#flashbacks cw

[eyes-line-the-hallways]

Doors and hallways and corridors and hiding under tables and watched and crying and pleading and out out out—

[tommyssupercoolblog]

Me: ugh god why am I getting so much worse?? I'm BACKSLIDING, I had been growing less sensitive to my triggers over time BUT NOW they're getting worse and worse and I keep having flashbacks and snapping at people!!! This is awful this makes no sense it is NOT POGGERS and my sensory issues are worse too!! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO MEEE

Our body, which has been steadily falling apart over the last few months (yes, months, plural) with even surgeries resulting in zero diagnosis, and symptoms worsening day by day: gee man that's so odd. Yeah crazy how that happens.

[suttttton]

Say That I’m Okay

Jon hasn't actually emerged from a month with the Circus utterly unscathed, but the world is ending. There isn't time to dwell on it.

Written for the @febuwhump  bonus challenge, Febuclown! (content warnings: kidnapping, flensing, nonconsensual touching, flashbacks, bullying) ao3 link in source!

Jon goes through Helen’s door, and when he comes out the other side, he’s in his office. It’s so unexpected, he can do nothing for a moment but stand there. He wants to ask her, why not torment him, at least a little? Why, why, why.

He imagines her saying, Isn’t that what friends are for? and he almost wants to laugh. He’s back. He lived. And that’s—It’s—It’s—

It’s dark. The lights are all turned off, and the office is silent. It’s the middle of the night. He goes to his desk. It isn’t the way he’d left it. He’s pretty sure it isn’t, anyway. It had been cluttered before, but not like this.

Jon sits down in his chair, once again feeling the urge to laugh. Here he is. Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, alive and wholly un-flensed.

… No, thinking about flensing is a bad idea. Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t.

He wonders how long he’s been gone. He goes to turn on his computer, to check the date, but before the screen even lights up, he already knows it’s been a month.

A month.

A month of—

Screams. It’s all he can hear, is screaming. He’d spent the first few days determined to escape, determined to get out of here and take as many of the others with him as he could. And then he’d started wishing they would stop, that he didn’t have to hear them, the constant reminder that he’d failed them as well as himself. As well as the world, probably.

Now he dreads the moment they stop. When it stops is when Nikola will come back. She’ll tsk over the tears on his cheeks, and tilt his head back and choke him with water until she’s satisfied he’s swallowed enough to re-hydrate himself. And then she’ll untie him, and he’ll stretch his legs while she watches, and at best what happens next will be nothing more than a reapplication of lotion. At worst—

Well, at worst, she’ll skin him. So really the rest of it isn’t so bad, is it? He tells himself that. He tells himself that he just needs to hang on, that someone will come for him. Elias, or, or—someone.

(God, he wishes Martin were here.)

(Well, no, not here, but—he wishes he were with Martin. He wishes they were both safe.)

He knows that no one is coming. He knows. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been, but he’s been here a long time. Long enough that anyone who wanted to save him would have by now. Long enough that they’ve probably given him up for dead anyway.

He’s going to die here.

He keeps thinking about Daisy. About that night in the woods, her knife at his throat. He’d been so afraid then, but… it would have been quick, wouldn’t it? Mike’s death had been quick. And it’s not that Jon is upset that he didn’t die that night, but Nikola is going to skin him and he just—

Jon grips the arms of his chair, and forces himself to take a breath. Another. He reminds himself that he didn’t die, either time. He’s alive. He’s safe. At least for now, he’s safe.

A month.

Jon doesn’t move for a long time. He has a vague fantasy of just… staying here. Or crawling underneath his desk, where it is small and dark and hidden. Pushing at the edges of his thoughts where they turn painful, digging his fingers into the thin veneer of glass between this moment and the past month and just… allowing himself to break.

He wants it. He wants the others to find him a sobbing, gibbering mess, tearing at his hair, curled up small against how much he hurts. He wants them to carefully pull his hands away, to pitch their voices with gentle reassurance, telling him, It’s alright, Jon, you’re safe now. Help him to his feet and lead him to the cot in document storage, or maybe to the ratty plush couch in the break room. Get him a glass of water and something to eat, and when it became clear he couldn’t talk about it, wait with patient concern to find out where he’d been.

It’s only a fantasy. They wouldn’t do any of that.

Jon can’t save the world if he’s shattered.

(A month.)

So he carefully avoids the glass wall in his mind and pulls himself to his feet. His joints faintly ache, but it could be worse. They’d given him plenty of opportunities to move around, to avoid sores forming, marring his—

Jon doesn’t think about it. He goes out into the Archive proper and fumbles around in the dark until he comes to a light switch. The light is nice. It had been so dark before.

He goes to the break room, and the sight of the little kitchenette, the collection of chipped mugs on the drying rack, nearly brings him to tears. He loves this kitchenette, he thinks, a bit manically.

He wants to laugh again. Is that good? He doesn’t know.

He pours himself a glass of water. After a moment of consideration, he goes digging in the cabinets, looking for—there! Little pouches of powdered drink mixes. They’re years old, relics of a better time. Jon takes one, pours it into his glass, watches the clear water turn red.

He takes a sip, and it’s sweet, and that’s wonderful.

Sugar is bad for your skin, he thinks, and this time he actually does laugh.

He drains his glass and washes it out in the sink, setting it down on the drying rack next to the mugs. They’re mostly Martin’s mugs. He misses Martin, but that makes sense, doesn’t it? He hasn’t seen Martin in a—

He’s covered in lotion.

The thought suddenly occurs to him, and then that’s all he can think of. It would be time for his reapplication, if he were still—If—If—But he isn’t, though. He’s in the Archive, in his Archive, and he needs to get this lotion off before he tears his own skin off.

Ha! Save Nikola the trouble of doing it herself.

Not that it would have been much trouble for her. She’d shown him, a few times, how sharp her fingers could be. What it looked like afterward. She was very proud of her work, the cleanness of her cuts, her precision. She talked about it a lot. It was the only thing she talked about, really.

There wasn’t anyone else to talk to, for an entire month.

Jon takes a shower. He doesn’t use soap. Seems like a bad idea. He just rubs at his skin with a washrag until he stops feeling so… slimy.

He throws out his clothes from earlier. He can’t—He just—He can’t. He can’t. He has other clothes here in the Archives. Better clothes. He doesn’t know where they ended up since he was last here, but they must be… somewhere.

He’s digging through document storage when he finds a box of Martin’s things. Nothing important. Clothes. Toiletries. Things that could be easily missed, hastily moving out of your workplace after it was revealed to be stunningly vulnerable to worms.

Jon should put the box back where he found it. He shouldn’t set it on the cot and begin digging through it, heart tightening with fondness at every discovery. He shouldn’t unfold one of Martin’s sweaters. He shouldn’t run his hands over the fabric, entranced by the softness. He shouldn’t put it on. He really, really shouldn’t put it on.

It smells like Martin.

Jon should take it off, but he doesn’t. He lays down on the cot, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and he lets himself imagine that Martin is there with him.

***

He wakes up early. 4:47, according to the digital clock in the break room. The nightmares are too bad for him to go back to sleep, so instead he gets started with his day. He takes another shower, because he can, and this time he digs a bar of Martin’s soap from the box. He hopes the fact that it smells like Martin will help him deal with the feeling of having something lathered into his skin.

It doesn’t, but he tries to ignore it. He pushes himself until he can’t breathe through the panic, and then he finds himself sitting on the shower floor, trembling as the water splashes over him. He needs to pull himself together, he needs to pull himself together, he needs to pull himself together.

He pulls himself together. He gets dressed. He goes back to the break room and starts a pot of coffee. The clock now says 6:30. He’s fine. He is.

“Nice of you to show your face around here,” Tim says behind him, nothing but hostility in his voice. “Enjoy your vacation?”

Jon tenses, but he’d known he would have to talk to the others eventually, didn’t he? Not this early, though. “I was kidnapped,” he says softly.

“You’ve already used that excuse.”

Jon’s hands are shaking. He can’t do this. He has to. No way out but through. He turns to face Tim, leaning on the counter behind him to steady himself. He can’t meet Tim’s eyes. Instead, he stares at his shoulder. “I guess my luck is just that bad,” he says, going for levity, hoping that will make Tim leave him alone.

“You look great,” Tim says, sarcasm heavy in his words. “So I guess you’ve got some luck after all.”

Jon wants to laugh. Jon wants to say, The secret to healthy skin is good nutrition, plenty of hydration, and a thoughtfully put-together skin care routine. But then he’s thinking about flensing again—he’s always going to be thinking about flensing, isn’t he?—and he has to grip the counter tightly to keep himself upright. He takes deep breaths as the wave of nausea passes over him, and when he feels like he can open his mouth without throwing up, he says, “I’m not lying.”

“Sure,” Tim says. He’s still blocking the doorway. He’s still here, why is he still here, what else could he want?

“Did you need something?”

“An apology might be nice,” Tim says. “It’s not the best managerial practice, you know, abandoning your ‘assistants’ for a month after trapping us all in hell.”

Jon feels suddenly very angry. Tim should be the one apologizing to him. It had been a month, a whole month, and none of them had so much as looked for him.

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know, they couldn’t have—they couldn’t have known. Even Tim, who is insisting on, on, on doing this to him is just—is—he’s—he’s angry. He’s angry because they’re all trapped here, and that is Jon’s fault. And he’s angry because their friendship has disintegrated, and that’s Jon’s fault too.

Maybe it’s all Jon’s fault, every bit of it. Maybe he should apologize for being kidnapped. Maybe that’s the right thing to do. Maybe it’ll help.

He knows it isn’t true. He deserves to be angry, actually. He’s been through hell, and he’s holding himself together for the sake of the world, and Tim is trying to break him anyway.

But if Jon shouts at Tim, Tim will shout back. And Tim knows Jon, knows all the words that will hurt the most. Tim could break down the glass barrier so easily, and it—that—Jon needs the barrier.

So Jon says, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Jon wipes at his eyes, at his cheek that is suddenly wet with tears. He can’t cry. He can’t let himself cry. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and his voice isn’t any louder, and this time his voice cracks around the words.

Tim rolls his eyes. Then, blessedly, he leaves.

Jon turns around and leans over the counter, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His palms are soft, the softest they’ve ever been, and that thought, of course, leads to thoughts of flensing. He lets out a sob, and then he bites down hard on one of his hands, until a high whine of pain comes from the back of his throat and his mind feels a little clearer.

He forces himself to take deep breaths, putting the Circus out of his mind. Basira and Melanie will be here soon, and perhaps Daisy. (Please, please not Daisy.) But that’s hours away. He doesn’t need to catastrophize about it right now.

***

It would be easier if he didn’t have to read statements about the Circus all day. Every time he hears the Circus mentioned, it feels like he’s banging on the glass wall, just begging it to break and leave him at the mercy of whatever lurks behind it.

He wishes he didn’t have to think about it.

He wishes the others would help. Why does the entire world have to rest on him, why is it his job to get burned and sent into freefall and hunted and kidnapped and then relive it all in the fucking statements while the rest of them just—just—just—

… That isn’t fair. They are helping. The world is ending, of course they’re—And it’s not like Jon really wants any of them to read statements anyway, and—and—and it’s not like Jon has given them any reason to think anything is particularly wrong with him.

(He’d been kidnapped for a month, he shouldn’t need to—)

But he hasn’t told them the worst of it. He hasn’t told them about the screams or the lotion or the certainty that he was going to die. He hasn’t told them about the flensing. He’s told them as much as he’s been able to force himself to say, and every time he interacts with Basira or Melanie or Daisy, it’s clear they’re thinking, “Well, it couldn’t have been that bad.” Jon is on his feet, after all, walking around like nothing happened. He doesn’t even have a new scar this time.

He sometimes wishes that the Circus had actually hurt him, beyond his ability to pretend.

He imagines what it would have been like, had they found him collapsed on the floor of his office, too exhausted to move, starving and dehydrated and feverish, unable to walk because he’d spent the past month tied to a chair. He imagines them helping him. He imagines them watching his recovery, treating him with, with patience. He imagines them saying, Thanks for working so hard figuring out how to stop the Unknowing. It must be hard.

It’s only a fantasy. He knows they wouldn’t—

He knows he’s lucky it isn’t worse.

***

And then there’s Martin.

Martin brings tea every single day and asks in a gentle voice, “Are you okay?”

And Jon says, “Well the world is ending, so I’ve been better.”

And Martin says, “Jon…”

Because Martin isn’t like the others. Martin listens. Martin pays attention. Martin can tell that Jon isn’t okay, and he wants to help.

“Thank you for the tea,” Jon says, and means it. The tea helps, more than anything else. Knowing that Martin made it for him, that Martin cares, that Jon is back in a world of stoves and kettles and care, is… everything.

“If you ever want to talk,” Martin says, and he doesn’t mean it as a platitude. He means: I know it was bad, and I don’t want you to bear it on your own.

Jon doesn’t want to bear it on his own, either. It’s too heavy. He thinks, constantly, about how nice it would feel to just put it down. To let the glass wall break, to let himself collapse. Jon’s been to therapy before. He knows how this works. He knows that it won’t get better unless he acknowledges everything that happened and lets it tear him apart.

But the world is ending, and Jon doesn’t have time to pick up the pieces.

“I’m fine, Martin. Really.”

[whumpiary]

whumptober 2020 | day 2: collars (in the hands of the enemy)

 i wasn’t originally going to post this because it doesn’t quite fit with the day’s theme, but now it’s three days later, and i still liked it on the edit so i’m posting it dammit and fuck you to the little anxiety monster.

set in the future. the vaguest of references to the characters of @evermetnotforgotten and @card-games-and-pain

content warnings: referenced captivity, panic attack, mild d!ssociat!on, mild flashbacks, semi-unresolved sticky feelings

-

It’s the strangest thing. He hasn’t thought about it in so long. In years. It’s easy not to think about it. It’s easy to lock parts of what happened to him up. He has to a lot of the days. But that’s easing. 

Thalia is helping. The therapist. He doesn’t call her the therapist and she doesn’t call herself the therapist but that’s what she is and they both know it. Either way, she does help. Is helping. 

But they’re in a pet store. Mal and him. Just stopped by to get some litter and food for Mal and Lou’s cats on the way by, and Cass sees the collars and he reaches out his hand…

He closes his eyes and for a moment he’s not in a pet store. He’s not anywhere at all. He opens them again and he’s in a pet store but his is heart racing and there are memories in his head he doesn’t want and fear in his legs that he doesn’t need and disgust on his tongue that he can’t shift and —

He reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself of the things Thalia says. He reminds himself to ground his feet, he reminds himself to let his shoulders relax so he can breathe, he can breathe, he can breathe. He reminds himself to find Mal, even though he can’t find the other man’s eyes and then –

“I’m just gonna meet you at the car, is that okay?”

Mal looks at him and something in him changes and Cass knows he’s been seen. Mal gets this softness about him that used to prickle, used to burn, but right now it just… washes Cass clean. It helps him breathe, feels like protection. Thalia’s been helping.

Mal nods. “Yeah, mate. Of course.”

He ends up taking a walk. He walks around the back of the building and he keeps walking along the wall of the shopping complex and every time he blinks too long he’s not anywhere at all so instead he just keeps taking stock of what’s around him.

Grass, concrete, dandelions. Sunlight, shadow, sky.

By the time he gets back to the car, Mal’s already there with bubble tea, squinting against the sun and leaning against the hood. He smiles easy and offers out Cass’ drink. Like he hasn’t been waiting for ten minutes. Like Cass didn’t disappear with no explanation. 

They get into the car in silence, strapping up their seat-belts, and Mal doesn’t turn on the car for a bit, pretending to fiddle with something on his phone. He’s good like that. Doesn’t ask, but always leaves space. 

“There were other boys,” Cass says eventually, staring out the windscreen, biting at his thumbnail. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mal shift a little in his seat, kinda turning to face him. 

“Yeah?”

Mal says it like it’s something he doesn’t already know. He doesn’t already know it, not this, but he thinks he does, and so it’s nice anway. Mal thinks Cass is talking about the other boys at the Estate, who he knows about just fine, but he still says yeah? like it’s some new information and even though he’s misunderstood, Cass appreciates the gesture.

Cass takes a breath, in and out, and remembers what Tahlia says about releasing his jaw, letting the muscles in his shoulders relax. It helps and he doesn’t know why but he doesn’t need to know why because it does. 

“I don’t mean Christopher’s boys,” he clarifies, after a heavy beat. “I mean there were other... there were other men. Men who, um... who kept... other boys. The same way Christopher kept me.”

There’s a long, still silence.  If Cass listens he can hear Mal’s breath hitch. Internally, he flinches.

“Sorry. I don’t want to-”

“No, you’re fine,” Mal assures, stopping him before the run-away train starts. “Keep going if you want to. Or stop. Both are fine.”

Cass nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a sec, hands gripping his seat belt like it’s a lifeline. Maybe it is today.

“They, um,” he has to stop and take another breath. “They had it worse than me. I think. I mean, I know–”

“Mate, you know that’s not something you can-”

“No, I mean it,” he says, turning to look Mal in the eye. “I really mean it. They were treated like… They wore, um. They had to wear…” he makes a gesture around his throat when he thinks words are gonna fail him and then- “Like dogs.”

Mal takes a big, deep breath in and for a second, Cass doesn’t think he’s gonna exhale ever again. But then he does. “Did seeing the collars in the store make you remember?”

“Yeah,” Cass says, frowning and wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Not that I forget really. Ever. But it’s usually kinda…”

He trails off and his eyes flutter closed, makes another gesture.

“In the backwaters?” Mal offers up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, and it’s-”

He can feel something welling up. Feels his breath starting to pick up and he closes his eyes and lets his body take over. Sometimes it's better to just let the feelings come. Let his body sort it out. It helps, somehow, to just feel the panic run him through instead of trying to squash it or push it away. It stops the numbness from setting in.

“M’fine,” he mumbles as reassurance though it comes out high and squeaking. He presses his hand to his eyes, elbow resting on the sill of the car window, and the breathing switches from steady to laboured. From even to quick.

“I know you are, mate,” Mal says, voice soft. Cass is certain that if he were to open his eyes and look down, the man’s hand would be offered out on the console, to grab hold of if he wanted, to leave if he needed. He doesn’t know when it started being a thing they all did for him — Mal, Josiah, Lou, whoever – but it nearly brings him to tears every fucking time. Today he leaves it. 

The breathing evens itself out in a minute or so, and Mal’s there waiting for him as it does. Cass feels tears on his cheek before he feels much else, and the headache starting quick behind his eyes. “What am I meant to do with that? What am I… how am I meant to deal with that?”

“We’ll figure it out,” is all Mal says. 

Cass sniffs, swipes his cheeks dry. More tears come and he lets them. He takes Mal’s hands and closes his eyes again as he feels the other man squeeze it. He cries, breath quiet and hitching in little bursts, and when that finally evens out, “Do you think any of them are still alive?”

There’s a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, mate.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

And Mal never does anyway. He’s good like that. He shrugs. “Best guess? Probably not, no. But you’re here. And that wouldn’t have been my best guess either.”

Cass kinda laughs. The best way you can when you’re already halfway through crying, anyway. “Yeah. And you’re here too, I guess.”

Mal closes his eyes with a smile and a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. And I’m here too.”

“Sorry, I’m not saying-”

“I know you’re not saying,” he says. “You’re all good.”

Cass stares out the windscreen for a long while, chewing his lip. His head feels waterlogged and heavy, like he’s just been drowned. Or not quite. It aches more when you’ve been drowned. And your throat and nose burn more.

“I hope they’re not alive,” he says, watching a pair of birds hop along the roof of the shopping complex. His voice comes out clearer than he’d expected it to.  “I hope they’re— I mean, I don’t… I don’t want them to be dead, but I don’t want… If they’re still... I hope they’re not-”

“Yeah,” Mal says. Righting the run-away train again with a word. Another sigh. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Me too.”

There’s a long, heavy silence that settles over them that lasts maybe a full minute.

Cass watches a mum walk by with her kids, one sitting in the front of the trolley she’s pushing while the other one skips backwards, walking beside. He can just barely hear the bubbling of her voice. She sounds happy. Excited. It makes him smile just a little, corner of his mouth twitching up even though he still kinda feels wrung dry. Up on the roof, another pair of birds join the first. 

Mal gives his hand a departing squeeze and then lets it go, turning on the engine and sticking the car in gear. He pulls out of the lot and reaches across to hand Cass his phone as they turn onto the freeway, AUX cord already plugged in, ready to go. “You wanna put the music on?”

“Yeah,” he says. He scrolls through and picks a playlist that looks like an easy mix of not too heavy and not too happy and sets it to play. “Hey, I’m, um… I’m s-”

“Don’t be,” Mal says, with a quick little glance across at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

The guitar riff of the song filters out the speakers and Mal turns it up just a little, humming a long with the melody. And then –

“Thalia tomorrow?”

Cass nods. “Yeah.”

“Wanna order in lunch after you get home?”

“Yeah,” he says. He dares to let himself feel comforted. “Yeah, I reckon that’d be good.”

[whump-me-all-night-long]

The Scoop of a Lifetime - 2-11

Comfortember Day 11 - PTSD

Tagging @mnmlover2002 @cupcakes-and-pain @lave-e @appy-polly-loggies @lovely-little-whump @just-another-whumper let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: PTSD, accidental triggering, flashbacks, let me know if I missed anything!

Masterlist // Previous

---

When Devin woke up that next morning, they expected to wake to an empty bed in an empty apartment, Elliott having slipped off in the dead of night. Instead, they found him exactly where he was when they had fallen asleep, curled slightly around them, his arms circling them with a comforting weight, his body heat cocooning them. They moved their hand to rub their eyes, and Elliott immediately jerked awake. 

Blearily looking down at them, he murmured, “G’morning,” the words slurring together slightly as he smiled softly.

They searched his face for any sign of displeasure, regret, annoyance. When they found nothing, they yawned and replied, “Morning.” They rolled over, staying in his arms, as their mind began to wake up. They moaned softly. “It’s too early. I need coffee.”

They hadn’t even realized they said it aloud until Elliott’s chest was shaking slightly against their back in a laugh. “Me too.”

Their eyes shot open as they sat straight up. They glanced down at him, panicked. “Oh my god, you have work!” they exclaimed, glancing at the clock. It was less than twenty minutes before he would be expected to be at the Muse.

He shook his head, slowly sitting up as well. “I texted my uncle and took the morning off. Said it was personal stuff. I don’t have to be in till noon.”

Their heart returning to a normal rhythm, Devin slowly nodded. “Oh. Okay. Good. Then, coffee time.” 

A groan slipped out of them as they stood. Elliott was at their side in a heartbeat. “Are you okay?” he asked, concern coloring his words. They gave a wordless nod and he stepped back a bit.

They hobbled towards the kitchen, opting to leave their crutches by their bed. They had begun to move around more and more without them, slowly rebuilding their strength.

Their legs were shaky but served their purpose as Devin moved about the kitchen, turning the coffee machine on before opening the fridge door and peering at its sad contents. Frowning, they stood up, jumping slightly as they noticed Elliott leaning in the doorway.

He smiled at them, before heading towards the coffee machine. Pulling down two mugs from a nearby cabinet, he shut it off and poured steaming coffee into the cups.

He walked back towards them, holding out one of the mugs. They took it, surprised when he raised the other one to his lips and took a long sip.

“I thought you didn’t approve of coffee?” they asked, arching an eyebrow and they lifted their own mug.

He snorted. “I don’t. But I don’t think you’ve ever seen me in the morning before coffee.” He continued quickly drinking his cup. Black, they noticed with a start. Just like me.

They glanced away, blood coloring their cheeks as they took a long drink. Their stomach rumbled softly, and, when they looked back over, Elliott grinned. 

Setting his now-empty mug on the counter near the sink, he grabbed his coat from where he’d left it draped over one of the chairs last night. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll go pick up some food for us!”

Devin made an affirmative sound as they refilled their mug. The door clicked quietly as they headed towards the living room. Flipping through the channels, they found one with a mindless talk show playing, and slowly drained their second cup as they watched.

A bit later, they heard the door open and called softly, “I’m in here!”

The sound of shuffling footsteps and rustling plastic sounded as Elliott appeared in the doorway, lifting a bag. “I found food!” he said with a grin. 

Devin slowly made their way back into the kitchen, much more hungry than they realized. They had just reached the doorway of the kitchen when the smell hit them and their gaze fell on the food Elliott had already unpacked and laid on the table.

Breakfast. The aroma of pancakes and syrup and eggs and bacon and pain and screams and he’s hurting me please stop hurting me i’m sorry don’t hurt me surrounded them as they took a stumbling step back. 

Hearing them, Elliott looked up with a grin that quickly fell away as he took in the fear evident on their bloodless face. Their eyes met him and they flinched back, unable to look at the they’re gray his eyes are gray and he always watches me when he hurt me he makes me look at him too similar eyes.

He moved towards them and they let out a terrified squeak as they fell back. He caught them, wrapping constricting ensnaring locking he’s keeping me and stealing me away steady arms around them. His lips were moving but they couldn’t hear as their eyes fell shut and they tried keeping all the memories at bay.

Their breaths came harsh and uneven as their thoughts raced, going from it’s not him he’s not him to but he’s about to hurt me he always hurts me at breakfast to why can’t i just move on already to please i’m sorry please i’m sorry please

They were aware of some pathetic, whimpering sound coming from nearby, as if from a wounded animal. They slowly realized the sound was them.

They cracked open their eyes to find themself curled up tightly on their kitchen’s hard floor. Elliott’s arms were wrapped around them as he murmured quiet reassurances. Feeling them stiffen, he rubbed soothing circular motions into their back.

“Devin? Can you hear me? You’re safe, he’s not here, I promise.” His voice came low and soft and tender.

They looked up at him, forcing themself to meet his eyes, even as their body locked up and adrenaline rushed through them. “Yeah,” they croaked. “Yeah, I’m here.”

He let out a soft breath before shifting away from them. “Good. That’s good. Do you think you can stand?” he asked, unfolding himself and offering them a hand.

They swallowed hard before accepting it, leaning on him heavily as their legs refused to cooperate.

“I-” Their voice creaked and groaned like an old house. “I’m not very hungry anymore. Can- can I just go lay down for a bit?”

Elliott furrowed his brow at something before smiling at them gently. “Of course you can. Do you want me to help you?”

They nodded silently and that silence weighed heavily between them as the two walked towards the bedroom.

Next

[lonesometrails]

reminding myself that those moments where I'm inexplicably frozen with terror and reliving a memory are called flashbacks and they're not just random signs that I'm dying! 💚

[eloquentyrant]

||HC||

“It gave the sensation that your head was being torn open so that hot lava could be poured  directly into your brain. Afterwards, just thinking of it would make me physically ill. So naturally, I had to have it.”

[ While it had been part of Oswald’s original intention to use the very same torture (therapy) device that had been administered to him on Strange- which is on brand for his preference in enacting revenge in specific tailored ways, he ended up keeping the contraption afterwards too.

Even when he hadn’t been the one in the metaphorical hot seat then, the mobster realises that he experiences phantom pain (nauseousness, a building migraine, subtle but uncontrollable twitching from his limbs, uneven breathing etc) triggered from the memory, sight, and sound of it. 

For most, that would have been a compelling enough indicator to stop. However, someone as spiteful as Oswald would loathe the very concept of being affected to the core in such a manner. It simply doesn’t sit well with his control issues. Thus the device played a prominent part in his subsequent interrogations and various purposes for a time. 

Today, the use of it is mostly retired. However, he’s not above reminiscing and making use of it on occasion. On occasion, it still leaves a trail of tingling- bone deep. But who has to know?]

[widaugast]

        "As you go conscious, you watch as bodies go flying to the side, to the edge of the dock, their bodies still smoldering but unmoving.  You start flashing back to a very painful memory, and you [all] watch as Caleb's eyes just glaze over."

        With the Wall of Fire, as well as the Fireball, I knew it was only a matter of time until Matt had Liam make a Wisdom saving throw  ----  like waiting for the other shoe to drop.  However epic these moments are in combat, I'll never stop admiring the choice to keep the toll always present, and these WIS saving throws are a really key way of keeping Liam's portrayal of Caleb's PTSD within the game.  Epic magic, sure.  Consequences?  Always.