#warning: panic attacks

[writtenbyan-aries]

heyyy i heard you needed some fluffy requests and I've got one!! Any chance I could get one with sam where y/n is having a panic attack (if you're comfortable writing that) and sam calms her down? If your not comfortable with writing that o totally understand!! love ya!

∶ Summary: While doing an investigation, reader gets a little too freaked out

∶ Warnings: reader has a panic attack, haunted investigation, ghosts, spooky themes, reader gets targeted by spirits, crying, fluffy Sam calming reader down

∶ Word Count: 1.1K

∶ I know panic attacks can be triggering for some, please don’t read if you aren’t comfortable with it. I love you.

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It wasn’t like you to get overwhelmed easy, especially with doing as many investigations with Sam and Colby as you have in the past.

You were always able to hold your own, speak out if something was bugging you. But as soon as you stepped foot inside this house, something was off.

This place was different.

You felt a heavy weight sink into your chest the moment you crossed the threshold. You felt paranoid, like something was always behind you or watching you from a close distance. You kept looking around, wiping your sweaty palms on your thighs every few minutes.

You were scared.

“Hey.” Sam nudges your arm, “Are you good?”

You stare at him, trying hard to hold it together, “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” You force a smile and he furrows his brows, “Are you sure? You aren’t really saying much.”

You swallow, looking around, “This place.. Sam..” you take a deep breath, “This feels different than all of the other places I’ve been to.”

He furrows his brows, “What do you mean?”

Colby pushing open the door causes you to jump, “Fuck.” You sigh, “I feel more.. on edge here. We’ve only been here two hours and from the time we got here, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Sam’s face drops, “Why didn’t you say anything? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to do this.” You nod, more or less trying to convince yourself, “I can do this. I’ll be fine.”

Sam wasn’t one to tell you what to do, he didn’t like doing that. He glanced at Colby and back to you, “If you can’t, don’t.”

You nod, “I won’t.”

Another hour into the investigation and you were worse than before. You felt sweaty. The camera in your hands was shaking like a leaf in a storm. Every time you looked anywhere, you could have swore you seen something move.

You took a few deep breathes, trying to ground yourself, but it just wasn’t working.

As soon as you took a step forward to follow Sam, it’s like someone grabbed your shoulder to keep you from waking. You gasp loudly, whipping your body around, but no one was there.

You were starting to break.

Sam walks up behind you, “what-“

You gasp again, shaking your head as you lay a hand over your eyes, “I-I can’t-“ you look around, your heart beating faster and louder in your chest, you could hear it in your ears, “Out.. I-I..I-i need out.”

You shove the camera into his hands and make your way out of the room. You fly down the steps, running towards the front door.

You struggle to get the door open, but when you do, you pull it open and go. You clear the three steps, landing on your feet and slowly down as you move further away from the house.

Your face was covering your hands, your breathing was quick, shallow. You were sniffling, sobbing on top of it, and your chest felt tight. No matter how hard you tried, it’s like you couldn’t get air into your lungs.

You were having a panic attack, something that hasn’t ever happened to you before. You slid a hand down, clutching your sweatshirt over your chest.

It felt like you were on the verge of dying, and that scared you even more.

“Hey..” Sam whispers, “Hey.” He gently lays his hand on your back, “It’s okay. I’m right here.” He rubs your back gently, “I’m right here.”

You stand up, slowly turning before falling into him. You were sobbing into his neck, arms wrapped around him as you balled up his sweatshirt in your hands. His arms wrap tightly around you, his one hand pressing to your head as he whispers, “It’s okay, I’m here.” He tightens his arms, “You’re safe, sweetheart, I got you.”

You sniffle hard as you try to regain control, only to end up breaking again.

Sam shushes you gently, rocking back and forth as his arms stay snug around your shaking body, “I got you. I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

After a few minutes, you were finally able to get a full breath.

You stay within Sam’s arms, that really being the only place you felt safe right now. He hums lowly, his fingers running back and forth over your hair, “it’s okay.”

Your grip on his sweatshirt starts to loosen and his does the same as you teach up to wipe your face. His hand slide up to your cheek as he looks down at you, “Are you okay?”

You nod, “I think so.” You wrap your arms back around him, your voice quiet , “Thank you for doing that.” Sam tightens his arms around you, “Of course, you’re my number one priority.”

“I should..” you take a deep breath, “I should have said something sooner, I just- I didn’t want to ruin it for you guys.”

His grip tightens slightly, “When you’re with me doing these things, you’re the most important thing. I couldn’t care less about getting footage it if you aren’t okay. I should have called it quits the second you said something to me about it the first time.”

You shake your head, “It’s not your fault Sam, I pushed myself when I shouldn’t have. That was on me.” You sigh, “But, if you want to keep going, you can, but I’m just going to go back to the hotel. I think I’m done here tonight.”

“We’re done, too. I already told Colby to gather up the stuff, I’m not doing this, I can’t with knowing that you’re not okay.” He shakes his head, “I’m sorry this happened.”

You tighten your arms around his torso, “It’s not your fault, Sam. I promise.”

He presses a kiss to your head, “I’m going to go help Colby, you get in the car. I’ll be right back, okay?” You nod, pulling away from him. You get in the car, watching as he walks to the house. A minute later, him and Colby come walking out.

Sam gets into the passenger seat, reaching back to lay his hand on your knee. You lay your hand overtop of his, and that’s how it stayed the whole way back to the hotel.

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If you struggle with panic attacks, anxiety attacks, or any other kind of mental health struggles - you are not alone. None of that defines you. It happens to even the best of us. I love you so much. 🖤

Thank you so much for reading, as I said - I love you so much. I’ll catch you in the next one! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[outer-andromeda]

Wanted to add on to the "Raph avoiding sleep at all costs" thing with doodles I had made earlier today oop

TWs - SH (technically), blood, panic attack

... Raph has reoccurring nightmares after the events of Chapter 3. He can't get out of his head the face he saw in that one tape while he was hallucinating... And it doesn't help that his mind keeps twisting it into something worse and worse every time.

He wakes up in a cold sweat. Trembling. Breathing heavily. His heart thumping hard in his chest. And he wants to scream and sob. But he can't. He doesn't want to wake up the kids.

He's found... Ways to cope. Even if they aren't the safest. It hurts for a while, but at least the toys get the rest that they need.

So uh ... Yeah. When he does get some rest, it's... Usually short-lived. He really tries his hardest to hide it from the kids, not wanting to put another burden on their shoulders, but uh...

Yeah. Catnap ain't having any of that bullshit.

Edit : I'm realizing how ironic it is that Catnap is the one that knows about Raph's nightmares and wants to make sure he gets rest when he was literally the being behind said nightmares in the first place 💀

[shebecamethesun]

The Spaces in Between part 41

(part 40 here)

[ack-cough]

Have Meowsabeau or Mewrabelle tried using Body Craft on themselves? How has that worked out? Especially Meowsabeau, with his history of being stuck in a body he didn't want.

I definitely couldn't pass this Ask up but I've also haven't had a Mewabelle centric post in a while!!! Please forgive TwT

Ms "I don't want to change, I'm happy with who I am" Maribelle. Is taking it as well as you expect

⚠️NONSEXUAL PARTIAL NUDITY, PANIC ATTACK AND DESTRESS WARNING ⚠️

(I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE I DONT WANT TO CHANGE -)

She's normally able to cope with the fictional horrors she already adores, being able to resinate with the wolf men and cursed beings more than ever!

But I cant say every night goes well.. who knew having your body and mind changed against your wants, by the god you devoted your life to no less! Would upset you a lil bit

[queenie-ofthe-void]

The Babysitter Chronicles - Hopper

Steve POV 5+1 (immediately follows s2) || wc: 4.6k || cws: check tags || full fic ao3

Henderson || Mayfield pt 1 / Mayfield pt 2 || Sinclair || Wheeler || Byers || +1 Hopper

Can be read as a standalone

~~~

It’s Friday night at the Harrington house, which means it’s movie night. Even though this week is Dustin’s turn to pick, Steve can hear the kids arguing all the way from the kitchen. He’s in the middle of prepping snacks and drinks, just waiting on the pizza, when the doorbell rings. 

The arguing stops, and he can hear footsteps running towards the front door.

“Hey,” Steve shouts just as Mike and Max round the corner. “What did I tell you guys about answering the goddamn door?”

“But we know who it is,” Mike argues. “It’s the goddamned pizza man.”

“Language!” Max shouts it the same time Steve does, and he looks over to see her smirking with her hands on her hips. She obnoxiously runs a hand through her hair, pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks up at him. Of course he’s stood the same way.

He rolls his eyes, which only spurs her on as she laughs, running around the corner out of sight before he can bitch her out.

These kids will be the end of him.

The doorbell rings again and again and again.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve sighs, “I’m coming!”

Instead of the pizza man, he opens the door to Police Chief Jim Hopper. Fully uniformed, he stands stiff as a statue, arms crossed and mustache twitching in irritation. The cruiser sits running in the driveway and he’s looming on the front stoop staring him down like every other time he’s busted one of King Steve’s parties.

Anxiety floods his veins as he racks his brain for why the chief is here. He’s not throwing a party. The kids are noisy, sure, but not loud enough to bother the neighbors. He hasn’t drank since his fight with Billy.

Shit.

“Hop. I mean, Chief,” Steve stumbles, panic bubbling in his lungs. “Sir, I swear it was just to help with the pain.”

The Chief drops his arms, one hand moving to pinch his nose while he props the other on his hip. God this is worse than he thought. He hears Max cackle behind him, and he turns to find her watching them from behind the corner of the wall. Having absolutely no idea what she’s on about, he waves her away before Hopper gets even more irritated.

“No really,” Steve pleads, turning back to face Hopper and the consequences of his actions. “I just needed something to help me sleep! Munson said it would help with migraines too so I thought–”

“Munson?” He stares at Steve, eyebrows crinkling in confused frustration. “Why are you buying off him? More importantly, how do you even know he sells? You know what, no, nevermind don’t answer that. Didn’t you get meds from the hospital?”

Steve quickly glances away, shifting his weight as he tries to come up with a response.

“Dammit kid,” Hopper yells. “You told me you were going to go to the hospital.”

“Yeah, I know. I know I did but–”

He catches a brief rustling of fabric behind the Chief that he hadn’t noticed before. Leaning around the left side, Hopper steps out of the way to reveal a young girl with large, brown eyes and curly brown hair. She’s bundled up in an oversized flannel coat over what Steve thinks is another too-large flannel shirt. Actually, most of her clothes look a few sizes too big.

Steve’s never really met El before. They didn’t talk after she saved them all from the demodogs, and she was in-and-out of consciousness when Hopper brought her back after closing the gate. Things had been so chaotic, he’d made a point to go unnoticed as everyone trickled back into the Byers’ house, standing off to the side and out of the way.

For a girl who’s saved the world, she’s more shy than he expected. He smiles and bends over to meet her at eye-level. When she smiles back, he waves at her. She copies him again and giggles, hiding her face behind Hopper’s jacket.

The Chief’s heavy, drawn out sigh pulls Steve’s focus again. He scrubs his hands over his face, like he’s trying to wipe this moment from his memory. 

“Look, kid, I need a favor. Can we come in?”

Steve shows them down the hall and into the TV room where the boys greet her with enthusiastic hugs. He flicks his eyes over to Max, now sitting alone on the couch. She’s watching the boys flit around their friend with a slight frown on her face, but as Steve moves to make introductions, Will plops down next to her. He drops an armful of colored pencils and sketch pads on the table in front of them, and a small smile skates across her face.

Hopefully he can count on Lucas to remember not everyone knows El. If not, Steve will make sure to introduce everyone and ease the tension later.

Hopper leans against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed and arms braced behind him. He fixes Steve with a tense glare which has the boy self-consciously wrapping his arms around his torso, shrinking in on himself. Steve’s never had great relationships with adults or any type of authority. Hopper’s gruff and intimidating, doesn’t put up with bullshit, and he’s a cop for christ’s sake. 

They stare at each other uncomfortably for what feels like hours before Hopper sighs, hard and heavy. “I don’t even know where to start with you, kid.”

Steve flinches, can’t help it after a decade of hearing similar statements from his father, usually followed up by a lecture on how he’s not good enough in some way or another. 

Hopper, like Joyce, catches the movement faster than Steve can recover. “Shit, kid, that’s not–” he sighs again, “I’m not good at this kind of thing. Something that she likes to point out all the time.” A fond smile crosses Hopper’s face as he points a thumb behind him towards the living room.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, unsure what he’s even talking about,  so Steve waits for whatever lecture is barreling his way. Even with the Chief’s smile, he can’t relax.

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital, Steve?” Hopper asks, disappointed. “I asked if you’d go, and you said you would. So why didn’t you.”

“I got the stitches,” Steve snaps, hackles rising in defense, “does it matter where they came from?”

“You lied to me.” Hopper’s voice is rising. “I checked with the nurses, and they didn’t have any intake paperwork under your name.” He’s switched back to detective mode, and Steve feels himself being backed into a wall.

“That’s��� that’s illegal, or something. Right? Like–” Steve stumbles his words when he catches Hopper roll his eyes– “you can’t look up my medical stuff.”

The Chief scoffs and bites back, clearly annoyed. “I’ve known over half of the ER nurses for longer than you’ve been alive. So if I ask after one of my own kids, I’m gonna get some goddamn answers.”

It feels like a hit to the head all over again, leaving Steve dazed. His mouth hangs open around words he can’t articulate, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s never thought of Hop as anyone other than the Chief of Police and one of the only two adults in this damn town who know about the Upside Down.

So how’s Steve supposed to respond when Hopper calls him one of my kids? It rings in his head, settles hot behind his eyes. The Chief must notice, because he raises a hand and makes a move toward Steve that sets his heart into a panic. He fumbles for a response before something crazy happens, like getting a hug from an actual, male adult, or god-forbid crying in front of said adult.

“I drove out to Munson’s to buy some pre-rolls. He said if I paid extra his uncle could stitch me up because he was in the army and knows how to do that kind of stuff.” Steve’s rushing to fill the silence, the words tumbling over one another. “I already tried doing it myself–”

“Jesus christ, kid,” Hopper interrupts, muttering under his breath.

“– and I knew it would scar anyways but I couldn’t go to a hospital because they’d call my parents so I paid him a hundred and then Mr. Munson wouldn’t let me leave so they let me stay overnight on the couch.” Steve’s winded by the time he’s done, and sucks in a large breath to keep himself together. Judging by the red splotches on Hopper’s face, he might be feeling the same.

It had been one hell of a night, at least from the bits and pieces Steve actually remembers. The trailer was small and cozy, the space heater lulling him into a post-adrenaline haze. Even though the stitches were painful, Mr. Munson’s hands had been deft, his smile gentle, but his eyes guarded and wary. 

Steve can’t blame him. Most people know the Harrington’s, and it’s not past Steve for him to realize why Mr. Munson would be hesitant to invite him into their home, especially when he was beaten to a pulp. 

But he refused to let Steve go home to an empty house, said it was too dangerous to sleep alone. Munson let out a shriek weirdly reminiscent of Dustin when Wayne refused payment, although Steve still managed to sneak him a twenty for the weed and a few painkillers.

“Wayne’s a good man,” Hopper says. “Guess I’ll owe him one next time I catch his damned nephew out at the quarry again.” He chuckles fondly, eyes fixed on a memory Steve can’t see. But after a moment, Hopper’s back to grilling him. “Joyce mentioned something you said, your folks being gone a lot.”

Even though it’d only been less than a week since he knocked on the Byers’ front door, he’s still surprised she remembers his slip up. It didn’t register as important in the grand scheme of things. At least not in the face of Ms. Byers coming to terms with Will spending time with him.

“They’re home often enough.” Steve's familiar line rolls easy off his tongue. Still, he can’t stop from crossing his arms over his chest as he moves his gaze to the side, pretending his grocery list on the fridge is the most interesting thing in the room. He licks over the small scab leftover on his lip, the only remaining physical evidence of his life’s biggest failure.

“Really?” Hopper says. It’s not a question, so Steve doesn’t answer. “Then tell me where they are, right now. Or the last time you talked to them in person.”

Steve snaps his mouth closed, about to tell the Chief he’d actually talked to his mother on the phone yesterday. She’d called to inform him they’d moved money into his checking account for groceries and cleaning supplies, the house is surely a mess. He’s not actually sure where they are, or if they’re even in the country.

“They’re in Chicago,” Steve lies. Hopper’s already shaking his head.

“No, kid, they’re not.” A rock falls in the pit of Steve’s stomach, dread creeping up the back of his neck as Hopper pushes on. “I got your dad’s secretary's number from the Mayor. They’ve been in New York for three weeks, and they’re headed to Toronto tomorrow for another week and a half.”

“You called them?” Steve practically shouts. He shoots a glance towards the kitchen door. The muted sound of the kids’ arguing filters in from the living room, and it seems they haven’t noticed his outburst. 

Heat’s building behind his eyes, a wet sheen blurring his vision. The scab on his lip is starting to peel again, and he can’t stop the nervous tapping of his foot on the spotless tile floor.

But Hopper’s already clocked Steve’s cresting panic before he can shove the fear back in the box. The Chief holds up his hands, and Steve wonders if he looks like a spooked animal. 

“I didn’t mention you, or what happened. All I said was I needed some legal advice, and wanted to know when they’d be back in town.” Hopper’s tone is quiet, his words measured and slow. His eyes are wide, nervous.

Steve hesitates before looking up at him. “So?” He knows his voice is small, like a sad, pathetic child’s voice. Because even though he knows it doesn’t matter, he’s compelled to ask like he always used to. He wonders if there’ll always be some part of him who waits for a knock on the front door.

He hopes not.

When Hopper only responds with a shake of his head, mouth pinched into a firm line, Steve freezes, body tense. He tilts his head back fruitlessly as the tears drip down his cheeks. Steve presses the palms of his hands into his eyes hard enough to see stars, but it’s still no use. 

It doesn’t help. His lip starts to wobble even as he chews it bloody. There’s a rock lodged in the back of his throat, and his body heaves with a shameful sob that breaks the dam open.

He falls into a crouch on the ground, balanced on the balls of his feet. Hidden from the doorway behind the kitchen counter, he drops his head in his hands. If he can’t will himself to stop, Steve can at least hide himself away, hope Hopper’s uncomfortable enough he just leaves and they can both pretend this never happened.

But instead Steve feels warm, heavy arms sling around his back. He’s being pulled forward and slightly sideways, when his face hits the rough polyester scratch of the Chief’s uniform as he tucks Steve into his side. 

Hopper should be yelling at him to man up, to get it together, to live up to the Harrington name. He should feel embarrassed, ashamed. 

Instead, it’s a paternal warmth Steve’s never experienced. Hopper shushes Steve like a child, tells him over and over that he’s ok, everything’s going to be ok. Except Steve knows that that isn’t true, not always.

“The kids almost died, and it was my fault.” His voice is wet and his words are soaked together through the clog in his throat.

“Steve,” Hopper cuts in, but Steve plows over him like he hadn’t said anything.

“What if Max hadn’t stopped him, and he’d killed Lucas?” Steve’s shaking, gasping for breath. “I should’ve fought him off, thrown him off me when he pinned me to the ground.” He can faintly hear Hopper telling him to breathe, but he sounds so far away and Steve’s lungs are collapsing and his heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. 

He’s vomiting words he’s tried so hard to keep locked away, spilling them all over the kitchen floor for everyone to see how sick and fucked up Steve Harrington really is when no one’s looking. “Billy smiled when I hit him, screamed like it was fun when he smashed that plate on my head. He just kept hitting me and hitting me and hitting me. And– and it hurt. Everything hurt.”

“Steve,” Hop whispers into the top of his head. It’s scary, how soft it feels.

“Hop, I– ” Steve chokes, forcing the confession out of his chest with all the strength he’s got left– “I think I almost died.”

The gruff man doesn’t say anything. His large hand moves to cradle the back of Steve’s head as he continues to fall apart in his overly large arms. Hop’s stomach is squishy like a pillow, but Steve can still hear the guy’s strong, steady heartbeat from where his head is laid on his chest.

Steve hones in on the sound, matches his breathing to the pulse until he’s calmed. Exhausted, he moves to pull away, and Hop finally lets him. When they stand up, Steve notices Hop’s eyes are wet, although his cheeks are dry.

Hopper opens and closes his mouth a few times before dragging his hands down his face. He sniffles, loud and gross like a man who’s not used to being around people. It’s a little disgusting, and Steve can’t help but scoff at the sound. Hopper peaks out at him over the edges of his fingers where they drag down his eyes. 

The doorbell chimes throughout the house, and the shuffling of scattered feet break out from the living room. Before Steve can turn away, the kitchen door swings open.

It’s El, slowly exploring the kitchen with curious eyes before settling on the men across the kitchen. She tilts her head to the side, examining Steve like she’s carefully cataloguing his blotchy cheeks, the snot still clinging to the tip of his nose, his mussed up hair and labored breaths. 

She moves towards him, preparing to say something, when Mike shouts from the foyer, “nevermind, El, we found the money on the table” yet she doesn’t make a move to rejoin them. She’s still staring at Steve, still moving closer. 

Hopper’s watching her carefully but doesn’t say anything, so Steve doesn’t do anything. He’s trapped in her big, brown eyes, and maybe that’s one of her super powers, putting people in a trance by being too adorable.

“You’re sad, Steve,” she asks, a lilt in her slightly monotone voice.

He clears his throat. “Yes. Yeah, I am.” Steve drags his sleeve across his face so hard that it reddens.

El’s smile is gentle, but without a trace of pity or teasing, like he’d get from the other kids. Well, except maybe Will.

She reaches out to grab his hand and says, like she’s repeating a mantra that’s told to her over and over, “everyone gets sad sometimes, and that’s ok” and Steve does his best not to cry again. He squeezes her tiny hand in his, and she squeezes back.

“El, honey,” Hopper says, sniffling again like he’s sucking a noodle up through his nose. El scrunches her nose and visibly shutters at the noise. When she catches Steve’s matchin expression, they break out into a fit of giggles. Hopper only rolls his eyes at them. “Can you keep the kids busy so they don’t come in here?”

She nods.

“Without telling them why,” Steve pleads.

Her eyebrows pinch together, lips puckered into a frown. “But friends don’t lie.”

“Sometimes it’s to keep someone safe,” Hopper answers her unspoken question.

El tilts her head again, this time to the other side as she considers his argument. Steve’s compelled to defend himself, he doesn’t need to be kept safe from the kids. But he also doesn’t want to listen to their incessant teasing, so he keeps his objections to himself.

She looks over her shoulder towards the noise, shouting now about where to find paper plates and napkins. Mike’s bitching can be heard above the rest, and Steve catches El rolling her eyes. “Sometimes they are mouth-breathers too.”

Steve’s not sure what that means, but Hopper barks out a laugh and she giggles like she said a swear word. But she squeezes his hand again and leaves. 

It’s official, the girls are his favorites.

“Alright kid, listen up, because I’ve got a deal for you.” Hopper looks completely unphased, like the last ten minutes never happened. Steve can still feel the heat splotched on his neck and cheeks, the burn in the back of his throat. He doesn’t think he’ll forget this for a long time.

“I thought you needed a favor?”

“Yeah, well, now it’s an ultimatum. And you’re going to take it.”

Steve scoffs, amused at the surety of Hopper’s tone and the glint in his eye. The man must be waiting for him to respond, but Steve just raises his eyebrow. Hopper lets out an unflattering snort, but takes the hint to continue.

He appreciates the change in tone, thinks maybe Hopper did it on purpose. Like he was just as anxious and awkward as Steve felt. But now, back on familiar ground, Steve’s lighter than he’s felt in months.

“You’re going to babysit El.” Hopper says it like it’s a fact, like Steve’s already agreed to it. Like it’s not a big deal to have someone like El out in the general public when none of them are even entirely sure she’s safe in Hawkins.

Steve knew the moment he left the Munson’s trailer, fresh as a bruised peach with swollen stitches in his forehead, that he was going to put himself in charge of the kids. Planned on going to Dustin’s the very next day to talk with Claudia about it.

He’d strategized and planned each parent down to the details– other than Mike, which was a bit of a disaster. Some of them took more convincing than others, but in the end they’d all given him a chance to prove himself capable. It’s everything Steve’s hoped for.

But he’d never even considered El. Not because he doesn’t know her, even though it’s true. Steve didn’t really know Will either, yet that didn’t stop Steve from including the kid in his plans.

No he just never thought to ask after El because he thought it was, like, illegal. She’s more than just an awkward pre-teen girl. She’s a superhero, she’s on the run, she doesn’t go to school, barely sees the Party. Steve just assumed El was off limits.

She doesn’t need protection… does she?

A hard hand clasped on his shoulder breaks Steve’s daze.

“If the last year has taught me anything, Steve, is that she deserves to live her life around people that care about her. El needs her friends– even goddamned Wheeler.” Hopper huffs, rolls his eyes and, yeah, Steve can empathize. Mike is exhausting. “But she’s just a kid, and I need to leave her with someone I can trust. Some place where I know she’s safe and will be protected at all costs.”

Steve feels vibrations begin to rack through his body again. He can’t bear to cry a second time, can’t handle having to explain to Hop that he’s going to have to find someone else to fit all of those criteria. Because clearly the man wasn’t listening when Steve explained how he almost died failing to save the kids. But before he can argue, Hopper cuts him off.

“I know what you’re thinking, Steve. You protected those kids the best you could, better than anyone else in your situation would’ve been able. You put yourself between them and death more than once that night. That’s not something everyone’s got in them, kid. That’s something special– and it’s exactly what El needs. What I need.”

“I mean, of course. I’d love– thank you.” Hop shakes his head, again cutting Steve off mid-blabber.

“The ultimatum, kid, remember?” He waits until Steve nods before he explains himself. “The deal is, if you’re watching her for me, then you’re going to let me watch out for you too.”

That brings Steve to a halt. His brow pinches together as he puzzles out what exactly Hop means by watching out for him too. He just said he trusts Steve enough to watch El, but now it sounds almost as if he’s backtracking.

“Jesus I can hear the gears in your head cranking away, Harrington.” Hopper drops his other hand on Steve’s shoulder. He’s being held in place by two massive mitts on his shoulders and he can’t figure out if the weight is a comfort or a prison.

“I don’t get it,” Steve says, shaking his head.

The Chief exhales rough through his nose, and hangs his head. Anxiety sparks through Steve again until Hop shakes him lightly.

“If El’s going to be hanging around here, that means sometimes I’m going to be hanging around here, and you’re going to let me,” Hopper says with a small smirk on his face. “You’re going to let me bring groceries over and cook dinner while you do your homework. You’re going to come by the cabin every once in a while to watch the basketball game. You’re also going to tell me when your parents call or when they’re in town”

Steve knows there’s more to Hopper’s torturously long list of conditions, but he doesn’t want to hear it. The Chief’s grip is a firm hold as he tries to break loose. “Look, Chief, I don’t need someone–”

“And!” Hopper shouts, a manic grin spreads across his face. It’s such a stark contrast to the man’s normal scowl it stops Steve in his tracks. Hopper’s expression is wild, like he’s enjoying Steve’s feeble attempts at defending himself. “Holidays are a requirement, Harrington. Hot cocoa, old Christmas movies, decorating the tree. New Year’s Eve. Birthdays. All of it.”

Steve’s at a loss for words. He knows what this is, can spot a shakedown when he sees one. Except this doesn’t feel hostile, not like when his dad always threatened to take the car away if Steve didn’t medal in swimming or score during a game. This is uncomfortable, but– nice? 

A lot like how this entire conversation has been.

“Umm,” Steve tries, “I can’t leave–”

“Don’t argue with me, Steve.”

“Can I bring Max?” Steve asks as Hopper stares at him. “To the holidays, and stuff. I’ll do it if I can bring Max too.”

Hopper’s manic grin fades into a more genuine smile as he stands upright. He pulls Steve into another hug before releasing him to ruffle his hair. Steve squawks, immediately mortified at how Dustin-esque it sounds. 

“Of course you can bring Max.”

They make their way back to the living room and sure enough, the pizza is already almost gone. Scraps of crust and dirty napkins litter the floor. The coffee table is a mess of colored pencils, crayons, sketch pads, and pencils. 

He’s worried it’s still awkward between the kids, and hopes El’s ok with Hopper leaving her here for a few hours. She still doesn’t know Steve, doesn’t know Will or Max either. But when he notices the Party, his anxieties melt from his shoulders. He can’t help the smile that crinkles his eyes at the sight of them

Will’s sitting facing the group, drawing a giant purple dragon with a small castle off in the distance. Steve notices each kid has a sketchpad. Some are rather good, close to matching Will’s– Lucas and Max– while others could use some work– Dusin, El, and Mike.

But they’re laughing as Max draws a comically large skateboard under her green dragon. El’s sat between her and Mike, eyes wide and intense as Max promises to show off her skateboard the next time she sees her. 

He hears the soft click of the front door behind him, and the rumbling of Hopper’s truck as it pulls out of the driveway. Dustin catches sight of him, practically scrambles to his feet as he drags Steve into the living room, yanking him down in the open spot next to him and thrusts a sketchpad in Steve’s hands.

Lucas hands him a plate with two pieces of pepperoni he saved just for Steve, and Dustin helps him catch up before Will shows them how to draw a knight. El finds Steve a yellow colored pencil when he can’t find one. Max crawls to sit next to him and smacks Mike on the back of the head when he says Steve’s castle looks haunted, little wisps of chimney smoke mistaken for ghosts.

It’s nothing. 

It’s just a seventeen year old boy, sitting in the middle of a gaggle of kids, coloring and eating pizza and making each other laugh. Settled and relaxed in a way he never expected after the horrors from the past year. And he knows, without a doubt, he’d do it all over again if it meant he’d end up right here.  It’d be nothing to most people but it’s everything to Steve, because for the first time in his life, he’s well and truly happy.

[vampirtulpe]

How do you even draw hugs

Wanted to draw Kaiser, I feel so bad for him in his first fight. But then made myself sad, so I drew Joe trying to help him (he always gets a little emotional himself when Kaiser is in such a state

[shr1mply-here]

RUN!

WHAT DO YOU *huff* THINK WE’RE TRYING TO DO?!? *Wheeze*

OOoo… hand-holding.. ✨

*Huff!* oh god—! *wheeze* whys it so hard to breathe right now?!—

Shrimpo?.. are you okay?

Do.. *huff* I LOok okay?!— *Wheezy cough*

*shrimpo’s voice sounds very strained and sore.

D-don’t worry! I’ll save you!—

(you idiot, I’m here to save you.)

SPLAT!!

H-huh?.. wh-who is that?

(Ohgodthatssick—)

Theses silly things never learn~!

Hehehehehehe!

You two are in quite the conundrum!

[inkie-does-whump]

1

Maybe You’re Right (And Maybe I’ve Been Ruined)

A whump fic about Jimmy being pathetic :3

About 1800 words total, but I'm posting it in several parts, so here's part one!

Contains (for the whole fic): torture, abuse, starvation, death (within the three lives system), mental conditioning, stolckholm syndrome, Jimmy gets treated like an animal, golden apples break soulbinding, washing wounds hurt, Jimmy's Avian instincts, mention of Pearl's moth instincts, Martyn is an absolute bitch, previous flower husbands reference, Solidaritek, panic attacks (many of them), unlearning abuse, idk I feel like I missed something

Summary: Jimmy gets kidnapped by the divorce quartet in Double Life. They demand to know where the enchanter is. Jimmy misses Tango.

Author's Note: I wrote this many years ago. It's not great compared to my recent stuff. Also the characterization sucks. That being said. Enjoy <3

The first thing they do to Jimmy when wakes up is shove an apple in his mouth.

“Eat.”

When he taste the metallic skin of the fruit he recoils. No. No, they aren’t supposed to eat that, not this season. It breaks the soulmate spell. Jimmy doesn’t want to do that.

He spits the golden apple out and scans the area he’s woken up in. It seems to be some sort of basement, the are heavy chains connecting him to the back wall.

In front of him, Cleo is kneeling, looking unimpressed.

She picks up the apple and holds it to Jimmy’s face, “I told you to EAT.” She hisses.

“What have you done to me?!” he snaps. Or, tries to snap. There is something lethargic in his brain that refuses to let his words come out straight. He sounds all slurred.

Cleo grabs Jimmy by the jaw and forces the apple in his mouth again, “just a bite.” She huffs, “we don’t want to draw attention to Tango.”

Tango?! What did they do to Tango?! The thought of his soulmate, alone and unprotected, makes anxiety wiggle inside him. He knows that he can feel strong emotions and physical pain that Tango has through his soulbond. Right now their bond is strangely quiet. This doesn’t help Jimmy’s anxiety.

Cleo forces Jimmy’s jaw to close. He recoils and gags on the bite. It tastes like metals and fake sweetener.

She discards the rest of the apple. They both know he only needs to swallow one bite.

Jimmy sits, stubbornly, with the chunk of apple in his mouth. He would not break his soulbond with Tango.

Cleo sighs. “CHEW.” She snarls. Her massive hand is still wrapped around his jaw. She could probably crush his skull if she wanted to.

And if the rules allowed her. She wasn’t supposed to attack anyone until they had reached their last life and turned Red. Jimmy was the Red one here, he was supposed to be the threatening one.

Instead he was forcing a straight face and pushing the chunk of apple to the front of his mouth, hoping to spit it out.

Cleo narrows her eyes, “You Reds are so uncooperative.” She growls. Her grip tightens and pain blooms across Jimmy’s skin where her nails dig into his cheeks. She bares her teeth at him, all fierce canines.

Jimmy tries to shrink away, but Cleo has a firm grip on his skull. His neck sticks out awkwardly.

Cleo grabs him by the arm and yanks him forward. Jimmy let’s out a gasp, falling forward quickly. She catches him and tilts his head back so his neck is exposed to her.

“we can do this the easy way.” She drags one of her nails across his throat horizontally, “or you can see God.”

Jimmy’s teeth crunch through the bite of apple nervously. Cleo draws back, pleased.

“go on.” She murmurs. “swallow.”

He doesn’t at first, but those monstrous yellow eyes of hers are boring into his brain, and his head still felt like it was swimming. He slowly begins to chew.

She keeps watching him with steady eyes until he nervously swallows.

The effect is immediate. He can feel the magic from the apple, that should have made him stronger, clash with the soulbond in his chest. He gasps for air, head suddenly spinning with conflict. Somewhere in front of him Cleo looks mildly amused. Jimmy is having difficulty focusing on her, or anything.

There is just a war inside him, threatening to tear him apart.

He doesn’t register his head hit the floor, but he’s suddenly looking at the ceiling through a blue if tears. He can barely breathe. It doesn’t hurt, it feels more like saying goodbye to someone close. The pain is all emotional.

When the feeling ebbs, and Jimmy has a moment to catch his breath, he feels empty. He’d gotten so used to feeling Tango’s connection that it felt wrong to go without it now. He is so, so lonely.

Cleo nods once, “well, my job is done.” She huffs, “good luck.”

Jimmy’s stomach drops, “good luck?” he asked weakly, but the door is already closing behind her. He sits up, sniffs, and wipes the tears from his cheeks.

He barely has a moment to himself when Scott comes marching in, Martyn at his heels. There is something burning in Scott’s expression. Jimmy can’t help but shrink away.

Scott stops a few feet in front of him. “your soulbond is broken?” he asks.

Jimmy nods, not meeting Scott’s eyes and wondering why this was happening. He had never been on bad terms with Cleo or Martyn, and definitely not with Scott, but he supposed things always change when you turn Red. People suddenly found him threatening, when, really, Jimmy had only ever wanted to live peacefully with the people he loved, game be damned.

“Good.” Scott smirks. “Tell us where the Enchanter is.”

Jimmy feels his stomach flip. He knows the Enchanter is important for Scott and the other Yellows to get stronger. So the Yellows can fight back harder. All Jimmy knows is that it’s been bouncing between different Red players ever since he turned Red himself. He has no idea who had it now.

Jimmy backs away from Scott, head still spinning enough to keep him on the floor. Whatever drugs they’d used on him were working. The heavy chains drag around as he moves. “I don’t know.” He manages, “I don’t know, I just-“

Scott gives Martyn a look, and suddenly Jimmy is struck hard enough to send him across the room. Martyn kicked him. Jimmy wasn’t expecting this, and now his head was pounding and his palms were scraped. He mentally apologized, instinctively, to Tango for the pain. He’s forgotten his bond is broken.

“try again.” Scott chides. “I know you can do better than that.”

Martyn paces over to Jimmy and glares down at him with narrow eyes. Jimmy can only look weakly up at him from where he is still lying on the ground.

“I wouldn’t tell you.” Jimmy gasps, “even if I knew, you’re just gonna-“

He trails off weakly when Martyn raises his boot at situates it firmly on Jimmy’s skull, threatening to crush it. The grip on the bottom of Martyn’s shoe digs in to Jimmy’s cheek.

“go on.” Martyn whispers, near begging Jimmy for an excuse to do it.

Jimmy swallows nervously, “I don’t know.” He says, trying to keep his voice steady.

Scott nods once, and Martyn pulls his foot back for another harsh kick.

Desperately, Jimmy tried to roll out of the way. Martyn’s shoe catches his shoulder instead, and he stumbles forward, confused. Martyn looks back at Jimmy with eyes like ice.

“What was that?” he hisses.

Jimmy rubs his shoulder, wincing. That would leave a bruise. Scott is strangely quiet.

Martyn reaches and drags Jimmy to his feet, grip firm around the collar of his shirt. The sudden movement makes the world spin under Jimmy. He can’t think straight. The cuffs around his wrists strain his joints with the extra weight.

“Don’t try anything.” Martyn snarls, “I am I KINDNESS compared to Cleo. Be glad it’s ME.”

Jimmy is thrown like a ragdoll. He doesn’t have the reaction time to stop his head from hitting the floor unprotected. His chest is forcefully emptied of air and his vision has gone dark and blurry. He can’t move through the pain.

Somewhere, very far away, he hears Martyn turn to Scott, “we should take a break.”

Scott takes a long moment to answer, “I don’t think Jimmy can take anymore anyway.”

Footsteps.

“Jimmy?” Scott’s voice, “where is the Enchanter?”

Jimmy can’t do anything but let out a weak whine and a trembling, “S-scott… please…”

The is a sigh, footstep, and Jimmy is unconscious before they make it out the room

...

Part two link!

[allangstnocomfort]

‼️NEW CHAPTER‼️

Fractured Constellations

Chapter 7

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56233000/chapters/168715060

#aftg #aftgficrec #aftgficrecs #andrewminyard #neiljosten #andreil #amnesiaau #allforthegame #norasakavic #thefoxholecourt #theravenking #thekingsmen #thesunshinecourt #ao3 #aftgfic #aftgfanfiction

[hermitsdump]

art by @winterrbluess inspired this <3

bf sukuna x disabled reader sickfic: (unspecified gender/appearance) reader has a bad POTS day (they also have ptsd but no specified trauma)

relationship: established, living together, aro/ace

au: real world, no curses, no jjk lore, no spoilers

word count: 3.4k (one shot, completed)

song rec:

panic attack fits too but this is even better <3

edit to add: I don't think I'll be posting the rest here, but part 2 is up on ao3. there are 4 parts in total, but I'm not brave enough to proofread them yet T_T

is a heavy heart too much to hold?

Sukuna followed through your shared apartment, lilac pj pants slung across his hips. they looked too good on him. his thick, pink hair messily touseled, even soft to your eyes. it wasn't fair. even now, out of sight you could see it, Sukuna too close behind you, the fabric of your clothing brushing against his legs as you walk through the clear kitchen space.

he stops, allowing space between you. his voice asking for clarity, what's wrong. you can't focus on the words, vision a washed-out blur, suddenly too bright to see.

is it really a panic attack, that invisible proximity enough to set you off? after all this time of thinking they no longer happened? and with him? the safest person in the world, who'd bare his fangs to protect you on instinct.

maybe some things never finish healing, do they?

you take in the color of the floor, a light wood smeared with sunlight cast diagonally from the far windows. it feels cold against your cheek. he must have caught you before colliding with it, consciousness fading out.

Sukuna checks your body, facedown to spare you from choking on your own potential vomit. breath unobstructed, pulse hammering. it wasn't an issue of histamine, but some psychological trigger.

you were fine, more or less. not feverish to the touch, and though your own feelings on that may differ, they were worthless. you felt feverish, on average, probably every day. maybe 3 separate episodes, maybe 3 days without one. it didn't seem to mean anything. that bothered sukuna – there were no thorough coincidences in this world. everything the product of cause and effect. together you'd been able to narrow down the bulk of it, but even the foods that usually triggered this didn't always. poor homeostasis to blame, maybe, but not if he could help it.

rolling you back onto his arms, your boyfriend stands from where he knelt beside you, carrying your horizontal form back to bed. that one bulky plushie under your ankles to hold them up before drawing the covers over you.

Sukuna checks your pulse periodically, out of habit more than anything. you had often been checking it with that obnoxious monitor, bulky and heavy and easily slipping. its own thin strap had broken the plastic, so it didn't even have a lanyard to hang from (it would have been fixed, if it were worthy of that). not registering your finger half the time and the other half, its numbers on display so bright it was like squinting at the sun just to read 4 predictable digits.

you had been skeptical at first, but even with his fingers just on your wrist, monitor definitely hidden from his line of sight, the numbers matched. when you had a reading to compare his to, anyway. sometimes it was dug out just for oxygen level curiosity, but sukuna swore he could read it too. you struggled not to believe him at that point.

Sukuna sits beside the bed, hand laying on yours and fingertips easily in reach of your wrist. a couple of books stacked on the desk, one open in his hand, reading glasses resting on his nose. he was always removing the dust jackets, never to be seen again. turning the page on a mysteriously blank, dark green hard-cover now, glancing over your face each time.

there was nothing remarkable until you interrupted his mid-sentence, quiet sounds of struggling to breathe. Sukuna's phone already unlocked with the flashlight on, checking your airway, still nothing in it. what would there be, some bug he failed to detect before it crawled far into your nose? you roll to your side, cheek against the pillow and mouth still wide open. after using it for a few breaths, they seemed to clear up. choking on nothing in your sleep just to worry him.

Sukuna wouldn't bring this up, probably, only if it mattered. if you wanted to know. he had a strong feeling that you didn't. or at best, didn't care at all. so long as there wasn't some creeping condition, undiagnosed sleep disorder or something like that, it didn't have to concern you. Just an emotional prod, a bundle of straws on the camel's back. the camel had enough to carry. everyone sounds weird in their sleep sometimes.

you blink awake slowly, eyes seeming to roll and only half-open. something wet and cold on the pillow. fingertips brushing against your own drool? maybe that does happen in real life, but you? thankfully it's just a small patch of damp fabric. gross all the same. your other hand leaves Sukuna's, rubbing against your face while your just-closed mouth tries to patch itself with saliva.

“Here.” Sukuna squeezes your hand before helping you sit up, handing over your water bottle, cap already flipped up. when you have it, he's already tying the compress around your head, an attempt to ward off what's become known as the Consciousness Headache. halfway through the day you'd be tearing the fabric off, but until then you'd be shoving frozen pads into it periodically. Soft circles of thick fabric dampened in the sink before returning to the freezer door.

you drink enough to let your dry throat recover before trying to hold a conversation. you'd be nauseous either way, there was nothing to lose and you needed to drink more than average anyway. it was such a pain clawing for hydration.

“want to tell me what happened?” his voice is softer than usual, asking for answers and offering you an out.

you're already laying back down on your side, holding his hand to trace the pointed black nails. they were always perfectly smooth, the motion calming you down as they slide across the pad of your thumb.

“breathe.” like a dragon's command rough and deep, but you can hear the care in it just the same.

you try to measure out even breaths, though even lying down you were always dizzy. the dense plushie nudging at your feet until you put them back onto it, hold your hands upright over your chest like a zombie with second thoughts on climbing out of the grave, as if that could fix you. maybe some of the blood would find its way back to your heart and brain. maybe it was lost or vaporizing, consumed by some thirsty undetected curse.

your illness just didn't sound real. even the name was funny. pots. like a rabbit from a children's story, or something else just as trivial.

and what went wrong earlier didn't sound real, either, too stupid to even bother being said. that the safest person in the world to you, in some lighthearted attempt to show that he was there with you, keeping you safe from the goddamn floor or hard edges of the counters or your idiot self–

“I know you're prone to fainting. it was more than that.”

yeah. you keep watching his long nails, as if looking down would hide glassy eyes from someone as observant as him.

and now the nausea was hitting, something like spit pooling in your stomach, such an unsettling feeling that you still weren't used to though it happened for hours every day and all you could do was distract your mind with something else.

Sukuna sighs, leading you to subconsciously match your breath with his.

you were trying. to piece together the reasons yourself, to fit a specific trigger into coherent words.

“Do you need space?” he deadpans, voice even quieter now.

you shake your head, more like rolling it against the flat pillow. “...maybe.” just a whisper. you don't want space, but somehow that was it, wasn't it?

Sukuna frowns at the mixed signals, the way your hand tightened around his so clumsily that you're just holding a single finger like a lifeline. how the inside of your weak hand feels ticklish, maybe even itchy, soft and wrong almost like static but still impossible to explain. it was unpleasant but with you since you were a child waking up in the morning. it had to be a universal experience.

your eyes dart back and forth, staring beyond the room. “from behind. when I'm upright.”

that made sense. the hypervigilance thrashing when someone, anyone, is out of view, is touching you, when you're at your most vulnerable. laying back on him wouldn't have this effect, it would be on your own terms anyway.

Sukuna nods, understanding hypervigilance all too well, most likely more than you ever would. hypervigilance to blame or thank for the uncanny way he observed everything, barely an effort taken to analyze so thoroughly with a bored or even blank face. even when it looked like not a thought in his head, it was like he already knew everything.

you pull yourself up to drink more water. it was all stupid, wasn't it? your brain and your body (which made your brain stupid by withholding its goddamn blood, brain fog blurring out any benefit you might have earned through trauma response) and the way it was threatening to lose all the water you gave it through your eye sockets.

he opens a bottle on the desk, placing two small pills into your hand. salt capsules, like a peace offering to beg your body into retaining some water. you were sick of the taste, sick of shaking salt into every drink, sick of the repetitive motion and how so much of consistently doing anything or avoiding anything could never make this go away. the best days seemed to be based on luck and nothing else. maybe the weather in part.

your head is fully throbbing now, heart seeming to replace your skull and not have enough space to beat there unless forcing nerves out of place.

you lean your head forward, already subconsciously expecting it to be caught, forehead pressing into sukuna's palm though you can't feel the folds on his skin through the layer of fabric holding yours together.

“think you can actually get something to eat this time?”

and yeah, that's what you had been to the kitchen for anyway.

Sukuna still in those soft lilac pants, making you feel normal by not wearing Outside style clothing at home. not wearing anything else except for now, that boring black blanket draped over his bare shoulders.

glasses folded together on top of the book he was reading. probably a medical journal or history of botany or ancient Mesopotamian poetry, if you had to guess.

you slide out of bed, slowly standing up. shivering for some reason, though you don't feel… are you hot? there is some cold too, but it's on top of the hot… it's nothing new but it's still frustrating that you just can't make sense of even an observation, not to mention its fuckass explanation.

Sukuna wraps the blanket around your shoulders now, warm from the heat of his back, one consistent thing in your lives.

there's a minute, maybe several if you're lucky, before the doubling (or at times, tripling) heart rate starts to make your legs give out. you know better than to fight that, to let them be the first thing to give, bent knees your savior (or harm reductionist). that reflex hadn't caught on earlier, a flash of your body nearly parallel to the floor and falling, uncannily straight, and that had to be a false memory or out-of-body experience if you could see it.

Sukuna's arm wraps around your back, rubbing up and down the blanket, walking side by side with you held close. the rollator he'd been sitting on might have made things easier, to lean on it yourself or use it as a chair and let him push you. but inside the house, you were clawing to feel normal, to pretend that you didn't need to depend on help for every little step.

it was pathetic, or so he'd called it before. Who cares? if it's better, just use it. that gives you more autonomy, anyway.

and he was right. using it inside the house since you didn't seem to, and he sincerely seemed to like it.

he made it look good, natural, like everything was meant to be this way.

you would grow up someday, knowing fully consciously and subconsciously that his ideas were right and none of your bullshit internalized shame held any weight.

maybe the tremors were growing because you hadn't eaten enough today. that had to be a part of it.

you collapse into a kitchen chair, knees going weak just in time, but too fast to look natural. somehow Sukuna's judgement would never hurt you. maybe because he didn't judge, just observing and pointing things out. they were based in truth, and that made all the difference.

the table is your saving grace, this chair not having armrests on the sides to prevent falling. the wall in your mind was becoming flexible. it would be more comfortable to use your mobility device. the seat was softer. it could carry things for you.

it just felt vulnerable, to yourself if no one else. to admit weakness was to be in danger. even if the thing compensated for what you were missing, it showed on obvious display. and that scared you.

with Sukuna, it was fine. the way he pushed you in public felt like a guardian angel, or maybe your head was too hazy that day and it all felt like a dream. maybe you shouldn't have gone outside like that at all, only ending up there because he took you out, an accessible and quiet “hiking” trail overlooking the lake, the foggy mountains just across leaning down over the forest canopy. he'd stop to pick up flowers, calling them by scientific name, twisting them into matching crowns.

then catching fish, handing you a rod (even if it conveniently fit in the cane holder), and cooking them right there.

yeah, the rollator had benefits, even without him with you.

but he could fight. he could glare. he had this untouchable aura, striking fear or admiration or something in between wherever he went. and you were just… a person, on a good day.

you're still lost in your thoughts, face on the table when Sukuna's hand strokes the back of yours. he's easily in your field of vision, pulling the fabric away from your forehead just enough to slip in one of those soft icy pads you kept in the freezer. maybe he could see a patch of skin already red from the table.

“why–” you start before the whisper dies.

Sukuna hums in question, food laid out.

“why do you stay?”

“because I like to,” he answers directly, but squints down as if you aren't making sense.

“I don't do anything for you,” you mutter, stabbing into something to eat before he can scold you instead of making sense of what he said.

“you do.” he sits down to eat 3x as much as you. it must be nice to feel full, satisfied. something more than a bit less bad, probably. though he also needed so much more to feed the muscle mass you could never build.

“no, you,” you breathe, realizing that the taste and the warmth is soulful. even if you can't manage so much of it.

“what, is this a competition to you?” Sukuna looks at you over his plate. by the words alone, you would have frowned, not wanting to hear how it ends. but the corners of your mouth fall upward at the face anyone else would call a death glare. to you it was endearing.

because you get it. you understood him, something no one else seemed to get (which frustrated the hell out of you. he was so direct yet chronically misinterpreted, they were all lucky you didn't have the strength or stamina to fight). it was mutual, then.

you really did see each other, it wasn't all one-sided. Sukuna noticed what was wrong and what you needed so easily. you always felt honored to listen to him, even muttering aloud the epic of gilgamesh while annotating in the margins. you both went nonverbal at times or maybe it was often, but hardly even noticed when all it took to communicate was a glance. to read or to say whatever.

and really that was what mattered, that couldn't be easily replaced or cast aside. truly, you enjoyed discerning each other. not for manipulation. you didn't even try to decode him, it was like the light streaming through your eyes and showing the room around you, or like breathing in the scent of spring flowers. it was just there and you knew it was because…

being with him was easy. you’d just assumed that for him, it was hard.

But he loved the challenge, anyway. physically, mentally, artistically, he was always reaching for some personal record or building another technique.

well, not always. mostly he liked to lounge around, content with a comfortable silence.

that was one thing you were good at. speaking was tiring, and low-stimuli was the typical ideal. but that was also mutual…

there had been this fear, an idea in the back of your mind that you were some pet project. something for him to fix before tossing aside and moving on from like a junkyard bike.

But you were human to him, you were a whole person and one that he craved the company of just as much.

“I'm not holding you back?” you ask, baring your eyes to read his.

“back from what?” sukuna laughs, stealing the abandoned remains on your plate.

it's annoying to feel your brow furrow. isn't there something he wants to do, but can't without you?

“don't think too hard, I was serious,” he clarifies, taking your dishes to the sink.

there had to be more challenging hikes he'd prefer, views that couldn't be reached by someone like you. though if he wanted to, he could probably make up for that, finding a way to complete it together, breaking a light sweat and drying it on a sleeveless shirt. he might carry you through it all, if you wanted to be there.

and his studio was maybe not technically attached to the house, separated by a patch of woods, but it still let him work from home. to avoid the public as much as possible, no commutes or traffic or crowds of small-minded people. he was very selective with who was let into the space, and even then there were boundaries, private property and no trespassing signs posted down the winding road, an ominous threat in the air.

your home secure and really a sacred place, safe for just the two of you and your closest of friends. which was only Uraume at this point… yours falling out of contact when you finally gave up on keeping the friendship alive by yourself. it wasn't like you were contagious, just a stain on the “work (to a miserable life and early death) or die” zeitgeist. or maybe boring because you didn't want to drink or be in high-stress environments. in the end, you didn't miss them either. you had some semblance of peace at last.

even if some days, like today, tears would threaten to brim over every hour at just how independent you weren't, at how endless the pain, at how it really is chronic, isn't it?

and you've known and accepted this long ago, but sometimes it hits like a wall all over again. some sick cycle that you always think was on its last episode before.

Sukuna lowers himself below your eye level, asking if you want to do anything in the remaining hours before he goes to work. by which time you were always worn out, needing some horizontal brainless phone-in-bed time.

“can I use it?” you whisper, all too aware that even crawling to the bedroom could take the better part of an hour.

Sukuna's eyes are blank, searching for the answer in yours.

“or you?” you joke, laying your arms around your shoulders.

it sinks in for him then, what you were asking for. and you can feel it seep into you how much he enjoys to carry you around, fully conscious and asking for it. the sudden height difference is staggering, but not so disorienting because you're less upright here, the warmth of his neck and texture of his cotton candy sunset hair…

“so? where are we going?”

[thesewingmachine]

before I share these prompts, I just wanted to let everybody know that I have experience with most of these first hand as I was recently hospitalised and had a feeding tube inserted nasally

with that being said, onto the prompts! :D

- whumpee has to deal with the throat/nasal trauma after having an ng tube inserted for the first time

- whumpee has their ng tube inserted wrong (can puncture things inside)

- whumpees ng tube gets stuck in the throat as it’s being inserted, it eventually goes down, though their throat is scraped raw afterward and their aspirate is full of blood

- whumpees ng dislodged inside of them and ends up in their lung

- whumpee has a panic attack over having their ng inserted for the second time because they can’t go through that again

- whumper handles whumpees feeds, they purposely push air down whumpees tube

- whumpee can’t aspirate and has to pull off multiple syringes of air (imagine your stomach is acting like one of those shrink wrap bags, and that’s how it feels)

- whumpee has a throat infection around the same time their tube has to be changed

- whumpee turns down any offers for a bowl presuming that their gag reflexes won’t act up whilst their ng tube is inserted. They’re wrong, of course, and now their nurse, friend, etc, has to finish the job with whumpee covered in their own vomit.

I might add on to this later but that’s all I can think of so far! if anyone has any questions or would like to add on to this, please ask away or feel free to do so! <3

[beekeeperuser]

um soooooo tw/cw for eyestrain and implied panic attack i felt like drawing angst and good enough by jakeneutron is stuck in my headd ummm sorryyyy... oops.... spills my art all over the floor

[spark-circuit]

screenshots from my Alt Drifter run i've been doing in my spare time - it's weird to play her because of the health nerf yet the attack range buff, but it's also been fun! Horde Mode made me bash my head against a wall but i did get it eventually, and i haven't bothered to get all Holobytes since i upgraded all my stuff, yet i got all outfits, keys, modules and weapons, so i'm pretty satisfied. for all i know i might've gotten all of them but i think i'm missing a few. i like how you can see the visible difference from me knowing the map and the enemies in the save file times lmao

lategame spoilers under the cut, but the poor Archer got the short end of the stick like last time, and i beat Judgement first try lmao

[umaimayasmine]

I read this somewhere,

"Be gentle with their heart and scars, sometimes they bleed in colours unknown to you and you will think they are kaleidoscopic But in reality, they are a rainbow of myriad miseries."

OH MY GOD.

[socratesvisitsarcadia]

Panic

Tw: Panic attack

Another night in the Nuñez household, another night Claire had to spend “babysitting” her “little brother”. Even though it wasn't as bad as it had once been, with Nothenrique now usually content to leave her alone, save she brings some actual food for him (usually fast food), focusing on her studies was difficult with so many thoughts racing in her mind. Questions left mostly unanswered.

Her brother was safe in the Darklands, but for how long?

Chompsky had yet to return, and there had been no sign of the gnome, so no guide, how were they gonna navigate in there?

They had no clue what Jim's new weapon from either of the stones was going to be, they couldn't go in without knowing. 

She was perfecting the use of the Shadow Staff, but she was still unsure. 

And how on earth were they going to keep that secret from their parents?!

The thoughts spiraled through her mind, the textbook was important, but a lot more frustrating. So, pushing herself away from the desk, she groaned with much annoyance. Her changeling brother looked away from the magazine he read through, wanting to poke fun at her, but deciding ultimately against it. 

“Ya should take ‘a break!” 

“If my grades slip even a decimal, my parents are gonna know something’s up.” 

“Well, a break ain’t gonna ‘break ya’!” He found his own joke hilarious, Claire groaned again, turning to the book once more. “C'mon! Ye’r gonna cramp your brain muscles if ya keep this up!”

He climbed onto the desk, closing the book himself, he was looking after her after all. The girl frowned, about to argue when something else caught their attention. A loud thud, followed by a green glow in the distance and a tree falling, disappeared into the woods. If it was just the one tree, they would simply tell Jim and handle it some other day, when more of them started to fall, both understood the problem was more serious.

“Well, now I have to take a break!” Taking the shadow staff to her hands, Claire rushed out of the room.

“Aren’t you gonna tell the others?!” Her fake brother yelled, chasing her down the stairs. 

“I’ll tell them once I know what’s going on! Jim deserves some sleep.” She rushed out the door, leaving the small changeling behind. 

Not-Henrique wasn’t one to usually care deeply for people, though he would lie and say that he hadn’t gotten attached to the girl and her friends. Plus, it would be a hassle to try to explain the girl’s death and without a sister, “normal life” could not keep going.

So, he grabbed the walkie-talkie and told Blinky what was up. Then, he ran to make sure his sister didn’t die in the woods, taking her phone with him in case he needed to call 911.

It didn’t take long to track her, after all, she had a very characteristic lilac hand cream which he loved to eat. He found her hunched behind a bush, spying beyond the leaves, trying not to be seen. He rolled his eyes and tugged onto her leg, pulling his best puppy eyes up at her. 

“How could ya leave this cute face b’hind?” She shushed him, putting a hand over his mouth. “Oi! Don’t ‘shush’ me! I told yer friends where-”

“SHUHS- look!” She pointed, whispering. 

He grumbled under his breath. Beyond the bush, there was a troll, digging his dagger into an old, now petrified, tree stump in what looked like a fit of rage.

It was Angor Rot, obviously. So far, only he was known to have Creepersun poison, especially one potent enough to petrify even trees. But his behavior was beyond incomprehensible. He had shown himself to be so calm, collected, even under pressure, and now seemed completely rabid, stabbing the petrified stump with so much rage. It was the opposite of the troll they had left in the canal. Yet at the same time, between stabs, there was clear pain in his roars. 

If Claire was able to see him from a distance, then others would too, and she didn’t want to think about what would happen if they did find him in that state. Or if they found him at all. Thankfully she had the staff, so getting out of there in case of trouble was easy, but it wouldn’t solve the issue, and in that state, he could turn on her. 

“What's wrong with him?! He was fine the last time we saw him!” Claire watched as the troll in front of them became more and more agitated, continuing to tear down trees and break them. 

She had to do something.

Climbing out of the bush, much to the worry of the changeling, she clutched the staff tighter and approached the troll.

“Angor Rot?” Her voice froze him in place, he turned slowly and eerily towards her, who clutched tighter to the staff, ready to diverge a blow. “What’re you doing here?” 

The troll swerved around, staring at her, instantly dropping his weapon and crawling away from her as if she were some sort of dangerous beast. “Please- I didn’t- I-”

His voice rang desperate, terrified even, his breathing speeding up and eyes getting distant. She recognized the signs of a panic attack from a mile away, or what seemed like the equivalent of it, however, she had no idea if it was similar to trolls or what to do in a situation such as that. She was at an utter loss, yet did what she could. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay I’m not gonna hurt you, you’re okay!” Her words seemed to phase right through him as she put the staff away, and any movement she made seemed to scare him even more. 

If he ran, he could run to the street, and that would be a disaster. It was like trying to wrangle an animal, one conscious, sentient and very scared animal. 

Thankfully, soon the others arrived. Jim was the first to call out, reaching the girl and looking over for any injuries, which he thankfully did not find. “Claire what’s going on?!”

“I- I don’t know- I found him like that and I think he’s having a panic attack or something! I don’t know what happened!” 

Blinky took the front, confirming the girl’s thought. “You are right, Claire. He is in the middle of a panic attack. I’ll handle it. Just stay back. Aarrrgh. Stay with them.”

The conundrum approached Angor calmly, moving slowly and fluidly, keeping all his hands in sight, not that it seemed to matter as he now kept his eyes somewhere on the ground frozen. Once in front of the other, blocking his view of where he once glanced, he knelt. “Angor Rot, I-”

“Don’t! call me that!-” He screamed, a mix of shame and anger seeping into his voice, shielding his face as he panted frantically, kicking back and pushing himself further away from the trollhunters. “I’m not a rot! I’m not- a blight!! That’s not my name!” 

“That’s alright! That’s quite alright. Is just Angor fine then?” The other continued gasping for air, but nodded. “Alright. Angor. I need you to look at me, can you do that please?” Shakily, he did, meeting with the Conundrum’s calm semblance as he picked up a rock. “Follow this stone, alright? While you do so, breathe. When it changes hand, you inhale and exhale…” He started moving it across his four arms, changing it slowly and carefully. “In… out… in… out…”

The pattern continued, slowly, Angor’s breathing slowed as well his shaking ceased altogether. Soon reaching a point where he did not need to watch Blinky switch hands, just continued breathing slowly. The ones who watched sympathized with him, many times during their trials as trollhunters they had similar experiences, Jim personally wasn’t surprised after all the times Blinky had to calm him down from several panic attacks. Jim unsummoned the armour, pocketing the amulet into his hoodie, slowly and calmly walked toward the troll.

“Are you feeling better?” Angor took one last deep breath before nodding. Finally shifting his eyes up to meet the rest of the group, who he now realized gazed down at him with what he remembered to be sorrow or pitty. “That’s great. Now, my friend, what has you so terrified?”

The troll sighed, glancing to the side where the Inferna Copula sat on a stone, carefully placed upon a stone. 

Claire caught on first. “Your soul… Did something happen?”

Angor brought a hand to his horns, tapping the very point of one of his ram-like antlers, trying to avoid the embarrassment of the words next. “No… I… I couldn’t do it… I couldn’t risk…” 

Although he didn’t finish his sentence, all knew what he was referring to. A tension loomed over the area, the group was silent, none with particular answers at hand. 

It was awkward enough for the changeling to speak up. “Listen’ spooks. Your situation is real bad, doin’ your magic stuff’s this close to town ‘s gonna get you found and worse. So… Why doncha take this elsewhere?”

“I thought I was far enough…” He rubbed his face, gazing to the side where he could see the moving cars, he was too close. He moved to collect his ring, putting it back in its chain. “Apologies for disturbing you.” 

He began walking off, though, that did not feel like a good solution to the problem. Angor didn’t feel like a bad troll, after all, he did have the history of being a warrior, one who was misled. Jim knew betrayal close to his heart, he felt a call again, and he was bound to answer it. 

Turning to his friends, who all had the same thought process as him, he reached out. 

“Hey Angor!” The troll stopped in his tracks, turning to the boy once again. “Look, it’s… Kinda obvious you don’t know what you’re doing right now with the whole soul-bound-to-a-ring situation. It was obvious three days ago and it’s even more now.” The troll had plain tiredness in his eyes, a feeling quite relatable. “And you’re right, it’s too dangerous to mess with your soul out of all things. So… Hey, why don’t you come with us to Trollmarket and ask Vendel? He might have a solution, or something similar?”

“Yeah! Come with us, man! Vendel can be an old goat but recently he’s been helping Jim a lot!” Toby chimed in excitedly, wrapping an arm around Jim’s shoulders. 

“And how exactly would I walk in there?” Both boys peeked up at him, slight confusion in their brows. “I am known as a soulless assassin, brutal killer of Trollhunters, who’s… Taken souls…” There was an ache in his voice, neither doubted why. “The moment I set foot in there, there will be a mob trying to kill me.”

“Jim can protect ya! No one will hurt you!” The chubby boy’s confidence in his friend’s ability to calm an entire town of trolls was inspiring, yet, unrealistic. “Or… You could sneak in! Just, spy your way in! I mean, from what we know you’re really sneaky right?”

That… was indeed a better alternative, not fewer risks, but more realistic. “I would be able to get in unnoticed, I’ve been known to gather information without them knowing.” 

“In today’s terms: Spying on people.” Blinky pipped up, always excited to teach new things to people.

“Right. So… I can do it, but it won’t be easy.”

“Or we could ask Vendel to come up here for a house visit! I mean, if we get him to know it’s an emergency!” Claire also pipes up, getting next to Jim as well. “He’s not very fond of coming up, but I’m sure he’d rather avoid the risk of a big commotion.”

Also a much better option, yet, Vendel had only left Trollmarket once in the past three centuries and he was constantly complaining about never doing it again, under any circumstance. So it was just as much of an option as him sneaking into the underground. Angor looked away from the kids, waiting for the team’s verdict.

“Well. Both options lay on the caller’s hands.” The conundrum stated, putting a hand on the troll’s back, much to Angor’s confusion. “It’s your soul and thus your choice. So. What do you choose?”

Having a choice was something Angor became a stranger to for centuries, so now, being blatantly given it, it was foreign. It took a second to make his choice, after once again looking through the options. “I… Would rather stay away from that place. Even as I watched all of you in there… When I look back something feels wrong.”

“Wait, you  followed us in there?” 

“Not all of me.” He removed his right eye, rolling it around in his hand with pure strength of thought. “A trick I learned centuries ago.”

All were unnerved by it but tried to pay more mind to the challenge at hand. “Sounds… Good then! We’ll bring Vendel! Meanwhile, you wait-” 

Jim was going to say “here” when there was the sound of people coming through the woods. Panic quickly spread through the group, Aaarrrgh whisked Toby and both hid beneath some big bushes and trees, Angor climbed on top of a tree, hiding amongst its foliage, blinky seeking to hide behind a few thicker tree trunks, while Nonenrique hid inside said trunks, leaving Jim and Claire as the only two exposed. The girl knew the voice of her family, approaching through the woods. If she was caught there, there’d be a worse penalty than a simple grounding. 

“Trollhunters, here!” Angor called and reached out his hands to the two, who darted, clinging to them and almost just as fast being pulled up. 

There was no better option available at that moment anyways.

The Nuñez parents walked past them, examining the new rocks amongst the greenery, both of them speaking in Spanish as they transited through the group, not noticing anything besides the weird rocks. Claire made an annoyed face, which solidified the point of them not wanting to know what they were saying. 

“We need to get back to my house. If my parents don’t find me and ‘Henrique’ there, we’re doomed!” Claire whispered fiercely, sitting on a branch keeping away from the path of sight of the adults.

“Do you have the Staff of Shadow?” Angor queried as Claire produced the item, understanding the plan, yet showing concern. “Should I really be giving this to you?”

“Have you spent seven centuries with it?” 

Valid point. 

She handed it and the troll quickly made a portal for the three of them, pulling Claire and Jim inside. Inside the shadow realm, they floated through, Angor made another small portal, pulling Not-Henrique through as well, kicking the log somewhere else. Once all fully emerged from the portal, they were inside the Nuñez’s house, more specifically in the girl’s living room. The changeling turned back into a human baby, Claire rushed and placed him on the feeding table in the kitchen and gestured for Angor and Jim to run out the door and hide in the backyard. 

Soon after both of them left, hiding amongst the bushes, the girl's parents arrived through the front door. “Hi Mom! Hi dad! You’re home early!”

“We actually came in earlier and didn’t find you or Henrique. Where did you go?” the voice of Councilwoman Nuñez rang as serious as ever, with her husband right behind, eyeing her daughter sternly.

“Oh! I was… Getting Henrique food! His baby food ran out, so I went to buy some more!” Good lie.

“At this hour?”

“I had a few friends take me! We were safe all the way!” Claire assured the sound of the microwave ringing and proving her statement. 

That seemed to convince the adults, much to the calm of the other two…

The ringing of Jim’s phone erased all that calm.

In a quick reaction, Angor opened another portal, teleporting both of them back to the opening where Blinky and the others were, Jim falling a lot less graciously than the troll. “Dude?! Where did you go?!”

“Back to Claire’s house so she doesn’t get her head cut off by her parents.” Jim replied, getting up and brushing off the dirt. “Look, we were gonna say you could wait here, but it’s waaaay too close to the other houses. Just come to the edge of Trollmaket, you don’t need to come in, just stay out if you want. But it’s better than staying here and risking being seen.”

Again, the troll felt a tightness again, anxiety, fear, apprehension. With another look towards Blinky, who gestured for a deep breath, he did and nodded, following them. 

The walk there wasn’t unknown to him, after all, he had followed them to the entrance before. But now, there was new weight to it, even the last time he was at Trollmarket’s door he felt another a wave extreme of uneasiness. Something about that place felt wrong in a thousand ways. His eyes were focused on each grass strips as he walked, paranoia startling him with each sound that came from behind the shadows. Most of the time being something minimal, like a true raccoon, seemed to make him even more defeated.

It was impossible not to notice how agitated he was, again, bringing more pity from the team. They all exchanged looks with each other, communicating without words, mostly through gestures and eye movements.

Aaarrrgh understood there was communication being done there, yet couldn’t understand what exactly. Looking back at Angor, he saw himself, just leaving Gunmar’s army, with an entire society that hated him for what he did, he didn’t pity Angor like the others but he wanted to help. Knowing himself, if he was in that situation again, he would get what his Wingman called “cold feet” and run away, and in his situation, it wouldn’t do well.

“We stay with you.” He pats the other’s back again, snapping him from his thoughts. “We stay waiting Vendel with you.” 

“Yeah! We can stay with ya man! Don’t want the anxiety getting worse than it is, right?” Toby pipped up from Aaarrrgh’s back, sliding from Aaarrrgh’s back now that they had reached the canal, hopping up excitedly. “Also, like, is it okay if I ask you some questions? Like, nothing personal, or that at least shouldn’t be- But like, we never met a troll that looks like you and I really wanna know more!”

It was clear Angor was dubious about it, almost denying it. But Toby made the effort to clear up what he imagined were the doubts.

“If we cross a line- just tell me! I am very understanding! Also! You don’t gotta answer questions you don’t want to! Just say ‘pass’ and we move on! No questions asked!” Angor snorted, containing himself as quickly as he did. “Pun-not-intended and yet glad it was appreciated!” 

Thinking it over one more time, Angor agreed to the terms. “Alright. I’ll indulge you.” 

[retrocgads]

UK 1982