#that's not abnormal for me but it does make me feel slightly more deranged

[llycaons]

it may not look like it because of the blogging but I've been studying for almost 10 hours and I have the same to look forward to in the next few days so if anyone wants to send me asks telling me how their day is going or things that have made them happy recently or cql headcanons that would be much appreciated <3 anon's still off but I won't publish it if you ask me not to

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

Ash’s Negan Writing Challenge: Bad Brain Day

This was my first time using "Y/N" and "you" instead of a fully-realized character, and I'm not sure how well I did, but hopefully its ok! I have suffered from anxiety since my teens, so that part I felt pretty damn comfortable addressing, at least! Enjoy!

Summary: This was written for @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash‘s Negan Writing Challenge (Negan x OC with Anxiety prompt). After a “bad brain day” of anxiety and stress, Negan comforts “You” as only a homicidal weirdo with an epic trucker mouth can. 

Word Count: 1,960

Content Warnings (or selling points?): Negan being Negan, language, mental illness, anxiety disorder, angst, fluff.

Read on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10557122

Ash’s Negan Writing Challenge: Bad Brain Day

The knock on the door was what brought you back to some semblance of reality in the darkened room. Your eyes stung with tears, like salt in an open wound. Ragged, chewed nails dug into the flesh of your leg, leaving red crescent moons in their wake to remind you that you did not have your shit under control. Not even a bit.

“Y/N? What the fuck’s up, baby!” came the voice from the other side of your bedroom door, sounding far too chipper for you to take in the state you were in right now.

It was deep and booming, even muffled by the hard wood of the door, and just a little bit hoarse from yelling at underlings all day. It was the voice of your weird, somewhat deranged, post-apocalyptic spouse, Negan, who had taken you in several weeks ago after finding you wandering the roads alone.

“Did you forget it’s our date night?...You didn’t forget about your fucking hubby, did you? You know how that hurts my last fucking feeling, right?”

You had escaped from a small camp of survivors after it became clear that the situation in the camp was about to go south quickly, deciding that it was better to go it alone for a while. Being around other people all day made you stressed, and the potential for conflict soured your stomach.

“No…No, I didn’t forget…” your voice sounded far away and foreign to your ears. In spite of your best efforts to calm yourself down and just be normal for once, you felt your heart rate skyrocket at the realization that you would have to face him like this. And then he would know. They would all know.

After arriving at the Sanctuary, you had been posted in the Garden Crew, where you worked for points to earn a living. The work had been back-breaking and dull, and the sun had stained your skin with a field of freckles, which made you nervous about Melanoma. Skin cancer would be a death sentence in a world without proper medical treatments.

That was why, when Negan had first approached you about joining his harem of wives, you had jumped at the chance without even a second thought. Staying in his penthouse all day with only the other wives around would greatly diminish the potential for accidents or injuries. Not to mention, that it would mean you could avoid others when you were having a “bad brain day”, as you had come to think of them. The fact that Negan was incredibly attractive? Well, that was just another in a long list of perks, in your opinion.

“Hey, Y/N, is everything ok? You sound kind of fucking…weird…today,” Negan asked, still firmly held at bay by your bedroom door. That relatively thin piece of wood was your last line of defense against the world today, and you wanted desperately to keep that barrier in place as long as you could.

“I’m fine. Just...” you took in a shaky breath, “just give me a sec, ok?”

Your anxiety disorder had been diagnosed when you were in your early 20s, but you knew that it had begun years before that with insomnia and panic attacks when you were 13 years-old. Medication and therapy had helped you immensely for a while, but then the world ended and you had run out of your meds within the first couple of months. Going through the withdrawals had been a nightmare, and you had only kept it together by using some of the skills you had been taught in therapy all those years before.

But sometimes coping mechanisms weren’t enough. Sometimes you just needed to escape the world and be alone with your tears. Today was one of those times.

After you had joined Negan’s harem of wives, your brain had been abnormally calm for a few weeks. The irrational thoughts and feelings of unease just faded away; however, this short reprieve only caused you to dread the anxiety’s return. You knew it would come back eventually. It always did. And when it returned, it was usually stronger than ever.

“Y/N? You still fucking with me?” Negan’s voice startled you, causing you to jump slightly. Lost in thought, you had forgotten he was waiting for you on the other side of the door, “Were Sherry and Amber bitchy to you, or something? Want me to fucking tell ‘em off for ya?”

A faint smile curved your lips for a moment before another flood of tears escaped your eyes. You didn’t deserve this kindness. You didn’t deserve any of this. The anxiety whispered its terrible lullaby in your brain, telling you what an idiot you were and how he would hate and pity you once you opened the door and he saw what a mess his new bride really was.

He hadn’t signed up for this bullshit. There were so many other women here who deserved what you had so much more than you did. They would be better wives for him. He’d never have to put up with them sobbing on the floor of their bedroom when they were supposed to be entertaining him.

“No. They didn’t do anything, Negan,” you whispered, “No one did anything. That’s the point.”

“I don’t get it then. Why don’t you just open the goddamn door and we can talk fucking about it. There’s nothing that a little polite, friendly fucking conversation can’t fix, right?”

“Ok. I’m opening the door,” you stood on shaky legs, feeling as though you were in some kind of nightmare. You didn’t want to open the door and let him see you like this. You didn’t want anyone to know about your condition. But your legs propelled you forward and your hand gripped the cold metal of the doorknob before twisting it and pulling the door open with great effort.

“Fucking Christ! You look un-fucking-believably cute when you cry, Y/N. Is that weird to say? I feel like that’s weird to say..” Negan said, propping a massive arm against the door frame. He was clean shaven, as usual, and his hair was slicked back from his face. You could smell leather and some kind of spicy cologne faintly as he waited for you to step aside, though his leather jacket was nowhere to be seen, “Mind if I come in?”

You sniffled and nodded silently, unable to muster the energy to speak in that moment, and fearful that if you did your voice would waver with emotion. He entered the room, closing the door behind him before plopping down on your bed, his legs spread wide.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” his voice was softer than usual as he patted the bed beside him.

You did as you were instructed, leaving a wide gap between your body and his, and pulled your knees up to your chest before hooking your arms around your legs and allowing your cheek to rest against the bare skin.

“What seems to be the problem? No one was bitchy to you, and I know you haven’t left your room all day…so…are you having some fucking regrets about joining my little family? You can tell me. I can take it,” his expression grew hard and cold as he spoke.

“No. No, nothing like that, Negan,” you replied hurriedly before regaining your composure, “I’m just having a bad brain day. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that I’m like this.”

“Bad brain day? What the fuck does that mean?” his face softened a little.

“I have anxiety. Like, not the regular kind that everyone gets, but the irrational, mental illness kind. I haven’t had symptoms for a while, but today it came back again. And it’s really bad.

“I see. So, like, you’re nervous or something?”

“Kind of. I feel like everyone hates me, and like I don’t deserve to be here, and like I’m going to fuck everything up because I can’t do anything right. And I’ll disappoint you and you won’t want to put up with my bullshit. So you’ll kick me out and replace me with someone better, and I’ll be back on the outside eventually and something really bad will happen out there. I’m sorry. I understand if you want me to go-“

“Hold on a fucking minute!” his voice cut you off and caused you to jump again, “You’re, like, fucking spiraling or something there. You realize that’s not rational, right?”

“Yes! Of course!” you said with an exasperated sigh, “None of it is real. It’s all in my head and that’s what really sucks. When I used to take medication, I could control it. I could kind of…take a step back from the irrational thoughts. It was like the meds put up a barrier and made it easier for me to see reality. But there are no meds anymore. There’s just me and my stupid, fucking asshole of a brain whispering terrible things to me all day.”

You burst into sobs and placed your face against your knees as your hands covered your head. Suddenly, you felt his arms around you, making you feel so small and protected, if only for a moment.

“It’s ok. Nothing bad is going to happen, and I don’t want you to go,” he whispered in your ear, “I’m fucking sorry, Y/N. I had no idea. I’ve never been around anyone who has anxiety like this. It sounds fucking shitty.”

A short laugh broke through the tears, “Yeah. It is really fucking shitty,” you agreed, “But that’s life.”

You felt incrementally better at his words. Some of your irrational fears of him hating you once he found out about your mental illness abated and you took in a deep breath. At least he was sympathetic to your plight.

“Were you afraid to tell me about this?” he asked.

“Yeah. Of course I was. I didn’t want you to think you’d married a crazy woman,” you said, lifting your eyes to his. He brought up his large index finger to brush away a tear that snaked its way down your face, “Not everyone wants to deal with this shit, you know. And you can have your pick of wives.”

“Yeah. I can. But I chose you because I like you. You’re sweet and cute, and you have an ass that just won’t quit!”

Another burst of laughter left your mouth, and you felt some of the tension that your body had been holding on to all day as you dreaded this interaction melt away, “Good use of a Simpsons quote. I give that 9 out of 10!”

“That’s not too fucking bad!” he exclaimed, “Feel a little better?”

“Yeah. I do. Thank you for not judging me, Negan. It means a lot.”

“No need to thank me. I’m just treating you like a person. Just like anyone else should,” he kissed your temple, which was already beginning to throb with a headache brought on from the stress, “We can just hang out in bed and fucking cuddle for a bit if you want tonight. I’m not gonna ask you do anything too strenuous after that.”

“Thanks. Attacks made me feel really tired, and I’m getting a headache on top of that,” you admitted.

“Well, fuck. That one I can fix. I’m gonna get you some painkillers from my room,” he stood up, causing the side of the bed to raise, and made his way to the door, “And tomorrow I’ll talk to Dr. Carson about getting you your meds, if we can find them out there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Life’s fucking hard enough as it is. Why add another layer of shit to the pile, right?”

“Fair enough,” you giggled at him, reclining against your pillows as you waited for Negan to return.  Life would always be hard, but at least you had someone who understood and accepted you.