#how to write a panic attack

[unboundprompts]

If you’re still doing request, is it OK if you either

Describe writing a panic attack?

Or

Describe someone who has gray eyes?

-> a link for gray eye descriptions: x

How to Write a Panic Attack

Physical Symptoms of a Panic Attack:

pounding or racing heart

sweating

chills

trembling

difficulty breathing

weakness or dizziness

tingly or numb hands

chest pain

stomach pain or nausea

feeling lightheaded

tense muscles

dry mouth

constriction in the chest

feeling like they're being choked

Other Symptoms:

heightened vigilance for danger and physical symptoms

anxious and irrational thinking

a strong feeling of dread, danger or foreboding

fear of going mad, losing control, or dying

feelings of unreality and detachment from the environment

Triggers for a Panic Attack:

something unexpected (ex: a phone call)

a reminder (objects, smells, locations, specific phrases, etc. that can be tied back to a traumatic experience)

stress (from work, a relationship, family, etc. that has been building up)

silence (ex: being alone in a quiet room. The silence can amplify a sense of isolation)

flashbacks (a trigger that causes the person to flash back to a traumatic memory)

out of nowhere (sometimes panic attacks just get triggered by seemingly nothing)

Writing Prompts:

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

He couldn't breathe. Oh God, he couldn't breathe and he was going to die.

She knew the panic was building up, but it crashed over her like a tsunami that swept her off her feet. The pull threatened to pull her out to sea and it was all-consuming.

They felt the panic begin to wrap its arms around them like a shadow.

"Is it okay if I hold your hand?"

"Don't touch me-- don't touch me!"

Her mind was running at a million miles a second but she couldn't pinpoint a single thought.

"It's okay. You're safe."

An icy hand had reached through their ribcage and was squeezing their heart. They couldn't breathe and they didn't know what to do to regain their breath.

"My chest hurts. It hurts."

"I can't!"

They were a crumpled heap, stowed away in the corner as tears streamed down their face.

She felt like she was on a boat out at sea, the room swaying and adding to the nausea that was washing over her.

He felt like he was having a heart attack.

They gasped for air but each breath felt shallower than the last.

She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, beating like a panicked drum to the rhythm of her fear.

He felt like he was standing on the edge of a building.

They couldn't move. It was like someone was holding down their limbs, the panic rendering them utterly frozen.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider donating! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi!

[ianitegal56]

I saw Godzilla Minus One and he is quite literally one of god's silliest showa scientists

[riickgrimes]

"The key thing was of course, the fact that Rick has PTSD and that's very much what's driving a lot of his behavior and being in a place of that level of vulnerability, back with the love of his life in that way.

It's also the thing he fears, the loss of her. It manifests itself in a way that is visceral and leads to the lovemaking not just being about love, but the revealing of pain and trauma and fear. That informs Michonne, that she can't just blast him into making sense. There's something deeper going on here that he can't verbalize. She has to help him get through in a different way. So she gets to see him, as well, as he reveals what's really in there, the wound. That's going to happen most likely in that most vulnerable space." — Danai Gurira

"Yeah, I think it is about pain. As Danai just said, it's about him wanting her and then fearing what he's about to unlock again. He gets to sort of articulate it in the scene further in the episode, when he gets to say that, 'I can't do this again. I haven't got the capacity to do this again. I've worked out how to die and live again.' So it is an absolutely necessary scene that allows Michonne to realize that there's something really broken here, more broken than she's ever anticipated. [...]

So the scene was about a real intimacy, a sort of frightening intimacy. This is a part of his personality he has shut down. It's almost like he's trying to stop himself from feeling this love again. She sees that and she just says, 'Just trust. We're back. We're the same...' I find it very moving. I think it's a very, very moving scene, because it's about them connecting in a way that he's had to deny for seven years. He's denied that connection for the sake of living on in this half life for the CRM" — Andrew Lincoln

Andrew Lincoln and Danai Gurira Discuss Episode 4 of The Walking Dead: The Ones Who Live

[inkskinned]

i both firmly believe that self-diagnosing saved my life and i think that the way tiktok and instagram have recently been spreading misinformation about mental illness/neurodivergence is incredibly harmful.

people who are looking for answers are already people who are in a vulnerable situation.

much of the misinformation appears logically sound; and is presented as definitive fact (prefaced with claims such as "research shows"). it's imperative we remember correlation does not prove causation. it is incredibly dangerous to make definitive statements like "if X happened in your childhood, you now Z as an adult." real scientists will almost always use may or other less-definitive terms. similarly, equating one behavior/experience with any single condition is also unsafe. many conditions have overlapping symptoms; and many people "mask" their key symptoms, even to themselves.

we cannot discern from a singular data point any conclusion. in official diagnosis, for a behavior/experience to be considered a symptom, it must significantly influence your life. many people enjoy an organized space. that is a preference. disrupting your daily life even at personal cost in order to prioritize organization is more likely a symptom.

again, a single data point is not an effective diagnostic tool. it is necessary and important work to catalogue and consider all unwanted/distressing behaviors in order to understand a complete picture of the person.

i will see creators in paid partnerships make generalized behavioral/emotional claims that apply to a large portion of a community, and then they will suggest that the "solution" to that behavior is through their paid partner/through their personal support. "follow for more psych tips/facts" is an incredibly evil marketing tactic. i very rarely see unpartnered/unbranded content on how to aid/comfort those behaviors and feelings.

much of the misinformation employs a subtle technique (called confirmation bias) of setting up a conclusion before "proving" the conclusion. "you know you have X when you experience A,B, and C." no person's experience of their conditions/behaviors will look exactly the same as another's. while knowing certain things might be a sign/symptom of a condition, it is irresponsible to consider it definitive.

confirmation bias is unfortunately extremely effective on tiktok specifically. the algorithm will notice that you interacted longer with the video that "proves" (through a singular video) that you "have" a condition. it will continue to feed you related videos that further confirm what you believe.

this is dangerous because we are, unfortunately, not good at knowing ourselves. i did not know it was unusual to vividly nightmare every night; i didn't consider it a symptom. i was similarly dismissive also of any other signs of my PTSD - i incorrectly assigned them to anxiety/adhd. on the small scale, this can mean a longer journey to healing. on the larger scale, it can mean people with extremely difficult situations are unable to get the help they need.

please, if you can, and you're looking to self-diagnose: be careful about what you assume about yourself. try to keep an honest journal of what you're thinking/feeling/doing for a few days.

do not go in with an assumption. try to keep an open mind. i think we all "suspect" we have something - but like i said, i completely missed my own PTSD symptoms, because i suspected the ADHD the most, and only "saw" those symptoms.

do your own research. if the tiktok says "research shows", google that research. figure out who paid for that research. do further research related to that study - has it ever been repeated? is it peer reviewed? do other researchers seem to accept it as conclusive?

if you feel you really resonate with the materials of one person's experience with a condition, find other examples. see if you relate to other creators who identify similarly.

and please - please do not stop once you come to a conclusion. i fully believe that the diagnostic process should be seen as a first step, not a destination. by knowing what you might be struggling with, you gain an incredibly powerful tool on how to gain peace with that condition.

if you feel yourself emotionally respond to a tiktok/etc that suggests something that might be true about yourself, i'm glad you had that experience. but it's also important to not relax into the "easy" answer. interrogate it. start googling what else that could mean; what ways you could work on healing that wound.

healing does not "belong" to any one condition. i want you to begin to look into healing no matter if you have "proven" you have a condition or not. it is never selfish to practice responsible self-care. even if you don't relate to having adhd, you are not harming me by using adhd-inspired study tips. it is not making my condition worse for you to seek peace by asking for more time on tests. even if it was - the fault would be with the system, not in your need of something the system makes inaccessible.

remind yourself that everything you experience is real. and because it is real, it is complicated. while things might be related - even sometimes clearly related - a stranger on the internet cannot make that discernment for you. you as a person deserve the work, attention, and care that goes into the process of unravelling the harm that has been done to you.

it makes me very, very upset to see how popular these videos have become, because they're so irresponsible. and they clearly are targeting a vulnerable group. for example, making generalized claims about children of unloving caretakers is targeting those who have experienced neglect. there is no way to use 30 second videos to correctly analyze what that neglect might have caused in your adult life. i'm sorry, but it's snake oil.

i know it is so powerful soothing to recognize that you aren't broken. that others exist like you out there. i want every person looking for answers to find their answer. i want you to feel seen and heard and understood. i want you to find your community.

i just want it to happen safely.

[blonde-and-cat-suc]

Catra being anxious and having panic attacks over the bad things she did is actually counter productive to any hypothetical scenario where she is self reflecting and/or receiving constructive criticism.

Her potentially having crippling anxiety over being an asshole in the past PREVENTS and/or DELAYS any changes she might potentially make.

Making this character spiral over moral dilemmas does not inherently mean she’s actively working to change her ways. Her being afraid of facing her badness does not make her good; it simply means she has anxieties toward constructive criticism/dialogue.

[carpetbug]

marinette almost getting akumatized into a motherfucker named PANIC physically pains me. oh my god it hurts. like i’m literally going to write a whole essay on it painful. like i can’t stop thinking about it. it’s just so important to me? it’s so real? i don’t know too many words so little brain. something something seeing one of my favorite characters reflect those same terrifying, uncontrollable, and overwhelming moments of just fear it just. i don’t know. it makes me feel so small yet seen? like yeah i have this panic but so do so many others? GOD I DONT KNOW I NEED TO WRITE THIS OUT

[lxkeee]

It's me and my inconsistent writing style against the world

[puhpandas]

Tony Becker vs. a Panic Attack

(3,320 words)

Gregory helps Tony with a bully, but has a panic attack in the process. Tony helps him through it as much as hes able. (!!!warnings: a panic attack, a fistfight, implied/referenced past child abuse, pepper spray mention)

Tony had just been trying to get through the school day.

Usually, bullies leave them alone. Tony and Ellis and Gregory. It's not that they're immune, just that they're pretty much invisible. They're more ignored than ridiculed.

But of course, they've had their share of targetting. Enough to recognize which day is gonna be an eventful one, where the bullies decide to pick on them that day for whatever reason.

This is one of those days. Mitch Watterson is one of the more bigger, bulky kids in class. Not much of an airhead, but more just overconfident in himself because he grew up being feared by others.

At least that's what Tony thinks. He likes to do that. To try to understand why some people are the way they are. Its interesting to delve into what events could lead up to the person they are today.

Mitch has been eyeing him all day. First it started with mean stares, then turned into tossing paper balls at his head in class, until it eventually evolved into Mitch throwing taunts at his back.

Tony knew this was coming all day, which is why it isnt suprising when Mitch corners him at his locker, when school is minutes away from being let out for the weekend.

"How many did your dad kill again?" Mitch sneers at him when Tony hadn't reacted the way he wants so far. He'd been targeting basically the one thing Mitch knows about him that's a sore spot; his Dad. So far, it's taken everything in Tony to not spew what he thinks are facts at him, just to defend his Dad.

"Enough to get caught." Mitch grins at him, a glint in his eye that only gets more prominent when Tony finally reacts.

Tony furrows his brows so hard they hurt. He frowns as he says "He didnt kill anybody. It was just a felony--"

"It was just a felony." Mitch interrupts, his voice high in pitch to mock Tony's. "Heh. Why are you defending him, are you like him? You gonna kill me, too? Are you planning my murder right now?"

Tony grits his teeth as he slams his locker door shut, but he stays silent. He knows Mitch doesnt know what hes talking about, just saying things that may be hurtful, even if they dont make any sense. He really wants to hit Mitch right now, but he knows hes pretty average for his size while Mitch is big and beefy. He would be starting a fight he couldnt win.

Mitch doesnt seem to have the same restrictions, though. When Tony doesnt respond, he let's out a mean cackle and begins to step towards Tony menacingly.

"Maybe I should snuff you out before you can begin." He says, a mean smile on his face as he boxes Tony in. "You're the son of a criminal, and apples never fall far from the tree."

Tony knows that isnt what Mitch really cares about, hes just spewing bullcrap to rile up Tony before he beats him up. All Tony can do is back away to keep distance between him and Mitch, and he hisses under his breath when his back hits a wall.

Mitch cackles at the display, and Tony feels panic grip his chest. Mitch has Tony right where he wants him, and if he doesnt do something soon, Mitchs fists are soon gonna start flying.

Tony wracks his brain for a plan, or even just an idea on how to get out of this, and right as he begins to form a short half-hazardous plan, a figure steps in between him and Mitch.

If the blue shirt and spiky hair isnt indication enough, the fact that he can still see Mitch over the figures head definitely is.

Tony feels his heart drop when Gregory stands between him and Mitch, posture straightened and chest puffed out. Tony can only imagine the hatred and disgust twisted on Gregorys face right now, but he has no doubt it's there. It's an expression hes seen on his face multiple times when they witness bullying.

Tony freezes, not knowing what to do. He'd thought Gregory already left for the day. Mitch stops in his tracks too, looking at Gregory almost curiously. Sure, Gregory has a reputation in school for being tough and not someone you should mess with, but picking a fight with the biggest, meanest boy in class?

Tony cant see a scenario where this ends well.

Mitch seems to recover from the initial surprise quickly, and it's not long before an evil grin spreads across his face, and he laughs. "Well, well, well. Look who decided to step in."

Despite Mitch continuing to step forward, almost circling them, Gregory doesnt falter, and all he does is match Mitchs pace with a glint in his eye.

"Decided to help your little boyfriend?" Mitch sneers, a disgusted look on his face. "Cute. But stupid. You're no match for me, you know that, right?"

Gregory shakes his head. "There are things that matter more than brute strength." He says, and latently reaches for a pocket in his bag.

Tony thinks this is one of those times where Gregory says something super deep, that Tony cant get out of his head after he hears it, but Gregory doesnt continue that sentiment with something smart, all he says is,

"Plus, I hate bullies."

It's only then that Tony can see Mitchs eyes flick for just a moment, so fast he almost missed it, but Mitch looking directly at where Gregory was reaching and then back at him is too much to ignore.

Tony's eyes blow wide, and he reaches out. "Gregory, watch ou--!"

Mitch is on Gregory before he can finish. He dives at him, almost snarling as he goes to grab Gregory's arm. Gregory startles, moving his arm away from his pocket to use Mitchs momentum against him.

If theres one thing about Mitch, it's that hes painfully predictable. Before Mitch can grab ahold of Gregory's arm, Gregory thrusts his fist directly into Mitchs gut.

Mitch keels over, stopping in his tracks to hunch over. Kids in the hallway begin to stop and watch, murmuring travelling through the hall. Before Gregory can make another move, Mitch has recovered.

"Nice try," Mitch grits out, standing back up to full height, and Tony feels his breath get caught in his throat when Gregory doesnt move to get away. "but you'll have to do more than that to--"

Before Mitch can finish, Gregory's smashing his shoe into Mitchs knee.

At this point, a crowd has begun to form, and Tony can hear some kids ooooh at the blow.

Mitch folds, left supporting himself on his knee as his other one collapses under himself. He let's out some sort of garbled shriek, and Tony cant help the laugh that bursts out of him.

Gregory uses this opportunity to reach for his pocket again, for what is unknown to Tony, but Mitch notices, and when it processes, his eyes blow wide.

In a way that couldnt be predicted, Mitch somehow recovers prematurely, using newfound sudden strength to get to his feet and lunge at Gregory. Gregory doesnt even have time to try to dodge the attack, and he makes a suprised noise when Mitch grabs his shirt, tossing him against the lockers and keeping him there with a forearm pushed against his chest.

Gregory struggles, but his arms are trapped beneath Mitchs, and he isnt letting up anytime soon. Theres a pinch in Gregory's brow, and Tony is faintly aware of himself leaving the safety of the wall to take a step towards them, worried for Gregory, even though he cant do much to help.

Mitch pants, looking enraged. Gregory squirms under his weight, and he grits his teeth.

Mitchs free arm winds back. A punch is Tony's first guess, but the way hes positioned his hand, its not to punch Gregory, no. That's easy to recognize. For some unknown reason, instead, Mitch is winding his arm to backhand Gregory.

Tony almost freezes at the shock, movement staggering, but he catches a glimpse of Gregory's eyes from behind Mitchs bulky frame.

They're staring at Mitch, no his arm, reared back above Gregorys head and trembling with unfiltered rage.

Gregorys eyes, shockingly, are swimming with pure, unadulterated terror.

Tony has never seen Gregory look this way before. Gregory is looking at Mitch like hes winding up to kill him.

Mitch takes a deep breath, arm shaking with barely held back restraint. "This'll teach you not to mess with me--"

He readies his arm to strike, and Gregory flinches and squeezes his eyes shut, trembling badly. Tony thinks this is one of the moments where Gregory looks like a little kid.

Tony sees this go down from behind Mitch, something ugly gripping his chest and clouding his thoughts.

Without thinking, and with sudden strength not even he knew he had, Tony charges forward, shouldering the side of Mitchs body enough to displace him. Mitch cries out, his shock sending him scrambling for purchase as he looses balance.

Tony doesnt stick around to see Mitch fall, but he assumes it happens if the crowd all roaring in laughter is any indication. He reaches for Gregory, a firm grip on his arm, and he bolts.

Nobody follows them. In fact, the halls are completely empty, everyone having gathered for the fight or left the school. Tony pants as he sprints, eyes scanning for a place to hide.

He slows in front of the bathroom, skidding inside and dragging Gregory with him.

Tony releases Gregory, hunching over to support himself with his hands on his knees as he catches his breath, his heart hammering.

Adrenaline is still coursing through him, and he feels himself tremble, even after his refills his lungs and his legs stop burning from the sprint.

He takes one moment to listen, and see if any footsteps are racing down the hallway, ready to chase them down, but he hears nothing.

Tony begins to relax, but unlike himself, Gregory hasnt caught his breath yet. In fact, it sounds like Gregory cant breathe at all.

Panic grips at Tonys chest again when he whirls around, and sees Gregory leaning against the wall, knees wobbling and hand clutching at his heart, breaths short and fast.

Tony freezes, not knowing what's wrong. He hovers, taking a hesitant step towards Gregory. "...Greg? Are you--"

Tony doesnt get to finish. Gregory suddenly chokes on air, knees giving in as he slides down the tiled wall onto the disgusting school bathroom floor. He scrambles backwards, as if somethings attacking him. And so unlike what Tony's seen from Gregory, he pulls his knees up to his chest, hiding his face in them.

Tony stands there like an idiot, unsure of what to do. He fights himself to move, because Gregory cant breathe and hes obviously freaking out for some reason.

Hesitantly, Tony crouches down in front of Gregory, pausing for only a moment as he wracks his brain on what to do before settling a hand on Gregory's knee.

"Gregory!" He tries to get his attention. "Hey, Greg, are you okay?"

Tony's hand reels back when Gregory startles away from him like he burned him. He flinches so violently at Tony, that he almost feels hurt.

No. Tony shakes the idea away. Its not his fault. Dont get that into your head.

Tony thinks this is one of those attacks. Where something triggers it and you feel like you're gonna die. He cant remember the name right now, but he thinks that's what's happening.

Despite knowing what it is, Tony has absolutely zero clue how to help.

Tony makes a humming noise, bouncing anxiously as his hands hover, completely useless.

Gregory chokes again, making the most upsetting noises Tony's ever heard. Gregory flinches again, even though Tony didnt touch him.

Tony doesnt know what to do. He doesnt know how to help. You can't look for clues, here. You cant piece together a picture. Theres nothing about this he can latch onto to decipher, to figure out a way to help that wont upset Gregory further.

But Gregory is panicking, and he cant breathe, and even though Tony is scared and doesnt know what to do, he cant leave Gregory to just sit there and hyperventilate without at least trying.

So he takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and Tony schooches closer to Gregory this time not touching him. "Gregory? Hey, Greg. It's me. Tony."

No response, but Tony doesnt give up. "Um. It's your friend. I'm not Mitch, or, uh, anybody like that. I don't want to hurt you. Can you look at me, please? Can you even hear me?"

Tony perks up when Gregory peeks through his knees, slightly raising his head. Tony can tell that Gregory cant really see him, even though hes looking at him, but Tony smiles anyway.

"Hey." He says to Gregory, trying to keep his voice soft. "Um. You're okay, Greg. Were just in the bathroom, so were not nearby any bullies, or adults. It's just us here, okay?" Then he whispers. "If this is even helping?"

When Gregory reacts again, it's his trembling calming a bit and his head raising slightly.

Tony is really good at recognizing change in behavior. It's what a good investigator does if he wants answers from somebody. Gotta know if they're lying, or if they perk up if they know something. So when Gregory's eyes dart towards him ever so slightly, he notices, and grins.

"Greg." He says, relieved when Gregory isnt about to hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness anymore. Hes not completely okay yet, but it's better than before. Tony reaches out, but after a moments consideration, retracts his hand, just settling on setting it in his lap. "Hey, are you seeing me now?"

Gregory's eyes widen ever so slightly. "T--" he tries, but his voice wavers so much he coughs a bit. Tony leans forward a bit, worried, but Gregory catches his breath, if not normal breathing, then hard and fast but still functional. "H-Hey."

Tony jumps at the fact that Gregory can respond to him now. He leans forward, brows furrowed and hands hovering. "Um. I need you to tell me how to help you, okay? Can you do that? I'm, uh, kinda lost here."

Gregory's breath stutters, and he squeezes his eyes shut, but he manages, "Distraction. Fuh-- Five senses."

"Five senses." Tony repeats, now determined. "Okay. Okay! Uh..." He trails off, glancing around the room. "Okay... first. Greg, whats five things you see?"

It takes some visible effort, but Gregory peels his eyes open, a bead of sweat near his hairline and brows pinched. "U-Um... You, and... the sinks."

Tony nods. "Okay. Okay keep going."

"The... the stalls." Gregory huffs out, his breathing no longer short and fast but gasping and deep. "Um... the tile, the window, an--and my knees."

Tony nods, sagging in relief at somehow helping Gregory calm down, even with his previous cluelessness, Gregory gave him a hint now, and that's all hes got. "Okay! Now four things you hear."

"...My breathing." He chuckles without humor, almost self-deprecating, but stops when it takes too much of his breath. "Um..." He takes a deep breath. "Your voice. The pipes in the wall. The birds outside."

"Three things you can feel." Tony tells him, and this time, sets a hand on his knee, gentle as can be.

Gregory doesn't flinch, thankfully, but he does take a moment to answer, loosening his tightly wound body and taking deep, several seconds long breaths. "...Kay. Your hand." He trails off, shutting his eyes. "...The gross floor, and the nasty wall."

Tony breaths out a tiny half laugh at that, and smiles knowing if Gregory's saying things like that, hes probably feeling at least a little better. "Two things you can smell."

Gregory wrinkles his nose, opening his eyes and giving him a look. "...Dont make me do that in here."

Tony laughs for real this time, and grins when Gregory is able to smile again. "Okay, sure. As long as you're okay now."

Gregory winces when he tries to move his shaky arms to sit himself up. Tony reaches forward, relieved that Gregory's no longer curled up in a ball, flinching away from Tony when he tries to help. He helps Gregory sit up, and Gregory sends him a grateful smile. "Thanks."

Theres a few moments of silence, just Gregory letting himself relax even more and getting his breathing under control. Tony glances at him, questions eating away at him. When the silence continues to stretch Tony fidgets, and the question leaves his mouth without his permission when curiosity overwhelms his sense of thinking before he speaks. "What happened? Why did you react that way when Mitch..."

He catches himself at the last second, but it's not enough. Gregory flinches at the reminder, and he averts his eyes when he gets clammy again, looking uncomfortable.

Tony frowns, scolding himself. Stupid. He thinks. He should be able to push down his curiosity just for a second to help his friends, instead of only caring about getting answers. "Sorry... I, uh..."

"Its fine." Gregory says quickly, and he gets that rigid look on his face Tony recognizes as being deep in thought, mulling something over in his head thats unknown to Tony. He takes a breath. "I... when he was gonna slap me, it just... um... reminded me of stuff that's happened to me in the past, a little. That's all."

Tony's eyes widen ever so slightly when he understands, and he curses internally, feeling guilt curl in his stomach. He never should have asked. "Oh."

Gregory looks away, almost ashamed. "Yeah." He mutters. "Sorry that you had to, uh, see that."

Tony shakes his head immediately. "Its fine, Greg." He insists, leaning forward so Gregory will look at him. "I'll never judge you for stuff like that."

Gregory just stares at him, lips parted, but then he sighs. "Okay. Thanks, Tony."

Tony smiles, then when silence stretches across the bathroom, he decides to change the subject.

"So," Tony starts. "what were you gonna take out of your bag that scared Mitch so bad?" He asks.

Despite himself, a small smirk appears on Gregory's face. "Pepper spray." He says. "I've used it on him before. He cried like a baby."

Tony snorts at the thought of Mitch, the guy who claims to be the toughest kid in school, wallowing on the floor because Gregory sprayed something in his eyes. "So that's what you meant by things other than brute strength."

"Strength means nothing if they cant even touch you." Gregory grins, enough for Tony to see his permanently missing front tooth. "Especially if they have pepper spray in their eyes. It hurts pretty bad. See?"

Suddenly, a tube of pepper spray is thrusted towards Tonys eyes, and embarrassingly, he makes a dumb little yelp and shields his eyes with his hands.

Gregory cackles at the display, and Tony removes his forearms from his face, giving him a dirty look. "Why'd you put that in my face? What if it had sprayed me!?"

Gregory wipes a tear from his eye. "To scare you." He laughs. "And it worked."

Tony shakes his head, but despite himself, he also has a smile on his face. He didnt even see Gregory reach for it, let alone take it out of his backpack.

"I need to get home soon." Tony says after a moment of laughing together, thinking of his Mom. They've probably been here for a long time even after School let out.

"Can I come over?" Gregory asks quickly, like ripping off a bandaid. When Tony looks at him, Gregory averts his eyes.

"Of course." Tony says. He wouldn't want to be alone after that, and even if Gregory could, Tonys happy to keep him company.

ao3 link

[lunar-years]

🌹

“So I’m just supposed to step aside and let that abusive fucking cunt fucking hurt you all over again—”  STOP, Jamie tried to scream. Jamie tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was like his throat had closed up on him, and not only did his windpipe no longer seem to be working but the word was choking him. It was cutting off all his air, sudden and alarming like a slit to the throat, and Jamie couldn’t fucking breathe, and Roy was still yelling somewhere, anywhere, but it was all a buzz in his head now, impossible to understand the sentences. Abusive. A b u s i v e. And it was like that time he’d said traumatizing except not at all, and. And it wasn’t. It hadn’t been like that. The shape of it felt all wrong, and Jamie was choking on it ... “It wasn’t abuse,” he rasped out. And his voice was barely there, barely a voice at all. It came out so softly he couldn’t be sure that they’d heard him.  

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I fucking love writing Dual POV because you get to write one section where the character laments deeply that he has fallen for such a suave cool effortlessly sexy guy who just kissed him senseless (for the undercover job, of course)...

And then you get to swap immediately to the other POV where the "suave" "cool" "effortlessly sexy" guy in question is panic-texting his ex-boss's wife begging her to tell him what to do because I fucked up Sarah I really like him Sarah I'm sorry I know it's 11pm Sarah I'm going to fling myself off the roof Sarah!!!!!

Anyway. None of you know what or who I'm talking about but that's okay, I'M having fun. And you all will too when I get you to read this fic and join me in rarepair hell.

[altschmerzes]

hate when i see a post and i just Know it’s gonna majorly prevent me from writing anything for like. a solid week.

[ghost-proofbaby]

alright, a bit of honesty hour here:

i had spent the last two months desperately trying to plan some sort of fun halloween event, but truth be told, i just... fell short. between classes, work, life - i for the life of me could not figure out an event that did not stress me out and i felt confident in completing. which, sort of bummer, because halloween and the month of october is sort of my thing. (i'm a ghost, for fuck's sake).

THAT BEING SAID. i have several halloween themed one shots i'd like to write (currently working on a steve one), but i still wanna do something fun with y'all because you're all just the sweetest and i adore you.

how would we all feel about a low-stakes request situation? y'all send in anything halloween or autumn related, if it strikes any inspiration, i write us some fun shorter shenanigans with our favorite blurbos? i am traveling and just doing a lot this month, but i just really wanna do something. it could be anything. trick or treating with eddie, creepy song fics that you'd like to see, cute fall activities like pumpkin patches with steve - anything y'all's hearts desire. there's no guarantee i could get to every request (usually when i do events i get... a lot of requests. very grateful! my brain just can't pump out 50+ 1k word requests in the span of a month haha), but... yeah. idk.

thoughts? concerns? should i finally shut up? lemme know.

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 15: "I'm fine"

This one's for the anon who suggested some post-totk Wild hurt/comfort for day 15. I hope you enjoy!!

Read it on Ao3

- Wild & Time

- Summary: When Wild just barely manages to save Twilight, the wounds from his second adventure resurface

CW for blood and injury and a panic attack

Disclaimer: this fic has very minor spoilers for Tears of the Kingdom. Basically, if you've watched the trailers, you already know about the stuff I talk about here. But just be aware if you want to go in completely spoiler-free!

-----------------------------------

He’s fine.

That’s what Wild tells them. And himself. He repeats it like a mantra in the days following his return to the group of heroes he calls his brothers. It’s his reply to the endless queries about his welfare. His internal chant that keeps the demons at bay.

(Perhaps, if he says it enough times it will feel true. Perhaps, it will make the fear disappear, dissipate the nightmares.

(Somewhere, deep within though, he knows it won’t. It never did before. Why would it now?)

But he tries anyway. What else can he do? 

His brothers are worried about him. He can see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. And it’s not fair. He didn’t return to have them shoulder this burden.

They already carry enough. 

So, he maintains the lie and convinces himself it’s the truth. Even when the dreams come, forcing him to relive the memories he runs from during the day. Even when his arm aches with the phantom pain of the ravenous evil that once ran through his veins.

And he keeps it together well enough. At least, he thinks he does. He shows off his new abilities, lets everyone inspect his arm, laughs and jokes and tells the most exciting tales from his adventure. 

Sometimes, it’s easy. After all, not every part of his adventure was bad. Most of it, he realizes as he shares more and more with his brothers, was not.

But those bits that were…it is all too easy to allow them to override all the rest. 

Especially when memories decide to repeat themselves. 

Especially today. Because Twilight is falling.

They had been fighting a group of monsters. Hefty beings, though nothing they couldn’t handle. And with all the heroes there it should have been easy.

But nothing is ever easy. Wild should know that by now.

He sees it happen at a slothful pace, as though time itself has slowed. But he doesn’t remember using stasis. He doesn’t even have the ability anymore. 

Though he desperately wishes that he did. Because, then, maybe, he could bring it all to a halt the moment Twilight stumbles. Maybe then he would have time to reach him.

It all falls down in a matter of seconds, racing into each other at breakneck speed despite their immeasurable slowness. One moment the rancher is beside him, trading quips and fighting back a moblin (just like before and somehow that had made breathing a bit easier). And the next the very ground crumbles beneath their feet. 

Wild doesn’t know what causes it — spell, wayward bomb, it doesn’t matter. All he can see now are Twilight’s eyes going wide as he loses his balance and plummets. All he can hear now is his own scream as he lunges forward to grab him.

“Twilight!”

He lands flat on his stomach, ignoring the way the fall rattles his ribcage. Desperately, he reaches out. The turquoise of his new arm glows. 

He can see it — crimson wrapping around it in wispy strings of clawing, greedy evil. He can see her terrified face as she reaches for his grasping hand.

Twilight stretches out his arm. His fingertips brush Wild’s. The feeling in his arm is not as good as it would be in a natural one….one that belonged to him, that his body didn’t sometimes decide to violently reject. But he can feel it anyway — the familiar touch of his brother’s hand, calloused and strong. 

He grabs for him. And misses.

Twilight falls.

“No.” Tears prick at his eyes, burning as they spill down his cheeks. “No!” 

Not again. Please, not again.

His world narrows, his breath grows short. But he fights to push past the panic, he fights not to fail again.

“Wild!” Wind appears beside him, eyes wide with worry. “What happened? Where’s Twilight?”

Wild doesn’t have time to respond (what would he say anyway to explain this?). Again, he reaches out, choking on his sorrow as he does so. Magic is at his fingertips, its golden glow warm and welcome. He directs it at the spot where the rancher once was.

His surroundings go grayish and dull. A ticking sound fills the air, like a clock rewinding. Wild draws in a breath and steels himself. This has to work, it has to. If it doesn’t…

He won’t entertain that thought. He won’t imagine the rancher lying broken and bleeding on a bed of jagged rock. 

Suddenly, there is the sound of wind rushing past his ears and a cry of a monster. Something falls with a thump beside him. The smell of blood drifts to Wild’s nose.

“Nice catch, sailor!” Hyrule cries.

Wild grits his teeth, struggling to keep himself from turning to look. He can’t afford to break his concentration, even for a second. Any moment now, Twilight will appear. Any moment now, he will have to grab him before the spell can break, plunging him back down. 

He makes a mental note to thank Wind when this is all over.

Twilight’s head appears just over the edge of the pit, then his shoulders. Wild doesn’t allow himself to take in the blood running down his forehead and splotched on his tunic, or the unnatural bend of his arm, or the pallor of his skin, the way he hangs limply like a puppet on a string. He digs the toes of his boots into the ground and leans forward. 

The ticking stops. The spell breaks. Twilight slumps into his hands.

The weight of him nearly drags them both back down. Eyes blown wide with panic, Wild struggles against the inescapable pull of gravity. But then someone grasps his legs and begins to pull him back toward the safety of firm earth. 

“Don’t worry, champion,” comes Time’s voice, sharp with worry and firm with resolve. “We’ve got you.”

Still, Wild doesn’t allow himself to breathe until they are firmly on land. And even when they are, he scrambles up, pulling Twilight further from the edge. 

The others rush forward to help him. They’re talking, he thinks, reassuring him that Twilight is alright. But he can’t hear them over the rushing in his ears. 

His shaking hands loosen their grip on Twilight, falling limp beside him into the damp grass. His breath comes in raspy, trembling gasps. The air he manages to drag in burns his constricted throat. 

He can see him even through the blurriness clouding his vision. The rancher is still unconscious, still deathly pale. Blood dribbles in a slow stream from his mouth and nose, bruising has begun to purple his face and neck.

Wild clenches his hands into fists.

I was too late. I missed…again.

“…fine. He’s fine, champion.”

Wild raises his eyes to Sky’s face, blinking away tears he hadn’t registered coming. The knight offers him a small smile.

“He’s just a little banged up. That’s all. And our captain’s going to take good care of him.”

“That’s right,” Hyrule pipes up, as he hands Warriors a potion. “He’s got some broken bones, but he’s endured far worse. Some potion and a bit of rest and he’ll be alright.”

He should respond in some way. A thank you or a nod, at the very least. But the atmosphere itself seems to be pressing down on him. And it’s all Wild can do to stand.

He manages anyway, rising on trembling legs. 

“Wild?” Wind looks up at him. “Are you okay?”

Wild shakes his head. Tears continue to fall unbidden down his cheeks. He can’t breathe. 

Casting one, last look at the fallen rancher, he turns and runs. ------------------

He ends up in the depths of the nearby woods, back against a tree, curled in on himself with his head resting upon his knees. Wild isn’t certain how long he sits there, trying to banish the horrific images that flash before his eyes, trying to breathe. But somewhere along the way, he hears footsteps.  

He doesn’t bother to raise his head. The steps are familiar, after all. No monster could walk so lightly, treading in rhythm with the crunch of fallen leaves and the sound of the wind rustling the branches. No one else sounds as though they are a part of the forest. Almost like the blupees do and the Lord of the Mountain. Sometimes, he gets the strangest feeling that if he looks away for too long, their leader will vanish amongst the shadows of the furs.

Time lowers himself down beside him, now, just close enough that their shoulders brush. Wild fights not to lean into him. He hadn’t realized how cold he had become.

“Twilight is awake.”

Wild lifts his head slightly, blinking. The tears have stopped now but his eyes feel like someone rubbed dirt in them.

“Is…is he okay?”

“He will need to rest for a few days. But yes, he is alright.” A large hand comes to rest on his shoulder. “You rescued him just in time, champion. Who knows how far down he would have fallen without your quick thinking.”

Quick thinking.

Wild can’t hold back a bitter chuckle. It hardly feels as though it was quick thinking. Panicked, more like it, a desperateness born of the need to not lose another loved one. Even temporarily.

Time is quiet for a long moment. Wild slumps further into his protective, little ball, battling between wanting to run again and wanting to sob into Time’s arms. In the end, he can bring himself to do neither.

“A second adventure is never easy,” the older hero says, at last, when Wild is certain he is going to either explode or dissolve into the dirt beneath their feet. “Honestly, I cannot imagine going on as many as our veteran has. Two was more than enough for me.”

With a jolt of surprise, Wild raises his head. He turns to frown at Time, who merely smiles.

“I didn’t want to talk about it either, you know. I kept what had happened on my journey a secret for many years. Telling anyone seemed more difficult than anything else I had endured. Sometimes, even impossible.”

Wild swallows, hard. He is almost certain the tears are returning. 

“I couldn’t let it happen again,” he admits, quietly, voice hoarse. “I couldn’t lose him like I lost her. Like…like I lost everyone.”

Time nods. “But you didn’t. Twilight is safe, cub. Allow yourself to believe that to be true.”

Wild drags in a shaky breath. The words he hardly dares to speak rise in his throat, screaming for release.

“And what…what happens if one day that’s no longer true? What happens if I fail him next time?”

What happens if I fail all of you? What if I fail her again? 

Time sighs. “I wish I had the answer to that. Believe me, it would do much to put my own mind at rest. All I can tell you, is to live for today. Allow yourself this victory. Allow it to strengthen you to face further challenges. That is all that you can do.”

Wild ducks his head, biting his lip to keep the tears at bay. But they come out anyway, spilling down his cheeks in cascading rivulets. He chokes on a mouthful of salt water.

Time shifts. The warmth of his hand leaves, only to be replaced by the warmth of his arms, enveloping Wild as he holds him close. Wild collapses into him, heedless of the tears and snot he is undoubtedly sullying Time’s tunic with. Sobbing into the Hero of Time’s chest is not something he ever imagined that he would do. Now that the great ball of agony has begun to unwind, however, he cannot drag it back into submission. 

He has kept it for this long, held it inside until it almost became a part of him. He has fought it down through months of chasing fleeting clues across Hyrule, fighting beasts that haunt his nightmares. Smothered it at night when sleep refused to come. It refuses to be held down any longer. 

It rushes out like a wave of water upon the collapse of a dam. And Time holds him while it does.

When, at last, the sobs do subside, the tightness in his chest and stomach is still there, as it always has been. But it has lessened somewhat and for that, at least he is grateful. Slowly, he pushes himself up, swiping at his eyes and nose, self-consciously.

“S-sorry about your tu-tunic,” he hiccups, eyeing Time sheepishly.

The hero gives him a small, kind smile. In that moment, it is hard to believe that this is the same hero who can make grown men tremble and take down the largest of monsters without breaking a sweat.

“Don’t concern yourself with it. It can be washed out.” He rises, dusting himself off, then holds out a hand. “Now, are you ready to go? I believe Twilight wants to see you.”

Wild takes a deep breath. His gaze flits to his arm, softly glowing where it rests on his lap.

All I can tell you, is to live for today. Allow yourself this victory. Allow it to strengthen you to face further challenges. 

Slowly, he folds his fingers into a fist. The glow strengthens in answer to his own resolve.

“Yeah.” He takes Time’s hand and stands. “I’m ready.”

[therizino-ao3]

Hermit Horror Week 2023

Day two: Environment

Summary: xB wants to support his friend, but there’s something about his base that feels wrong. He can’t bring himself to leave, no matter how much he knows he should.

Read on ao3

Contains: unreliable narrator, a character being non-consensually drugged (implied + in a magical way), loss of free will (strongly implied), panic attacks, fairy folklore, suffocation mention, weird time shenanigans

“So dude, have you seen my base yet?”

xB looks up from the diamonds he’d been counting, “Hmm? No, I haven’t. You’re doing like, mushrooms or something, right?” So far, his and Hypno’s business has been doing great. They’ve been getting quite a few sales lately, to say nothing of the IOU collection they’re racking up. They’re making bank.

“Yep! Like a mushroom forest, mystical land kinda thing,” Hypno takes the diamonds xB hands him, “You should totally see it! I’ve finished the main mushroom and a bunch of decoration around the place, it looks so cool.”

“I’ll take your word for it. I’m happy to head over now, if you want?”

They head over there by foot, instead of by elytra. It’s… a little weird, but xB doesn’t mind, he thinks Hypno wants to show off the custom lamps he’s made for the path. It’s quite atmospheric, he’ll admit, with the towering dark oaks letting only small puddles of sunshine hit the ground, and the glowing fungi beckoning them forward. It’s magical.

They seem to walk for ages, wandering down the twisting path. At one point, xB turns around, just to see what’s behind them. There’s nothing. It’s pure black, no sign of the pretty little lamps they just passed. xB swivels back to Hypno, about to voice his concerns, but Hypno starts talking about dye farms and making concrete and xB just kind of forgets about it. It’s not too much of a concern, anyway. The further in they go, the more xB realises how safe it is. Like, initially he was super concerned of a creeper crawling out from the forest, with how dark it was outside the path, but he actually hasn’t seen a single creature other than them. He can’t even hear the birds sing here. Hypno must have done some mad mob-proofing.

Eventually, the trees open out and he looks at Hypno’s hard work and instantly his stomach drops. His mind is screaming at him to get out. He needs to leave. His heart is thundering. His eyes squeeze closed. Then, he feels Hypno’s comforting hand on his shoulder and it’s all okay. He blinks a little and looks up at his friend.

“Is everything alright xB?” he’s frowning.

“Yeah, I’m just- I felt on the verge of a panic attack for a second there but, now it’s all gone,” his face feels a bit wet, is he crying?

“Are you sure? We can go back if you’d like, I don’t want to continue if you’re hurt,” Hypno looks concerned.

“No, no, it’s all fine. It might be like, hay fever from all these mushroom spores,” he says. As he says it, he knows it makes absolutely no sense, but he wants Hypno to stop worrying.

“Alright,” Hypno seems to buy it, his tone becoming more playful, “You know, you can just admit you’re jealous of how cool my base is, xB!”

“I am not jealous, we all know, out of the two of us, I got the cooler base. M’kay?” he smiles, feeling a bit better. They’ve crossed over a barrier of tiny mushrooms in front of the path, seeming to circle around the whole area. Inside, there’s a field of beautiful light green grass, home to all sorts of fungi Hypno’s been cultivating. They’re mainly red and white, with some brown, but they’re in all sorts of different shapes and sizes. Throughout the area, there are fairy lights and lanterns and fireflies and they all glow in the darkening dusk sky. When they left Horse Head Farms, it was mid-morning, xB remembers. It’s funny how fast time passes.

Most of the mushrooms seem decorative, but the larger ones have been made into buildings. There are cute little doors carved into the trunks and signs that say things like “Storage” or “Farms”. One particularly thick and pretty mushroom has been decorated a lot, he assumes it must have been Hypno’s starter base.

“I can’t believe you’re living in Smurf village, dude,” xB giggles.

Hypno punches his arm, “This is not a Smurf village! It’s a fairy realm. Get it right, xB.”

xB’s mouth feels dry. He knows that word. Fairy. Right now, he can’t think of what it means. He nods. He looks at the giant mushroom in the centre of the base.

It’s obviously the centrepiece, towering over every other mushroom. It’s incredibly beautiful. Hypno leads them to the front entrance. xB feels sick looking up at the gills of the mushroom. He can almost imagine the microscopic spores floating down, filling their mouths, suffocating them. Spore particles would probably be good to add, the movement would make the build more dynamic. He’ll tell Hypno later. Hypno drags xB into his home. The wooden staircase looks very nice, Hypno’s done a pretty good job on the spiral. They run up it together. The air smells sweet, almost sickly. After a very short tour, they come back outside - Hypno hasn’t finished the interiors yet. He’s surprised he was allowed to leave, he thought Hypno would trap him there forever, not that he’d mind.

Hypno is looking at him, “So what do you think of my base, xB?”

xB thinks. He thinks about the amazing lights and the vibrant colours and the magical aura. He thinks about Hypno, who’s one of his best friends, who has worked so hard on this base, who xB would do anything he asks him to do. That’s weird, he’s able to realise. He likes Hypno but Hypno is also sometimes very annoying, and other times, xB just likes to mess with him. He wouldn’t do everything Hypno wants. He thinks about all the people willingly signing their IOUs. Is xB willingly answering Hypno’s question? Not that he has any choice, he has to answer it regardless. He wonders if Hypno’s human. He always assumed he was, not having any visible non-human traits, but sometimes the signs are more subtle. He’s thinking too hard.

“Hmm, it’s alright,” he says, “My base is still better.”

[sansxfuckyou]

A short of Naruto cuddling reader after reader has a panic attack?

[I am holding your face so gently right now anon, honestly did not expect to get a request so fast. that being said, hope you enjoy!]

tags/warnings: second pov, panic attack, emotional hurt/comfort (mostly comfort though), Naruto is trying he swears, fluff, heavy physical contact

There's this terrible sense of vertigo flooding every single aspect of your body, shooting down to the tips of your fingers and your toes. More oxygen exiting your lungs then entering, you couldn't breathe in enough, not nearly enough. Your chest hurts, your hands tingle, and your entire body is shaking and trembling and refuses to stop.

It isn't until a set of hands firmly land on your shoulders and pulling you close that it freezes briefly alongside the rest of your body to calculate the touch. It's the furthest thing from what you need but you're being pulled down to the ground into your teammates laps and held onto tight. One arm firmly bracketed around your upper torso and the other across your abdomen and it helps keep you from fainting if nothing else.

Naruto is wracking his head for the few other tips he had picked up in case of this happening again because the last time he was hopeless in being of any assistance and it pissed him off. He should've been able to help, he's supposed to be a support for his teammates and he failed. He eases his grip slowly before coming to the one thing he can barely remember may be helpful: words. Simple words and directions and affirmations, but he can only come up with the bare minimum at the moment.

"Breathe in," he mimics his own instructions with a deep breathe and you follow without realizing it, "And breathe out," again, you follow, slowly coming down.

As the quaking slows to a halt and the worst of it stops, guided away from that terrible place your head likes to lock you in during a moment of weakness. The grounding vice wrapped around your ribs eased up to the point it didn't feel like he would crack your bones, but even that was a comfort in itself. He hasn't stopped counting out the breathing and he isn't sure if he's doing it for your sake or his sake at this point because it's stressful for him as well.

Nothing quite gets the blood pumping like watching his teammate spiral out of control.

His head is resting on your shoulder partially, and his muffled voice comes after a few more heaves of a his chest. "Feelin' better?"

"Feeling better," You parrot back.

"Good enough for the rest of the mission?" He asked quietly, as if he may startle you into another bout of hyperventilation if he speaks too loud. He stretches his legs out but still refuses to let go of you entirely, he can't let you fall apart again. Nope, not happening, never again in a million years unless he dies first.

In response you sink further back into him and the grip returns to a point where it feels like your being hugged by a bear. Tight. Grounding. Reaffirming. It holds you in reality even though you've already dropped down and feel better, not perfect, but better.

"You're gonna give me an actual heart attack one day," Naruto muttered the words, releasing one hand to prop himself upon as he leaned back. He rests his chin on the top of your head and drums his fingers along your upper arm, closer to your elbow. He keeps his breathing metered to the count of three and closes his eyes, if it weren't for the vigil he'd like to keep until you were both back in almost truly safe he would tune out the rest of the world entirely except for the weight on top of him.

But he can't, so he listens closely and catches the tempo of your heartbeat alongside the rustle of grass and the chitter of crickets and the flow of water.

"You're still out of sorts," He sighed out.

You give a nervous laugh, caught red handed with a rabbits heart, "Yeah, but this is helping."

He gives a hum and there's a hint of a grin you can't see, "I guess I'll stay here until my legs go numb then."

[sadcatjae]

Whumpee who is actually a conditioned cold-blooded villain and a dangerous obedient weapon, discarded like a broken toy, so they live the rest of their lonesome life in agony and delirium. And Caretaker, who actually wants to survive the encounter with “Whumpee”, but also desperately trying to help and save them 🥺🥺🥺

Ahhh yesyesyesyes so much yes that i actually wrote a thing?????? What the--

Erm and it's awkwardly written and has too much lore but i wrote a thing and I'm very happy that I wrote AT ALL so yay! Thank you for your amazing prompt!! And sorry I didn't respond until now ;u; <;3

Also - I knoooow Kasin is like, caring for someone who literally tried to kill him one second ago, but he's a himbo and a Good Boy (tm) and has no idea if Mercy is legit dying or what sooooooo V_V

-

CW: Mentions of murder/hanging, PTSD/flashbacks, panic attack, dissociation, scarring, mentions of torture, self harm, knife wounds, dehydration.

-

“You picked a helluva time to sign up, mulch,” is the first thing Senior Officer Tophel says when they meet. 

“How do you figure?” Kasin grins, taking the proffered sword and admiring the Blue Guards’ sigil in the glinting silver hilt. 

The older man glances over his new recruit’s perfectly pressed uniform and gives a begrudging nod of approval. “Mercy’s coming to Everlost.”

“Mercy?”

“Ain’t you ever heard of Mercy? The Emperor’s Arbiter and Royal Steward. Apparently he got himself exiled. Though for what, I ain’t privy to. All I know is he’s coming here.” Tophel huffs and shakes his head, fingers twisting the ends of his walrus moustache. “Fact that his head’s not on a pike is no small wonder.”

Kasin twists his mouth to the side as he sheathes his new sword. “What did this Mercy do, to warrant such a gruesome end?”

Tophel sweeps up the loose papers on his desk into a neat pile, his expression one of sheer disdain. “No-one visited by Mercy is left intact. That’s all you have to know. Just keep out of his way and if you can’t - aim to kill, because there won’t be anything left by the time he’s done with you.”

The younger man frowns, uncertain how much one civilian can do against an armed guard. Then again, bluebloods in the Imperial City are known to be well versed in combat, having the best training from a young age. Maybe Kasin should err on the side of caution. Just this once. 

“I assume you’re telling me about this man for a reason,” Kasin says, raising a brow. 

“Looks like we have ourselves a mulch with brains,” Tophel scoffs, sticking his pipe into the corner of his mouth. “It’s what the Captain wants. A simple assignment to watch over our newest resident. No contact, no interference. Just watch. You’ll be on a rotating twelve hour shift with Dazer and you’ll both be assessed for other duties in a month. Any questions, mulch?”

“Why ‘mulch’?” Kasin isn’t stupid, but he asks anyway. Tophel’s greying at his temples. He’s sun weathered and rigid; got a mean, stubborn lock to his jaw. He doesn’t look like he enjoys challenging the status quo - so it’s probably best if Kasin plays his part.

“It’s what you’re gonna be by summer’s end. If you don’t like it, then prove me wrong. Anything else?”

“Am I to disguise myself while on assignment?”

Tophel smiles around his pipe, but it’s more like a leer. “No. Captain wants you in full uniform and full view at all times.”

-

Mercy’s place of residence could only be described as a hovel. It’s a shack on the edge of the forest, with swathes of spoiled land on either side. The nearest neighbour is the Sudbury Farm to the east and the dumping grounds to the west. The trees here grow black and twisted. By all rights, they shouldn’t be growing at all - but the roots have stubbornly taken hold of the arid land and the branches contort upwards, greedily drinking in every drop of rain and glimmer of sun to feed their wasted bodies.

The biggest and ugliest of these trees grows in front of Mercy’s shack, not thirty feet away. This is where Kasin stations himself, standing in his sky blue uniform, just under the gnarled black branches. He stands out in this desolate landscape, like a vibrant drop of paint on a blank white canvas. The restless movement in the dust-caked windows attests to his bold presence. 

Mercy is nervous. Aware. He peeks out the window every few minutes, but never lingers long enough for Kasin to get a proper look. 

Mercy is just a flitting shadow. No more than a ghost. 

It’s like this for three days. From morning to dusk, Kasin stands under that black tree, dutifully watching those grimy windows. Nervous shadows and obscured motions greet him like clockwork. And then Dazer, the other new recruit, shambles up (long past dusk) to take his shift. 

On the fourth day, he arrives to an angry crowd of civilians swarming Dazer with a variety of makeshift weapons in hand. 

“We want him gone, Dazer!” One of them shakes his pitchfork at the hassled guard. “I know in my gut that he’s the one stealing my chickens and cured meats!”

Dazer laughs nervously and pats the air. “Now, now, Mister Sudbury. I don’t have any say in his stayin’ or leavin’–”

“I caught him going through my trash!” another shrills, red-faced like her equally enraged comrades. “I don’t care if he’s a toff from the Imperial City, I want him out of my town!”

“Miss Daisy, going through trash isn’t technically against the law–”

“Oh, Jim's told me all about that ghastly beast you're defending. He's killed hundreds of innocent people to sate his perverse cravings, and hides behind His Majesty's goodwill."

Another voice shrieks, "He’s a demon that wears the skin of man!”

The crowd surges in volume and fury, inundating poor Dazer until Kasin finally reaches his side. The townsfolk pause for a moment, recognising this young man who has, in his twenty-five years, garnered a strong reputation in Everlost as a reliable, kind, and moral character.

“If anyone has grievances to be heard, please send a missive to Captain Locke,” Kasin announces over the discontented grumble. “Dazer and I have been ordered to keep watch of the situation. You can be rest assured that nothing will elude our attention - so please. Return to your fields and businesses and homes. Should there be any cause for concern, you will be informed.”

For a moment, Kasin’s reassurances seem to have worked. The townsfolk relax, their makeshift weapons drop to their sides, and they consider his words. But then Sudbury, always the inciter, raises his pitchfork and bullrushes the shack, hollering, “DEATH TO THE DEMON OF MIDOTHAL!”

Two other burly men split off from the re-ignited crowd, following Sudbury to the front door. Before Kasin can even react, they’ve kicked down the flimsy wood and dragged out a hooded figure from the gloomy interior. 

One word comes to Kasin’s mind when he lays eyes upon the fearsome Mercy for the very first time. 

Fragile. 

The figure enshrouded by a tattered grey cloak isn’t by any means frail. In fact, they are imposingly tall and there is evidence of a wiry, athletic figure. However, Mercy stands stooped over like his crooked black trees, hooded head cast down, and his limbs shaking as though it were mid-winter instead of summer. 

His bare feet, filthy and as grey as his cloak, stumble every second step. Kasin suspects that if he weren’t being dragged by Sudbury’s men, he would have collapsed not one foot out the door. 

Kasin yanks his sheathed sword free from his belt and rushes to Mercy’s side. The latter’s thrown to the dirt, crumpled and silent. 

“Stand down Powle, Richard, Bolt.” The young guard points his sheathed sword at the three men in turn. His oaken stare, intense and penetrating. Something in his eyes has them hesitating, their righteous anger withering to dust. “While we may know each other as well as family, I will not hesitate to arrest you should you enact your own justice. This is a land of law. Which means we abide by the law and entrust the administration of justice by the court of law. As a citizen of Everlost, this is the contract you have agreed to.” Kasin pauses, gaze sharpening. “Do you agree?”

The three men exchange wary glances and begrudgingly respond.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“I s’pose it is.”

“Very well,” Kasin says, his stern expression relaxing. Though he does smile, his gaze remain severe. “It is not our place to question His Majesty’s decision to exile this man to our humble town. Nor is it our place to judge this man. Return to your lives and invest your concerns in your own matters. In this drought, there will be many, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t lower his sword until the last fires of outrage are doused. Only reluctant acquiescence remains, and eventually, the crowd disperses in terse clumps. Sudbury and his men are the last to leave, and they don’t do so without parting words. Words that promise later retribution. 

“I better report this to Tophel,” Dazer sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for saving my ass, Kasin. I really thought I’d have run old Daisy through for a moment there.”

Kasin sends him a wry smile. “I think she would have run you through first.”

“Eh. You’re probably right.”

Kasin watches Dazer set off in a trot up the dirt road before turning his attention to Mercy. 

The hooded figure picks himself up unsteadily, legs quaking from the effort. Now that they are alone, Mercy finally raises his head. There’s a glimmer of pale skin and well defined features - a sharp jawline sweeping into the shadow of the hood, and a pair of cracked, bloodless lips pressed into a tight grimace. Odd marks mar the pallid skin, but it’s difficult to tell from this distance.

Kasin, who had always considered himself to be quite tall, feels a little intimidated by the other’s imposing height. Mercy must stand at least a foot above, and the young guard has to angle his head back a tad to address him. 

“Mister Mercy, I presume?” Kasin says, politely. “I must apologise. They aren’t normally this…angry. They are all good people, truly. I promise you this was an anomalous event that will never happen again. You are safe here. I will ensure it.”

Mercy’s lips twitch into a faint sneer. “How.” His voice is hoarse, grating, as though unused for many months. 

The guard blinks. “I am an officer of the Blue Guards. It is my duty to ensure your safety as a resident of Everlost. And - as you are well aware by now - I have been ordered to keep watch over you. Along with Officer Dazer. Between the two of us, we will prevent any future aggressions.”

Mercy is silent for a time. Kasin has the distinct feeling that he’s being stared at. So he stares into the shade of the hood, directly where he assumes the other’s eyes are. 

Eventually, Mercy turns his head to the side. “You are not watching me for my safety,” he says, impassively.

“I don’t know my Captain’s intent,” Kasin says, evenly. “But I can tell you that I care for the wellbeing of all townsfolk. Exiled or not.” There’s a teasing lilt to the last three words which seems to agitate the other man. 

Without another word, Mercy unsteadily returns to his shack. Kasin slips his sheathed sword back into his belt, uncertain whether to follow him or not. His decision is made for him when Mercy trips over the broken pieces of his door and staggers into something with a tremendous crash. 

-

Mercy seethes and kicks the broken cot into the wall. And just like that, he’s lost his bed. His cot was the only comfort he’d bought for himself with the little coin he’d had left. And now it’s gone. 

Just like everything else.

‘Exile’ means being exiled in all sense of the word. Meaning, he was exiled not only from his home, his work, his title, but also his land and wealth. Whatever coin he’d had on his person when he was informed of his new status, is all he was allowed to carry into his next life. 

The ex-Arbiter clutches his throbbing leg, allowing himself a moment of weakness, before Kasin appears in his doorway like an irritating gnat. He straightens up, every muscle tensing as his abode is so rudely trespassed. 

“Ah…your door…” The guard crouches down and picks up a large piece of broken wood. He gives Mercy a guileless smile. “Sorry about that. I’m a pretty good carpenter if you’d like me to fix it up for you.”

“Leave,” is all Mercy can spit out. His heart’s pounding near out of his chest and his hands are shaking, shaking, because this creature is in his house. He’s touching his things. He’s talking to him. He’s smiling, smiling like Mercy’s just another person, just another townsfolk who has a face and a future.

But Kasin isn’t listening. He’s walking further into his house, looking at his meagre possessions, casually commenting on the state of his broken furniture. “I can fix this too - no problem. But is this cot big enough for you? With your height, I’d imagine it’s quite a squeeze every night. Maybe I could extend the end a bit, so that you can stretch out? I have a lot wood back home that’s going to waste. And there’ll be no charge - consider it compensation for today–”

Mercy feels it. The Hollow. It slithers in like a snake, starving for prey, and sending venom straight into his veins. It unfurls, uncoils, until he’s no longer in possession of himself. There’s only the Hollow that knows only consumption. He loses himself to blissful domination and there’s its voice, its cloying voice, which commands him to do what he does best. 

-

The broken halves of the cot drop to his feet in a clatter. Kasin freezes. Hands gone numb. His eyes staring blindly at the swollen, mouldy wall in front of him. 

The sharp prick in his back is unmistakable.

“What are you doing, Mister Mercy?” He keeps his tone calm, friendly even, but his insides tumble about like loose rocks. 

The prick turns to real pain. He feels his skin snap and flesh give. Blood wells. It’s only an inch, but it’s enough to make Mercy’s intent clear. 

“Mister Mercy? Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.” 

Kasin feels a chill run down his spine. That voice is void of emotion. Near inhuman. Is this man really a killer? 

“Ah. I apologise. I tend to speak without thinking. It’s a terrible habit, really. Can’t seem to shake it. Look, I'll apologise properly, but you'll need to lower your weapon. Can you do that for me, Mister Mercy?”

“No.”

Kasin’s heart sinks. He pulls in a shallow breath. Tries again. “I understand. You wish to protect yourself, but you must know that I mean you no harm–”

There’s a steely grip on his shoulder which tightens and jerks him around. It plants a blow on his chest, sending him staggering back into the wall. The cot cracks and splinters further under his clumsy feet. 

A dagger of beautiful yet simplistic design, pokes a new shallow hole in his stomach. He winces but maintains his smile. Even when he finally lays eyes on Mercy’s face. 

The hood must have fallen away at some point, for the mien before him is exposed to his scrutiny. Mercy’s features are sharp and handsome - his eyes shaped like petals, delicate and soft, if not for the flint-like coldness they hold. Not a flicker of recognisable emotion or thought can be seen in these callous eyes, and unlike his name, they speak of no mercy. 

Black, greasy hair, matted with dirt and perhaps dried blood, gathers upon his shoulders, overgrown and impossibly tangled. But the most striking feature of Mercy’s visage are the heavy scores etched deep into his flesh. 

At first, they appear to be freshly scarred wounds from random slashes of a knife. Reminisce of a clawed attack from a bear. But then, as eyes adjust, one can see a single word taking shape - carved into the entirety of Mercy’s face, from forehead to jaw, in big vicious letters: AMOS. 

Amos. As in, Crown Prince Amos, the Emperor’s eldest son. 

Bile surges up Kasin’s gullet which he swallows with difficulty. As frightened he is of the knife sticking into his gut, he’s also greatly pained by the man’s scars. What kind of torture had Mercy been subjected to? Kasin suspects that there’s more to see beyond those cruel letters. 

A part of him is in disbelief. The Crown Prince is known for his heroic and generous deeds. Many espouse his virtues and compare him to his father, Emperor Midothal who ends wars without ever raising his sword. After all, isn’t Mercy’s exile proof of his forgiving nature? If Mercy is truly a deviant, indulging in his wicked appetite behind the docile mask of Midothal’s loyal Arbiter and Steward, then he by all rights should be sentenced to death. However, His Majesty had instead chosen to spare Mercy’s life and exile him instead. Why would he do such a thing, if he was the type of man to allow this torture?

Kasin licks his dry lips, nervously. Never mind all that, he thinks. There’s a knife pointed at his stomach - that should take first priority. “Mister Mercy,” he begins, slowly, amicably. “I can see that you are not quite yourself. Perhaps a conversation between friends could ease your burdens? How about a shared meal? There's a tavern close by that does a wonderful meat pie. Come, friend. There need be no bloodshed today.”

The taller man simply stares at him, hollow eyed, detached. His shaking has dissipated entirely. And his stance is lean and centered. Kasin knows that whoever this is, it’s not the same man from moments ago. 

There’s no getting out of this. Not with words alone. 

Kasin lets his training kick in. In one fast motion, he simultaneously grabs the blade and Mercy’s wrist, and twists the latter to a painful degree. The knife, he wrenches free and tosses to the side. 

There’s no reaction to the sprained wrist. Mercy whips into action, attacking the guard with a flurry of perfectly executed blows. Kasin meets them with his own, and they fight like this for many minutes, neither tiring or relenting to the other. Not once does Kasin pull his sword. It’s not his intention to kill this man after all - despite Tophel’s warning.

Finally, Mercy sweeps Kasin’s legs from under him and pins him to the ground with his foot, pushing his weight into that single crushing point. His other foot pins down the guard’s right hand, preventing him from going for his sword.

Kasin groans and chokes, agony spreading through his upper trunk like spilled lava. “Mer…cy…!” He’s not sure if he’s asking for mercy or calling his name, but it’s fruitless either way. 

The man simply isn’t here. 

Kasin flails. He strikes. He yanks and pulls and kicks. But Mercy’s like a steel column, unyielding, unmoving. 

With every compounding inch of pressure upon Kasin’s chest, the less air he’s able to suck in. His vision begins to darken around the edges. His ribs are on the verge of snapping. He knows he has only a few precious seconds of consciousness left. If he doesn’t do anything - he will die. 

So as he squints up at the stony, impassive face looming overhead - he takes one final shot in the dark. “A…mos..!”

The pressure stops. A sliver of air seeps through. 

He squeezes the word out again. “Amos–!”

Suddenly, as though struck by a powerful force, Mercy violently recoils. His body crashes into the wall, causing the entire structure to judder. Clawed hands desperately scrabble at his hood, attempting to cover his head - or rather, his face. 

Kasin raises himself upright, clutching his aching chest and gasping for air. He feels the creeping fingers of regret upon seeing Mercy’s powerful reaction, but for now, he’s alive - and regret momentarily takes a backseat. 

-

Amos.

Mercy clutches the side of his head, dragging the hood further down. Darkness sweeps him up into its comforting embrace - but he’s yet to feel at all assured. 

Pants seep through clenched teeth as he slams his head into the wall, trying to knock the scattered fragments of his mind back into place. The swirling, discordant noise knocks him askew. He’s both here and there and nowhere at all, and it takes every shred of his cognisance to keep from falling apart. 

Amos burns. 

It burns like he’s sinking into him again. Like he’s back in that place, that dark and enduring place, and he bites down on his hand to keep from crying out. This pain is real. Grounding. But the burn is soul-deep. Impossible to ignore. 

“Mister Mercy?”

A voice. Firm. Concerned. It reminds him of the dusk. 

“Leave.” He’s enough mind to utter a single word. Not a demand. Not a suggestion. A plea. 

Please. Please leave. Leave so I can stop fighting. Leave so I can rest.

“Please.” Another plea. Not his own. “Please, Mister Mercy. Tell me what ails you. Is there anything I can do? Are you in pain?”

“Leave–!” The word cracks midway. Wavers. Mercy claws at the wall, smashes himself into it like he can phase right through. He’s shaking now, and chilled right to the bone despite the summer heat. He can smell metal. Copper. His face burns. 

Amos burns. 

“Mercy. Tell me what’s wrong.” There’s a hand now, touching his face. Gentle fingers pushing his matted hair to the side. Sunlight sneaks in as his hood’s nudged back. He panics. 

He’s touching him. He’s pulling off his hood. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here–

Mercy scrambles to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He holds out a trembling hand, ready to shove Kasin away should he venture too close. But the guard keeps his distance. 

Mercy pants through his panic, his eyes wild and face a shock-white. The world spins, lurches, and his legs buckle and bow. The noise reaches an agonising crescendo, drowning out every scattered thought in his brain.

Kasin steps forward, reaching out, alarmed. This time, Mercy relinquishes. He accepts. He exchanges the wall for the guard and collapses into his sturdy arms. All sense of self-preservation dissipates. He’s purely in survival mode. There’s desperation for an end to this suffering, this chaos, like a primal keen. 

Amos burns.

Kasin lowers him to the ground and kneels beside him, keeping a firm grasp of his upper arms. “Keep still. Don’t try to move. Here, have some water.”

A flask’s brought to his lips, but he can’t do more than wet his cracked lips. He’s breathing too hard, too fast, rocking in the guard’s arms like he’s trying to escape his own skin - but he can’t, he’s trapped, so he just rocks. 

And all the while, his face burns. 

Kasin presses his palm against Mercy’s forehead. It’s a light touch but the latter flinches like he’s been scorched. 

“Sorry, sorry–” the guard hastily apologises. “But you’re hot, like you’ve a fever, and you're not sweating. When’s the last time you drank water?”

“Burns…” Mercy rasps, on the edge of delirium. 

“What does?”

“Amos…Amos burns…” 

Somewhere far away, or maybe not far at all, Mercy hears the trickle of water. Murmured words, not quite for his ears. And then a cool, damp cloth pressed gently upon his forehead. The burn lulls. Subsides. The damp cloth dabs across his brow, to his left temple, down his cheek. In the wake of Kasin’s ministrative touch, Mercy - impossibly - finds relief. 

His panicked breath slows, lightens. The noise quietens in his head. Mercy sits there, eyes closed, swaying and trembling, as the young guard, this stranger, dabs his burning wounds. These ugly, jagged scars that laid waste to his flesh. Like a soothing rain dousing the blazing, destructive wildfire, Mercy finds a kind of peace in that touch. 

Another’s touch is never good. But this touch…this touch is good. 

An anomalous event that will never happen again. 

When Mercy finally comes to, Kasin has once more doused the cloth - his handkerchief - with water from his flask. The guard’s propped Mercy against the wall to free his hands, and he’s crouched before him, brows furrowed deeply in concern. 

Kasin raises the handkerchief to Mercy’s temple, and stills. Oaken eyes, swirling with deep, unfathomable emotion, lock onto a hazy coal-black stare. 

“Mercy? Have you returned to your senses?”

Mercy feels drained. Hollowed out like a gutted animal carcass. He wants nothing more than to curl up on his - broken - cot and sleep the day out of existence. 

He grabs Kasin’s wrist and yanks it from his face. The guard loses his balance and falls onto his rear. 

“Don’t touch me,” Mercy croaks. Should this guard return with a platoon to have him hanged, then so be it. He’s tired of fighting. “I need…” Mercy pauses. Shivers. He feels raw. Weak. And in truth, he is. It only took a single touch to draw out the Hollow. And a single word to break him. “I need you to leave.”

For once, the young guard doesn’t protest. He simply nods, climbs to his feet, and brushes himself off. He leaves his flask and handkerchief on the only standing piece of furniture in the shack - a rickety table salvaged from the dumping ground. 

“Try to drink some water,” Kasin says, quietly. “I’ll be outside, keeping watch, so call out if you need anything. I'll...keep your dagger safe. For the moment. A fair exchange, I think, for almost taking my life.” He turns to leave. A pause in the doorway.  “I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have...I didn't realise you would--" He bites his tongue. Smiles tightly. "I’ll fix you a new door and bring it by tomorrow.” And then he’s gone, off to take up his usual post under the gnarled black tree, with the dagger tucked securely in his belt. 

Mercy doesn’t move. He just stares at the naked doorway, lost in the memory of another doorless cell, and the utter incomprehension of simply leaving.

.

Part 2