Chapter Text
Yakko’s nightmare started out rather simple.
He was standing back in the series of office cubicles from the IT parody.
This time, the air was absolutely frigid, to the point Yakko could see his breath. He was once again completely alone, lacking even the company of the filming crew or the Pennywise spoof.
Confused as to why he was dreaming about this at all, Yakko padded forward a bit, glancing around, still seeing nothing and no one.
It didn’t really make sense to him why he would be dreaming about this skit in any capacity…because the writers had been the ones to come up with his ‘fear’ in the episode.
“And seeing as I’d never breathe a word to them about my actual fears,” he muttered, talking to himself; something Yakko tended to do when he was alone. “I wasn’t actually afraid. So why am I dreaming about it?”
Deciding to keep walking in hopes of something changing, Yakko weaved through a few more cubicles, eventually starting to whistle.
He was just starting to think his subconscious was aiming to bore him to death when something did happen.
Upon stepping into yet another cubicle, Yakko beheld a familiar scene.
The clown from the skit, once again perched on a chair and staring at him.
Not being filmed this time, Yakko was free to cross his arms and tap one foot disparagingly. He swept the area with a bored gaze, seeing no way forward.
"Why are you here, pal?" He drawled with a flick of his long tail. "I'm not afraid of you."
He wasn't expecting an answer, of course, not if this bizarrely boring dream was following the plot of the episode.
Yakko was starting to turn around, thinking of backtracking, when the clown did, in fact, speak.
"True."
More startled than he cared to admit, Yakko pivoted to see the clown's yellow toothed grin.
"But...we both know what- and who- you are scared of."
Then the apparition snapped his fingers, vanishing in a trail of smoke.
Yakko blinked, and was suddenly looking at a completely different room.
Immediately, his knees locked in terrified shock, because this place was one he did know.
Somewhere he’d never wanted to see again.
It was the opulent private office of their first ever director from back in the 1930’s, in his equally opulent house. Yakko recognized the tacky, huge couch, the equally gaudy embroidered rug under his feet, the imposing desk. But there was one important difference between this dream room and the real one…this one was missing its door and windows.
'You're afraid of… me .'
His eyes widened at the echo of that horribly familiar voice, gaze darting frantically around the room.
'...Stay still for me…'
Now, he was afraid, acutely afraid, because this place, it had been where-
‘You’ll let me do anything I want to you…unless you want to risk the consequences…’
Yakko stiffened up as a figure formed in front of him. A human male, leering toward him with sickly confidence.
Naked at that.
His muscles seemed to lock in raw fear, and Yakko realized he was whimpering. He wanted to move, but as much as he tried, he couldn’t.
It wasn't just the paralyzing terror, it was…
'Stay. There's a good pet…'
It was a buried part of him that was regressing, telling him he had to obey, dredging up conditioning he had been subjected to decades ago.
The figure’s features sharpened. Yakko only felt weaker upon getting a better view of his long ago abuser.
He gulped shakily, trying to stave off the phantom feeling of his stomach aching for food, of being weak and sick all the time, the weariness and headaches from constant sleep deprivation; the symptoms of a lack of desire to care for himself.
All of which had inadvertently stemmed from what Weed Memlo had been doing to him.
‘I can do it, you know. Pin the three of you with, say, murder. And well, a human’s word means more than a toon’s…we both know who they’ll believe. And you know what that would mean…’
Yes. In the 1930s, even into the 40s, Yakko was painfully aware of how easily disregarded a toon’s word was. And he was aware that back then, any toon who displayed anything close to a range of varied human emotions got labeled ‘defective.’ Locked away, used as subjects for experiments, often cruel ones-
“Ah, my favorite toy.”
Yakko yelped as Memlo’s voice sounded behind him, not as a distant whisper but as a proper vocalization this time. Finally he was able to move again; he started to run, then halted when pain registered in his ear. A hand had gripped it, holding on with a hard, vicelike grip. His wild gaze flickered down to his legs, and Yakko felt newly sick upon seeing that somehow, he was standing there without his clothes.
When had-
The next instant, he was still wearing no pants or boxers, but found himself in a dress, and his knees went weak, because he knew exactly where this led-
Nightmare Memlo was talking again. Yakko wanted to tell him to shut up, but he couldn’t seem to get his throat to move and form words. His chest felt tight, breathing constricted, mind aflame with panic, hyper aware of anything that was touching him.
“But eventually, you didn’t even need my threats to be a good boy, did you? I got you conditioned to act like you adored me, to do whatever I told you without question, my perfect little slave. Then you dared to side with your mongrel brother when he bit me.”
Yakko couldn’t muster up any response except for a pained whimper.
God, he was such a failure. Because he’d failed to protect the three of them; they’d still gotten locked in that hellhole toon prison for forty years.
He sensed movement behind him. Bile rose in his throat, the areas at the base of his tail and around his haunches flaring with that remembered, shameful ache-
And he felt the old ache inside him, too.
Yakko almost tried to pull away again, because he didn’t want to remember it, how filthy he’d felt, still sometimes felt. Like his only purpose was to fulfill this human’s perverted pleasures, regardless of how much he didn’t want to, or how badly it hurt when Memlo had-
“You know what you are, what you still privately think you are sometimes. You know how badly I broke you.”
“N-no…” Yakko was all too aware that he was speaking in a pathetic whine, completely lacking any actual conviction. The humiliating feeling of wearing a dress didn’t help, reminding him of how feminine he could look…making Yakko feel fragile and helpless.
“No I’m not, I’m-”
“A whore.” Memlo’s voice was right next to his ear now, Yakko flinching away from the man’s hot breath despite his ear still being trapped. “A disgusting slut, who let me fuck you over and over. And you’ll never have the courage to tell anyone aside from that studio shrink. Not your friends, especially not your precious siblings…because then they’d know what you are. And that’s what you actually fear, isn’t it? What they would think of you, if they knew you let me rape you. If they knew of your shame. ”
A brief moment of silence.
“Well…there is one other thing you’re afraid of. Going through it again.…”
He felt a hand roughly grab his shoulder, turning him towards the office’s couch. And Yakko felt his fear grow; to the point he felt like he was choking on it. Because this, this was the second step, after the first, making him wear a dress. Which then escalated into-no. No, he wasn’t going to let it happen, he was supposed to be free of this-
“Lay down, now, and stay nice and still for me…”
Terror, unadulterated terror, and Yakko knew only one thing, he had to wake up. And in the nightmare he finally did what he had never done in the real world; he screamed. Loudly, desperately, hoping someone would hear, anyone-
“HELP ME!”
He woke up, drenched in sweat beneath his robe and pajama pants, with a high whining noise that still somehow managed to painfully tear at his dry throat. He kicked his sheets off of him, desperate for exposure to the cooler air outside, feeling like he was burning up. Then Yakko simply lay there, panting, his racing heart ready to explode from his chest. Dazedly he realized he was violently trembling, and was still whimpering a little bit.
“I’m not,” he desperately muttered, trying to believe it. “I’m not, I’m not…”
Yakko grit his teeth, attempting to steady his breathing before his panting turned into hyperventilating. In the process he drove his claws even further into his mattress, instinctively trying to ground himself. Despite the sweat slicking his face, Yakko turned his head and buried it in his pillow.
He wanted to cry, but at the same time, he’d spent decades tamping down on letting himself do that. Because he didn’t want others to see him, he didn’t want to be questioned about why. And he’d been maintaining this mindset so long that even when he was alone, he was still reluctant to allow it.
Still, Yakko felt his eyes water a little, joining the sweat that had dampened his pillow.
Why, why did…how did that random dream turn into that. How did it somehow link back to him -
With a gasp, Yakko jerked up onto his knees, violently tearing his claws free of his bed. There was a corresponding ripping noise, and numbly he realized he had torn his bedding.
Hardly sparing his ravaged mattress cover a glance, Yakko hastily threw himself out of his bed. The cold sweat had turned warm and now he felt unbearably hot and clammy; he tossed off his bathrobe, fumbling out his bedroom and into the bathroom in just his striped pajama pants.
Yakko just barely managed not to slam the door shut, unwilling to wake anyone up, before he desperately turned on the sink and began to dash his face with water.
His frantic panting was now starting to slow down, if in horribly tiny increments. Yakko sheathed his claws and brought his hands to his eyes, slumping over the sink, his elbows braced on the sides. The sweat was now drying, spiking his fur, making his pelt feel a little sticky.
He hadn’t stopped trembling, and Yakko had never been more thankful that the three siblings had their own rooms in their private lives; that there was a separate version of the tower for filming.
Because he was a complete wreck right now, and the last thing he wanted was for Wakko and Dot to see their older brother in this state.
“Get it together,” Yakko hissed under his breath, pressing his palms even harder into his burning eyes. “It’s…you’re not back there, he's not here…”
Gulping, he stood back up, hugging his upper arms, his tail pressed protectively against his backside. Yakko briefly looked up at the mirror.
For a split second, he flashed back to when he had stood in front of the mirror, soaked from ineffective showers, dully observing how emaciated he was.
Then he blinked and the image was gone.
“You’re safe…” he hugged his arms tighter. “And… he died years ago, he’s gone…”
I’m not what he said I was. I’m not.
For a little while he kept muttering to himself, his eyes shut, somewhat afraid of what else he might see in the mirror. Eventually he decided to quickly rinse himself off in the shower, wanting to get the dried sweat out of his fur.
Doing this led to Yakko briefly staring down at himself, feeling his mild body dysphoria rising again.
Sometimes he hated how he looked.
His hips were wider than his shoulders. With how well his long haired pelt absorbed water, this left it plastered flat to his skin, making it obvious just how slender he was. He was acutely aware that if he had longer hair on his head and a larger chest, he could be easily mistaken for a girl.
And he had never liked that.
Most of the time Yakko could put his discontent with his body out of mind. But after these nightmares, he always felt newly sensitive about it for a little while.
Even in the first few years of his existence this feeling had occasionally plagued him; but those feelings had gotten stronger after Memlo’s abuse.
Because the man had frequently pointed out how effeminate he looked while acting out his sick pleasures.
With a shaky huff, he dried himself off; grateful that when his fur was dry, it gave his thin frame more volume. Then he pulled his baggy pajama pants back on.
He had just braced himself to leave the bathroom when the door opened, and Yakko found himself staring at Wakko.
Wakko tilted his head, his groggy expression taking on a hint of confusion.
“Why’re you just standing in here?”
“I…couldn’t sleep,” Yakko slowly straightened up and started to slip out of the bathroom. He paused when Wakko grabbed his hand.
“Are you scared?”
He sometimes forgot how emotionally perceptive Wakko was. Still, most of the time, Yakko could hide how he was feeling from his younger brother.
He’d had decades of practice.
Right now, however, his composure was still full of holes.
“I’m not scared,” Yakko muttered. He internally winced at how uncertain he sounded.
“Was it the IT skit from today?” Wakko said innocently. “Did it actually scare you when the clown didn’t think you were funny? Me n’ Dot meant it when we said you are, y’now.”
Leaning against the doorframe, Yakko averted his gaze towards the living room.
“Uh…yeah. I know.” He continued, deciding to run with the lead he had been given. “Maybe that skit did get to me a little.”
Of course, he was lying. But anything was better than the truth.
The next instant, Wakko was hugging him. Yakko sucked in a ragged breath, for a split second wanting to pull away.
You’re too disgusting to touch him. And if he knew, would your brother even want you near him again?
Stifling the voice, Yakko hugged Wakko back, focusing as much as he could on his brother’s warmth and his steady heartbeat.
Wakko let out a huff and nuzzled his chest with his snout. Then he stood on his tiptoes and licked Yakko’s nose, drawing a weak laugh from him.
“You’re like a therapy dog or something,” Yakko muttered, a little hoarsely. It wasn’t exactly an understatement, because Wakko’s hug was starting to make him feel better.
“Heh,” Wakko said with a small chuckle. “Or something.”
This embrace lasted for a few precious moments. Then Wakko cast a desperate gaze at the toilet.
Recognizing his brother’s look as a sign he really needed the bathroom, Yakko somewhat reluctantly let go of him.
Despite that for a few suffocating seconds afterward, he wanted nothing more than to call him back.
Leaving Wakko to his business, Yakko slipped back into his own bedroom. There he leaned against his closed door for a few moments, trying to clear his head.
Releasing a long breath, Yakko glanced at the clock. Four in the morning. Turning his gaze to his desk, he momentarily thought of just staying up and working on some of his freelance songwriting projects.
Running a hand down his face, Yakko ultimately decided it would be better to get some more rest. If he let that nightmare get to him too much, it was a slippery slope back into the constant self loathing. And from there, right back into the self-destructive tendencies he’d formed in the thirties.
Yakko still struggled with those bad habits a little. Like when he refused to admit he was sick because even now, he still sometimes felt he didn't deserve to be cared for, or absentmindedly forgot to eat and had to be reminded.
“Just…put it out of mind,” he sighed, walking up to his bed. Bending, Yakko picked his bathrobe up off the floor. He didn’t feel like he was burning up anymore. And the robe helped him sleep.
“It’s over…” Slipping the robe back on, Yakko slowly got back into his bed. He looked with a wince at the mattress cover, now hosting a long tear from catching on his claw. The gash easily overshadowed the tiny holes that were already there. “It’s over. I’m fine.”
As usual after these nightmares, he spent some time running through the multiple mental exercises he’d been advised to use by Scratchy to calm himself down.
He tried not to think about the other recommendation that came up now and again…that Yakko should get more intense help via a short stay at the psychiatric hospital.
He did truly believe the psychiatrist meant well; despite their adversarial depiction on the show, Scrathensniff had gotten fairly attached to the three Warners, like their unofficial grandfather. But past experiences made Yakko balk at the idea of checking into a mental ward.
Not to mention, he'd have to explain to his siblings why he would make such a dramatic decision, especially considering he had kept his appointments with Scratchy a secret from them.
Laying down on his back, Yakko stared at the ceiling.
"I don't need the psych ward…I'm fine." He blew a long sigh and closed his eyes.
He had been saying that he was fine a lot tonight.
"And I have been for literal decades. What's another ten? What's the worst that can happen?"
He’d managed for this long, he just had to keep suppressing these traumatic memories. Never thinking of them, burying the sadness and the dirty, shameful feelings linked to them. Because that usually worked, at least most of the time.
Until the next time he had one of these nightmares. He knew at this point, from unfortunate experience, that his nightmares tended to be spaced very far apart. At least, they had been since the 1980’s….
Yakko began to purr to himself, knowing on some instinctive level that it would help him relax, giving in to one of his many catlike tendencies. At the same time he tried to quell his restless thoughts.
This time he wanted to sleep without any dreams.
Or more importantly, nightmares.
He did his best to remember the warmth of Wakko’s hug.