone. "I'm sure he's…," he starts and his face falls looking at his screen. 

"Please don't tell me I was right," you whisper. 

"I'm…Minho called. Ten times in the last twenty minutes," he says worriedly. 

"Shit, you think they got into a fight?" you ask shocked. 

"I don't know," he says and quickly puts on his sneakers, searching for his keys. His phone goes off, loudly this time as Chan had unmuted it. "Minho, what's wrong?" he asks worriedly and puts him on speaker. 

"Chan, hyung, can I stay at yours? Just for tonight," Minho says shakily, glancing across his shoulder as he walks down the street to your apartment. "I'm so sorry about this but it's kind of an emergency," he rambles on. 

"Yeah, sure, do you need me to pick you up?" he asks worriedly. 

"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea," Minho shakes his head and quickens his steps as someone walks down the street behind him, getting closer. "I'll be there in a minute anyways." 

"You're driving here?" Chan asks. 

"No," Minho swallows. "Don't know where my drivers license is. Or my keys. You know me, I tend to misplace my stuff," he laughs it off, almost choking on it. 

Chan exchanges a meaningful glance with you. Minho did not misplace his stuff often. "Okay, just ring the bell when you're here, Y/N will buzz you in," he says. 

"Chan," Minho bursts out panicked, closing his eyes for a second to remind himself to stay calm. "Please don't hang up yet," he pleads and looks back once more realizing the guy behind him is his boyfriend. "Fuck, no," he whispers. 

"What's wrong?" Chan asks, eyes widening as Minho doesn't answer before yelping in pain. Chan drops his phone and races off, leaving your front door open. 

You grab Chan's phone and rush to the door, waiting there anxiously. "Min?" you ask worriedly and only hear something crash to the ground, suspecting it was his phone. 

Minho winces in pain as his boyfriend grabs his hair forcefully and tries to get away from him. "Please, stop," he begs, hot tears already filling his eyes again and spilling down his cheeks. 

"Who the fuck allowed you to leave, huh? You have nowhere to go, you need me to function because you're too dumb to do it on your own," he shouts at him and punches him into the stomach. "Why the fuck would you run off?" 

He groans surprised, fresh tears shooting into his eyes. "Please, I'm so sorry," he begs. Minho bends over in pain but doesn't get far due to the harsh tug at his hair. He chokes on his sobs and braces himself for the next hit. 

"Let go of him!" Chan snaps as soon as he reaches them. 

"Channie," Minho whimpers in fear, wincing as his boyfriend grabs his chin forcefully. 

"Seriously? You're still not over him?" he asks darkly and Minho's eyes flicker anxiously. "Out of everyone you call him. I knew you'd cheat on me." 

"I didn't-," Minho starts weakly and flinches heavily when Chan's suddenly next to him, one hand on his lower back. 

"I won't say it again, let go of him," Chan says firmly. 

"I won't do shit," he tells him sharply. "This is my boyfriend, Chan, back off." 

"Alright then," Chan says and with a swift move he punches him right into the face, delivering another forceful hit into his stomach. 

Minho backs away as soon as his hold on him lessens and hides behind Chan, anxiously grabbing the hem of Chan's shirt. "Chan," he whispers. "Chan, we should leave." 

"Get inside, I'll be there in a minute," Chan tells him. 

"Channie he has a knife," Minho begs him through tears. 

Chan reaches back for him and takes his hand, eyeing the man in front of him. "Minho, run," he says and pulls him with him. Chan pulls the front door closed behind them and follows Minho, who's already stumbling up the stairs to your apartment. 

Your eyes widen as you see him rushing up the stairs, tears streaming down his face. "Minho," you say shocked as he gets closer and you notice how hard he's shaking. 

Chan reaches the door only seconds later and gently shoves Minho inside. "Come on, let's get inside and close that door." 

Minho doesn't get far, sliding down against a wall in your hallway as soon as the door's closed. He pulls his legs to his chest, whimpering as he rocks himself, trying to calm down. Heavy sobs shake his body as he tries to hold them back and his breathing quickens. 

You subconsciously grab Chan's hand, too shocked to move for a moment as you watch him breaking down. That's a very rare side of Minho. You squint your eyes as Minho messily wipes his cheeks and you can see the bruised skin beneath the makeup he put on to hide them. Your heart sinks to your stomach as you take a few steps forward and crouch down in front of him, keeping your distance. "Minnie?" you ask softly and after the third time he snaps out of his state and stares at you with wide eyes. "Minnie, what happened?" you ask gently, barely noticing Chan sitting on the floor next to you. 

"Please don't tell anyone," he presses out, glancing from you to Chan. "You can't," he whimpers. 

"Don't tell anyone what?" Chan asks calmly. He knows what he saw out there but did Minho? 

"That we had a fight. No one can know," he says desperately. 

"Why?" Chan asks patiently and fear flickers in Minho's eyes. "What happens if someone knows?" 

Minho shakes his head rapidly, backing further away against the wall. "Please don't."

"What?" Chan asks and reaches out for him, placing his hand on his knee. 

Minho whimpers in fear, flinching heavily, and pushes himself up. "This was a mistake," he says and stumbles toward your door. "Sorry for bothering you two." 

"No, Min, you're not bothering us," you try to get up but Chan holds you back, reading the situation better than you. 

"Kitten?" he asks and Minho stops in his tracks at that old term of endearment. "Please stay? You're safe here, we don't have to talk about it today, I promise." 

Minho hugs himself and glances at the door, torn between his options. "I-uhm-I don't know if…," he trails off meeting your worried eyes. 

"It's okay, you can stay," you assure him gently. "We have all the time you need."

"It's fine, I'll just go back home," he chokes on the last word, his eyes betraying him. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," Chan tells him gently. 

"Listen, Chan, just because things with you were different doesn't mean it's all bad," Minho grows defensive. 

"Different? You mean because I didn't hit you in the middle of the street?" he asks and you contort your face, unsure of how Minho would take that. "Come on, you know better than that. You don't deserve to be treated this way." 

"Yes, I do," Minho whispers. "I deserve every little bit of it because it's my own fault I gave up on something good. I gave up on you."

"Sometimes things don't work the way we want them to…but you didn't give up on us. And we won't give up on you now," Chan says firmly. 

Minho's face falls in a sob as he gives in. "Channie," he whimpers and Chan gets up slowly. 

"Can I give you a hug?" he asks caringly and Minho nods anxiously. "Okay, deep breaths," he says as he steps closer and Minho subconsciously takes a step back. "I'm here, it's okay," he promises softly, holding his hand out for him. "It's Channie, remember?" he asks soothingly and Minho nods, seeming as if he has to process that information first. Chan very gently places his hands on Minho's shoulders first before fondling down his arms. "Easy there," he whispers and takes another step forward, carefully wrapping his arms around him. "That's okay, kitten?" 

Minho nods weakly and buries his face in his shoulder, hugging him back hesitantly. "I can't breathe," he whispers, clutching his shirt as he feels the panic still boiling deep inside of him. 

"Y/N, come here," Chan tells you, still keeping his volume down. "Is it okay if Y/N hugs you too?" he asks, soothingly rubbing his back. "You need to feel some kind of weight or pressure to calm down right?" 

Minho bites back a sob, hearing that Chan still remembers that. "Yeah," he answers shakily and sucks in a sharp breath. 

You follow Chan's instructions, stepping behind Minho and hugging him as well. You and Chan trap him between your bodies and hug him tightly. "Okay, Minnie, now breathe in deep through your nose…and out through the mouth. Deep breaths," you tell him, guiding him through it. You have witnessed him panicking once before after their video shoot high up on that helicopter landing platform. It feels like ages ago. 

Minho grows calmer in your hold after a while, his breathing calms and his body stops shaking. Instead he's shivering with exhaustion and the adrenaline leaving his body. "I promise I'll be gone tomorrow," he tells you quietly. 

"We'll talk about that tomorrow. One step at a time, okay?" Chan says soothingly and exchanges a worried look with you. "Let's go and sit down?" 

"That sounds like a good idea," you nod, gently nudging Minho forward into your apartment. You don't have to tell him the directions, this has been his home before after all. You go to grab some warm blankets and Chan takes his laptop and headphones from the sofa to make some room. Minho stands still in the middle of your living room, anxiously fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater. "Chan, why don't you go and help Min put on some comfy clothes?" 

Chan turns to look at you and glancing at Minho makes him realize your intention. "Sure, come on," he says and carefully takes his hand pulling him with him. Minho follows him until they reach your bedroom and he comes to a sudden stop. "Min?" he asks. 

"I-uh-I'm sorry," he shakes his head, following him inside. The amount of memories crashing down on him steals his breath for a moment. It's still the same bed, curtains and even the pictures of his cats are still on your desk in the corner. He remembers the many intimate moments he spent here with both you and Chan, the many nights and lazy mornings. "It's too much," he whispers. 

Chan closes the closet and tilts his head at him. "What is?" 

"This here," he says, vaguely waving through the room. "I can't go back to his place, because that's not home. This isn't either because it was before I fucked it all up. I have nowhere to go and-," tears brim his eyes all over again and he huffs at himself in utter frustration. "God, I'm so stupid." 

Chan sits down at the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him. "Come here," he says and after a moment of hesitation he does. "I know you're going through shit right now, your feelings are all over the place and you're scared and confused. But you're not alone, you don't have to be." 

Minho chews on his lower lip and stares down as Chan carefully takes his hand again. "He was right."

"About what?" he asks calmly. 

"I am still in love with the two of you. I do think about what I lost here a lot…but I never told him that," he confesses quietly. "I was so scared that things wouldn't work out or our fans wouldn't accept us the way we were that I freaked out, destroying the thing I was so scared of losing." 

Chan swallows softly and fondles his knuckles as he listens. "How long has this been going on?" 

"What? The screaming? The hitting? The hairpulling?" Minho asks sarcastically before exhaling loudly. "A month into the relationship." 

"A-Minho that's been five months," Chan exclaims in shock. 

"I know," he nods and stares into the distance. "I felt like I deserved it. He encouraged that and I got stuck in this shitty cycle of wanting to be useful for that person you fear but strangely still love." 

"What did he do?" Chan asks and a shadow travels over Minho's face. 

"Not tonight," he shakes his head and gives him a sad smile. "If that's okay." 

"Okay, yeah, of course," Chan nods quickly. "You don't have to say anything but…we love you too. And we miss you, we miss your dumb jokes and sassy comments. We miss your adorable laugh and Y/N misses you every time she has to glam up all on her own. So, we think about you a lot as well. What I'm trying to say is that if you'd ever feel ready, we're there. If not, we'll always be your friends and this means you can stay with us for as long as you want to, no matter what you choose. It's your choice, okay?"

"Okay," he whispers and drops his head, burying his face in his shoulder. 

"But that's also not something to discuss tonight," Chan says, planting a tiny kiss on his hair. "Just wanted you to know you're always welcome here." 

Minho squeezes his hand tightly. "Thank you." 

Chan stays there with him for another while, mindlessly rubbing his knuckles and whispering soothing nonsense to him from time to time. He doesn't know how long they stay there like this but it seems to help Minho's body calm down. You come to look for them after a while, your expression softening seeing them. 

You sit down at Minho's other side and gently pat his thigh. "Hey there, doing a little better?" 

He hums gently and blindly reaches out for your hand, squeezing it as he finds it. "I love you, you know that right?" he asks and you're too stunned to answer for a second. 

"I-uh-yeah, I guess I do," you stammer and Chan flashes you a compassionate smile. 

Minho pulls away from Chan's shoulder and turns to look at. "I know I fucked up, Y/N, even if you say I didn't. I didn't hurt you on purpose." 

"I know," you say quietly. 

"I just…I was scared," Minho says and lets go of Chan's and your hands. "And now I'm back here and I've never been more scared in my life before," he admits shakily and rubs his thighs, trying to steady himself. 

"He can't hurt you here, I promise," you try to soothe him. 

"I'm scared of what that shit did to me," he shakes his head. "I'm scared of him. I'm scared to lose you because I'll be a burden now…and it fucking terrifies me that I'm so open and honest about my feelings right now," he adds at the end making you all laugh. 

"That means you're making progress," you say and a weak smile tugs at the corners of his lips. 

"We can work this all out together…and if there are things we can't deal with we'll find someone who can," Chan adds and Minho nods thankfully. 

"I want you to keep that up and be very clear about your boundaries with us, okay?" you ask. "We don't want to trigger anything or make you feel uncomfortable." 

"I can try," Minho promises bravely. 

"And don't hesitate asking us if you need anything," Chan continues. 

"I will," he nods. 

You pull him into a hug and bury your face in his hair, tears brimming your eyes as he hugs you back tightly. "We got you, Minnie." 

One year later 

Chan paces your shared apartment, phone clutched in his hand, as he tries to stay calm. You can tell he has trouble doing so, noticing the way his hands shake, his chest heaves with irregular breaths, and the worry clouding his usually soft brown eyes. Your boyfriend checks the time once again, a low groan slipping from his lips as he realizes only five minutes have passed since he last checked. 

“Channie,” you say very gently, and he stops, staring at you with wide eyes. “Come here, sit down for a minute.”

“Can’t,” he shakes his head and continues the reckless pace from before.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” you say, trying to convince yourself at the same time. 

“You don’t know that,” he shakes his head firmly. “What if that asshole met him somewhere and-” his voice breaks, and he quickly shuts his mouth again. 

“Chan,” you say firmly. “We can’t keep on expecting the worst. Nothing has happened in a year. Min’s an adult, he can do what he wants. If he decides to stay away for a whole day, then that’s his choice.”

“He’s not thinking straight at the moment, you know that. Now that he's been with us for a whole year everything comes up again. He’s emotional; he keeps on seeking our help, trying not to bother us, and I need to keep him safe, I-” he breaks off again as he meets your eyes.

“Stop making what happened to him your fault,” you tell him. “I know he means a lot to you, I know you want to keep him safe, but stop blaming yourself for what his ex did.”

“He called me Y/N. Repeatedly. I was busy making out with you as this asshole hurt him,” he says, getting more emotional with every passing minute. “And still, he came here as soon as he could.”

You have enough and slip off your chair, making your way over to him. “That’s because he trusts you…and sometimes you have to trust him too,” you say and offer him a hug. 

Chan pulls you into his arms and buries his face in your hair. He can feel your heart racing against his chest and snorts. “So much to staying calm.”

“It’s not that I’m not worried myself, Channie,” you remind him calmly. 

You still remember the night one year ago as if it was yesterday. Not a night has passed since then without him joining the two of you in your bed at night, first as your friend, then in search for the love he thought he lost. Time healed the bruises, the split lip but not the scars left on his heart, and the fear that was still deep in his bones. By now you were finding your routine as a throuple but there was still a lot to figure out. So, of course, Chan gets worried when Minho doesn’t show up for a whole day and doesn’t answer his phone.

The front door to your apartment opens, and you look up surprised as Minho strolls in calmly, two bags in his hand, keys in the other. He frowns softly as he spots the two of you and tilts his head at you, meeting your eyes. "You're okay?" 

Chan lets go of you, and you can tell his worries get replaced by anger, which is also a very familiar part of him worrying to you. “Where the fuck have you been?” he asks firmly.

“What?” Minho asks confused, flinching at the harsh tone.

“I tried calling you for like a hundred times, Min. I’ve been worried sick all day about you!” Chan goes on, letting his anger flow freely now. 

"Chan," you try gently. 

Minho’s stomach turns painfully as the common fear of what is about to unfold takes hold of him. He puts down the bags shakily, bracing himself for all the hurtful words that would leave his hyung's mouth at any second. He deserves every one of them. "I-I turned off my phone," he says quietly. 

"You can't be serious," Chan snaps, and you glance at him worriedly. "I told you always to keep that damn thing close so I can find you when something happens." 

"I-I'm sorry, hyung," Minho says shakily, staring at the floor in front of him. "I know that was stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid, Min," you chime in gently, but the younger male shakes his head firmly. 

"I am," he presses out, body shaking in fear as he feels put back into a situation he thought he escaped. 

"I told you so often," Chan insists tiredly, voice growing more gentle. "How could you forget that?" 

"I'm sorry," he whimpers, tears shooting to his eyes and spilling right down his cheeks. "I-I should've told you. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," he starts, sounding a little panicked. "I'm so stupid, I'm sorry I worried you. Please don't punish me." 

Chan's whole demeanor changes at that sudden breakdown, face falling. "Fuck," he breathes out, realizing how triggering this must've been. "Minho, no one is going to punish you," he says gently, making his way over, not knowing that being soft was exactly what Minho got before the snap. 

Minho subconsciously takes a step back, shivering. "Please, I'll do better, I promise," he tries to save himself. Stumbling back blindly, he trips over Chan's backpack and falls backward, hitting his head at the front door as he crashes onto the ground. 

"Shit," you breathe out shocked. 

By the time Chan reaches him to help him up, he's sobbing, curling up on the floor and protecting his head. "Min, hey, hey, it's okay," Chan tries, crouching down. The moment he touches him, Minho screams in fear, making him flinch back. 

"Please," he sobs, making himself even smaller. 

Chan looks back at you, eyes filling with tears and practically screaming for help. He backs away quietly from Minho as you make your way over. 

You crouch down next to him and hesitantly place your hand on his lower back. "Minnie," you say soothingly, knowing no one else but Chan and you called him that. "Minnie, angel, you're safe. I'm here, no one can hurt you, okay?" Your voice breaks through the fog of panic, and Minho scrambles onto his knees, lunging forward and holding onto you tightly. You hold onto him just as tight, soothingly running your hand through his hair. "Shh, it's okay," you whisper and rock him in your arms. "It's okay, you're safe." 

Minho sobs into your sweater, holding onto you for dear life. He tries focusing on your scent, how your hair feels beneath his fingertips, and how your body is warm against his. He tries pushing all the dark memories aside, reminding himself that he is, in fact, safe. Safe in your warm embrace. 

You glance over at Chan, who watches you, still standing in the same spot. The guilt in his eyes is overwhelming, and he doesn't bother wiping away the tears running down his cheeks. You hold out your hand for him, but he shakes his head weakly. "Channie babe, come here," you say soothingly. "Chan was just worried, he didn't mean to upset you, dear," you say toward Minho, and the younger one nods bravely. "Come on," you encourage your boyfriend.

Chan slowly makes his way over, shaking as he sits beside you. "Minnie, I'm so sorry," he presses out, hesitantly rubbing his back.

Minho pulls back and looks at him through teary eyes. "Something's wrong with me," he whispers, and Chan searches his eyes confused. "You'd never hurt me." 

Chan firmly shakes his head. "Never," he promises. "I'm sorry I got mad." 

Minho straddles his lap, burying his face in Chan's shoulder. He wraps his arms around his neck and sniffles softly. "No, I'm sorry for disappearing," he says shakily. 

Chan hugs him tight, burying his face in his hair and closing his eyes. He gently runs his hand over his back before fondling his head. "Does it still hurt?" he asks, and Minho shakes his head. 

You watch them with a gentle smile, knowing how much they mean to each other. Minho pulls back after a while, pressing their foreheads together with a weak laugh. "I'm sorry, Channie love, I know I worried you." 

"Stop that now," he says gently, rubbing his sides soothingly. "I know you didn't mean to." 

"Thank you for always trying to keep me safe," he tells him, cupping his face. 

"Of course," your boyfriend whispers. 

Minho wraps him back into his arms and closes his eyes for a moment before speaking up. "I just wanted to take a walk this morning, but then he bombarded me with messages, having another fake account. I got upset, turned my phone off, and kept on walking around aimlessly for hours. I completely forgot the time." 

"That's okay, Min, it happens," you assure him, sitting down next to them. 

Minho flashes you a weak smile and squeezes your hand gently. "I should've told you guys. I wasn't thinking." 

"Happens," Chan nods and soothingly rubs his thighs. 

Minho meets his eyes again and remains silent for a while, sinking deeper into that warm feeling of comfort and safety. "I actually bought dinner on the way back." 

You giggle softly and pat his shoulder. "That's sweet." 

"And uhm…I saw something that seemed fitting for the two of you," he says, ears burning up a little as he climbs off Chan's lap. Minho grabs the smaller bag and takes out two small boxes, handing the longer one to you. 

Chan opens his and takes out a beautiful silver bracelet with a small pendant in the middle. There's a heart-shaped hole in the pendant, and opening your box, you know why: the heart's attached to a necklace. "Oh my God, that's so cute," you beam at him. Chan helps you put it on, and Minho watches you with a soft smile. "Where's yours?" you ask and Minho frowns softly. 

"I-uhm…I shouldn't-," he shakes his head, swallowing softly at your confused expressions. 

"Kitten, you're a part of us," Chan says softly and Minho's eyes brim with tears again. 

"But-," he starts out weakly. 

"We love you. This is your home, angel," you tell him and smile as Chan caresses his cheek and Minho instinctively leans into it. 

"We'll go back there tomorrow and find something fitting for you," Chan suggests. 

A hot tear falls down Minho's cheek as he watches the two of you amazed. "Okay," he whispers and closes his eyes as Chan plants a soft kiss on his hair. He giggles softly as you kiss the tip of his nose and smiles at the two of you through his tears. "I love you two so much." 

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/ removed from the taglist)

@soullostinspaceandtime @mal-lunar-28 @malfoygalaxies @brownieloved @rebecca-johnson-28 @euphoric-univers @hyunniebunni @aaasia111 @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @galaxycatdrawz

[levmada]

Kuchel protecting little Levi by throwing her body over his. no matter what happens, she has one hand buried in his thick hair to protect his head. she doesn’t let him fall away from her for anything while taking each and every blow, in the head or in the leg, with a fist or a boot - as long as her son is safe from harm.

[good-beanswrites]

If it's okay with you, could you write a drabble about the hypothetical aftermath of Amane getting attacked by Kotoko?

Welp thank you pal for making me absolutely insane with this request 👍 I ran through a few hypotheticals and realized I had to shift some things around since there were so many absolutely tragic outcomes. I worked something out but damn if it didn’t make me emotional to think about how uniquely rough Amane has it. Even making sure she's in a good place at the end, this got pretty serious, so warnings for child abuse and cult references. 

(So in canon, Kotoko goes in order and attacks Fuuta, but Kazui steps in. Then she attacks Mahiru while he’s distracted with his injuries. She’s about to attack Amane, but Mikoto gets in the way (my hc that he did it on purpose survives!). By the time they reach a draw, Kazui is back, and the two of them can prevent Kotoko from any further action against Amane. Sticking to this apparent system of three attacks and one rescue, I’m just shuffling around the injuries for this story. Fuuta’s attack went unnoticed, and he’s in the same state as canon Mahiru. Mikoto steps in before Kotoko can fight Mahiru, so Mappi’s the one who get out physically unscathed. While Mikoto checks on Mahiru, recovers himself, or discovers Fuuta, Kotoko is able to attack Amane next. Kazui comes to help, but not before she leaves Amane looking like canon Fuuta.)

Mahiru could practically feel her heart shatter into a million pieces when Amane finally cried in front of her. She hadn’t shed a single tear yesterday – it was the shock, Shidou said. Mahiru was skeptical. After all, she had been shocked, too, and cried plenty.

Amane woke as she came in with breakfast. She took a moment to survey herself, bandages peeking out from beneath her pajamas and an eyepatch securely over her right eye. As calmly as one might say “good morning,” she started to cry. Mahiru might have missed it, if Amane hadn’t wiped at her good eye with her sleeve.

“Oh, sweetheart…!” Mahiru rushed over to her. “It’s okay, I’m here.” She wanted nothing more than to wrap the girl in a secure embrace, but she remembered the mass of bandages that were around her chest. Shidou had mentioned broken ribs and bruises. It took everything in her not to cry along with Amane, at the thought.

“I can get you another ice pack, if you need. Or more medicine.” Her mind spun with ways to help with pain. Many of the first aid supplies had been used to keep Fuuta from the brink of death, but surely there were extras to spare for Amane. 

The girl just shook her head. 

She muttered, “I can’t… I…I’m going to be punished, I’m going to be punished…”

“No! You’re safe now.” Mahiru placed her hands gently on Amane’s arms. “Kotoko’s not coming back. We’re all watching over you. You’re safe. She’s not going to hurt you anymore.” 

“That’s not…” Amane pulled away. Her voice stayed level, despite hiccups interrupting her. A hand reached up to her eyepatch. “It’s this. It’s all of this. It’s sinful. I took it off last night, but he must have…” She started unwrapping it. “They’re going to punish me...” 

With a careful motion, Mahiru held it in place and took Amane’s hands into her own. She’d been picking up on the signs ever since they arrived here together, and a final wave of understanding washed over her. 

“I can’t let you do that.”

Amane’s expression twisted, though words came out far more frantic than fiery. “Let me go.” 

Mahiru didn’t. “I’m sorry. Amane, you need this treatment.”

“That is not your decision to make. That is not any human’s decision to make.”

Mahiru pressed her lips together. “I know. But I can’t watch as you… I can’t sit by again while someone…” She was careful not to apply any pressure, but she could no longer fight the urge to gather Amane up in her arms. “You don’t need to be afraid of those people, anymore.”

“I’m not afraid.” Amane hiccuped. “They love me, and I love them. I need to be good for them.”

“I love you, and I don’t want to see you in pain.”

“You just pity me because I’m young.”

“Why does your age matter? You are a lovely young woman – you are my friend – and I can’t bear to see you in pain.”

The two sat in silence for a moment. Mahiru doubted she would take that as an answer; Amane had refused to call any of the others her friend. At least she didn’t argue. In fact, it seemed she was leaning into the embrace a bit more. She sighed a shaky breath into Mahiru’s uniform.

“Listen, Amane. Can you do me a favor? I’m trying to be a good girl, too. To make up for something awful, I need to make sure you’re alright. Can you help me? Can we be good together?”

A long pause followed. Amane’s voice spoke up, ever so gently.

“I suppose I can consider it.” She added quickly, “for the sake of your redemption. Of course.”

“Of course.”

[incompleteninny]

The seventy-eighth free, unedited chapter of my upcoming book, “The Heist at Cordia Aquarium” is now available on its website (or click https://www.kitfisto.gay/chapters/thea to read from the beginning).

The world is ending. Thea's world, more than anyone's. Worms writhe underneath her skin. A knife twists, tearing at her heart. She clutches at her chest. There's no knife there: just handfuls of her cassock's heavy — very much intact — fabric. Above, white ceiling tiles rush past and lights interspersed beat her eyelids into a flutter.

Bump.

The stretcher underneath Thea shudders and her back floats above its cushioned bed. A moment later, she falls. Her back hits. Breath explodes out of her lungs, leaving her gasping. Bereft of air.

An emergency medical technician to her right places a firm hand on her shoulder, pressing her against the stretcher. "Sorry! Ran over a cable cover. Don't worry, we're almost to the ambulance. Hold tight."

With one hand already clinging to the stretcher's handrail, Thea squeezes until her knuckles turn white. "I already am!"

You're dying. You're having a heart attack. You've got a blood clot.

Twist. Another dagger plunges, hilt deep. She screams.

They're taking you to the hospital. They'll help. Then they'll take the rest of it: your money; your television; your apartment. Everything. Even your choices.

Your control.

[...]

[r3musmoony]

was an idiot this morning and caused a tic attack from watching a bunch of Tourette’s videos -_-

[crabussy]

I want to take a bite out of someone's arm but I'm too shy

[kismetmoon]

ouch.

[ID: a digital drawing of an original, stylised Flatland character named Atlas.

Atlas is a white isosceles triangle with one eye, a large bushy eyebrow, an eye bag, navy limbs and a tail with a V-shaped tip.

He is posed with his knees bent inwards, his right arm bent up at the elbow with his hand held down, and his left arm held down at his side. His tail is curled up to his right side. He has a shocked expression with a red, orange and yellow star-shaped cataract. There are chunks taken out of his top and bottom right corners that are bleeding, as well as red outlines of a gash across his eye and two on his left side.

The background is black with a bright yellow star behind Atlas.

End ID].

[ID: two grayscale digital doodles of Atlas done in reference to the ‘about to get a haircut’ meme separated by a white line.

In the left image, Atlas has no scars or chipped corners and has a round pupil. He is smiling and there is Snapchat text underneath him saying “about to go to work wish me luck”. The background roughly resembles the interior of a car.

In the right image, Atlas has his scars, chipped corners and star-shaped cataract again and is staring down with a devastated look. The background roughly resembles a hospital bed.

End ID].

+ the og

[ID: a screenshot of the “about to get a haircut wish me luck meme”. On the right is a photo of a man with curly light brown hair sitting in a car with the above quote written in Snapchat’s text across his face. In the left photo is the same man, but with much shorter hair and a shocked expression. End ID].

[shurisneakers]

[constantvariations]

One of Hello Future Me's videos on revolution brought up an event from the Philippines back in the 80s: the dictator sent a battalion to crush a supposed revolt, only for the soldiers to be met with nuns and children offering food and water. The majority of the army defected as a result

I'm going to use rwby to try hammering this abstract concept into a coherent thought, but this incident got me thinking about how nonviolent protest is theater

If a similar event were to occur in rwby, for it to be successful, the protestors would have to be the cutesy faunus types: rabbits, cats, dogs, and the like because they're non-threatening. Attacking a sweet cat faunus would be akin to attacking a child or nun, paragons of innocence and virtue respectively. Only a monster could cut them down, and no one wants to be seen as a monster

A scorpion faunus, though? Their mere existence is a threat. That tail is dangerous, a weapon available at all times. Bull faunus have horns they can use to gouge out eyes and organs. Claim they attacked and most people would agree that killing them in self-defense is justified

Because nonviolent resistance relies on public perception, people who could possibly taint the image of the movement will get left in the dark no matter how important they are. Bayard Rustin was the one who taught Dr King about civil disobedience and was an organizer for many major events, but he opted to ride to events in the trunk of people's cars so his status as an openly gay man wouldn't harm the movement's image

There would be little wonder why the White Fang would be more popular with the "scarier" faunus. Public perception is already against them, so it's not going to change much for them if they join a violent organization, but this in turn will be seen as justification for discrimination against these types of faunus. A hellish self-perpetuating cycle

These faunus would also be far more likely to experience violence at a much younger age, akin to how black children are treated as adults even if they're literally six years old

The strategy behind nonviolent protest like the ones Dr King did is to show the world the mistreatment of the innocent, but when your existence is deemed a threat, there's little hope that you'll ever get enough support to change the system. This is why bigots constantly spew the "queer groomer" and black crime "statistics": by portraying someone's freedom as a danger to the innocent, any level of violence is justifiable defense. The police aren't attacking queers, black, and brown folk discriminately, they're attacking dangerous criminals, so it's okay!!1!

Theater can't save those already condemned and to try is wasted effort

[dialovers-translations]

Any of my followers who have had covid-19 in the past ーー how did you experience loss of smell/taste? Did it affect all foods or just specific flavors? And how long did it take for you to regain your smell/taste?

My symptoms started last Wednesday and this whole time I’ve smelt and tasted just fine but today I suddenly started noticing a rapid loss in both smell and taste. They’re not completely gone and some things I can smell/taste better than others but I do notice a stark difference with the past days. > < 

For me personally this has caused a huge flurry of negative emotions because I’m still recovering from my ED and mentally it’s so hard for me to eat without being able to also enjoy the taste. :/ I’m constantly suffering from mental hunger because even though my belly is full, because I could barely taste the food, it leaves me feeling incredibly empty and unsatisfied.

Side note: I am pretty congested as well (stuffy nose) so there’s still a small chance that the loss in smell/taste has to do with that and is unrelated to it being covid. Especially since this is often seen as one of the first symptoms while in my case it has only shown up now when I’m already halfway recovered.

[eiressofinspirationwrites]

Pieces, Panic, and Peace

Pairing: Steven Grant x Reader, Marc Spector x Reader (?)

Word Count: 4820

Warnings: depiction of a panic attack, blood, and injury to the reader

******************************

You’d known Steven since he started working at the museum and always admired his enthusiasm when it came to the exhibits. You could spend hours listening to him talk about Egyptology. He’s always so enthusiastic as he gets lost in the stories of his special interest and when he gets happily lost in his stories, you get lost in the pure energy that radiates from him as he does. If you were being honest, you’ve always had a love for all things mythology. Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Norse. You name it and you’ve either spent hours lost in research, scouring hundreds of pages for any information possible related to the subject, or at least know the basics. 

So when Steven asked you to the grand opening of their newest addition to the Egyptian wing of the museum, it sounded like the best date you could imagine, and enthusiastically accepted. 

It didn’t take long for you to fall head over heels in love with him. He was a bright spot in your life that had become so dull and monotonous in recent months since your job had taken over. The time you spent with each other was the best part of both of your days. Steven was absolutely smitten with you.

As your relationship blossomed, you spent enough time with him to notice strange things happening with him. He would disappear for days on end and you also took note of the times you spoke with him and he seemed like an entirely different person.

Sometimes he would forget plans the two of you had made together and even entire conversations on several occasions. After a while, you brought it up and Steven confessed to you what he’d been hiding. 

He had DID and had an alter named Marc. It took some time for you to adjust and fully understand what DID was and what that meant for your relationship with the system. You spent hours doing your own research and tried to be respectful with any questions you had.

Eventually, you officially met Marc, but you weren’t sure if you liked him at all. Sure he spoke to you, but he always ends up switching back with Steven or just not saying much at all. 

When Steven fronted there wasn’t usually much quiet between the two of you unless you were doing something else together, like reading or watching a documentary. 

Time alone with Marc was different. Despite how much time you’d spent with Steven, you weren’t sure what to do with Marc when he was fronting. He doesn't share really any of the same interests as Steven, so it was hard to start a conversation. That didn’t stop you from trying on so many occasions. You wanted to have a good relationship with the other most important person in your boyfriend’s life.

One night after Steven’s shift, he invited you to meet at his flat to watch a new National Geographic documentary that had just been released. He’d been messaging you all week until you both had time off work to watch it together. 

Unfortunately, the day leading up to your date had been rather dreadful. First, you overslept and ended up with a flat tire before you were even halfway to work on your bicycle. Then you had to walk the rest of the five blocks to work which made you even more late. From there, your day did not improve. Rude customers, lazy coworkers, the list went on and on.

The only thing that got you through the day was the promise of relaxing and spending time with Steven. So when 8 o'clock rolled around, you found yourself eagerly awaiting Steven to open the door with snacks in hand. It only took a few seconds before the door swung open and Steven’s beaming face greeted you. 

“You’re here! ” Steven exclaims, smiling wide as he gestured you inside his flat. 

You gave him a quick peck on the lips as you passed by him, returning his bright smile with one of your own as you moved around the stacks of books and miscellaneous obstacles to reach the table to put down your movie snacks. 

“You would not believe the day I have had!” you groaned, shaking your head as you flopped into one of the chairs and launched into the story of the day. 

Steven leaned against the kitchen counter as he listened, nodding along to indicate he was actively listening to you.

After telling Steven about the bicycle shop’s criminally long waitlist for tire repair, you finally ran out of steam and sat back with a huff. 

“Anyways, that was my day. How was yours?” you ask, just now noticing that Steven has had one hand behind his back the entire time you were venting.

“Oh, it was fine-” Steven trailed off, a smile creeping its way across his face. 

He noticed your attention on his arm and made his way to the table before presenting his prize to you. His action elicited a gasp as he placed an intricate figurine on the table. 

“It came?!” you squealed excitedly.

“Just this morning.” Steven was smiling even wider than before, “Pretty amazing, innit?”

“It looks amazing! Look at all of the little details!” you leaned forward to get a better look, “Absolutely beautiful!” 

It was a hand-blown glass sculpture of the goddess Isis that the two of you had seen advertised in a news article about small businesses in London. It had an astounding amount of detail for something as delicate as it was, but it looked incredible in the ad. Steven had ordered it without hesitation the two of you had been anxiously awaiting its arrival ever since.

“I just cleared a place just special for it right before you arrived,” Steven pointed at a spot on a bookshelf near Gus’ fish tank, “I’d be rather upset if I knocked it over in the middle of the night.”

“I know you’ve been waiting for it to come forever,” you nodded, “It looks so much better in person.” 

“Thanks, love. Hey, I’ll be right back, yeah? Just gotta use the toilet before we start the film. I won’t be long.” Steven says, stepping around the table and heading towards the bathroom. 

You waved a hand towards him in response as you moved to pop the bag of popcorn in the microwave to get it started. 

Once the microwave was going, you crouched down to start rummaging through the lower cupboards in search of the big bowl you traditionally used on movie nights with Steven. After a moment of looking you spotted it at the very back of the cupboard by the wall. You huff as you half-crawl into the space to get it out. Once the bowl is in your grasp, you jerk back up with a small cry of victory, thrusting the bowl up into the air like a trophy. 

The sudden momentum throws you off balance and a sharp pain shoots up your elbow as you stumble back into the edge of Steven’s kitchen table. You barely have time to process the pain before the sound of shattered glass reaches your ears. 

It feels like the blood in your veins turns to ice as you watch Steven’s new figurine break into dozens of pieces on the floor. In a panic, you scramble around the table. The sound of dropping the metal bowl in your rush causes you to flinch as your hands reach around on autopilot trying to do something, anything to fix what you'd done. Your heart pounds in your chest and you can feel your breath starting to pick up. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register the early signs of what's coming. 

“No no no no no no…” you mumble as you rush to pick up the pieces. Your hands shook violently as your mind raced, trying to think of what to do before Steven inevitably returns.

“Please, please, please…” you beg under your breath, futilely trying to fit the pieces of broken glass back together. 

The tears gathering in your eyes make it hard to see, but you can’t stop to do anything about it, you have to fix it. You have to. You don't have another choice. It's all on you. Steven was going to be crushed that you'd destroyed his new figurine before he'd even had a chance to properly enjoy it. It was all your fault. All your fault. 

Your hands continued to tremble as an ache intensified in your chest, but you can’t think of the breathing techniques you'd learned and should be doing to calm down. 

Steven’s voice calling your name cuts through your thoughts. Your head snaps up to see Steven standing by Gus’ fish tank, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Love, what’s happened?” He asks, "You alright?"

Steven's eyes widen as he exclaims your name, rushing forward with his hands out. The panicked expression on his face jolts you into action. 

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you can’t seem to find any words. Your mind races faster than you can keep up with and you don’t know what to do. Your hands still on autopilot try to hide the pieces of the figurine they have already picked trying to keep them out of Steven’s line of sight.

All you can think of is hiding the shards somehow until you can do something to fix them. The movement has the opposite effect of what you wanted and instead draws Steven’s attention to the mess on the floor. 

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Steven, I didn’t mean it! I-I-I can f-fix it! I’ll buy you a new one I promise. I’m so sorry,” you manage to sputter, hot tears fall down your face and you try to jerk away from Steven as he gets closer. 

You backpedal until your back collides with the wall. Your panicked mind clutches the pieces you'd tried to hide to your chest. 

Panic has a vice-like grip on your entire body and there isn’t anything you can do. Everything feels so overwhelming as your senses are flooded by every sound, sight, and smell in the room. As you're sent over the edge into sensory overload, you fold in on yourself. A flood of apologies keeps falling from your mouth as it's the only thing your mind can fixate on. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Your chest feels like it is about to burst. You can’t catch your breath and through the tears can see black spots starting to float on the edge of your vision. 

Suddenly a face fills your field of vision. It's blurred from the tears, but part of you recognizes it has to be Steven. 

A gentle hand tentatively rests on your face and another tries to pull your hands away from your chest.

You can see his mouth moving, but can’t hear anything he is saying. The sound of your heart pounding in your chest is deafening and blocks out everything else. You try to blink away the tears to clear your vision and Steven’s face becomes more focused. 

The first thing you notice is that Steven’s body language is completely different and his eyes are different. They lack their usual softness.

It finally clicks that it’s Marc kneeling in front of you, not Steven. 

That realization makes you even more upset. Your brain assumes that Steven must be so angry he can’t stand to deal with the crying mess you'd become. The brief moment of clarity you had quickly vanishes and your crying dissolves into sobs. 

You try to turn away, but Marc’s strong hand keeps a gentle pressure on your face, keeping it level with his. His mouth is still moving, clearly trying to say something. You know it has to be important. So, you direct every ounce of focus you can into meeting Marc's eyes, struggling to focus on slowing your breathing as you do so. 

“Sweetheart...need…down…me…-stand…can…kay?” Marc’s broken sentence filters through the fog surrounding your mind.

After what feels like an eternity, your ears start to process Marc's voice. Bits and pieces of what's being said start to filter into your mind as they’re processed. 

You have no idea what he’s asking but you’ll do whatever he wants. Whatever will fix what you’ve done and make Steven happy again. Anything to preserve your relationship with him.

Your silent response earns a smile from Marc as he nods with you. His hand that is still covering yours moves to gently guide them away from your chest. 

When you look down you’re shocked to find blood covering both your hands and Marc’s. The glass shards must have cut your hands while you were in full panic and Marc’s became bloody while he held yours.

Panic swells in your chest again as your eyes dart back to Marc’s. Hoping he isn’t mad at you, too. You know that you couldn’t take it if both Steven and Marc were cross with you but Marc doesn’t seem to be. He just keeps nodding and pulls your attention back down to your hands. His own hand tries to gently pry open your fingers to remove the glass from your grasp. 

Despite the numbness settling into your body, you manage to relax your hands enough for your fingers to uncurl. As they do, the pain finally hits you. A sharp hiss escapes your lips as the air hits the wounds and a stinging sensation fires across the cuts on your palms and fingers. After the hiss cuts its way through your tears it seems to be the reset you needed to pull a deep breath of air into your lungs. 

You stare at Marc as he turns his attention to removing the glass and try to steady your breathing. Now that your focus is pulled to other things, your body seems to relax back into its normal breathing patterns. As your breathing slows and returns to normal, you can finally hear what Marc’s saying, and the tenderness in his voice surprises you. In all the time you’ve known him, you had never realized how soft-spoken and gentle he can be. 

“That's good. Just like that, sweetheart. Just breathe. You’re okay, you’re safe.” Marc murmurs as he carefully works to remove the splintered glass from your flesh as carefully as he can, paying close attention to make sure not to cause more damage to the already torn skin. 

Again, it feels like an eternity before all of the glass is removed from your hands, but in reality, it didn’t take more than a few minutes. Before moving on to the next step, Marc looks over your hands one last time to make sure all the shards are gone. Satisfied that he’s removed every last piece, he looks up at your tear-stained face with a gentle smile.

“You gonna be okay if I go get the first aid kit from the bathroom? It won’t take long but I need to make sure we get the bleeding stopped,” Marc’s voice was softer than you’ve ever heard before. 

You nod silently. If you were being honest you could use a little bit of time to yourself.

As soon as he lets go, your eyes fall to your bloody hands. As you take in the sight, you can feel the shame and embarrassment creeping up your neck like a rash. 

You couldn’t believe you’d just had a total panic attack in your boyfriend’s apartment over a broken figurine. You’d been pretty stressed lately and the kind of day you’d had been admittedly pretty shitty, but a having full mental breakdown wasn’t the way you’d expected to spend your night.

Your eyes slip closed as you try to avoid driving yourself into another panic attack. As long as you can keep your breathing under control and your heart can start to slow down you know you’ll be okay. Panic attacks aren’t anything new. You’d been having them for years at this point and one thing never changed. Coming down from them was almost the worst part. 

“Hey,” Marc’s voice interrupts your thoughts. 

You open your eyes to see him back with a first aid kit under one arm and towels in the other. 

The way he was watching you was unlike anything you’d ever seen from him before. It was apprehensive and unsure yet concerned and gentle. A stark contrast from the blatant indifference he’d shown you before.

“I-I’m okay,” your voice was rough from the tears and harsh breathing pattern you’d experienced.

You could see he wasn’t entirely convinced but Marc knelt down in front of you again and began to remove the supplies he will need from the kit. He removes the bandages, tubes of ointment, and a small surgical sewing kit as well. 

As Marc neatly organizes the supplies, you take in just how messy the floor has become. It’s littered with broken and bloody glass and stained by the droplets of blood that had dripped from your hands.

“I am so sorry.” you manage to choke out, tears start to prick at your eyes again seeing the mess you’d made. 

“It’s okay. Really, everything is okay. The only thing that matters is that you’re safe,” He reassures you as he begins cleaning the blood from your hands.

“Besides,” He continues, “Do you really think I haven’t cleaned blood off of Steven’s floors before. Had to make sure he wasn’t going to be finding a bunch of mystery stains before he knew about me. Helped to have such dark carpet. You ever tried to clean blood out of a light-colored carpet? It’s a nightmare.” 

You appreciated his attempt to lighten the mood but it didn’t do much to actually make you feel better.

A blanket of silence falls over the pair as Marc continues to clean the blood from your skin. Once it’s all cleaned away, he carefully inspects each wound. Looking to see if they need stitches. After a while, he moves on and begins disinfecting the cuts.

“The good news is that you don’t need stitches. Looks like most of the pieces were big enough not to get stuck in the cuts, but small enough not to cause enough damage to warrant stitches,” He reports, then mutters an apology when your hand jerks in his grasp as the alcohol stings the tender flesh.

“Thank you,” you whisper, unsure of what else to say.

As Marc starts to wrap your hands in clean bandages, you think about everything that’s led up to this moment. Still dwelling on the guilt you felt for breaking something Steven had waited so long for and had been so excited about. Your mind also shifts to the way Marc has treated you since he fronted during your attack. You’re starting to see that he’s not as cold and indifferent to you as he’s tried to make you believe.

Once he finishes wrapping both hands and secures the ends of the bandages, Marc starts packing away the first aid supplies. When everything is stored back in the kit, he sits down, leaning back to rest against the table leg behind him. You’re quiet as you stare at each other, both waiting for the other. 

“Those are going to need to stay covered up for a few days to avoid infection,” Marc finally breaks the silence.

You answer him with a silent nod. Not quite ready to speak again.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Marc asks tentatively, “You don’t have to, but I know a panic attack when I see one. Steven and I get them sometimes.”

Your attention shifts to the fish tank across the room. Your eyes follow Gus as he swims around the tank. It’s almost hypnotic watching the goldfish glide through the water. 

Marc doesn’t push you to answer. He’s comfortable waiting until you’re ready.

“I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder in high school,” you finally answer, “I thought I was dying the first time I had one. Th-they’re awful. Still are but at least I know now what’s happening. I don’t get them as often as I used to. Usually just when I’m stressed or scared.”

A beat of silence hangs in the air before Marc answers. 

“Did we scare you?” he asks, his voice so quiet you almost missed the question. 

“No,” your eyes widened in surprise, “Not Steven… or you. I just knew he was going to be upset about the broken figurine. Everything happened so fast and I panicked. It all just spiraled from there.”

Marc didn’t look convinced, so you sat up closer to him. “Honestly! I’ve just had a really crappy week and all these little things built up and then this one last thing was just the final drop in the bucket and I-” you paused, sitting back again. “Sometimes I just fall apart like a broken doll.”

Marc’s eyes flick from the stove next to you before looking back.

“Steven wants you to know that he isn’t mad at you. He was just worried. He didn’t mean to rush at you like that earlier,” Marc relays.

“He saw everything?” you winced.

“He saw the blood all over your hands and when you started to hyperventilate he felt lost,” Marc nodded, “He didn’t know what to do. He’s still up front but he thought I’d be able to help you more. He was worried.” 

Marc paused for a second before asking, “Do you want him to come back?” 

You weren’t sure how to respond. This is probably the most interaction you’ve ever had with Marc. Not to mention the feeling of embarrassment that was still settled in your gut. Even if Marc says Steven isn’t mad at you, part of you insists that he has to at least be partly upset that you broke his brand new figurine.

When your words fail you, you give an indifferent shrug, avoiding eye contact leaving the two to decide for themselves. Soon enough your eyes start to feel heavy and you have to fight back a yawn. 

An attack this bad wipes you out enough for your to require a nap at minimum soon after. Since you’re far from your own flat and don’t have a bike to ride home on, you know you have to get up and go soon. Otherwise, you risk falling asleep on the floor right where you are. So you shift to a position that’s easier to stand from and Marc moves as well. 

“I should get home,” you say as you try to stand up to leave.

When you sway a bit as you get to your feet, you have to brace yourself on the counter. This sends pain lancing through your bandaged hand comes as it contacts the counter.

It only takes a few seconds before a strong arm wraps around your waist, the warm limb steadies you and keeps you from toppling back to the floor.

“Easy, sweetheart. I don’t think you should be going anywhere tonight. Not in this state,” Marc says leading you over to the kitchen chair to sit down. 

“But I have to get home.” you insist, your voice comes out a little more whiny than intended. 

As you move to try and stand again, Marc's hands press into your shoulders and guide you back to the seat. When you look up, his face is firmer than earlier but holds another emotion you can’t quite place.

“No. You’re gonna sleep here tonight,” Marc decides, “You already walked here and it's too late for you to walk home now. I can’t risk you not making it home safe in this condition. Wandering the streets at night, half asleep with freshly bandaged hands is like a neon sign to every creep in the city. There’s no guarantee you’d make it home safe.” 

“I’ve already caused enough trouble for you two. I’ll be fine,” you protest.

“No,” Marc said firmly, “If you don’t feel comfortable staying with us, I’ll get you a taxi or something, but I’m not letting you walk home tonight.” 

“I don’t have money for a taxi, and I won’t let either of you pay for one either,” you argue, hoping Marc will just give up and let you walk home soon.

“Sweetheart, you have two choices.” Marc says, still holding you firmly in place, “Either sleep here tonight or let me get you a ride. I know what happens at night in this city. Khonshu has had me take care of more than enough bad people to know what will happen to you if you run into the wrong people out there while you’re vulnerable.” 

If you weren’t so exhausted you’d put up more of a fight but you know that you don’t have the energy to push Marc into letting you leave on foot.

“Fine,” your shoulders slump in defeat, “but I don’t have anything to sleep in or wear tomorrow. I went straight to the bike shop after work then came straight here.”

“We’ve got plenty of clothes for you to wear,” Marc answers and lets you go to walk over to the wardrobe on the other side of the room. 

You watch as he pulls out a set of joggers and a t-shirt. You knew the clothes were going to be too big but you were too tired to care. When Marc comes back and hands the clothes off, you take them with a nod of thanks. 

“I’ll just go-” you motion vaguely in the direction of the bathroom before you head over to change. 

By the time they come back out, Marc has set up a blanket and pillow on one of the armchairs in the sitting area but Marc blocks your path when you move to sit in it.

“Nope. You’re taking the bed. I’ll sleep here.” he turns you around by the shoulders before guiding you over to the bed. You protest weakly, but Marc gently pushes you over. You end up half sitting, half laying on the bed. 

“I’m not pushing you out of your own bed,” you say as Marc moves toward the chair he has set up. 

“Trust me, Steven barely sleeps in his bed as it is. I’ll be fine over here, you need to rest and you won’t get it sleeping upright all night,” Marc answers as he makes a few adjustments to his makeshift bed.

“I’m already stealing your clothes, don’t let me steal your bed,” you insist, “We’re both adults. We can share.”

Marc starts to stammer and stutter at the proposal but falls silent after a few moments when his attention is caught by his reflection.

“Steven can come out,” Marc says after a short time, “I don’t want to make you or him uncomfortable. You’re the ones dating each other. You like him… not me.”

He whispers the last part so quietly you almost miss it. That’s when everything falls into place for you. You suddenly realize why he’s been so short with you ever since he first met you. He didn’t hate you or resent you.

He was afraid to open himself up to you because he was afraid you’d reject him. Afraid that you only would be able to love Steven.

“Marc, it’s okay,” you pull yourself out of the bed, somehow making it to his side without stumbling at all, “If Steven’s comfortable with it… I’m okay with it. I’ve been trying to get through to you for months. It’s hard to know if I like you if you won’t open up.”

He was at a loss for words as your hands found his. He couldn’t believe that you were really truly even able to think about opening yourself to loving him, too. 

“A-alright,” Marc said after he peeled his attention away from Steven’s in the reflection, “but if you feel uncomfortable at all-,” 

“You’ll be the first to know,” you promised.

His thumbs brushed across your hands lightly as he contemplated his next action, “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You’ve been up way too long.”

This time you let Marc lead you to the bed without protest. He peeled back the blankets and let you climb in before he went around the other side and climbed in beside you. He placed himself as far away from you as possible, still unsure of what he should do.

You knew this had to be challenging for him so you let him decide what he was comfortable with. 

“Thank you,” you whispered as you curled into the bed and your eyes started to drift shut.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” Marc whispered back, and part of you registered that was the fifth time he’d used that term of endearment tonight but you were too close to sleep to say anything tonight.

As you drifted to sleep, you decided that would be a conversation for morning.

[fletcherwilbury]

@whumptober Day 4: "You in there?"

Warning for Physical abuse, asthma attack, chemicals, medication, dizziness, fainting

[good-beanswrites]

LCSYS ask again(undercover asker here hiiiiiaufhghghgn)thank you for responding!!!! ilovfe seeing your ideas theyre such good fuel in between trials❤️❤️

i was wondering how th prisoners would react to es’ usage of violence, like some of the younger prisoners complaining about it while the older are concerned because Hello Where did that stem from???? you cant tell me es’ “phew, i feel so much better” after hitting shidou didn’t send his mind racing a million miles per minute

ALSO curious about YONAH………… similar to how red’s violence towards es was scripted, was kotoko’s monologue about es being imperfect Also scripted, or was it on her own? yonah is probably my favourite voice drama of all time and I’m curious about how it would be interpreted in this au 🫶

Ah hello again! Thank you so much for reaching out -- every time I think I've covered everything you guys hit me with a new insane detail that makes my brain go brrrrr >:3

Because OMG I spent so much time thinking of the faked violence, I don't know why I never put as much attention on the flipside! I love the idea of Jackalope assuring them, "there will be no physical punishments. We'll talk about restraints but that's all fake. We'll make up injuries between trials but that's all fake. You don't have to worry about any real pain." And then this 15yo strolls up, interrogation one, ready to smack someone😅😅😅

Seriously though, I think it would come as a pretty big surprise to the group. They knew it was a possibility, but didn't think Es was that likely to attack, since they've made a few comments about being against violent punishments. Haruka comes back to mention the slap, and Yuno follows their instructions and says she also suffered violence, and the group is Shocked. I think it would just kill Fuuta that he wasn't allowed to hit back and avenge the others. He probably has the most complaints about the situation (and is insanely relieved that he get by in his own interrogation.) In a feeble attempt to get back at Es and make them feel bad, he encourages Muu to cry and make a big show about being afraid of them. Muu is frightened enough that it doesn't take much persuasion... I think Kotoko and unfortunately Amane wouldn't mind the threat, they both have lives in which authority showing power isn't out of place (and maybe Haruka?). Mahiru, too, thinks it's just the way a prison guard can run their prison if they want, though she's determined her charm will keep things running pleasantly.

Kazui reaches out asap* to question the legality of the experiment, since they're allowing children to get hit, even if by other children. There's a tangle of signatures and consent from everyone involved so it's okay, but the whole thing still rubs him the wrong way. He knew the experiment was a bit shady, but he(Though, this does make his first vd kind of funny -- instead of actually talking through his theories on the prison, now it feels like he's just egging Es on to see if they'll actually hit him...)

And I really like that idea that Shidou's dad instincts kick in (or maybe it's doctor instincts)! He'd understand if it was a child trying to play the role of an intimidating adult, but the way Es is doing things, the things they're saying, it all points to something deeper going on in Es' head. I can see him sitting down with the others and Jackalope to discuss. Of course Milgram gives him very little to work with, but this still kickstarts everyone's efforts to make sure Es is also taken care of post-Milgram.

*I just realized I'm still a bit fuzzy on communication during the trials. Jackalope can definitely get information to the prisoners (most commonly the 'voices' they're supposed to be hearing based on Es' notes, but also in case of emergency changes or things). I was picturing the prisoners unable to communicate outward until the trial ends, as it builds up the feeling of isolation and imprisonment. The issue is, I feel like Jackalope would want to keep that line open in case the prisoners had questions/issues with the experiment that affected their acting. So idk if the prisoners voice these concerns about Es mid-trial or they're forced to wait. I'll get back to you on that, hm

And Yonah!!

I wasn't avoiding spoilers, I actively looked for snippets here and there, but it was this ask that finally motivated me to sit down and watch it through -- and I'm SO GLAD I DID 👀 It's really well-written and wonderfully acted!! I'm floored with the whole thing omg

I really like the idea that the Milgram team instructed Kotoko to mention Es' imperfection to rattle them a bit, but left the specifics to her. Jackalope thought she'd just make some quick comment, and does a double take when he listens in on the interrogation and realizes she has a lot to say on Es and the way Milgram is run.

Jacklope told her to be harsh with Es, and she thought that was no problem at all. She felt those opinions strongly and wasn't going to go easy on the criticism just because they were a kid. She goes into the interrogation ready to stay completely put-together... and then surprises everyone and herself when Es' distress moves her to pull them into a tight hug and tell them everything's going to be alright ;---;