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fallenwhumpee · 2 days

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Traitor

• Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Masterlist •

Warnings: Panic attack(?), hospital settings.

Leader couldn't breathe. They couldn't breathe as Doctor went on and on about how they used Leader's trust, Leader's... Leader's emotions. Which would have been hidden if it wasn't for their desperate need for something to lean on.

They wanted to cry. Cry and shout and maybe beat up something, just... just anything to get rid of this feeling of dirt over their skin, under their nails and in the air they tried to draw in.

It was wrong. Leader never wanted to just get the emotions out of their chest like that. They always had been able to shut those down, and not being able to do that now felt like another slap to their face.

But the feverish feeling sticking to them ever since their stubborn attempt to train was now suffocating them. So they ran away. They didn't wish to be seen like this, and they couldn't stand being in the same room with the reason for their suffering.

Stumbling through the hallways, Leader's heart hammered in their chest, each beat echoing painfully in their ears. Their breath came in short, ragged gasps, catching in their throat as if the air itself was too thick to inhale, coughs wrecking the posture they tried to hold. The walls seemed to close in around them, the lights overhead too bright, blurring and merging into each other.

Leader's hands shook violently, trying to grasp the freezing metal wall as they leaned heavily against it, trying to find some stability. Their vision blurred further, dark edges creeping into their sight. They had to stop, had to breathe, but each breath was a battle against the tightness in their chest, against the feeling of betrayal that choked them more than the literal lack of air because of the coughing fit they were stuck in.

They slid down against the wall, pulling their knees to their chest, trying to get themselves together and stop their feelings, but of course, they failed that too.

The cool surface of the floor did little to ease the heat radiating off their body, the fever burning through their skin and thoughts.

How many missions failed because of their interactions with Doctor? Because of their asks for help in analysing strategies? How many times did they fail just because of Doctor? How many times did Doctor just send their team into a trap?

The thoughts flipped their stomach. Squeezing their eyes shut, they wished it only to stop. They couldn't handle everything spiralling out of their control.

They chuckled, the sound mixed with their coughs. There who they really were, a crumbling imitation of a leader no one listened, weak and betrayed not only by someone they trusted, but by their own body and mind too.

Between coughs, their desperate gasps for air turned into choked sobs, each one tearing at their raw throat. They clutched at their chest, the pain radiating through their body like a wildfire. The air felt heavy, like shards of glass cutting into their chest with every breath. Panic consumed them, dragging them deeper into the abyss of their own despair.

And then, mercifully, everything faded to black. They didn't know how long passed before they could breathe again, but when they did, they were feeling terrible. Crying themselves to sleep didn't make them feel better. This was the first and the last time they were doing it.

They took some time before opening their eyes. Their head throbbed distantly, their forehead cool. They didn't remember raising their head from their knees, so the absence of their head over their joints was unsettling. The back of their head was not against the coldness of the wall, too.

Before they could grasp what was going on, they coughed violently, their chest aching with the motion. The ache wasn't sharp. None of their pain was like before. All dull, as if...

Leader opened their eyes into a hospital room, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital room blinding them for a moment. Blinking away the haze of confusion, they tried to piece together what had happened.

"What were you thinking?" Mentor's voice was laced with frustration as they stormed over to Leader's bedside.

Leader flinched, their movements restricted. They looked down and saw the soft restrains, a mask hanging loose on their neck and a few IVs.

"I wasn't thinking," Leader breathed out, their voice hoarse. They coughed again, their strength failing them again. They saw no point in lying. They were at the bottom of the sea of shame already.

Mentor stood and put on the oxygen mask over their face. "You scared me."

Leader couldn't help but frown. Mentor and scared in the same sentence was like a hallucination. Maybe they passed out on the floor and were now dreaming...

Mentor's concerned expression cut through Leader's foggy mind. They couldn't remember a time they had seen Mentor look so genuinely worried.

"But not only me. What have you done to your second in command to make him so worried for you and scared of you at the same time?"

"They tried to sneak up on me in the dark. Your training happened to be too well even if I'm not at my best." Leader croaked, forming a sentence taking embarrassingly long with how often they stop to gather their breaths.

"Somehow they seem genuinely concerned about you. But knowing your... messed up dynamics, it shouldn't supposed to be this way. Do you have any idea about why they are acting like that?

Leader shook their head.

"What about we begin from the start? Why were they so prejudiced to you in the beginning anyway?"

"Look where me opening up led us." Leader forced out. It was not a good idea to show and share what they felt. It was against their training in the first place, and it didn't end with anything else than pain and misery.

"But..."

"You were right, Mentor. On the first day of my training. Emotions were only problems that I needed to get rid of."

Mentor sighed, shifting in their place uncomfortably. "I know it's hard, but shutting yourself off from others won't make the pain go away. It'll only isolate you further."

Leader's shoulders tensed at Mentor's words, a mixture of frustration bleeding into their posture and tune. "It won't change anything then," they murmured, their voice barely audible beneath the hum of machinery.

"My training failed to erase your emotions, I'm glad it failed. And I won't let you do it to yourself." Mentor sighed. They continued after a moment of silence. Leader didn't look at them. "You know what? You should get some rest and clear your head."

Mentor turned to leave the room, pausing at the doorway to glance back at Leader one last time. "I will come back tomorrow," they murmured tiredly before stepping out into the corridor, leaving Leader to their thoughts.

Alone in the dimly lit hospital room, Leader let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of their own emotions pressing down on them. They didn't need these burdens disguised as emotions on top of everything.

With a heavy sigh, they allowed themselves to sink into the hospital bed, the softness of the mattress a foreign but welcome relief.

-•-

Thank you @porschethemermaid for proofreading <3

#whump #whump writing #leader whumpee #leader whump #cw panic attack #hospital setting

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emilybeemartin · 4 months

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Boromir Lives AU: Panic! At the Ballroom

Got some new soup for you.

CW! PTSD, panic attack, crowds, physical violence, blood, smoking

It's, uh, less cute soup than some of the others.

The last panel is a nod to when I was having regular panic attacks a few years ago, and the only thing that helped was lying on the floor, the colder and harder the better. At night I would lie in bed and feel like I was drowning in the blankets, until finally I'd move to the bare floor, sometimes with weight on my back, until I eventually fell asleep.

Anyway! Surprisingly this actually came from a very happy and lovely fic in which Boromir has a delightful time; in writing a crowd scene, though, I figured having spent 40+ years training to die in battle, he'd never shake the PTSD. It's okay, Aragorn can spot it coming a mile away. Hard to prep for a crushed windpipe delivered by 250 pounds of war trauma, though. Happy Thursday!

Boromir Lives: Helm's Deep

Boromir Lives: Whump-Time After Pelennor

Boromir Lives: GO TO SLEEP

Boromir Lives: Aragorn's Coronation

Boromir Lives: Faramir and Eowyn's Wedding

Boromir Lives: It's a BABY

Boromir Lives: High Uncle of the White Tower

Boromir Lives: We Didn't Have a Choice

Boromir Lives: The Haircuts

#boromir lives #boromir #aragorn #lord of the rings #tolkien #cw ptsd #cw panic attack #cw violence #cw smoking

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angelpuns · 9 months

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Kid Leo Au: SPINOFF COMIC

Part 3!

I have an explanation as to why Leo is not concerned by Donnie's smallness, but I wanna see what everybody else thinks first!!!

Donnie awkwardly trying to comfort him is so just like me fr :) He's doing his best fr fr

Kid Leo Au Masterpost | First | Next

#rottmnt #art #fanart #rottmnt fanart #rottmnt leo #rottmnt fanfic #rottmnt comic #digital art #rottmnt art #comic #rottmnt kid leo au #kid leo au #rottmnt turtle tots #kid leo au spinoff #medium leo #lmao #cw panic attack #panic attack cw

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void-bitten-ghost · 1 month

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Husk teaches Angel some shuffling tricks one night and the spider picks it up like a natural. 'Something, something, good with his hands' followed quickly by a jovial 'shut the fuck up'

Anyway, Husk also ends up gifting Angel a deck of his own design with the heart motifs and the gold gilding and everything. There may also be some pale pink in there too but he'll never admit to that. Angel cries. It's a whole thing but they're pretending it's not so everyone (except Charlie) is just leaving them to it

But yeah, Angel having a panic attack in his dressing room, reaching for something, anything, a powder, a drink--

He knocks something over, turns to see his bag upturned, and cascaded across the floor like little flashes of golden rose petals? That deck of cards

He gathers them with trembling, feverish hands. Organises them slowly. By suit. Then by number. Then, when some feeling returns in his hands, he tries the simple shuffles. Not as smooth as when Husk was teaching him, but the movement helps direct his spiral into something less destructive. Failing that, he drops them on the floor again to mix up like that. Doesn't matter if its not pretty, it just needs to be real. It needs to keep him even and controlled

When the worst passes, he attempts the shuffles again, successfully, and feels a sense of pride and accomplishment, if only a flicker of it. Before he leaves he brings the deck up for a kiss, smelling a brief whiff of hard whiskey over the cloyingly sweet smoke all around him.

But yeah, that deck goes wherever he does. He stores it with his tommyguns

#angelhusk #huskerdust #cw panic attack #coping mechanisms

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coffeebanana · 3 months

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It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet… Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No. His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Some nightmares refuse to fade.

***

[Read the full fic below the cut or on Ao3!! CW: panic attacks, dissociation, depression]

Please, no.

Chat squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid himself of a sudden, blinding panic pounding through his skull. But it was too late. Ladybug’s slate-stained image was seared into his mind, her face frozen in pain, devoid of everything that had once painted comfort across his soul.

Her mask was half-torn, such that Marinette's bare cheek was cradled closest to his chest. Like maybe he'd tried in vain to protect her from the blast.

From his own destruction.

A choked sound ripped itself from his throat, a painful lump following in its wake. He had no way to fix this, nothing to do but pull her in closer. To tighten his arms around her precious, fragile remains.

Another mistake.

She crumbled in his grip; ashes floated up like a mosaic, blinding his vision. Frantically, he pawed at the air—trying to gather her fragments, to force her back together. If he caught enough, perhaps he could papier-mâché her likeness. He could use his tears as glue.

But there was no time for that before a fiery breeze tore through the street. Marinette’s remains were swept away, and only Chat’s strangled cries could follow.

The further away they fled, the more he came undone. There was nothing left to tie his mind together, to keep his pain from exploding like a supernova.

Nothing to keep the world from collapsing in on him.

“What did you expect?” Nightormentor’s voice sliced through the smoke. “You’ve always been poison to the ones you loved most.”

NO!

With a frigid gasp—one that curdled his tar-slicked insides—Adrien awoke. Once again, there was a darling weight in his arms. Only this Marinette was warm and solid. Her limbs were tangled in the blankets she'd pulled to her side of his bed, and one of her hands curled slightly into his T-shirt as her breath tickled the fabric.

She was alive.

Adrien just wasn't sure his heart still knew how to beat.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, both drenched in sweat and trembling. His chest felt like someone had trampled it, and every attempt to breathe sliced further into the wound.

When he closed his eyes, the world was still on fire.

Stomach lurching, he carefully rolled Marinette’s weight off his chest. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t listen to the even sounds of her breath without hearing echoes of his own sobs slip between them.

The room spun around him as he stumbled to the bathroom; the world still appeared as though through smoke—muted and unreliable, the air too thick to breathe. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, his empty stomach convulsing, only to realize the sickness inside him wasn’t the kind he could expel.

He remained there, braced against the toilet seat, until his limbs eased their shaking enough for him to crawl away. Even so, he barely made it to the wall beside the sink before one of his arms gave out, and his cheek slammed a little too hard into the handle of one of the cupboards he twisted into a seated position. Hissing in pain, he let his face press against the wood there, shuddering at the way the cold surface shocked some life inside of him.

Time ceased to make sense after that. One moment, his chest was burning, pain reverberating through his back as he struggled to fill his lungs. The next, it seemed he’d become a giant cloud. A numb expanse of icy droplets, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.

Light gradually awakened the room, a subtle warmth flickering near the edge of his awareness. He only fully realized the day had come when, somewhere beyond the door he’d left ajar, the bed creaked.

“Adrien?” Marinette called. Her voice was gentle, but pierced through him all the same. “Everything okay?”

No.

Panic set in anew as footsteps approached. He swore he could somehow taste the blood pounding in his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. To keep from breathing, even.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe, if he held his breath until his lungs screamed again, he’d remain concealed in his lifeless fog.

But ironically, it was harder to keep from breathing when that was his actual goal. He sucked in sharp breaths, timed to his heartbeats, and hid his face in his hands.

“Oh, Chaton...” Marinette’s slippers scraped across the bathroom tiles, coming to a stop within his sight. Too close. “Did it happen again?”

He managed a nod, bottom lip quivering as he bit back a sob.

A long exhale piqued his attention; it started as a noise from above and ended as a warm breath against his cheek. Kneeling at his side, Marinette rubbed her hands against her thighs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Adrien shifted his jaw from side to side, guilt hooking its talons into his gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

It wasn’t a lie; he felt plenty bad about inadvertently dragging her here every night. She deserved the comfort of her own bed, regardless of whether he could actually get any sleep without her. So the least he could do was actually let her get enough rest.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And as she took his hand, carefully smoothing his fingers over hers, he had a feeling she knew it.

“Adrien…” She tugged his arm upwards, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Biting his lip to keep from disagreeing, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. With one less sense at his disposal, he was all too aware of the way she lifted his hand further, unfolding his fingers to press against her cheek.

“See?” she whispered, breath tickling the inside of his wrist. Her head twisted to the side, lips planting a kiss on the heel of his palm. “Everything’s fine.”

He swore he could feel the remnants of destruction prickling against her cheek. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away.

Nothing was fine.

No matter how he’d come into this world, and no matter how much he despised the fact, Adrien would always be—in some way or another—his father’s son. Sometimes he swore he saw a glimpse of the man when he turned too fast in the mirror. Other times, a flash of fury would seize him; with a sickening sense of satisfaction, he’d know what it might felt like to be a villain.

Even worse, he was his mother’s son. His very existence had killed her.

He’d killed both his parents, in the end.

So no matter how much Marinette tried to console him, Adrien knew the voice of his nightmares had a point. He was a danger to her, to himself, to the world.

It might not even end up being his choice. All it would take was someone finding out what he was, and stealing the two rings he still couldn’t stand the sight of.

He was, at most, a liability. And Marinette deserved more than that.

She never agreed with him on that point.

“Look at me,” she said now. An edge crept into her voice, one that shocked him into listening.

His heart jumped at the blue of her eyes—filled with all the warmth that the fiery world of his nightmares had failed to hold.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking.

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, okay?”

Adrien couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t find enough truth to shove into the sentiment—not when that was all buried beneath his own misery. It was like he’d returned to his nightmare, with smoke charring his throat and one all-consuming fear.

Just the tiniest wrong movement could ruin everything.

But if he didn’t give some kind of response, Marinette would only worry. So he tugged on her hand—maybe a little too hard considering her yelp of surprise—and guided her to sit between his legs. She moved readily into place, and Adrien forced himself to ignore the fear spiking through his veins, hugging her back to his chest.

Once settled, she twisted around and tried to crane her neck upwards, reaching a hand half-blindly up to his cheek. Heart squeezing in his chest, he tightened his grip around and pressed a kiss to her head.

She remained tense for a moment too long, but finally sighed and melted back against his chest. Her hand trailed lazily back down to her side, and her breath spilled into a hum of contentment. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, Adrien could finally breathe again.

He didn’t want her to see the few tears he’d finally let slip down his cheeks—even if she’d no doubt hear his sniffles or feel the way the cries rumbled in his chest. And he didn't want her to examine him to deeply, to discover what he already knew.

One day, he would surely disappoint her.

#coffebanana fics #miraculous ladybug #lovesquare #post-reveal #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #antichat #nightormentor #post-s5 #angst #bittersweet ending #cw panic attack #cw dissociation #cw depression

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muaviinu · 7 months

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Hi! Hi! Hi!! Newbie here. Sorry if you’ve already answered similar questions!

I’m really curious about the Swap AU! And I also just wanna ramble~

Statement. I love this AU. Chuuya being a fatherly towards Atsushi makes my heart just… EEEEE!!

2. Question. How do you think Chuuya would react to some of Atsushi’s more vulnerable moments, like the scene just after Q’s control, where Atsushi is kinda breaking down and Dazai slaps him. Do you think this version of Chuuya would respond the same way, or act differently?

I’m really sorry most of the questions are somehow about Atsushi. I’m a sucker for found family father-son dynamics and I always wanna know how people write them!

HELLOOO i think chuuya might be a bit more patient, if not awkward. it’s like talking to a younger version of himself sometimes and he has to remind himself that it isn’t his fault that someone gets hurt.

(p.s. IM SO GLAD YOU’RE ENJOYING THE AUUUUUUU!! and do not be sorry, i enjoy thinking about the chuuatsu dynamics!)

#cw panic attack #soukoku switch au #ask #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #bsd #chuuya nakahara #bsd chuuya #soukoku #skk #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bsd atsushi #atsushi fanart #atsushi nakajima #chuuya fanart #ada chuuya #bsd fanart #vinuart

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the-kr8tor · 17 days

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Between the Devil...

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW suggestive, TW blood, CW panic attack, TW death, CW violence.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 14 >>> CHAPTER 15

You wake up to home.

Hobie's arm is slung on top of you, hand holding your own even in his sleep. His leg lays over your own protectively like he's shielding you from unforeseen dangers that lurk in the drafty barn. His hot breath fans your nape, lips brushing along the skin like stone skipping on a lake. You sigh, squeezing his hand, head lying comfortably on his other arm.

You're careful when you shift your weight so that his arm won't fall asleep, but judging by the sun's rays entering the small window behind you— you're sure his arm is already numb.

For a split second from waking up, there's a small part of you that thought you'd wake up alone. You're glad that part of you is wrong.

As if his senses are attuned to yours, he wakes up with a sigh before you felt his smile on your nape. His piercing is warm as he leaves featherlight kisses on your skin.

“Good dream?” You say through the fog of affection.

“I didn't dream,” you twist in his arms to look at him. Those grey eyes you love do much are properly rested, pupils blown out, content and peaceful. “Don't worry, that's a good thing. I haven't slept this well since— a long time. The closest I got was on our island.” He smiles, hand cradling the side of your head, thumb nonchalantly placed on your bottom lashes, careful not to accidentally poke you. You trust him not to.

“You're welcome by the way.” You joke, resisting the urge to kiss the goofy smile on his lips.

“Yes, thank you for eating my face off last night.”

“Please, you loved it. And it's not like you went hungry last night either.” Your skin is still warm from where he touched you. Your lips still remember how he tasted and how he moved with you in tandem.

Humming, he pecks your forehead. “I think I'm gettin' hungry again.” With a laugh, he rubs your bare legs with his frozen foot.

“Your feet are cold.” Instead of moving away, you scoot closer, which was already impossible since you're already laying next to him chest to chest. You can feel his chest rise and fall against the thin cloth of your slip. Nosing his neck, he fixes your fallen collar to hide your shoulder away from the cold. “Hmm, your hands are warm though.” You coo, fingers subtly inside his shirt, fingertips dancing around his hip.

“Can't say the same thing for your hands.”

“You have cold feet but warm hands and I have cold hands but warm feet. We're perfect for eachother.”

Hobie chuckles, you can feel the deep rumble in his chest. “Put ‘em all together and we'd both have normal temperatures.”

Giggling, he buries his nose atop your head, letting himself drown in you. With the comfortable silence, the various animals below the hayloft huff and chew, the hay under your bodies are scratchy and pointy so Hobie lifts you up slightly so he takes the brunt of the pointed hay, so you don't get itchy from the dry material. Your chin rests just below his clavicle, hands caged around his head, lips curled into a smile.

His heart almost stops when the golden rays kisses your face, the light from the window hits your form perfectly, blanketing you in its glow. Eyes shining, linen slip leaving almost nothing to the imagination, dust flying around you like fireflies— he thinks he has died in his sleep and is now in front of heaven's gates. Standing and gawking at the marvelous sight.

“You alright?” You ask like you didn't take his breath away.

“Are you real?”

You snort, “of course I am.”

“Then I'm alright.” Hobie's knuckles knead at your lower back, warming you from the cold. Hand gripping your waist, you feel right at home.

Heart fluttering in your chest, you and Hobie take a minute to bask in the silence and the slowness of the morning; just like on your little island where you learned to appreciate and truly know each other, you both just lay there and stare tenderly like the other would disappear from view.

“I've been meaning to—” You both say at the same time.

Chortling, you gesture for him to go first, “Captain first.”

“Ladies first.” He smirks, patting your back.

“You and I both know I'm not a lady, you're not much of a gentleman either.”

“I know, a lady doesn't snog like that.”

“Fine, I won't kiss you like that anymore.” You joke, acting like you're about to sit up, he brings you back down tutting with a knowing smile. Your cheeks hurt from all the smiling but he quickly remedies that by stealing a kiss right under your nose.

Giggling, nose bumping, you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Giving him what he needed, Hobie grips your waist tighter as if someone would rip you away from him. With a deep groan, he lifts your face up to breathe. He finds that he loses his breath frequently when you're near him.

Staring at your kiss bitten lips, he flips you back to the makeshift bed, leg hooked around yours. You let out a surprised sound from the back of your throat to which he silences with a peck. Fingers twirling at the little baby hairs on his nape, he unwillingly lets out a laugh against your lips.

Breaking the kiss, you look at him playfully and he knows exactly what you're about to say.

“You're ticklish!” You exclaim, eyes flicking down to the swinging pearl necklace, it hangs above you and you resist the urge to pull it down so you could kiss him again.

“Just on my neck—” you're already wiggling your fingers, “—dont.” He warns you with a stern glare, but it doesn't last as he hides his face on the crook of your neck. Surrendering, melting into.

“Alright, I won't exploit that knowledge. For now at least.” Hugging him, it's your turn to massage his back. His dress shirt is wrinkled under your touch, you guess the random lord from last night had a very rude awakening when he woke up in his knickers.

“You really do love me.” Hobie mumbles into your skin with wonderment. He doesn't recognize your scent with all the perfumes they doused you in, but it's there, it's faint, yet it's still you underneath it all. Still the scuttlebutt he fished out of the sea.

“I think I proved that last night. Do you want me to say it again?” You're prepared to say it a hundred times a day for him, knowing that those three words won't lose any meaning; and with every utterance of it would set it in stone and in his heart.

He hums, content, the rumble echoing throughout your body.

“I love you.” You embrace his head and in turn, he buries his face into the crook of your arm. “Love you,” peppering the side of his face with warm kisses, you smile through it all. “Satisfied, cap’n?”

“Very.” He sniffs, trying to hide his lopsided smile and stuttered breathing. “What was it you were about to ask?” With a sigh, he lets off of you, now laying side by side, hip to hip. He slithers his arm under you to hold you against his chest while his other hand plays with your intertwined fingers. “Were you about to ask why I attacked Miguel first? I figured your injury made you forget.”

“No,” you stare at your dancing hands in the sunlight. He can feel your new calluses that match his own. “I don't wonder about that anymore.”

“You don't want to know about it?” Hobie cranes his neck to look at your content face. “You, who wants to know about everything?”

“It doesn't matter anymore, it got us here, right?” He nods, the creases in between his eyebrows flattens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Does it put us in danger?” He shakes his head. “Will it hurt me?” Shaking his head again, you continue. “Then it doesn't matter. I just know that the tension got you both riled up, and it was enough for you two to lunge at each other.”

“It was pride, love.” Hobie swallows thickly. “But you're right if you don't want to know then I won't tell you.”

“Thank you,” You squeeze his hand, fingers slotting perfectly on his own. “I was about to ask how you are. How are you faring in all of this? Everyone keeps asking how I am but no one has asked how you are. You keep dodging it every time I ask. ”

“Does it matter?”

“It does,” you say breathlessly with a sigh. “How are you? Truly?”

“Tired, I think I just want to stay here with you in this musty barn.” You blink, waiting for the rest. “But I'm alright, keep holding on to me like this and I'll be better.”

You smile, sitting up by your elbow to look down at him, to see him fully. “It'll be over soon,” hand on his chest, you feel his heartbeat. “I promise, then we can do whatever we want. Go wherever we want.”

“Do whatever we want?” He teases with a playful smile.

“Yes,” you lean down to rub your nose against his own. It makes him shiver, hands holding you tight on your waist. “I kind of want to stay at a lighthouse for a bit after we figure it out.”

“A lighthouse?”

“Mm-hmm, easier to defend while we plan out things. Plus,” you brush your lips over his own teasingly. “It can only house two people.”

Hobie's breath hitches in his throat. “What are we waitin’ for then? Let's go find the wanker and stay at our tower.”

You giggle whilst he kicks the thick blanket off you. “Or maybe a new ship.” He pauses, neck slowly moving to look at you with a face that says ‘go on.’ “With better defenses, a hundred cannons and a huge fucking sail that can take us anywhere.”

“You gonna build us a boat then? Made out of bricks and steel like your lighthouse?”

You scoff, “that'll be the day. My uncle has a ship docked in the capital, if something happens—”

“Nothin', nothin' will happen.” He pulls you in closer, heartbeats synching, fingers digging in your arm. Yet, he's careful to not leave a mark or make you feel the dull press.

“If, if something does happen, we'll meet there. She's called ‘The Osprey.’ You have my permission to take it, captain.”

“Why are you talkin’ like this?” Concern wracks his body. “Do you know somethin’ I don't?”

“No, it's just that…it's been too good, too plain sailing—” you've been too happy recently. “That I think something will happen, something that would make our plan fail.”

“What do you mean? You got hurt, that's not good, love.”

“I'll live. I meant that you and the crew got out without a hitch. You found me without getting caught and no one has even tried to actively kill me. And Miguel...he told me it might be the king who did all of it. Who commanded Mathias to do it because he wanted to marry my mother. That's what I'm worried about.”

“Do you trust his word?”

“I just think there's something else he missed. That he might be wrong.”

“Do you trust Miguel?”

“A part of me does, I don't know.”

“Who do you think it was then?”

You exhale sharply. “I think there's another cog we don't know about. Miguel told me the king is a buffoon, an idiot. And from what I've seen— do you think an idiot is capable of orchestrating it?”

“Idiocracy could be dangerous too. I'll dig around the estate.” Before you could protest, he gazes tenderly at your nervous eyes. “I'll be careful, I'll dress like the staff, if I get noticed they won't talk.”

You nod, trusting him.

Sitting up to cradle your head in his calloused hands, he smiles to reassure you, attuned to your own worry. “That won't happen. If somethin' does happen, I won't let it.”

“You don't know that, Hobie.” Your chest feels heavy, hands suddenly tensing up. “We failed the last time and the time before that. If it happens again— leave me.”

“No, do you think I crossed the bloody sea, rowed a million times to this city and fought with my crew— my family, just to leave you behind?” His voice is determined. “'m not leaving you.” Taking your tensed hand, he places it on his chest, letting his steady heartbeat calm you, even though he's terrified too.

“No more sacrifices.” Hobie breathes out, hands trembling.

A tear escapes your eye. Nodding your head, you compose yourself, sniffing, letting the thumping of his heart wash over you. You're scared, rightfully so, knowing that you might be against the crown itself. A powerful being, whose word is law.

You finally have your reason not to flee and he finally has his reason not to carve like the knife that he is.

And you're both holding it in your hands.

“You're good to me, Hobie Brown. Too good.” With your confession, grey pools whirl into guit, he has something to confess too.

“Your mother's letter,” his words make your heart stutter. “She wrote not to trust anyone. I intended to hold that burden for you but it's not my decision, so please, don't trust anyone, Y/N.”

“I trust you.”

“And I, you. I love you, whatever happens, know that I do.” His grey eyes swirl with anxiety, hands trembling for fear of death. Not for him but for you, the thought of you lying dead in his arms burns him inside out. And he's more than willing to spread the fire, to burn everything around him if it happens. “I promise I won't let it happen.” He whispers, head placed on your chest, praying that if fate cuts your thread, that they'll cut his too. “We'll have our lighthouse and our ship one day. I promise.”

In that rickety barn, you whisper promises of life to each other.

—

Sneaking out was easier when you had the darkness on your side. Now that the sun has risen and the residents of Hazelside now flock the land, you skitter around to get back inside the estate.

With a quick peck on your lips that has your knees weak, (that shouldn't even be called a simple peck) he reluctantly lets you go. It's not like you wanted to leave him either when he looks properly kissed by you. With his dress shirt completely opened, chest exposed to the golden rays. Elbow propped up, he lounges on the hay with a grin, a picture of someone who's absolutely satisfied, who knows why your skin is on fire and why your hands shake as you come down the hayloft’s ladder.

You shake your head, waving the image away from your brain, tucking it under the folds like a secret. You have to focus, hands holding the blanket over your shivering body, (not to mention how exposed you feel in the almost sheer nightgown) you hide behind a tree when a worker passes by.

Then something in you clicks, you technically own the place so why should you be ashamed? Granted, you did slip away in the night to spend it with Hobie, but they don't know that. So why sneak when you can confidently walk back inside like you own the place. You do own it, your family owns it, so you straighten up your back with confidence, blanket draped around you like an expensive cloak, you strut back inside the little crevice you came out of.

There's goosebumps rising on your arms when you feel their eyes on you. They stop from harvesting the trees, gawking at the new (disheveled) barefooted duchess trudging the field. Scratching their heads, they shrug and just like you thought, they let you on your way without a word.

Speed walking back to the old wooden door, you tamp down a laugh from how ridiculous you must've looked like.

As you close the door, darkness greets you once again. And you already miss him.

Following the walls with your touch, you stop when you hear muffled voices from the other path that you didn't take last night. Straining your ears, you hear arguing. With your curiosity, you follow the sound.

The path leads to a deadend. Light filters through on your left, touching the wall— it's rough and wooden on your palm. It's a bookshelf, you surmise. Peeking through the cracks, you see Victoria and Frederick arguing. And his wife seems to be winning.

Your uncle has his head in his hands, sitting down on a plush armchair whilst his wife screams at him with urgent words.

“—word is law!” She yells, voice shaking.

“I know.” Frederick says in a defeated tone. “Fucking fuck!” He stands up abruptly, pacing back and forth. “Did my father tell you about it?”

“Me?” Victoria scoffs, “he's your father! Not mine!”

“How could he—” Frederick sounds like there's cotton in his mouth, sentence in full disbelief. “He was close to them…how could he—fuck! And here I thought— I thought he didn't have anything to do with it. I've always had a feeling but…” he wipes his oily face with his hands roughly. “The three of them, christ, that poor girl.” Your heart plunges in your stomach.

“It's either us or her.” Victoria shakes her husband. “What would happen to our children if we refuse? What of John and Collette?”

“I don't want to—” Frederick stutters when his wife holds his face softly.

“But we have to.” She nods and he follows.

The door to their chambers fly open suddenly, and out comes a smiling John, completely oblivious to what transpired.

“The artist’s here!” He pauses mid step when he sees his parents' faces. “Collette’s on her way to wake her up— are you both alright?”

“We're fine, Jojo.” Frederick pats his son's shoulder, “let's greet him.”

As they leave the room, with the door clicking softly, you feel for your dagger. The familiar shape of it is missing on your thigh, you rush towards your room with a heavy heart. Your weak leg hinders you from running full speed but you persevere before they could get to you first.

Wincing, entering your room through the secret passage, you fling the tapestry away. Collette greets you with a blinding smile and a lilac dress on top of your bed.

“Oh there you are! I see you found the passages. Where'd you go off to?”

“I think I need to go.” You rapidly take your sparse belongings.

“Wait—what?” She takes your hand away from your shoes. “Why? You just got here!” Her face contorts into worry and sadness.

“I—” you heave from the exertion. “I'm sorry, Collette.” She's innocent from all of this, you thought as you grip her hand. You hear numerous footsteps outside the halls. It's too late to run. In a split second, you make a decision. “Can you do me a favour?” She nods tentatively. “Go to Miguel and tell him—” there's knocking on your doors. “Tell him I need him. Tell him my mother needs him.”

Collette shakes her head with confusion, her curls bouncing on her head as she moves. “Your mother?”

“Just tell him that, please? When you can…just please.”

He's your only hope, he has the power to take you away because he promised. Even if you and Hobie fight your way out of Hazelside, it won't be enough. Heart in your stomach, you fear for his life, not your own. You decide to act, to play the part until Collette brings Miguel back. So you play the perfect duchess like they've always wanted. For Hobie.

His words echo in your mind— ‘no more sacrifices’ and you apologize to him silently.

“I'll—” she understands the urgency in your tone and from your worried eyes. “— I'll tell him myself. You can trust me, cousin.”

“Thank you.” You embrace her, with an almost silent whisper, you tell her about him. Another promise broken at your feet. “There's a man staying in the barn, tell him to leave. Please.” She doesn't have enough time to reciprocate the hug as the door creaks open.

“Oh good, you're awake.” You don't miss how her voice wavers, so do her children. There's an army of handmaidens behind her, “we need to get you ready for your portrait.”

—

You sit stiffly on the velvet chair. The plush seat is in deep purple to match the soft lilac of your dress. The gown is tight on your body, bodice covered in gold stars and golden threads. Corset tight like a cage around your ribs. Sleeves fully puffed, ruffles looking like the waves of the salty sea. The skirt engulfs you, heeled shoes uncomfortable on your feet, making your weak leg shake under the mass of your skirt.

It all suffocates you as the artist forbids you to even move a muscle. Jaw clenched tightly, hand almost breaking the stem of the rose that they forced you to hold. The jewelry on your ears and neck is heavy, cold rubies making you shiver. With the finest garment and expensive yet heavy jewelry, you miss the weight of the dagger on your thigh. You couldn't get the chance to hide it under your skirt when all eyes were on you. Numerous handmaidens come and go from your room as their hands frantically get you ready for the portrait.

Just like the uneasiness in you, Collette stands shakily near her brother, eyes never leaving your stiff form, nervous and worried. And just like the dagger, she couldn't escape the dozens of eyes on her, she couldn't find the right time to escape and warn Hobie and Miguel. You trust that she will tell them, you have to.

Your mother's voice whispers in your mind, ‘Don't trust anyone’ you feel like you're drowning again.

You can hear Collette's deep sigh from across the violet room. The scratchy sound of the painter’s brush against the canvas irks you, makes your ears twitch from annoyance.

Your so called aunt and uncle sit on the couch like nothing happened, like they're not planning for your demise. A tower of sweets sits at the table, colourful cookies decorating their plates, fragrant teas in their opulent cups.

“Collette, darling.” Frederick calls, “you should play something on the pianoforte. I bet Sir Remus here would appreciate the soothing sound.”

“I prefer the quiet, Monsieur.” The artist says in a rigid tone. He dips his brush into a dollop of purple paint, smearing it on his pallet. You follow his movements like he's about to pounce at you and stab you with his brush. “If you don't mind— my lady, please refrain from moving.” He stares at you sternly, pointing his long finger at you accusingly.

“I wasn't moving.” You say through gritted teeth. He doesn't reply, returning to his canvas.

“Can I please be excused?” Collette asks timidly. Her tone raises an eyebrow on her brother's face.

“No, you may not.” Victoria scoffs out, you wonder if she knows.

The stem on the rose digs at your palms.

“But—” Collette turns to her father.

“Listen to your mother.” Frederick doesn't even look at her.

“It'll be your turn soon enough, Collette. Learn from your cousin, be patient and it'll all be fruitful.” Your aunt stares at you above her cup.

“What will be fruitful?” You ask, tone commanding, eyes alight.

“The portrait. You already look wonderful from here.” You can feel the lie in her throat.

“Bullshit.” Your voice echoes around the silent room.

Everyone pauses, frozen on the spot, eyes trained to your furious face. The painter scoffs with an amused smile.

“Excuse me?” Victoria clutches her pearls. “We do not use that foul language here, especially in front of a guest.”

“I'm terribly sorry. Please tell me what this portrait is for, aunt.” You fake a smile, clearing your throat.

She subtly shakes her head, offended. “It's simply for…” flicking her eyes towards her husband, he nods his head. You can see the guilt in them. “...your engagement.” Collette gasps whilst James blinks in shock.

The rose in your hand snaps in half.

“What?” You ask, breath stuck in your throat.

With a click of Remus’ fingers, a staff rushes in, exchanging the snapped rose for a new one.

“The Viscount called for you last night. He expressed his love for you with a proposal to which we…gratefully accepted.”

She stomps her pointed heel on your heart with every word.

“Who?” You ask tearfully, and the painter clicks his tongue, commanding you to not move.

“Viscount Eugene Thompson.”

“I just met him!” You scream, hands gripping the sides of your seat. “You have no right!”

“Madame!” Remus yells back. Instructing the staff to sit you back down. With their gloved hands, they grip your shoulder with a remorseful face, forcefully sitting you back down.

The walls of the purple room seem to get smaller.

Collette shakes her head subtly. James sees this and he immediately gets that something has gone wrong and it's not just the surprise engagement. His ocean eyes tell you to ‘play along.’

Exhaling, letting a tear escape, you act like the duchess you were supposed to be like if not for the past.

“You should've asked me, dear aunt, I would've gotten to know him more.”

“That’s what marriage is for, dear niece. You marry and then you know them after. That's how it's supposed to be for us who are highborn.”

“It's for the best.” For the first time your uncle looks up from his drink to gaze at you. His fingers tremble as he talks. “You get to be a viscountess and we get to stay here at Hazelside. No one loses.”

I lose, you furiously thought. You now know why they want to marry you off to a stranger. It's for them to keep their titles and house while you rot in somebody else's. Someone who might treat you less, someone who could hurt you. Someone who isn't Hobie.

With a cruel laugh, you cackle in your seat. “I get it now.” Your uncle's face contorts into shame while your aunt clenches her teacup hard with an angry sneer.

Collette turns away from you, hiding behind her brother. She knows and so does John who stares out the window, but will they still choose to help you? Or will they choose their titles over your freedom?

“You should be grateful.” Victoria says above the sudden silence. “With how…used you are, you're lucky that a viscount even wants you.” She says with a scoff. “If you weren't as used then you could've been married off years ago to a duke, an earl or even the prince himself.”

“...Used?” You ask rhetorically, making her say it again, making her face you fully with her cruel words.

“You've been to a pirate ship, I have no idea what your role was but I do know that it's impossible that you weren't soiled in that ship.”

You are scorched by the sun.

You almost pounced on her but a staff member suddenly appeared next to you. Her eyes are warm, jade eyes telling you to hold fast, hands telling you to stay down. She takes your bleeding palms, the sting you just now noticed from the spiked stem of the rose. Carefully bandaging your hands, she wordlessly nods at you.

Lips slightly parted, you have an urge to ask who she is and why she's helping you calm down. But you don't let yourself falter, taking this stranger's advice. With a nod and a familiar knot on your hands, she walks away from you, head down in respect or because it's what she's used to.

You take matters in your own bleeding hands.

“Why don't I meet him again? The viscount, so I could get to know him before I marry him.” You lie through your teeth. If you can't talk down your own family or get Miguel for help, then you'd take your chances with the viscount. Maybe he'll think twice about the engagement once you tell him you don't want it, or him. “For tea, perhaps?”

Victoria turns to her children who cower under her glare. “John, why don't you take Collette and send a messenger for the viscount? I'm sure he'd appreciate it if the invitation was sent by your hand, the future duke of Hazelside.”

“But—” John starts but Collette stops him by grabbing his arm.

“Will do, mother.” As the twins leave, Collette gives you a look, green eyes determined. With a nod, you know she's on your side.

“And Collette, darling, straight to your chambers right after.” As if your aunt knows, she forbades them from going out. With a nod to a broad footman, he follows the twins out of the room.

You indistinctly mouth Miguel's name, hoping Collette gets the message before she disappears from view. You wish that they can at least sneak in a letter to Miguel.

If she can't get to Hobie in time, you'll have to do it yourself. For now, you need Miguel back to Hazelside first and foremost. He might not like Hobie but he seems to care for you and your well being, he'll get you and Hobie out, you just know it. He has the title, the power to help you. And the stature that strikes fear into your aunt and uncle. You just hope that Hobie's in the barn, you'd run to him the moment you get the chance.

With your bandaged hands, you grip the arms of your chair. The velvet is slashed under your nails, fluff spilling out.

Victoria stands up, crossing the threshold towards you. “After your meeting with the viscount, there's no escaping this, no matter how you act. I know you're not one of us but you have to try. Marriage is the best option for the both of us. For the family.” She holds onto the back of your chair as you continue to stare at Remus.

“You’re not my family,” you look up at her with your burning eyes. “Whatever you're planning, you'll regret it soon enough. You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

She exhales through her powdered nose. “Hollow threats, dear niece.”

“It won't be, I promise you that.” You abruptly grab her wrist, nails purposely digging in. “If you're part of the reason why they're dead—” she tries to take her hand back but you're stronger. “I'll bury you under my grandmother's apple trees. Then you'll truly be family.”

Unknowingly, you embrace the same fire he has.

Frederick comes to Victoria's side, quickly making you unhand his wife by roughly unclasping your fingers around her.

Your nails scrape and leave a mark on her soft skin, to which you grin at. She has the look of a woman who's terrified for her life. Her husband shares the same look, but with regret in his eyes.

They leave the room, arms embracing each other, murmuring hurried whispers in their traitorous ears.

“Keep that look.” Remus cuts the thick silence. “I like it better.” He smiles, continuing to paint your likeness.

You wait and bide your time, waiting for your so-called aunt and uncle to fully disappear from the halls outside. You count to thirty.

Five.

You listen for their retreating footfalls.

Twelve.

The sound of the brush against the paper is the only thing that you can hear while you ignore your quickening heartbeat.

Nineteen.

Anger rages in you, Hobie finds something in the duke’s office.

Twenty-five.

You thank the artist for his time, using an excuse of not feeling well. His protests fall on deaf ears as you close the door behind you.

Thirty.

You run to him.

—

You try not to make it obvious as you sprint, only slowing down when someone sees you. After you're away from their view, you continue to run towards the barn like a moth to a flame. The ache in your leg is fiery. A harsh throb in your bones, the pain reverberating through your body.

It makes you wince and groan, slightly limping, you finally make it to your chambers. Quickly throwing off the blasted shoes, you immediately kneel down next to your bed in search of your dagger that you've kept hidden under the mattress.

Feeling the cool steel, you grab it, with no time to lose, you hold it in your hand as you head towards the familiar tapestry. Heart pounding like war drums, blood rushing in your ears, sweat dripping off your brows, you feel the fury in your lungs. It buries inside you, shoveling, tunneling, until it reaches your heart. You fight a sob when your knees almost buckle from under you.

Holding on to the walls, you go further inside the hidden path, in search of his warmth. His name echoes in your head, ‘Hobie, Hobie, Hobie’ it says, and you grip tightly around his name like it's your life line, your guiding light as you finally make it to the rotten wooden door.

The sun hangs low in the sky, the cold grass hitting your bare feet makes you gasp but it's not enough to stop you. It'll take more than that to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from reaching him.

The residents of Hazelside are far and few during this time of day. The ones who are left spare you a curious glance but they let you be whilst you run and run, until you reach him, until you reach your reason to live. You'll run forever if you have to.

Ankles burning, palm throbbing from the steel in your hand, you push the barn door open without a thought.

The smell of manure and hay hits your nose, the familiar scratch of a gun being unholstered rings in your ears.

Your heart finally finds reprieve when you see him bathed in the orange rays. Hobie points his gun away, holsters it once he lays his eyes on you. His pulse quickened further the second he spots the deep worry in your eyes. And how you heave like your lungs are about to give out.

Hobie leaves Bernard‘s side, letting the saddle fall on the horse’s back with a soft thump. Fast strides get himself in front of you at a quick pace. Grasping your face, tear stained cheeks tells him of what he feared, what you feared.

“What happened?”

“T-they're going to marry me off.” You weakly say. Holding his arm, you burst at the seams. The fire in you still burns, but you've had enough of its heat.

Now that you stand in front of him, the firelight in you dims, adrenaline fading, letting you be your true self.

You can't lose him.

“I'm sorry,” your hold on him gets tighter with every plea. You can't say it, say that you've given up even though you were forced to. But to you it's all the same. Failure means death, failure means they've died without justice. But failure also means you get to live, to continue to live with him. You're torn between the family you know and love, and the family you never got the chance to love.

And he understands completely.

You now see the cost of revenge laying at your feet, and it's him— Hobie's head rolling on the floor right next to Gwen's, Miles', Pavitr’s, James' and Yuri's. He has seen the same look in your eyes before in the mirror, the reflection cracked and broken. He can't let it happen to you, won't let the hunger burn you until you can't recognize yourself anymore.

And he can't lose you.

“That's alright,” Hobie embraces you, arms shielding you from everyone. Your face hidden in his leather vest, the familiar material helps ease you from the adrenaline rush. “Let's go then, fuck ‘em.” He says against your head. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Thank you,” you look up at him with tearful and restless eyes. “Thank you. Let's go look for the others.”

“I found something, but you're right, we need to go. Let me saddle him then we can—”

The doors burst open with a loud bang. The sheer force unhinges the doors from the frame. The sound scares the animals inside, their terrified cries rising above your own.

Hobie hides you behind him as a dozen or so guards filter through the doorway, their heavy boots thumping louder than the horse’s frantic stomping. They all raise their bayonets at Hobie while he stands with his own gun raised.

The men in uniforms yell at Hobie to let the gun go, to let you go like he's holding you hostage. But it's all muffled noise to you both, everything happens in slow motion. Dust floats in the air like it hangs suspended. You no longer hear the cries of the barn animals as you're more focused on Hobie, and he's focused on your safety.

He's calm amidst the numerous guns aimed at his head. He's in his natural state, but your hand around his arm makes him aware, aware that the bullets would pass through him and into you if they shoot.

For the first time, his hand shakes around his gun.

Outnumbered, he clasps your hand behind him, squeezing once. You already know what he's about to do.

“Hobie, please.” You whisper as you look over his shoulder. “No more sacrifices.”

Your words wake him. The fishbone is stuck in his throat once again. Choking him, strangling him as realization hits him.

It's the end.

“I can't,” you see tears in the corner of his eyes. “I can't let them have you.” There's desperation and grief in his voice. He can't lose you.

“I’m so sorry.” Kissing his clothed shoulder, you whisper a goodbye. “I'm so fucking sorry.” You don't want to lose him, but fate has other plans.

“Unhand her!” Frederick appears like he actually cares for your wellbeing. “Fucking scoundrel! I knew you were up to something, dear niece. Glad I got my footman to follow you. I thought you were just gonna run away on a horse but I did not expect to see the red hydra under my own roof.”

Without a second thought, you stand in front of Hobie. Protecting him with your own body. “Let him go, uncle, and I'll marry Eugene.”

“You know I can't do that.” He points his finger at Hobie. “He has a bounty on his head, you see.” He beckons you over. “Come, Y/N, we're gonna need the money for your upcoming wedding.” When you don't obey, his eyes flashes with remorse that's quickly replaced by the need for survival.

“Let him go!” You scream like a knife twists in your gut. Hobie tries to hide you behind him but you fight him. “Please,” your voice falters with desperation. “Please, uncle. Let him go and I'll marry Eugene, I won't fight it anymore. Just let him go.” You're ashamed, but it's needed for him to live.

“I'm sorry, Y/N, but you don't hold the cards here.” Your heart falls in your stomach, it dissolves in acid. The duke cranes his neck to the officer near him. “Seize them, don't harm a hair on her but take the red hydra to the capital.”

“No!” You try to swipe with your dagger but it's fruitless as the uniformed men yank you away from Hobie. The steel clunks loudly on the ground as Hobie tries to hold onto you, the sleeves of your dress rips away as the men take you away.

His gun falls as one of the taller men punches him in the gut. Hobie spills crimson from his lips but he continues to fight the men. He kicks, scratches and bites. Getting a few hits in, he yells for you, calls your name with desperation.

Almost all of them hold Hobie down, but even with their numbers they still can't keep him still. Using all his strength, he fights back with sheer will alone. His elbow meets a face, nose crunching. His knee smacks someone on the groin, knees buckling. He draws blood with his nails, his mouth snapping at anyone who gets close. Someone made the mistake of getting too close, now the captor's ear is in his bloodied mouth.

Reaching for you as two men try to drag you away, your heels dig in as you try to reach for him too. Fingertips brushing along yours, eyes glued to your terrified face, he decides that his final words to you shouldn't be filled with agony, but with something that should help you survive, something to keep you alive once he can't be your reason anymore.

Because he's a knife born to cut and bleed, not to love. Or to be loved.

“It's not him!” Hobie screams as they continue to drag you away. “It's her! It's—!” A bag is put on his head, shutting him up with the rope tied around his neck. The men laugh menacingly as they cinch the rope tighter.

Hobie tries to resist, clawing at his captors, guttural screams let out from the same lips who called your name softly in his sleep.

“No!” You continue to thrash, nails digging into the arms of your captors. “Hobie!” Your voice cracks as you hear him start to choke.

“Oi!” The duke yells towards the guards. “Bring him to the king first! He needs to stand before him before you bloody execute him! What will he say if you bring the most wanted pirate in the country dead in front of the whole court, hm? You know how much he likes the theater of a trial!”

Air rushes in your lungs as they untie the rope. He coughs, spit darkening the bag. You yell for him again before a bag is placed on your head. Darkness invades your senses, and you're afraid of the unknown, afraid of what they're doing to him as they tow you away on the moist ground. Throat clumping up, hyperventilating, you try to desperately breathe. The guard's hold on you tightens and in turn, your throat tightens, shutting off your air. Heaving, ears ringing, your own breath fans on your face while you hastily try to take breaths in. Black dots dance around your vision until you fall unconscious.

This is the end.

—

You've been staring at the same spot for hours, blank stare, red eyes. Legs tucked, arms enveloping around it, your mind runs like an unhitched horse. Hobie's face is seared into your brain. You can see his wild eyes with every blink of your own. His screams echo in your ears like a death rattle, it might as well be if his fate is to be decided by the crown who hates every fiber of his being.

The soft bed doesn't provide comfort, the blankets don't shield you away from the stern stare of the guards guarding every single opening in your chambers. A behemoth of a man stands in front of the unicorn tapestry, his cutlass on his hip shines in the moonlight as well as your own dagger.

The once comforting eyes of the sea snake around the hilt now mocks you. You did this, you did this. You've killed him, your hubris killed him. You might as well follow him towards the end.

There's no more tears in your eyes left to be shed. Every muscle in your body aches from your wracking sobs. Your nails leave crescent shapes in your palms, tiny dots of crimson drips on the expensive silk bed sheet.

Yet, you want your mother.

The one who truly knows you, the one who saved you all those years ago. There's a part of you that wishes she didn't, that she left you alone in the arms of your doomed birth mother. But there's a bigger part of you who seeks Jessica's comfort. You seek her warmth from her embrace, like you once sought out your family. Family who turned their backs on you, family who locked you in your chambers like a princess in a fairytale. But this isn't a fairytale, it's real, and you can still hear his screams.

You would've given everything to meet your family back then, if only you could warn your younger self to come back to that small cabin in the woods, to beg Jessica to take you back. Even if it means you've never met him, even if it means you'll never feel his touch again as long as he's alive, knowing that he'll survive is enough. You now wonder if you didn't jump on that net that day, would everything still happen? Would Mathias still find the revenge? Would Finn and Ned still be dead if you just ran the other way?

It's too late to come back, it's too late to save them, to save him.

A bird passes by your window, and it's just now you realized it's dawn. The rose-pink sky upsets you further. Your brain concocts an image, an image where everybody lives. Where Finn and Ned drink on the revenge, where the trio plays cards on the rickety table. Where Hobie has his hands around your own as he guides them on the helm.

You haven't moved an inch from the bed, yet you stand in front of the mirror wearing a white dress.

With every pull of the ribbons behind the wedding gown you feel like they're gutting you like a fish ready for supper.

Silver threads weaved around the golden violets on your bust, the fabric is airy yet heavy and suffocating on your form. White gloves decorate your hands to hide the crescent shapes. There're heeled shoes underneath your feet to prevent you from running away, heavy perfume to hide the iron lingering on your skin. Make-up to hide your sorrows, jewelry to get people's attention away from the tears in your eyes. Top it off with a bow on your back and a golden tiara on your head— you're dressed properly for the slaughter.

And Hobie is too. If he had a mirror in the dimly lit prison they threw him in, he'd wonder who's looking back at him. He doesn't look like the captain he was supposed to be, doesn't *feel like the captain he was supposed to be. He's been beaten, his own ichor flowing out of his mouth and open wounds. Body shaking from the cold, he misses your fire.

He's not terrified of the blade that would kiss his neck, he's afraid to leave his family in this world. Afraid to leave you in this world.

He hates the fates for weaving him like this, to let everyone he has ever cared about die or be given a fate worse than death. Why did they shape him to be a knife that kills instead of something better? Something smoother around the edges, something that doesn't let everything he touches die?

Hobie whispers your name in the dark like you would materialize right next to him. The ground is wet under him, iron fills his nose, he wonders how many people lived and died in this cell. He feels the ghost of your touch on his hand, and he cracks at the seams.

Victoria appears next to you like a gust of wind. She fixes your mother's necklace on your neck, hands cold, nervous, terrified.

“You have a guest.” She says lowly, like she's already mourning.

For a moment hope blooms in your chest. Is it him? Did he escape to save you? Is he alive?

But if it was Hobie, Victoria wouldn't announce it. He would come to you like a dream, quick and quiet, touch soft and careful as he takes you away from your hell.

You have no fight left to scream at her, to claw at her painted face. She leaves before you could find the fight in you.

With gloved hands from the handmaidens, they guide you outside. Face blank and limbs limp, you let them.

They halt by twin doors, gold outlining the shape, birds carved on the dark wood. Eyes solemn, you only now notice the finely dressed man in front of you.

Eugene calls your name softly, like how someone would utter a person's name who's currently rotting six feet below the soft ground.

You are scorched by the sun. And you're ready to burn everything in your path.

“I'm so sorry about this—” Your knuckles hitting his cheek makes him stagger on his feet. He spits out blood, crimson coating the polished floors. “I deserved that.” He groans as he tries to straighten up with grace. With one look towards the staff, they all filter out of the hallway, leaving you alone with the object of your ire. “Listen, I didn't intend for this—”

“What did you intend then?” Your voice breaks from all the screaming and the sudden silence you sported after it. “Hm? Wed and bed me for what? Satisfaction? To breed me like a broodmare?”

“That—no! It's not like that!”

You wish you had your dagger to cut him right where he stood. Standing toe to toe with Eugene, he backs away from your heated glare. “What is it then? They're going to execute someone very close to me just because you wanted to marry someone you've only just met—”

“I fancy you and I had every intention to court you properly!” He sighs, and you notice the darkness under his eyes. “But this wasn't my intention. Getting someone in line for the gallows wasn't in my plan, or anyone's plan!”

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he continues. “Listen, I gushed about you to my family.” There's no lie in his tone, but you still doubt him. Your punch leaves a mark on his posh face. “They encouraged me to call for you, knowing that I needed to marry or my title and estate would be in danger. When my godfather heard your name he did more than to encourage me. He's the one who orchestrated this…quick marriage. Not me.”

“Godfather?” You ask breathlessly.

“He's inside, I have no idea why he would do anything like this! I promise you, I had no hand in this. I was forced, if I had a choice I would have courted you then let you decide if you wanted to marry me or not.” He tentatively takes your hand, “I'd take care of you though, I promise.”

Frowning, you grip his hand in an iron grip. Eugene winces, eyes darting around for help. “You do have a choice, Eugene. You always have a choice.” Your voice shakes. “It's not too late, call off the wedding and we can forget this ever happened—”

“I can't. Your family already paid the dowry, and we already paid our dues.” He says through the pain, voice faltering. You still won't let go. “My godfather did all the work, it's all set in stone. The priest is already waiting at the altar, your family and mine are already there. I'm sorry, Y/N, if the circumstances were different—”

“No,” you shake your head, eyes boring holes in his skull. Nails digging in, refusing to let go. “There's a part of you who wanted this, you're a man and a viscount, you had a choice. Yet you let it all happen.” Eugene frowns deeply, trying to get his hand back from your grip, head turned away in shame. “You were not forced, you're just as bad as your godfather, whoever he is, I'd like to face the fucking asshole.”

Pushing him away and away from the door, he sighs in relief, clutching his hand. You shoulder the heavy doors. Revealing a room that's finely decorated for the reception.

A sparkling chandelier hangs above, your ancestors’ portraits watch on from the walls. White lilies decorate the expansive room, violets are laid on every table. The fine table setting would've taken your breath away if not for the man sitting at the head of the table.

“Hello, little birdy.”

It's the end.

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gothic-mothic · 3 months

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how did narr even managed to survive outta there irl world before he found stanley again..? bet was confus- anyways, UR ART IS SO SILLYYY N SKOINKY /pos

CW: Panic attack, overstimulation, depersonalization, eyestrain

Begging tumblr to not send this post to the void again

Anyway, The Narrator wasn’t left alone for as long as Stanley was. He followed a familiar stream of thought to safety shortly after he arrived.

To say he was confused would be an understatement to say the least

Also thank you :]

#.exe #.png #the stanley parable #tsp #the stanley parable ultra deluxe #tspud #the narrator tsp #cw eyestrain #cw panic attack #cw depersonalization #cw overstim #<- I really hope that’s a sfw tag.#anyway umm I tried something a bit different this time #I wanted to show the narrators inicial disconnection from his body and reality in a interesting way #to visualize his feelings more than his perception #bc he has a lot of feelings #so many.#anyway I’m decently proud of the end product and I hope you guys like the style switch too #post parable au

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whathorselegs · 3 months

Text

I like to think when Chuuya can't use his ability he gets awful vertigo.

Like say Dazai and Chuuya allow themselves to be captured for a mission and their guards know enough about their abilities to handcuff them together. So Chuuya can't use his ability, but it's fine because Dazai's just waiting for the right moment to pick the lock.

Then they hold them somewhere high up.

Maybe a cliff edge, maybe it's a roof top. Heights hadn't bothered Chuuya for years. They did a little when he was younger and still learning to control his ability. When leaping off something still risked an injury. Except now he has no safety net, if he and Dazai go over the edge the guys with guns keep pushing them closer to, he's actually going to fall.

And it's windy.

He's never really noticed how strong and loud the wind is this high up. It could bowl him over if he's not paying attention. Straight off the edge. It's cold and it whips his hair. It catches in his clothes forces him off balance for just a second.

Then he notices his shoes. Why is he wearing formal shoes? They have next to no grip. He could slip so easily. Dazai's wearing the same type, if Chuuya trips up, he's likely dragging Dazai down with him.

Speaking of Dazai, he is not helping.

He's used to being the distraction, getting captured, playing the princess. None of this is bothering him at all. He's annoying their guard. So the guard keeps threatening them, pushing them closer to that edge.

And every step Chuuya takes feels like the ground is too far away.

And every turn of his head makes the world spin around him.

And his stomach is churning.

And his hair keeps getting in his eyes and mouth.

He can't breathe.

He can't see.

Then Dazai takes his hand.

Its warm and solid and it grounds him. Dazai squeezes his hand and for a second he feels the nails press into his skin.

"Focus, Chuuya." It's all he says before he lets go, but it's enough for Chuuya to realize, he doesn't feel the handcuffs anymore. The loss of the sensation of No Longer Human covering him.

And he grins, because now it's time to pay back a certain guard who likes bullying his captives.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd chuuya #bsd dazai #bsd skk #soukoku #my writing #This started as a headcanon and turned into Chuuya having a panic attack #Oopies #cw heights #cw panic attack #panic attack

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mar64ds · 1 year

Photo

Thank you, Perrito

#puss in boots last wish gifs #cw panic attack

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itadore-you · 8 months

Text

just for me

pairing: katsuki bakugo x gn!reader w/c: ~ 1k c/w + context: comfort fic. big ass panic attack. if this may trigger you, pls steer clear of this one!

════════════════════════════════════

The violet void of the night has claimed you as a victim once again. It has invisible toothpicks for nails that pry open your eyelids for inspection, declaring you blind.

"Are you scared yet?" It rasps.

You tremble, because you already know what it'll say next.

Nothing. It won't say a word.

Its silence prompts your subconscious to speak for itself, letting the undead scream. Once they're woken, there's no shutting them up. The voices don't come alone. Like a pretty Russian doll, there's always more. Hordes of images; so much that you have seen. They blot across your vision, so viscerally colourful against the dark of night. You're certain that you will die.

All of a sudden, the dark grows hands that hold onto yours - they're smooth, they're warm, and they … aren't to be trusted when you get like this.

Your first instinct is to slap them away. Nothing is safe in the minefield of your mind.

"It's me," murmurs a low voice from beside you. "I'm right here."

"Kats- Katsuki?"

You sound broken. It makes him grit his teeth, knowing what's happening to you. It doesn't happen often, but it happens often enough that he knows the signs. He knows how to help, but not how to fix, and it pains him. Quickly he illuminates the room with a light spark from one of his palms, the crackle emphasizing his presence.

"Yes," he continues to slowly reassure you. "Me. Katsuki. I'm right here."

He wishes he could promise it. He wishes that he could fight alongside you. Blow it all up, leaving those nocturnal demons charred and in pieces. He knows, that even by being here right now, it's not going to stop it on its own. He's reached a limit that he can't force himself through.

He takes in a deep breath as he holds your hands a little tighter, and he continues.

"Squeeze my hands back."

It takes several moments for you to manage the movement. These "attacks" often leave you fucking paralysed after all. But once you grip Katsuki's hands, you keep squeezing, tighter and tighter.

He smiles a little at that, knowing that it's somewhat broken the trance.

"Good. You can keep going."

He doesn't mind it, no matter how hard it hurts, because he won't let you keep feeling so hurt, all alone. He still remembers seeing your first episode, the uselessness that weighed down his heart as he watched the person he loved whilst he did nothing, he couldn’t do anything. Never again.

Never.

You hold onto him tighter over the next couple of minutes. Slowly he offers his arms, and eventually, you accept his embrace - he knows to not constrict you fully in his arms, but instead help you feel grounded.

It takes time before the tempo of your breathing matches his, no longer shallow and rapid. Even in the dark, you can now find the fierce red of his eyes meeting yours. He knows to hold your gaze like this, to silently reassure you that you’re going to be OK.

He whispers a couple of words, asking if you feel like you can stand. He doesn't let go of your hand as he gets you on your feet, motivating you to move with him as he ambles over to the side of your shared bedroom.

It's nice, not to remain curled up beneath a duvet until you sweat buckets, and you can’t tell the difference between perspiration and tears.

Katsuki notices the vacant look in your expression as you motionlessly stand next to him. He's got to be careful now, because that break of clarity is not always the ‘calm after the storm’. Sometimes it comes right back, striking fast like a viper.

The click of your kettle sounds and an impending crescendo ensues as the water boils. The sound is like a pleasant white noise that fills the empty air, static that your brain can't be louder than. You could swear that you kept the kettle in the kitchen, not in here. Katsuki must have brought it, as well as the cup he grabs from seemingly nowhere, and the faint aroma of chamomile starts to arise in the room.

Another click from the kettle, alerting you both that the water has finished boiling. As Katsuki pours the stream of water into the cup, the smell of chamomile grows stronger. You notice that your lungs seem to expand double the size from before, breathing in the calming scent.

Bakugo lifts the steaming cup to you, watching as you take deep breaths. He knows you like the smell and taste of the tea. It's something so basic, so seemingly trivial, but it works.

Out of all your five senses, he's the one that makes the most sense. Bakugo stands before you, untainted and real - more real than what was happening inside of your mind.

He stays with you like that for a while, waiting for the tea to cool down so you can drink it. In the meantime, he talks about a couple of things. He brings up some stupid banter from the conference room yesterday; still finding it stupid, but knowing that you'd find it funny. He mentions, on the side, that he wants to buy some poppy seeds for your garden. It sounds random, but each one of Katsuki's words is chosen with care to distract you from your thoughts.

All the while, he can see a spark start to come back in your eyes. They’re no longer as dull and dead as they were before.

He's glad.

He’s not going to ask if you feel better.

He already knows.

#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #mha #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #katsuki x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #mha fanfic #high five if you read this you get me #tw panic attack #cw panic attack #tw anxiety

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midnight-moth · 5 months

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May I ask for Rain and Dew absolutely smothering Phantom because his anxiety is acting up really bad and the dp helps calm him down

I haven't just written something inside of tumblr without even opening a doc in a long time. Let's give it a go! 1100 ish words of Phantom having a meltdown, Rain and Dew being sweet. And maybe Dew having secret perv thoughts. Also everyone always puts cute or pretty gifs in their writing. Well I feel this one works.

"Where's Phantom?"

"I don't know, actually. Where is he?" Dew craned his neck from his seat on the edge of a folding chair, his eyes drifted away from the knot he was trying to pick out of his laces to Rain's face, creased with worry.

"I'm sure he's around? I mean, he can't have gone far." Words meant to self-soothe but they weren't doing a particularly good job. Rain's legs were already absentmindedly directing him toward the labyrinth of hallways.

"You wanna go look? I wanna go look."

Rain gave Dew a small smile, a silent thank you for taking his worries and making them his own. For not making Rain ask him to go searching for Phantom, for not making him feel like he was concerned about nothing.

For not making Rain explain again that he was worried about the new summon; that despite appearances and reassurances, Rain saw the raw skin beside his thumbnails, the bruised circles carved beneath his eyes, the food he pushed around his plate but never into his mouth.

All of them were nervous, Papa was nervous. It was their first ritual together, at least with this iteration of the band. One without the steadying presence of Aether, the calming comportment of Sunny.

Dew abandoned the knot in his laces and followed Rain out of the greenroom, leaving the various satellite groups of crew and ghoul alike to continue eating, talking, vibrating with excitement about kicking off the tour.

They weaved in and out of the hallway snaking to the rear of the building, still short one quintessence Ghoul and running out of hiding places.The clack of heeled boots finally revealed his location.

“Hey, what’re you doing back here?” Here being a darkened stairwell that led to the catwalks up above the stage.

Whether Phantom heard Dew’s voice or their approach, they weren’t sure. He didn’t react. He just kept up his pacing, 3 steps forward, 5 steps across, 3 steps back, 5 steps over, around and around and around.

Dew, watching him move in the small space felt his own head spinning with vertigo eventually and tore his eyes away to look at Rain, who stood frozen, his arm halfway extended, as if he were about to stop Phantom in his tracks.

“Hey bug, you’re gonna wear holes in your soles. Why don’t you slow down a little?” Phantom’s eyes flit up to Dew’s and then fell back on the toes of his shiny new boots. He did however finally stop moving.

Neither Dew nor Rain were really sure what to do. Neither had really made progress in getting to know the ghoul. What they saw during practice, a charismatic ghoul who was little bit goofy, but also full of joy, had yet to reveal itself in alternate scenary.

“Are you nervous? That’s okay. It’s normal. We all were, and we still are.” Rain took small steps toward him as he spoke, he half expected Phantom to arch his back and howl like a scared cat.

Phantom wanted to answer them, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that if he opened his mouth, all of his insides would come spewing out. Not the contents of his stomach, his lungs, his heart, his spine. He felt like his silence was the only thing keeping his body glued together. Even then he felt the bonds weakening when he looked up at the concerned ghouls in front of him.

“You don’t have to speak. Just - if there’s anything we can do, can you nod?”

Phantom considered whether he could do as Dew asked, whether communicating with him would cause everything to spiral out of control. Whether it would disturb the peace he’d made with that square meter of concrete in the back of the venue.

He nodded slowly, eyebrows quirking up in surprise that in fact, the ground beneath his feet had not shifted or crumbled.

“Good. Okay, do you want water?” No.

“Food?” No.

“Do you want anyone other than us?” No

“Do you want to go outside?” No.

Guilt began to tear at the threads of reality Phantom had clung to since finding the quiet space. Rain and Dew watched him wring his hands in consternation, subconsciously mimicking him, Dew twisted his fingers together, feeling like they were failing him.

“Do you want a hug?” Rain’s voice made them both jump a little.

Phantom nodded his head in affirmation and Rain felt the coil twisting in his chest loosen a little.

Neither had really touched the ghoul, and once again they approached him as they would a feral cat, all but sticking their hands under his nose for him to sniff. Not that they were afraid he would bite or claw, they were afraid he would run.

Rain reached out first, wrapping his arms around Phantom’s tense shoulders, loose, and hopefully non-threatening. Still he felt the ghoul tense under his touch.

Dew reached for his arm, a barely there pat to his bicep, and the ghoul visibly cringed.

“We’re sorry, you can change your mind. I don’t know - we can get Swiss, or Cirrus, or Papa.”

“No”, His voice came out as a croak, his throat dry and tight from his panic induced fugue.

“What can we do?”

“Just - you can touch me, but harder. I dunno why. When I feel - like this, those light touches make my skin crawl. I’m sorry - s’not your fault. I don’t - I don’t -”

“Ah.” Rain nodded. Dew was the same, whether he was upset, sad, anxious, he hated gentle, soft. He wanted heavy and solid.

“It’s okay, I’ll be okay.” Phantom mumbled, feet angling to resume the pattern he’d been wearing into the floor.

Instead, Rain grasped him firmly by the wrists and led him to the wall, pulling the ghoul into his lap and into a most crushing hug, reinforced by Dew, wrapping his arms around the other half of his body.

They both felt him sag and droop a little.

“Better?”

Phantom gave them a barely-there nod, as best he could manage with the limited range of movement. Even as compressed as he was, he felt like his lungs were finally able to take in a satisfying amount of air.

“Don’t worry, we have lots of time. Hours in fact.”

Phantom nodded against Rain’s shoulder, beginning to doze off. The two tails snaking around his torso and the rumbling purrs of their owners nudged him over the edge.

“Is he asleep?” Dew whispered.

“Yeah. He’s drooling on me. Reminds me of someone.”

“Shut up. - Hey, if he likes this maybe he’ll like that other thing you do.”

“One step at a time.”

As Phantom’s mind swam between the conscious and unconscious world, he wondered what the other thing was.

#sorry if there are typos I am so sleepy #squish that ghoul #also this is me if someone tries to touch me lightly while I am v anxious or having a panic attack I will throw up #I dont know what it is I hate it sooooo much #again sorry this took so long I will slowly make my way through the asks #phantom ghoul #rain ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #midnight moth asks #midnight moth writes #the band ghost fanfiction #i can't help but see that you said DP instead of DPT and well you know what i'm thinking about #that wouldve been very different story #cw anxiety #cw panic attack

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