lol you know what, yesterday i went out with more than two people, as a group of friends/friend-ish people, for the first time in 3 years? 3 ½ years? that actually sounds so fucked up, but that's what my loner-tendencies did to me. and maybe the pandemic.

hello hello ! it is may again and i... am still 20, using she/her, and in the eastern standard timezone. i can’t say that’s changed in the amount of time between intros. anyway, i do want to say that i like this gif because i feel like it.............. is an accurate representation of ribs at........... almost all times.

‹ TREVANTE RHODES, HE/HIM, CIS MAN, BISEXUAL. › DAVID “RIBS” SHAFFER is the TWENTY-EIGHT year old from EMERYVILLE, CA. when a friend asked them what they thought of the manor they said, ❝ IT LOOKS LIKE SOMEWHERE JAMIE LEE WOULD BE LURED INTO. ❞ they claim ANY HORROR MOVIE WITH JAMIE LEE CURTIS IN IT is their favorite scary movie, and if they were to die in a horror film they would EXPLAIN TO THE KILLER THAT THERE WAS NO WAY HE MET THE CRITERIA FOR THE ‘FINAL GIRL’… JUST TO BE KILLED IN THE MIDDLE OF HIS SPEECH. their fears include HALLUCINATING, PARALYZATION and FIREWORKS, and they don’t know we know, but… HE MADE MONEY AS A DEALER WHILE HE WAS STILL WAITING FOR THE BAND TO TAKE OFF. hope they enjoy their stay. ‹ MUSE B from STRESSED OUT. ›

QUICK FACTS:

full name: david “ribs” isaiah shaffer

date of birth: december 1, 1992

*does not perfectly reflect the below Big Three zodiac chart because that’s so much math

zodiac big three: sagittarius sun, capricorn moon, pisces rising

gender & pronouns: cis man & he/him

sexual orientation: bisexual

occupation: drummer + backup songwriter + history of drug dealing

the song i listen to on repeat while i write the intro: “make or break” - bugzy malone

BACKGROUND INFO:

triggers: violence, mentions of drug dealing, very very very brief mention of self-harm (not the product of a mental illness which is why i forgot to include this until i looked at it again this morning - the product of wanting to keep a lie), very very brief mention of guns and fire in the ‘fears’ section

born to a very loving family bc i need a sunnier background hasfkljwas 

david was never EVER academically inclined. he’ll tell you it’s because he just wasn’t interested and was too involved in music and boxing, both of which will be gone over soon, but that wasn’t entirely true. he was also very busy working odd jobs days and nights as a kid and days and nights at successful businesses when he was 16+ (see: papa john’s)

his parents did own a music shop! they were clearly doing their part! but, in the digital era and the era of guitar center, they were only getting so much traction. they were also much too calm about it, at least outwardly, so david felt as though he needed to help.

but it is true that he spent a lot of time practicing music and boxing! as just mentioned, his parents owned a music store and were both very musically inclined. they taught him how to be, at the very least, INTERMEDIATE at as many instruments as possible. he can now confidently say that, if the band ever needed it, he could play the guitar, piano, bass, or saxophone. 

that being said, his instrument of choice was the drums. he began using jazz drummers, as well as various hip-hop beats, as his inspiration. his original inspirations were buddy rich, gene krupa, chico hamilton, art blakey, and the beats of grime and 90s rap.

it shows.

when he ventured into other genres, however, he began taking inspiration from nick mason, john bonham, neil peart, keith moon, ginger baker, karen carpenter, and ringo starr 

(i have a music theory + history lesson for you if you think ringo is a bad drummer ok - he was a “songwriter’s drummer,” which is much more important to being a drummer in a band than being technically skilled or being able to show off with complex patterns and, thus, overshadowing the song. that’s why the beatles continued asking ringo to play the drums on their songs, even after they broke up. john lennon never said “he’s not even the best drummer in the beatles” - a radio dj made that joke and people started taking it literally. love that.)

(also the same goes for nick mason but his drumming is rly only brought up when he’s brought up since pink floyd isn’t as talked about as the beatles)

ALSO!!! i have decided to be passionate about karen carpenter because girl won a 1975 poll that pit her against john bonham for best drummer and he got so mad and said she couldn’t last ten minutes with led zeppelin. the following is just alleged, but oh my god i hope it’s true: then she proceeded to compliment his drumming, say that she thinks it’s all very subjective, then got behind her set and played “babe i’m gonna leave you” while singing and not missing a single note. we have decided to stan forever.

he also took up boxing. as a kid, he was just practicing and taking any excess frustration out. when he turned 14, however, he found an opportunity in an underground circuit. he started fighting against other people, for real, and would be paid if he won the fight.

so: school from 8a-3p, drum practice from 3:30p-7:30p (i know), family from 8p-10p, boxing from 11p-2a.

his parents knew he boxed, but didn’t know it was as dangerous as it was. they assumed there were more safeguards in place..... but boy was bringing in a LOT of money for there to be a lot of safeguards in place. because of this, david NEVER let them see his matches.

when he was 16, he’d broken his ribs during one of the fights and refused to see a doctor over it. what did he say happened when his parents could TELL something was wrong? he said that he’d been mugged and beaten up. to support this theory, before he ‘showed’ it to them, he dug into himself with a knife to make it look like the muggers had a switchblade.

from there on out, he made everyone call him “ribs”

did his parents ever wonder where his excess income was coming from? DEFINITELY. he told them that, yes, his MINIATURE matches did bring in some money, but the rest of the money came from tips!! because people are clearly that generous!!

he also never showed them the full amount. he’d only give what was necessary, not out of selfishness, rather to keep his secret and save them from worrying about him. he put it in a savings account.

it should also be addressed that, during this time, he became friends with who would become the guitarist in his future band, joakim. he witnessed joakim fight a homophobic teenager and desperately wanted to join in... but his ribs were broken ahflskd

he continued boxing, even after being introduced to joakim’s college friend, gabe - the future singer of their band. that being said, they began jamming with each other and played in a few local circuits.

his parents were very encouraging of this and told him that he should go for this as a career opportunity. 

can you tell they were idealists?

he wanted to... but it was very impractical. by now, however, he was out of school (and he never went to college). his parents let him continue living with them since they were under the belief they were short on cash and it’d be difficult for him to find an affordable apartment under the papa john’s salary.

he decided to take his parents up on this... but, while he was waiting for his band to find success, their music store was closed down. as they both began looking desperately for new jobs, he realized that papa john’s and the fighting payment wasn’t quite enough anymore... so he started selling drugs.

he doesn’t keep his fighting a secret anymore, but he does keep his drug dealing a secret. he fears that it’ll perpetuate stereotypes.

during one of his band’s gigs, he and the others met their future bassist - the missing piece - rory. she was marginally younger than they were, but she was an extremely talented bassist and songwriter, so the lineup was finally complete and devil’s wine was formed.

when they began skyrocketing, he quit drug dealing. he also stopped the dangerous boxing, although he continues to... box safely. he began sending money back home after they really started succeeding. his mother got a teacher licensure in music and his father got the opportunity to own..... a guitar center.

if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

VERY IMPORTANT: uses a pearl custom kit, istanbul cymbals, aquarian heads, and vic firth sticks.

that was very important.

PERSONALITY INFO:

literally obsessed with jamie lee curtis. watching her movies has also made him very genre-savvy. 

would genuinely die for her.

is the epitome of bob belcher’s “oh my god.” in his band. they get off topic during practice/recording just ONCE?? queue “oh my god.” and the gif above.

isn’t necessarily ashamed of his past dealings (literally) - like, joakim knows - but is genuinely afraid of perpetuating the stereotype of the dirty black boy. he’s open about the rest of his life, but he’s convinced that if people learn he used to sell drugs, he would be setting people back. having a black drummer in a rock band that’s on the radio? he needs to keep up appearances!!

never wears shirts during concerts. has to show off his ribs and also drumming, with a bunch of lights directly on him, is an extreme exercise and guaranteed sweat machine. dresses like bugzy malone otherwise.

ahflskjd again,,, like adrian,,, look @ his chart ig alhkfjd

FEARS:

hallucinating: he hates not only the idea of losing his mind, but also the idea of having a skewed view of reality after he really... saw reality, you know? his uncle had schizophrenia and, while he rarely saw him, the thought of going through what his uncle had/has to go through terrifies him.

paralyzation: this was a constant worry of his during his boxing matches - he was terrified someone would wind up taking out a firearm and would shoot him into a state of paralysis. not to mention, all limbs are required for both drumming and boxing.... so.

fireworks: less deep than the others. the house next door to his was set on fire due to a firework display being too close. while no one died and most of the house was salvaged, the idea of losing anything he has is terrifying to him. also the sounds they make remind him of guns so?

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

ok,,, so unlike adrian,,, he lived in california,,, a state many other characters lived in. while some cities in california can be like,,,, seven hours away,,, IT’S STILL AN IMPROVEMENT, so i’ll list a few past connection ideas too!

fans

people who hate his music

people who’ve seen one of his matches

old friends

someone who was constantly in his parents’ music store

exes

fwb

ons

???? im bad at connections!!!!!! but im down for brainstorming and/or working off of urs!!!!!!

Finding Home

Fandom: Star Trek (AOS/TOS). Pairing:  ReaderXBones. Prompt: Requested by Anon – reader is triggered by something and breaks down, and Bones is there to comfort them. Word Count: 3619. Warnings: anxiety, panic attack. Rating: Teen+. Author’s Note: Being triggered into a full-blown panic attack is something I would not wish on even my worst enemies.  I know there are a lot of you out there who have anxieties, past traumas haunting you, and PTSD.  It’s so hard to deal with.  If you ever, EVER need to talk, I’m always here to listen.  Shout out to @starshiphufflebadger for helping inspire me for this fic, too!  The actual trigger and situation preceding it were her ideas.  Flashbacks in the story are denoted in italics.

Finding Home You’re sitting across the table from Leonard in the mess hall, picking at your replicated dinner as the two of you engage in small talk about your respective days.  You roll your eyes as he goes off on a rant about the red-shirts again, and you gently remind him that his job would be awfully boring if the operations crew never got themselves injured.  He reluctantly agrees and falls silent, letting you go on about your work in the geology lab instead. “So there used to be an ocean there?” the doctor asks, turning the facts you’ve given him over in his mind. You smile as he makes the connection and feel a flush of pride for him – he’s clearly been listening to you when you’ve talked about work, whereas most people tune you out as you bore them to tears. “Right,” you say with a nod.  “You remembered that pale-colored sediments are indicative of deposition and lithification in anoxic environments! It’s so nice to know that someone actually listens to me sometimes.”

He grins at you and takes a bite of his dessert: peach cobbler, his favorite. “You’ve got a lot of interesting things to say, darlin’,” he says with a wink.  “Some people just refuse to be educated.” You blush at his words, the compliment warming you, the unspoken acknowledgment of your brilliance making you feel giddy. You’re just wondering how to reply to his words when a sudden, high-pitched deafening noise fills your ears. Dropping your utensils, you clasp your hands over your ears to drown out some of the noise, glancing around frantically. Moments later, a bright, strobing, red and white light joins the fray, overwhelming your vision.  You feel your chest tighten reflexively, putting your heart and lungs in a vice as panic suddenly overwhelms you.  The fire alarm brings you immediately back to the worst night of your life and the panic of those around you fades into the background as your own anxiety paralyzes you. You’re eight years old.  You’re in the back seat of your parents’ car with your twin sister, on your way home from dinner with some friends in the next town over. It’s pitch black and just below freezing outside.  A torrential rain is pounding on the roof of the car and ice is beginning to form on the road.  The lights on the highway are few and far between, and you hear your dad mention something about it getting really slippery. The next thing you know, the inside of the car is illuminated in bright white by the headlights of a transport truck barreling toward your car, out of control.  You hear screaming and a colossal crunching noise, and the last thing you remember is pain as your seat belt bites into your chest and belly, holding you in place as the car is thrown off of the road and rolls down a steep hillside before coming to a rest at the bottom of the slope. You’re crying, scared and confused as bright red and white lights flash in the night around you – ambulance lights illuminating the tree tops overhead as you’re carried up the slope your car had rolled down by paramedics, strapped to a hard board of some kind and unable to move. One of the men is trying to reassure you, but he won’t tell you where your mom, dad, or sister are and it’s terrifying you. Two days later, you wake up in a hospital with a doctor standing over you, examining what you quickly realize is a cast on your leg that covers from your toes to the top of your thigh.  One of your arms is in a cast, too, and everything hurts.  You’re crying as the doctor finishes his exam, begging for your mom and dad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the doctor says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder.  “They were hurt very badly in the accident.  We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save them. They’re gone.” Your sister is gone, too, you find out moments later.  There’s no one left but you.  You’re alone – completely and utterly – and the last memory you have of your family is that of their screams and their faces, contorted in  of panic, illuminated by the lights of that transport truck. “Y/N!”  A familiar voice calls over the din of the fire alarm.  “Talk to me, sweetheart!” Your chest constricts even more at the term on endearment – the same one the doctor had used when he’d broken the news to you all those years ago – and all you can do is drag in ragged, shallow breaths as a strong pair of hands grips your shoulders.  You can’t see through your tears and your head is swimming, dizziness and a gnawing physical agony drawing you closer and closer to passing out with each moment. “Come on, we need to move,” the voice beckons again.  “I’ve got you.” Recognition breaks through the fog of sheer panic that’s blanketing you – the voice belongs to Leonard McCoy.  You fight to control your breathing as the flashbacks continue, throwing you back into the fray of the emotions you felt on the day you lost your family, the acuity of the feelings erasing the years that have passed in which you’ve had time to grieve and freshening the pain. You’re too breathless to even yelp as you’re swept off of your feet and carried out of the mess hall in Dr. McCoy’s arms. He’s speaking to you, trying to break through your panic, but to no avail.  You cling to him desperately, your chest heaving as he joins the queue of people calmly leaving the mess hall to get to their assigned muster points.  Everyone is moving quickly and in an orderly fashion, and it doesn’t take long for the doctor to carry you out of the mess and into the hallway.  Unfortunately, it’s more of the same thing and in an even smaller space, and your grip on Leonard tightens as the sensory overload drives your panic further. You’re burying your head in his chest, trying to calm the assault on your senses, and you don’t even notice that he’s barking at people to get out of his way, citing a medical emergency.  He rushes you to the nearest muster point, holding you to his chest and wishing he could get you somewhere private and secure but knowing he needs to stay put until the alert is called off.  He murmurs to you softly, but loudly enough that you can hear him over the din. Seconds stretch into minutes and you feel like you’re on the verge of passing out.  Eventually, though, the lights stop flashing and the normal bright-whites at the top of the corridor come back on.  The sirens stop blaring and an announcement by the chief of engineering, Mr. Scott himself, comes on overhead. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, folks!  Mandatory fire drill.  Well done – you can all carry on with your day now.” The doctor swears under his breath as he turns with you still in his arms, immediately striding toward med bay. “Hold on, darlin’,” he reassures you.  “I’ll give you something to help calm you down right away, just try to breathe for me.” “No!”  You cry weakly, pulling harder on his tunic.  “I don’t w-want to go to medical.  Please!” Your anxiety and desperation push him in the opposite direction and against his better judgment.  He brings you to the turbo lift instead, still pushing through crowds of crew members milling about in the wake of the fire drill.  Those standing in front of the doors part to let the two of you through and the doors slide closed in your wake, leaving you alone in the lift. “I’m taking you back to my room, sweetheart,” the doctor promises.  “But you’re going to have to work with me to control your breathing, okay?  Can you please try that?” By way of response, you attempt to drag in a breath.  It’s probably a good sign that you’re able to focus on his words even a little bit, but the little spark of good is lost in a sea of grief and anxiety and you only get so far as to take a slightly deeper breath in, holding it as the lift stops on your floor. You hold it, your body beginning to tremble from the lack of oxygen, until you can’t bear it anymore and then you breathe out in a rush, sawing another breath in raggedly as you reach Leonard’s quarters. The door opens for the two of you and the doctor immediately carries you over to his bed, setting you gently down on the mattress.  You refuse to let go of his tunic, holding yet another breath as you claw at him. The gentle thump of his knuckles against your sternum serves as a tactile reminder for you to breathe and you gasp again, this time keeping up the rhythm of inhale, exhale as Leonard reaches up to gently extricate your hands from his shirt, holding onto them with his own instead. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, squeezing your hands to give you something tangible to hold onto.  “What’s happening?” You shake your head as your anxiety suddenly becomes compounded by shame.  Tugging your arms against the grasp he has on your hands, you try to pull away but he doesn’t give in.  You begin to feel trapped and your fear spirals, your breathing almost immediately becoming uncontrollable all together.  You’re breathing in great, gasping sobs, barely getting any air, and thankfully Leonard realizes what’s happened. “Okay, okay, darlin’,” he soothes, letting go of your wrists and watching you pull away and put your back to him so he can’t see your face.  “Hey, Y/N, listen to me: breathe.” His voice is much more urgent now, his tone a little sharper, but it’s enough to break through your terror.  It takes you a minute or two to get your breathing under control again, but when you do, it’s coming easier than it was before your anxiety had precipitated a minute ago.  Leonard soothes you softly, his hand rubbing your hip as you lie facing away from him. “That’s a good girl,” he says quietly.  “Just keep that up.  In… and out.  You’re doing great.” He's not asking about what set you into a tailspin, and for that you’re eternally grateful.  You’re just not ready to talk about it yet, not while the adrenaline is coursing through you, making your body work overtime, driving you to what feels like the brink of madness. “Just going to check your pulse here, darlin’,” Leonard explains a moment later and you nod, feeling him stop his petting and reach for your wrist instead. As he measures your heart rate, you reach up with your shaky other hand, wiping your tears away before any more of them soak into his blankets.  The moisture that’s landed on the fabric already, however, is liberating his comforting scent – rosewood, cinnamon, and disinfectant; an odd but strangely endearing combination that puts you at ease a little with its familiarity. You feel him release your wrist a moment later and his hand is immediately back at your side, his thumb stroking your hipbone lightly in a slow, soothing rhythm that you find yourself attempting to match your breathing to now that you’re thinking a little bit more clearly. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he encourages you.  “You’re okay, Y/N.” You nod slowly, trying your best to believe him, and you close your eyes.  You’re more tired than you’ve ever been in the wake of the worst of the anxiety, but even as you begin to settle, you find yourself unable to sleep.  You just keep breathing with Leonard rhythmically stroking your hip and eventually moving up to pet your hair instead.  His touch is like an anxiety pill and you find the feelings melting away, leaving you calmer with every passing moment. After a half hour or so, your tears dry up and you turn over so you’re on your back, turning your head to face Leonard. His expression is unendingly sympathetic and his caring almost breaks you again, but you manage to hold it together. You take a shaky breath, averting your gaze a little, and reach out to twine your fingers together with his. “Can you pull up my personnel file?”  You ask him. He looks a little confused, but he reaches out and plucks his PADD up off of the bedside table nevertheless, unlocking the screen and typing your details with his free hand, the tablet balanced on his lap. “Look through my pre-admission psych evaluation,” you instruct him.  “I just… I’m not ready to talk about it right now, but it’s all in there.” Leonard nods, accessing the pertinent part of your file, reading in silence for several long minutes.  You don’t know exactly what’s written in the paperwork, but you know that your whole life history is summarized in its pages for him to see.  You can’t bear to watch him, his shocked and pained expressions, and so you glance away, your eyes tracing the riveting on the ceiling as you try to catch up on some deep breathing.  You feel sick to your stomach from all of the emotion and you run a hand through your hair, shivering from the exertion of it all.  It’s at that moment that Leonard looks up and he frowns, reaching out to gently stroke your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly.  “I had no idea.” You nod. “I don’t talk about it much,” you offer. “Sometimes I just get flashbacks. Certain sounds or sights will trigger those memories and…” You gesture to yourself, to the state that you’re in with your hair disheveled and your face splotchy from the crying. Leonard sets his PADD aside and leans forward to gently kiss your forehead. “Those lights,” you croak.  “When the flashing started… it reminded me of the headlights I saw just before we were hit.  It was like I was right back there again.” He nods and smooths your hair down, taming the locks that have liberated themselves from your hair tie.  Gently trailing his fingertips over your cheek, he slips his hand down along your jawline and neck, resting his palm ultimately on your chest, the weight of it reassuring you and giving you something to hold onto as you navigate your way out of the swirling maelstrom of emotions. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” you whisper, closing your eyes against the onslaught of shame you’re suddenly feeling. “Oh, Y/N, no,” he says softly.  “Don’t say that, sugar.  I’m glad I was here for you.” Your shivering is growing increasingly violent, your body’s coping mechanisms becoming strained by your tiredness.  You swallow thickly, choking back a fresh wave of tears, and sigh. “I want you to get some rest,” the doctor expresses.  “You’ve been through a lot today.” “I don’t know if I can sleep right now,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to chase away the trembling. “Well, why don’t you get changed out of your uniform first, see how you feel,” he suggests, moving to stand up, leaving the spot on your chest that his palm has vacated feeling cool. You shift around, sitting up as he crosses the room and opens the closet door, reaching for something on the rack above the hangers.  You watch him as he pulls a couple of articles of clothing out and returns to your side, holding them out to you. “They’re going to be way too long for you, but they’ll be comfortable,” Leonard says lightly.  “Go on and get changed, I’ll bring you some tea.” You shakily get to your feet as he heads to the kitchenette, slowly peeling off your dress and folding it carefully.  You set it aside and unclip your bra.  Your boots come off last but your socks stay on to keep your feet warm as you step into sweatpants that are far longer and looser than is reasonable.  Stooping down, you roll up the bottoms of each leg so your feet can touch the floor unhindered and you roll up the waistband, too, securing it with a tug on the strings and a tight bow.  With that done, you slip the shirt he’s given you over your head, rolling up the sleeves, too, reveling in its softness. Leonard returns as you finish up and he sets the tea mug he’s brought with him down on the bedside table, gesturing to the bed.  He folds down the blankets, encouraging you wordlessly to crawl beneath them, and pulls them up again once you’re settled.  He stands over your seated form, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under your eyes as you fidget with the blanket in your lap. “Drink that, it’ll help,” he instructs you quietly, his tone soothing.  “I’ll be right back.” As he retreats, you pick up the mug and sniff at the tea in it, making a face.  It smells unappetizing, but you know that whatever it is will settle your stomach and help calm you; Leonard always deliberately picks what sort of herbal tea he brings you when you’re not feeling your best, usually with good results. Taking a tentative sip, you groan – it tastes even worse than it smells.  Still, you manage to choke down half a mug full before Leonard returns and he smiles proudly at you as you set the remainder aside. “How’s that?”  He asks, taking a seat at your side and setting his med kit down in his lap. “Better,” you admit, feeling the nausea beginning to settle. “Good,” Leonard says, his tone relieved. “Now, feel free to say no because as your boyfriend I don’t want to push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but as your doctor, I’d really like to give you something to help relax you and put you to sleep.  You need your rest, darlin’, and it’ll help that headache, too.” You furrow your eyebrows, confused because you hadn’t mentioned your headache, but you quickly realize that you’re rubbing your neck, trying to ease the tension in the muscles there.  Leonard has always been extremely perceptive and you can’t help but smile softly.  You hesitate a few moments, your anxiety paradoxically pushing you not to accept the offer of an anxiolytic, but you eventually nod. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, his relief evident on his features, the for being reasonable hanging unspoken in the air.  “Okay, darlin’, lie down for me.” You acquiesce easily, shuffling down the length of the bed until you can lie back with your head on the pillow.  Leonard is smiling softly at you as he unzips his kit, his practiced hands pulling out the appropriate vial and assembling the hypo within seconds.  You turn your head to the side, away from him, and squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation of the hypo.  The sting is preceded by a gently stroke of his fingers, and followed by a careful rubbing. “Mmm,” you sigh, turning your head back to face him again and blinking your tired eyes open to meet his beautiful hazel gaze.  “Thanks, Lee. You always know how to take care of me.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating in your ears and warming you as the medication begins to steal away vestiges of your consciousness. “I love you, Y/N,” he murmurs in response. “I’m here.  I’ll always be here.” You hum softly in acknowledgement of his words as you’re drawn into slumber.  As your body relaxes and your breathing evens out, Leonard’s hand slips to your neck, his fingertips resting at the pulse point there, counting the now-slower beats to reassure himself that you’re alright.   He’s still by your side when the first of the night’s many bad dreams claim you a while later.  He shakes you awake gently and pulls you tight to his chest, murmuring reassurances as he presses kisses into your hair.  He’s warm, vital, and grounding as you fight to remember that you’re not that child anymore, that orphan without a tie to anyone.  He’s there and he’s alive, as the heartbeat thumping softly in your ear where your head is pressed to his chest tells you. Every time you lie back down to try to sleep again, you remind yourself that he’ll still be there when you wake up, and eventually, as though your mind has heard the reassurances enough, you drift off one more time and stay that way until the chime of Leonard’s alarm wakes you up in the morning.  Fear grips you for only a second before you come to feel the arms around you and you realize that those flashbacks, those nightmares hold no power over you now; you’re home.

@whatsthematterwithamelia @imamotherfuckingstar-lord @feelmyroarrrr @starshiphufflebadger @trekken81 @musingsongbird @gerardnot-gerald @ababyinatrenchcoat @the-alpha-otter @medicatemedrmccoy

Check out my masterlist!