#writing compulsions

[musical-chick-13]

Question for any other people who suffer from OCD and like to write: Do you ever get writing-related Themes™ or compulsions, and, if so, how do you manage them?

[crispycreambacon]

A comic about primarily obsessional OCD, otherwise known as Pure 'O' OCD

-

I'm really happy with how this turned out. I hope you can resonate and come away from this comic with renewed hope. At the very least, I hope you learned something from this. Thank you for reading. Please take care.

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Bruce has a 'if you can't beat them, join them' mentality about the tabloids claiming he adopts too many kids- Developing foster homes that are paid for through the Wayne inheritance, personally vetted by the Bats, they're the leaders in the space for child health outcomes and family placement. Insert Danny.

---

Bruce has too much wealth, too many rumors and not enough reach into the abhorrent foster homes around Gotham to improve them. Tim ends up being the one to suggest it- He's the one who buys up their real estate for their safe houses after all- and Bruce is more than ready to pull the metaphorical trigger to get new clean welcoming spaces, Bat-background checked fosters and a new era of adoption in Gotham underway.

He's lobbied the state and the federal government for reforms of course, but this is a project he can micromanage. He spends time with every kid that comes through, talks with all the families that want to adopt and makes sure that these miniature homes are provided only the very best. Alfred personally hires all the staff, and with Barbara more than happy to help relocate the unhoused children she spots while they patrol, the project is a glowing success.

Occasionally, spots in their houses fill up, and those are the weeks were Cass takes on the Cowl of Batman- Bruce Wayne will personally invite a child in need to his home. He always has one of his kids present (they rotate on a pre-determined schedule) and he does his best to try and get them to understand that they deserve the world, have all the potential that anyone else has and can achieve a bright future. That he will personally aid them in their ambitions.

PR goes crazy for it of course, but Bruce and all of his children know its genuine. Almost too genuine, because a betting pool 'WILL THEY BE ADOPTED' regularly circulates between the siblings and the entire JL when someone spends time at the manor. And not just the black-haired, Blue-eyed kids get picked as favored outcomes- but obviously the running joke gets passed around.

It's a Thursday night when Bruce gets the call that the houses have once again filled up, and that there is a child in need of a home. The social worker (he knows her as Marsha and he has flowers planned to be sent on her birthday next week, like he does for all of his employees) (Say micromanaged one more time) explains that the kid is a bit cagey but has opened up with some humor. She explains that he has a few strange... mannerisms. She's not sure what to make of him, a non-gothamite for sure but something is, well, distinctly 'not from around here' about his energy.

Danny arrives at the house, meets Duke and Alfred, and by the time Bruce meets him at the dinner table it seems as though Marsha had it all wrong. This kid was laughing, he was teasing, he was totally playing along like he'd gone through nothing. Bruce is glad he's in high spirits but its just so... so different from all the other children he's taken in.

Bruce re-focuses on the conversation when Duke mentions something flashing, and its the first time that Danny goes quiet. Entirely still.

"...you noticed that?" Danny quietly asks, a bit of disbelief in his tone.

"You don't have a flashlight on or something do you? It was super bright whatever it is that you had in your hand a second ago?" Duke tries to sound chill but he's looking very much not chill. Bruce saw nothing, and that puts him further on edge.

"Look... I uh, I've been though... I've been through a lot lately. And the last lab I was in kind of, messed with me. I'm normally much better at dealing with it all, I promise." Danny sounds nervous, and the room seems to chill.

"Ah shoot, sorry." Danny notices something and frantically apologizes.

"Sorry for what Danny? You've done nothing wrong but I am worried about you- You said you were in a lab?" Bruce is desperately trying to calm him down while not slipping into Batman interrogation mode.

"Uh, yeah, like a lot of labs. It should get warmer in a second, its just cause I startled, I promise."

"You're a meta." Duke speaks softly and with hope in his voice- Danny is looking between them with wide eyes filled with fear.

"I mean I don't technically have the gene-"

"Danny, have you told any of your case workers where you were? Do any authorities know what you've been through?" Bruce needs to know, desperately, that who ever gave this young boy super powers is brought to justice. Danny goes quiet.

"I'm really sorry." He says softly, but he doesn't leave them.

Duke and Bruce try to ask a few more questions but the silence that meets them declares the conversation over, even with Duke admitting he himself is a meta. Danny didn't even look up from his plate. They watch a movie after dinner, and Danny seems to get back to the smile-y happy guy he had been before dinner.

Each of the bat-fam have their own interactions with Danny- And even if they're getting along amazingly, Danny won't open up. He doesn't open up to his provided therapist. Doesn't talk to Alfred. No one knows what's up.

So when Marsha calls Bruce back explaining they now have a spot for Danny and he can move out of the Manor... Bruce replies that he'd like to get started on Adoption paperwork, so long as Danny is fine with it.

---

Turns out, Danny is fine with it. he's both the newest Wayne and their newest case. (And godamnit, his new family is going to avenge him. If only he'd let them try.)

Danny figures out that Duke= Signal early on because of that dinner, and if he's going to keep his parents out of jail, he needs to be as close to the investigation as possible. He knows that he shouldn't protect the Fentons, but he feels the upset in his core at the thought of letting them befall any harm. He has to protect them. Has to protect Jazz and her hiding spot as a mole within their lab. Has to.

Even if it meant lying to his new family who loves him, and who he loves in equal return. Even if it means lying to The Bats.

---

Tabloids go crazy about the black-haired blue-eyed thing of course, but no poll was ever taken by the batfam or the JL who know the whole story.

[mondayepiphanies]

The thing I hate the most about being a writer with ocd is that I can’t write what I want without struggling. I can’t write certain phrases or words or scenes without the fear of backlash or it coming into reality. It’s exhausting and it’s very true that ocd always comes after what you love the most because that’s what it’s always done for me

[distinctlywhumpthing]

Fresh Start

cw: panic attack, obsessive/compulsive behaviors. leo's usual dubious/clueless caretaker vibes. tiny mention of aiden's self-destructive behaviors. shaky trust being tested, my beloved.

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Movement sends pain radiating through Leo’s back and shoulder. His memory connects the discomfort to the hospital recliner and he bolts upright. 

But they’re home. Safe. 

He’s just paying the price for deciding to sleep on the floor outside Aiden’s room after a bought of anxiety convinced him he wouldn’t be able to hear if Aiden needed him. He—

Aiden’s bed is empty. 

His mind races through worst-case scenarios, heart tripping along to keep pace but as soon as he fully turns around, Aiden is right there. Curled up on the hardwood, no pillow or blanket, just shy of reaching the doorway. Fallen out of bed? Collapsed? Had Leo slept through him needing help after all? He reaches for his shoulder. What if— 

“Aiden? Aiden?” 

The kid startles awake, a small gasp escaping his lips as he clumsily but quickly straightens to kneel. Dark eyes wide even as he blinks away sleep. He crosses his arms, hand cradled carefully in the center of his chest. 

“What happened? Why were you on the floor?” 

“I—I—mmm…mmm…” He shakes his head and lowers his gaze. Not a good sign. “Mmm’sorry—I’m’sorry—” 

 “Are the stitches okay? Is there blood on the bandages? Are you in any pain?” Leo reaches for him and Aiden flinches back, hard. Now he’s certain something is wrong. 

“Mmm’good,” Aiden says, voice wavering. He still won’t make eye contact and he’s slowly, almost imperceptibly inching away from Leo. 

“Did something happen? We’ll call Delia if we need to. I just have to see that you’re okay.” He reaches for him and again Aiden cowers back. He hits the futon frame and whimpers. 

The sound strikes another cord of fear in Leo, doubling his panic. “You’re not in trouble but if the stitches tore or you’re in pain, I need to know.” 

Aiden swallows. “I—I—mmm…mmm…” 

Leo strains to hear him at all and considers just grabbing him. He has to see— 

“I—I—” Aiden shakes his head, gaze still lowered. His hands tremble as he lifts his arms, turning them toward Leo. 

It’s the most anguished surrender he’s ever seen.  

“Hey, woah. Look at me, it’s okay.” 

Aiden lifts his chin. For a split second, his expression looks incredulous before its replaced by a more familiar one of distrust and fear. 

But it was enough. 

The kid’s not even breathing, eyes filmed with tears as he obediently holds Leo’s gaze. 

You’re scaring the shit out of him.

Leo pushes himself back quicker than necessary, earning another flinch from Aiden who crosses his arms back over his chest protectively, curling against the bed frame. Leo moves to sit in the doorway, heart still pumping adrenaline through his veins, and tries to focus on his breath. 

Aiden watches him with open wariness. As defensive as day one. 

This is supposed to be a fresh start, their second chance. In the six weeks since finding Aiden in the snow, Leo succeeded in isolating him and not much else. And here he is, only driving that wedge deeper. He’s supposed to be better equipped now that he’s not completely ignorant but it doesn’t seem to make a goddamn lick of difference. Leo should have admitted months ago that he wasn’t right for this but his selfish denial carried them way past the point of return.

Too little too late isn’t going to cut it anymore. The kid deserves more. Someone who’s going to fucking listen to him. Someone he can trust and rely on. He’s going to need so much support. He can’t shower without wrapping his arms and hand, which he can’t do himself. He’ll need help changing the bandages. Not to mention the antibiotics. He probably never slept well to begin with, if last night is any indication. He barely eats. He was hurting himself all along right under Leo’s nose. He fucking tried to—

Aiden sounds like he’s trying to breathe through a straw, inhales shorter and shorter. Leo looks over to find Aiden already watching him, brow furrowed. 

When Aiden tilts his head, Leo realizes it’s him. 

He’s the one gasping like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. 

Great.

“I’m sorry,” he forces out, but it’s barely audible. “I just—I need—” 

He stumbles down the hall, sparing both of them from a backward glance, and shuts himself in the bathroom. 

Leaning against the door is no good, he feels pinned there by the pressure in his chest. 

God, like he just cornered Aiden. 

He fumbles to turn on the sink, hands shaking. His fingers feel like precarious stacks of marbles rather than joints, skin slick from perspiration. Why did he have to replace the valve with stupid spoke handles? It takes a few tries before he can cup his hands together to hold onto any water. Given how little he’s breathing, the first splash feels like he’s waterboarding himself. He straightens, gasping and sputtering, but the innate reaction overrides his anxiety and he manages to pull in some deeper breaths. He keeps his hands under the tap and forces focus on the sensation of the cold water against his skin, the air in his lungs. 

One, two, three, four…one, two, three, four…

The panic recedes the more he breathes but guilt is quick to fill the vacancy. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, letting his prescription run out. He’s useless when he’s like this. 

His hands still shake as he twists off the faucet, nerves wrung out and cold. He avoids his reflection and turns to leaning against the counter while he towels his hands dry. His phone’s almost dead from not being charged all night. He stares at the chat with Delia, his string of blue bubbles filling the right side, unanswered. The last one, “What time do you get off today?” is a poor cover for his real question, “How soon can you come over?” Without hesitation, his anxiety is all too happy to supply countless awful explanations for why she hasn’t had three fucking seconds to send a single thumbs up in the last six hours. His pulse steps up again, his fingertips start to tingle. 

Leo drops his phone back into his pocket and scrubs his face with his hands, forces another few rounds of deep breaths. There’s a headache building right behind his eyes. More sleep will help but he has to take care of Aiden first. Starting with an apology. 

He finally turns to meet his tired, bloodshot eyes in the mirror. The lines of his face, deepened by exhaustion, make him look like he’s pushing forty and the fact that he hasn’t shaved since last weekend isn’t exactly helping. He scratches the corner of his jaw where there are a few traitorous white hairs. When he reaches for his toothbrush, he knows he’s stalling but how will he even start explaining his reaction to Aiden? 

At some point, he replaced his toothbrush on the charging stand and started washing his hands. Based on the suds caught in the drain, he already washed them more than once. He can’t get stuck here, not now. His heart starts rushing again and his throat feels tight, panic and frustration balling in his chest. How many times has this happened in the last day alone? 

“It hasn’t been this bad for years,” he whispers in his defense to nobody. 

But he still can’t stop. Not yet. He meets his eyes in the mirror again, ignoring the flare of self-pity and disgust. Just one more time, he tells himself, trying to believe it. 

Four pumps of soap. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

The door opens and he immediately loses count; isn’t sure if he wasn’t finished yet or if he’d already started over again. Aiden peeks through the crack, crease between his brow telling Leo he’s also biting his lip. When Leo meets his gaze in the mirror, Aiden ducks back into the hallway. 

Shit. 

Aiden wouldn’t have taken such a liberty without knocking first, probably more than once and only then after Leo was in here for way too long. Another total failure for the list. But at least it was enough to knock him out of the loop. 

The poor kid looks like he’s expecting a hell of a lot more than Leo suggesting breakfast when he comes out into the hall. He’s pressed against the span of wall between the top of the stairs and Leo’s bedroom. Not quite adjacent to where Leo stands in the bathroom door but clearly trying to find some middle ground that isn’t retreating to his room at the end of the hall. 

Leo buys them both a little space by turning to the washer and dryer to switch their laundry from last night. He wonders if Aiden notices the two extra towels he used when he needed more than one shower to feel like he could sleep. God, he’s completely unraveling. 

Aiden is no more relaxed when Leo faces him again. 

“Aiden, look—” he says at the same time Aiden says, “M’sorry.”

He holds up a hand and Aiden flinches. 

Well, that’s about right after what he pulled. But man, if it’s not a kick in the gut while he’s down. To make matters worse, Aiden seems to think it’s his responsibility to set things right after being subjected to Leo’s irrational panic. His guilt starts to turn in to a physical ache in his chest.  

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Aiden watches him carefully like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, long fingers worrying the cuffs of the hoodie. “You’re not in trouble,” Leo adds, taking a note from Delia. “Just finding you on the floor—” 

“Mmm….you…w-w-w—” Aiden shakes his head, swallows. “Mmm…here…” Leo waits but Aiden doesn’t say anything else, just huffs out a little sigh of exasperation before letting his gaze slide to rest on Leo’s make-shift bed. Which of course he tidied, blanket neatly folded and pillow set on top. His eyes lift to dance around Leo’s face, searching for some sign that he’s getting it. 

“I was sleeping here…” Leo feels obtuse stating the basest fact he can pull out of this exchange but Aiden nods. 

“I—my—” He scrunches his face up and shakes his head. He’s pinching and pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves now, grip tightening. He swallows hard twice before he tries again. “I’mmm…you…here…” 

“You…” Leo hopes he’s not taking too far of a leap. “...moved onto the floor when you saw me there?”  

Aiden turns his head away like he’s expecting to be slapped, gives a tiny nod. 

“That’s okay, it’s okay,” Leo says quickly. “But you didn’t have to sleep on the floor just because I was. Anyway, that runner is actually pretty thick, I—” Aiden bites his lips together like he wants to say something else. “What is it?” 

He knots his fingers together then separates them after a quick glance up at Leo, smoothing them against his thighs. “I—I—mmm…” He takes a deliberate step closer, halving the space between them. Does it with the air of stepping up to the chopping block. He waits for Leo to connect the dots. When he doesn’t, he lifts one of his hands, stopping just shy of brushing the back of Leo’s, before letting it fall again and tucking both behind his back. 

“Oh.” 

Despite his countless missteps, Aiden wanted to be closer to him. 

“Well, that’s okay.” When he realizes it sounds like giving permission he amends, “I mean, of course it’s okay. You can do whatever you want. Sleep wherever you want.” 

Aiden furrows his brow.  

“Sorry. I just mean— We never— I was worried—” Leo takes a breath. “You…” Cried yourself to sleep in my arms. “...fell asleep and I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay. I didn’t want you to be surprised when you woke up.” He sighs. “But I guess you were anyway…” 

Aiden shakes his head. “S’okay.” 

This kid would let him get away with murder…and then try to apologize like he invented death. Leo has to learn to get out ahead of these things if they’re ever going to have a chance.

“Were you—Did you have bad dreams or…” 

He lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug but doesn’t meet Leo’s gaze. 

“We’ll figure something out for tonight, yeah?” 

Aiden nods. He keeps his eyes down but he’s dropped his shoulders from his ears, hands in the pocket of the hoodie. Leo wants to wrap him up in a hug, make sure knows he was never in trouble, and tell him he never has to sleep alone again if he doesn’t want to. 

“I shouldn’t have freaked out like that,” he blurts instead. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Dark eyes search his. 

“It’s just— I panicked and I wasn’t thinking straight. After last night— After everything— It’s worse when I haven’t slept enough but it’s not your fault. It has nothing to do with you—” This word-vomit explanation is doing him no favors but he can’t seem to stop. “I promise it won’t happen again. I just want to make sure you know you didn’t do anything wrong, it was all me and I’m going to—” 

Aiden opens his mouth and closes it again. 

“What?” 

He shakes his head, dropping his gaze. 

Leo scrubs a hand over his face. “Short story long, I’m sorry for panicking.” 

Aiden peeks up at him then looks down again. Slow and deliberate, he pulls his good hand out of his pocket. He keeps it low, arm bent just enough to allow him to turn his palm up. A suggestion of an invitation, rather than an overt one, and one that could easily be missed.

Leo can’t help but smile as he squeezes Aiden’s fingers. 

Now Aiden ducks his chin against his chest in a good way. Not quite smiling but almost. 

“How about some breakfast?” 

“Mmm’yeah…mmm’thank…you…” Aiden parses the words carefully.

“Eggs and toast sound okay? I think we’re out of bacon.” 

Aiden nods. “Mhm.” 

He’s agreeing too quickly, making himself easy and accommodating. Is it because he’s afraid or does he think he has something to make up for? Either way, it feels like backward progress and Leo wonders all over again how he will ever rise to this occasion. 

But he can think of worse ways to spend the rest of the day than trying to get a real smile out of Aiden. So at least he has somewhere to start.

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nick-pascal @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @pigeonwhumps @batfacedliar-yetagain

@whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight @whumps-and-bumps

@i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney @alternateminds @taterswhump

[s7arcr0sser]

Fuck it, no context BLOSC headcanons

•Mira's hair is naturally very curly/textured, she just straightens it for convenience. And the two lighter strands are poliosis.

•Booster is actually quite fit for a Jo-Adian. He puts in the effort when he trains.

•The blue cardigan Zurg wears in The Lightyear Factor is Buzz's. He stole it to mess with him but it turned out to be kinda comfortable.

•Buzz has chronic nightmares. His body adjusted to not need much sleep.

•Nebula's hair was reddish-purple burgundy before it went grey.

•More incidents involving LGMs have been reported since the events of The Adventure Begins happened. They seem to be more vengful and... bold, compared to before.

•If Buzz dies, the LGMs brain-die (if thats a word) too until someone enters the Uni-mind again.

•Speaking of the Uni-mind, when Buzz's energy replaced Zurg's, Zurg's energy couldn't just disappear, it must have went somewhere... guess where.

•XR can't spell "strawberry". He also can't draw full glasses of wine.

•Warp was born on Tradeworld.

•Warp has also never experienced phantom pains cause the robotic arm is directly connected to his nerves (he can't take it off). Yet.

•One (or both, havent decided yet) of Ozma's parents is a hunter.

Will add more eventually maybe

[starheirxero]

PLEASE become evil on main your thoughts are always very interesting !! :3

Anon I need you to know I was debating just only making that one post and then biting my tongue about the rest but this ask was genuinely so relieving to see that I teared up a little bit thank you HDKSHDJD

I did, however, uhm. talk a Lot. and I'm very much being more honest about my feelings on this than I usually am, so it's going under the cut bdjshdjdnf

Ahem ahem. So. From a meta standpoint? I just have a very, very weird feeling about what's going on with tsams now that they've Also changed Lunar's name. The only information we have on what's happening is from Discord, where Kat mentioned it wasn't her choice to change Earth's name and the mods reassuring everyone that the changes are for a good reason. I've been seeing theories that the changes are to make them more sellable for merch? But I,, don't fully know why they'd have to change their own OCs for that? So idk

From a story perspective though? It doesn't make sense and it's just another vein of Lunar having no choice in what happens to them.

Just because Libra asked "do you accept this permanent name change?" doesn't mean that "no" was a valid answer, because then what would have happened? They say "actually, I like my name, Lunar feels fine" and then what? The astrals, of which are famously judgy and pushy, say "okay, we'll continue to call you Lunar then! (Even though we just said that Lunar is an unfitting astral name)" like?!?!!??? And Lunar just immediately goes home to be like "uh. I guess I have a different name now? and I don't wanna deal with two names, so just call me Cosmos too."

They didn't make this choice. And honestly! They couldn't have because Lunar wouldn't have ever changed their name of their own volition!!! You can't tell me that Lunar—the character who is known for trying to cling onto a sense of identity so hard that it causes more problems for them in the long run—would be willing to let go of their own name? That is the one thing about them that actually hasn't changed since the beginning, the one thing that's consistent in the face of everything.

Plus, on a more personal note? I had an experience with my old username where everyone was calling me a nickname derived from my url instead of my actual chosen name, and the realization that only one person was calling me my actual preferred name made me have a messy identity crisis. If Lunar wasn't just, a character who is unfortunately the subject of bad writing lately, this choice would probably hit them at some point. They'd probably have that same awful, dreadful feeling of "oh god. no one even knows me."

It's just. Earth made sense because she at least gave her own reasons. She said "yeah I'm tryna be my own person now, so I'm Terra!" but Lunar's reason was just "uh. Libra gave it to me sooo.... 👍 yup." Like. augghhh. They could have gone by both Lunar and Cosmos too if the writing wasn't being so weird but !!! ugh. deflates. it's whateverrrrr

[highly-flammable]

Broke: Klaus Mikaelson fell in love with his therapist, Cami O’Connell

Woke: Klaus Mikaelson fell in love with psychology student Cami O’Connell who he befriended, and got therapy from her after she got her license because he didn’t trust people easily or feel comfortable with them

There is definitely an ethical violation with the whole therapy thing, but it’s not in the direction most people claim. Klaus and Cami knew way too much about each other’s personal lives by episode 1x04 and were already attached to each other and had even admitted to liking each other, which would automatically disqualify Cami from being his therapist under any kind of professional ethics.

So nope, Cami wasn’t making moony eyes at her patient from season 1. Actually, she had to give therapy between seasons 2 and 3 to the guy she was friends with, was mutually in love with and all tangled up with, because he had recently done an oopsie by cursing his baby mama and turning a bunch of innocent bystanders into collateral damage in order to gain Dahlia’s trust by punishing his family. After that fiasco Klaus had to show Elijah that he was trying for some personal growth, plus he was feeling the negative consequences of his actions, through the disapproval that hit him like a ton of bricks and the resulting loneliness. He was clearly not the type of person who would go get help from a normal therapist (Cami told him in 1x04 to talk to someone professionally and he said he preferred to talk to her), and as such Cami likely had to step in. And she did draw boundaries; he was the one who had trouble sticking to them.

You can still argue why on earth would Cami agree to provide therapy to him at that time, knowing it is unethical to do so for your friends and other loved ones? Simple actually. Anyone Klaus went to would have to be compelled, and that person would have those huge gaps in their memories that Cami had in early season 1. I doubt she would want someone else to go through that. Klaus trusted her and wouldn’t compel her, so in spite of their completely non-professional established relationship, she was ultimately more suited to his requirements.

What about the power dynamics, you ask? Well, Klaus was a 1000 year old vampire-werewolf hybrid who could invade people’s minds with a touch, maybe even from afar (we saw Elijah do it once in 1x02 to Rebekah), and could compel people not on vervain. Cami was a human girl in her 20s. She definitely had power in their relationship — he listened to her, her words or behaviour impacted his emotions or guided his actions a lot of the times, but she wasn’t in a position of power over him even with the therapy. I am not denying that it was still not ethical, but in a show like this where ethics are thrown out of the window all the time in ways worse than this, I am not gonna choose this hill to die on, personally.

Some might wonder, why did Klaus call Cami his therapist in season 1 and 2 if Cami wasn’t actually providing therapy professionally? Well, because she was training to be a therapist and he tried to hide their relationship behind that term because any other word to describe her was too personal, too loaded.

Klaus had some kind of feelings for her right from the beginning and he knew it in some capacity from 1x03, was keenly aware of it from 1x09, and was very clearly in love with her by 1x19. Cami knew of his feelings in 1x22 when he sent her away, with both of them crying. And after the whole incident where Mikael took her hostage to draw Klaus out and they both risked their lives for each other, it was quite obvious that both parties were very aware of the fact that their feelings were mutual.

For the entirety of the first two seasons it was a push and pull between them, trying to be there for each other but running away again and again because staying too close could be a bad idea and might put Cami in danger. Klaus was the master of running from his feelings and would often try to hide how much she meant to him, so he would just call her his therapist. Cami only used that term to describe herself once in 1x09, when she said she was his compelled therapist, and that was a frustrated, sarcastic statement. She knew he was just venting to her at the time instead of going to a therapist in a professional setting, so she basically threw that line at him, but their arrangement was anything but professional to begin with at the time. Cami giving Klaus sassy feedback while typing out the life story he was bombarding her with did not count as actual therapy.

[anetherealpoetess]

i can hardly believe the bait and switch that elrond and the rings of power pulled on us this season. in the beginning, he is far too busy self-righteously blaming poor galadriel for falling for sauron's tricks. but then he puts on armour, lets his wild curls free, and transforms into a warrior-librarian covered in mud and blood, punching orcs in the face, and setting other orcs on fire. and i loved it.

[firestorm09890]

OCD I feel is a good demonstration of how the fine line between “sane” and “not” isn’t even a line at all, it’s more like a big gradient or maybe even a big nebulous sphere we all exist in.

Someone with anxiety (relatively normalized and tbh romanticized these days) might fear crowds because what if they are seen and scrutinized and judged? And maybe some breathing exercises and rationalization might help- maybe the phrase “everyone else is too worried about themself to judge you” might actually do something, if they can truly internalize it. Someone who experiences delusions (very much demonized) might fear crowds because they know that each of their thoughts will be broadcast and everyone else will witness them and mentally converse with each other about it. It WILL happen and nothing can convince them otherwise.

And then OCD (often misinterpreted as being less of a disorder than it really is- see "letting the intrusive thoughts win"- so someone’s condition being worse than everyone expects is generally poorly received) might cause something that can be placed somewhere in the middle- they fear crowds because what if there is a mind reader amongst them? And they tell themself that that’s ridiculous because mind readers don’t exist and if they did we would know by now but what if? And they tell themself that there is an easy way to tell if mind readers exist in the vicinity- if they scream really loud mentally and someone reacts, that means they do exist. If not, it’s probably safe. And therefore periodically they must think a sudden scream, not too often so as to not be predictable, and oops! Now it’s a compulsion attached to the mindreader obsession and they can’t handle going without it. Maybe it gets even more elaborate over time as the strength of the rituals fades, like, oh, one scream is not enough, it must be done three times to really be sure.

Do you know how common it is for those with OCD to have schizophrenia (the idea of it) as an obsession? Surprisingly common- or perhaps, not so surprising, considering the culture surrounding saneism and that perceived harsh line that divides the “normal” people from the ones with psychosis. Everyone thinks it could never be them, because they are two entirely different categories of people, right? For OCD, someone might latch onto an obsession they know is ridiculous except they can’t get themselves to stop taking it deathly seriously and so they wonder, am I slipping? Are these really thoughts a sane person could have? And so they remind themself that people with psychosis do not regard their delusions in the same way they are regarding their own obsession, and so, no, they can’t be slipping. And thus frequent personal reality checks become the compulsion. Idk what the point of this post really is, maybe it's just that instead of a checkbox you either check or don't, sanity is more like a color picker thing

[albatris]

so maybe it's the late night talking but I think I might have ocd

[auroragehenna]

Whump drabble

CW/TW: Compulsion, recapture (that wasn't planned but my writing somehow ended up there), magic whump, generic whump, brief mention of alcohol, kidnapping, cruel whumper, Word count: 557

The place was buzzing around Whumpee; Voices and music in the background, dimmed coloured lights hanging from the ceiling. It was nice, not enough to be overstimulating, just enough to drown out the noise from their head.

They took another sip from their beverage, non-alcoholic of course, ever since Whumper they preferred to have a clear head. Surely someday though they‘d be able to enjoy a proper cocktail again.

Regardless.

I wanna have some fun. Maybe a game of pool will do me so good, betting for nothing more than a round of drinks again.

As Whumpee took a couple steps forward, leaving their backpack at the wardrobe they approached the nearest pool table as two hands suddenly rested on their shoulders. A sickening feeling rushing through their body in consequence, sinking in and carving itself inside them. Whumpee whipped around, steadying their drink with one hand only to look up into the grinning face and cold eyes of Whumper!

„How did-You shoudln’t be here. I got out, I broke free.“ They shook themselves out of Whumper‘s grip, the sickening feeling lessening in turn.

Whumper‘s grin was unfaltering. „Did you now? Cute that you think so. Last I remember I own you, body and soul. Now quietly go and get your coat.", they ordered with the ever present grin, the ever casual swing in their voice.

Whumpee stiffened, taking another step back. "I don't have to take orders from you anymore." But as they said it they could feel their inside start to burn, from their toes to their hair roots. The sensation worsened until Whumpee could feel their body move against their will, move to fetch their coat. Dread closed over them like an icey wave. Compulsions, that feeling, that feeling that they had banished to the darkest corners of their mind. NO.

Once their body Whumpee had picked up their coat their gaze fell onto their backpack. There really wasn‘t much in it, just some hygiene articles, a book a smaller bag full of little trinkets and a notebook. Not much, definitely not a threat but important to them.

They crouched down to pick it up but Whumper who had followed them on the heel tutted: „Ah ah ah. No, leave it here.“

Whumpees eyes, previously fixated on the backpack slowly travelled up to Whumper‘s face only to find a way too familiar cruel grin laying on it. They knew there was no reasoning with them if they‘ve got themselves set on something. It was even more shameful that they didn‘t even use the compulsion, barely phrased it as an order…

As Whumper again stepped away for a moment Whumpee frantically removed some trinkets from their bag and stuffed them in their pockets. But the other's form returned quicker than anticipated, forcing Whumpee to kick the trinket bag underneath a tower of chairs.

Whumper simply forced them to walk with them, guiding them with a painfully firm hand around their arm. Once they were out of the bar Whumper painfully twisted Whumpee‘s arm behind their back, leaning in close, their breath against the forced one's ear in the night air. „I saw that, Whumpee. Maybe once we're back home, if you beg me well enough I won't force you to destroy whatever you stuffed in your pockets.“, they whispered icy, shoving Whumpee into a car.

Taglist: @/yourlocalgaefae33, @princessofhe11, @greatkittencloud,

[fella-lovin-fella]

guess who got diagnosed with ocd a couple weeks ago

[did-sm1-say-catfish]

tip for writing characters with ocd: make weird shit up

most often i see just typical germ phobia, which, while it can be a part of ocd, it is definitely not entirely what it is.

ocd is made up of obsessions and compulsions. The obsession is the fear, and the compulsion is something you do to keep the fear at bay. a typical example would be "i need to turn the lights on and off three times or else my entire family dies a painful death" but thats pretty tame, actually. Ocd can get off the fucking walls.

What you need to understand is that ocd is not logical. in fact, it can be a little silly. but at the end of the day, it is a conniving little bitch that wants to ruin your life.

instead of giving your character any sense of reason and logic in their ocd, try making them do crazy crap.

Oh, they need to clean their hands? yeah, a typical hand wash isnt gonna cut it. how about they need their hands covered in paint before they can wash them or else their hands arent truly clean. ("why do you have paint in your bathroom?" "uhhhhhhh")

They need to get changed? right, well they need to put on their clothes backwards, do three spins, and then reverse their clothes before they can walk through any doorways. like a magical girl! or else their cat gets herpes and dies a painful death.

They need to order food on their phone? right, first off they need to use their tv to order, and they cant use their phone until the food arrives, and only when their fingers are greasy from the food can they pick up their phone, or else their doordasher get smashed by an anvil and they will be convicted of the murder.

If youre having trouble, think about how their compulsions could come to be.

perhaps they were doing an art project where they were working with paint, and now washing their hands without paint somewhere in the mix just feels wrong.

maybe they put on their clothes backwards and then reversed them before going to the vet with their cat and being warned about the dangers of cat herpes.

maybe they ordered food from the tv as a funny bit with friends, and then watched copious amounts of roadrunner and coyote while waiting for the food to arrive.

i cant speak for everyone, but most of my compulsions are developed from just going about life, and then the ocd creeps up.

me: alright time to fill up my cup from my water dispenser on the fridge!!! me: oops i spilled a little haha ocd: wouldnt it be such an annoying compulsion if you HAD to spill it or else you couldnt drink your water? me: haha yeah that would be so annoying. good thing that isnt one of my compulsions!!! haha ocd: ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) me: ... ocd: hehe me: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

another thing is that obsessions dont always have to be specific. they could be as rigid as "your best friend will slowly die of pneumonia while you are none the wiser, and then while they are on their deathbed, they will blame you" or as loose as "something bad will happen" (alternatively, even more vague!! “I get an icky feeling (emotional)”)

Most people with ocd are so anxiety ridden that they have trouble trusting themselves, their memory, and everyone and everything around them. They might be inclined to do things themselves because other people will mess it up, or double check and redo all their compulsions because "what if i made a mistake?" Ocd is an anxiety disorder, after all.

and this is just ONE type of ocd. many types of ocd are more mental, think-yourself-into-a-breakdown kind of anxiety. They are full of distrust in yourself, in your memory, and in everyone and everything. "what if i killed someone and i forgot about it?" and "what if i'm going to rape/kill/torture my loved ones?" or "what if im going to snap that baby's neck?"

Ocd can be silly and it can be grisly, but it is never fun.

so customize your characters ocd! it doesnt need to be generic store bought "germ icky" anymore. you can make them MORE miserable!!!

[wackywatchdotcom]

glad that the ragatha post seems to be resonating w ppl :)

[asilentguardian]

Rituals

also on ao3

Gotham isn’t quiet when it rains.

Most cities slow down, become near empty, when rain is pouring from the sky. But Gotham continues, despite the rain mixing with the rot of the city and bathing the streets in the smell of mildew and seafood. Despite the streets that always flood, roads built on old rivers and inlets. People have jobs to do, families to protect. It becomes easier to hide, to exchange money and drugs and guns in the cover of rain clouds and the water rushing towards the sewers. 

Gotham isn’t quiet, so neither are the Bats.

They’re built for this. All of them live and breathe with the city, they’ve grown up here and the city has grown around them. Rain doesn’t deter them, and waterproof and insulated armor shields them against the rest of it.

The feeling of raindrops pelting his cowl keeps Bruce grounded as he stands over the city. The others–just Damian and Cass tonight–are already steadily making their way home, swinging across rooftops and dipping down to the streets when they spot someone in need. But Bruce stays here, standing and watching as the night creeps into dawn and the night shifts give way to the morning shifts. It’s become a ritual, of sorts.

Down on the streets, the city becomes a jagged, haphazard array of the various shades of horrible things people are capable of. Every block can feel like a new, solitary ecosystem of politics and gangs and survival. But up here, on a tall roof in the outer edges of Gotham, the city becomes the living, breathing thing that Bruce knows it to be. Sometimes, if he’s still enough, Bruce swears he can feel the pulse of it. He can feel the cars speeding down Murphy Avenue, he can feel the quick steps of morning runners in the Diamond District, the shuffling through Park Row, the fear, the anger, the sadness, the hope.

He tries not to examine this too closely.

The rain drowns out any hope of feeling it tonight, anyways. Street lights in the distance begin to flicker off, and Bruce takes that as his queue to follow his kids home. He slides down the ladder on the side of the building, down the stairs, and off the shortest ledge into the alley where he left his bike. The rain has begun to let up, but he still fits his goggles over his eyes.

The ride back to the manor is always quiet at this hour, no one braving the empty roads before the sun peeks over the horizon. Bruce doesn’t pass Damian or Cass on the way there, quiet check-ins on the comms telling him they’re already home, probably eagerly peeling off their armor and racing towards Alfred’s hot chocolate. On nights like tonight, where the rain is constant and cold, even Bruce doesn’t bother with proper reports or storing his gear. Sweating in the cold rain of Gotham is a different kind of hell, and a warm bed is all that’s on all of their minds.

Bruce rumbles into a predictably empty cave, quickly parking his bike next to Cass’ and shutting it off. He pushes back his cowl and sits for a moment. This, too, is a ritual. The cave is never really quiet. The hum of computers and machines, the roar of a waterfall, the chittering of bats. The background noise never changes. It’s too far underground for the sound of rain or thunder or footsteps to reach. There could be a full house upstairs, and you’d never know. 

There’s no one around to hear the way Bruce grunts as he pushes himself off the bike. His bones creak, his muscles protest, and his back reminds him just how cold it was tonight. He’s getting old. Here, where there’s a myriad of evidence of his children, the thought doesn’t scare him as much as it used to.

His bed is just a few hundred feet away, but he’s still careful to put his armor in a vaguely neat pile, still starts uploading the night's footage before he makes his way to the elevator. Bruce pushes the grandfather clock aside to an empty, but warm, sitting room. The warmth of the house slowly begins to chase away the chill in his body, and Bruce gently replaces the clock and heads to his first stop of this third ritual; the kitchen.

The light is brighter in here, but still warm and easy on eyes that have spent hours in the shadows. Cass and Damian sit at the counter, their mugs in front of them. Damian is half asleep against Cass’s shoulder, and, despite the concern Bruce feels, there’s a burst of pride that makes its way through his chest. Damian has had a rough time adjusting, but he’s come so far with all of them. 

Cass’ eyes snap to Bruce as he enters, still alert and fully awake. Bruce knows that she usually doesn’t sleep after she patrols, that she can’t, most times. He used to worry about it, but she insists that the time to herself is helpful, that she uses it to recharge. He tries to trust her on that.

Bruce nods towards Damian. Is he okay?

Cass gives him a sheepish smile and nods.

“Raced to the bike,” she whispers. Bruce sighs. He has long since given up the battle of preventing his children from making a competition or game out of patrol. It always exhausts them, always causes squabbles. But it keeps them young, keeps laughter ringing through the comms, and brings smiles to their faces. It was never a battle he would win.

He still snatches a sip from Cass’ mug in retaliation. She glares at him after he returns it, wrapping a protective arm around her mug and Damian’s. Bruce chuckles, ruffles her hair and lightly touches Damian’s shoulder before moving to the next stop. Damian lets out a vague mumble. Cass will deposit him in his bed eventually, after their own post-patrol rituals. Present and accounted for.

The stairs to the second floor have always creaked and groaned, even when Bruce was young. The only difference now is the loose third step, evidence of a young and energetic Dick Grayson and a Bruce who didn’t know how to handle all of that energy. He carefully skips that step, making a note to fix it, which he will forget to do as always. He makes his way down an equally old hallway, deftly avoiding the noisy floorboards. He has less stops to make than usual tonight, the manor a little emptier, a little quieter. Closer and closer to an empty nest, as Alfred would say. 

Dick’s room is empty, and so is Jason’s. He still places his hand on their door frames, marking his progress. Tim’s door is cracked, his lights off–thank god–and his sheets a chaotic mess around him. He never stops moving, even in his sleep. Cass’ door is open, light spilling into the hallway. Her closet door flung aside and the Black Bat uniform on the floor amongst various other clothes. Bruce rolls his eyes and collects the pieces, tucking them away from view. Its displacement will be reprimand enough. He can never properly scold her for feeling comfortable enough to do it, anyways. 

Duke’s door is firmly closed, and he’s a light sleeper, so Bruce settles with pressing his ear against the door, waiting until he hears Duke’s light snores before he moves on. He’ll lay eyes on him in the afternoon, he reminds himself. Damian’s door is open, too, revealing a much neater chaos than Cass’ room. There are piles everywhere, books and sketch pads and games all in places that only make sense to Damian. Titus lifts his massive head and wags his tail as he spots Bruce, but remains curled up on Damian’s bed. Bruce gives him a scratch behind his ears before moving on to his last stop.

He passes the door to his room—still firmly closed—towards Alfred’s door. It’s wide open, as it usually is. Alfred is sitting upright in his bed, book open in his lap and glasses perched on his nose. The sheets are still the same ones from Bruce’s childhood, though they’ve since faded. Bruce still remembers how it feels to be cocooned within them, to have them and Alfred be the last and strongest defenses against the rest of the world. Alfred looks up, still able to sense the barest bit of movement in a way that eludes Bruce, and quietly shuts his novel. They’re both silent for a moment, taking the other in.

“Go to bed, Bruce,” Alfred says, as he always does. 

“Only after you do,” Bruce always replies. It used to be a longer conversation, and before that it was a heated argument. It used to grate on his nerves, the way Alfred would sit and wait for him in those first few years. He took it as silent judgement, or worse, distrust. Bruce would demand he just go to bed, would snap at him in a way that made him feel 16 years old again. Alfred never budged. And then Bruce became a father, and he understood. Still, in the back of his mind, a distant worry. If Bruce is getting old, what does that make Alfred? Alfred would not approve of that line of thinking, so he’s never voiced it aloud.

Bruce’s father smiles at him and Bruce nods back, softly shutting the door behind himself as he leaves. He retraces his steps to his own door and stops in front of it. Breathes in, and breathes out, tries to shed the worry and anxiety of empty rooms. It gets easier every night. It gets harder every year.

Bruce pushes his door open and stops. Shifts a few things around in his head. Takes a moment to rearrange his routine.

Hal Jordan, ever present wrench in his plans, is asleep in his bed. Home early, which could be a good thing or a bad thing, and curled up on the side furthest from the door. He came in through the window, if the trail of clothes is anything to go off of. Bruce picks them up and tosses them in the hamper, trying not to be overly annoyed about it.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Hal, safe here in his bed, before he slips into the bathroom. His clothes are shed quickly, pointedly tossed into a hamper. The walls are thick enough that the shower shouldn’t wake Hal, but Bruce still moves through the motions with brutal efficiency, scrubbing away mud and sweat and the last of the cold Gotham air clinging to his body.

The steady pelting of the shower grounds him in a way that the cold rain doesn’t. Here, it’s soft and warm. If Bruce stays here long enough, he’ll feel a different pulse underneath his feet and in his chest. Steady breathing in and out, the pitter-patter of four-legged creatures, the settling of a centuries-old house. This, too, Bruce doesn’t examine too closely.

Bruce shuts the water off and dries himself with a towel, continuing to move through the familiar rhythm of his routine. He exits the bathroom and blindly grabs a pair of sweatpants from the dresser, a lifetime of children at his door dissuading him from jumping straight under the sheets.

He carefully pulls on the pants, distantly registering the Ferris Air logo down the sides, before turning towards his bed. Hal is now facing him, brown eyes silently watching Bruce. Bruce doesn’t bother suppressing a soft smile as he makes his way over and crawls under the covers as Hal lifts them up. Bruce settles in, and Hal drops the covers.

“Hi,” Hal whispers. Bruce clings onto that single word, already picking it apart from every angle, trying to determine how Hal’s feeling, where his head is.

“Hi,” Bruce whispers back, still watching Hal’s face, still searching for any changes. Hal reaches out and rests his hand on Bruce’s face, his thumb tracing his brow, his cheekbone, his lips. Bruce catches his hand, presses a kiss to his palm, and intertwines their fingers.

“Okay?” Bruce asks. A single word, a compromise between silence and a veritable interrogation. Another product of well worn arguments. Hal’s answering smile is soft. Fond.

“Yeah. You?” Hal asks. An admission of the same fears. A lot can happen in just a few days.

“Yeah,” Bruce responds. Hal tugs on their joined hands, and Bruce shuffles closer, bodies slotting together. Their lips meet, and the last piece of Bruce shifts into place. His muscles relax, starting at every point of contact between him and Hal. Hal’s lips shift to his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, and Bruce’s eyes drift shut.

“Sleep, baby,” Hal whispers into his hair. Bruce hums an acknowledgement and lets the warmth of Hal pull him under, lets the hand caressing his neck lull him towards sleep. 

-----

Awareness comes quicker than sleep, a habit Bruce doesn’t think he can ever get away from. It’s a trait that he foolishly hopes his children didn’t pick up. He knows better.

His mind is quick to catalog his surroundings. The bed beside him is empty, but warm, recently vacated. The light streaming through the window means it’s at least 11, six hours of sleep more than Bruce had expected. The rain has passed. The door is slightly ajar, and the laundry hamper is missing. Bruce huffs a laugh. Message received and heard.

Bruce lets himself be sluggish in his movements. He slides to the edge of the bed and checks his phone. No urgent notifications or alerts about the end of the world, so Bruce braves a glance at the perpetually-muted family group chat. A slew of incomprehensible jokes and minor arguments. A good morning dweebs from Dick, sent two hours ago. A middle finger emoji from Jason in response. Accounted for.

The most recent text is a picture from Tim of Alfred the Cat sitting on his laptop, captioned come get your spy dami. He taps out a quick reply.

Bruce: Good cat.

There's an onslaught of reactions and responses, and Bruce is quick to shut off his phone.

He finally gets up, finds a sweatshirt that he’s pretty sure is his, and exits his room. A glance at Alfred’s door, open and room empty as anticipated.

Damian’s room, empty of the boy and the dog. Duke’s room, also empty, but with a perfectly made bed. Cass’ room, empty with a closet door pointedly closed. Tim’s room, occupied.

Bruce pauses and taps on the door frame. Tim glances up from his desk, free of its feline occupant, who has made himself comfortable in Tim’s lap. Tim, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, his voice still gravely from sleep. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, turning back to whatever more interesting thing he’s working on. Bruce shakes his head. Teenagers.

Jason’s room, empty. Dick’s room, empty. The floor creaks. The third stair is loose. The kitchen lights are brighter, there’s soft voices in the dining room. Bruce follows the noise.

Hal sits with his back to the doorway, facing Cass. He has Cass’ full attention as he tells a–likely exaggerated–version of his recent stint in space. He’s always been a wonderful storyteller, complete with impressions and sound effects. Bruce makes a conscious effort to make his steps audible and deliberate, not wanting to interrupt the story and stop the wonderful sound of Hal’s voice.

He drops a kiss on top of Hal’s head, rolling his eyes at Cass as she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at them. Hal barely pauses the story, reaching up and squeezing Bruce’s hand.

Bruce sees the coffee on the far end of the table and gently flicks Cass’ forehead as he passes by. He lets the rhythm of Hal’s voice and Cass’ answering questions wash over him as he pours his coffee and takes his spot next to Hal, shifting so their knees rest against each other. 

“But you made it? Everything is okay?” Cass is asking, voice serious despite Hal’s smile.

“As always, Miss Wayne,” Hal responds in an exaggerated voice vaguely reminiscent of Alfred’s accent.

“Hm,” Bruce responds. Hal sighs dramatically.

“I can’t catch a break with this guy,” Hal says to Cass, gesturing to Bruce. Cass giggles, a noise that will never fail to warm Bruce’s chest.

“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce responds, desperately hiding a smile behind a sip of coffee.

“You did though. That was your I disagree with you noise. I should know, I hear it often,” Hal insists. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“Oh? And what other noises are you familiar with?” Bruce asks. Cass lets out a quiet ew, and Hal’s answering grin is wicked.

“This conversation is over now,” Duke says loudly as he enters from the kitchen, carrying a plate stacked with pancakes. Duke, present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Maybe a little bit stiff, but otherwise moving normally. 

“Babies,” Hal says gleefully. Duke just flips him off and sits down to start eating. Bruce’s stomach rumbles loudly. Hal laughs softly and presses his knee a bit more firmly against Bruce’s.

“Go get food, Sleeping Beauty. Cass and I already got some,” Hal says, turning to look at Bruce.

“Damian?” Bruce asks. Hal doesn’t laugh, or poke fun at him, but his smile does turn slightly amused.

“Yeah, baby, he ate before us. Went to take Titus for a walk. Tim already ate, too,” Hal says. Bruce is a little startled at the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet, but nods jerkily anyways. He sets his coffee down and gives Duke another once over. Is he leaning more to his left? Hal nudges his knee harder, so Bruce gets up and heads for the kitchen.

“How’d the test go, Duke?” He hears Hal ask as he pushes through the door. He wasn’t aware Duke had a test, but his response seems positive so he lets it go.

Alfred is moving around the kitchen, cleaning and putting things away. A single, warm plate sits on the counter, pancakes made exactly like Bruce has always liked. Alfred glances over at him.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the finally is implied, “Eat your breakfast, Master Bruce,” Alfred says. Bruce’s lips twitch.

“Only after you do,” he responds. Alfred nods in acknowledgement, smiling. He finishes the tidying, grabbing his own plate from the oven. Bruce grabs his plate, but doesn’t head for the door yet. Alfred raises an eyebrow at him.

“Duke?” Bruce asks.

“Pulled a muscle, is all. Now quit worrying and go sit,” Alfred commands, no room for the follow up questions burning to get out. Bruce nods, resigned, and heads back to the dining room. He holds the door for Alfred and watches as he carefully lowers himself into his seat. Alfred notices his watching and glares at him.

“Sit,” Alfred says. It’s Bruce’s turn to sigh dramatically as he returns to his spot beside Hal, who smirks at him but wisely keeps the comment to himself. Their knees brush together again, and Hal rests a hand against his leg. A steady, grounding presence.

Bruce looks at Hal again, notes his relaxed posture, the laugh lines next to his eyes. He’s okay. He’s here. Present and accounted for, healthy and not obviously injured. Bruce nods to himself, reaches for his food.

“Plans for the day?” He asks Hal.

“Not a thing,” Hal responds. Bruce smiles.