[TW : MDNI] -- your ex haunts your dreams, and Satoru makes sure he doesn’t leave.
Satoru.
His voice is like a warm, gooey coo as he goes, “You know I would never hurt you, right, angel?” and you can’t help but nod your head. After all, he protects you, doesn’t he? Your head was pounding, you were dazed and dizzy, and it was all too easy to pass back out after seeing that comforting yet odd smile. Too bad. You don’t have much choice but to trust him. The first few seconds of sleep are peaceful, just the sound of your breathing and Satoru’s heartbeat.
Peace is so, so deliciously close, and you bask in the comfort until the inevitable nightmare comes on.
The peaceful feeling doesn’t disappear. It warps into something far less innocent. The Nightmare slips in quietly, like it's learned, improved from the last time. No sudden panic or choking dread – just the sense of being watched. The type that makes your hair stand on end long before your head understands. You’re standing somewhere you recognize. But it's wrong, like it's blurred around the edges. A memory that has been processed to the point that it's unrecognizable.
You know who it's about before you see them, don’t you?
Your ex is just out of reach, his figure only half-formed, his smile too calm yet sharp. His presence feels like it's drowning you, not loudly or violently, but insistent. Manipulative. The way he always was. Your heart stutters, you try to run, and yet.. Even the ground resists, dragging you towards him, the silence filling your head saying the things he never did.
You’re drowning. Literally?.. Not quite.
Something shifts.
The pressure is still there, but it eases a bit. It's redirected to a different weight, one behind you. Solid, warm. It feels intrusive, the way Satoru is suddenly in your dream. A loud ringing noise fills the air, like the dream itself is reacting to his presence. Your ex’s figure doesn’t falter; it smiles. Straight at him. It's familiar, like an exchange between two friends. Satoru rests his chin on your shoulder.
“Still thinking about him,” He murmurs idly, like this wasn’t strange and uncomfortable. Your throat tightens, holding back the screams that you would let out, screams about how you didn’t still think about your ex. That you didn’t choose this. But the dream isn’t letting you breathe. Neither is he, holding your throat, your pulse jumping. “He doesn’t look very impressive, does he? Funny how such a small thing causes so many issues with you.” Satoru adds as he looks toward your ex, diminishing the fact that you had hidden from that man for months.
The figure disappears, like his words were its command. “You keep dragging him into our relationship,” He mused, his thumb pressing deep into your pulse. “Even when you’re with me, you think of him. It’s sickening, angel.”
Again, you try to protest, but you can’t. The nightmare won't let you, and Satoru pushes his thumb deeper. “It's alright.. Habits are hard to break.” He hummed thoughtfully, but not warmly. “Wake up.”
And just like that, the nightmare collapses into itself, and you wake up with a jolt, sitting up, panting, sweat running down the hollow of your throat. Relief should follow… but it doesn’t. Not fully. Because Satoru is staring at you, one arm on your thigh like a restraint disguised as an embrace. You sit there for a moment, breathing, thinking about how he just... commanded the nightmare. You glance back to those bright, unsettling cerulean eyes shining in the dark. Two unblinking sour lights illuminate the otherwise dark, inky abyss of the room. You look over to those eyes, once, twice, before a quiet, unsettling thought arises in your head:
How was he in my nightmare?
And, as if he could hear your thoughts, Satoru smiles. “Go back to sleep, angel.” He croons, and just like that, you fall back onto the bed.
I had a thought when i read this what if his alpha sang to him instead or hum a familiar tune to calm him down?
Ooh, I wrote that Sasuke piece quite a while ago, I'd forgotten about it! This is a cute idea though!
Maybe Sasuke's alpha has a special lullaby they hum for him when he has nightmares. Sasuke prefers humming because it feels less condescending and he can focus on his own breathing rather than overanalysing any lyrics.
And at first, his alpha is a little worried that the song won't work, or Sasuke will just associate the song with his nightmares and not like it, but in actuality, it works amazingly.
Sasuke starts to link that tune with the feeling of safety and a reduction in anxiety. Whenever he hears it, his shoulders lose a bit of their tension, his breathing slows a little, and his face relaxes.
...
"Come here, I know it hurts, my love," you whispered, pulling a sobbing Sasuke onto your lap. He tried to push away as he always did, scared of letting you see him vulnerable in case you decided to leave him. He stopped struggling when you put a firm hand on the back of his neck.
It was 03:00 AM and Sasuke was supposed to leave for a mission at 07:00 AM. You needed to get him to sleep as soon as you could, and there was only one way to do that: the lullaby.
Softly, aware of the late hour, you started to hum the lullaby, rocking Sasuke in time and making sure he could feel the vibrations from your chest.
Slowly, he started to relax, his sobs turning into quiet cries before settling down into sniffles. You could feel that his eyes were closed against your neck so you manoeuvred the duvet off of the bed and wrapped you both up in it.
As much as you wanted to use words to reassure him as he fell asleep, you knew that continuing the lullaby would help him the most, so you did, repeating the simple tune again and again until Sasuke was completely limp in your embrace.
"I've got you, you're safe," you promised to his sleeping form. You had no other plans tomorrow, so you decided to stay in the corner of the room holding him, too scared of waking him to move. He needed every bit of rest he could have before his mission, you would sleep when he was gone. And with that decision made, you gripped your mate a little tighter and settled down for the next few hours.
Word count: 280
.Ship: Deamus
.Fandom:Harry Potter
.Hurt/Comfort
.Requested:No
"No!" Dean shot up, drenched in sweat. The nightmare... he tried to remember what had happened. Death eaters torturing Seamus, flashes of the dream. He tried to reason with himself, the war was over, they were dead they couldn't hurt anyone especially not his boyfriend.
"Mo grá?" Seamus's groggy voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He was sitting next to Dean rubbing his eyes sleepily. "Did I wake you?" he asked, lying back down. "A little bit yeah," the blonde flopped back down. "Sorry," the taller man apologized. Seamus just hummed in response tracing the other's jawline.
"What kept you up?" The Irishman mumbled, somehow knowing that his partner wouldn't be able to sleep until his mind was clear. "What if they come back one day?" neither of them needed to clarify who they were.
"If they come back, we'll face them together," Samus answered. "That's just it, they could take you away from me, and....and...Shay, I'm not ready for that. What if one day I wake up and you're not here?" Dean sat up again. Seamus followed suit.
"Hey, I'm always going to be here. Even if those hellhounds come back, I will claw my way back to you," The short man wrapped his arms around Dean, burying his face in his soft red shirt.
"I love you, Shay"Dean whispered to the man sitting on his lap. "I love you too"
Safe and Sound (Damian Wayne x Platonic!GN!Reader)
imgayandilikeit requested this:
I want request being Damian childhood friend and a homo-magi would include , take place when Ra's dead in son of batman ( this only friendship not love , this boi need friend uwu )
Author’s note: Heya, so It took longer than I thought it would, and it’s a little bit shorter, but I really liked writing it!! So it’s hinted that the reader is Homo-magi, but there is not much action in here, basically, it’s a cute friend/sibling life with Damian, I hope you’ll like it! You can find my masterlist here, I’m also on Patreon and on Ko-fi, please check those out. Stay safe and enjoy.
Words: 497
Warning: Mention of hard past, mention of nightmares, no graphic description, hint of child abuse. I do not own the gif it belongs to its creator/owner.
Damian is always cold and emotionless. Well, that was not strictly true; he did show emotions such as annoyance and tiredness, but not much else. It indeed was a miracle that you became friends with Damian at the tender age of four.
In his black and mostly yellow costume, the stern face that Damian wears fits just fine. But next to your rosy cheeks and playful smile, it stands out. Thought your excitement never seemed to bother the boy. If anything, he's always very prompt to agree with whatever you propose. Following in your delirious ideas and more often than not, he tells you about how stupid your idea really was while helping you out of the situation you found yourself in.
Like him, you grew up in Ra's al Gul den too, a project of his. Then again, you couldn't understand what you were at the time, another tool into this man's box. Like Damian, you trained to become an assassin, but with magic fingers (your words). But to be honest, when Bruce brings you back from wherever Ra's den is with Damian, he just can't understand how you (goofy, playful and curiously still smiling little you) are friends with the very cold son he now has.
Bruce doesn't understand how Damian (short-tempered and easily annoyed Damian) is so calm when you're buzzing around him like that, asking so many questions and talking like nothing traumatic even happened to you. Like you didn't train to become a killer all of your life. What Bruce doesn't know is that at night, deep in the dark, when you open your eyes screaming for help, magic gushing around you like you're in a pool, flying two feet above your bed, it's Damian that takes care of it.
Like he always did back there.
You do the same with him, when he comes up in your room after a nightmare, pretending that it's for your sake. Damian's far too proud to tell you about his nightmares, but you always know why he closes his arms around you like you'll disappear if he doesn't.
Bruce often catches you both sleeping in front of the T.V. late at night when he returns from work or reunions. And he dares not disturbed both of you, he once tried, and Damian gave him a look that promised him death if he even touched a single one of your hair to move you from him.
Your friendship would look more like a sibling relationship because of what you both when through. And Dick would love to tease both of you with how close you are. As you and Damian are always together, basically attached by the hips, the first Robin likes to do good old teasing. Damian tells you not to be angered by it that he doesn't know any better, and Bruce finds himself quite stunned to see who's the most mature of his sons as of now and compared at the same age.
Summary: Virgil hates his dreams for showing him what could be. He avoids sleeping at any cost- until it becomes inescapable.
AO3, Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3
Virgil’s powers are stupid. He controls what makes Thomas anxious, and how anxious Thomas gets over any one thing, but he does it to himself too in the process. It’s dumb. If he were truly evil, shouldn’t he, oh he doesn't know, be laughing maniacally in the background instead of shivering on the floor of his room after a nightmare?
Virgil sobs again, convulsing so hard he almost dry heaves against his carpet. He doesn’t remember falling off the bed, but he’s pulled the blankets with him and is hopelessly entangled. His skin burns under too many layers of blankets and sheets and his hoodie and shirt. But he can’t get up, doesn’t have the strength to do anything more than keep the door to his corner of the mind shut tight. Shadows of his power lick at the edges of the doorframe; Virgil can feel them wanting to trickle out and control Thomas, dying to warp his thinking.
This is exactly what Virgil has worked so hard to avoid.
“Stop it!” He thunders, getting enough of his control back to sit up, even as his hood pushes sweaty hair into his eyes and his tears obstruct his vision. His face feels hot and feverish in the way only fear and crying can make it, and his breath hitches up under his ribcage uncomfortably when he yells. He yells anyway. “Stop it right now!”
The shadows flicker and flee, chastised.
“It was just a dream,” Virgil tells the darkness of his room. The words sound even hollower than they did that morning--afternoon? He’s not sure how much time has passed.
Are you sure? Whisper the shadows. Their words reverberate through his skull, making him wince and clutch at his ears. The tears flow again. His lungs won't expand properly. The only thing he can think to do is curl up tighter, but the blankets pull at his limbs and he thrashes, suddenly convinced he’ll never be free again. The darkness deepens around Virgil. How can you be so sure?
He looked so horrified, says a tiny, shining part of Virgil, the part that made all those nice dreams seem possible for so long. Roman would never hurt you if it made him look like that, would he?
Before, when Virgil was in his (somewhat) right mind, those words would have made sense. Now he just garbles out some inarticulate scream and tries not to pass out.
He doesn’t hear his door open, but he does feel it when his fears begin scrambling to get out again; Virgil stops breathing for a moment, concentrates hard, and pulls. They shrink back from the light of the rest of the mindscape, wrangled into dark corners and nooks and crannies, properly scared of his authority over them. He’s getting better at this.
The door closes with a light click and Virgil doesn’t even have time before an arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling him upright against the side of his bed. The blankets encase his arms, making it futile to struggle and he must look so pathetic right now, wriggling like a worm, it’s got to be Patton holding him because he’s the only one kind enough not to say anything, or Roman because he feels bad about making this happen even when it’s Virgil’s fault, all stupid Virgil’s fault for having a nightmare that felt real, he can still feel the burning in his gut, the need for more air, his hair is wet his face is wet his eyes are wet he can’t breathe and someone is holding him up--
It’s not Patton. It’s not Roman.
“You are experiencing a panic attack.” Logan enunciates clearly, face exactly three inches from Virgil’s. “I have not previously seen you experience one of this magnitude, nor has Thomas ever had one this bad, so I have come to offer my assistance. I must commend you beforehand, however, on your ability to keep this from Thomas. It was...sneaky. And unexpectedly thoughtful.”
“You--you--” He still can’t breathe, but the tears have stopped, more out of surprise than anything else.
“We must get your breathing under control before we have any more conversation,” Logan decides, and settles, stiff but comfortable, against Virgil’s side. “I have heard that physical contact can help during an attack, but feel free to push me away if you are so inclined. Now, shall we start with counting your breaths?”
The whole situation is bewildering, but it is easy to fall into the familiar experience of in-hold-release, five-seven-eight, so Virgil does. His tears stay away but the breathing is harder to control, after having indulged in the panic for so long. But Logan is patient, and his arm is a heavy, reassuring weight across Virgil’s shoulders. Their knees knock together where Virgil’s are still bent awkwardly inside the sheets and Logan has sat down cross-legged.
Remember what happened last time, say the shadows of his room. Remember. Don’t forget.
I’m not dreaming. I’m not even asleep.
Are you sure?
Virgil’s shivers redouble, his throat constricting, and Logan’s brow furrows. He places a hand on Virgil’s chest and Virgil balks, eyes rounding. Like this, he's almost encircling Virgil, the back of Virgil’s head brushing the other side’s shoulder. He was too warm before, but no it feels like he’s boiling alive but Virgil can’t find it in himself to ask Logan to stop it. What is he doing--
He’s checking my heartbeat, he realizes when Logan frowns again and glances at his watch. Keeping time. He knows my pulse is too fast.
What do you think this is doing to Thomas? That’s why Logic is here to help, right? Do you think maybe Princy will come back and finish the job if you don’t get your heart rate under control?
Stop it, Virgil thinks. It is much harder to stop his fears when he’s the one they’re attacking.
“Is there anything more that I should be doing for you, Anxiety?” Logan asks. His voice is quiet, softer than it has ever been when addressing Virgil--gentle, almost, if Virgil were the type to use that word--and his tone is even and controlled. Exactly the opposite, then, of Virgil.
“Water,” Virgil croaks, and winces when he hears his own voice. It is raspy and broken and terrible to hear. He has been crying for a long time. “Please.”
Logan’s lips twitch at the polite afterthought, but all he does is incline his head and conjure a glass. When Virgil manages to wrest one hand free of the linen prison he’s constructed for himself, it is cool against his fingertips. He almost expects his skin to sizzle upon contact. The air is so still in his room, but he can’t exactly open the door to get some circulation.
He tries to take the glass for himself, but his fingers are weak, and he still isn’t getting air to his brain properly and he almost drops the glass. His other arm is twisted awkwardly around his own back and he doesn’t have the strength to get up and put himself to rights, so Virgil has a split second to resign himself to the fate of being slightly damp for a few hours.
He doesn’t have to, though, because a sure, steady hand folds around his, catching the water before it can fall in his lap. “Careful,” Logan says, but with how gentle he’s being--like Virgil is a newborn colt, which would be aggravating in any other context but makes that small, bright part of Virgil curl up in his chest and shudder pleasantly now--it doesn’t sound like an admonishment.
“Sorry,” Virgil rasps anyway. Just to be safe.
Why is he doing this for you? It’s not like he likes you. Patton probably put him up to it. Or he wants to make sure you don’t hurt Thomas.
Logan shakes his head but keeps his silence and helps raise the glass to Virgil’s lips. His eyes are keen behind his glasses, watching for any sign that Virgil is uncomfortable. His face is tight, lines drawn from how hard Logan is concentrating and his cheeks are--
Virgil splutters, pulling back from the glass with a gasp; it had tasted strangely musty, but that’s not the issue. Virgil’s mouth is probably the origin of that strangeness. There are only a few sips left, thankfully, so he doesn’t make too much of a mess of himself. He feels the other’s bicep tense beneath his head but he’s too busy scrambling back to see Logan’s face more clearly to apologize.
“You don’t have any bags under your eyes,” Virgil says. It must seem like quite the non sequitur because Logan’s brows jump, and he disappears the glass with a wave of his hand. Virgil stammers under the scrutiny. “You--you should have--”
“Not all of us are able to due to the nature of our very beings,” Logan tilts his head in Virgil’s direction, “but I happen to get the optimal amount of sleep every night, hence why I do not have the same shadows under my eyes as you do. Although--and please don’t take this to mean I am prying--but you seem to not be getting enough sleep these days. More than usual, in fact.”
“I--how do you know about that?”
“Irritability, irrationality, sluggish movements, decreased appetite, and trouble concentrating are all signs of lack of sleep,” Logan lists off. He still hasn’t moved very far but Virgil’s body must be uncomfortable to hold like this, all bunched up fabric and jutting bones. “Although it is hard to differentiate these symptoms from those of the nature of who you are, Anxiety, yours have increased dramatically over the past few days to weeks.”
Virgil’s stomach drops even further but there’s something strange here, something his paranoia has latched on to and if he can just figure out why Logan’s face is bothering him so much he could figure it out.
It’s his eyes, whisper Virgil’s shadows. You know it’s his eyes. No one can stay here for so long without getting tired of you, Anxiety. What’s wrong with his eyes?
“You’re not feeling the effects of my room,” Virgil realizes. Every bone in his body is made of lead; he can’t seem to move. Even if he could, where is there to go? “You should be--you should be freaking out right now. Why aren’t you--what’s happening?”
Virgil’s body isn’t listening to him anymore, the panic from before and his new terror rising to wrench his control away. The tears are back, streaming from the corners of his eyes, unbidden, unheeded. Logan doesn’t even react to them beyond a head tilt, a quirk of the lips. Virgil sags against the other side's arm and shoulder, the bedframe digging into his upper back. What is wrong with him? He’s been having trouble moving all this time but not like this, not so much that he can’t even feel in control of his own limbs. His lungs still feel pressure, but it's foggy now, like they’re not a part of him anymore. His brain is cloudy. There’s foam in his mouth.
The water, Virgil realizes, a second before his brain catches up with him. He tries to thrash and twist away from the other’s grip, but Logan just smiles and reaches out to wipe at his chin where the foam is gathering. He tsks under his breath, still smiling but his face is too angular now, too sharp and frightening. Virgil cringes away from those sharp teeth.
“Oh Anxiety,” Logan says, voice too high and sweet as sugar, a tone too saccharine for even Patton. “Don’t you know not to go accepting help from strangers? And here I thought that’s the only thing you were ever good for. I’m sorely disappointed.”
It’s just another nightmare, says that hopeful piece of him, but that too is getting harder to focus on.
Did you even fall asleep this time?
Things are going fuzzy again, for the third time--the final time, some small, dark part of Virgil hopes desperately--but he still has the presence of mind to try to lift his one free, deadened hand and push at Logan’s chest. Anything to get away.
“The only stranger here,” says another voice, too familiar not to be instantly recognizable, “is you. Now if you would kindly unhand my friend here, that would be appreciated.”
It can’t be, Virgil thinks. Logan is sitting right here.
He’d never call you his friend, the shadows agree. They are growing now, filtering in at the edges of his vision, clawing their way across his ceiling and over the bedspread, reaching for his fingertips.
“And what if I don’t?” Asks the Logan holding him, smiling all the while. God, but Virgil sort of wants to punch his lights out.
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” says the new Logan, and the stern, dangerous tone of voice almost puts Virgil at ease.
Then the convulsions start and he loses track of things for a while. Stress and shock make waves of tingles flood his body, again and again and again and he doesn’t know what kind of poison he’s ingested but it’s making him weak and disconnected but it also makes his insides feel like they’re being set on fire and liquefied all at once. He can feel more foam coming to his lips and filling his throat and tears wash it away from his face. He thinks maybe his nose is bleeding.
There's a flurry of movement, and at the corners of his eyes, Virgil can see sharp jerks of color, flitting in and out of sight like birds. Someone’s fist, someone’s elbow. A pair of glasses, maybe, flying off into the darkness of his room. But then his vision starts going and Virgil can’t get up the strength to turn around and look at what’s going on.
There are hands on him again and Virgil isn’t sure when he’d been let go in the first place, but these new palms are warm and dry and they wipe away all of the gunk on his face. The weak light in Virgil’s room, dimming fast, glints off of Logan’s glasses. Worry etches plain across his face and there are deep shadows under his eyes.
“Anxiety, can you hear me?” Logan asks, voice urgent and careful. He’s cupping Virgil’s face and his skin is too hot, the waves coursing through him feel like needles now and it hurts so much that his vision greys out for a few seconds. Logan shakes him a little and the colors snap back into place, but his vision is still tunneling. “Anxiety, if you can hear me, I don’t know what's happening but I think you’re hallucinating, or bringing your dreaming into reality or--I’m not sure, I’m sorry, I know it’s my job but just--just wake up, alright? You have to wake up--”
Virgil gasps, reaches one hand up to clench his numb fingers desperately around one of Logan’s wrists, and feels his eyes roll back in his head.
(Never had anyone comfert me after bad dreams would just be told stop crying go back to sleep so not quite sure how it works hope you enjoy. But when I have my own kids I plan on somthing like this )
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The master was awake he didn’t sleep much. He walked passed your room and stopped, hearing your small cries and he could feel your distress. Being telepathic was both a good thing and bad thing sometimes. Poking his head in your room he realized that you had been having bad dreams. With a frown he walked into your room. Humans be though so fragile and easily broken both mentally and physically.
But you were his and nothing could harm you but him; and only when you were begging for it.
He was at the side of your bed and sat down stroking your forehead.
“Wake up my dear”
he said shaking you a bit.
You woke with a jerk sitting up. Seeing him you wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Oh Master”
His arms wrapped around you stroking your hair.
“ come on let’s go to the kitchen you need a cup of coco”
he told you as he carried you to the kitchen and deposited you into a chair. He moved around the kitchen much like a humming bird making your coco.
A shrill scream echoes as she shot up in bed. She's sweating and she can feel the tears running down her cheeks. She's trying to remember how to breathe when she can hear movement around her. Her tears eyes struggled to find then as she scrambles back on the bed towards the headboard.
Just the faintest flicker across your sensory net.
The feelings of five little pinpricks caressing up the back of your helm, pausing over those little sensory plates, just like where he’d held his servo all those years ago on Messatine.
One might even remember the pressure of those operating slab clamps.
Megatrons optics were wide with horror as he found himself in a familiar place, limbs strapped and unable to move as his optics darted around the room, dread slowly sinking in as he caught a glimpse of the servo that was messing with his head. He attempted to pull his servos free but the restraints weren't budging.
No, no....everything was wrong, this wasn't even remotely possible....they weren't anywhere near him so how was he here?? He tried to speak, demanding to be released but his mouth was gagged. This...this felt to real, everything was so vivid. He could hear their voice, taunting him about this torture they called a procedure.
They were messing with his head again....poking, prodding as they attempted to alter him, but worst of all was that grin...that grin was burned into his processor, and that face....they were enjoying this. And as much as Megatron would never admit it to anyone....they terrified him.
It was pathetic...being scared of such a small mech, he could easily crush them...but just the thought of being in the same room as them sent a shiver through him and froze him in fear. This wasn't real, he felt the urge to run, to run as far as he could and disappear.
It wasn't until he heard a knock on his habsuite doors that he managed to snap out of his nightmare, sitting up startled, coolant falling from his face. He reached a servo up to feel along his helm, he knew it was just a dream but he just....had to be sure.
