Panic Attack - Tumblr Posts

This is so good holy shit!!

Im glad your okay now!

Or recovering at least!

Happy two year anniversary of the release of the Rise of the TMNT movie. To celebrate, here's my interpretation of what Raph experienced before and during his time Krangified.

Some personal notes below the cut.

During the time the movie first premiered on Netflix, I was going through one of the worst periods of my life, and began to experience extreme dissociative episodes that would leave me in an extremely vulnerable physical state. I already related heavily to Raph after watching the TV show, but seeing what happened to him in the movie hit me on a much more closer and personal level. It took me two years to fully complete this comic, because working on it made me think back to these intense and painful memories, and that was a struggle for a while. Only recently, within the last couple months, has my situation bettered enough for me to work on it without being too uncomfortable. 

This is me putting my raw, firsthand experiences onto paper, because I want to make peace with my past in order to move forward. Raph's victory in overcoming the Krang's control is, in my eyes, the same as my victory in surviving those intense dissociative episodes. This is a reflection of my personal struggle, meant to help me attain a very specific closure. I hope that perhaps someone else who is suffering, or who has suffered similarly, will see this and know there is hope. Our experiences may not be exactly the same, but I want you to know that you are not alone. 

Lastly, I would like to thank every individual person who worked on bringing this show to life, from first conception to the movie's premier. Rise has been a source of light in my life that I never could have imagined. From the friends I've made, to the art I've created, to the fits of laughter and the tears I shed as I sat through every episode over and over again. It wouldn't be possible without any of you, so thank you for being a part of it. No matter how big or small a role, I am eternally grateful to you. 💚

Drink iced coffee

Panik Attak

I was practicing drawing characters in distress last night after looking at screenshots of N's (From Murder Drones) panic attack in episode 8

I believe he appears distressed

Support a faceblind character artist?

I learned what manly chins look like!

(For any other faceblind artists, the trick is to curve the back tip inwards, the front tip outwards, and then dip the front in a bit before curving it back out for the cheek.)

Support a faceblind character artist and reblog?

Chapter 1

Title: Eccedentesiast

Word count: 3, 312

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: bad dreams, panic attack?

Notes: Okay here's the first official chapter. I'll warn you I have a lot of "filler"/character chapters in mind before getting to the actual series episodes. Matilda needs to develop a sound relationship with John before thing get hectic. It's been two weeks since John took Matilda in as his foster child. She's still distrustful. Unsure whether it’s actually worth it to build a relationship with her foster father.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from BBC Sherlock (2010) only Matilda and other oc's.

Rated M - for Treachery.

———————

Eyes a hickory as rich as the earth's soil blew open constricting in the illuminated void.

Matilda stood on a pristine reflective surface, icy chills one after the other creeped up her spine. Her body stood rigid and up right as straight as a stone pillar. The space around her was pitch black save for a single indeterminate white light source that illuminated the area. It seemed she was stuck in a void, an endless expanse of nothingness for miles and miles.

Compelled by some unknown force Matilda began to move forward. Under the weight of her soles the surface rippled. Was it water? It appeared to be liquid glass. A thin cool layer that furrowed and waved with each step. She moved forward at a slow pace, one foot after the other. The silence of the inky void made her blood as cold as the murky waters of Antarctica.

In the black she could sense a seed growing in the pit of her stomach, in her core she knew the feeling. It felt as much a part of her, as the heart drumming in her chest. Under Matilda's lightly freckled exterior, beneath the anxiety, she was... It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. She chose to ignore the feeling. there was nothing that could be done about it. Not now.

Matilda didn't need to look, she kept moving forward. She knew left, right, forward, and back there was nothing. She stood alone in the black nothingness.

The darkness swirled around her petite form pricking her pale skin. A chilling draught of air bit at her nape. It blew in from the west or... perhaps the East. She couldn't be sure. Matilda cautiously turned her head to look over her shoulder. She sensed— she could feel... Matilda brought a single hand to the back of her neck.

Yep.

The hairs stood on end. She stopped dead in her tracks, making a complete 180, the water rippled beneath her.

Bam, bam, bam.

Adrenaline shot through her system. It pumps and beats like it's trying to break through her chest. Matilda's eyes grew wide with fear. Every instinct she had screamed either run fast or curl up in a defensive ball and take whatever came. Matilda usually favored, was the latter. But something told her this time it was better to run— smarter to run.

Bam, bam, bam.

She ran bare feet slapping the reflective ground. The cold air cut her throat as she inhaled deeper and faster. Matilda never was much of a runner. Her short legs betrayed her. She punched away into the darkness, haring forward. She could hear the loud pounding gaining, closing the distance between her and it.

Bam, bam, bam.

Aimlessly she sprinted forward. She recognized the sound. It poured gasoline onto the spark of fear stabbing between her ribs. Fear torched her guts, churning her stomach in tense cramps. Her lungs began to burn making Matilda's breathing shaky and labored. Her legs felt like churning cement.

Bam, bam, bam.

Matilda's feet slipped out from under her. The world rushed by in a blur and she knew the pain was coming. The world went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended. Then impact. Every muscle in her body knotted up, weighed down by the icy hands of the darkness and exhaustion.

The sound was closing in, so loud now it made her ears bleed. The wind viciously blew in from behind, howl more like a wicked cackle.

Matilda pushed herself up on all fours. She couldn't bare to stand all the way but she had to move. She couldn't allow the pursuer to catch her. She couldn't. Desperately she crawled forward.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam... crack.

Looking down from her place in the void, Matilda tried to steady herself trying to comprehend what was going on around her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she eyed her reflection beneath her. Hesitantly she presses a trembling hand against the cold liquid glass. The pounding ebbed into nothingness until, until silence was as absolute as space.

Matilda stared entranced by her reflection. A paralyzing hurt spread through her body like sharp, liquid metal. The face staring up at her was foreign, new. She couldn't hear her rapid breathing, ignored the fogging up of the surface from her warm breath.

A child stared up at her. Her eyes are a bold cunning brown, the color of dark chocolate, and her neat, earth after rain brown hair pushed back by a red headband. Her pale skin was a canvas for her numerous freckles, as if some one had strewn brown chips of marble about frivolously. She wore a dress that stopped above her knees — blood red.

The reflection wasn't hers.

Matilda's eyes, a weak shade of brown, were dim, the color of dying candle, and her curled dirty blonde hair slowly browning from the roots hung in matted knots. Her skin while pale was marked purple and blue in spots, her freckles were rather small and barely visible unless she purposely dotted them with markers. She too wore a dress, however it was one of a different style and the color — envy green.

Fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She began to inch back away from the inaccurate reflection.

Crack. A long thin crack followed her and her reflection, growing with each move backward. She immediately ceased her movement. It was too late the crack continued to creep across the surface, sounding like the crushing of bones. It worked and slithers branching off in different directions until it created a circle trapping Matilda in the center. Three large splits fractured the face of her reflection.

Certain the breakage was through, Matilda cautiously stood. Her legs were like jello but she managed. Looking around she saw no way out. No matter where she stepped the ground would break out from beneath her.

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM!

She stood hand covering her ears, in the middle of the void that had become her world, a world decorated by it's own broken cracks. Her brown eyes flickered out, becoming full, glossy. Then all at once she collapsed, tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

She could call for help. What would be the point? Why ask for help when there's no one for miles, to hear you.

In her distress she didn't notice the lone pale inky hand reaching from the depths of her liquid reflection. Icy fingers gripped her ankle in the darkness. Eyes fearfully widened, a gasp escaped her lips. In a moment of pure instinct she reached out, fingers extended.

All at once the glass shattered below her. She opened her mouth to let out a desperate scream but all that came out was air. The realization flooded in, there was nothing to be done.

She went silently. The last piece of her to drown, a hand, desperately reaching out.

JWJWJW

Waking up can be a kind gift, especially when nightmares fueled by her childish insecurities plagued her somnolent mind.

Matilda woke faster than a cat dropped ice-water, eyes flung so wide each iris was a perfect orb of rich hazelnut chocolate. She felt a sharp pain, like a knife, in her chest. It weighed on her, as if she were Giles Corey facing punishment. Cold sweat coated her skin giving it a texture. With a long exhale she felt her limbs flex in shock. Everything was blurry, her head spun. Images of her horrible dream echoed in the back of her head.

She stole a glance at the clock on her end table, rhythmically ticking away the seconds. 1:37am. She blinked, closed her eyes, and blinked again. She wanted to scream, but that's not what she needed.

She sat up, dragging her feet off the bed. Wrapping her upper body in her blanket, she got off bed, dragging the too large single sized blanket behind her. She yawned, ambling down the quiet corridor.

She was only slightly surprised to find John, sitting alone in the dark family room, the dim light of his laptop softly illuminating his face. She had a feeling he'd be up. He always was, going over patient files preparing for his next work day. However he was usually in his room.

She quietly shuffled into the kitchen, careful not to disturb John. She'd be quick, no reason to bother him. She'd get what she needed and return to her room.

Better to be self-reliant.

She stood in the center of the flat's small kitchen, where a kitchen island would be if there was room. Around her shoulders her blanket, worn like a cape, trailed behind her like a wedding train. She sucked on her middle and index fingers, eyes glued on a particular cabinet.

I did this earlier, she recalled. Her eyes bounced around the room, looking for things that could help her situation. She couldn't replicate her trick from breakfast, everything had been moved over the course of the day. The step stool was missing. She needed to think of something. Matilda could hardly reach the counter top on her own. Peanut.

Focusing, Matilda drew in her lower lip. Her eyes lit up, idea after idea flooded her brain, streaming. Her eyes narrowed in deep concentration, as she flipped through her concepts as if they were pages in a toy catalogue.

No, no, no, wait... she paused. A particular idea was formulating in the back of her head. Doable, a bit chancy.

Matilda was wrong. (In more ways than one.) John wasn't up going over patient files, well not every night. In the dark room, sitting on the sofa, his typing had a relaxing sound. He'd drowned out the furious noise of the rain thunder against the window panes ages ago. The darkness in a way had become his sanctuary, a place to recharge and forget. Forget about things, people time had abandoned.

His eyes scanned his screen, and read through the typed out text.

"He hasn't got a clue! He's flummoxed! He's bamboozled!

He's stuck...”

03, August. The words awakened old memories he couldn't bring himself to forget. All memories come with a price. Good or bad. You can't go back and fix them. You can't go back and relieve them. As much as you wish you could.

"According to the flight details, he was checked on board. They found the stub of his boarding pass and napkins etc on his body. His passport has been stamped in Berlin Airport. He should have died in the plane crash. But he didn't.

He was in a car boot. In Surrey.

Obviously, I haven't got a clue but neither does..."

He clapped down the laptop. That's enough for now.

Out of complete silence arose a loud clatter, the sound metal colliding against wood. "What the hell?" John quietly muttered, silently cursing as he got up to investigate.

Following the sound he found himself in the kitchen.

Matilda was on her knees back to him rummaging through the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. A mess of pots and pans was chaotically sprawled out across the kitchen tile, the largest pile up blew the counter where Matilda was kneeling. It didn't take a high functioning sociopath to deduce what had happened.

"Matilda what are you doing?!" The little girl froze, all of her muscles went tight. "You can't be climbing on the counter, it's not safe." John took her under the armpits and set her on the ground. She did not like that. As soon as John let her go, she corrected herself. She stood straight, arms at her side ready to take whatever John doled out.

Her brain was a beehive, a buzz with thoughts. She didn't mean to make him upset. She just needed to calm her head after the bad dream. Her heart felt tight. Her breathing became more rapid, more shallow. Her hands like claws ran through her hair pushing back her hair.

"You could have seriously hurt yourself," John went on.

Thoughts accelerated in her head. Too many, too fast. She squatted, sitting criss-cross on the floor, trying to make everything slow to a pace her young brain and body could handle.

John's scolding wasn't loud; he had neighbors and thin walls. For Matilda however his voice was so harsh it rivaled gunfire. "What were you thinking?!"

He knew he'd overstepped when he looked down to see the small girl curled up in her blanket like an armadillo. She was curled up in the fetal position eyes trained forward, completely glazed over.

"Matilda? Matilda?" John softened his tone, carefully kneeling beside her. "Sweetie I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice." Matilda remained unresponsive. He'd have assumed she was dead if not for the repetitive rise and fall of her stomach from beneath the blanket.

He waited. The rain floated down the window pane in gentle waves, the pitter patter is a soft form of music. Pellets of water plink across the asphalt scattering puddles all round the city. The gusting wind blew with great force rocking the trees carrying the droplets in diagonal sheets. He sat in the darkness tenderly stroking back Matilda's browning dirty blonde hair.

John half-asleep woke to the sound of gentle lilt. From Matilda came a humming sound. Her eyes mindlessly darted around the room, never settling on a particular spot. She was chewing on some of her hair, a habit that appeared to be calming her down.

After a while Matilda went quiet, pupils fixing on the man beside sitting on the floor beside her. She pushed the hair out of her mouth. Her voice was quiet when she spoke.

"Can I have hot cocoa... Please?”

JWJWJW

Was it the best parenting decision, agreeing to let a young child have a rich mug of hot chocolate before returning to bed? Perhaps not. Did it settle the child's shot nerves, melting them like fondue. The little girl swore by the creamy beverage, claiming it was often the simplest things that brought her comfort. Hot chocolate, her comfort beverage.

Matilda sat at the overhang counter, feet dangling over the edge of her seat. She had proved not to be one of those children. You know, the ones who ask every minute "is it done yet?" She wasn't one of those kids. She held herself poised, trying to forget the previous moments events.

Matilda had thoughtlessly been twiddling her thumbs, chewing the inside of her cheek. "Why are you so a miss? You in all your faults. You're a loon, a weirdo, a mistake." There it went, her studio inner dialogue, it was never her friend. She didn't have friends. "Can't even handle a measly nightmare. Such a frea—"

"Matilda," John's voice saved her from her own thoughts. "Here you go, lovely." Matilda flashes him a smile, not a scared one but too tired to be considered a genuine smile.

He placed a mug in front of her. It was the first time he'd been able to make her hot chocolate since he'd taken her in. Despite John repeatedly telling her that his microwave was better than stovetop — and that she wasn't allowed to use the stove — she was inflexible.

Her eyes suspiciously narrowed, this was not her hot chocolate. "Thank you," she murmured, kindly accepting the mug. John chuckled softly, the child was too polite. From the slight crinkle up of her nose he could tell she was perplexed. He could see the little cogs in her brain spinning.

What's this? She cutely tilted her head inspecting, the white whip dollop stacked on top of cocoa decorated with red rectangle flecks. She hesitantly sticks out her tongue, just barely touching it against the white whip. Chills.

For a moment Matilda wraps her small hands around the ceramic mug, letting the heat warm her clammy palms. "Thank you," she repeated more sincerely this time. Leaving the mug, with some struggle she managed to get off the tall tool seat without help. She had every intention of retaking her mug — she'd finish the cocoa in the safety and security of her own room — however John picked up the mug before she had the chance.

Matilda bit her lip, nervously twisting the fabric of her pajama top. "Question for the cocoa," John bargained. Matilda's lips pressed together, turned down at the edges, and she nodded. "Why are you up?" He asked delicately.

Matilda's right eye twitched.

Understandably, Matilda was the most reserved and withdrawn child he had ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was nothing like the children who so boldly so curiously sought the council of Sherlock long ago. She kept to herself. Only speaking when it seemed polite or required.

"Truth please," John requested squatting so he was eye level with the 33.4" girl.

Her self-confidence was basically dead in the water at this point. It'd been brutally grabbed from behind and held under the drink against its will. Not that herself self-confidence had much of a will.

With a shaky sigh, she submitted. "I had a bad dream.

There was always an adorable yet heartbreaking timidness to her actions and mannerisms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John offered, kindly handing the still warm mug off to Matilda. She flinched at first, body readying itself for a scolding blow. But she relaxed as soon as she realized John was only returning the cocoa to her.

She fearing he would change his mind on a dime she swiftly took the mug, cupping it in her hands. "No. No, thank you." she politely declined taking exactly two steps back from John. Weird, he didn't seem mad about her shortcoming.

As she inched toward the corridor, eyes never leaving John, she brought the rim of the, 'Our Clinic Has An Awesome Doctor. True Story.' mug to her lips. Dark, rich and pepperminty the warm hot chocolate coated her tongue thickly before flowing down her throat.

"I'm always here for you, if you need me," John whispered, knowing he couldn't hear him already around the corner.

Matilda May. John couldn't help but care for the little girl. Not only because she was utterly adorable, but also because there was something so endearing about her in general. A bit rigid around the edges, she was sure a sweet little darling. She was broken and scared, she didn't quite trust him.

He was hopeful she'd come around, eventually. He just had to—

Matilda poked her head back from round the corner connecting the kitchen and the corridor. "Goodnight John."

John's mouth twitched, the corners of his mouth lifted up into a soft smile.

—give it time.

Can you perhaps do a part 3 to your vox machina x child reader series something about a reveal of the readers race or something or perhaps a continuation of the story if that’s ok with you I just love your vox machina shots

Being a child member of Vox Machina and… | Vox Machina x child reader Pt. 3

Summary | Kid’s got some issues and so does Vox.

A/N | Sorry this took so long been getting into campaign 2 trying to decide if I want to do a child reader for that.

Genre | platonic, angst, fluff, mystery?

Warnings | death, descriptions of blood and violence, panic attack

Initially, you hadn’t been bitter. You didn’t fit the image one was expected to present for such a dignified social event. Not even considering your age, you were small, gangly, freckled and with hair that couldn’t keep its place. You didn’t/wouldn’t belong in a high-profile party.

Still, the joint excitement of Vox Machina had somewhat infected you. Now you found yourself wanting to attend the high-profile event. To combat your pouty face, Keyleth did your hair. Grog offered you ale, which Pike immediately shut down, and Vax tried peek-a-boo with his cloak. Ultimately, it was Percy’s promise to recount everything you’d be missing so long as you were brave and good that placated you.

Vex, you didn’t understand, was a nervous wreck. Leaving you in the keep, with no one to watch after you. Though, you would have Trinket. 

It took multiple assurances from Vax and Percy before they were able to take their leave. You had the keep to yourself.

You crept with Trinket into Grog’s room. Tied only with Vex’s room, you considered his to be one of the most comfortable. With the stash of fur pelts, warm temperature and large bed, it was the perfect place to settle down until Vox returned.

After some time you heard the door, the entry to the keep open, sitting on Trinket’s back you rode to the entry. Your excitement fled upon seeing the seven in shackles, escorted by a small march of guards. In a blink, you paint yourself as a hapless child who’d only just woken. Jarrett, sympathetic to your guise, apologized for the late intrusion, explaining the terms of Vox’s arrest.

House arrest, it could be worse. Allura had essentially grounded the lot of you. Well, not you. According to Jarett, she had clarified that you were allowed to roam freely with proper adult accompaniment and so long as you returned home at a proper time.

The keep was swept clean and all the team’s weapons confiscated, including Scanlan’s instrument. Fortunately, your room was left in peace. Still, you were upset greatly watching the guards tether Trinket to a tree.

Ordered by the Sovereign to remain confined in the keep, there was nothing to do but wait. After assuring you everything would be alright, Vex passed you off to Keyleth silently mouthing an instruction to shield your ears. A thick ornate crown of lush flowers decorated your hair. 

You had caught bits of what had gone down at the feast. Vax feared himself turning into a vampire. Scanlan had a book to translate. Pike was quiet. According to Grog, the food was decent.

You weren’t the type with a keen sense of smell. It was your ears that performed unnaturally well. If a tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, you would. Even with Keyleth’s floral muffler, you were able to discern the biting conversation between Percival and Vex’ahlia. 

Something or other about people killing Percy’s family. To be honest, you were more intrigued by the book left open on the table. 

There were whispers, multiple voices at once, emanating from the dark pages. Their voices sounded distant, their words imperceptible, and yet at the same time crystal clear. Their raspy hissing voices, infecting your mind.

Stress flares up in your head. There is a moment you feel it; the fog beginning to clear. Memories starting to take shape, though still blurred like an old painting. In this moment, as certain figures began to take shape, you could feel a deep sadness traveling through every cell.

“Y/n, Magpie, are you alright?”

Vax’s voice disrupted the whispers. He had, at some point, moved. Now he knelt, crouched beside Keyleth, attention focused on you. His eyes carried a gentle concern.

Keyleth brushes a thumb across your cheeks. It’s then you realize you’re crying. Cold, silvery tears came as a frigid flood, uncontrolled and unwanted. It hadn’t been until the tender hand wiped away some of the tears that you even realized you were crying. You had no reason to, right? So you didn’t understand why you were.

Glancing to the side, over Vax’s shoulders, you notice the other members of Vox standing around the door. Percy’s peering out around the door, canvassing the corridor on the other side.

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Vax offered gently, extending his arms for you to jump into.

A decision had been reached between the members of Vox. You’d be breaking out. They were forced to escape under the darkness of shadow from their own keep. 

Vox concluded your silent tears were the consequence of claustrophobia. A fear they understandably assumed you had, as you had been held in captivity for who knows long prior to meeting them.

This, unfortunately, was not the case.

All the while, as they twisted through the secret tunnels below the keep, you held on to Vax, trying to sort through the deluge of memories still just out of focus. The harder you tried, the more your lips trembled, tears pooling from your eyes.

Jarrett stood with a group of his men at the exit of the passage. Once again, the members of Vox found themselves under the escort of the guard. This time, though, you were all split. Vax, Vex and Scanlan had been pushed into the kitchen; Percy and Keyleth into the Percy’s workshop; Grog and Pike into the chapel. 

Jarrett decided you would stay in the common area, as he believed there was little chance any of the members of Vox would try escaping without you. If only you believed that.

Fortunately, this was the room where they stored the colored chalk. 

You needed to calm yourself. You stopped trying to restore the diluted memories. It made your head pound and heart sting. Instead, you settled on the stone floor and began to draw.

You could hear the whispers of a conversation between the two guards. One was complimenting your rudimentary artistic skills while also making little suggestions on how you could improve. The other was telling their partner to shut it. When the two fell silent, you looked over at them. You then extended your hand, a blue piece of chalk held between your fingers. An invitation.

Your ears twitched. You left your spot and moved to the window. As you went, you could hear an argument between the two guards over their cross hatching techniques. They did not choose the right career path.

Outside, you could hear the nervous whines of Trinket. Something was out there. Whispered hisses, not unlike those you heard emanating from the book, circled the keep. And there were screams. The kind of screams that had a raw intensity that warned of threat, and cried out of desperate need.

Moreover, there was this creeping feeling as if a dark presence was looming in your periphery, breathing icy clouds on the back of your neck. It was giving you goosebumps and a feeling of gut wrenching wrongness.

You sped to the door, only to discover the larger wooden doors were locked, and you didn’t have the key. “Slow down there, kiddo. We’re on strict orders not to let you leave this room until further notice.” One of the two guards spoke. 

Your eyes narrowed, spotting the set of brass keys looped on their hip.

Your small hands pound on the door of the workshop, your little voice calling out to Percy and Keyleth, who you knew were inside. Not a moment later, the doors to the chapel busted out. They slammed against the opposite wall, splintering into pieces.

“Tiny, what’s going on!?”

You explained to Grog, as well as a child your age could you, the unsettling presence you felt closing in. Though your explanation was muddied by some fright filled babbling, both Pike and Grog appeared to take your discomfort seriously.

They rallied the others, gathering the team in the large entry of the keep. Freeing the others from their respective holding rooms, you noted, was suspiciously easy. Surely you hadn’t been the only one left under watch.

There was a discourse. Everyone was confused and on high alert. “Where is everybody?” You spoke aloud, your soft voice managing to capture Vox’s attention despite their loud conversation.

Soon after you posed the question, Jarret and three of his soldiers retreated into the building, hurriedly locking the door behind them. Immediately, they placed the blame on Vox, which you guessed was fair. But this time all in the party were, in fact, blameless.

The true assailants hid in the shadows above. Wraiths, beings who take pleasure in watching the life drain from their victims, were perched in the rafters watching the lot of you. Like predators stalking their prey. There was barely time to take arms before they took initiative and lunged for the group.

Nevermind the two guards brutally kill, it was their targeted attack on Scanlan from which Vox realized they were after the book. Eyes rolled back black inky ichor pooling from his mouth, ears, and eyelids. Vex moving quickly, grabbed the fallen spell book and passed it to Keyleth just as a wraith bled into her body.

You would be having nightmares about this.

Gathering the injured members, Vox and the last guard to remain, Jarret retreated into the war room. You were trapped. As Vex pointed out, they needed a way to fight it. You could hear the rasping, cold, hollow screams of the wraiths, even as they grew quieter, on the other side of the door.

Jarret passed Vex and Vax weapons, though even you knew such arms would be useless. Vax had tried in vain to cut through them with his dagger when they had wrenched through Scanlan. Unfortunately, their bodies were amorphous dark fluid shadows harmlessly cut through.

You had faced many threats in your time with Vox Machina. Mere days ago they’d defeated a dragon. Something about these assailants, perhaps their connection with the book, made you want to jump right out of your skin. It was paralysing. There was this foreign yet all too familiar feeling of being insignificant. Shaking, terrified, you straighten your posture awaiting the blow, you for an inexplicable reason expected to come.

You felt a hand grip your shoulder. Your defensive instincts kicked in. You went straight for the wrist, biting into what you registered as a threat. Both fortunately and unfortunately, it was only Vax. Luckily, your bite had only been a warning, no fangs.

He recoiled, his brain stuttering for a moment. He wasn’t sure what threw him more, the two puncture marks on his wrist beginning to ooze crimson or the pure look of unmatched terror in your eyes.

You had been crying earlier over what he still wasn’t sure. He’d wiped your tears and held you close. Vox had heard your pained screams and witnessed fear take over you, sending you running to hide behind one of them for safety. This terror, this raw intense dread that crippled you completely, was new.

There is a scream. Keyleth is dragged up the wall, ichor streaming from her eyes and mouth. Then the candles blow out. In one swift movement, Vax pushes you beneath the table, then ready’s himself for the inevitable battle. He'd bring up your bite later.

The sounds of Vox’s violent acts are flooded out by the noise of your heart beating in your chest. It’s the sound of war drums on the horizon, each beat taking up pace growing louder. Buh-Bum. Buh-Bum. Buh-Bum.

Silence. After a cacophony of vicious screams, the keep goes still. You feel the chill in your blood, the coldness that brought the synapses of your brain to a stand still, begin to subside. Still, your thoughts were so scattered that functioning was challenging.

“(Y/n), darling?” Vex calls out, kneeling down to see you below the table. Noting your state, she slackened her composure, her battle hardened face softened. “(Y/n), dear, I believe you’re having a panic attack. We don’t have to stay here, darling. Would you like to leave?” She offered, carefully extending a hand. You nodded and allowed her to lead you out.

The fresh air was nice and the cool breeze tickled your exposed skin. Vex stayed by your side while the others quickly gathered what was needed. Jarret had decided to release Vox against the orders of the king and allow them to handle whatever manner of being had realised such terrifying assailants.

Leaned in against Vex’s side, you were soothed by her gentle heartbeat. Trinket laid close on your other side enough so that you could stroke his fur. You had barely lifted an arm in battle. Your only true action being disarming the guards that’d watched over you, an act you’d later learned, saved their lives. Still, you were exhausted.

As things were being put into order, Vax approached, scratching at the two marks you’d left in his wrist. “(Y/n), is everything alright? Are you okay?” He asks, crouching to match your height. He was concerned you could read it on his face.

“Those things, those wraiths. You wouldn’t let them take me too, would you?”

“I believe they were only after the—" Vax begins to remind, however, he stops himself when he notices the desperate look on your face. It happens sometimes. Vox forgets you’re just a child. He flashes you one of those charming-gentle-Vax’ildan smiles. “You know we’d rip any monsters apart before we’d let them hurt you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to give him a hug. “I apologise for biting you. I won’t do it again.” You whisper, relaxing into his embrace so fully it’s as if you’d melted together.

“Eh, it’s okay, Magpie. I’ve suffered worse.” Vax shrugs, peeling away from the hug. 

"Now you ready to go kill some vampires?”

Lil vent thing cause I was thinking abt this moment recently

Lil vent thing cause I was thinking abt this moment recently

Me: Elbows my rib outward once and it really hurt

Rib: Feels wrong since elbowing it

Rib: Proceeds to give me bad anxiety from feeling that there's something wrong with it

Rib: Gives me 3 bad panic attacks in less than 2 days

Rib: Now hurts when I touch it

Rib: Is clearly not where it's supposed to be when I look in the mirror

Rib: Makes it so I can't lift heavy things or put pressure on it without it hurting

Rib: Still gives me anxiety and makes it impossible to focus on bad days

Doctor: "There's nothing wrong with you. Your body's just asymmetrical. Drink some water and it will go away."

. . .

Wtf doctors?

No matter how many times I tried explaining to her, my doctor didn't seem to understand that I didn't elbow my rib straight on

I think she thinks I hit it here going inward

Cause everytime she gestured to recreate the scene that I elbowed it, she put her elbow there

But in reality, I hit it here, going in the direction of the arrows:

So like, it kinda knocked out

Maybe?

Idk

But now, when I look in the mirror, that ONE RIB is bulging out a bit compared to the rest

Me: Elbows my rib outward once and it really hurt

Rib: Feels wrong since elbowing it

Rib: Proceeds to give me bad anxiety from feeling that there's something wrong with it

Rib: Gives me 3 bad panic attacks in less than 2 days

Rib: Now hurts when I touch it

Rib: Is clearly not where it's supposed to be when I look in the mirror

Rib: Makes it so I can't lift heavy things or put pressure on it without it hurting

Rib: Still gives me anxiety and makes it impossible to focus on bad days

Doctor: "There's nothing wrong with you. Your body's just asymmetrical. Drink some water and it will go away."

. . .

Wtf doctors?

Seriously tho, I was making mashed potatoes earlier and nearly had to stop cuz I couldn't mash em without my rib hurting and feeling uncomfortable

Me: Elbows my rib outward once and it really hurt

Rib: Feels wrong since elbowing it

Rib: Proceeds to give me bad anxiety from feeling that there's something wrong with it

Rib: Gives me 3 bad panic attacks in less than 2 days

Rib: Now hurts when I touch it

Rib: Is clearly not where it's supposed to be when I look in the mirror

Rib: Makes it so I can't lift heavy things or put pressure on it without it hurting

Rib: Still gives me anxiety and makes it impossible to focus on bad days

Doctor: "There's nothing wrong with you. Your body's just asymmetrical. Drink some water and it will go away."

. . .

Wtf doctors?

Hyperventilating

Shaky breaths

Crying

Sweating

Fidgeting

Hurts

Anxiious

Help

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasaaaa

hey, stop for a second?

im really, really proud of you

okay that’s all, continue scrolling :)

Today I took my cat to the vet

So I took my cat to the vet since she needed to get her shots and she needed to get shaved (if we don't get her shaved she will get sick) and when we put her in her cage and my mom was driving she was basically having a panic attack. She was even hyperventilating. But the thing is she is not scared of the vet, she is claustrophobic. So when we picked her up from the vet we just wrapped her up in a blanket and I held her. The whole ride home she was perfectly fine and almost fell asleep in my arms.

Day 29 - Psychosomatic Bullshit

reblog and put in the tags how you would react if you met your profile picture

" You look in the mirror and see yourself, but really, it's not you at all. I mean, there's your eyes and your nose and your cute little smile, but that's not all there is to you. Because you're not seeing the amount of lives you've touched with your presence. You're not seeing all the people you've made smile and laugh. You're not seeing how strong you are. In fact, all the battles you've overcome are completely invisible when you look in the mirror, hidden beneath your outside features. So, my darling, listen to me when I say this : you are not as simple as a reflection. You are complex, wonderful and something brilliant that a mirror simply does not have the capability to show. It's only showing one tree in the forest, one star in a galaxy, one grain of sand at the beach. And you are so much more than that. Please believe it. "

Day 8: Panic (Warriors & Legend)

Ao3 link

Cw for a panic attack and the Great Fairy acting creepy (it’s pretty much on par with Cia’s behavior from day 2)

————————-

It’s night by the time he sets out.

Warriors glances up at the sky as he walks. The moon shines serenely down on the town, its glow reflected in the puddles gathered on the cobblestones. A speckling of stars dots it, twinkling innocently like fairies.

Well, like some fairies.

He looks back down at his feet and swallows. He had felt it on the way to the town, a presence that never ceases to unsettle him. That of a Great Fairy.

The others likely would have felt it too, if not for their preoccupation with the injured Rancher. But he’s surprised that Legend and Wind hadn’t come across her in their search. Perhaps they were too preoccupied then too.

The cave looms off to the side, nearly hidden amongst a cloak of vines and Warriors steps off the path to head towards it. His heart begins to pick up its pace as he approaches, every beat reverberating in his throat. And the closer he grows, the more his hands tremble, betraying the dread within.

It’s been months since he has had to stand before a Great Fairy. Every part of him wants to turn back. If he returns to the inn maybe he’ll find Twilight out of bed, healed and grinning from another brush with death averted. But he knows that's just wishful thinking. He saw Hyrule’s expression and Time’s too—drawn and exhausted and bordering on hopelessness. He saw Twilight lying in bed, pale and weak, struggling to so much as remain conscious.

Even if Hyrule’s spell can work, the Traveler will doubtless wear himself out before it has the chance. Warriors balls his hands into fists, steeling his nerves. A Great Fairy can do anything—turn the tide of battle, grant special powers, heal the most severe of wounds. This is the only way.

With a deep breath, he plunges through the entrance. Two steps in and the fairy emerges, bursting from within the fountain with a shower of magic. She looks down at him, giggling in a way that makes his skin crawl.

“Welcome, courageous one,” she murmurs. “Come closer and tell me your plight.”

Warriors wants nothing more than to run for it, escape before the inevitable occurs. But he approaches the fountain instead, boots sinking in the moist dirt, fairies flitting out of his path. When he speaks his voice is surprisingly steady.

“My friend is dying. I need you to heal him.”

The fairy nods. “I can sense it, the dark magic within him. Though he doesn’t fight alone, even their combined strength is not enough. It is already draining away his life force.”

“But you can save him.”

“Of course.” She smiles and runs a finger along his cheek. “For a price.”

Warriors clenches his hands even tighter, fighting to conceal their trembling.

“What is it?”

She laughs and the sound of it seems to echo about the cave. “Oh, courageous one, it’s you.”

There’s a bottle in her hand now, so large that someone much taller than him could fit inside it. And he knew this would be the cost, he knew it, but Warriors’ blood runs cold anyway.

“So,” the fairy says, tilting the bottle to and fro in her long-fingered grip, “do you still want me to heal your friend?”

Already, his lungs are constricting, his body tensing, ready to sprint in the opposite direction. But Warriors inhales a purposefully slow breath and looks her right in the eyes.

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! Then let’s begin!”

Warriors has mere seconds to brace himself before she brings the bottle down in a smooth arc, scooping him up effortlessly. His gut plummets as he falls and hits the bottom with an “oof.” Immediately he scrambles back to his feet, just in time to look up and see her pop on the lid.

It’s only then that he realizes he has no idea when…or if she’ll let him out.

She tilts the bottle, so he slides down to collide painfully with the side of it. With a leering grin, she leans forward to peer in at him.

“My, my, you are a pretty one. I might just keep you forever.”

Panic wedges itself in Warriors throat and he tries to stumble back, away from her searching gaze. But then she tilts the bottle once more and he ends up careening backward instead, slamming into the opposite side. Stars explode before his eyes.

“Careful now,” she croons, waggling a finger at him. “We wouldn’t want you to ruin that pretty face of yours.”

Her words are like a vice around his neck. Warriors drags in a strangled breath, struggling against the urge to fight his way out of this.

Just hold on a little longer. Just until Twilight’s healed.

But what if there is no end? What if she decides to follow through on her comment and keep him forever?

A cold sweat crawls across Warriors’ skin and he curls in on himself.

Magic is swirling about outside of his prison now, in a nauseating mini cyclone of pink. It only makes the bottle seem smaller, tighter. A cry rises in his throat, a desperate plea to be let free. But he closes his eyes and grits his teeth, and somehow, miraculously manages to hold it back.

Seconds tick by, turning to minutes that stretch into eternity. His breathing grows faster until he can hardly drag in any air at all, and his heart threatens to pound out of his chest. When he opens his eyes, the bottle seems to constrict further, glass pressing against his body, squeezing the life out of him. He shuts them again almost immediately and digs his nails into his palms.

He’s never going to get out of here. She’s never going to let him go. Forever he’ll be trapped, like a bug in a child’s collection, to be peered at and inspected and jostled about for enjoyment.

Something like a sob breaks past his defenses, and he hunches down further, pressing his forehead to his knees.

When at last the rush of magic stops and he feels her gaze on him once more, he can hardly get the words out past the tightness in his throat.

“I-is he alive?”

“Alive and well,” she replies with a smile, and relief rockets through Warriors. But her next words quickly squash it. “I believe I’ll keep you a bit longer though.”

Warriors stumbles up on shaky legs. “No. No! I fulfilled my part of the bargain. We-we’re finished.”

“What he said, lady,” a familiar voice shouts from far below. A glance downward lets Warriors catch a glimpse of a blue cap set on a head of pink hair. “He did his part. Let him go or you’ll regret it.”

The fairy laughs. “Oh, how you threaten, little one! Ah, well, I suppose if you insist. There’s no need for a fight, after all. I don’t wish to kill you.”

She uncorks the bottle and turns it upside down. Warriors plummets, hitting the ground with a dull thud. For a long moment, he can only sit there, trying to breathe. But then Legend puts an arm around his shoulders and hauls him up.

“Come on,” he says, as Warriors stumbles forward, still shaking uncontrollably. “We’re getting out of here.”

They make it out of the cave without event, though Warriors can feel the Great Fairy’s gaze on him the whole time. No sooner have they stepped out into the open air, than he collapses once more, weak with nauseating terror and overwhelming relief.

He’s free. It’s over. But with the Great Fairy still just behind him, it hardly feels that way.

Legend squats down in front of him, skewering him with a glare. “What was that?! I’ve never–you-you were just gonna let her keep you like a pet?!”

Any other time Warriors would find his overexcitement amusing. Right now, he finds it more exhausting. It’s more than enough trying to drag in each breath, he doesn’t need the veteran having a conniption fit too.

He stares down at his trembling hands and works to form the words to the question he needs to ask.

“Is Twilight, okay?”

“He’s fine now, thanks to you,” Legend replies, grumpily.

Warriors closes his eyes and chokes out a shaky exhale.

It’s over, he tells himself once more, as though that will make it any more real. As though that will drive the feeling of being trapped, pinned beneath her leering gaze away.

A hand comes to rest hesitantly on his shoulder. When he raises his head Legend has dropped to his knees beside him and is regarding him with an uncharacteristically soft expression.

“Are you alright?”

Warriors huffs a laugh he doesn’t feel. The panic hasn’t even begun to subside yet. “I’ll be fine, Vet. It’s not the first time I’ve been through that.”

“Not the first–” Legend springs to his feet again, outraged. “I didn’t even know fairies could do that, and yet–and yet you’re over here telling me they’ve done it to you before?! Those little…”

He mutters a string of curses beneath his breath, hands fisted at his sides, gaze trained murderously at the cave. For a moment, Warriors is certain he’s going to run off and slay the fairy, but then the veteran turns back to him. He stares down at him, miserable affair that he must be, and Warriors stares back, trying to read the emotions churning in those sharp eyes. He hasn’t even identified half of them, however, before Legend drops down again.

…and hugs him.

Warriors goes rigid with shock. He didn’t even think Legend was capable of accepting hugs, and for him to give on so freely…

“Vet, wha–”

“Don’t question it,” Legend snaps. “Don’t ask for me to do this again, either. This is a one-time thing because you look absolutely pitiful.”

A more genuine chuckle escapes Warriors, and he slumps forward, into the safety of the veteran’s embrace.

When I run out of cigarettes in social event

Had a panic attack in Spanish class today. When I have a panic attack I clench whatever is in my hands. Behold! My last pencil:

its oftentimes difficult to articulate my experiences when the words i use to define them are so vast. like how do i explain that the panic attacks i experience are completely different than that i often see represented by media and others' anecdotes?

this is not benifited by the seperate issue that my panic attacks are so severe i don't remember them. i can only recollect the sensation of coming back to myself. the paranoid delusions, all-encompassing immobilization, lightheadedness, sweat, irregular heartbeat, paresthesia, etc etc are not properly indicitive of my attacks.

i pathologize my identity, transform my experiences into a catalog of symptoms, so maybe you'll understand. i need help.