#warning: panic attacks

[angelcake10023]

//TW……. Panic Attack

Couldn’t get this idea out of my head djdkshsksjsk so now you get it too ❤️‍🩹

[radiance1]

To say Danny was worried about Vlad's continued disappearance was... sort of an understatement? At first, he was glad about it. He could finally kick back and relax when one of his more insistent and cunning foes were gone to who knows where and left him alone.

When it continued, Danny very obviously thought that hey, Vlad might be cooking up some supremely intricate plan that'll ruin Danny's day so, of course, Danny started to look for him.

He didn't expect to find Vlad when he was (surprisingly) captured by the GIW. All of his pride scrubbed away, all the elegance he insisted upon exchanged for something more.. beastly, collared and reduced to some raging experiment that was more animal than human.

It scared Danny.

Like a lot.

Danny thinks that Vlad was many things. A fruitloop, annoying, overconfident, intelligent and cunning when he wants to be, also an idiot and, again, extremely annoying.

But not. Well. That.

So he, understandably, didn't like it one bit. Especially when they tried doing the same thing to him. So, Danny tries to escape, which was surprisingly harder than he had first thought because you know that collar they put on Vlad?

Yea, they put it on him too, and it makes his powers all wonky and harder to use. The only thing that wasn't really impacted was his regeneration.

And then there was the dehumanization.

Oh, by the Ancients.

The dehumanization.

Being referred to as it, thing, animal, anything besides human really takes a toll on a person when they're actually going through it. Sometimes Danny caught himself calling himself an 'it' too and he's not happy about it.

Danny wanted out.

And he wanted out bad.

So while he may have felt guilty, that guilt didn't exactly stop him from using Vlad to his own ends to get himself out of there. Even with that power wonker of a collar, Vlad was still an outright menace without the rest of those chains on him and Danny?

Danny was extremely, very glad about that fact.

So there Danny goes, escaping into a portal with Vlad at his back because, well, he wasn't just going to leave him there. When they actually escape is fair game though. And then the last thing the GIW do to fuck them over is hit them both with some experimental tech that forces them to reveal their 'true form' which, obviously Danny didn't expect to actually work.

Then he found himself significantly younger with a younger but no less traumatized and feral Vlad in a place that wasn't Amity Park and oooooh boy this did not go to plan and everything is fucked up.

The worst thing about all of this?

The both of them are still collared. So wonky and/or weakened powers, in a place Danny has no knowledge about, with a feral Vlad that he couldn't leave alone anymore because Danny was a toddler and he'd use every advantage he could get now, both of them wounded because it wasn't a clean escape and oh hey apparently heroes exist here-

Wait.

What.

[factual-fantasy]

So spent the last couple of days working on my FNAF recap/repair comic. And I’ve made a BUNCH of progress. So I figured I’d take a short break and doodle some random stuff before getting back to work.

So this post is just a huge mish-mash of random things I drew on my break. Well, at least these are the more coherent ones- <XD

[iristial]

The childlike penmanship and utter abundance of hiragana and katakana that has its own implications aside, I was going to talk about how sweet and sad it was that the only kanji Shouma knows is "mother" (母). But then someone told me he also knows the kanji for "help [me]" (助)...that certainly adds to the context of Shouma's memories of his mother mainly being shrouded in fear

[packet-of-staples]

Alright we’re in the home stretch!!

Day 111 - Messing around with panels. Theres more to this I just haven’t finished it

Day 112 - He grows a little every day!

Day 113 - You’re never fully dressed without a smile!

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Our Lady Of Mysterious Ailments & The Mystery at Dunvegan Castle

books 2 & 3 in the Edinburgh Nights series

paranormal mystery set in a climate-ravaged future Scotland, plagued by ghosts and magic

follows a 15yo Black girl who’s finally gotten an in to learn scientific magic properly - but it turns out to be an unpaid internship, so she has to take more jobs delivering ghost messages and investigating mysteries to take care of her gran and little sister

in book 2 she’s investigating a strange illness centred on a magic school for boys

and in book 3 she’s attending a global magician conference held in a creepy castle - when someone’s murdered, and they’re locked in until she figures out the culprit

Zimbabwean magic, friendship, disabled characters, no romance (so far)

[thehyperfixationspeedrunner]

This is me trying

On ao3 too

Summary: It's been a month since what Cardan has been calling the "reptile accident" when he decides to get up before Jude, not knowing the consequences.

OR these two are traumatised and they may not acknowledge it, but I will.

Trigger warnings (already put in the tags but I'm not sure if I did it right so better safe than sorry): panic attack, cussing

It's weird how easily you fall into routine. It's barely been a month since what Cardan has started calling the "reptile accident" or the one he likes best "revealing his true form" (although that one isn't used in front of Jude, she's not sure why but she prefers it that way). Anyway, it's been a month since Cardan has been transformed into a snake, since Cardan and Jude has started to live together as the King and Queen of Elfhame but they have already established a routine, even if neither of them has noticed it until today.

Jude is always the first to wake up - Jude was raised by a general and Cardan by a prince, so that part is obvious. She dresses first, giving Mr. Lazy time to sleep, and then she wakes up sleeping beauty even though he always complains that while there aren't people busting into the room saying he's late, she's waking him up early. He never says he hates it. Jude suspects is because he can't lie. From then, Jude orders breakfast while Cardan dresses up, and they eat together before having to deal with their royal obligations.

Today, however, was different. Shockingly, Jude was able to have some good 6 hours of sleep and woke up a bit disoriented. See, this is the bad part about sleeping a lot. When you wake up, your senses take a while to turn on. That's definitely the reason why Jude barely sleeps, at least that's what she tells everyone when they ask her. Because of that, she took a bit to notice that she was alone in bed, which triggered something in her brain. She instantly gets out of bed and starts to look in every corner of their room repeating to herself that everything is fine, Cardan just woke up earlier and is dressing up or putting the hundred of layers that he puts every morning because "I know I look impressive naturally but I am the High King, Jude, I have to look perfect". Except he is nowhere to be found.

See, a small but important part of this quickly created routine was when Jude woke up and she would always look to the side and see Cardan relaxed and asleep, would look at his chest rise and fall and make sure that, yes, he's alive and, no, this last month was not a fever dream, he really is here. Without that confirmation, Jude is starting to spiral, and the fact that Cardan is not in the room doesn't help.

She tries to take a deep breath. She's the High Queen goddammit, she can't panic every time a minor routine change happens. But the truth is that she cannot take the deep breath. She cannot even take a small breath. She's pretty sure she's not breathing at all. But she has to because Cardan needs her. Jude goes through her options: one, he did wake up earlier, got knocked off in the room but somewhere hidden where she didn't check; two, he got knocked off somewhere in the castle and his unconscious body is lying there; three, he got abducted while he slept; four... Maybe last month was a fever dream. No, she is not going to think about option four.

While she does a more precise search through their room, she also tries to think of who would do this. He's the King of Elfhame, so it's obvious that he has a lot of enemies, but she is not remembering anyone who's this mad at him right now. However, her hands are trembling and there's still not enough air reaching her lungs, so maybe her memory is not the best at the moment. You were almost deadly stabbed before the incident.

Ok, he is not in the room, so option number two. This one is not the most likely. If someone knocked him off, they wouldn't just leave him in the middle of the corridor, and Faes don't just slip, so he couldn't have knocked himself out. Besides the palace is huge, it would take too long to search. Maybe you were less healed than you thought. Option number three it is. There are three windows in the room. The climb is hard but not impossible, she has done it herself while having a major injury. A major injury that could have been infected. Jude shakes her head and checks the three windows. None of them is broken and they are all locked from the inside, like they were when they went to sleep, which she knows because she always checks that before going to bed. Unless the person was a master spy (which is an option), she doesn't know how someone pulled that of. The other way into the room is through the door, so she quickly opens it, revealing two knights part of her security.

"Was there any disturbance last day?" She would be surprised that her voice somehow didn't fail if she was at all worried with that right now.

"We heard or seen nothing different than usual, your majesty."

"Have you fallen asleep or abandoned your post anytime during your shift?" The knights were visibly offended by that, but she had to clear all her options.

"No, your majesty. Is everyth-" Having her answers, Jude closes the door, leaving the knights to their jobs. If she was in her right mind she would have noticed that she was still in her bed clothes, her hair was mess, the room was worse and her hands still trembled and her breath was still labored. But she was not her in her right mind. Cardan is missing- He was not here at all. Her husband is missing and she is going to find him. Maybe he was taken outside their bedroom and there is going to be some kind of clue outside of it.

She is about to open the door again when a thought crosses her mind. The lover's bedroom. There is a pathway between that room and the High King and Queen's room. That is how whoever took Cardan got in. No one got in. Hallucinations caused by infections are common, at least for mortals. She slides through the pathway towards the other bedroom but is met with a similar scenario. No window was broken and all of them are closed from the inside, same with the door, no signs of breaking. Stop looking for what you won't find. You know you can barely remember anything after cutting Cardan's head off. It was the serpents head. You know that's the same thing. There was a battlefield where you broke down. You could have easily been stabbed. I would remember it. Would you? Sometimes, our mind purposely forgets traumatic memories. You could have passed out. No. You could have dreamt. Stop. Cardan is dead and you have been feeding yourself this fantasy because you can't deal with the guilt. STOP. You killed him and now you're living in a world without him and you'll keep living in it because that's the reality. I SAID STOP.

Jude. The sound of something breaking. She can't do it. She can't go back to those three days. She can't live without Cardan's mockery. She can't live without his laugh. She can't.

JUDE. She's shaking now, or someone is shaking her, she's not lucid enough to understand. God, he's her anchor. She doesn't know what to do without him. She wants to go back to sleep. She wants to go back to their routine. She wants to hear him complain about waking up early again. She wants to feel his fingers playing with her hair again. She wants-

JUDE! Cardan. She opens her eyes (since when were they closed?) and faces the love of her life's face. He looks adorably worried, full make up and hair nicely treated. She can't help but smile. "Cardan" she whispers, trying not to force her voice tired from screaming and crying (curious, she doesn't remember that). She puts her head in the space between his neck and shoulder and he starts rubbing circles on her back. "Stay" she pleads. Because that's what she's doing, pleading to the universe to let her stay in this fever dream, to have more time with Cardan, even if it isn't real, even if he's dead, even if that's her fault and there's just her to blame.

"Always" and that pisses her off. Because that's what Cardan would say, that's how Cardan looks, that's how Cardan acts and this mind prison has no right to be this close to reality.

"Liar" she spits. He looks mostly confused and a bit hurt but she doesn't care, this isn't real so nothing fucking matters.

"Jude, I would never abandon you-"

"But you did!" she's close to screaming now, but she doesn't care, her voice was cracking, but it doesn't matter. She has to get this out. "You abandoned me for three days because of that prophechy bullshit. You left me to rule Elfhame while simultaneously dealing with the schemings that my father and the frozen royalty was fucking doing and the fact that the love of my life was a goddam snake and then I, and I-" she can't get it out, she still can't believe it.

"You saved me."

"I killed you." she is fully sobbing now, but she can't stop. She gets up (she was sitting down?) and keeps going "You're dead and this is just a manifestation from my brain, because somewhere else I'm also dying and I hope I do because I can't live in a world where you're not. I physically will not be able to continue without you!" She sinks into the floor using the bed as support and Cardan sits in front of her. He has a puzzled expression in his face. They stay some time in silence, Jude catching her breath and Cardan trying to put pieces together.

"Why do you think I'm not real?" he finally asks, his voice tiny as if he's afraid of the answer.

"You weren't there." Jude matches his tone. "When I woke up. I always check to make sure you're there because if you are, then that means you're real and I'm not dreaming. At first, I thought you were kidnapped. That's why I'm here, I thought this was how whoever took you got in."

"My wife, scheming even when she's panicking." he's looking at her with that adoration in his eyes that never fails to take her breath away. "Let's keep scheming, shall we?" He looks at her, waiting for an answer so she nods. "You say that you are dreaming, you're in this coma and you can't wake up. Well, let's test this theory. Did you know that you can't read in dreams?" Another nod. Cardan gets up, picks a book from the bedside table and hands it to her. "Well, can you read?" The answer is yes. The book was a mortal romance that she was sure she had seen in Cardan's hands. That meant that this was real, Cardan was here and she hadn't killed him. Immediate relief washed over and with that came more tears that she hadn't noticed when they stopped. God, she was a mess. This is ridiculous, she is being ridiculous. Trying to look less like she just had a mental breakdown over nothing Jude attempts to clean the tears that don't stop. Of course this is reality, of course Cardan just woke up earlier and went to do god knows what. She's the fucking High Queen and she can't stand when her husband is out earlier, can't keep a cool head, can't-

"Stop." Cardan gently takes the hands that are trying to hide the tears that keep coming, why don't they stop? "Don't do that." His tone is gentle but secure and so goddamn grounding, how does he do it?

"Do what?"

"Close yourself. I could see the moment you realised that this was the reality because that was the moment the mask came back on. You're probably thinking that you don't have the right to feel this way because you can't show weaknesses or whatever bullshit your mind thinks of." Sometimes it's scary how well he knows her. "Don't close yourself from me." He is rubbing circles with his thumb on the back of her hand and it feels so right, everything about him feels so right.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." His tone is becoming more frustrated. "This is obviously bothering you, but I had no idea and because of my ignorance you just had a fucking panic attack." Her eyebrows went up. "I may have been reading about mortal psychology, but that's not important, what's important is," he moves his hands to cup her face and cleans the tears - that have finally stopped - with his thumb. "You don't have to pretend with me."

"You're one to talk." She retaliates but doesn't push him away. "You haven't said another word about those three days since I asked what it was like being a snake on the same day you stopped being one." Cardan laughs because he's Cardan and he laughs when he's nervous and he is not the only one who knows the other too well, she can see in his eyes that the thought of having to speak of those three days of hell terrifies him as much as her.

He moves to her side and sighs. "We really are made for each other, aren't we?" He seems to consider something before saying. "Let's make a pact. Whenever we want the other to open up, we say a code word and they have to do it after we reveal something that has been bothering us. No lies, no tricks, just the plain truth. Deal?" He gives her his right hand. It is always dangerous to make a deal with a fae, but this is Cardan, they have passed the backstabbing phase when she came back from exile. She takes his hand and shakes it.

"Deal. But we have to choose the word, something that we won't say normally."

"California." The place they went on their honeymoon instead of being on the two weeks celebrations of the Mortal Queen's victory over the serpent. The place where they were just two teenagers in love and not The Queen and King of Elhame, not the warrior and the prince, not the people with traumatic childhood, not the two broken pieces of what should be two whole people.

"Sounds great."

"I said it, so I start." He takes a deep breath and speaks. "I woke up earlier today because I had a nightmare. I wasn't someone trapped inside the snake like people like to believe, I was the snake. When the snake died, I died, even if for a few seconds." Jude takes a sharp breath, she always took comfort in the fact that she hadn't cut his head, but what was trapping him, that he hadn't felt anything. Cardan notices and takes both her hands and looks at her straight in the eyes. "I don't blame you, nor will I ever. If I say something assumimg the opposite, you have the premission to cut my head because that is not me. But as I was saying, when I saw you taking out the sword, I couldn't help but feel relief, but when you dealt the blow I, I-" another deep breath "I couldn't feel anything. I don't remember anything. I died. And that terrifies me. I was. I wasn't there. I replay that in my mind countless days, but today was so vivid, I couldn't fall back asleep, so I got out. I needed fresh air. I needed to be alone with my thoughts. I should've come back when it was time to wake up, I should've woken you, I didn't know that you needed that, but if I did, I would have done it."

They stay a few moments in silence, taking deep breaths and deep in thoughts.

"Your turn."

She wants to sugar-coat it. She wants to say that it wasn't that bad, she doesn't want to see guilt in his face even if it isn't his fault. But Cardan didn't sugar-coated when he revealed that what she did hurt him even if he knew it was going to hurt her. So instead, she says:

"Those were the worst three days of my life. I honestly thought it was going to be ok when we were negotiating with Madoc. That we won, they were going to surrender and we would be fine. Then I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe when Grimsen said that only death would save you. I went to Baphen, I went to the Old King, but all of them had the same answer. Somehow I had to rule the fucking kingdom while grieving a death that I didn't believe in. On top of all of that the court of teeths was on my throat, making plans to try to turn you and me into their puppets like their daughter. The relief that I had when I saw you alive was bigger than anything I thought I could feel, but the time between that and when I cutted the sna- your head it was my lowest. It was a hole and I was at the deep end with no way out. I cannot live without you." She stops to look at him. Look at his black hair and his eyes that look like black holes. His pale skin and his small mouth. No, she can't imagine a world without him. But that moment was close, so close. "I am so scared that I will go back to that void, I'm so scared that the universe wasn't as kind as I thought, I'm so scared to not wake up next to you."

He puts his arm around her shoulder and she puts her head on his. Jude looks up and sees tears running down Cardan's face, so she hugs him, feeling his other arm surround her. They stay silent for some time while Carden cries in Jude's shoulder and Jude just holds him close, all her tears wasted a few minutes ago.

"I'm sorry." Cardan was the one to break the silence.

"Not your fault."

"Liar."

"I wouldn't lie to you." It's the truth.

"May I remind you that you said you were fine while bawling your eyes out a few minutes ago?" OK, half true.

"When you have a nightmare, find me. I don't care if I just went to sleep, I don't care if I hadn't slept in days, I don't care if I'm not even asleep and you have to drag me out of my work, find me."

"When you feel like this is not real, find me. I don't care if you have to send someone to do it, I don't care if you run around the palace screaming my name, I don't care if I'm in the most important reunion, find me."

They break the hug to look at each other and say at the same time, "Deal".

"Sooo, do you want to have breakfast in bed and completely run away from our responsibilities?"

"We're the King and Queen of Elfhame."

"Exactly, there is no one above to stop us."

"We have an entire kingdom depending on us."

"Well, as the High King, I order you to stay in bed with me."

"As the High Queen, I'm going to refuse that order."

"Come on, you're mortal, you can say that we are sick or something." Jude's going to retaliate, but honestly? She's exhausted and spending the night in bed with her husband doesn't seem the worst idea.

"You are a horrible influence, do you know that?"

"Does that mean I win?"

She sighs. "Yes, you win."

"Yay" He says, getting up and doing a little spin like a child who was able to negotiate bedtime with their parents. She can't help but smile at his shenanigans.

Next, he does an extremely exaggerated bow and continues. "After you, my queen."

At that, she fully laughs, takes his hand and goes down the pathway with him. She hates being vulnerable, but with him, it isn't that bad. How do we take the armour off? A piece at a time. She feels like they just took another one.

-‐----------------‐-----------------‐----------------‐----------------

So, I had this idea since I finished Queen of Nothing and since I didn't see any fic like this I decided to make it myself. The characters may be a bit OOC, I'm not tha familiar with them. I am not a writer and my first language is not English, so apologies for any mistake. 🫶

Btw this was way bigger than I thought, no idea how many words, but damn, I'm having a brain riot.

[skyward-floored]

Random febuwhump wip because I haven’t shared much of anything yet (reminder that this is Incredibles au :)

“Sky, calm down,” he tried as Sky continued to choke on air, and when that didn’t work, he grabbed his hands, squeezing them tight. “Sky, please, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you have to breathe.”

Sky only wheezed, and Warriors watched him with growing panic, already kicking himself for not expecting this.

He should’ve known it would all crash down on Sky at some point— he’d barely reacted after everything had happened, but his best friend had been kidnapped, and he’d nearly been killed by the same man who’d murdered his parents, and then he’d turned around and—

Sky gagged on a cough, and Warriors shot a panicked glance out into the hallway as quick footsteps came down it. Time appeared in the doorway, and immediately got to a knee beside Sky, his face creased with concern.

“Sky, what happened? What’s wrong?” he asked, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“I-I, I ki...” Sky wheezed, shaking like a leaf, “T-Time I was...”

He couldn’t get enough words out for Time to understand, and Time looked over at Warriors, confusion and worry on his face. Warriors made a helpless gesture, and Sky wheezed again and brought Time’s attention back to himself.

[biblicallycorrectangelvenom]

I love my mother but

I still feel the fear of her pinning me against the laundry door by my throat at 12 years old over a lunchbox

I still feel the fear of her yelling at me at the same age for going through puberty and experiencing depression

I still feel the fear of her yelling at me to wear longer shorts because her husband was a pervert

I still feel the fear of her grabbing me up or screaming in my face over eating the last saltines and claiming that "this house is not a 24/7 buffet"

Now at 28, I love my mother but these things have made my adulthood so far very hard because now I'm burdened with unlearning these things and have to lock myself in the bathroom every time panic comes to visit

I love my mother but I never deserved this type of mother

[anunsweetenedpeachtea]

no one in the nana fandom warned me about this

[charleslee-valentine]

♪ Now when I'm very good, and do as I am told I'm Mama's little angel and Daddy says I'm good as gold

And when I'm naughty and answer back and sass I'm Mama's little devil, and Daddy says I've got the brass. ♪

- What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962)

~~~~

Fic word count: ~1,600

Warnings: Detailed depictions of child abuse (mental, medical, and physical,) canonical mistreatment of the Sinclair twins, the highchair/restraints being used on Bo, panic attack, near asphyxia, fear of death, smoking, psychological torment, weaponized love, Trudy and Victor Sinclair being horrible parents, childhood mental illness, all hurt no comfort.

~~~~

“Don’t you love your brother, Beauregard?!”

Does he?

Vincent is sitting in his big boy chair in the corner. His hair is parted neatly down the middle, smoothed by Mama’s doting hands and a lipsticked kiss. There’s no mask on his face today. His last one melted.

The brat left in the window where the sun could get it too long.

Not that it’s his fault actually. If the Doc didn’t insist on interrupting breakfast to prod at some scar tissue in Vinny’s nose that was making a whistle sound when he breathed, it wouldn’t have happened. Pulled him away and left his mask where it lie, forgotten for hours while he inspected and snipped the problem away.

And then there was a new issue.

Mama’s mold was still shattered. One problem the Doc’s cold, rough hands couldn’t piece back together into perfection. There's a hero cast somewhere that could make a new mold, but Mama wants a newer one. To replace Vinny’s year four mask.

Every second his scars stay exposed makes him cry. He doesn’t like being stared at and dissected like a bug with its wings pinned.

Bo isn’t in his big boy chair. He’s strapped into the too small highchair. The tray squeezes his stomach and the metal hurts his knees. Not as much as the straps though.

Not as much as his feelings when he’s asked about if he loves his brother.

Of course he does. Vincent is the only one in the house that Bo still trusts. And that means he loves him. Because it isn’t his fault the mask melted. It’s Doc’s. And it’s not his fault about the mold breaking, it’s Mama’s.

And it’s not Vincent’s fault that his face got messed up. That one is Bo’s.

Being a good boy and sitting still and letting Mama get her copy of his face should be just the easiest thing. He’s doing this for his brother. His only friend in the world.

It’s never easy.

Mama makes the mixture in a big bowl, hot water and some powder that turns orange. It’s slimy and smells an awful lot like marshland before a rainstorm. The schlop always feels clammy on his skin. Unpleasantly cold and wet no matter how dry it gets.

“Don’t you move now, Bo. Your papa’ll woop you.”

Lies aren’t allowed in this house, unless it’s ‘I love you.’ So Bo knows she means that threat. He’s got to behave or face worse than this.

Doesn’t mean he just can.

The alginate makes Bo flinch, rocking back to scoot his chair away from the sickening feeling. Mama don’t let up. She scoops up handfuls of it and spreads it on his face like it’s one of her fancy creams. At first she always leaves his eyes out, and his lips, and every time he thinks maybe he got lucky and she ain’t gonna drown him in it.

He’s always wrong to trust Mama.

All it takes is another handful, pressed against his mouth while he tries to scream his protests, but she presses her palm down hard so he can’t open it. Everything’s muffled, bottled up so no one can know.

The mixture sneaks tiny drops past his lips and makes him gag, once, twice- but Mama keeps pressing her clawed hand down until it starts to dry just enough that it holds itself. Then over his eyes it goes.

Bo tries to hold them open, but Mama always knows when he’s gonna do stuff like that. She purses her lips and blows a quick puff of cigarette air, makes him flinch again so his eyes close and she can take advantage of it.

Once it’s dark is when Bo panics for real. The healing wounds on his wrists tear right open again as he thrashes harder. The blood drips slow as honey, pooling around the leather straps holding him down.

It’s moments like this, that Bo questions his trust of Vincent.

Vincent who sits patiently in the corner for Mama to finish her torture so he can get back to being the favorite. Without his mask, he’s not wanted. An ugly, warped thing that needs covering up. Like a weed in the garden. Or a corpse in the Doc’s operating room.

Bo wishes his brother would help him. He wishes his mama would listen and take this stuff off his face. He prays that the Doc won’t come home yet and get mad and make things hurt worse. Or maybe that he won’t come home at all.

Mostly though, his brain is like static. Painful, heated, buzzing tv static burning a hole right through the back of his head. He’s in the middle of it, the dark, and sinking. There’s two little holes for him to breathe through, but he can’t get enough air.

Bo digs his nails into his own palms and draws even more blood, and underneath the sticky shell, he screams. And screams. And screams.

Nobody ever listens.

Mama tugs his messy hair in place of being able to slap his face.

“What did I tell you! Quiet while I finish!”

But there’s not enough air and he needs her to listen. Bo’s going to suffocate and all his mama cares about is making Vincent pretty.

Never learning, never getting used to the constraint, Bo tries to tear his arms upwards from the tape, to dig those blunted nails into Mama’s flesh instead of his own.

He can’t get them to budge.

She just keeps going, either not knowing about the mental threat to her safety or not caring.

The alginate starts to get tacky, so Mama wets strips of plaster gauze, the kind from Doc’s office like he used when he broke Bo’s arm putting him in his restraints a long time ago. Water splashing in a new bowl, rung out of each piece before its placed over top, just makes Bo feel even more like he’s dying. Drops landing somewhere in the abyss, his head underneath the water as he drowns.

Bo wants to die. Or he thinks he is dying anyhow. With the very last strip, Mama covers over his nose too.

Again Bo tries to scream, but barely a groan gets past his sealed lips. The full minute it takes to all harden up is far too long without breathing. What was a completely black void behind his eyes gets sparks of flashing red and white. He’s out of air.

A last effort to get his mama to listen, Bo rocks and slams his back against his highchair, desperately trying to tip it. The impact of the ground would force air back into his lungs.

He feels it start to give way, gravity suddenly weighing more heavily on him, but Mama hisses and rocks him right back upright. Her fault for putting a big kid in a little baby's chair.

Mama peels it all away then. From the outside it’s so easy, to cup the sides of his fake plaster face and ease the two layers back, only a couple scraps left sticking to his skin. She’ll help him clean up later if he’s well behaved at supper maybe.

First thing Bo does now is take a big breath in, but it’s too much at once after so long without air, he coughs, throat raw and dry, making Mama jerk back in disgust from him.

“Did you have to be so dramatic?”

Bo knows he’s crying when the image of his mama turns blurry. His face is already numb and cold and wet, but chest starts heaving with sobs, rising and falling all out of rhythm. Instead of his growling and screaming, Bo wheezes and cries and whimpers, unable to catch his breath, because of the tears this time.

The thing about alginate- it’s very sensitive.

Sure it doesn’t pull too bad once it firms up like jell-o, coming off easy from Bo’s eyelashes and eyebrows without disturbing single hair, but that’s just the thing. The rubbery, weak material ain’t meant to last long. It’ll dry out and shrink in a couple hours anyhow, the whole thing got no real structure.

Mama laid the fresh cast in a box of sawdust to pour plaster in it without spills or damage, and noticed, in the mess of Bo thrashing as it came off, a rip had formed. Right across the middle of his face from the side of his mouth to the opposite side of his nose.

Once upon a time, she’d tried to just patch it when it tore, only for the plaster face to come out warped, cheeks flattened and bumpy, nose crooked. One eye missing. She’d given it to the Doc to dispose of. Familiar story.

Mama clicks her tongue against her teeth, a noise of distaste Bo knows just as well. It sends a cold feeling down his spine, worse than the goop on his face.

“You know I’m gonna have to do that all over again now.”

His wrists won’t stop bleeding. They itch and burn as much as his tearful eyes.

Bo steals a glare over at Vincent in his precious, safe corner. His head down, he’s doodling something. Maybe drawing pretty pictures of Beauregard’s misery. All for himself. Selfish, selfish Vincent, doesn’t help and keeps the pain around as art.

Still, that’s no worse than stealing his brother’s face.

The scar on the back of Bo’s head aches.

“I love you.”

It’s for Vinny. To answer the question, he does love his brother.

Mama answers back, like she belonged between their bond,

“You love me. Well thank God you do.”

Her cigarette ash on his skin hurts worse than the burning in his lungs. The crumbling cherry touches his cheek and leaves a little singe by the corner of his mouth. His own tears soothe it.

Though smoke doesn’t make calming down any easier.

“You best love me, Beauregard. Show me. Be a good boy and sit still.”

[leviiackrman]

I am fighting for my life to be mentally stable and it’s not working

[rynneer]

Blood of Durin: The Complete Edition

Chapters 1 & 2

Y/N doesn’t know how she found herself in Middle Earth, how she found herself among the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, or how she let herself be captivated by the elder Durin prince—but she does know one thing: She’s carrying his child.

Updated weekly, or read the full story here

Chapter 1: Don’t Think, Just Run

all eyes on you, so much to prove...

–Don’t Think Just Run, Beth Crowley

“What… who is that?”

“‘Tis a lass!”

“Do we tie her up?”

“Wait—she’s moving!”

“Out of the way!”

Unfamiliar voices rouse you from sleep. You shift in your sleeping bag, but freeze as something cold touches your neck. Opening your eyes, you find yourself surrounded by dark, looming figures. A blade presses into your throat—not hard enough to draw blood, but firmly enough that you know whoever wields it means business.

Your mind races, survival instincts kicking in. There are rangers around the park where you’ve camped for the weekend, but you set up your site in a remote part of the woods. Your phone is in your backpack. Your backpack is by your sleeping bag. If you make a move for it, they slit your throat. You swallow. Time to talk your way out.

“Who are you?” The tallest figure stands over you. Backlit by the rising sun, you can’t quite make out his face, but his voice is oddly familiar.

“Let me go, or I’ll scream,” you rasp, voice rough both from sleep and the blade against your neck. “My… my boyfriend is on his way back.” It sounds stupid and desperate. It is stupid and desperate.

“You are the intruder here,” he growls. “How did you get here?”

Intruder? “It… it’s a state park…” you stammer. Time to change tactics. “Look, I can’t see your face. Let me go, and I swear I won’t tell the cops!”

“Cops?” one questions. He sounds younger.

“I say we just get rid of ‘er,” another one grunts from behind you.

You start to shake. “Please just let me go,” you say, your voice very, very small. This is it. You’re about to become the topic of an unsolved true crime podcast episode.

A sigh comes from your left. “Let her up, Dwalin. Thorin, look at her. The lass is terrified.”

The blade withdraws from your neck. Your mind spins. Dwalin? Thorin?

With your eyes adjusting to the early morning light, you finally get a chance to sit up and look around properly. “No way,” you mutter. “This is a dream.”

Around you are four short, bearded men. But they’re not men, are they? They’re dwarves, and you know these dwarves. Standing over you is a dark-haired dwarf, glowering down at you with folded arms. Flanking him, two younger dwarves: one blonde, one brunette, peering at you curiously. And at your left, an old, white-haired dwarf with a kind face. Another one—bald and tattooed, it’s Dwalin—steps into view, running his thumb along the blade of an axe. He must have been the one holding you down. Past Thorin, you see the others crouched around a fire pit or rising from their bedrolls, all eyes fixed on you.

You back out of your sleeping bag slowly and lift a shaky finger. “Balin, Dwalin… Fíli, Kíli…” you point at each of them in turn. “Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Óin, Glóin, Nori, Dori, Ori… and Thorin.”

There’s a few seconds of silence as all thirteen dwarves stare at you in bewilderment. Then, in a flash, you’re pushed back down, a knife at your throat.

“How do you know who we are?” Thorin demands, his hand pinning your shoulder to the ground roughly.

“Is there a reason you’re holding a young woman at knifepoint, Thorin Oakenshield?”

That voice. You’d know that voice anywhere.

Thorin hesitates as a tall man cloaked in gray emerges from the trees, sucking on a long-stemmed pipe. Gandalf’s eyes are curious, if guarded as he looks down at you. He motions to Thorin to let you up. Reluctantly, the dwarf does so, and you scramble away, pressing your back against a tree. This definitely isn’t the forest you went to sleep in. All that remains of your campsite is your sleeping bag and backpack. No tent, and no car. Just thirteen dwarves, a wizard, and, stumbling into the clearing behind Gandalf, a hobbit.

“Where am I?” you whisper.

“The woods,” Bofur supplies.

“We’re still within the borders of the hobbits’ lands,” Ori offers more helpfully.

“You mean I’m in Middle Earth? Like, J. R. R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, Shire and Gondor and Mordor Middle Earth?”

Gandalf frowns at that last addition, but nods. “This seems to be distressing to you.”

“But… but you’re not real, you’re just stories,” you protest. Your mind races and you scramble for your backpack, digging around for the book. The Hobbit. You brought it along for some thematically appropriate reading.

Fíli smacks Kíli on the back of the head, making him yelp. “Seems real enough to me.”

“No,” you insist. “No, no, you’re fiction. You were made up by a brilliant man who wrote some of the greatest books of all time, and you’re not real, and–” you halt, staring down at your book in disbelief. The well-thumbed pages are blank. You flip to the beginning. All that remains is the first two chapters, just barely. The book falls from your grasp and you put your face in your hands.

Spying the book, Bilbo moves closer to you, though still maintaining a cautious distance. “Does that say… hobbit?”

“The Hobbit,” you reply, voice muffled. “It’s the title of the story. The story of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield journeying to reclaim the Lonely Mountain from the dragon Smaug. Told from the perspective of Bilbo Baggins. There and Back Again, a Hobbit’s Tale. A book for children.” Peeking over your fingers, you find Thorin’s face. His brow is furrowed.

“You are saying… you are not of this world?” he asks, slowly putting the pieces together. “And in your world, our quest is a mere story for children?”

You nod and clear your throat. “Have you gotten to the… the…” you trail off, racking your brain.

Something’s wrong.

“…I don’t remember what comes next.” Your heart pounds in your ears and your breathing quickens. “I know the story by heart, why can’t I remember what happens next?”

It’s silent as the dwarves watch you.

“Well, ‘tis no different than the rest of us,” Óin remarks eventually. “No one knows what’s to come.”

You wipe at your eyes and sniff.

“So…” Fíli scratches his beard. “What do we do with her?” He grabs your arm, pulling you to your feet and looking at Thorin questioningly.

“We can’t just leave her in the middle of the woods, Thorin,” Balin says quietly.

Thorin looks from you, to Fíli, to Gandalf, to Balin. “We leave her in the next village the moment she becomes a burden,” he grumbles. He leans close to Kíli. “You two keep an eye on her,” he mutters, just barely audible. “Pack up your things. We stop again at midday.”

That breaks the dwarves out of their silence. The morning fills with hushed voices as they bustle around, packing bags and rolling up blankets and bedrolls. Bombur pours a small pot of water over the fire.

Kíli jerks his head towards the ponies. “Flip a coin for who she rides with, Fee?”

Fili lets go of you and brushes you off. “I’ll take her—I’m the better rider anyway.” He pauses to let you gather your things. You were so exhausted after setting up camp the night before that you crawled into bed fully clothed. Seeing you struggle with your sleeping bag, he bends over and rolls it up, fiddling with the elastic cords to tie it shut.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“No trouble.” He straightens up and gives you a small bow. “Fíli, at your service.”

“I know. I’m Y/N.” You keep your gaze lowered, hefting your backpack up on your shoulders and following Fíli to his pony. The tan beast snorts and stamps an impatient hoof. The others, even Bilbo, are already mounted and waiting.

Fíli plants a foot in the stirrup and swings his leg up and over. He holds out a hand. “Up you get, lass.”

Hesitantly, you grip his forearm, surprised at how easily he’s able to pull you up. You stand higher than the dwarf, but he clearly outmatches you in strength. The saddle doesn’t quite fit two, and you wobble, nearly slipping off the other side. Your arm flies forward reflexively to grab Fíli’s shoulder to steady yourself.

“Easy, there!” he cautions, scooting forward to allow you more room in the saddle. He looks back at you. “First time riding?”

You fidget, trying to settle comfortably. “It’s been a really long time.”

He smirks. “Try not to fall off, aye?” He moves your hand to his side and snaps his reins to catch up with the others. Gandalf brings up the rear.

Soon enough, the air is full of chattering and laughter as the Company trots along the path. Bofur starts up a rowdy riding song about a drunk horse. What a strange sight it must make for any passersby: thirteen dwarves with all manner of weapons, a stiff, nervous hobbit, a tall wizard on a great, white horse, and a young woman in strange clothing.

The April air is thick and humid, clouds heavy with the promise of storms to come. Woods gradually open up to rolling fields, back to more woods as your party leaves the Shire behind. Still clinging to the dwarf, you crane your neck and search your surroundings for anything to indicate where you are in the story. Your memories are fuzzy, something about trolls hovering at the back of your mind. All you can think about is losing supplies when a pony bolts and gets swept away in a river—how comforting.

“Lass?” Fíli elbows you, startling you from your thoughts. “We’re stopping.” He hops off the pony, holding out his arms to catch you.

You ignore them, sliding off yourself, but your heavy backpack causes you to stumble. Not completely zipped, its contents spill out onto the ground.

Fíli raises an eyebrow. “No shame in accepting help.” He crouches down to gather things up, but pauses with a puzzled expression. “What are these?” His hand lands on your phone first, staring at it in wonder as it lights up beneath his fingers. He nearly jumps out his skin when it vibrates, informing him that facial ID didn’t work.

You snatch it back from him and shove it in your pocket. “Later,” you grumble. With a sigh, your eyes sweep the rest of your stuff scattered across the leaves. A journal and pen, a few bags of trail mix, some granola bars, a bottle of water, and a half-finished soda from the drive up to the park. You hastily scoop them up and check your backpack for the rest. A fresh set of clothes, a hoodie, some pajamas, basic toiletries, and your solar phone charger. And, of course, The Hobbit.

Fíli frowns at the book. “Do you really know what happens on the journey? How it ends?”

You puff your cheeks out in a sigh. “I should, but it’s all… blurry. I can see the next couple days, though—we’re gonna lose a pony.”

“Fíli! Lass! Planning on joining us?” Balin calls from a short distance away.

You shake yourself, zipping your backpack shut and heaving it off the ground. Gandalf and a few others puff on long pipes, blowing out competing smoke rings. Ori and Kíli munch on apples in a circle of tree stumps. Thorin sits nearby, watching you through narrowed eyes.

“A lass looks good on you, Fee,” Kíli teases as his brother plops on the ground beside him. “Thought you’d never find love.”

Fíli rolls his eyes and punches Kíli’s arm.

You settle against a stump across from the siblings. Kíli rubs an apple on his shirt and tosses it your way. You catch it and nod your thanks. It’s large and sweet, sweeter than any apple you’d bought at the grocery store.

A shadow falls across your lap.

“You.” Thorin looms over you. “What is your name, daughter of Man?”

Daughter of Man? “Y/N,” you mumble.

“What skills do you possess? Can you wield a blade, a bow, tend to wounds? Fight, defend yourself?”

You get his point. “I, uh… I know how to throw a punch. And some basic first aid?”

He doesn’t look impressed.

Desperately, you search your brain for anything useful you could offer him. “I know a lot about Middle Earth history and lore?”

Across from you, a thoughtful look crosses Fíli’s face. “Y/N, what’d you say happens in a few days?”

“A pony bolts during a rainstorm and drowns in a river, and we lose supplies. Mostly food.” Your response is nearly automatic.

Fíli looks at Thorin pointedly. “Give it a couple days, and we shall see just how good of a prophet we have on our hands.”

Thorin presses his lips into a thin line. “We shall see.”

You knew the rainstorm was coming, but it’s still unpleasant. Your hoodie is soaked through, and you can only hope your things are safe inside the emergency plastic bag you keep in your backpack. Water seeps through your fingers from where you hold onto Fíli’s cloak. The wind tears at your hood, ripping it from your head. The only consolation is that the wind is breaking up the clouds, allowing a few rays of moonlight to filter through the woods.

At the head of the party, Thorin halts his pony. “We must find somewhere to take supper,” he mutters. “And where shall we get a dry patch to sleep on?”

“Should we not wait for Gandalf?” Bofur cries from the back of the group.

“What d’you mean, wait for Gandalf?” Kíli asks, puzzled.

“He wandered off a while ago,” you pipe up. “He’ll be back.”

Thorin grumbles something about “Mahal-damned wizards.”

Pulling their hoods tightly around their faces, Bifur and Glóin hop off their ponies, landing in the mud with a squelch and vanishing into the trees. Your butt is quite sore by the time they return.

“There’s nary a dry place to be seen,” Glóin reports. “We may as well camp as we stand.”

You slide from the pony with a groan. “Could’ve told you that myself.”

The rest of the Company seems no more pleased than you at setting up camp beneath the dripping leaves. To keep busy, you help Dori tie up the ponies, but you keep looking back over your shoulder off into the distance at the swollen river you’d forded.

Kíli frowns. “What’s wr–”

He’s interrupted by a screech from the pony Dori is handling. The rope rips from his hand and it bolts—straight for the river.

It happens in slow motion: Fíli and Kíli chase after it, ignoring your screams to stop. Kíli reaches the rope first, snagging it with a hand but instantly getting dragged to the ground. Fíli grabs his boot, only succeeding in yanking it off.

You sprint as fast as your legs will carry you, but Kíli’s already in the river, swept under. “Fíli, don’t you fucking dare–”

And Fíli dives in after, vanishing.

Footsteps pound behind you and a rope lands in your arms. “Move!” Thorin barks.

You run through the trees, chasing the current. Thorin pushes you forward. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you search the water. There!

You spot a dark patch in the water. You fling the rope at him. “Kíli!” you scream.

His hand shoots out and seizes the rope.

Thorin is at your side in an instant. “Pull!”

You yank on the rope for all you’re worth, bracing your legs against a rock. Thorin hollers back toward camp, bringing half a dozen dwarves racing through the forest. As they start hauling Kíli out of the water, you let go of the rope and scramble towards the riverbank. “Fíli?!”

A shout comes from further down the river. A yellow head pokes out over a log stuck in the bank, the dwarf clinging to it for dear life.

You struggle against the sucking mud, reaching out an arm. Fíli grips it tightly and you pull with all your might, clawing at his sopping wet sleeve. Strong arms wrap around your waist and heave, dragging you backwards, Fíli along with you. The momentum sends him crashing on top of you, and you both fall into the mud with a splat. The weight of the dwarf on your chest knocks the wind out of you. After fighting the current, the poor thing is too exhausted to do much more than collapse on top of you, his head resting on your shoulder.

You pat him on the back, chest heaving. “You alright?”

“I’m alive,” he wheezes.

You sigh and let your head fall back against the ground, for the moment not caring about the mud caking your hair. You’ll wash it out later.

Thorin’s face appears above you. He hauls Fíli off of you and offers you a hand. Pulling you from the ground, he wipes a smear of mud from your face.

“I told you,” you pant. “I told you we’d lose a pony.”

But Thorin doesn’t argue. He claps your shoulder. “Welcome to the Company,” he grunts.

Chapter 2: Quiet

Trigger warning: panic attack

and the heat and the shouting and my heart is pounding and my eyes are burning

–Quiet, the cast of Roald Dahl’s Matilda: The Musical

Something’s not right.

There’s a knot in your stomach that becomes more strained as you trek through the woods, yours and Fíli’s pony plodding tiredly beneath you. Thorin rides just ahead, grumbling under his breath. He’s been in a foul mood for days, under the combined stress of Gandalf’s sudden disappearance and the loss of the pony that carried a considerable amount of food. He won’t admit it, but you think Fíli and Kíli’s near-drowning has shaken him as well. It’s the first time so far the Company has encountered real danger, and for it to involve his closest family must weigh heavily on him.

Everyone’s nerves are strained, in fact. Even Bofur hasn’t felt up for a song. With one mount down, the dwarves are alternating between who gets to ride, and who has to walk. So far, you and Bilbo haven’t been in the line up—someone else is always quick to volunteer in your place.

“Something bad is going to happen soon,” you mutter in Fíli’s ear. “I can feel it.”

Thorin lets out a low growl. He may have accepted you as a member of the Company, but you can feel his patience waning. The warning you gave didn’t stop the pony’s loss, and since then all you’ve had to offer are vague, dark feelings.

Fíli reaches back and pats your thigh. “I’m sure we can handle whatever comes our way,” he says.

Thorin pulls back on his reins, halting his pony. “We’ll stop for the night,” he grunts. A sigh of relief ripples through the Company.

The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens. Something about this decision feels wrong, but you try to ignore it as you slide off the pony and busy yourself setting up camp. But it only gets worse, escalating to physical pain. Briefly, you wonder if your period has come early. When you sit down next to Bombur’s small fire, you hiss. It feels like someone’s stabbed you with a hot poker.

“Something wrong, lass?” Bofur asks, dumping wood on the ground.

“I don’t know,” you reply through gritted teeth. “I don’t think we should be stopping.” As you say it, the pain eases slightly.

Thorin frowns from his place across the fire. “We stop when I say so.”

“Something doesn’t feel right about it,” you say again. “The story–”

Thorin’s eyes flash dangerously. “This is not one of your stories.”

“No, we have to keep going,” you protest. You can sense his anger about to boil over, but you press on. “You have to do what Tolkien said you’re supposed to do!” You regret your phrasing as soon as the words leave your mouth.

“I do not want to hear another word of this Mahal-damned Tolkien and whatever nonsense he penned in your world,” Thorin snaps. “I will not suffer a challenge, least of all from someone who is only on this quest by unfortunate chance!”

Kíli jumps to his feet. “Thorin, you shouldn’t speak to her like that!”

“Be quiet, Kíli!” Thorin rounds on his nephew.

Several others rise and the air fills with a clamor of voices—some coming to your defense, others supporting Thorin.

Shouts ring out.

It’s too loud.

The noise is overwhelming.

Get out.

You can’t hear anything anymore.

You’re useless.

Everything is blurry.

This is your fault.

Your hands begin to sweat.

You can’t change anything.

You’re consumed by just one thought.

I need to get out. Get out. Get out get out get out get out.

You scramble to your feet and bolt, ignoring the cries of the Company and running blindly through the woods.

Get out get out get out.

Your foot catches on a root and the ground rushes up to meet you.

Your pulse races. Your breaths come quick and shallow, barely taking in any air before it’s forced right back out. Somewhere, in a detached part of your mind, you’re aware of what’s happening, but you feel like a passenger in your body as waves of panic slam over you.

“Y/N?”

Arms find you in the shadows. You flinch away, curling into a ball and burying your face in your knees. “I can’t. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t–” you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips out of your control. “I can’t breathe, I can’t–”

A hand grips your shoulder, hesitantly at first, then more firmly. “Hey,” a voice murmurs. “Hey there. Easy, lass. You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Even as you stiffen against the touch, an arm works its way between your knees and your chest. It gently uncurls your body and pulls you into a tight embrace. The hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your head, pushing it down lightly. Your face is buried in a mane of soft hair, cool beads pressing into your cheeks.

“That’s it, lass. Breathe.”

With trembling hands, you dig your fingers into the back of whoever holds you. It takes tremendous effort, but you suck in a deep, shuddering breath. The scent in your nose is musky and sweaty, grounding you in the moment. This is real, a voice whispers in the back of your mind. This is safe.

Your stiff body finally loosens, and the hand lifts from your hair. You raise your head and meet a pair of kind eyes.

It’s Fíli. His brow is slightly creased as he searches your face. He eases his hold on you, but keeps his arm wrapped around your middle.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears spilling over your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

He squeezes your side. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” There’s a dark patch on the shoulder of his tunic from your tears.

You duck your head, avoiding his face. “I knew this would happen,” you say softly, bitterness lacing your voice. As the adrenaline drains from your blood, hot shame replaces your fear.

“Does this…” he hesitates. “Does this happen often?” Fíli lowers his head to get in your line of sight. “Y/N?”

“Sometimes.” You pause to take a few more deep, steady breaths, and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. “I ran out of my medicine last week. It was just a matter of time.”

“Medicine?” His eyes darken with worry. “Are you ill?”

You let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. “Mentally? Yeah. And all this…” you wave your hand in the air, “…it isn’t helping.”

“Nor is Thorin, I’m sure.”

“It’s not his fault,” you mutter.

Fíli shifts into a cross-legged position. He takes one of your arms and puts it around his neck, carefully pulling you into his lap. You sink against his chest, trying to match his even breathing and listening to his heartbeat. He rests his chin on your head and starts humming softly. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to him, to any of the dwarves, but you couldn’t care less. You’ll take comfort from any source. You close your eyes with a sigh.

“Uncle doesn’t mean it,” Fíli whispers after a long time. “He values you, I promise.” His chest vibrates as he chuckles. “If he didn’t, you’d have been left behind long ago.”

“Gandalf values me,” you reply morosely. “If it was up to Thorin, I wouldn’t be here in the first place. Or if it was up to me,” you add, voice small.

Fíli squeezes you. “Don’t say that,” he murmurs. “Kíli’s glad you’re here. Balin’s glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re here.”

You swallow down more tears. “Fíli, face it. The only thing I add to the party is a vague idea of what will happen in two or three days. And what good is that if Thorin won’t even listen?” You start to shake again as you finally put to words the thoughts that have plagued you for days. “I’m just dead weight.”

“You keep me going,” he whispers, voice cracking slightly. “You’re a member of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. You’re our lass.”

Silent tears course down your cheeks. Fíli starts humming again.

“I won’t let him say anything like that ever again,” he promises. He pulls back and gives you a small smile. “…markhûna.” [she who is desired]

The meaning of the Khuzdûl is lost on you, but you weakly return his smile.

“Y/N? Are you…”

Kíli pushes through the brush. You expect Fíli to push you away hastily or try to explain your entangled position, but he makes no attempt to move you. He merely stands with you in his arms, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist to support yourself.

“Has he cooled off?” Fíli asks warily.

Kíli shrugs. “He hasn’t said a word since she, uh…” he trails off, giving you a careful glance. “Yes. He’s cooled off.”

Fíli nods slowly, and you drop your legs, letting him place you on the ground. “Will you be alright?” he whispers in your ear.

You nod, releasing your arms from around his neck and untangling your fingers from his hair.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll look after you.” Kíli grins and pats you on the back heartily. “You’re one of us now.”

[someonesgrossblog]

Been thinking about this all day so I gotta get it out of me somehow:

Normally stoic and badass characters suddenly throwing up after the adrenaline wheres off from a near death experience (monster showed up/mission gone wrong/you get the idea). They’re on their knees dry heaving and gasping for air in front of their team. Now said team is trying to figure out how to calm them down.

[puhpandas]

Vivid Phantasm

(2,408 words)

Vanessa has a bad and vivid nightmare. Gregory helps her calm down when she wakes up.

(warnings: mentions of innards being outards, blood, gore, descriptions matching a zombie, panicking, unreality, mentions of death, corpses, maggots, etc. please be careful and take care!)

This morning feels off.

It's the same as any other morning, is the thing. Daylight is shining through the small window in her apartments kitchen, the TV has some Halloween baking show on that she can hear playing behind the island window, and Gregory is pouring an abundance of sugary cereal in a bowl even though breakfast is being cooked, like always.

Save for the fact that Vanessa's the one sitting at the table, instead of being at the stove cooking breakfast. Freddy took over that burden for her, if his hulking frame clutching a spatula and the smell of bacon and eggs is any indication.

She would feel grateful, that Freddy decided to use his steadily growing cooking skills to give her a peaceful beginning of the weekend. But the thing is, she cant remember waking up that morning. She cant remember getting out of bed, or having her morning cup of coffee, or Freddy taking over for her at the stove.

No, she shakes the thought away as soon as it enters her mind. Vanny is gone. For good. She isn't coming back.

Despite her own reassurance shooing away the paranoia (it's her old friend at this point), the feeling that somethings off continues to linger. It's like the very air is suffocating, feeling wrong against her skin.

Gregory finally sits across from her at the table, and despite his full bowl of lucky charms, she can't find it in herself to reprimand him. The feeling of wrongness is too strong.

So she just defaults to the question she asks every Saturday morning, and ignores the swimming uncomfortableness in her stomach.

"So," She begins uncertainly, fingers drumming on the dining table. "how has school been?"

Gregory doesn't respond. All he does is leave his bowl of cereal untouched and stare at her.

The wrongness washes over her, a sense of dread crawling under her skin. She shifts uncomfortably, eyes wandering across the kitchen just so she doesnt meet Gregory's eyes.

Her breathing picks up when she notices small oddities; Gregory's drawings on the fridge are muddled, like if she'd imagined them and couldn't paint the full picture. The cat clock that normally sits on the wall next to the fridge is completely missing. Freddys body looks like his old, company manufactured shiny one, no homemade mismatched casing or scrapes and scratches to be found.

She tries to lower her heartrate, taking deep breaths to stay calm in front of Gregory. She repeats her usual reassurances in her head, but the scenario that none of this is real, but more like a pale recreation of what she does know lingers in the back of her mind.

Gregory, who's been so still this whole time, suddenly begins to laugh. Vanessa startles, the sound that normally brings her joy just making her feel unsettled.

When she looks over at him, hes grinning, so wide his cheeks could crack, and he's cackling, like she just said the funniest thing in the world. His eyes bore into hers, looking so unlike the Gregory she knows.

It echoes in the suddenly silent room. She can't hear the TV anymore, and the sound of frying bacon is completely absent.

She trembles under his gaze, her heart in her throat. She swallows, feeling sickness coat the back of her throat. "...Gregory?"

The smile is off of his face immediately, faster than she could blink, and all shes left with is him boring into her with a blank expression. "You really think this isn't real?"

Vanessa goes rigid, because it's almost like Gregory read her very thoughts. "Um..."

Gregory's empty eyes stare right into hers, and she feels like hes looking into her very soul, judging her. "I bet you want it to be. I bet you want the things you did to just be a bad dream."

Vanessa feels nausea curl in her stomach when Freddys head is suddenly flipped backwards, staring at her with the same lifeless eyes as Gregory. Gregory cackles again, but when Vanessa looks over at him, he's still completely stoic.

"The things I did?" The question leaves her mouth without her permission. Her back aches when the wood digs into it as she tries to lean back as far as she can. Away from Gregory.

"You killed me." Gregory tells her, an edge to his voice. "I'm dead. I'm not really here."

Vanessa freezes, her body trembling so hard her shoulders shake. "What?" She whispers.

"You killed me." He repeats, eyes dark and devoid of any life. Theres zero shine to them, like hes just a copy. A cruel figment. "I havent been here in a long time. I died in that room, Vanessa. You killed me."

Vanessa shakes her head, and despite her wobbly knees, she stands abruptly and sends her chair squealing against the floor. "No..." She backs up, shaking her head almost deliriously. "No--

"I was trying to save you." Gregory stands himself, movements unnatural and rigid, and Vanessa feels her heartrate spike and her stomach drop when Gregory begins to stalk towards her.

"I was so close." Gregory says, blood seeping from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. The very same slice she remembers making on his face as Vanny, the one she always used as an anchor, a sign of hope that it was all over re-opens, blood leaking sluggishly out of it. "But you stopped me. You stopped me from freeing you."

Vanessa shakes her head, eyes blown wide. No. She remembers him saving her, the way she dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. The way he'd looked at her and smiled, and for some reason, forgave her for everything at that very moment. This isnt right.

"You stopped me." Gregory repeats, and hes suddenly in his old blue polo, rips and tears near his stomach. She feels sickness crawl its way up her throat when a dark spot appears in the same place, and the blood from his mouth dirties his collar. He takes another step. "Because you didnt want me to."

"No." She squeezes her eyes shut, back hitting the wall. She slides pitifully down the wall, knees giving in. "No... I-I never wanted to--"

"You wanted me to die." He says, anger lacing his tone. He takes another step. "You wanted to stop me. So you could continue killing."

"I didnt..." She mumbles, tears slipping past her eyelashes. She sits on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest and arms shielding her from the world. "I dont... I dont. I dont want to."

"You still believe that?" Gregory demands, with a kind of anger and hatred that shes never heard from him before. "I'm dead! I'm dead because you killed me Vanessa!"

"No..." She sobs, daring to peek at him, just so he can see her and know she didnt mean it. She doesnt want to. "I'm-- Im sorry--!"

She regrets it as soon as she sets eyes on him. Gregory's shadow looms over her, shirt half ripped and his intestines flopping out of his stomach, his eyes are wide and bug-eyed, like theyre supposed to be unseeing, but arent. Blood is smeared across his face, on his chin, under his fingernails, and she can see it trail after him on the floor.

"You did this to me." He says, voice sounding so unlike himself. Like hes a different person. "I hate you. Vanessa. I hate you!"

Vanessa sobs, cowering in the corner of the room and shielding herself. "No! I'm sorry!"

She can feel something grip her on her arm, an iron grip that sends waves of pain down her forearm. She cries out, and feels the color drain from her face when she follows the hand grabbing her to its owners face.

Gregory stands over her, slouched over with his face staring directly at hers. His skin is a horrible sickly pale green, with eyes and teeth a rotted yellow. Dried blood is caked around his mouth, and his cheeks are sunken in, with maggots crawling out of open wounds in his skin.

"I'm dead, and you're still pretending." He whispers, but it sounds so loud in the silence. She trembles when his bones crack as he rolls his neck unnaturally. "You'll never escape, Vanessa."

All Vanessa can do is cry. She buries her face in her knees, desperately begging for her to wake up from this awful nightmare. Gregory cackles above her, a demonic, horrible thing.

"Vanessa!" He yells, grip tightening. "Vanessa, wake up!"

"Vanessa!" Theres another grip on her shoulder, and she shoots awake, eyes flying open as she gasps for air.

Gregory winds backwards, narrowly avoiding getting headbutted. "Woah!" Gregory cries out. "Vanessa, hey-- calm down!"

Vanessas eyes dart around, desperately scanning the room for a decaying body, or straining her ears for laughing, but theres none. She takes deep breaths, and only after she has her breathing under control a little more does she realize she was matching Gregorys.

Gregory.

"You okay?" He asks when she finally looks at him. Her heartrate spikes again when all she can see is the shadows of his face -courtesy of her blackout curtains-. All she can see when she scans over him is blood leaking from his mouth, or holes in his skin with the writhing of maggots, or dirty fingernails that show evidence of a fight.

Gregory seems to notice, he always does somehow, so he throws the curtains aside, almost ripping them off the wall with how intense he rips them open. He clicks on the light, and only then does he return to her side and settle on the foot of her bed.

Shes still breathing erratically, and horrible anxiety is eating away at her stomach. Her shoulders are hunched and her heart is going ten miles an hour.

She revels in the sight of Gregory okay, alive, and concerned. No trace of the anger and hatred pinching his face. His eyes look just how she remembers them, big and alive, but her eyes lock onto the scar when she sees it. Its fully healed at this point, just a thin line across his face, but it stills brings her more comfort than anything else.

Gregory saved her. She soaks in the thought, the reality. Hes alive. He survived her. He's okay and hes the reason shes okay, too.

She tries to unwind her tense joints, sinking into her sweaty pillow as her shoulders still tremble. Gregory's concerned look is the last thing she sees before she shuts her eyes, trying to relax her body.

Images of intestines dripping blood on the floor, lifeless eyes boring into hers, accusing stares, and decaying faces flash behind her eyes.

Nope. She rips her eyes open just as fast as she closed them, rubbing at them one at a time as if she can scrub the visions away.

"Nightmare?" Gregory asks her, startling her. She just sighs and nods, sticking her clammy hands under her comforter. She averts her eyes, even if she shouldn't, because she doesn't want to see lifeless, bugged out eyes and red stained teeth when she looks at him.

"Scale from one to ten?" Gregory puts a hand on where he thinks her knee is under the blanket. It's a question they ask eachother a lot, when they both have nightmares. None of them like reliving the memories, so this way, they can know how bad it is without having to talk about it.

This dream, no, nightmare is one she really doesn't want to talk about, so she just sighs shakily, and with a still hammering heart, says "Eight."

Gregory whistles low and long. "That's pretty bad."

Vanessa nods, and despite herself, tears slip out of her eyes. She tries to cover them up with her hands, but Gregory just takes them in his.

"Nope. None of that." He says. "Can you look at me, Ness?"

Vanessa doesn't want to. Lest she see a face pinched with hatred boring into her, but she still does. And instead of what she was fearing, Gregory's understanding, concerned, kind face is looking back at her. No malice detected.

"Whatever you dreamed about," He starts. "Its not true. You weren't the one to kill those people, it was him. You never killed me, either. I'm right here, and I forgive you. Me and Freddy both do, okay?"

Vanessa dares to nod, soaking up the reassurance like a sponge. The idea, no, reality that Gregory doesn't hate her, that hes okay and alive is so overwhelming, her shoulders sag and she breaths out a long, deep exhale.

She takes one more long glance at his scar, and nods more surely this time. "Okay." She sighs. "Okay."

"Cool." Gregory smiles, and it's nothing like the lifeless, uncanny grin nightmare Gregory had pointed at her. This is Gregorys smile. The crooked one that shows off his permanently missing front tooth. "I woke you up 'cause Freddy's cooking breakfast today and it's almost ready. He wanted to let you sleep in."

Vanessa's heart shoots to her throat at that, but it quickly calms, and she feels herself get clammy again. She tries to ignore it, relaxing her body and breathing deeply. "I think we should eat in the living room today."

Gregory lights up. "Can we watch YouTube?"

Unconsiously, a smile stretches across Vanessa's face. "Sure, kid. Anything you'd like."

"Cool." Gregory grins. He grabs her hand from under the covers, yanking her up with suprising strength. "C'mon then! The breakfast Freddy cooked for us is waiting!"

Vanessa laughs, and to her surprise, it comes easy. Some of the uneasiness melts off of her and dissipates from her stomach, and she scrambles to keep up with Gregory, not bothering to make the bed as he drags her to the kitchen. "Slow down! I'm coming! At least let me have some coffee first."

When they're sitting on the couch, Freddy next to Gregory and Gregory next to Vanessa, and they're sharing a throw blanket and they're chewing on slightly burnt bacon and runny eggs, and the video Gregory put on is surprisingly making Vanessa laugh, she smiles.

Because her kid is okay, and he doesn't hate her, and somehow, he did that thing where he somehow distracts her from her demons effortlessly. She can hear him laughing beside her. With her, and she smiles knowing how much her family loves her, and how much she loves them.

ao3 link

[rpedia]

[Ask RPedia] Writing Panic Attacks?

@twodemigodtraveleroflorien​ asked: Any advice on how to RP a character having a panic attack

Sure! As usual, ‘show don’t tell’ is gonna be big here. By that, I mean describe what is going on through connected ideas, not straightforward ones. When someone is in love they smile, and gaze, and touch. When someone is angry they sneer. When someone is scared they sweat, and triple check nothing is behind them. Don’t ever just say ‘Mary was scared’ unless it’s a stylistic choice to give a certain feel to your writing. Pick it consciously as what your story needs, or not at all.

Beyond that, panic attacks can hit in a ton of different ways. We’ll get into this below, and describe not only panic attacks, but some methods on how to help them. If you’re sensitive to this material, please don’t walk in knowingly, fuck yourself up, and have a bad day. I love you kids too much for that. Also remember this is for roleplay, I will be discussing the awkward as fuck things, like “picking which symptoms match your character” and “using panic attacks in plot.” 

Writers, amirite? (Please only continue if you’re in the mental space for it! It can get graphic and triggering. Take breaks as needed.)

To reassure my readers, yes, I have had panic attacks an awful lot. So I can actually speak from experience for once. But only my experience, so give me some slack if yours hits you differently, or if I don’t nail it. Give other writers that slack too, and don’t think one size fits all will ever work here. Give them the benefit of the doubt, so long as they make a decent effort. No one needs their panic attacks nitpicked, it’s either from personal experience or to further the plot. Do either of those things really need someone telling them right at that moment they’re not doing it right? If they’re just making a mockery of it OOCly, go ahead and rip ‘em with facts. ICly, well, Jan. It’s supposed to be problematic, that’s a plot hook for character growth. If it bugs you, communicate that OOCly you’d like to move on.

So anyways, let’s just waltz right into the thick of it. According to the diagnostic criteria listed in the DSM-5, panic attacks are experienced as a sudden sense of fear and dread plus four or more of the following mental, emotional, and physical symptoms:

Heart palpitations or accelerated heart rate

Feelings of numbness or tingling sensations

Excessive sweating

Trembling or shaking

Shortness of breath or smothering sensations

Feeling of choking

Chest pain or discomfort

Nausea or abdominal pain

Feeling dizzy, unsteady, lightheaded, or faint

Chills or hot flashes

Derealization and/or depersonalization

Fear of losing control or going crazy

Fear of dying

So immediately we realize, not everyone’s panic attacks are going to be the same thing. Some people get their heart beating a mile a minute, and feel like they’re miles away, are scared they’ll die, and be afraid they’ll lose control. Some people will have aggressive chest pains, start sweating and shaking, then feel like they’re going to pass out, choke, and vomit at the same time. Can you see why those would present differently in a roleplay, or how they’d fit different character models better, or even the outcomes of these on different personalities? That’s important to the writer right there. You have to understand your character and how they would experience fear, and sensations that are unpleasant, and which ones they’re feeling.

The only thing that is solidly in every panic attack is that sudden feeling of dread or fear. People who have not had one can relate to it, honestly. Have you ever turned off the lights in your bathroom or some dark spooky hallway and suddenly felt like something was in there? Then you have to fucking run before the thing gets you, or turn on a light to check, and the hairs rise on your neck and your eyes open up wide enough to suck in every photon of light for miles because suddenly your brain wants the power to see in the dark? Yeah. That creeping feeling of being prey is the dread and fear. Yes, people may feel these differently. Fear is not exactly one size fits all. But this is a pretty good start to understanding the drop of an ‘oh fuck’ barreling down on you from behind.

Myths abound on panic attack causes, but the truth is simple. Sometimes, they happen because something triggered it, but a lot of the time there is no trigger. Your body just decides to fuck you over because that seems like a great idea right now. You can’t even really avoid them by sleeping. That’s right, you can get panic attacks while dead asleep. That’s so thoughtful of them, they don’t want you miss out, I say in the most sarcastic voice ever.

The good thing is, no, you can’t die from a panic attack or be ‘driven insane’,and no they aren’t just you overreacting to fear or pain. They aren’t even always part of a panic disorder (other disorders bring them to the party too). The good news is, although they suck rancid eggs, they can be managed. If you treat some of the underlying causes, you can help lessen them over time. 

What disorders are linked? Oh boy, that’s a hell of a list. Anxiety disorders are a big one, agoraphobia, OCD, depression, Bipolar disorder. They all like to invite panic attacks with them. Other fun party guests are eating disorders, personality disorders, and substance-related conditions. Heck, GERD, IBS, and sleeping disorders are also friends with panic attacks. So while writing your character, look at what might be the underlying cause of it. Whatever building blocks you pick end up visible in not only panic attacks you decided to throw in to make the scene worse, but a constant background noise to their lives.

That’s one of the important things you need to remember. If you choose to give your character a condition like the above, there’s a couple rules that make this go over a lot better with the community. Let’s look at them.

Do not only use it to get attention. It may be plot relevant, but if it comes up every single time the spotlight is off you, it gets old quick. This is a shitty medical thing, not your golden ticket to being fussed over.

Do not use the disorder as their only personality. You have a character who happens to have and live with the disorder, not a walking form of the disorder who happens to have some character stuck in there.

Do not use it to only have good things happen. Realistically, you may get a panic attack at the worst time ever and fuck everything up. Don’t make it a ‘get out of jail free’ card, balance it with bad timing and bad outcomes.

Do not play Sympathy Sue with it. We don’t want to have to coax, dote, and protect your character every step of the way in a story without them ever showing signs of doing anything but keeping the attention on them and their issues. In real life, real people have personalities beyond their issues, they have friends, they tend to learn how to manage things over time. So let your character grow, and show themselves too. In writing, we do this for fun and to escape bad things. We don’t want to shoulder something during playtime, we may encounter often in real life.

Do not go into this without research. Practice writing up little stories to describe the symptoms. Read everything you can. Look up webpages, blogs, and everything where people are offering the information on their struggles freely. 

Make sure everyone in the group is comfortable playing this out. It can trigger things when you go whole hog descriptive about every symptom they have until they suddenly start having one in real life because fuck, they’re right there again. Never surprise someone with a panic attack in character unless you know it’s okay, or are willing to just skim over it.

Understand the gist of why these exist? Good. Go with the spirit of them, not the letter of them. Basically respect, even though as writers we intentionally use them for plot and growth, we should not abuse that ability by lacking respect for the real people who have them. Be tactful, be polite, be respectful as the person behind the keyboard. Anything that isn’t tactful, polite, or respectful had better be in character, and had better relate to the plot and characterization pretty damn well. You should also make it very obvious that you disagree with the character in narration. If they say something crass or obtuse, point out that they said something crass and obtuse. 

“It’s not like it’s really that bad, you’re just scared right? Get over it, you whiner,” he said, sneering. His lack of empathy for the subject really showed his lack of experience with it.

Tada, by adding in one line, you’re a better writer in general, and have accurately explored characterization while pointing out you recognize he’s a total asshole. Doing things in a way that clearly shows you give a damn and understand what you’re choosing to let the character do is the key to not pissing someone else off.

Okay so back to the attacks! These symptoms are basically just names right now. You can say what’s happening straight out, and that’s cool, but... how do you make your reader empathize with them? You’re going to want to explore each of these feelings in writing, or at least the ones you know you’re going to use. This is homework! Explain each of these in detail in a way you can connect with them. Put yourself into your character’s position, and write from the heart.

Their heart racing, what do they feel when this happens? The skipping beats that feel awkward and clunky? The way you can feel it pounding along, a mile a minute, ready to burst out of your chest? Go running, when your heart rate gets up there, you’ll really fucking quickly pick up on how that part feels. The pounding, heaviness of a heart going so fast your shirt is trembling, and your hands can’t stay steady. Describe it, describe how that heartbeat going mad feels to you and how out of place it is.

Tingling and numbness? You might have had a limb go to sleep before, use that as a jumping off point. Except in a panic attack, it’s everywhere and the pins aren’t painful. They’re just a loss of feeling everywhere. Your hands tickle with them, your skin feels like it’s tightened up weird, and can’t feel like it used to even if you’re hypersensitive to touch. Sweating so much you soak the sheets? Use that experience, the dripping, the suddenness. How it contrasts with the temperature being comfortable. Sweating from anxiousness or nerves. Damp palms. I fucking hate flop sweats like that, because I end up with a disgusting feeling scalp, wet neck, and my body is just damp all over after I’ve been through an extreme.

Everyone’s probably trembled in their lives. A shiver through your limbs. What happens when you tremble? Is it harder to write, or grab onto things? Is your grip worse? Explore how trembling effects your environment as much as it effects you. It helps to understand that the tremble is sudden, violent. You cannot stop it, it’s beyond your control, and you struggle to keep yourself from showing it a lot if you’re that type of a person. Since it’s down to personality, someone might have a shaking quavering voice, or they might be hiding that shaking hand and stiffening up to hide it all from the others.

Choking, smothering, unable to breathe... well that sounds like running to me, but I’m out of shape as hella. Crying does it too though, unable to get past a throat filled with snot. The absolute lack of breath, it’s like you’re depressurized. Remember nothing, from the feeling of choking, to the stitch in your side, to feeling sick to your stomach, is exclusive to a panic attack. You’ll probably have encountered being dizzy or light headed in your life without ever seeing a panic attack. Chills and hot flashes too. They can be way more extreme, like sitting there shivering and teeth chattering despite being in a 85°F/29°C room. Just absolutely taken by how cold you are, and nothing can warm you because you’re already sweating. It looks a lot like a symptom of shock, which is why they throw those blankets over you after a severe accident of any kind, even if you’re not hurt.

While you’re looking at those, don’t just look at the symptom. Look at the character’s reaction to the symptoms. Does stomach pain make them cry? Does it make the shortness of breath worse? Do they have sweating, lightheadedness, hot flashes, and nausea and just wave it off as a thing that’s happening because they’re scared? Mix and match. Some characters handle things better than others. Some have different reactions. Find them, and pull them out and shove them in the light for other people to see.

The final symptoms are a bit more in-depth because we can’t find aspects of them to jump off of from real life. Derealization, depersonalization, a fear of losing control or not feeling ‘sane’, or a fear of dying? These we might not feel very often or at all if we’re neurotypical. So we’re going to rely on people who have experienced them to learn about what they’re like. That’s dangerous territory, be respectful when you explore it. Not sure where you’ll find details on these without stepping on toes? Hi! I’ve had all of them, so lemme get down to brass tacks and tell you what they may be like. Once again, one person’s experiences do not equal all people’s experiences, but as an intelligent person with critical thinking you knew that and were totally going to google Reddit threads and blogs about the subject if you intended to write them, right?

So, derealization and depersonalization are very interconnected, which is probably while they’re listed as a grouped symptom in the list. They are experiencing the feeling of becoming entirely unhinged from either reality, or yourself. It’s a wild sensation to be several feet outside of your body, watching as everything happens. It’s even more wild that it can vary, a few inches away, or even just ‘somewhere else’ while your body keeps going. You can lose your entire grip on a situation, your mind fully consumed with something else, to the point you don’t really feel like it’s you talking, or moving. 

Same thing when everything stops feeling real. Like you’re in a movie, or a dream, watching shit play out you have no control over. Yet, you function through it. On autopilot, saying the things you would say, doing the things you would or should do. Even though you’re feeling a bubble or padding between you and there. In my case, I’ve definitely felt like I was underwater, and should be unable to breathe, but I was breathing fine, looking through this glassy feeling at a body that was going through a panic attack, but it wasn’t really me. It was a bunch of chemical firing, everything happening felt rehearsed, fake, and far away. Like, it had been predetermined to happen, and I had no control over it. 

It’s varied between feeling like I, personally, am not the person doing shit. I look into a mirror, and some stranger is looking back at me, who has the wrong everything. Sometimes everything isn’t real, there’s no way everything can look like this can feel like this when the world is shutting down for me. I am empty, why is the world doing this, it cannot be real. Except it is. This is such a numbing, empty experience, that it leaves you really struggling to find something to anchor yourself to. Those are not my hands. My hands aren’t that size. This room is not my room, it looks wrong, the color is off in a way I can’t describe, the comfort isn’t for me. It’s really fucking mindboggling, and all this?

Is on top of other symptoms. At the same time. My dude lemme tell you, wearing another person’s skin and watching them unable to breath because they’re choking on air, while they suddenly go freezing cold, teeth chattering, is a TRIP! 

Fear of losing control or going crazy is fun too, in the way that I can being super sarcastic on one hand because it’s not fun at all; and also very very genuine because I have an analytical mind and it’s cool to see my own brain degrade in front of me. When in the throes of this, I definitely know I’m not insane, but what if I am? What if this is the moment I snap and lose it entirely? What if this is the terrifying reality now, that I’m never going to get any of these other symptoms under control, and instead I’m going to get worse and start chewing the walls and attacking people left and right? What if this is my breaking point? 

The terror just eats away at you, because no matter how much someone says that you’re gonna be fine, and that you’re not insane, they have no idea. They’re not a professional, and they don’t have some kind of little device that lets them see what’s going on in your head. When your thoughts get jumbled and frantic like that, it can super feel like you’re losing the plot entirely. You really do start to believe there’s no hope for you and they’re going drag you off and drug you up because everything that makes you you has spiderwebbed into this wild ass new person who has had their sanity ripped out of their hands. 

I blame Hollywood for a lot of this, because you see this kind of thing happen. Someone becomes too emotional, and wa-bam, they never come back from it. They got comatose, or hysterical and have to be dragged away. They never quite make it back to their former selves, and that! Is! terrifying! And just the kind of unrealistic thing a mind having met it’s limit would throw at you because it can no longer keep track of what is actually happening.

Fear of dying is the last one, and after the things above, is it really any surprise that you might feel like you were dying in the middle of all this? Now the last time I got this, I had managed to get a head injury and a seizure so maybe it was an ickle bitty bit of a realistic fear. (Also, I’m fine, but obviously some things have happened since I last wrote for you guys, be nice to me.) With all these feelings of rushing inevitability, fear of the end of yourself is RIGHT up there waving its hands and demanding to be seen. This is, I also got this from... slightly cutting my thumb while cooking.

It doesn’t have to make sense, I knew my thumb was not going to bleed out, but I was ready to face death because oh no, something terrible has happened. My brain saw one big drop of blood, and it was done. I was officially dying. I would lose the thumb, I would get gangrene, I would die in a corner somewhere. It became something that overwhelmed all my senses and I had to lay down for a while and let it pass. All I wanted was someone to be there for me while I was inevitably dying of a boo boo. That’s how extreme it can go from literally nothing, so it’s super hard to shake off if you pick it as one of your character’s responses!

Now if you had to take a break during this at any time, that’s perfectly normal. It may be a sign that you shouldn’t RP this situation though, because that’s gonna be even more intense. Plus, if it’s tied to your character, and you’re the type to be inside your characters POV for the smoothest writing process? You might feel like it’s happening to you. Method acting can bite you in the ass if this is something you can trigger by experiencing it. On the other hand, RPing your way through it can help compartmentalize it, and putting those horrible feelings into a new situation can help you recontextualize it from an outside perspective. Making it easier later to go through a panic attack because now you have another experience to draw from. There’s a reason Therapists like it when you roleplay.

Just remember, roleplaying is for story and fun. If you find yourself far too deep, aftercare may be needed. You don’t have to always ask someone else for that, you can just give yourself something relaxing after play. Hit up your favorite goofy TV show. Eat a treat you really love and let yourself be in the moment while you savor it. Take a nice warm bath if that’s the kind of thing that relaxes you. Sure, it’s roleplay, but it can have a real emotional effect on you, same as any other experience! So, if you need to, find someone you can talk it out with. If not friends, then a professional who can give you the tools to make the most of your new experience in helping yourself. Hell, if you simply got to the end of this and feel drained or something, go give yourself a treat and cool off a bit!

Anyways thank you for reading! Hope this helps in really expressing panic attacks a little more clearly in text, but always remember to CHECK IN on your partner. Make SURE they’re comfortable with the level of detail you want to get into! If not, go for a lighter hand! Write a vignette on the side, and upload it to your Tumblr as a fanfic of your RP if you wanna prove your skills without effecting other people! Tag your shit! Be aware of those around you, and really do make sure everyone’s comfortable when you’re exploring topics like these.

If you try your best to get it right and do the research, it’s obvious to others. You’ll be fine. Happy RPing!