#panic attacks tw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jinmukangwrites · 7 months

Text

Catch me as I fall

Fandom: Nightwing, Batman-All Media Types Prompt: Whumptober Day 1: Safety Net Rating: T Warnings: panic attacks, referenced canonical rape/non-con Notes: Happy whumptober!

Summary: Dick's always been the resident safety net, but sometimes even he needs to be caught.

"Just a little further," Dick pushed through clenched teeth. "You're okay."

Tim didn't respond. He had his teeth clenched and his eyes squinted behind his domino mask; his whole face twisted in effort and glazed with sweat. His gloved hands squeezed into Dick's biceps, practically bunching up the skintight material of his suit in his trembling hands.

Dick didn't fault the younger hero for not answering; Tim got a surprise face-full of fear-toxin not fifteen minutes ago.

They—Nightwing, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Robin—had been infiltrating the latest bad-guy lair while Batman, Red Hood, Signal, and Spoiler, had been fucking things up and causing a distraction outside. The thing was, Scarecrow wasn't even apart of this mission. As far as Dick knew, Scarecrow should be locked up back at Arkham. No normal recurring members of Gotham's Rogue Gallery had anything to do with this; it was supposed to be a human trafficking bust, fear-toxin was one of the furthest things on Dick's mind.

And yet, they found a thug in some sort of supply closet, and when they tried to take him out, he threw a vial right at them that immediately burst into smoke.

Tim got the worst of it, but judging by the circus music he can hear somewhere at the back of his head and the unusual speed of his heart, Dick thinks he's gotten a whiff of it too before shouting to not breathe it in.

Lucky for them, the mission had already passed the chopping-off-the-head stage. Cass had found the leader and had taken him out, so now it was just a matter of finding the captives and taking out any thugs stupid enough to hang around. After getting hit, Dick hit the communicators and alerted Bruce of Tim's rapidly declining condition—he didn't mention his own, mostly because he didn't he didn't know he'd inhaled any until a few hallways ago. Bruce instructed them to meet him outside the front doors, he'd be waiting with the batmobile and a dose of catch-all antitoxin, and Steph who had taken a hit to the knee and needed to get back to the cave anyways. After taking Tim and Steph back to Alfred's loving care, he'd return and help everyone else finish clearing the place out.

Nightwing was expected to take over leading the group, as he's the eldest and he had the most experience with leading anyways. Dick had agreed, and it was supposed to be as simple as that.

Dick's was almost able to convince himself that it would be as simple as that too, even with the miniscule dose of toxin in his system, but after he finally managed to drag himself and Tim to the front of the building, whispering every comforting word he could think of to keep Tim moving, the circus music began to be accompanied by the sound of crushing bones.

Bruce loaded Tim into the passenger seat of the batmobile while Steph waved at Dick from the back; she was facing sideways, talking up all three cushions with her raised and bandaged leg. While Bruce went to administer the antitoxin for Tim—poor kid had doubled over in the chair, ears between his knees—Dick snuck a dose for himself.

"Watch over them, Nightwing," was all Bruce said before he got behind the wheel and drove away. He didn't even give Dick time to consider backing out and telling Bruce about his own condition; Dick very quickly found himself standing alone at the curb of the road, in charge and probably not in the best shape to be in. He closed his eyes for a moment, going through fear dampening exercises, before he took his own dose of antitoxin and rushed back into the building, ready to make sure no more in their family were injured tonight.

The antitoxin worked for a little while.

Honestly, Dick barely even noticed the returning symptoms until he was hailed by Jason to assist in clearing out a recently found room of thugs holding hostages.

However, when he did notice the returning symptoms, they returned stronger. He could feel his anxiety levels rising as he rushed through the building, finding Jason, and swinging in just in time to kick a thug in the head who had a gun to a hostage's head.

"Knew I could count on you," Jason greeted, voice halfway between grateful and sarcastic.

They made quick work clearing out the room and leading the hostages out the building. Dick's hands only started to tremble a little after he and Jason parted ways.

The next few hours went similarly to that, rushing around the building that had no business being so large from one sibling to the next, helping out where he can and giving orders that they pretended to be disinclined to follow.

Helping Cass calm down some captives, breaking an argument between Damian and one of the police officers waiting outside, assisting Signal with what appeared to be a malnourished guard dog. Task after task after task, and all the while the fear only grew. It didn't help that Bruce never came back, as the strand of fear toxin was an older version, which meant the newest cure didn't work completely.

Most of the time, it lingered with auditory hallucinations, but by the time the last police van of criminals shut its doors and drove off, Dick could feel invisible hands touching him in ways he did not want to be touched. It took all of his self control to power through it. Bruce was counting on him to finish leading the mission, and it was already so close to ending, and no one had noticed anything wrong otherwise.

"Good job everyone," Dick said as it finally became time to call it a night. He was thankful for the white lenses of his domino mask, he could barely look anyone in the eye, because if he did he could hear all the hateful, anger-induced arguments he'd ever had with them. "Stop by the cave when you can with your reports and mask footage. B'll update us on Red and Spoiler's conditions when he can."

Everyone broke off with various complaints about hunger, various goodbyes, and various finishing of plans to see each other later. Dick only lingered long enough to tell Damian that he had some plans alone so he needed Damian to ride back with Cass instead of with himself. If Damian caught the lie, he didn't mention it. Even anxious and barely keeping together as Dick was, he's endlessly proud of Damian and how far he'd come since the jaded, angry boy he first was. A few years back, Damian would have demanded to know why and would have argued to come along; but now he just nodded his head and turned to find Cass before she left.

Dick couldn't get away quick enough.

He took the long way back to where he parked his bike, doing everything he could to get himself calm enough to not be a hazard on the road. Bruce had identified the strand, and if Dick remembered correctly, and he usually did, this particular strand rarely caused long lasting damage and faded on its own after a handful of hours. He didn't need to bother Bruce about it, or worry his siblings. He was the strong, assured, put together eldest brother, the first Robin, the multiuniversal constant. Dependable, confident, definitely always mentally sane and heaven forbid not a little fucked up in the trauma department.

He was being irrational. He should just call one of his siblings to pick him up and take him back to get some of Bruce's recreated cure... but the thought of calling just filled him with more anxiety. What if he called and Bruce got mad at him for not telling him sooner? What if it all just proved he's not as dependable as everyone always seemed to think he was and his siblings stop coming to him for help? He was always meant to be the safety net. For Bruce, for Blüdhaven, for his siblings and friends...

He was being irrational. He was being irrational.

He stopped walking, gasping, his arms wrapped around his stomach. He felt nauseous and weak, his hands trembled as he leaned against a grimey brick wall in a grimey alleyway and sank. He curled up on himself, breath coming in quick and painful as he hit the ground. His hands had somehow gotten to the back of his skull, pulling painfully at his hair, as he curled behind his knees.

It felt like his ribs were cracking; like his heart pounded against each one of them like a feral bear in a chicken-wire cage.

Believe it or not, Dick Grayson knew what an anxiety attack felt like. He had plenty of them when no one was around to see them. He did his best to work through it, let it slide, but moments stretched into what must be hours and it wasn't stopping. All his fears bubbled one by one to the surface. His parents dying, him not being enough for Bruce, not enough for his siblings... worthless and useless, good for nothing except eye-candy.

His bones ached as Two-face beat him with a baseball bat, his skin crawled as Tarantula climbed on top of him, illness spilled into his stomach as Jason shouted at him for 'pretending' to have died.

Dick gasped and curled, sobbing into his knees. The fear had completely crippled him—he had no way to tell if it was because he inhaled a larger dose than what he thought, or if fighting it for so long only made the impending breakdown worse.. but that didn't matter. What mattered was that it wasn't stopping.

"-crap, N?"

Boots scuffled in front of him, and a large figure bent down. Terror glaired in Dick's veins. He was an idiot. Of course his breakdown in a random alleyway would attract unwanted attention. It could be anyone—a civilian at best case scenario, a criminal at worst. Both would get Dick yelled at by Bruce.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he flinched hard enough that his skull bounced against the wall. "Don't-" he choked, "don't touch me!"

The hand thankfully released, and Dick squeezed his eyes shut and returned to panicking into his knees.

"... crap. Nightwing? It's Hood. The squirt was worried about you—for good reason too. You understand me?"

Dick barely understood a word. Too many voices in his head were calling him worthless to hear anything otherwise.

"N... Dick, work with me... shit." A shuffling of clothes. "B? You might want to send someone out here, N got some of the toxin too, he's unresponsive—Yeah, yeah I'm trying—He doesn't want to get touched, so I'll do what I can—got it, we'll be waiting."

The figure moved so they're next to Dick, not quite touching, but close enough for Dick to feel their presence as they sit down beside him.

"Okay wingnut, B's on his way with the antitoxin. It worked with Red, so it should help you pretty quickly. You just gotta try and control your breathing, okay? Come on, let's try 4-7-8."

He began to explain the exercise, counting the seconds gently even though Dick wasn't really following along. Dick tried to latch onto the steady lull of the voice, the deep rumbling tone, tried to focus on it because it was the only voice not saying he was overrated and a waste of time. Eventually, the familiarity snapped in his mind, and he recognized Jason's voice. He creaked open his eyes, staring at his little brother just to make sure, then made the monumental effort to follow along with Jason's instructions.

Eventually, his breathing felt like something he could control. The anxiety still lingered and still pounded against his skeleton, but at least now he could swallow and find his voice.

"Jay," Dick croaked. He forced one hand away from clutching at his hair and reached out.

Jason stopped his counting and immediately took Dick's hand. "I'm here," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"You haven't done anything wrong," Jason replied immediately, squeezing Dick's hand.

Dick shook his head, choking down a sob. "Shouldn't... shouldn't have to see me like this."

Jason gave a soft scoff. "Heaven forbid Nightwing acting like a normal human under fear toxin."

"Not... 'm not supposed to break," Dick insisted. "Safety net."

"... Wing, you have to let people catch you sometimes. We want to help you too. Is that why you didn't tell anyone you got hit?"

Dick bit his lip. "Wasn't... wasn't bad at first. Could hide it. Could wait. Didn't want to... let anyone down."

Jason sighed. "We're definitely talking more about this once you're recovered."

"..."

They sat together in silence until the familiar growl of the Batmobile turned into the alleyway. Jason never let go of his hand, which kept Dick anchored somewhat in reality.

Bruce exited the car and approached them, and Dick's anxiety spiked with intimidation. Somewhere, at the back of his head, he knew Bruce was here to help, but over a decade of constant fear of disappointing the man in a way that couldn't be forgiven, couldn't be ignored.

"Nightwing," Bruce said, kneeling down in front of them.

Dick cringed within himself, pressing his head into his knees and squeezing Jason's hand probably harder than what's comfortable for the other man.

"'M sorry..."

Bruce didn't reply for a moment, though Dick could practically feel Jason glaring at Bruce beside him.

"... You're not in trouble," Bruce finally said. "I need you to let me access your skin. Your neck, or you can remove a glove. It'll help you feel better."

Dick didn't want to move, but he'd been hit with fear-toxin enough times to know it was better to suck up the discomfort for even a moment if it meant no longer feeling awful after. He swallowed and tilted his head, mentally beginning to count his breathing and clutching Jason's hand.

Bruce wiped something cold and wet on Dick's neck, which had his heart jumping. When he pressed the needle into Dick's skin, he could barely fight the whimper clawing through his throat.

The syringe emptied itself into his system, then pulled out a moment later. He closed his eyes, trying to feel the solution spread within him despite knowing that's impossible. The relief was near immediate, and the voices faded into unintelligible sounds, and then into nothing.

Dick breathed through it, continued breathing through it until nothing but the brick at his back, the concrete beneath him, Jason's hand, and the band-aid stuck to the puncture was touching him. The unwanted phantom touches fully stopped, and Dick felt his entire body relax as exhaustion replaced the fear.

"Okay," he gasped, "'m okay."

"We need to get you to the Cave," Bruce said, his voice a lot softer than what Dick's used to. "Can you walk?"

Dick thought about it, but his entire body felt like jelly. He could probably walk, but he'd also probably trip up a few times in the process.

Bruce seemed to sense his hesitation because after a moment of silence, he continued. "I could carry you."

Bruce could, Dick had no doubt. Dick was a meager weight to the amount Bruce could regularly deadlift. It had been years, though, since the last time he'd been carried by Bruce. The thought was mortifying... and... Dick couldn't lie he wanted it anyways. He wanted to be held and touched in a way that didn't have violation as the intention. Dick was always tactile, he always found comfort in it, even if sometimes it was used against him.

He swallowed, then nodded his head.

Bruce grunted. "Alright," he said. "Hood, will you find his bike and hide it somewhere to be retrieved later."

Jason squeezed Dick's hand a final time. "I'll see you soon, big-bird."

Dick could tell in his voice that their earlier conversation wasn't over, but he's had enough of feeling fearful so Dick shoved that future conversation to the back of his head.

Jason left soon after that, leaving Bruce to carefully gather Dick into his arms. Dick buried his head into Bruce's shoulder and wrapped his arms around his neck while Bruce held him under his knees and back.

For a moment, Dick could imagine himself three times smaller and dressed in different colors. That moment was the most comforting thing he'd felt all night. It promised that everything would be alright, and no one was mad at him, and that home was a quick drive away.

He may dedicate himself to catching everyone around him, but curled up in his father's arms, he knew he could fall sometimes too, and there will be nets waiting to keep him from hitting the ground.

#dick grayson #nightwing #dc comics #batfam #whumptober #panic attacks tw #fanfiction #jin writes

34 notes · View notes

bittersweetresilience · 6 months

Note

trick or treat but I only want treat

um... a treat, you say... does this satisfy? mind the warnings.

(halloween ask game)

#miraculous ladybug #🌃#🌋#adrien agreste #felix fathom #felix graham de vanily #panic attacks tw #JUST TAKE IT I'M DECEASED FROM OVERTHINKING #ml fanfic

18 notes · View notes

finexbright · 8 months

Text

i was with a friend last night and we were talking about anxiety and panic attacks and he said to me that he used to have panic attacks but one day he realised that it doesn't make him feel good and then just. decided not to have them and i was like "so you just woke up one day and decided not to have panic attacks because it doesn't make you feel good?" and he just shrugged and said yeah and i am both impressed and afraid of how powerful he is

#he just decided not to have panic attacks. just like that 💀#anxiety tw #panic attacks tw

13 notes · View notes

jae-birde · 7 months

Text

"Leo, puh-lease, you can't balance that for more than a minute."

"Ha! Bet."

Casey looked up from his computer only to immediately regret doing so. He blinked uncomprehendingly. What the—?

"Leo, you and I both know you can't balance like that for shit," Mikey said from his spot on the couch, lying upside down as he tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. He was by far the least weird part of this situation.

"Tell that to my pizza box stack record. Not even Raph could break that." Leon was walking across the backs of several chairs lined up, his katana, for some reason, balanced on his head, the pummel of the hilt on his head as the blade wobbled precariously in the air.

"Isn't that a safety hazard…?" Casey trailed off. He watched as Leon took another wobbly step and sighed. He wouldn't be able to stop this, would he?

"Only if I let it be," Leon grinned as he took another step, ignoring Mikey's call of "That doesn't even make sense," as he continued, arms held aloft for balance as he tilted to the right before centring himself again. "And Mikey, where's your optimism? You were full of it when I did the pizza box challenge!"

Mikey shrugged the best he could while upside down. "Well, that was when you were trying to beat Don's record." He tossed another piece of popcorn into his mouth. "Now you're just being a dumbass."

7 notes · View notes

if-not-now-tell-me-when · 7 months

Text

Title: Freeze

Fandom: 9-1-1

Rating: G

Characters: Eddie Diaz, Evan “Buck” Buckley

Collections: Whumptober 2023

Summary:

Buck freezes during a call, and Eddie has a lot of complicated feelings about that.

#Whumptober 2023 #whumptober day 8 #lyric #I’ve got a soul but im not a soldier #911 fandom #fanfiction #panic attacks tw #eddie Diaz #evan buck buckley

3 notes · View notes

pkmnmcster · 7 months

Text

"Hmm?" Ash was in a marketplace that sells assorted goods and Pokemon items as they turned to look at a young trainer. "Is there something you'd need?"

"Could I get your autograph please?" The young trainer suddenly blurted out, holding a notebook out for Ash to sign.

"H-huh? S-sure...?" Pikachu can sense the confusion and surprise within his buddy, Ash. Ash then took the notebook and marker, noticing an empty page, a place for them to actually sign. However, the page had a name in the right corner of the page. Champion Ash Ketchum.

Ash had to keep his kind and polite smile on his face for as long as they could as they then signed their name with a Pikachu and their hat symbol drawing, giving back the notebook. They watched the young trainer taking off with a happy expression.

Their chest tightened. What-...what was this feeling? They can't breathe...why can't they breathe? They tried to repeat their breathing patterns but this time, they couldn't succeed.

It's like--Ash is just now realizing that they're the Alola champion and they're also the World Champion. So much responsibilities...so much...expectation. Nonetheless, they feel like they've never got a chance to truly be a kid after being shoved out of the house when they turned ten years old. They were out on a journey at the age of ten years old, with just having their Pikachu.

"Pika-pika!" Ash could barely hear their Pikachu trying to get them to snap out of whatever trance they're in as they gasped in and out, trying to breathe. They were only ten years old, out in a dangerous world of Pokemon. It's a miracle as to how long they've survived, how far they came. "I'm-...I'm a champion...I'm--..."

Their knees buckled out underneath them as they hit the ground, managing to keep themselves grounded. They were having a hard time keeping themselves calm as their heartbeat was starting to increase. They couldn't hear bystanders nearby asking them if they're alright, they couldn't hear merchants shouting out of genuine concern. "I-...I was just a kid...I'm-...I-..." They could feel a set of hands trying to make sure that they don't pass out from hyperventilating.

They could feel tears streaming down their cheeks as they couldn't help but to sob. They could feel somebody trying to keep them sitting upright, trying to make sure that they don't harm themselves in the process. They need one of their friends...they want their friends. "F-friends...I want-...I want my friends..." They're sobbing while one of the bystanders just pressed the first contact on Ash's RotomPhone, putting Ash's RotomPhone up to their ear.

"Kid, you gotta stay awake, you gotta try to regulate your breathing..." Another bystander was trying to get through to Ash but they failed.

"Come on, come on...pick up..." The bystander spoke with genuine worry, using Ash's RotomPhone to try to get in touch with somebody.

#🌹« can you hear me now so loudly? i'm screaming at the top of my lungs; can you see me now so proudly? / ash ketchum »#🌹« open starters »#🌹« long post »#🌹« dark content »#tw crisis identity #crisis identity tw #tw panic attacks #panic attacks tw #tw anxiety attack #anxiety attack tw #tw ptsd #ptsd tw #tw trauma #trauma tw

3 notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 9 months

Text

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 36: December 2016

Martin was halfway down the steps to the Archives when a chill ran up his spine, and he paused for a moment, prodding at the sense of dread that came over him. Something was down there, something he didn’t want to meet, and he was torn between the urge to flee in the other direction and the urge to charge in, metaphorical guns blazing, and protect his friends.

Since his lunch break was technically over, he forced himself to head down.

Everything seemed normal when he walked in, anyway. The room was empty except for Sasha, who was just closing her laptop with a sigh. She looked up and offered Martin a smile when she saw him. “Hey. Weather still good?”

“Clear and cold,” Martin confirmed. “Is…everything okay down here?”

“All clear. Tim left for lunch a bit late—he’s only been gone about fifteen minutes.” Sasha hesitated, then gestured at Jon’s office. “That detective came round looking for you. She’s been in there with Jon for a bit.”

“Shit.” Martin’s heart began knocking against the inside of his chest. That detective could only mean Detective Tonner, which at least explained the sense of dread he was feeling. The presence of the Hunt rarely meant anything good for the likes of them, and that she’d been looking for him specifically even less so.

On the other hand, it wasn’t the Hunt’s way to so openly declare its prey; most of the time it worked in subtler ways. It was the thrill of the chase that was important. No way would she make catching him so easy.

It occurred to him, all of a sudden, that she might not be after him, that she might just be using him as an excuse to go after one of the others—to go after Jon—and his panic increased.

It must not have shown on his face, though, because Sasha simply stood up and wrapped her scarf around her throat. “Right, I’m off to lunch. Best go see what they want with you. See you later, assuming you don’t get arrested.”

She fluttered her fingers and left with a spring in her step, obviously considering the joke a funny one. Martin would have, too, were it not for the fact that he knew that would not be Detective Tonner’s goal. With him or Jon. Ever since the Twisting Deceit had taken Helen Richardson—right out from under Jon’s nose, while Martin sat in the other room feeling drained and useless—and then stabbed Jon in the side before vanishing in the span of time it took Martin to respond to his agonized cry, he’d been living in dread of another attack, and he didn’t know what he’d do if one happened while he wasn’t there to protect Jon again.

He took a deep breath to calm himself, failed to do so entirely, and headed over to Jon’s office.

At the door, he hesitated. Politeness dictated that he knock, but the last time he had while Jon was recording, he’d startled him so badly that he’d nearly leaped through the ceiling. Later that night, over Indian takeaway shared after another exploration of the tunnels, Jon had confessed that he never really liked when people knocked on his door, but he especially hated it when he was immersed in a statement. And whether Detective Tonner was giving him an actual statement or not, she was tied enough to the Hunt that Jon would likely be affected by it. Besides, if she was doing something to hurt him, he wanted to catch her at it rather than give her enough warning that she could stop.

He pushed the door open. Jon looked ashen, drained; Detective Tonner looked angry. Sitting on the table between them was a tape recorder, which was running. It didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what had happened.

“Martin,” Jon managed, sounding surprised and relieved and apprehensive all at once, which was something only Jon could pull off.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Martin lied. “Um, Sasha said—she said you were looking for me, so I thought…” He trailed off. Likely Detective Tonner would see right through his lie, but at least it would get her attention off Jon.

She stood, rather abruptly, reached into her pocket, and tossed something onto the table. A tape, labeled in the now-familiar handwriting. “Take it,” she growled.

Martin flinched, at the tone of her voice more than anything, which made him want to start running even though he knew it would just mean she would chase him. He stared at the tape, a bit confused as to why Detective Tonner was bringing it and why she would present it in front of Jon, unless…“W-what—”

“I wasn’t going to,” Detective Tonner interrupted, pinning Martin with a glare. She was tall, although not quite as tall as Martin, but she exuded an air of menace that left him in no doubt she could easily heft him by the throat if the mood struck her. “There’s no point in it, really, and I told Basira so. But she’s soft.” She barked out a laugh that sounded as much derisive as amused. “She likes you, for some reason. So, there. Take it.”

“Um.” Martin hesitantly picked up the tape. It was, as usual, labeled with Gertrude’s pointlessly awkward file number and a cryptic title that probably only made sense to her: First Edition. The handwriting was definitely Gertrude’s, so unless Basira had recorded over it, it wasn’t like it contained a hidden message or anything. “W-why—why do you say there’s no point? I don’t—this is only the third tape, and…i-if there’s a pattern, I haven’t figured it out yet.” He slid a glance over at Jon, remembering that he wasn’t supposed to have told anyone. “Um, sorry, Jon. Basira’s—been bringing me some of the tapes they found with Gertrude.”

“Why?” Jon asked, playing the part even though he knew full well.

Before Martin could answer, though, Detective Tonner huffed. “She thought you’d done it.”

“What?” Jon and Martin said in unison.

Detective Tonner didn’t look particularly apologetic. “We both did.”

“Me? B-but—but why?” Martin sputtered. He didn’t look like a killer, or at least he didn’t think he did. Sure, Tim sometimes called him that—jokingly—but he didn’t even think he was capable of something like that.

“Look at you,” Detective Tonner said, gesturing at him. “You’re jumpy as hell. Wouldn’t look me in the eye the first time we came to talk to you. And that accomplice of yours that was lurking around in the background—wasn’t hard to figure out who he was, once we connected the address. And from there, it wasn’t hard to find out who took charge of his paperwork, and who picked him up from prison after. Started wondering if the police hadn’t been looking at the wrong person back then, and if that hadn’t given you a taste for it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So yeah, we were looking at you for this. Tried to see if there was anything else we could match you to, because it’s not like you’d have gone seven years between kills.”

Martin tried to digest that. The very thought made him nauseous, almost as much as the idea that she’d been poking into Gerry’s past. Oh, God, had she realized Gerry was supposed to be dead?

“Martin didn’t kill Gertrude Robinson,” Jon said vehemently. “Or anyone else, for that matter. He’d never.”

Detective Tonner snorted. “Yeah, we know. IT finally cleaned up the CCTV footage from that week. We watched your movements the whole time. You never went near the Archives, or Gertrude Robinson. Closest you got to her was her following you, the day she died.”

“What?” Martin jerked his head, startled once again. He was usually good at spotting tails—how had he not noticed?

“Hung about outside the library, just watching you, until you left for the day, then followed you out the door. Came straight back in afterwards and went down to the Archives.” Detective Tonner shrugged. “Only other person who went down there was Bouchard. So unless you’ve got another way in we don’t know about, you’re in the clear.” She gestured at the tapes. “Basira wants to keep bringing you those, fine, that’s on her. I don’t know about it and I don’t want to.” Turning her glare on Jon, she added, “And you—I was never here, got it?”

“Uh, uh—y-yes, of course,” Jon stammered, shrinking back against his chair.

“Good.” Detective Tonner shoved past Martin, slamming the door behind her with a force that made both of them jump.

Instantly, Martin moved closer to Jon’s desk. “Are you okay? She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

“No.” Jon didn’t sound particularly convinced of that, but he held out his hands, palms up, to prove to Martin he wasn’t physically injured—or so he presumed. “I just…good Lord, she’s terrifying.”

“The Hunt,” Martin said, as if that was an adequate explanation. Maybe it was. He sank into the seat Detective Tonner had vacated and stared at the tape in his hands. “I can’t believe they thought I killed her. Or…” He trailed off, not wanting to mention names anywhere Elias might be listening.

“I can’t, either.” Jon came over and sat on the edge of his desk, which put him slightly above eye level with Martin, and studied him worriedly. “You don’t think Elias put them up to it, do you?”

“The possibility occurred to me. If he wants me dead, in a way that isn’t traceable back to him, setting a Hunter on me is probably the way to do it,” Martin said absently, still staring at the tape. “But I doubt it. Detective Tonner wouldn’t have told me I was in the clear if she’d ever really pegged me as a serious suspect, and she would’ve made sure I knew she was after me. After all, part of the thrill of the Hunt is the terror that comes from knowing you’re prey.”

“So you’re saying she might not have stuck your feet to the floor, but she would have at least tied your shoelaces together.”

At that, Martin looked up with a smile. “Something like that, yeah.”

Jon smiled back. It made him look more his age. “What’s the file number on that tape?”

“Uh—” Martin looked at the label again. “0080307, why?”

“I’ll see if I can find it on the shelves,” Jon said, sliding off his desk. “You’re, uh, you’re welcome to stay in here if you’d like to listen to it now.”

“O-oh!” Martin was, admittedly, startled. “I, um—I, I thought you might like to, well, listen with me. If it’s another live one like the last one was, there probably won’t be a file on the shelf.” And the first one had taken them almost a week to find, even knowing the file number. Martin was starting to be as annoyed with Gertrude’s disorganization as Jon was.

Jon paused, looking genuinely surprised. “I—really? I…I thought you preferred listening to them on your own before you shared them with us.”

“I’ve only been doing it that way because Basira usually turns up while I’m the only one here,” Martin told him. “And I don’t…I can’t let them sit, there’s too much of a risk of me losing them or forgetting about them.”

“I don’t see how you can,” Jon murmured, eyes dropping to the tape for a moment. “They’re…there’s something about them that draws you in. Draws me in, anyway.”

Martin bit his lip. He ached to tell Jon everything, to pour out the whole story, but he didn’t know how. He also found he didn’t really want to talk about it in the Archives. And worse, he definitely didn’t want Jon to think he was looking for an equivalent exchange—that he would tell Jon his story if Jon would tell him how he got his Marks in return. And the risk of him trying to pull the story out would be too high.

“It’s…kind of a side effect of the way the Spiral marked me,” he said finally. “I’ll tell you about it sometime. But there are instances where I lose things a lot more easily than I should. And I just, I can’t run the risk of these tapes being one of them, so I listen to them as soon as I get them. By then one of you is usually back, so we can listen again…”

“And we watch you put them in your drawer,” Jon completed, a light dawning in his eyes, “so that fixes in your mind that that’s where they are.”

“Exactly.” Martin smiled, relieved Jon got it. “So, what do you say? Want to hear what they think is worth us knowing?”

Jon smiled, too. “Absolutely. Hold on, I’ll go make us some tea.”

Since the main tape recorder was already on the desk, Martin simply popped out the tape that was already in there—doubtless Jon had been recording Detective Tonner’s statement—before placing in the newest tape. He found his hands were shaking slightly and he wasn’t sure why. Something about this one…

“Any ideas what it might be?” Jon’s voice startled Martin from his thoughts, making him jump. He looked up and accepted the mug of tea with a nod of thanks as Jon gestured to the recorder. “The tape, I mean.”

“The label says First Edition, so I’m guessing there’s a Leitner involved,” Martin said, as gently as he could. Jon flinched almost imperceptibly. “If we’re lucky, it’ll be one the three of us already destroyed. If not, we can track it down and burn it together.”

Jon laughed. It sounded a little unwilling. “Just like that?”

“In the six years we were burning them, I mean really actively hunting them down to destroy them, we took out sixty-two books off the known list,” Martin told him. “Plus thirteen more that we just found unlabeled, so yeah, Jon, just like that.”

Jon…relaxed. A tension Martin hadn’t even realized was there bled out of him like someone had pulled the plug in a drain, and he sank onto his desk, both hands curled around his cup. “Thank you.”

Oh. Oh, there was a story there, and Martin was tempted, he wanted to ask, but the possibility of forcing Jon to answer whether he wanted to or not was too strong. To save himself the temptation, he pressed PLAY on the recorder.

It turned out to be a live statement, and the second the person Gertrude was speaking to opened her mouth, Martin’s entire body ran cold. He knew that voice, knew very well how it could go from charming and coaxing to sharp and condemning in an instant. He knew how the eyes could go from guileless and warm to calculated and cold, how the smile could go from innocent to cruel, how the hands could go from fingers to talons and claws. He was suddenly and abruptly twelve years old and the only thing standing between the people he loved and the worst day of their lives.

Subject is Mary Keay, recorded third of July, 2008.

Martin listened, horrified and fascinated and repulsed all at once, to the story he’d long wondered about but never heard—the story of how Gerry’s mother had obtained her Book, the one that had been a threat held over their heads most of his childhood, the one she’d tried to master. The one Gerry had been bound to. His hands clenched the mug so tightly they almost crushed it as Mary’s voice spooled outward, weaving the story, doing her nastily polite little pas de deux with Gertrude.

The click of the tape popping off jerked him abruptly back to the present. His entire body buzzed, and there was a tightness in his chest he wanted to rub away, but he couldn’t seem to unclench his fingers.

“Martin? Martin, are you all right?” Jon’s voice sounded far away, but then his hands were on Martin’s shoulders.

Martin gasped, the mug slipping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. It dropped to the floor and shattered, and he flinched away from it, bracing himself for the blow.

“Leave it. It’s not important.” One of Jon’s hands came up, hesitantly, to cup Martin’s cheek. “Are you—God, I shouldn’t have—talk to me, Martin. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Martin said, too quickly, hearing the lie as soon as it was past his lips. Instead of looking angry, Jon just looked worried. Martin gave in to the temptation to lean into his palm. “I’m just…I w-wasn’t expecting to hear her. Christ, she still scares me.”

“I can understand that. She sounds terrifying. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like to grow up around her.” Jon rubbed his thumb across Martin’s cheek without seeming to realize he was doing it. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

Martin decided to be honest. “No. But I will be.”

“Okay,” Jon said softly, and then with a bit more certainty, “Okay. I…do you have any idea whose page she might have given Gertrude?”

“No. I thought she did them all in Sanskrit.” Martin frowned. “She must have done one special for Gertrude, so it was probably someone she knew. Christ, it was probably one of her assistants.”

Jon blinked, drawing back from Martin. “Gertrude didn’t have any assistants.”

“She had three,” Martin corrected him. “At least that I remember. God, what were their names?”

“We can probably get Sasha to hack the personnel files. She’d enjoy that,” Jon muttered. He drew his hand away—Martin instantly missed the contact, but not enough to make an ass of himself asking for it back—and slid off the desk. “There’s a lot in that I don’t understand…but there’s one thing I do, and that’s the very distinctive floorboard at the end.”

Martin blinked. “Floorboard?”

Jon actually grinned mischievously and walked over to a corner, then tapped a board with his foot. It creaked exactly the way the board had on the tape. “It’s still here. The worms didn’t even touch it…because there’s a hidden compartment underneath.” He knelt down and pressed his fingers into the crack. Sure enough, it levered up easily.

Martin’s own curiosity got the better of him, and he rose to his feet, carefully avoiding the shards of his mug, to see. “What’s in it?”

Jon reached down, a slight frown puckering his brow. “Hmm. No skin page, but…” He came up with two objects—a laptop, and a key. “I wonder what this unlocks?”

“Her house, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Jon studied the laptop. “I’m possibly even more curious as to what’s on this.”

“I bet Sasha can help with that, too. If you ask.” Martin tilted his head to one side as Jon looked up at him. “Or you could see how far you get on your own.”

“I trust Sasha. I think.” Jon replaced the floorboard and stood. “We’ll talk to her when she gets back from lunch. Meanwhile, let me get a cloth to clean up this mess, and then find you another mug. Gertrude’s not the only one who could do with a cup of tea after that.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #daisy tonner #police intimidation tw #anxiety tw #panic attacks tw

3 notes · View notes

jinmukangwrites · 7 months

Text

When seagulls come inland

Whumptober Day 2: Delirium

Summary: The anniversary of waking up from Koholint finally approaches, and Legend tries to keep the hurting hidden.

Note: I don't have time to post the whole thing right now, I'll reblog with the whole fic later today for those of you who aren't registered on AO3

#linked universe #legend linked universe #unreality #jin writes #panic attacks tw #fanfiction #whumptober

14 notes · View notes

seungkwan-s · 1 year

Text

hi guys <3 i'm sorry i haven't been here for a few days, i had a horrible panic attack on wednesday :( a friend of mine shared some information that triggered me and ultimately, led me to having a breakdown. i'm on the mend and i'm okay.

#i am really emotional and can't deal sometimes hearing about certain topics....#this person will now not leave me alone which has now caused me to become very distant with everyone #building a wall up again :/#panic attacks tw

13 notes · View notes

shacklda · 1 year

Text

no thoughts just

chief getting serious, serious panic attacks especially post chapter 6 and just. NOT feeling safe, thinking she’s literally gonna get attacked out of the blue or lose it like she did before but not. telling anyone about these she just deals with it herself and when she feels one coming just politely excuses herself

#panic attacks tw #;sir this is my emotional support cringefail gacha game protagonist. (ooc)

8 notes · View notes

whimperwoods · 2 years

Text

Oswin - Fog and Vertigo

Part 9! Oswin Greystone is a wizard, a con man, and, now, a warlock’s pet. He needs to find a way out of it.

tw: pet whump, tw: non-sexual nudity (he’s technically in his underwear), tw: abuse, tw: abuse by a representative of the law, tw: fantasy cops, tw: threats, tw: mental fog, tw: panic attacks, tw: dizziness, tw: vertigo, tw: vomit mention, kind of nothing happens, but kind of something does

There’s a masterpost now!

Taglist: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @starnight-whump

****

Oswin could barely believe his luck as his master’s booted feet retreated down the stairs. His jaw still ached faintly from the captain’s tight grip on it and he could hear that voice telling him, low and growling, exactly what would happen to him if he made a noise this time. He’d started shaking and he knew he’d never stop if he couldn’t get the images his master had painted back out of his head.

He waited, keeping his ears open and focusing on what he could hear in the hope that it might drive the thoughts away and settle his racing heart.

The sounds were the same as yesterday, the low hum of men talking and laughing downstairs with no idea he was here. It was hard to imagine why his master thought they would care, given how little they’d seemed to care about him when he was in their dungeon instead of their attic, but that was another thought that didn’t help.

He focused on breathing. He’d been left collared, but with his mouth uncovered. That, at least, he could live with. For now, he could live with that, and for now he needed not to think about what it meant to be able to live with it. He could calm down. He would calm down.

When he felt confident that the man wouldn’t return any time soon, he rose hesitantly to his feet, biting back a curse as straightening his battered knees sent pain shooting through him.

He felt weak and wobbly, but standing at all had been beyond him not so long ago, so he let himself stand still and breathe and wait for the uncertainty to pass, holding his arms out for balance like a toddler. Gods, what was he? How had he been one thing three days ago and become another so fast?

Stumbling over to his master’s desk was more instinct than strategy. It was solid, heavy, and the right height to help him keep upright. Once he was there, though, there was plenty to catch his eye. He moved some papers off of a map of the city, labeled with a set of symbols he couldn’t make heads or tails out of.

Swaying on his feet, he started rifling through the papers instead, and then the drawers, hoping for anything that jumped out as useful. He could tell he wasn’t thinking straight, that the fear and pain were clouding over his mind, but he forced himself to focus. If nothing else, he would focus his eyes on the pages. If nothing else, he would read the words enough times to know what they were about, generally. If nothing else, he would decide if the things were useful.

It was all slow, too slow, painfully slow, and he couldn’t stand for that long, sinking into his master’s chair almost without noticing.

He barely heard his master’s feet on the steps before the man arrived, and even with the spike of terror that hit him, his mind was too slow to react, and he had time to fling himself from the chair and onto the floor, but not the time to fix the papers that scattered with him.

“Wizard,” his master barked, the anger in his voice making Oswin curl up into himself on the ground. “Were you going through my things?”

Oswin’s mouth went dry, and the fog in his brain rose up to silence him, his mind too muffled to answer.

As his master’s booted feet came closer, it was all he could do to stammer out the truth - “Yes!”

The feet stopped, and Oswin didn’t have the courage to look up.

“What did you say?” the man asked, an edge of danger in his voice.

“Yes, master,” Oswin said, his voice so soft it almost gave out.

“And did I give you permission to go through my things?”

“No, master.”

Blank. Empty. Howling. Why wasn’t his brain more useful? Why couldn’t he think? Oswin realized he was breathing fast, too fast, fast enough to make his empty, foggy head start spinning on its axis. He pressed his forehead to the floor, hard, in the hope that it might stop the spinning.

His master’s feet were moving again, but even if he’d been fast enough to think of running, he couldn’t have known which way was away. He gasped for air, losing himself to the way the world reeled around him.

The quiet thud of his master’s knees landing on the floor beside him made Oswin flinch away, even as he struggled to make sense of it. A huge hand wrapped around the back of his neck, squeezing in a vague threat he felt more than he understood.

He looked up into his master’s eyes, unable to keep his own locked into the cold brown ones that seemed to spin along with the rest of the world, dizzying and impossible.

All of a sudden, his master released the back of his neck and felt his forehead instead.

“You’re not feverish,” he said, “Pull yourself together.”

The shove that sent Oswin sprawling was almost gentle, compared to most of what had come before it, and Oswin laid his head back down on the floor, trying to find words around his panting breaths. “Th-thank you, master.”

“The next time you touch something that isn’t yours without permission, I’ll crush your fingers under my boot.”

Oswin nodded, the motion making the vertigo worse. His chest hurt. Had his master done something to make his chest hurt? But no, that was him. His lungs. His heart. He felt like he’d messed up a lightning spell, like the energy running though him was too much, too fast, too dangerous.

The toe of his master’s boot pushed his chin away from his chest, and Oswin forced himself to look up at the man again, even as everything in front of his eyes continued to whirl.

“If you can look at things for yourself, you can look at them for me. Stand up.”

No. No, that wasn’t possible. For a moment Oswin didn’t move, but then his master’s face shifted, darkening, and Oswin fought his way through the spinning of the world and figured out how to move.

The floor was definitely down. The floor was down. He rolled onto his hands an knees, which meant his hands and knees were down and his head and back were up. He felt his stomach twist, but the good thing about not having eaten since yesterday was that there was nothing in there to rebel against the pain that still spiked with every twist of his back or the spinning of the world.

When he leaned back, onto just his knees, the spinning got worse, and he had to close his eyes.

His master grunted, displeased. “I said stand, pet.”

Oswin couldn’t nod. Couldn’t speak. He knew which way was which, as long as he didn’t think too hard about the spinning, as long as he didn’t try to look. He struggled to his feet, swaying as soon as he was upright.

His knees didn’t feel any better this time, but what was more pressing was that he could feel the world swinging around him, even with his eyes closed. He half-crouched, trying to give himself a wider base to keep from falling over.

Then his master’s hand was on his chin again, pulling Oswin’s face to tilt up towards his own. “Open your eyes.”

Oswin did, looking straight into those cold eyes, and even as he continued to feel everything whirl, whirl, whirl without stopping, his master’s eyes stayed perfectly steady.

Oswin reached up and grabbed his master’s forearm, moving on instinct before he could think about what he was doing.

“P-please Sir,” No. Wrong. Oswin took in a deep, shuddering breath and tried again, “Please, Master, make it stop!”

His voice sounded afraid, even more than he expected. Even more than he felt, because even the fear seemed blurry beneath the vertigo, like that too was wheeling around him at top speed.

His master sighed. His brow softened, the anger fading. The Captain’s eyes were still cold, still mean, but he was less dangerous now, had to be less dangerous when he wasn’t angry. Oswin started tearing up, his legs still shaking and his grip on his master’s arm still desperate.

His master’s other hand cupped his cheek, moving his face more gently this time.

“Make what stop, wizard? What have you done to yourself?”

“The spinning, master,” Oswin answered quietly. “Everything is spinning.”

The Captain scoffed, letting go of Oswin’s face with a little shove that, disoriented as he was, meant Oswin could only stay upright by closing his eyes again and clinging more tightly to the man’s arm.

“Lie down,” his master said, sounding vaguely disgusted. “You’ll look at things for me later. Get some rest.” He muttered something under his breath that Oswin only half-heard. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

It was a relief to let go of his master’s arm, as much as it made him feel unmoored in the time it took him to get carefully from his feet to the ground.

Everything still spun, but the pressure of the ground against his side was reassuring, more reassuring than being balanced on his feet.

“I’m going to leave some bread,” his master sad, “Don’t eat it until the spinning stops. If you vomit, I’ll make you lick it up.”

Oswin couldn’t bear to think of either the promise or the threat. Instead, he focused on the darkness inside his eyelids and tried, again, to get ahold of himself. His master’s footsteps sounded impossibly regular, descending the stairs, but when they were gone the world seemed even more impossible, somehow.

Everything was still spinning when he fell asleep, too exhausted for even the sense that he was about to fall to keep his frazzled nerves from giving out.

#fantasy whump #whump #pet whump #d&d wump #panic attacks tw #dizziness tw #threats tw #police brutality tw #fantasy police tw #oswin series #emeto mention #emeto tw #our boy is not doing great #give him some more days and he'll be able to make decisions again

14 notes · View notes

briarreed · 11 months

Text

THE CAGED BIRD - Briar-Rose Andromeda Reed

Pinterest. Playlist.

CHARACTER INSPO: Caroline Forbes (the vampire diaries), Blair Waldorf (gossip girl), Elinor Fairmont (first kill), Catherine (hulu's the great), Paige Matthews (Charmed)

antique maps, flowers pressed between leather journals, tea cups never empty, reading while rain bounces off an open window frame, clusters of crystals, books organized by size, the echo of pages turned in a quiet room, a warm sweater with her heart tucked safely under her sleeve.

FULL NAME: Briar-Rose Andromeda Reed (Chamberlain)

NICKNAMES: Briar, B, Rosie/Rose

AGE: 32

BIRTHDATE: September 3rd, 1991 at 10 am

ZODIAC: Virgo sun, Cancer moon, Libra rising

SPECIES: Witch

ABILITIES: Teleportation, Electrokinesis, Familiar manifestation, Audible inudation

POSITION: Coven Member

PLACE OF BIRTH: Boston, MA

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Lunar Cove, Rhode Island

NEIGHBORHOOD: Downtown

OCCUPATION: Burlesque dancer

MBTI: ENFJ-T close to ENTJ-T

ENNEAGRAM: 1w2 the helper

TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic

+ organized, detail oriented, responsible, analytical, dedicated, introspective

- vain, superficial, uncertain self-worth, secretive, competitive/possessive, envious

TRIGGERS: toxic parental relationship, anxiety/panic, abandonment, compulsive behavior, gaslighting

ABOUT

The youngest of the Reed/Chamberlain siblings. She was a toddler when they were moved away, and all her memories feel more like dreams she was essentially gaslit into believing weren't memories.

As a young child, Briar was as soft as water, silky, and ingenue, entirely in love with daydreams and once upon a time. And more than the pages of her favorite books, she found refuge in her family. Briar looked up to her older siblings and admired her mother. She was a force, beautiful, sure, and powerful- she had her faults, but through the rose-colored lenses of a child who longed for nothing more than being wanted, perhaps insecurity brought on by the supposed abandonment of her father she could excuse nearly anything if it meant she could avoid any sense of abandonment.

Because of this eagerness to please, Briar was quickly malleable, an act that her mother took full advantage of, curating Briar into the image of perfection, a standard to which Briar was never sure how close she was. It gave her a goal to strive towards, always hoping she was close enough, good enough- perfect.

She secured her status and place by maintaining the image of the perfect daughter. Intelligent, talented, well-spoken, and charming, she was the golden girl, curated to perfection.

Her relationship with her mother was tumultuous, fueled by Briar mistaking praise and pride for love and bonding. In truth, she wasn't sure her mother knew a single real thing about her or that she knew either. All she knew was the part she played, all of Lunar Cove on her stage, and the curtain was always lifted. The show was always on.

Her entire life Briar knew she was destined for greatness. She would go to an Ivy university where she would work for her doctorate in history, return to Lunar Cove with a wealth of knowledge and rise the ranks in the Coven, cementing her place in history as a woman no one could ever forget.

However, even the best-laid plans can fall apart, maybe no one else saw it coming, but from the moment her sister went on her sabbatical, she knew nothing would ever be the same again. Call it intuition or general pessimism. Briar would call it realism- however, there would be no satisfaction in her being right, not this time.

Bit by bit, the life she had been raised to want slipped further from her reach. Briar knew she couldn't leave, even if she was confident she would return. Ivy League became an online and community college, and turning down acceptances to Harvard, Dartmouth, and Princeton had been devastating. Still, Briar could adapt to make small changes, and the result would be the same.

Despite how things appeared, college was incredibly challenging. In fact, nothing was ever as straightforward as Briar made it appear. She was the queen of facades, making all she did seem as if it came to her effortlessly when she worked herself into dust to achieve what some advisors warned her would be unachievable. She always loved a good challenge, even at the cost of a sense of self.

Briar was incredibly skilled at taking an idea and manifesting it into reality. Whatever she wanted to be, she could become it. Socially adaptable when the mood called for it, she did well. By 22, she had completed her undergrad in history. She was a consultant for the historical society, a job she loved, perhaps the first thing she truly loved about her life.

It wasn't long before Briar began seeking her doctorate through online schooling. She was able to continue her work, be a dedicated member of the Coven and expand her education.

Life was golden- she had found something like love in a fellow witch who was adamant about creating a future with her. She had been unsure until her mother encouraged her to accept his proposal.

However, when Miles died and she failed to be accepted by the ancestors, everything began to spin outwards.

The shame and guilt of her failure was bad enough. The loss, with all the rest of her grief, threatened to consume her, to ruin her. But Briar put on a brave face, an unreadable expression of grace- she would not let them see her break. She would come back stronger, better there must have been a mistake. Then the new Supreme passed the trials, and she was chosen- it was her sister.

Poppy was supreme, something she had plenty of mixed and complicated feelings about, and as it turned out, they had a half-sister, Jasmine, and the truth of her birth father came to light, further complexing her internal feelings.

She took a sabbatical from her career to focus on "other things," putting her dissertation on indefinite hold with only a few months left until she gained her doctorate. The last nail in the proverbial coffin came when Briar, without warning, ended her relationship and canceled her wedding.

The failure shook up everything she thought she knew about herself, her future, and her wants. She could not face herself. Every time she looked in the mirror, it was as if she saw a stranger, a woman she did not recognize and perhaps never did.

It's been a while since everything changed, the curtain dropped, and Briar has fallen into a new sort of pretending- the stage. As it turns out, she has a fantastic talent for acting. She has begun to pour all her unspent emotions into characters. It doesn't matter if any of it is real so long as the curtain is up and the applause follows after the fall.

QUICK FACTS

Briar is a notoriously talented pianist and figure skater. If she could have ever left Lunar Cove, part of her believes she could have made something of it.

Briar is very impatient and has an undeniable "I'll do it myself" mentality about most things.

Endlessly talented Briar has an affinity for calligraphy and collects fountain pens.

Briar's familiar is a fluffy white cat named Posie.

When insomnia strikes Briar finds herself at the piano playing her favorite pieces.

Her bedroom is adorned with bookshelves, plush cushions, and a window seat. It's her sanctuary, a place where she finds refuge from the chaos.

Despite being the baby, she often feels like she has to take the role of the oldest and most responsible. At times she resents this and has taken to keeping little secrets. Things she squirrels away for just herself.

Briar collects maps from all over the world imagining all the places she would have visited by now if she had been able.

She hates being alone and seldom spends a day alone.

Her career changed naturally, from consulting on historical accuracy for a show to stage management, understudy, and eventually taking the stage with a natural affinity she couldn't deny.

TIMELINE -

2018 - Linden left Briar is 26

2019 - Poppy's return when Briar is 27

2021 - Fiance proposes a plan for a wedding in the Summer of 2023

Feb 2022 - Linden returns.

March 2022 - Miles & the current supreme die, supreme trials and Poppy becomes supreme.

2022 - Discovers she has a half-sister and learns about Silas and the truth

June 2022- Ends her engagement and begins working at The Pendulum.

2023 - Begins to secretly look into who Silas is looking for her own answers

FAMILY

Alyssa Reed - mother -deceased

Silas Chamberlain - father

Miles Hale - late stepfather

Poppy Reed - older sister

Linden Reed - older brother

Jasmine St.Claire - older half-sister

TLDR

Youngest of the Reed/Chamberlain/St.Claire siblings. She is a massive people pleaser, a social chameleon who means well but can come off as vain, apathetic, or selfish to those who don't know her. Reluctant lifer who, when her life fell apart over a few months, gave up her job with the historical society, ended her engagement and found a new sort of distraction and talent in the stage at The Pendulum.

#intro #about #lunarcoveintro #toxic parent tw #anxiety tw #panic attacks tw #gas lighting tw #death tw #parental death tw #compulsive behavior tw

3 notes · View notes