#panic attack /

[2b4st4r]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A Killers Promise ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Straw hats x reader

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ Words: 8,948

⭑.ᐟ warnings: Violance and gore, Childhood trauma, panic attack, emotional angst, brief unsettling imagery, nightmares, shower scene (DOES NOT SHOW ANYTHING, hinted F! reader.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ Summery: Y/N, a quiet member of the Straw Hat Pirates with a hidden past. Though she steadfastly refuses to fight, her crew believes it's simply a preference or a lack of skill. What they don't know is the terrifying truth: Y/N is a formidable killer, honed by a brutal childhood war fought for her family and island. After witnessing a loved one's death, she made a solemn vow to abandon violence forever, but what will happen when she’s put in a position where she has to make a choice, break the promise— or save her new found family; the strawhats.

masterlist ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The rhythmic creak of the Thousand Sunny’s mast was a lullaby, a stark contrast to the cacophony that once defined your world. Here, amidst the boisterous Straw Hats, you were an anomaly. They knew you didn't fight, a fact you’d established early on with a quiet, unwavering resolve. Luffy, bless his guileless heart, probably thought you just preferred cheering from the sidelines. Zoro, perhaps, assumed you hadn't the knack for it. Nami, ever practical, likely saw you as valuable in other ways. They were all wrong. So terribly, fundamentally wrong.

God, you could fight. You were a symphony of calculated strikes, a whirlwind of precision and power. The memory of steel in your hand felt as natural as breathing, the taste of adrenaline a familiar tang on your tongue. Before the Sunny, before this semblance of peace, there was only war.

You were barely a teenager when the drums of conflict began to beat, echoing across your island, a relentless rhythm of oppression under a cruel government. Your hands, still small and slender, learned to grip a blade before they truly knew how to hold a pen. You fought for them, for your family, for the very ground beneath your feet. There was a raw, undeniable craving for blood then, not born of malice, but of desperation. Each swing, each parry, was a prayer for survival, a desperate plea for freedom.

The air on those nights was thick with the scent of fear and smoke, illuminated by the orange glow of burning homes. You were a phantom in the chaos, a blur of motion, driven by an instinct to protect. You remembered the sickening crunch of bone, the wet thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the desperate cries that mingled with your own ragged breaths. You were good at it, terrifyingly so. Every move was etched into your muscle memory, a brutal dance perfected through countless skirmishes.

Then came the night the island finally cracked. The citizens, pushed to their breaking point, rose up in a desperate, last-ditch effort to reclaim what was theirs. You were in the thick of it, a whirlwind of fury and hope. The shouts of defiance mingled with the crack of gunfire, a chaotic crescendo. You saw your brother, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and determination, just meters away. And then, the sickening crack, the way his body crumpled, a dark stain blossoming on his chest.

You were there in an instant, cradling him, your hands slick with his lifeblood. His breath hitched, a desperate gurgle in his throat. His eyes, already clouding, found yours. "Y/N," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, "Promise me… promise me you'll stop. Stop this… this bloodshed. Live, little sister. Live for peace."

Your own sobs tore through you, a raw, primal sound that was swallowed by the surrounding cacophony of battle. "No… no, please," you choked, tears streaming down your face, mixing with the blood on your hands. But his gaze, unwavering even in death, held you captive. And through your agony, through the despair of watching your people fall, you made the promise. A promise whispered to a dying boy, a vow to forsake the very thing you were terrifyingly good at.

The weeks that followed were a blur of grief and hollow victory. The island was free, but at what cost? Your hands, once so quick to grasp a weapon, now trembled at the thought. The very sight of a blade sent shivers down your spine. The craving for blood, once a driving force, was replaced by a profound nausea. You sought solace in quiet, in the simple rhythm of everyday life. You learned to cultivate a garden, to mend torn sails, to appreciate the quiet hum of a peaceful existence.

The years stretched on, each one a testament to that solemn vow. The killer within you, once a roaring inferno, was carefully, painstakingly banked. You embraced a new path, one of gentle understanding and quiet observation. The Straw Hats saw a calm, collected presence, a kind soul who offered comfort and support. They saw your refusal to fight as a quirk, perhaps even a weakness. They never knew the raging storm you had tamed, the monstrous capability you held in check, all for the sake of a promise made to a dying brother. And you would keep that promise, no matter what.

They didn't see the killer you had been, or the one you still held at bay. They saw the person who’d zone out at the sight of blood, a distant look clouding your eyes as memories, sharp and unwanted, pricked at the edges of your consciousness. They saw the one who’d stay behind when they went to fight, a silent sentinel on the deck, watching the chaos unfold from a safe, agonizing distance. And they saw the one who refused to even hold a weapon, your hands always empty, even when a spare blade or a discarded pipe lay conveniently nearby.

This was the person they had taken onto their ship, a non-combatant in a crew defined by their fighting prowess. Most of them didn't understand it, least of all Luffy, your captain. He tried—he really did—to make sense of your pacifism.

"Hey, Y/N!" Luffy would shout, bounding over to you with a wide grin, a rusty old pipe already in his hand. "Look! This looks like a fun weapon! Wanna try swinging it?" He'd offer it to you, his eyes bright with genuine enthusiasm, completely missing the subtle tightening of your jaw, the faint tremor that would run through your fingers. You'd just shake your head, a small, polite smile fixed on your face. "No thank you, Luffy. I'm not really good with weapons." He'd deflate for a moment, then shrug, already distracted by the next shiny object or the promise of meat.

Another time, during a particularly chaotic skirmish with some minor thugs, you found yourself near Zoro, who'd lost one of his swords in the fray. It lay glinting on the deck, just inches from your foot. "Y/N! The sword!" he grunted, fighting off two assailants. For a split second, your gaze locked onto the hilt, your fingers twitching with an involuntary, phantom grip. The muscle memory screamed, pick it up, it's right there, you could end this. But then, your brother's dying eyes flashed in your mind, and the brief surge of adrenaline receded, leaving behind a cold dread. You simply nudged the sword with your foot, pushing it closer to Zoro, and mumbled, "Here, Zoro, it's just by your hand." He snatched it up, giving you a quick, puzzled glance before diving back into the fight, none the wiser to the internal battle you'd just won.

Even Nami, ever observant, once tried to hand you a small, ornate dagger she'd acquired, thinking it might be a good self-defense tool. "It's just for emergencies, Y/N," she'd said kindly. You'd held it for a moment, the cool weight of the metal strangely familiar, and then, with a deep breath, handed it back. "I'm sure you'll make better use of it, Nami," you'd replied, a lightness in your tone that belied the tension in your shoulders.

They saw your calm demeanor, your quiet support, your occasional bouts of distant silence. They saw a crewmate who chose not to fight, and they, in their own unique ways, respected it. They didn't see the constant vigil, the unyielding strength it took to keep the killer buried deep, all for the sake of a promise whispered to a dying brother on a war-torn island.

For the most part, they accepted your unique stance, but sometimes, the teasing would come, lighthearted jabs that still managed to prick. Zoro, ever the blunt one, would sometimes just snort when the topic of fighting came up, a dismissive sound that spoke volumes without a single word. You'd just offer him a small, unreadable smile in return.

Usopp, in his usual dramatic fashion, would often proclaim, "See, even Y/N's more afraid than me when the fighting starts! At least I try to fight, even if I get scared!" He'd puff out his chest, completely oblivious to the quiet strength it took for you to simply be there, unmoving, while chaos erupted. Chopper, bless his innocent heart, would sometimes fret, "Are you sure you're okay, Y/N? You always look a little… sad when everyone else is fighting." You'd reassure him with a gentle pat on his head, a warmth in your eyes that masked the underlying ache.

Franky, with his boisterous enthusiasm, once tried to entice you. "C'mon, Y/N! Imagine the SUPER moves you could do with a custom weapon! We could build you something amazing!" You just laughed, a genuine, melodious sound. "I'm sure you could, Franky, but I think I'll stick to enjoying your creations from a safe distance."

But there were always those who saw more. Sanji, ever the gentleman, would instantly spring to your defense. "Leave her alone, you louts! Y/N does plenty for this ship! She doesn't need to fight! Who do you think keeps track of our supplies so meticulously? Or helps Nami with her charts? She's an invaluable member of this crew!" He'd glare at the others, apron fluttering dramatically, while you offered him a grateful, soft smile.

And then there was Robin. She didn't tease or bully. Her eyes, perceptive and ancient, saw past the surface. She saw how, when blood bloomed on the deck during a skirmish, you didn't pale, shake, or even run. Instead, you paused. It was a fleeting moment, a subtle stiffening of your shoulders, a sharpening of your gaze that lasted only an instant before it softened again.

She'd seen you, for instance, when Luffy had taken a nasty cut across his arm. While others gasped or rushed to tend to him, you simply watched, your eyes momentarily distant, focused not on the wound itself, but on the way the dark red liquid spread. There was no revulsion in your expression, no fear. Just a profound, almost analytical stillness, as if you were recalling something, reliving a moment only you could see. Then, as quickly as it came, the intensity would fade, replaced by your usual calm demeanor as you moved to grab bandages for Chopper.

Another time, when a low-level pirate had been knocked unconscious, a trickle of blood emerging from his temple, your gaze had drifted to it. You didn't flinch. Instead, your fingers had subtly flexed, an almost imperceptible clenching and unclenching, as if recalling the sensation of a blade. Robin had caught it, a flicker of recognition in her own eyes. You were a mystery to most, a gentle soul among a crew of fighters. But to Robin, you were a locked book, and she, with her quiet observation, was slowly deciphering the chapters within.

It was supposed to be a normal stop, a quaint little island with kind villagers, bathed in the soft glow of a perpetually setting sun. Usually, this was your cue to stay back, watch the Sunny, enjoying the quiet solitude of the ship while the others explored. But the Sunny needed repairs from the last brutal skirmish, a gaping hole in her hull and a splintered mast calling for Franky’s immediate attention.

"You stay put, Y/N," Franky had boomed, already surrounded by tools, "I need to get this baby shipshape. You go have some fun!" When you offered to stay with him, a quiet assurance that you preferred the calm of the ship, Nami had practically pulled you away, a determined glint in her eye. "No way, Y/N! You've been cooped up on the ship too long. Robin and I need your keen eye for shopping! You need a break from watching the Sunny!"

So, you went. It was a rare occurrence, walking alongside the entire crew into town. Luffy, Zoro, Nami, Usopp, Sanji, Chopper, Brook, and you—a motley parade heading for supplies.

Luffy, predictably, was already causing a stir, pointing at every food stall with an eager cry of "Meat!" Chopper bounced excitedly beside him, mesmerized by a street performer’s juggling act. Usopp was haggling loudly over what appeared to be a very ordinary slingshot, convinced it was a rare, ancient artifact. Sanji, ever the doting chef, was already flirting with a local baker, his eyes practically turning into hearts. Nami, ever practical, had her nose in a map, muttering about good deals, while Robin calmly browsed a book stall, a serene smile on her face. Brook, of course, was asking every woman he passed if he could see their panties, much to Nami’s exasperated groans.

You walked a little behind them all, taking in the sights and sounds. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the salty sea air. Children laughed, chasing each other through the narrow streets. For a moment, a fragile peace settled over you.

Then, it went to hell.

Luffy, in his usual boundless enthusiasm, had tried to "help himself" to a giant, glistening leg of roast meat from a grumpy vendor’s stall. The vendor, clearly not used to pirates, let out a furious bellow, brandishing a cleaver. One thing led to another, a spilled drink, a mistaken shove, and suddenly, the entire market erupted.

"You damn pirates!" a burly man roared, swinging a fist at Usopp. Tables overturned, baskets of fruit scattered, and the air filled with the angry shouts of villagers. This wasn't a organized enemy, just a furious, uncoordinated mob.

Zoro was already a blur of green, dodging flailing arms and legs, his hands instinctively going for his swords, but holding back, clearly not wanting to cut down civilians. Luffy, surprisingly, was having trouble, overwhelmed by the sheer number of angry hands grabbing at him, pulling his rubber body in every direction. He wasn't fighting back with full force, merely trying to escape the human tide.

Nami shrieked as someone tried to snatch her bag, retaliating with a well-aimed kick that sent her attacker sprawling. Sanji was a whirlwind of kicks, protecting Nami and Robin, but visibly holding back, his precision strikes aimed at disabling, not injuring. Chopper, in Brain Point, was frantically trying to administer first aid to accidentally injured villagers while dodging clumsy swings. Usopp was firing pop greens, creating clouds of smoke to disorient the crowd, his usual bravado replaced by genuine panic. Even Brook was struggling, his cane-sword parrying blows, but the sheer chaos of the unarmed, enraged villagers made it difficult to fight without causing serious harm.

The Straw Hats, used to fighting hardened criminals and powerful marines, were struggling. This wasn't a battle; it was a riot. They were holding back, trying not to hurt these innocent, albeit furious, people, and that hesitation was costing them. Punches landed, kicks connected, and the sheer weight of the mob began to push them back, deeper into the narrow, winding streets of the island town. The gentle sounds of the market were replaced by shouts, screams, and the dull thud of bodies. And in the midst of it all, you stood, a quiet observer as the world around you dissolved into chaos, the familiar scent of blood beginning to prick at your senses.

They weren't winning. They were losing. The sheer force of the furious villagers, fueled by indignation and misunderstanding, was overwhelming. Luffy, usually invincible, was being dragged through a fish stall, momentarily tangled in a net. Zoro, still holding back, found himself pinned against a wall, his swords sheathed, his brow furrowed in frustration as he tried to disarm rather than wound. Nami was pushed into a fruit cart, scattering apples and oranges everywhere, her weather egg useless against a mob.

And you? You just froze.

The sounds of the riot, the shouts, the thuds, began to warp, twisting into the familiar cacophony of another time. The smell of fresh blood, now mingling with the scent of spilled produce, brought it all rushing back. Your brother’s face, pale and streaked with dirt and blood, swam before your eyes. The gurgle in his throat. The final, desperate plea. "Promise me… promise me you'll stop. Stop this… this bloodshed. Live, little sister. Live for peace." The memory was a physical weight, pressing down on your chest, stealing your breath. Your hands, the ones that had cradled his dying form, felt cold, clammy, and useless.

You were vaguely aware of the chaos around you, a swirling vortex of anger and fear, but it was distant, muffled by the roaring in your ears. Your gaze was fixed on nothing, seeing everything. The way the light caught a splash of blood on the cobblestones, mirroring the dark stain on his shirt. The panicked look in Chopper’s eyes as he was shoved, reminding you of the fear in your brother's before it faded. The sheer, overwhelming helplessness of that night, replicated here, now.

"Y/N! What are you doing?!"

The shout pierced through the fog of your memories, a sharp, insistent demand. It was Usopp, his face streaked with dirt, his nose a little crooked from a glancing blow. He was struggling, pinned against a wall by a burly fisherman, but his eyes, wide with fear and exasperation, were fixed on you.

"Even if you're weak, Y/N, now is not the time to freeze and not do anything! Just do something! Anything! Throw a punch, trip someone, scream!" His voice cracked with a mixture of fear and genuine frustration. He probably meant it to snap you out of it, to shake you into action, but his words, especially "weak," struck a raw nerve, twisting the knife in the wound of your past.

The world tilted. Your brother’s dying words echoed, demanding peace, demanding an end to violence. But then, the faces of your crew flashed before you—Luffy, struggling to stand, Zoro grimacing in pain, Nami yelling in distress. Their faces, trusting and desperate.

The promise you made to your departed brother, a sacred vow etched in blood and tears, warred with the silent, desperate plea of your found family. To fight, or not to fight? To embrace the killer within for their sake, or to honor the peace you had so painstakingly built? The choice was agonizing, a chasm opening beneath your feet, demanding you leap one way or the other. You stood there, trembling, caught between a sacred past and a terrifying present.

You couldn't let anyone die. Not again. The thought, cold and sharp, sliced through the fog of memory, shattering the chains of your promise. The terrified look on Usopp’s face, the strained grunts of Zoro, the desperate shouts of Nami—they were alive, right now, and they were in danger. The ghost of your brother’s fading breath was overridden by the visceral need to protect.

Something deep within you snapped.

The world around you, once muffled and distant, sharpened into brutal focus. Every angry face, every flailing limb, every shouted threat became a target, a problem to be solved. The tremor in your hands vanished, replaced by a terrifying steadiness. The gentle, peaceful persona you had meticulously built over years disintegrated, revealing the chilling efficiency beneath.

Your first move was instinctual, a blur of motion. A burly man, still grappling with Usopp, suddenly gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he was effortlessly lifted and then sent sprawling with a single, precise strike to his midsection. He landed with a sickening thud, unconscious before he hit the ground. You didn’t even look at him.

You moved like a predator, a silent, deadly force. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Your fists became weapons, each strike delivered with devastating power. A flurry of blows, so fast they were almost invisible, connected with a group trying to overwhelm Sanji. There was the sharp crack of bone, the sudden collapse of bodies, a choked gasp here, a pained groan there. You weren't just fighting; you were destroying.

A man lunged at Chopper, a heavy wooden club raised. Before he could bring it down, you were there. Your hand shot out, catching his wrist with an iron grip. There was a faint pop as something dislocated, and then, with a terrifyingly casual twist, you spun him around, using his momentum to slam him headfirst into a nearby fruit stand. The stand splintered, fruit exploding on impact, and the man slumped, unmoving amidst the wreckage.

Your movements were fluid, graceful, yet utterly brutal. Each punch was designed to incapacitate, each kick to shatter. There was no anger on your face, no fear, no relief—just a chilling devoidness of emotion. Your eyes, once soft and empathetic, were now flat, vacant pools, reflecting the chaos without absorbing it. You moved through the mob like a reaper, a terrifying force of nature. The sounds of the villagers’ shouts began to turn to whimpers, then to silence, as those who hadn't fallen scrambled away in terror.

The Straw Hats, moments ago struggling, slowly began to realize the shift. Luffy, finally free, stared, his rubber limbs frozen mid-stretch. Zoro’s eyes, usually so sharp, widened in a mixture of awe and something akin to fear. Sanji, usually so quick to defend you, now watched, mouth agape, as you effortlessly dispatched three men with a rapid succession of strikes that were almost too fast to follow. Nami clutched her head, her face pale, as she saw a woman go down with a single, precise strike to the temple, utterly silent. Chopper whimpered, burying his face in Usopp's side, while Usopp himself stood paralyzed, his earlier taunts dying in his throat. Even Robin’s serene expression cracked, a flicker of something unreadable passing through her eyes as she witnessed the cold, efficient savagery you unleashed.

You were hovered in blood, not your own, but the splashes and smears from those you had incapacitated. Your clothes were untidy, your hair a little disheveled, but there was not a drop of sweat on your brow, not a hint of exertion in your posture. You stood amidst the broken bodies and scattered debris, the quiet returning to the square, save for the distant cries of a few fleeing villagers.

The Straw Hats stared at you, their breathing ragged, their own fights now over. The air was thick with the scent of fear, and a new, unsettling aura. You were still their Y/N, the quiet, kind crewmate. But now, they had seen the shadow, the terrifying truth of the killer who had laid dormant. And it was scary.

The square was eerily silent now, save for the distant sounds of alarmed shouts from those villagers who had retreated, too terrified to approach. Some lay groaning on the ground, others were utterly still. They looked at you, the figure now covered in the blood of their family, friends, their eyes wide with unadulterated horror. You were no longer the quiet, unassuming visitor. You were a nightmare made manifest.

It was in this chilling tableau that the Straw Hats saw you commit the final, grotesque act that solidified their terror. A lone villager, bolder or perhaps more desperate than the rest, had stumbled out from behind an overturned stall, a small, desperate cry on his lips. In his hand was a transponder snail, already open, its receiver crackling to life, no doubt attempting to summon help. You turned, a slow, deliberate movement, your eyes locking onto the small device. There was no rage, no malice, just an almost detached calculation.

Before anyone could react, you moved. With a frighteningly swift and precise motion, your hand shot out, not towards the man, but towards the snail. Your fingers closed around the device, crushing it with a sickening crunch. The small receiver let out a final, distorted squeal before dying. Then, with the same casual ease, you brought your fist down, the now-shattered pieces of the transponder snail still embedded in your knuckles, directly onto the man's temple. It was a single, clean strike. He crumpled, unconscious, a faint smear of blood blossoming on the cobblestones. The act was so quick, so devoid of emotion, that it was utterly chilling.

That was the moment the Straw Hats knew. This wasn't just a fight. This was something else entirely. Luffy, his face pale, was the first to murmur, "Run."

Just as you took another step towards a cowering figure huddled behind a well, Zoro moved. He was there in an instant, his hand clamping around your arm, his grip surprisingly gentle yet firm. "That's enough, Y/N," he rasped, his voice low, a mix of warning and something akin to a desperate plea. He didn't ask, he didn't question. He simply pulled you away from your soon-to-be victim, guiding you with an almost desperate urgency.

"Everyone! To the Sunny!" Nami shrieked, already turning and sprinting back the way they came.

The rest of the crew didn't need to be told twice. Luffy, shaking himself from his stupor, bounded ahead. Sanji scooped up a still-dazed Chopper, sprinting after him. Usopp, his earlier fear replaced by a new, profound terror, scrambled after them, Brook hot on his heels. Robin, her eyes still on you, moved with a quiet, efficient speed, her expression unreadable.

You offered no resistance as Zoro pulled you. Your movements were still fluid, your body coiled, but you allowed him to guide you, your eyes still distant, unfocused on the fleeing forms of the villagers, or even on the worried glances of your crew. You were a weapon sheathed, but the terrifying capability still hummed beneath the surface.

As you ran through the stunned silence of the town, the image of your bloody knuckles, the shattered snail, and the unconscious man echoed in the minds of the Straw Hats. They had always thought they knew you. But now, as they fled with the living ghost of a killer in their midst, they knew they had been terribly, terribly wrong.

The dash back to the Sunny was a blur of ragged breaths and pounding feet. The salty sea air, usually so invigorating, now felt heavy, thick with unspoken questions. As the first of the crew scrambled aboard, Franky emerged from the lower deck, grease smeared on his face, a wrench in hand.

"You guys are back early, what—" he began, his booming voice cutting off abruptly as his eyes swept over the group. His gaze snagged on Luffy's slightly bruised face, Usopp's trembling hands, Nami's wide, fearful eyes, and then, finally, landed on you.

You stood on the deck, a silent, stark figure, drenched in blood that wasn’t your own. Streaks of crimson marred your clothes, flecked your hair, even stained the skin of your face and hands. It was a visceral, horrifying sight. Franky’s jaw dropped, the wrench clattering to the deck with a metallic clang. "Holy—" he managed, his voice barely a whisper.

Before anyone else could react, Zoro’s arm was around you, a firm, almost possessive grip that guided you aboard. He didn't say a word, just steered you towards the grass deck, the softest spot on the ship, and gently, but firmly, put you somewhere to sit. You offered no resistance, your body moving with a strange, disconnected compliance.

You were dull. Zoned out. Your eyes, still wide and empty, stared blankly at the railing, seeing nothing. Your mind was not there, lost in some terrifying echo of the past, or perhaps, simply numb.

Chopper was the first to approach, his small hooves padding softly on the deck. "Y-Y/N?" he whispered, his voice trembling. He held out a clean cloth, but you didn't react. It was Nami who gently took the cloth from him and, with a sigh that was more tremor than breath, began to clean you up. She started with your hands, wiping away the dark, sticky residue, her movements slow and deliberate, as if unsure of how much pressure to apply.

Sanji, for once, was silent, hovering nearby, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a profound unease. He watched Nami, then you, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. Luffy, having finally caught his breath, plopped down beside you, cross-legged, his usual boisterousness completely absent. He tried a shaky, forced smile. "Hey, Y/N... d-did you see that guy fly when Usopp hit him with a Pop Green? He went, like, whoosh!" His attempt at a joke fell flat, the silence on the deck stretching, thick with unspoken questions and profound worry.

Usopp, still a little pale, tried too. "Y-yeah! And remember when I tripped that big guy? Classic! You know, I'm pretty sure I heard him say 'owwie'!" He even forced a nervous chuckle, but his eyes darted to you, then to the blood-stained deck, then quickly away.

Robin sat a little distance away, observing, her gaze unblinking. She didn't speak, but her posture, usually so relaxed, held a subtle tension. Brook stood beside her, his skull tilted, a silent, profound sorrow in his empty eye sockets. Franky, meanwhile, was still staring, his large hands clenching and unclenching.

No one dared to directly ask what had happened, not when faced with your utter unresponsiveness. They just hovered, their worry palpable, a heavy blanket descending upon the ship. You remained still, a statue carved from trauma, while the kind hands of your crew tried to wipe away the crimson evidence of the monster you had unleashed.

The quiet hum of the Sunny’s engines filled the tense silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the hull. Nami had finished cleaning your hands, but the blood on your clothes remained, a stark testament to the sudden, brutal shift in your demeanor. Your eyes were still distant, unfocused.

It was Robin who stepped in. She knelt beside you, her movements fluid and unhurried, her voice a soft, steady murmur that cut through the lingering shock. "Y/N," she began, her tone gentle, almost hypnotic. "You did what you had to do. You protected your crew." Her words were a balm, not an accusation. She understood the unspoken truth, the desperate need that had driven you. "It was a difficult situation. They were going to hurt us, weren't they?" A pause, allowing the words to sink in. "You ended the conflict swiftly. Efficiently." She reached out, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a gesture of quiet understanding. "You've been through a lot, Y/N. It was a rough fight. You should take a shower and get some rest."

You didn't speak, didn't make eye contact. You simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. Then, with a quiet sigh, you rose, your blood-stained clothes clinging to you, and turned towards the women's quarters, presumably to take a shower and find the rest Robin had suggested. The door clicked shut softly behind you, leaving the rest of the crew in a stunned, uncomfortable silence.

The moment the door closed, the dam broke.

"Holy crap," Usopp whispered, his voice trembling. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his face a sickly green. "Did you guys see her? That guy... the one with the snail... she just... she just..." He couldn't finish the sentence, a shiver wracking his body. "We don't kill people! Not like that! We just rough them up, maybe break a few bones, but innocents?! She just... she was like a demon!"

Luffy, unusually subdued, was sprawled on the deck, staring up at the mast. "She was strong," he murmured, almost to himself, a hint of awe in his voice, but also something else – a flicker of confusion. "Really strong."

Sanji finally lit his cigarette, taking a long, shaky drag. "She protected us, you idiots," he snapped, though his own voice lacked its usual fire. "They were going to hurt Nami-san and Robin-chan! Y/N did what was necessary." He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowed. "You saw how they were closing in. We were holding back too much."

"But... the way she did it," Chopper whispered, still clinging to Usopp. "Her eyes... they were empty. Like she wasn't even there."

Zoro, who had been quietly wiping blood from his own clothes, finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "She’s always been like that, I bet." Everyone turned to him. "Just saw it for the first time. The real Y/N." He met their gazes, his own steady. "She's not weak. Never was. And she didn't just hurt those guys. She ended them. Fast."

"That's what scares me, you moss-head!" Nami exclaimed, pacing agitatedly. "It was so... cold! We don't fight like that! We're pirates, not murderers of innocent people!"

"They weren't innocent the moment they started attacking us with murderous intent," Sanji retorted, though his defense felt a little hollow, even to him.

Robin, ever calm, finally added, "Y/N has always been a gentle soul. But as I said before, some books are written in a language only a few can understand. Perhaps we've only just begun to read this one." Her gaze lingered on the women's quarters door. There was concern in her eyes, yes, but also a profound, unsettling curiosity.

The air hung heavy with their fear, their concern, and the dawning realization that the quiet, gentle Y/N they knew held a terrifying, deadly secret. What did this mean for their crew? For her? The silence that followed was filled with unspoken questions, questions that, for now, had no answers.

Back in the women's quarters, the small, enclosed space felt oppressive. You stood before the sink, your reflection a distorted mess in the fogged mirror, the crimson smears on your clothes a shocking contrast to the pale fabric. Your fingers, still trembling slightly, fumbled with the buttons of your shirt, then the clasp of your trousers. Each piece of bloodied clothing fell to the floor in a silent heap, a grim testament to the violence you had just unleashed. The cool air on your skin was a stark reminder of the heat that had flared within you.

You stepped into the shower, the spray immediately hot against your skin. You watched, mesmerized, as the water sluiced over your body, carrying with it the red, swirling down the drain in a macabre dance. It was mesmerizing, and horrifying. With each streak of crimson that vanished, another image surfaced, sharp and unwelcome.

The water became the rain on your island, cold and relentless, washing away the blood of the fallen. You saw your brother, his eyes wide and fading, the dark stain on his chest spreading, mirroring the blood now swirling around your feet. You heard his gasping breath, the wet, desperate sound that haunted your every quiet moment. The cries of your island, the screams of the innocent, the metallic tang of fear and death in the air – it all came rushing back, not as distant memories, but as a visceral, present reality.

Your breath hitched. The walls of the shower seemed to close in, the steam thick and suffocating. You squeezed your eyes shut, but the images persisted, playing on the inside of your eyelids: the flash of steel, the desperate scramble, the way the light had caught the glint of a government soldier's bayonet. Your own hands, so small then, stained with a lifetime of violence that had started far too young.

A choked sob tore from your throat, raw and painful. You pressed your palms against the tiled wall, trying to steady yourself, but your legs felt like water. The sobs escalated, rattling through your chest, stealing your breath in ragged gasps. Your vision blurred with tears, the hot water scalding your skin unnoticed. You slid down the wall, collapsing onto the shower floor, curling into a tight ball.

"No… no…" you gasped, the words thin, reedy, lost in the roar of the water. Your chest tightened, a crushing weight making it impossible to draw air. You clawed at your throat, desperate for a breath that wouldn't come. Your body trembled uncontrollably, wracked by the force of the panic attack, a culmination of years of suppressed trauma finally breaking free. The peace you had built around yourself, the quiet, gentle facade, shattered, leaving only the terrified, broken girl who had seen too much, fought too hard, and made a promise she couldn't keep. The blood continued to wash off, but the indelible stains on your soul remained.

The porcelain gleamed, reflecting the harsh fluorescent light of the shower stall. With a raw, guttural cry, you punched the wall, the impact jarring your already trembling body. The dull thud echoed in the small space, a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging within. Sliding down the tiled wall, you collapsed onto the cold, wet floor, your hand pressed hard against your heart, as if to physically contain the frantic drumbeat against your ribs. You broke the promise to your brother—you… you broke it. The words, unspoken, screamed in your mind, each syllable a fresh wound. The image of his fading eyes burned behind your own, accusing and sorrowful.

Sometime later, the sobs subsided, leaving you emotionally hollowed out. Your skin was pruned from the long shower, the water now cold. You mechanically dried yourself, pulling on the softest, most comfortable clothes you owned, careful to avoid the bloodied pile on the floor. Every movement felt heavy, labored.

You left the shower room, the soft glow of the hallway lights a welcome, gentle contrast to the harshness of the shower stall. The ship was quiet, the crew’s earlier agitated voices having faded into hushed murmurs. You didn't stop to listen, didn't want to. Your only goal was the familiar sanctuary of your bed.

You slipped into your bunk, the mattress yielding softly beneath your weight. Staring up at the wooden ceiling, you lay perfectly still, your mind a churning maelstrom of thoughts. The ceiling boards, usually a comforting pattern, seemed to shift and blur, each plank a record of your fractured past. The weight of your broken promise pressed down on you, heavy and inescapable. You had chosen your crew, chosen to fight, but the cost felt astronomical. The killer, buried deep for so long, had clawed its way back to the surface. And now, you didn't know how to put it back.

Sleep, when it finally came, offered no refuge. It was a descent into the very hell you had so desperately tried to outrun. The darkness behind your eyelids coalesced, morphing into the familiar, agonizing scene. You were there again, on the war-torn streets of your island, the cacophony of battle a deafening roar. In your arms, impossibly heavy, lay your brother. His blood, so much of it, seeped into your clothes, warm and terrifying. His eyes, once bright with youthful dreams, were clouded, fixed on you with an unbearable sadness.

"You promised, little sister," he rasped, his voice a ghost of its former strength, yet piercingly clear in the nightmare. "You promised to stop the bloodshed."

His grip on your hand, so weak in reality, was impossibly strong now, holding you captive in your guilt. The light in his eyes flickered, dimming with each word, each accusation. "You brought the monster back, didn't you? The one you buried. The one that craved… violence." His chest hitched, a terrible, wet sound. "Look at what you've done. You're a killer, Y/N. A killer."

Your throat was raw, but no sound escaped. You wanted to beg, to explain, to plead for his understanding. You wanted to tell him it was for them, for your new family, but the words were choked by a wave of suffocating shame. His face, so young, so full of innocent trust, twisted in pain, not from his wounds, but from your betrayal.

"How could you?" he whispered, his voice fading now, barely a breath. "After everything… after I died for peace… you brought the war back into your hands. You're horrible, Y/N. You broke your promise. You broke me."

His eyes closed, and his hand went limp in yours. The life drained from him, leaving behind only the cold, heavy weight of your failure. The battlefield around you seemed to mock your grief, the sounds of distant gunshots morphing into the rhythmic thud of your own heart, beating a frantic tattoo against your ribs.

You awoke with a gasp, bolting upright in your bunk, your body drenched in a cold sweat. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The silence of the women's quarters was a jarring contrast to the phantom screams of your nightmare. Disoriented, you blinked, trying to orient yourself, your mind still caught in the agonizing loop of accusation and regret. Through the small porthole, the morning light shone, a stark, unwelcome brightness against the darkness of your shattered sleep. The nightmare was over, but its chilling message lingered, a fresh wound in your already tormented soul.

The lingering chill of the nightmare clung to you, a cold skin you couldn't shed. The morning light, usually a gentle comfort, felt harsh, exposing the raw edges of your turmoil. Every muscle ached with the tension of your restless sleep, and your throat felt tight, still raw from the phantom cries. Yet, the rumble in your stomach was undeniable, a grounding reminder of mundane needs.

Pushing back the covers, you swung your legs over the side of the bunk. The floor felt cool beneath your feet. You dressed quickly, pulling on clean, simple clothes that felt like a uniform against the chaos of your mind. As you stepped out of the women's quarters, the familiar scent of Sanji’s cooking drifted from the kitchen – eggs, bacon, fresh bread – a comforting aroma that warred with the acrid memory of blood and panic.

You could hear them, the hushed, tired tones of the morning Straw Hats. The usual boisterous energy was muted, replaced by a quiet somberness. Still, Luffy's voice eventually rang out, though even his usual exuberance was softened, a little less joyful than normal. He was probably already demanding extra portions.

With each step towards the kitchen, the weight in your chest seemed to grow. You knew what awaited you – the questions in their eyes, the unspoken fear. The knowledge of what they had seen, what you had done, settled like a cold stone in your gut.

You finally made it to the kitchen doorway, stepping into the warm, inviting space. The clatter of plates, the soft murmur of voices, all of it went silent the moment they saw you. Every head turned. Luffy stopped mid-chew, a piece of bacon dangling from his mouth. Usopp swallowed hard. Nami’s hand paused on her teacup. Chopper looked up from his plate, his wide, innocent eyes filled with an unreadable mixture of concern and apprehension. Zoro, who had been leaning against the counter, simply watched you, his gaze steady, perceptive.

You didn't meet their eyes. The silence was deafening, thicker than any fog. You moved to your usual spot at the long table, the simple act of sitting down feeling like an immense effort. You could feel their gazes on you, a collective apprehension that prickled at your skin. Your own emotions were a tangled mess – a profound weariness, a deep shame, and a chilling sense of isolation.

The quiet stretched, taut and uncomfortable, until Sanji broke it. He approached you, his footsteps unusually soft, a plate piled high with a perfect omelet, crispy bacon, and golden toast in his hands. His usual flourish was subdued, his voice a gentle murmur as he placed the plate before you. "Bonjour, ma petite fleur," he said, his French endearment and the familiar cute pet name offered in a quieter, almost hesitant tone than usual. "Eat up. You'll need your strength." He didn't linger, just gave a small, concerned nod before returning to the stove, leaving you with the comforting scent of food and the still heavy weight of their silence.

The fork felt heavy in your hand, each movement a deliberate act. You brought a small piece of omelet to your mouth, the flavor surprisingly muted on your tongue. The silence in the kitchen was thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the faint clinking of cutlery from other crew members who, like you, had resumed eating with an almost desperate normalcy.

Then, Luffy broke it. His voice, usually so full of boundless cheer, was uncharacteristically quiet, yet utterly blunt. He wasn't looking at you, but staring at his own plate, as if the words were too heavy to deliver while meeting your gaze.

"Y/N," he began, and your heart hitched. "Yesterday… you were so strong. Really, really strong. But you always said you wouldn't fight. You refused to touch a weapon. So… why is that? Why now?"

The question hung in the air, raw and personal. You could feel Nami stiffen beside you, ready to intervene. "Luffy!" she hissed, a sharp reprimand in her tone, but before she could launch into a full scolding, you spoke.

Your voice was raspy, a little shaky from disuse and the lingering emotional strain, but it was clear enough to halt Nami. You didn't look up, instead focusing on the swirling patterns in your half-eaten omelet.

"I made a promise," you began, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "A long time ago. To my brother." You paused, the image of his dying face flashing behind your eyes. "He was hurt. Shot. We were losing. Our island… it was a war. I was just a kid, but I fought. I was… good at it. Too good." A shiver ran through you, a cold memory. "He made me promise to stop. To never fight again. To live for peace." You finally lifted your gaze, meeting the stunned, silent faces of your crew. Your eyes, still tired, held a profound weariness. "Yesterday… I broke it."

Utter silence descended upon the kitchen, heavier and more profound than before. Luffy’s half-chewed bacon fell from his mouth unnoticed. Nami’s hand hovered, forgotten, above her teacup. Every eye in the room was fixed on you, the silence stretching taut, filled with the echo of your confession. They were processing your words, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. Now, it all made sense. How you acted before—the flinching from blood, the refusal of weapons, the quiet retreats—it was all a desperate shield, a fragile barrier against a terrifying past.

You, however, just continued to eat, picking at your omelet with a practiced calm that belied the turmoil within. Your gaze, however, was drawn inevitably to your hands, resting on the table. Your knuckles were raw, abraded, and still a little swollen from punching people, a stark visual testament to the violence you had unleashed.

"So… that's why," Chopper whispered, his voice small, filled with a heartbreaking understanding. "You were afraid of being that person again."

Usopp, who had been nervously picking at his bread, finally dropped it. "You… you fought in a war? When you were a kid?" His voice was laced with a new kind of respect, tinged with horror. "That's… that's insane."

Sanji, for once, didn't snap. He simply sighed, running a hand through his hair. "A promise made to a dying brother… that's a heavy burden, Y/N-chan." His voice was soft, laced with a rare tenderness. "No wonder you never touched a weapon."

Luffy, surprisingly, was the first to break through the somber atmosphere with a more characteristic declaration, though his usual boundless cheer was still tempered by gravity. "But you chose us, didn't you, Y/N?" He grinned, a wide, hopeful smile that somehow cut through the tension. "You broke your promise for us! That means we're important to you, right?"

Nami, ever the pragmatist, but with genuine worry creasing her brow, added, "It must have been so hard for you to do that, Y/N. To go back on something so personal." She paused, then glanced at your knuckles. "Are you… are you okay now?"

Zoro, who had remained silent, watching you intently, finally pushed himself off the counter. He walked over and clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from the taciturn swordsman. "Don't look like that," he grunted, his voice gruff but not unkind. "You did what was necessary. We're your crew. We fight for each other. No apologies needed."

You didn't respond to their words, just kept your eyes on your battered hands. The weight of their understanding, the absence of judgment, was almost as overwhelming as the nightmare itself. They saw you, truly saw you, for the first time. And in their faces, you saw not fear, but a complex tapestry of concern, empathy, and a new, deeper respect. The silence now was different; it was filled with acceptance.

The rest of breakfast continued in a strangely comforting silence. The tension had eased, replaced by a shared understanding. No one pressed you further, allowing you to eat your fill in peace. You could still feel their glances, but now they were laced with curiosity and a newfound respect, not fear.

When you finished, you quietly gathered your plate and fork, washing them meticulously at the sink. The simple, domestic act was a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Without a word, you then headed out onto the deck, needing the open air, the vast expanse of the sea.

A Day of Quiet Understanding

The sun was high when you stepped out, casting a warm glow across the Thousand Sunny. The crew, in their various states of morning routine, seemed to gravitate towards you, their interactions subtle yet significant, each revealing a deeper layer of their acceptance.

Luffy was the first to bounce over, a wide, excited grin now firmly back on his face. "Hey, Y/N! You were amazing yesterday! Super strong! I didn't know you could do that!" He flexed his arm. "Your punches were even stronger than mine, probably!" His honesty was disarming, devoid of any lingering fear. You just offered a small, tired smile in return.

Zoro approached you later, while you were leaning against the railing, staring out at the waves. He didn't say much, just leaned beside you, mirroring your pose. "So," he grunted, "you just held all that back, huh? Impressive." He then gave you a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. "Guess we were wrong about you preferring to stay on the sidelines." His words, for Zoro, were a profound compliment.

Nami found you by the ship's helm. She touched your arm gently. "I'm sorry, Y/N. For not understanding." Her voice was soft, laced with genuine remorse. "It must have been incredibly difficult to carry that burden all these years. And for us to just... not see it." She squeezed your arm. "You don't have to explain anything else. Just know we're here for you."

Later, while you were helping Chopper organize his medical supplies, he looked up at you, his eyes wide and earnest. "Y/N, you're not scary! You were protecting us. Like a doctor protects patients! It was just… very powerful." He then added shyly, "If you ever… need to talk about it, I'm here."

Usopp, still a little shaken but trying to act tough, approached you with a hesitant smile. "Y-Y/N! So, uh, I heard... I mean, I saw you take down that guy with the snail! That was... that was like something out of one of my stories! But, uh, way more real." He scratched the back of his head. "I guess I was wrong about you being more scared than me, huh? You're actually, like, super brave for holding back all that power."

As you helped Sanji chop vegetables for lunch, he kept glancing at you, a new thoughtfulness in his movements. "To live with that kind of strength, and choose peace… that takes a different kind of power, Y/N-chan," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically reflective. "It must have been excruciating yesterday. You did well."

Even though he wasn't there, Franky had obviously heard the full story. He found you near the mast, inspecting a repaired sail. "So, Y/N!" he boomed, a wide, enthusiastic grin on his face. "Even though I wasn't there, I heard you went SUPER yesterday! Taking down all those guys with just your fists! That's gotta be one of the most manly things I've ever heard! We were totally wrong thinking you just stayed out of fights 'cause you didn't know how!" His usual boisterousness was a welcome return to normalcy, devoid of any judgment.

Later in the afternoon, Robin joined you in the library, a quiet presence by your side. She simply smiled, a knowing, gentle expression. "The truth always reveals itself, Y/N. And it is rarely as simple as it first appears. It seems your past has a depth none of us truly appreciated." She didn't press for details, just offered her silent, unwavering acceptance.

As evening approached, Brook approached you on the deck, his signature "Yohohoho!" a little softer than usual. "Y/N-san, to carry such a burden, such skill, and choose not to wield it… that is truly admirable. Though, I must admit, I was quite surprised to see such ferocity from someone so serene. It simply goes to show, one should never judge a book by its cover, or a lady by her lack of fighting, yohohoho!"

By the time the stars began to pepper the darkening sky, a sense of quiet calm had settled over you. The raw edges of your panic attack had softened, replaced by a profound weariness, but also, surprisingly, a hint of peace. They understood. They didn't fear you. And for the first time in a very long time, the heavy weight of your secret felt a little lighter.

[overkill-reblogs]

<- Previous | Next ->

there was a bunch she didnt have you try last time. maybe she was wrong, and one of those will work? worth a shot, at least.

transcript below:

(While you trust Odile's reasoning, you can't help but wonder about all the ones you hadn't last time.) (Could they secretly be the cure?)

(...Except you don't know which ones you've tried.) (Odile had been paying attention, but she obviously doesn't remember the loops.)

(Oh well!) (You'll just have to memorize all the bottles.) (All of them... surely you can do that.)

(#467280) (Maybe this will be your lucky number.)

(Gluck!)

Ah!!?!?!?

(Stop crying! Why are you crying?!!!) (You KNOW Odile hadn't poisoned you, why are you reacting this way!!!)

Siffrin, are you alright? Are you reacting badly to the potion?

I'm- I'm- nooo, I'm- I'm fine!

(IDIOT, YOU'RE BREATHING! YOU CAN BREATHE!) (You're not dying, stop crying, stop, stop, STOP!!!)

[oblique-lane]

Right here, right now

[allaboutsaturn]

I hope when death finds me it feels like my father carrying me to bed from the car while I'm asleep.

[awakeningthevioletswithin]

I am in so much trouble. The weight on my chest is excruciating. I don't know what I'm going to do. I have to get this together immediately. I know most of you are younger and probably still have your moms, and I know many of you have really complicated relationships with your moms, but when you were really close with your mom and the last time you got to hug her is in the past it just destroys you. I'm absolutely insane. I need so much help. I'm not okay. I've l9st my mind and I've been doing best to just cope and that's all that can be said it been my best. But it hasn't been good. It is clear from my living environment I've lost my fucking mind. I can't handle anything else.

Please, if you help me get through this, I'll make more art, and I'll get better the I keep painting, and maybe you'll be proud that you helped get me through this part.

[dailyhalseys]

And I don't know if I can see you anymore

[dearreader]

halsey just wrote “my body carries sadness that my brain cannot yet see, and i’ve been holding onto memories in my stomach and my teeth, and my shoulders have been burdened by the weight of my mistakes, and everytime you lean in closer both my knees can’t help but shake” and i’m just supposed to be normal about it?????

[gleafer]

IT IS TIME to unleash another EDEN ADVENTURE.

“Too Fast”

[doggojin]

(cw: panic attack depiction)

Late at night, a little someone calls out to Nex. And of course, Nex answers immediatly. Nex grew very found of Amir very quickly. Maybe because, just like him, he uses jokes and smiles to hide his pain. Gets one to know one, right?

[yelenasburnbook]

Lifeline

———————————————————

Pairing(s): Bob Reynolds x Fem! Reader - Platonic! Yelena & Reader Dynamic - Platonic!Bucky & Reader Dynamic 💞

Summary: After a mission goes wrong, you’re forced to confront just how much your best friend means to you, and how far you’ll go to keep her alive.

Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Gore, Injury, Blood, Medical Settings, Panic Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Distress, Explosions, & Probably too much Dialogue

A/N: Between summer classes, my sisters graduation party, and my job, this took me a lot longer than I thought it would. That being said, I’m very proud of it! I changed up the writing style to 2nd Person POV, because that’s how I used to do it, and I like it better. Enjoy this hurt/comfort that I promised 🩷

Translation: Дорогая - Sweetheart

———————————————————

The mission was going well. Suspiciously well.

Bob and Bucky had already cleared the north wing, taking out the remaining guards and disabling the perimeter defense grid without much resistance. Ava had slipped through the lower floors like a… well a ghost, disabling the compound’s internal sensors and wiping all surveillance data before the enemy even realized she was there. John was waiting on the jet, prepared to take off incase of an emergency extraction.

Alexei was not allowed on stealth missions.

It had all gone a little too smoothly. No alarms, no last minute reinforcements. Just a quick, surgical takedown.

Which made the final step feel almost too easy.

“Intel should be in the west records room,” Ava reported over comms, her voice calm and efficient, “It’s not on the servers, so someone’s keeping hard copies. Probably a hard drive. You might have to search for it though.”

“I sent you the hallway blueprints,” Bucky added, “No booby traps, no guards posted. Should be clean.”

“Should be,” Yelena muttered, side eyeing you as the two of you advanced through the smoky hallway, “Which means it absolutely won’t be.”

You snorted, “Oh come on. Maybe for once a mission could actually go right.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, “You just jinxed us, you know.”

“Please. That’s not real.”

She smacks your shoulder lightly, “That’s exactly what someone would say right before they get blown through a wall.”

You and Yelena moved through the smoke choked hallway side by side, weapons drawn, boots crunching over shattered glass. You were supposed to clear the west wing of the compound; secure the hard drive with intel, take out any remaining stragglers, and rendezvous at the extraction point.

“Bet you five bucks I find the drive first,” You murmured, flicking your eyes across the scorched corridor ahead.

Yelena scoffed, “That’s it? What will I do with that? Buy half of a New York coffee?

You grinned, “Fine, ten bucks says I get to it before you.”

“Make it twenty, and loser has to scrub the showers,” She challenges.

“You’re on.”

The complex rumbled slightly, and Yelena’s arm stuck out in front of you. The two of you halted your movements, listening for potential threats. After a few beats of silence, you both quietly carried on.

She continued the conversation, murmuring, “You’re going to regret it when you’re elbow deep in Alexei’s hair clogs.”

You gagged audibly, “No no no, that’s foul. I take it back. No showers.”

“You can’t take it back you coward!” She hissed softly, her finger jabbing into your shoulder as she stepped over the body of a downed Hydra soldier.

“Fine!” You roll your eyes, “If I lose I’ll clean the showers, but if I win,” You paused for a second, thinking, “You’re doing my laundry and folding my socks into little burritos like you do yours.”

Yelena scowled, “I don’t fold my socks into burritos.”

“You do. I’ve seen it. You treat your socks better than your teammates.”

Before Yelena could fire back, Bucky’s voice came back over comms, low, amused, maybe slightly annoyed, “Is this really happening? Are we wagering chores in the middle of a hostile zone?”

Yelena taps her comms with a smirk, “It’s called multitasking old man.”

A low, familiar hum vibrated through your ears, “Sounded more like flirting to me.” Bob added, teasingly.

You grinned, tapping your own earpiece, “You jealous?”

His dry tone didn’t miss a beat, “Of the world’s weirdest foreplay? Not even a little.”

You shrugged, “Sounded a tiny bit jealous.”

Bob’s chuckle came soft and low over the line, “Eyes up, sweetheart.”

The two of you continued on, stealthy, and silent.

You and Yelena had always moved like this; side by side, shoulder to shoulder, like you were born knowing each other’s rhythm. It hadn’t started that way. She didn’t let people in easily, and you’d spent the first few weeks trading dry sarcasm and fake glares across briefing tables. But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the shared past. The haunted edges. The quiet understanding between two people who knew what it meant to be used, and to fight your way back to yourself. Maybe it was that she never treated you like you were fragile, and you never treated her like she had to be unbreakable.

Whatever it was, it stuck. And before long, she was your best friend.

Not the kind you just trained with. She was the one who’d knock on your door at midnight because she found a movie she knew you’d hate and wanted to make you watch it anyway. The one who made fun of your combat stance while bandaging your hand. The one who stood between you and your demons without a second thought.

Sister. Best friend. Lifeline.

And now she was smiling like none of this was dangerous.

“You coming or what?” Yelena teased, already stepping into the next corridor.

You smirked, “I’m just making sure you don’t walk into another tripwire.”

“Please. I am the tripwire.” You made a face at her that practically screamed, that doesn’t make any sense.

Over comms, Bucky sighed, “And I’m the one with a migraine now.”

You both laughed quietly.

The two of you turned the corner into what looked like an old generator room. The walls were charred, exposed wires were hanging; still sparking, and… a sound. Just a hum at first, quietly buzzing through the walls. Then rising.

A trap.

Your expression dropped, “Yelena-”

A flash of light. A sharp beep. Neither of you even had time to turn around.

The explosion hit like a thunderclap, blinding white and deafening. You slammed into the ground with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. Your back hit something hard, maybe debris, maybe a wall, you couldn’t tell. All you knew was that your ears were ringing painfully, the air was thick with dust, and something was burning. Your whole body hurt, head pounding with every beat of your heart.

And Yelena-

Yelena was nowhere in sight.

You blinked rapidly, trying to orient yourself. Blood dripped down your temple, warm and sticky. Your vision swam, and the comms were a static mess in your ear, with nothing but garbled voices and white noise.

You tried to push yourself up, your arms trembling beneath you, and legs unsteady. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to stop, and your powers sparked faintly at your fingertips; weak and unfocused.

Then you saw her.

A pile of rubble. Blonde hair. An arm too still.

“No,” You breathed hard, stumbling forward on instinct, “No, no, no- Yelena!”

The sound of your own voice made your head throb and your vision blur. The vibrations in your skull sent a white hot pain down your neck and you groaned, pushing yourself forward.

You dragged yourself across the broken ground, pushing aside scorched metal and fractured concrete to reach her. Your hands shook, blood smearing your palms, and you weren’t sure if it was yours or hers.

When you finally uncovered Yelena, she was still breathing, but barely. Her body was limp, unconscious, and stained with ash and blood.

Your heart plummeted.

Protocol in this situation was to fall back, to regroup. But you couldn’t move, you couldn’t leave her. Your arms found themselves hooked under Yelena’s, as you fought your own fatigue, and dragged her out of the rubble. Your body was trembling, tired, and nearly collapsing under the weight. But your eyes were wide and frantic, and your heart was thumping faster than you thought it could.

She had to be okay, she just had to be.

“Y/N! Fall back, now!” Bucky’s voice barked through the comms.

But you didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You knelt beside Yelena’s body, your own chest heaving, tears mixing with the soot on your face. For the first time in a long, long time, you didn’t know what to do.

——————

The jet was moving fast, cutting through clouds and sky, but time still felt too slow.

Yelena was laid out across the med-table, strapped in, Bucky and Ava working furiously to stabilize her. Blood was still seeping from the gash in her side, and her breaths remained uneven. The sight of her made your stomach twist. You hovered nearby, trying your best to help. But your vision was still blurry, and the pounding in your head made you nauseous and dizzy.

Bob watched you warily, not straying too far.

“I can help. Just-” You stepped forward, reaching for a roll of gauze someone tossed near the med table. But your hands were shaking too badly to grip it.

“Y/N,” Bucky said quietly.

“I can do it, just let me-” You stammered, your voice ragged as you reached back for the gauze near the edge of the tray. Your fingers barely curled around it before it slipped from your grasp again, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Your breath hitched, short and frantic, “Shit- I can-”

Bucky gently stepped between you and the table, bending slightly to your level. His voice was softer than usual, “You’re not okay. You have to step back.”

“No, no no no, she’s not okay! She needs help! I need- I need to help her, I can’t-” Your voice cracked, raw with panic, “She’s not waking up, she’s not-”

Bucky glanced to Bob, who didn’t hesitate.

He reached out and gently pulled you away from the chaos, wrapping his arms around you even as you resisted, “Hey, hey- sweetheart, look at me.”

“No! Let me go, Bob- she needs-”

“She needs them right now. You need me.”

You shook your head, body trembling in his grasp, eyes still locked on the blood still soaking through Yelena’s suit. You tugged at his arms once more.

“Stop,” he whispered, “Breathe, honey. Just breathe.”

You could only whimper in response, finally feeling the affects of your sudden movements, the throbbing pain fading back into your skull.

Bob held you tighter, “You’re hurt, you’re bleeding, and you’ve probably got a concussion. Let me help you.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, trembling hard, “I can’t-I can’t think. Oh god what if she-” Bob shut that down quickly.

“She’s alive. You saved her.” He soothed, hand stroking your back softly, but you shook your head, crying now, silent tears streaking your soot covered cheeks.

“She wasn’t moving-” you were cut off,

“Baby breathe. Come on, in through your nose.”

You were gently guided to sit against the wall of the jet, his body pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head, and you took slow breaths, “Good girl. That’s it. I’ve got you.”

As your breathing began to steady, he carefully examined the wound on your temple. The blood still hadn’t clotted. He reached for the medical kit, using its contents to gently dab at the wound. He grabbed the small penlight, testing it before meeting your eyes.

“Follow the light, but keep your head still.” He ordered softly, heightened concern etched into his features.

You flinched, but obeyed.

Your left eye lagged slightly, and the dilation of your pupils was severely delayed. Bob’s expression turned grim, as he turned to the others, “Concussion confirmed,” he relayed, and Bucky grunted in response. He turned back to you, “You’re gonna sit still for the rest of the flight.”

You grimaced, “But-”

“No buts. Head down pretty girl. Let me wrap this.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder as he gently patched you up, arms still trembling. Your eyes flicked back to Yelena every few seconds, never staying away for long.

Your breathing was slow again, but still ragged, trembling hands clinging to his sleeve as he cleaned the wound, pressing gauze gently to the side of your head.

“I thought she was dead.” You whispered.

“She’s not,” Bob replied, firm but gentle, “You saved her.”

——————

Back at the Tower, the med team was waiting on the landing pad. Yelena was whisked away on a stretcher. You immediately tried to follow, stumbling forward with glassy eyes.

Bob’s hand closed around your waist the second you tried to push forward.

“Y/N,” he said gently, voice edged with urgency, “Slow down.”

But you didn’t. You twisted in his grip, eyes locked on the medbay doors just ahead. Your boots skidded on the tile as you tried to wrench free.

“I have to be with her-”

Bucky stepped in from the left, cutting off your path completely, “You’re next,” he said, voice low but unmoving, “You don’t look good, Y/N.”

“I don’t care,” you protested, throat tightening.

“You need to let the doctors take a look at you,” Bob murmured behind her, voice low and soft, “You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine!” You snapped, louder than you meant to.

Then your knees dipped.

Bob stepped in closer, bracing you as gently as he could, “Okay, hey- hey. I’ve got you. Just breathe for a second.”

“You’re not fine ,” Bucky said quietly, “You’re disoriented, bleeding, and barely staying on your feet.”

You closed your eyes tight, forehead pressing into Bob’s shoulder as the hall tilted sideways. Your legs felt too far away, and your heart wouldn’t slow down.

“I don’t want to leave her,” you whispered.

Bob pressed a kiss to your uninjured temple, “You’re not leaving her, honey. You’re letting someone help you, so you don’t end up needing that hospital bed too.”

You hesitated, then looked up at Bucky, eyes brimming with tears.

“Promise me,” you whispered, “You’ll stay with her.”

“Swear it,” Bucky said, firm and sure.

Bob gently brushed the hair off your cheek, “And I’m not leaving you either.”

Your shoulders sagged, finally giving out.

“Okay,” you breathed, “Okay. Just please, hurry.”

“We will,” Bob murmured, adjusting his hold as he started guiding you back, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you patched up.”

——————

The moment the med team cleared you (mild concussion, bruised ribs, no internal bleeding) you were already halfway out of the room.

You didn’t wait for the nurse to finish her sentence. You slid off the exam table and made it three steps toward the door, heart pounding and legs ready to sprint.

But Bob was faster.

He stepped in front of you just as you reached the hallway, one hand gently pressing to your shoulder, the other hovering at your waist in case you stumbled.

“Easy,” he said softly, but firmly, “You still look like you might tip over.”

“I have to see her,” you said, voice hoarse, “I’ve waited long enough.”

“I know,” Bob murmured, gaze searching yours, “And you’re going to. But not if you faceplant in the hallway trying to run there.”

You faltered, chest tight, the instinct to bolt still coiled beneath your ribs like a spring.

Bob softened, “Walk with me. Please.”

Your shoulders dropped, groaning in annoyance as you agree, “This whole concussion thing sucks ass.”

That elicited a chuckle from him as he guided you down the hall to Yelena’s room, “I could always grab one of the wheel chairs. Strap you in, blanket over your lap, maybe even a juice box. Really complete the whole ‘I’m severely concussed’ look.”

That earned him a light slap to the shoulder and a correction of being “mildly” concussed, the air feeling lighter for the first time in a few hours. That was, until you reached the recovery room.

Yelena was still out cold, pale and bandaged, but breathing steadily.

Bucky stood up from the bedside chair, gesturing for you to take his place. You took him up on that, and dropped into the seat beside her. You were curled in on yourself, one arm hugging your middle, and the other resting lightly on the edge of the bed. Bucky stood in the doorway, watching quietly.

“She’s okay,” Bob whispered again, laying a hand on your shoulder.

You nodded, chewing on your your bottom lip nervously. You believed him, but that didn’t mean you were going anywhere.

——————

Four more hours passed, and you didn’t move.

Not when the nurse came in to check vitals. Not when Bob quietly tried to coax you into eating something. Not when Bucky mumbled that you should at least stretch your legs or, “your spine’s gonna fuse to that chair.”

You barely blinked, eyes fixed on Yelena’s still face. Her head was wrapped in bandages now, and you imagined the gash in her side was the same way under the gown. An IV line fed fluids back into her, and the color just was just barely returning to her cheeks. But she hadn’t moved.

So you stayed.

Bob stayed too, right beside you in the other chair, one knee bouncing anxiously. Bucky leaned against the far wall with his arms crossed, chewing silently on the inside of his cheek, watching you more than her.

The other’s were coming and going, not wanting to crowd the room, but still wanting to make sure Yelena was alright.

Alexei didn’t stay long. Couldn’t stay long. Even though he knew she would be alright, he couldn’t bare to see his daughter like that. He left quickly, mumbling something about, “-preparing her favorite soup for when she wakes.”

Now the room was quiet and still, and you were trying your hardest to keep your eyes open.

Then, without warning, Yelena stirred.

It was subtle; a twitch of her fingers, the barest shift in her brow, but it might as well have been an earthquake.

You straightened so fast you startled Bob, and your breath caught in your throat, hand reaching for hers instinctively.

She groaned softly, her face scrunching. Her lips parted, dry and chapped, and her eyelids cracked open just the tiniest bit.

Her voice came out rough and low, “I told you so.”

You blinked, “What?”

“You jinxed it”

Bucky snorted from across the room, “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You let out a soft, watery laugh and covered your mouth with your hand. The sound surprised even you, half-sob, half-relief.

Bob chuckled under his breath, “She’s awake five seconds and already picking a fight.”

Yelena’s mouth twitched into the faintest, sleepy smirk, “Felt wrong to leave you unsupervised.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, smiling through the sting in your eyes, “I should’ve left you under that pile of rubble.”

Yelena opened her eyes a little more, focusing on you slowly, “You didn’t?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, voice tight with affection.

She didn’t comment further, but her lips twitched upward for just a moment. She looked around the room with exaggerated slowness, “Ugh. Medbay. Lame.”

“You almost died,” you said pointedly.

“Keyword there is almost,” she croaked, “I am not so easy to kill Дорогая.”

A fond smile reached your lips, glad for her to finally be back, “You’ve been unconscious for hours.”

“Yeah, well… I needed the nap.”

Bob raised an eyebrow, “You almost gave her a panic attack.”

“She did panic,” Bucky said, now walking over with a smirk, “Went full ‘deer in headlights.’ Even tried to assist with field surgery in the jet while she could barely stand.”

Your mouth dropped open, “Okay well-”

Bob leaned in slightly from his spot beside the bed, his voice low but laced with just enough dry humor to soften the reprimand, “You also almost collapsed. Twice. And then proceeded to argue with me, Bucky, and the doctor, about how you were ‘fine’ while bleeding from the head.”

You winced a little at the reminder.

“I didn’t argue…”

Bob raised his brows, unimpressed, and Yelena blinked at you slowly, like her brain was still buffering.

“You’re hurt?” she asked, her tone shifting just slightly; still scratchy, still dry, but gentler now. Concern lingered behind her tired eyes.

You hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod, “Concussion. Couple bruised ribs.”

She stared for a second longer, processing.

Then, “You absolute dumbass.”

You laughed, relieved at the familiar edge in her voice, “Oh come on.”

“You dragged my unconscious body through a half-collapsed hallway while you were concussed and barely standing?”

“…Yes?” You deadpanned, with an attitude that said, and I would do it again.

Bucky gave you a pointed look, “She also refused help, wouldn’t sit down, forgot how breathing worked…”

“Okay,” you mumbled, holding up a hand, “Everyone here is being a little dramatic.”

Yelena’s voice was a raspy mutter, “You’re like a baby duck with a death wish,” she gave a tiny shrug, or tried to, but winced halfway through, “All wobbly and confused, just waddling into danger.”

You let out a shaky laugh, pressing your palm to your face, “That is… the most insulting and adorable thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Bob, still hovering nearby, smirked, “Honestly? She’s not wrong.”

You turned to him, offended, “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am,” he said, already grinning, “That’s why I helped stop the baby duck from passing out on the jet.”

You didn’t even try to fight the grin that crept its way to your face.

She rolled her eyes, but the concern was still there in the tight way she held your hand, “I missed being conscious, not being able to mock you was really boring.”

“Shut up!”

Bob smirked at that, but gently laid a hand on your shoulder, “Mock her later. She’s got about fifteen minutes of energy left before I physically carry her to bed.”

Bucky cleared his throat, “Speaking of that, I’m getting some sleep.”

You looked up, “You alright?”

He gave a small nod, eyes steady on the two of you, “You’re both still breathing. That’s enough for me tonight.”

His tone was quiet, but the weight behind it said everything he didn’t. Relief, worry, care. All packed into that single sentence. Yelena tilted her head slightly, “Wow. That was almost… sweet.”

You smiled, “A little poetic, even.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at both of you, deadpan, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Yelena replied, grinning through the soreness, “Wouldn’t want you pulling a hip trying to express feelings.”

You bit back a laugh, and he sighed dramatically, shaking his head as he walked to the door, “Every time I try to be nice…”

“Night Bucky,” the three of you said in unison, still smiling.

He glanced back one last time, “Proud of you. Both of you.”

Then he was gone, leaving the room a little quieter but warmer. The moment he disappeared through the medbay doors, Bob turned back to you with that knowing look; part patient, part amused, all gentle concern.

“Alright, duckling,” he murmured, brushing his fingers lightly over your temple where the bandages still sat, “Time to sleep before you collapse in this chair and I have to explain to the nurses why you’re drooling on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes, too tired to come up with anything clever, “You are obsessed with dragging me places.”

He grinned, “Only when you’re too stubborn to go on your own.”

With a little help, you stood. Your legs felt unsteady, and you leaned into him without thinking, letting his arm wrap around your waist, solid and steady. You glanced down at Yelena, your smile fading a bit.

She was still propped up a little, eyes half-lidded, but awake enough to catch the shift in your demeanor, “I’m fine,” she said. “Go.”

You hesitated, gaze flicking to the chair beside her bed, “Do you want someone to stay with you?”

Yelena snorted softly, “What, you think I’m scared of the dark now?”

You gave her a sheepish smile.

“I’m okay,” she assured, her voice softer this time,“I’m sure the nurses will be in and out. They love to bother me. Go let Bob hover over you for a while. He lives for it.”

“I do,” Bob said, not even pretending to deny it.

Yelena looked over at him, “If she doesn’t sleep at least six straight hours, lock her in her room.”

He gave a short nod, “Already planning on it.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, leaning down to gently squeeze her hand one last time, “Don’t scare me like that ever again.”

“No promises,” Yelena muttered, smirking, but then her features softened, “Thank you. For saving me. For staying.”

You smiled again, but it felt a little heavier this time, more vulnerable, “Always.”

Yelena’s voice was quiet now, sleepy, “Goodnight, little duck.”

“Goodnight, Lena.”

Bob gave her a two-finger salute, then gently turned you toward the door, his hand warm and steady on your back.

And as you let him lead you down the dim corridor back to the living space section of the tower, you felt that weight in your chest finally start to ease; not gone, but softer. Safer.

Because she was okay.

And so were you.

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What's the worst that could happen?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Dividers: @cafekitsune

Word count: 5k

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post. To those who choose stay, I wish you a good read!

The reader suffers from some emotional issues. But who doesn't, right?

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

Come on, it’ll be fun, she said.

You urgently need to relax, she said.

It’s just a quiet night, what’s the worst that could happen? She said.

Quiet night my ass, you think.

“Come on, pumpkin, you’re not even trying!” Your roommate scolds you, shouting too close to your ear, causing you to flinch with a uncomfortable grimace. “There’s life outside the dorms, you know? Is it really that much of a challenge to just enjoy the party?” Her pout is exaggerated enough for anyone in the room to see, even with the shitty stereoscopic lighting in the place.

“Hey, just try, okay? Smile, drink more, find someone cool to flirt with a little. I don’t know, do something other than just studying nonstop! Please try to have fun!” The liquid in the red cup clutched between your fingers nearly spills onto your clothes with the not-so-subtle push she gives you, her shrill, excited voice echoing louder and louder in your ear, managing to accomplish the impressive feat of overcoming the already criminally loud volume of the music playing on the speakers.

"Your idea of ​​fun is very different from my idea of ​​fun." You say, a good few decibels below her tone, grudgingly sipping another sip of your sickly sweet drink. "Ugh, this is horrible!" You wince at the syrupy, artificial taste of alcohol on your tongue, the bridge of your nose wrinkling in disgust - the exact same reaction as the last four times you've had a drink. Mako notices it too, if the wry laugh that leaves her lips is anything to go by. But what in the world is this anyway? And why in the hell do you keep drinking?

"Here I am, just trying to be a good friend by getting you out of that depressing cave you call a dorm to bring some action and joy into your life to, you know, expand your horizons, and you pay me back with complaints and boredom? That hurts, pumpkin, really hurts!" She's a total drama queen and your completely unimpressed expression makes it clear.

"Seriously, gaslighting now?" You roll your eyes so hard you think you can feel them in the back of your head.

"Don't blame a girl for trying!" She holds up her hand in a peace sign, another unrepentant smile on her lips.

You shake your head in denial.

"Anyway, I still find it really weird that they're throwing a party so soon after those students were killed." Your voice drops lower, looking out at the noisy crowd with a frown of disgust.

She snorts, knowing full well that something like this was coming.

"Look, I'm sad about what happened too. But it's okay to relax once in a while, okay? Shit, you're young, single, and hot as hell. You should be enjoying your life. We can't let some weirdo with a death god complex stop us from having the best time of our lives!" Your friend gestures wildly with the hand that isn't holding her glass, the alcohol in her system making her even more giggly and reckless than usual.

She exchanges 'Rated: M' glances with a buff guy across the room - a popular member of the football team and one of the hosts of the party, you recognize - winking provocatively as she shrugs her shoulders to show off her breasts, being completely and embarrassingly open about her naughty intentions toward him tonight.

"Come on, you can't honestly tell me you don't think any of these frat guys are good enough to eat in one bite."

There’s a hint of reprimand dancing on the tip of your tongue, an almost natural instinct to tell Mako exactly how selfish she’s being right now, insensitive even, with everything that’s happened recently. You weren’t close or even knew those students directly, it’s true. But they were still students at your college, faces you saw every day among the masses. They were people who had been around for a short time, walking and breathing. And then they weren’t anymore. Their young lives were taken away before they could know exactly what they wanted to do with their futures, who they were going to be in the grand, merciless scheme of things.

You don’t feel comfortable celebrating when there are parents at home crying over their children whose bodies have barely cooled underground.

But Mako was right about one thing.

The idea of ​​living in daily fear of a man you had never seen in your life was draining every bit of spare energy from you. This mysterious killer had managed to disturb you, making you constantly paranoid, scared, and fearful. You spent your days looking around, suspicious of everything and everyone, with the electrifying feeling that at any moment he could jump in front of you and make you his newest victim. He even controlled your schedule. Because of him, you barely left the dorms anymore, always declining your friends' invitations with lame excuses. Not that you were a social butterfly before this, but this was a completely different level of seclusion - high even by your standards.

The thought that this man, who probably didn't even know you existed, was dictating the way you lived your own life was disturbing, to say the least.

You looked around, uncomfortable at how everyone was shouting, dancing, smoking, laughing, singing loudly - acting as if nothing had happened. As if three college friends hadn’t been brutally murdered a few days ago. It’s wrong, and your whole body screams it. It’s not respectful, it’s not safe. And yet, for some reason beyond explanation, you seem to be the only one terrified; the only one who’s actually having your life changed to avoid becoming a statistic.

And in that moment, with that realization in mind, Mako’s words make some sense. You don’t want to give this psychopath that kind of power.

“God, is sex all you think about?” That’s what you choose to say after a long pause, sighing in boredom at the nothing less than shameless winks your friend is giving the guy through her eyelashes. The guy, surrounded by his usual horde of friends who are just as scoundrels as he is, is returning Mako’s advances with double the intensity and lack of decorum; splaying a large hand over his jeans, right where the bulge of an admittedly sizable erection is, grinning at her like a mediocre porn star. Any more obvious than that and they’d be fucking right here on the floor, in front of all these people.

That, coupled with the creeping onset of a growing headache with each deafening beat of the speaker and the unstoppable chatter of the students around you, is making you more anxious than usual. The mass of bodies squeezing against each other to the rhythm of the music is so thick that you can barely tell one person from another; the smell of alcohol, shared sweat, sex, and cheap weed makes you wrinkle your nose every few minutes.

For socially stunted people like you, there were few things as overwhelming as a frat party roaring at the top of its lungs.

“Hey! Don’t blame me for this, blame those thirsty youthful hormones.” She shrugs as she speaks, tilting her head to slyly wrap the straw between her lips and suck on some more of her drink, her catlike gaze dancing indecisively between you and the guy from the football team.

You roll your eyes, but can’t help but feel a bit tinge of envy at her easy, playful attitude, the way she could just tune out her problems and enjoy the ride. She’s at home here, you notice; a natural in her habitat. This is normal for her — just another night amidst the noise and blatant flirting, playing with lewd looks that by itself carry more sexual activity than you’ve experienced in months.

Mako has always been your antithesis; bold and vibrant, seeing a bright and fun side to every situation — no matter how fucked up it was. Always trying to color the monochromatic palette of the world with the eccentric catastrophe that is her personality.

You, on the other hand…

Suffice it to say, your way of seeing the world is far less optimistic.

You pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation for a second, already knowing that you’re going to regret your next decision.

But you were already here, right? And she said it would be fun. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try and enjoy it.

You sigh deeply before changing your expression, looking up at an expectant and anxious Mako, practically bouncing on her feet as she awaits your decision.

"So...you think I'm hot, um? Tell me more about it." Your lips stretch into a forced smile as you awkwardly shake your hips in that stupid Sailor Moon costume she forced you to wear, trying to have even a fraction of the blissful ignorance that naturally flows from your friend. You want to enjoy the ride. Even if the base boost of the music is threatening to tear down not only the walls of the frat house, but also the ones in your skull.

Mako's loud laugh assures you that you've managed to make her happy.

It's like she said...

What's the worst that could happen?

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"No, no, no, not now..." You get your answer about two hours later, with your hands resting on the bathroom counter of a random suite upstairs, staring at your helpless reflection in the mirror.

There is some kind of purple LED in place of the conventional bulbs, flooding the entire bathroom with low lighting typical of a gaming room or something, a fact that only serves to make you even more distressed. The nuances in light and dark shades of violet almost mockingly highlight your blatant desperation in the mirror's reflection.

It is true that the intense blush on your cheeks and the bridge of your nose and the skin damp with sweat could easily be justified by those drinks and every attempt at electrifying dance and involuntary contact with countless heat bodies in the cramped party room, as well as your unstable breathing and disheveled hair.

But the way your hands are shaking violently where they’re flat on the granite, or the way your heart trapped in your ribcage seems to swell until it threatens to burst, and how your throat is tightening to the point where you’re choking on tiny, fragile wheezes…

These symptoms speak of something else…

You’re about to have a panic attack on irrefutable evidence.

God, how long has it been since you’ve had one of these? A year? Maybe longer?

It doesn’t matter. Fuck, it doesn’t matter now!

You sigh a thin, impatient sound between your teeth, the strands of hair on the side of your face trembling along with your entire body, your hand letting go of the edge of the sink to palm in anguish the space between your breasts beneath the garish purple lace of your costume — where your heart feels like it’s being crushed in a tight fist.

Could it have been the deafening beat of the music? Has your seclusion for so long left you so unprepared to deal with something like this? Or could it have been the incessant chatter of the students? Maybe the sheer number of people crammed into this godforsaken frat house that was clearly not designed to hold so many at once? Could it just be a consequence of your obsessive neurosis about him?

"97..."

You're falling. Or maybe flying?

"89..."

Floating in time and space. Deaf to anything but the terrors of your own mind. Reciting decreasing prime numbers like your therapist had taught you, a conscious effort to control and distract your collapsing nerves and the painful pounding of your heart.

"Fuck...fuck...83 -, ugh!"

Your eyes squeeze tightly together, unwilling to face your ravaged reflection in the mirror any longer, your head spinning in denial. The walls are too close, the floor too far beneath your feet, your own skin too tight around your flesh.

"79," you force the number from your lips, force your breath out in shallow puffs, cold sweat trickling down the back of your neck.

The thumping music downstairs is a bit muffled now, though the party is as lively as ever - but up here you feel your world shudder and crumble beneath your feet. 

But you'll survive. You always survive.

Keep breathing...just keep breathing -

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

"7..."

You've been counting prime numbers for longer than you can keep track of right now, but somewhere along the grueling hell that is imploding in your own mind, your voice has regained a bit of strength. Your fingers are also shaking less, you notice distantly.

With a pained sniff, you look up at the mirror as you feel you've regained a fraction of control of yourself, taking in the humiliating image before you.

Your gaze is dull and tired. Your nose and cheeks are redder than before, your skin sticky with sweat that's now almost dried. Your whole body still trembles slightly in the aftermath of the panic attack, and the hair around your face is messier than before from all the times you pulled it in the middle of the crisis. You're a mess, undeniably. But you feel less like shit now than you did a few minutes ago, and that should count as some kind of bittersweet victory in your book of failures.

With a tug, you pull the long white gloves off your hands to turn on the faucet, letting the water run down your cupped palms to spray a little on your face. The cold water on your overheated skin makes you sigh.

This is the kind of person you had become, isn't it? Someone incapable of going to a simple frat party without having a damn panic attack. How pathetic.

"That's it, no more parties for you, young lady." You mumble as you dry your hands and cheeks on the fluffy towel hanging next to the sink, silently praying that your shaky legs will cooperate on the walk to your dorm on the other side of campus.

Mako wouldn't much like knowing that you were already leaving, but you'd like it even less for her or any of your friends to know about your little meltdown in the upstairs bathroom. It was bad enough that you had no control over it, you didn't need to see the pity reflected in her eyes when she found out, only adding to your humiliation.

Poor little broken thing, she would think.

Maybe you could just slip away without being seen and text her when you got dorms to say you were okay, leaving her questions to deal with later. You had already handled more than you could handle tonight, she would understand eventually. Not that she would notice your absence for a while, busy as she was swapping saliva and other bodily fluids with that guy.

Your phone vibrates abruptly on the counter and you jump at the unexpected noise, blinking rapidly at the letters on the screen.

Unknown Number.

With a eye roll and a still-racing heartbeat, you decide to just ignore the call, as you usually do every time an 'unknown number' pops up. Honestly, who still makes calls these days when you have a messaging app that works just fine, thank you very much? But whoever is behind that call doesn't feel the same way, and soon your iPhone's screen flashes again, bright as a beacon in the purple bathroom lighting, the device moving a few inches across the counter with the vibrations. You sigh and ignore it once more until you're done, but it vibrates again on a third try. And a fourth, when the last one doesn't work.

On the fifth try, you pick up your phone and answer with an exasperated huff, summing up your mood perfectly.

"Hello?"

The person on the other end of the line has the audacity to let out a sigh of relief - dramatic even, you might say, upon hearing your voice.

"There she is. For a moment there I thought you weren't going to answer, princess." The voice that greets you is soft, laughing, a satisfied and calm masculine purr.

"I tried. What do you want?" You answer sullenly, not in the mood to deal with this probable pervert who has nothing better to do with his life than to disturb random people late at night. You were never the brightest star when it came to social chess, and you certainly wouldn't start being so soon after your first panic attack after so long without any episodes. You were out of practice. Your head throbs, your nerves are frayed, your voice is fragile, the muscles in your body ache from the time you spent tense and trembling during the crisis. You just want to go bed.

"Easy now, little girl. I just want to know if you're okay." He hums, oblivious to your irritation.

You know he clearly hears the disdainful snort that leaves your lips. Before you can respond, however, he continues with the sentence that would change your life forever.

"That was really bad...are you sure you're better now?"

You blink at the mirror, your brows furrowed in irritation and headache. You know you should just end the call, not entertain any malicious intentions from this stranger. Yet, you find yourself answering before you even realize it.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your panic attack, love. That was a big one, hm? I thought it would never end." He hums nonchalantly, as if discussing his favorite ice cream flavor, and you part your lips at your reflection, a warning shiver settling at the base of your neck and slowly making its way down your spine.

"Um," you swallow uncomfortably, subtly glancing up at the walls and tight corners of the bathroom, looking for possible openings or hidden cameras. You had the bad luck to walk into some weird, perverted frat nerd's room, is that it? "So you're at the party too. Having fun time?" You shrug in the mirror, trying to sound blasé about what he said, but your voice is noticeably shakier than you’d like.

There’s no reason to be nervous, you try to reason with yourself when your visual scan doesn’t point to any apparent cameras. This guy probably just saw you hurrying up the stairs and is curious about your delay in returning to the party, that’s all. Although it’s still weird, since you made sure to hide in the privacy of the bathroom before your meltdown was actually noticeable to any prying eyes.

And how the hell did he have your number anyway?

"Oh yeah. Having a great time." The man answers, the lightheartedness in his voice fading to a deeper, darker tone at the end, though the smile in his voice is clear - mocking, even through the call line.

"By the way, I loved your costume. Which Sailor are you?" He prompts, returning to his airy tone, and you entertain once again the urge to just hang up on him, your already severely damaged nerves not quite able to handle the load of honest, and pointless, curiosity in the stranger's husky voice. The abrupt change in intonation makes your headache throb more by the second.

"Uh, Sailor...Mars...I guess?" You shrug, unsure why exactly you bother answering, the tip of your index and middle finger on your other hand coming up to massage your temple in slow circles, eyelashes resting on the top of your cheeks as you squint tiredly. Honestly, you're not sure if your answer is right. Having barely time (or interest, to be honest) to assess the costume before tonight - when it was shoved rudely in your face by a Mako determined to bring you to this party. You don't trust your knowledge of Sailor Moon, or any anime for that matter, to confidently answer the man's question. But...yeah...you think you might be right.

"It looks so cute on you, sweetie." He purrs on the other side; sickeningly sweet, sweet as molasses. And that's what makes you straighten up in front of the mirror - his voice suddenly sweet. Your eyes become fixed, a small hitch in your breath; suspended, alert, waiting for his next words. "I've thought so since you arrived at the party. So cute and so fucking pretty. Tiny and pretty in that silly costume."

"W-what? Who's...?" You swallow uncomfortably, but he interrupts you.

"So pretty, and so lonely too. Always lonely, aren't you sweet girl?" The way he says it, confident and calm, as if he’s absolutely certain of what he’s saying, as if he knows you. You squirm, agitated and raw, but you clench your fist at your side.

“And how would you know that?” You want to sound sharp, but you know your voice betrays how much he’s upsetting you.

“Oh, I can see that, princess.” He breathes, followed by a low hum, stretching out an enigmatic pause until your fingers are trembling around the phone. “I see how you’re always alone; misfit and scared, like a little deer hiding from the glare of headlights to avoid being caught. Isn’t that what you do, love? Trying everything to get away from that airheaded friend of yours and others equally idiotic, burying your nose in some book in the quietest part of the library so you don’t have to talk to anyone. Your hiding place, isn’t it?” He laughs with clear disdain and you feel your vision blurring, the discomfort in your stomach worsening with each word he utters.

But he doesn't stop there.

"I see how those beautiful eyes are always brimming with emotions, emotions that you deliberately refuse to share with anyone, no matter how much they insist that you open up. It's interesting how you have social options, but you choose solitude every single time. Not that that's a complaint, of course. Solitude suits you well, sweet thing."

Your breathing is faster now, loud enough for the stranger on the other side to hear, but you don't care about that. All you can think about is the information the man spewed into your ear.

He knows where you retreat to escape the incessant noise of the world around you, he knows the walls you've built around yourself, the emotional blockage in opening up to anyone - your complete unwillingness to do so. He’s not just talking about the color of clothes that you usually wear around campus — a quirk that anyone could notice and use to scare you at a time like this. No, it’s not that simple. He’s talking about intimate things, about feelings; things that only someone who lives with you could say.

The thing is, you’re not an idiot. A self-imposed hermit with anxiety issues? Of course yes. But not an idiot. You understand enough about human psychology to know that every word that comes out of this stranger’s mouth is a threat cloaked in a teasing, sugar-coated tone. And the fact that he’s telling you personal things isn’t coming from some bizarre attempt to initiate a social interaction with you, but a demonstration that he knows exactly who you are. The game is blatantly in his favor, because he knows you, but you have no idea who he is. He holds the power here, and he’s making that clear to you.

"Are you okay there, princess? You've gone so quiet on me sudden." His voice snaps you out of your trance once more, eyes flickering rapidly to your horrified reflection in the mirror.

"W-who are you, a fucking stalker? How the hell do you know this things about me?" He laughs at the false bravado in your voice, your discomfort obvious and clear to him, no matter how much you don't want it to be.

"Nah, more like a secret admirer, I'd say." He answers you matter of factly, the acidic smile on his lips bleeding through the line. "Secret not for long, of course." There's a hint of suspense in it, something ominous that lingers in the silence that follows, as if he's purposefully fermenting you in his dark insinuation.

That's it, you need to hang up.

"Don't call me again or I swear I'll report you to the police, idiot." You threaten with a venomous sigh. A bluff, of course. There was no way you could make a minimally consistent complaint when you not only had no information about who this crazy man could be, but there wasn't even a real number registered for that call that could serve as evidence in a future police report. Unknown Number, that was all you had to work with. He knew that too, judging by the amused laughter buzzing on the other side of the line. You still hear it clearly when you pull the phone away from your ear to click the red icon on the screen, ending the call.

You're shaking when you look up at your reflection in the mirror, the woman in front of you staring at you with wide eyes and a scared face, the rush of raw adrenaline in your veins making your body vibrate like a power cable.

She said it would be fun.

Mako said it would be fun.

You shouldn't be here tonight if it weren't for that damned promise.

The prospect of change wasn't appealing to you; safety was appealing. Habits and routine were appealing. Habits and routine kept you healthy, safe. Nothing outlandish ever happened in your life, and you almost preferred it that way — if there were no surprises, there would be no disappointments, no risks, no panic attacks.

You weren’t supposed to be here tonight, and there was no other explanation than the folish notion that some cosmic misalignment had occurred and you were stuck right in the middle of an anomaly.

You try to take a deep breath, the discomfort in your chest indicating a possible second wave of panic approaching. No, no, not again. You just want to leave, you want to get out of this damn house and back to the safe confines of your dorm room before any more horribly improbable things happen to you tonight.

Rationally, you know that leaving the bathroom doesn’t seem like the most sensible option, especially when the stranger on the phone has offered you clues that he’s lurking outside. But all your scared, adrenaline-fueled mind can process at the moment is the urgent desire to get away from this place as quickly as possible. And that’s why you take one last deep breath, offering one more look at the forlorn woman in the mirror before quickly grabbing your gloves from the counter and turning to open the bathroom door, walking out without looking up as you unlock your phone with trembling fingers to text Mako.

"Ouch!" You gasp as you hit your forehead on something solid as soon as you step out, your phone dancing between your hands with the impact until it falls to the floor with a loud thud, along with your white gloves. Your instinctive reaction is to bend down to pick it up, already fearing possible damage to the screen, a damage that you certainly couldn't pay at the moment, but the tip of a black boot immediately appears in your line of vision, kicking your phone into the bathroom with a rough blow.

"Hey, what's your problem?!" You growl, looking up, your neck craning to glare at the rude idiot in front of you.

However, the indignation dies on your tongue and your heart sinks in your chest when the empty eyes of a masked figure stare back at you.

It's a costume party, of course, and the guy is in costume. There's nothing really suspicious about it. Nothing you should think twice about.

But when your eyes slide to what he holds between his fingers; the blade of an intimidatingly large kitchen knife, dripping thick liquid in fat crimson drops onto the floor, the smell is ferrous and acrid and so unmistakable; so strong that not even the smell of cheap weed and wet sex that seems to be embedded in every square inch of this frat house is enough to cover up that odor. Blood. Human blood. Dripping and heated.

And you just know.

You know it's him.

God knows how many days (fucking weeks) your hyperfocus has been on this man. The search bar of your browser and social media was full of questions about him, hunting like a detective in the safe solitude of your dorm room, eagerly searching for any clues to his identity. Nothing but "tall masked man" was what you came up with, no matter how hard you tried. His victims didn't live to tell the tale and the few, rare glimpses of him were too vague to confirm anything.

It’s insane the idea that you could tell it was him when there was barely any information about who he might be or what he looked like, but you know — you just know.

He stands there, relaxed and unfazed as you study him with growing horror, as if it were the natural thing to do — as if he’d been waiting all along for you to open the door so he could enter. And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims.

You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty mask holes. The notion that there’s no way out of the room becoming painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders spanning almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here would be if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

So much for a fun night.

(Part II in progress, if you are interested.)

[its-where-the-wild-things-are]

[uhhhj13iguess]

kiss it better

stiles x reader

wc: ~1k

like the stydia kiss in season three when stiles is having a panic attack, except you're the one panicking and he kisses you!

obviously details a panic attack so trigger warning for that

masterlist and taglist!

"(y/n)?"

stiles knocked softly on your door, frowning at the lack of response. he called your name a few more times to no avail, slowly opening the bedroom door with a deep breath. he called out your name again, sounding his presence before even looking in the room. was he concerned you were unresponsive because you were dead? yes. but he was still a man of respect.

his heart grew heavy in his chest as his eyes fell on your frame. you sat on your window sill, legs curled to your chest and a heavy blanket wrapped around your figure as you balanced on the ledge of the open window. not in a concerning way, stiles decided. you didn't appear ready to jump, but rather more... pensive. he couldn't see much of your face, as you overlooked the activity on the street below, but he could hear you crying. the entire scene was gut-wrenching to him.

you, on the other hand, considered it pathetic.

you didn't hear stiles entering your room, lost in your own world as tears stained your cheeks. your once racing thoughts had been numbed by feelings of dissociation, no longer having the energy to even ruminate anymore. you pulled your weighted blanket tighter around your body, hoping at this point it would just crush you and swallow you whole. you nearly fell out the window at the sound of stiles calling out your name.

"... (y/n)?

you turned to face him, and you swore he almost looked as sad as you did.

he stepped hesitantly into the room. "i'm sorry, i, we just, we haven't h-heard from you all day. are you... are you okay?"

the fatal question.

as soon as the words came out of his mouth, you choked out a sob. the emotions you had detached yourself from came flooding back into your system, and you lost control.

you couldn't breathe. you couldn't think, yet that was somehow all you were able to do — no words would come out no matter how hard you tried. stiles ran to your side immediately, pulling you from the window and onto the ground.

"shit, hey hey, okay hey, stay with me (y/n)," he tugged you against his chest, holding you as tight as he possibly could as if he was afraid you'd run. as if you had that kind of control over your body in this moment.

you felt yourself beginning to hyperventilate, no longer feeling like you could get any oxygen into your lungs. it made you panic more, and while you knew stiles was talking to you, begging for your attention, you just couldn't seem to pull out of it.

"hey, everything's okay. j-just, uh just try to slow down your breathing, come on,"

everything was overwhelming again. you felt like you were in a trance — and it was absolute hell. you needed to snap out of it. you screamed in your head, begging, pleading with your brain to think rationally.

it's no use, you thought. i'm fucking stuck like this forever.

stiles didn't know what to do. he'd dealt with his own panic attacks before, but seeing you in one short-circuited his brain. he was panicking himself, the thought of you hurting this badly physically bringing him pain. he pulled you off his chest, trying to get you to look in his eyes. trying to pull you out of it.

"(y/n), please, i need you to listen to me,"

"please, just please look at me,"

"i need you to breathe, please, i need you to listen to me. you're right here with me, you're safe. whatever this is, i, i-it's okay, i promise, just, please,"

there was nothing you wanted more than to cooperate, but you weren't in control anymore. you sobbed harder, feeling defeated.

stiles' breathing was getting quicker too, feeling helpless. he just needed you to hear him, to come back to the present. he needed you to breathe, he really needed you to breathe, he just —

his lips hit yours with a force, silencing your mind in an instant. your eyes widened as you felt him against you, his hands pressing on either side of your face, holding you close to him. you saw his eyes squeezed shut tightly. you felt his choppy exhale against your face. you could smell his cologne. you could hear your stereo playing softly in the background. suddenly, you were here again — present.

your eyes fluttered closed and stiles let out a sigh into your mouth as he finally felt you relax against him. he held there for a moment, his soft lips on your chapped and swollen ones, lightly running his fingers through your hair as he felt your body begin to calm down. you let out a shaky exhale through your nose as you laid a hand against his chest, and he knew you had come back down to earth.

he pulled back slowly, his eyes opening to lock with yours. your lips remained slightly parted, shaky breaths coming out at a much slower pace than just moments before. you both just sat there, inches from one another, and your eyebrows furrowed as you took in what just happened. his eyes flickered down to your lips, causing him to lick his own subconsciously.

stiles spoke first. "i, um,"

"i read somewhere once, that, holding your breath can help stop a panic attack,"

he paused for a moment to clear his throat. "so, when I kissed you, you, uh, you held your breath."

"oh,"

"yeah,"

"i did?"

he nodded slowly with pursed lips, shaky breath escaping his mouth. "yeah,"

you nodded slowly, feeling your heart rate return to normal for what felt like the first time in days. you leaned back slightly, taking in his whole frame. you took a deep breath, butterflies beginning to replace the sickly feeling in your stomach. "thank you,"

"no problem,"

[cy-cyborg]

I don't know who originally said it, but to whoever made that post on here about doing something ridiculous/unexpected to snap someone out of a panic attack is a genius.

I've been bed-bound for a week due to illness, and every time I get sick, it triggers a bunch of medical trauma and I inevitably end up in a full-blown PTSD fueled panic attack at some point. This time, I'd had several in a very short amount of time (it was a fun couple of days lol), and the last one I had, my partner was trying to calm me down, and it just wasn't working. Nothing was getting through, so he put his headphones on my ears and says he has something he wants to hear. He tells me to press play when I am ready, so I do and...

he rickrolled me. I got rickrolled out of a panic attack in 2024 and the worst part is, it fucking worked. By the time my brain processed what it was hearing, all I could do was laugh.

Rick Astly did not let us down lol

[ID: A gif of a Rickroll. Rick Astly, a white man with red hair in a black jacket, shimmying from side to side while he sings into a microphone in front of a white background filled with abstract looking windows. Overlaid over the video is the text "never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down". /end ID]

[deyaa-97]

Yesterday, the Israeli occupation bombed the European Hospital in Gaza, killing more than 50 martyrs. The occupation army will bomb Al-Shifa Hospital, as happened yesterday with the Gaza European Hospital after it was informed of the immediate evacuation in preparation for bombing it!!! What is happening to us is beyond human comprehension. Plz, every donation u send me will expedite our exit from Gaza and my treatment. Plz🙏 donate and don't ignore us. Plz donate.

🚨The moment the occupation bombed the European Hospital🏥 yard in Khan Yunis yesterday...

[maybmila]

A while later...

Prev / Next