#tw: implied panic attacks

[orellazalonia]

Hey :)

I love your writing!!! It comforts me and I often find myself re reading your stories, they're so frickin good <3 (Clementine made me almost cry; if you could write more for that au that would be so awesome of you because I really wanna hear more about Bucky and the reader as well as their daughter and Clementine. I haven't been able to find any other bull rider au!)

I have a fanfic request for a Bucky Barnes x reader fic for a reader with SA! PTSD who either has a flashback and helps comfort the reader through it

or who sees her/his/their (your choice of pronouns) attacker in public and protects them when their attacker tries to talk to them???

Thank you, you're beautiful and one of the best writers ever, and better than most authors of books you see on the shelves at ya local barnes n noble.

Hello there, dear. I’m afraid you’ve sent the ask to the wrong author as I’ve never written anything described in your side note there. However, do be sure to send your love to the person you intended this for!

I did like the request though and ended up fulfilling it. Have a lovely day and Happy reading!

Quiet in the Storm

Summary: After experiencing a sudden flashback, you spiral into panic. However, Bucky stays calm and gently grounds you, reminding you that you're safe. He offers comfort without pressure, reassuring you that you're not broken and never have to face things alone. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Disclaimer: Alludes to SA and PTSD, Panic Attack, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. You are responsible for the media you consume. Do take care of yourselves.

Word Count: 1.5k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t talk about it, not directly, not often. It hung in the air sometimes, between the clatter of dishes or the silence of late-night TV. It showed itself in the way your shoulders tensed when a man’s voice rose too loud or how your eyes darted around a crowded street. But mostly, you kept it tucked away like something broken on a high shelf. If you didn’t touch it, maybe it wouldn’t fall.

Bucky never asked for more than you were ready to give. He never pried. He never pushed. But he saw the little things. How you sat with your back to the wall in restaurants, how you flinched when someone walked too close behind you. The first time you told him, it wasn’t with words. It was in a look. A quiet panic behind your eyes one night when he reached for your wrist too quickly. He’d stopped immediately, palms up, and soft as rain.

“I’m here. I won’t ever hurt you.”

And you believed him. Most of the time. But trauma doesn’t follow a schedule. It doesn’t wait for safe spaces or daylight. And tonight, it came when you least expected it.

The movie was some harmless rom-com. You weren’t even paying attention to it. You were curled up on the couch beside Bucky, his arm around your shoulder, the other hand gently stroking your thigh through the blanket. You trusted that touch. You knew it. But something shifted when a scene came on. Some stupid, throwaway moment with a drunk character and a joke that hit too close to the bone.

You didn’t realize you were slipping until Bucky said your name.

“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.”

You blinked, breath caught in your chest. The blanket suddenly felt too tight. His hand, warm and grounding, was on your thigh, but now it felt like a chain. You were underwater. Sinking. The room had changed, morphed, turned into something else. Somewhere else.

His voice called your name, his tone calm and steady. “Look at me. You’re safe.”

But your body didn’t believe him.

You flinched hard, pushing yourself away from him and curling into the corner of the couch, heart pounding like it would break through your ribs. The panic was everywhere, sinking underneath your skin. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop shaking.

Bucky didn’t come closer. He stayed exactly where he was. That was a first mercy.

“I’m not touching you,” He said softly, his voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. You’re here, with me. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The flashback had you caught like a snare around your throat. Your hands were clenched into fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms.

“Can you hear my voice?” He asked. “Can you nod for me?”

It took effort, like dragging yourself through quicksand, but you nodded once.

“That’s good. That’s so good, doll. You’re doing great.”

Tears ran hot down your cheeks, and you weren’t even sure when they’d started. Your throat hurt from how tightly you were holding everything in. But still, he didn’t come closer. He waited.

“You���re not there anymore,” Bucky said gently. “You’re safe. You’re not alone.”

He slowly shifted onto the floor closer to you, sitting cross-legged near the couch but not touching it. Not crowding you. Just… there.

“Can I tell you where you are?” He asked. “Just so you can hold onto it?”

You nodded again.

“You’re in our apartment. Brooklyn. Your favorite blanket’s on the couch. The one with the little blue stars. There’s a candle burning, lavender scented. You made me light it earlier ‘cause I forgot to do laundry.” He smiled softly. “You’re with me. Just me. I’ve got you.”

His voice was steady. Not too soft, not too firm. Just right like a tether in the dark.

You started breathing again. Taking shaky, shallow breaths at first, then a little deeper. Your fists unclenched as the room slowly came back into focus, one detail at a time. The glow of the TV. The warmth of the blanket. The safe weight of Bucky’s presence just a few feet away.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t mean-“

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

You looked at him then. His blue eyes were steady, kind. Yet fierce in the way someone could be when they cared too much and didn’t know how to fix what hurt.

“It’s not your fault,” He said. “None of it.”

You nodded again, even though your throat ached.

“Can I come closer?” He asked gently. “Only if you want me to.”

It took a long moment before you whispered, “Please.”

He moved slowly, carefully. Not reaching out until you did first. And when you did, your fingers brushing against his, he wrapped your hand in both of his like it was the most precious thing in the world. He kissed your knuckles, one by one, and rested his forehead lightly against yours.

“I’m proud of you,” He murmured. “For staying. For letting me in.”

The flashback was over, but the ache lingered. It always did. But with Bucky there, his arms wrapped gently around you, his heartbeat steady against your back, it felt a little easier to bear.

And for now, that was enough.

Later that night, he stayed up with you. The TV was on but muted, casting a soft flicker over both of you. Your head rested against his chest, and his hand ran through your hair in slow, rhythmic motions, grounding you with every pass. Every time you closed your eyes, some phantom image tried to drag you back but his voice was there, low and constant, murmuring things like, “You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

At some point, you fell asleep against him, your fingers twisted in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go.

-

The morning came slow and strange.

You felt heavy. Not physically, but inwardly. In the way that made you feel like you were made of soaked cloth. But the room was filled with sunlight creating a warm atmosphere. Bucky was already in the kitchen, moving with that careful quiet of someone who knew what it meant to be haunted.

He didn’t look at you with pity. He looked at you like you were brave.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” He said gently, when you padded barefoot into the room. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I made you tea. It’s that kind you like, the fancy one with the rose petals you keep calling ‘expensive leaf water.’”

You almost smiled. He placed the mug on the counter without handing it to you. You’d told him, once, that sometimes you didn’t like being handed things first thing in the morning. And he remembered, like always.

You took the mug in both hands and stared at the steam.

“I had a flashback yesterday,” You murmured. Your voice was soft, but not shaking this time. “You probably figured that out.”

Bucky nodded once. “Yeah.”

You looked up. “Did I scare you?”

His eyes softened, brows pulling together like the question pained him. “No. You didn’t scare me. I was scared for you, but not of you. Never of you.”

You took a breath. “I hate that it still happens. It’s been… years.”

He came to lean beside you on the counter, keeping just a little distance between you in case you needed space. “I know. But it doesn’t mean you’re weak. Having flashblacks doesn’t mean you’re broken. They mean you survived something you weren’t supposed to. It’s just… your brain’s still learning how to feel safe again.”

His words hit something raw in you.

You looked down at the tea, at your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, and whispered, “Sometimes I think I’m too much. Too damaged. Like… I’m always going to be that scared girl again, no matter how much time passes.”

Bucky didn’t interrupt. He waited until the silence had run its course before saying, “You’re not too much. And you’re not that girl anymore. You’re someone who went through hell and still wakes up every day and tries to live. That’s not damage, that’s strength.”

He paused, watching your fingers twitch against the mug. Then added, softer, “You don’t have to carry it alone, not anymore.”

Your eyes burned again but this time, the tears weren’t panic. They weren’t terror clawing at the walls of your mind. They were grief, yes. But also relief. And maybe even hope. You set the mug down and stepped toward him, slow and steady, until you were close enough to bury your face in his chest. He didn’t hesitate. His arms wrapped around you instantly, secure and careful all at once.

“I’m right here,” He whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You swallowed. “Thank you… for being so patient.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed gently to yours. “There’s no clock on healing, doll. I’m in this with you. However long it takes.”

And you knew, right then, that maybe healing wasn’t about forgetting. Maybe it was about having someone who stayed when it was hard. Someone who didn’t try to fix you, but just loved you no matter what.

Even when the storm came. Especially when the storm came.

[observingfantasy]

The Price of Deceit

~ Shadow Milk Cookie redemption fic

Containing: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Attempts at Humor, everyone being somewhat mentally not fine, Pure Vanilla being actually angry for a while and the Deceit Trio as a dysfunctional found family

Chapter 8: A Walk

Summary: Shadow Milk deals with the aftermath of his nightmare. Or tries to.

Read on AO3

Shadow Milk woke with a ragged gasp in suffocating darkness.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t do anything but choke on sobs that tore up his throat like broken glass. His limbs jerked violently beneath the blankets, his mind still tangled in chains, still burning, still trapped.

Get out—get out—get out—

He thrashed, frenzied, until there was the sound of fabric tearing and his arms burst free from the sheets he’d wrapped himself in sometime during the night. He tore it all away with shaking hands. Then his claws ripped at the phantom binds around his legs until they too gave with a rip of cotton and he was free.

In his desperate attempt to escape, he tumbled from the bed gracelessly and hit the carpeted floor hard, but that had happened far to often by now to properly register in his frenzied mind.

He clawed at the floor. He needed to escape.

Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Then—cool air.

A breeze swept in through the window, nudging the curtains aside just enough to let a sliver of moonlight spill across the floor. Pale, gentle, real.

Shadow Milk stopped and stared.

The touch of air on his sweat-drenched skin and the pale light on his trembling hands grounded him back in reality.

He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t back there.

His breathing hitched, but slowed—just enough for his thoughts to begin returning to him in fragments.

This was his room.

In the Vanilla Republic.

The bed he’d made cozy with piles of pillows. The stacks of fabric on his desk. The drawing Candy Apple had made and Black Sapphire insisted on framing to hang it on the wall. To tease and praise the girl at the same time.

He was here. Now. Safe.

It had only been a nightmare.

And yet, when his gaze fell on the space near the door—where Pure Vanilla had stood both in dream and memory, staff glowing, eyes cold—

"As if you ever could have been anything but a monster."

No. No, Pure Vanilla never said that.

Not in those exact words. But he thought it. You know he did.

Something burned in his lungs and ached in his chest.

I have to get out of here.

It was less a thought and more a primal instinct. A desperate need.

Panic, despair, and self-loathing roared like a storm in his mind, making it impossible to think clearly. He just had to get away—from this room, from the memories in it's shadows, from the voices in his head, from the way his own skin still crawled like the chains never let him go.

He didn’t waste time trying to stand.

Despite the progress he’d made in the past two weeks, despite the elegant personalized cane Pure Vanilla had all but bullied him into accepting, despite his begrudging admission that it at least somewhat helped getting around his room—none of it registered right now. The nightmare had swept away any and all logical thoughts.

He just crawled across the floor towards the door.

It took him too long to reach it. His limbs didn’t want to obey. His whole body still trembled with phantom pain and lingering adrenaline. When he finally reached the handle, he used it to haul himself upright with a desperate grunt and leaned against the frame for balance.

He struggled, but managed the few steps to the front door of the suite, using the wall for support, his breath rasping in his lungs like he’d run a marathon. But the moment he flung the door open—

He stopped dead in his tracks.

A soft mechanical hum greeted him from the hallway.

One of the three Wafflebots that always waited next to the door clicked to life, the blue gem in it's center, that was both eyes and ears, blinked lively as it floated forward.

He had forgotten about these things. Hadn’t stepped a foot outside their suite since arriving.

“Do you require assistance?” the drone asked in a soft, polite tone. He understood why Black Sapphire despised these things so much now.

Shadow Milk’s heart leapt into his throat. Shit. He had no idea what the rules even were for roaming at night. Was he allowed? Would it order him back inside?

The panic flared again.

He couldn't.

“Wh-what?” he croaked.

“Scans indicate emotional and/or physical distress,” the drone said helpfully. “Shall I notify someone that you require aid?”

“No!” he snapped, far too loud. The word echoed down the corridor, and he winced, gripping the doorframe tighter to keep from toppling over.

Please don’t let that have woken anyone. Please.

This hallway should be deserted in the middle of the night—no one wanted to sleep near a Beast—but Candy and Sapphire were (hopefully) still asleep in the suite behind him.

His voice dropped to a hoarse but determinant whisper. “No. I don’t need help.”

The Wafflebot just hovered silently. No answer, no demand.

So, Shadow Milk continued. "What I do need, is some fresh air. Can I take a walk?" His voice wavered slightly at the end.

Please. He needed out of here. Needed space. Anything but those suffocating walls.

“Of course. Would you like assistance locating the shortest path to the nearest courtyard?”

That… might not be the worst idea. He wouldn't get rid of that thing after all, and the castle had too many exits. His sense of direction still wasn’t back to full strength. He could barely stand—there was no way he’d manage wandering through the maze of hallways right now.

“Yeah. Shortest way out. Sure.”

The drone chirped once and rotated smoothly toward the corridor. “Follow me.”

And Shadow Milk did.

One shaking step at a time.

The hallways stretched for what felt like eternity.

Shadow Milk clung to the wall with one hand, hunched and shaky and thoroughly miserable. His legs already felt like overcooked noodles. His knees were trembling. His heels ached. Every step was an exercise in defiance—not just of pain, but of common sense.

He’d barely made it past the first corridor before the adrenaline slowly started to wear off.

It only got worse after that.

His hand dragged along the wall like a lifeline, fingertips scraping over smooth marble and decorative molding. His other arm was tucked close to his chest as if that would help with the ache still radiating from there. The Wafflebot-Drone hovered politely a few paces in front of him, it's soft hum and glittering light an ever-present reminder that he was being watched.

(And it also led the way, of course.)

Why didn’t I bring the damn cane?

He hadn’t even thought of it before stumbling out the door. It was right there, probably leaning mockingly against the side of the bed. Waiting.

Laughing at his misery.

He hated it—not it's appearance, Pure Vanilla had admittedly done a pretty good job getting him something that optically fitted his taste—but its purpose, the damning truth it whispered every time he touched it. But at least it was helpful. Unlike the decorative wall ornaments and overly polished floor tiles that definitely weren’t designed to be accessible.

He stumbled again, catching his foot on the edge of a rug that hadn’t been a problem until just now, and went sprawling forward in an ungraceful heap.

There was a pause. Then a chime.

“Do you require assistance?” the Wafflebot asked again, in the same overly polite tone as last time.

Shadow Milk groaned from the floor, face planted in the carpet. “No,” he muttered into the weave. “No, I’m just admiring the architecture down here. Leave me to it.”

The drone waited in polite silence.

It took him three tries to push himself upright again—first to his elbows, then to his knees, then finally back against the wall where he could slump long enough to wheeze out a breath.

His legs hurt. Badly. Every muscle below the waist felt like it was made of tightly coiled pain and very bad decisions.

But he couldn’t stay still. Not for long.

As soon as he'd stopped moving, the darkness started creeping closer. The air felt thicker. The walls closed in. He could feel it, like the whole castle was slowly crushing him with it's presence alone.

He pushed forward again. One trembling step. Then another.

Ten more feet down the hallway, he slumped against a decorative bench and let himself drop onto it like a sack of regret.

The wafflebot paused beside him with a soft whirr and asked, in programmed automatism: “Do you require assistance?”

He twitched.

“Still no,” he hissed, not bothering to open his eyes. “You’ll be the first to know if I collapse into a lifeless puddle of jam.”

The bot hummed in acknowledgment and resumed its silent guard.

He sat there for a minute or five, panting like he’d fought a whole army of cake hounds. His calves were spasming. His toes had gone numb. He was pretty sure he’d pulled something somewhere.

And yet… it was better than lying still in bed. Better than the nightmare. Better than the stillness.

When he stood again, the burn in his thighs felt like punishment and penance all at once.

He made it another hallway. Fell again—this time because the floor tilted, which was rude and probably not even structurally correct.

The moment his butt hit the tiles, the wafflebot chirped, “Do you require assistance?”

“I require you to shut up,” Shadow Milk snapped, no longer having the energy for anything else.

At first, there was just the usual silence, then—

“…Understood.”

He blinked up at it.

Was it insulted? Pouting? Could it do that?

He shook off the thought and dragged himself up again with a groan. The walls weren’t closing in this time. Not yet. But his whole body was shivering, and every step was starting to feel more like penance than progress.

Still, the cool air leaking through an open hallway window helped. The quiet helped. The fact that no one was here to see him like this helped.

And the door he could already see at the end of the hallway helped as well.

Shadow Milk latched onto it like a lifeline. Each step was agony now—his body beyond tired, beyond aching. He didn’t remember the last time he had hurt like this.

No, that wasn’t true.

He remembered all too well.

Still, he pressed on, half-dragging himself the final stretch, fingers fumbling for the handle like salvation lay on the other side.

It did.

The door creaked open, and a soft breath of night air spilled across his face—cool and clean and quiet. The garden beyond was bathed in soft moonlight, pale silver washing over low hedges, flowering trees, and the soft shimmer of dew-kissed grass. It was peaceful. Gentle.

And thankfully, mercifully empty.

Shadow Milk managed three steps into the courtyard before his legs gave out.

His knees and arms hit the soft grass hard.

He didn't bother trying to move again. Just curled in on himself some more, his body shaking from exhaustion and pain.

“I’m fine,” he croaked before the bot could ask again. “Don't need help.”

And then the floodgates just broke.

He sobbed.

There was no drama in it this time. No flourish. Just raw, jagged gasps torn from the deepest, darkest part of his soul—in terror, self-loathing, guilt and pain.

He didn't even know why he cried anymore. His emotions were just too much. Too much of everything. Too much to process.

But he guessed, at the end of the day, he simply didn't deserve any better.

So, he stayed there, curled up on the grass like something broken and forgotten, weeping quietly beneath the watching stars.

Alone.

first | previous | next

[stariez-artz]

Thought I’d redraw these old OCs from like 2021

Cleetus, Smilery and Ztuffy

[ilikefelines]

A Thousand Cuts Until Insanity

Day 7 (October 20) - Moment That Made Alicent Your Favourite Character • Dowager Queen • Free Choice

Written for Alicent Hightower Appreciation Week 2024.

Word Count: 5604

Summary: Alicent Hightower — stretched too thin, flung far out.

@alicenthightowerdaily

@zaldritzosrose (For the divider's. Thank you.)

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59901373

Aemond was the quietest of them at birth, though both his siblings were born red-faced and sobbing. Grand Maester Mellos had been concerned for his health.

“He was born too early,” the venerable man had told his king, “and I fear that he shall not survive the year.”

“The boy has lived this long already,” she remembered her husband replying, “and Alicent tells me he has a fierce appetite.”

That had been true enough, and the knowledge that her husband had been paying attention to their children had warmed Alicent, back then. Of course, he cares, she’d thought with girlish excitement, Aemond is his blood. But with age came wisdom, and Alicent now knew that Viserys’s response had not found its roots in love, or even in a vague sense of concern for his third-born child, but in apathy. It was easy to preserve one’s sense of ease when one did not care. Five of his children died in the womb or the cradle; what’s another?

Queen Alicent Hightower pulled herself out of her thoughts when she heard the herald’s voice. It sliced through the air like a heated blade through suet, and bile rolled in the pit of her stomach.

“Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, her consort, Ser Laenor Velaryon, rider of Seasmoke”—Lord Corlys’s latest attempt to save face, no doubt—" and their son, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.” Immediately, Viserys stirred in his seat at the very centre of the grand table placed upon the dais, grinning with anticipation as his daughter and her bastard ascended the steps.

He kissed Rhaenyra’s forehead, embracing her. “Look how Jacaerys has grown!” he exclaimed, always happy enough to embrace his role as grandsire. “If the lad carries on like this, he’ll soon be old enough to serve as my cupbearer at council.” He swung the plump one-year-old into his arms, causing him to giggle, while all the while Alicent could see Aemond watching with hunger in his eyes from his position on her lap. This was her babe’s third name day, and the feast that was being held this morn was supposed to be for his sake, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Viserys was comporting himself.

As the princess and her husband took their places above the salt, a gong was rung and serving girls began to carry in the royal family's food, whilst down below, half-a-hundred knights and lords of lesser rank dug into their trenchers with alacrity. And that was only at the outer tables – two hundred more guests had managed to cram themselves into the hall, and in the courtyards of the keep, the retinues, with their assortment of men-at-arms and hangers-on, were feasting. Every lord thinks to outdo the other in affinity. Half the inns in the capital were full of nobles who, arriving late, could not be allowed rooms in the Red Keep.

The Small Hall rang with the sound of chattering voices, and clanking cutlery; dogs fought viciously for scraps underneath the tables, as the wine flowed and flowed and flowed. Alicent saw one girl—Lord Tarly’s oldest niece, she was sure—giggling with her betrothed, a Crane squire. She wondered what it felt like, being so uncomplicatedly happy, with your whole life ahead of you; she glanced at the king, whose liver-spotted hands quivered as he brought a silver spoon to his mouth.

At two-and-twenty, Alicent felt with grim certainty that all youth had long been wrung out of her. Still, at least the fare’s adequate. King and court could have no possible complaints to that end. The table upon the dais was laden with hearty beef stew, three large lamprey pies, a giant swan dressed in its plumage, stuffed with songbirds and mutton, and tender morsels of venison swimming in a creamy soup of mushrooms and blandissory, amongst twenty other dishes of varying delicacy.

After the king, the choicest options were served to the table directly below their own, the one occupied by Alicent's own family, who’d been amongst the first to arrive from their seat at Oldtown. Alicent met Lord Hobert's eye — her uncle inclined his head in genteel acknowledgement.

The feast was not a bad one; indeed Alicent had spent many an evening planning the affair with the king’s steward and the Hand, Lord Strong. And yet, the celebrations for Jacaerys Waters’s —Alicent would never think of him as a prince, despite his mother’s brazen lying—first name day had taken up nearly an entire month, with tourneys and balls, and feasting every night. The beggars were well-fed at least, she thought with bitterness; what the courtiers had deigned to leave behind, Alicent had given to the poor that gathered at the Red Keep’s postern gate of an evening.

She manoeuvred Aemond more securely onto her lap. He was too young yet, to stomach any of the other food, so she scooped spoonful's of pottage into his mouth. “Such a good boy,” she murmured to him, kissing the back of his head. Alicent could feel the soft curvature of his skull against her lips, still delicate after his recently ended infancy. “You’ve no trouble with your food, now do you, Aemond?”

Helaena did not do well with loud noises and large groups of people, and Aegon had been all but barred from the feast after the incident in his father’s apartments, Ser Criston his constant shadow, so it was just her and Aemond at the king’s side. After all, he was the name day boy.

“A toast!” Lord Jason Lannister's drunken voice rang out. “To Prince Aemond — may His Grace have cause to celebrate many and more name days in the future!” The entire hall let out a raucous cheer, whilst the little prince looked with interest at all the people who’d come to King’s Landing for him.

“Is this feast only for me, Mother?” her child asked, his voice a breathless whisper.

She gave him a fond smile. “Yes, my sweet. And this evening we shall open your presents!” The queen smoothed Aemond’s hair, her mind far away. Alicent did not notice her son reaching for the king's chalice until it was too late. There was a splash and the chalice clanged against the floor.

“Alicent!” Viserys barked, and she felt herself grow cold, dread pooling into the pit of her stomach. “Control the boy, please!”

Hippocras had been spilt all over Viserys’s new cloth-of-silver tunic, staining it irreversibly. The queen quickly gathered Aemond against her, shushing his incessant questions—" Mother, why’s the king angry?”—as three maids cleaned up the spilt wine. She could hear Viserys’s grumbles and could feel the annoyed looks he was sending her—all the hair on the back of Alicent’s neck rose, goose flesh rising along her arms. She suppressed a yawn, as Aemond squirmed in her lap, wanting to walk: the king called for me last night, did he not?

Alicent could only remember leaving the room. Everything after that was merely darkness, and then a long harrowing walk back to her chambers, where Talya had a warm bath prepared for her. The more Alicent thought of it, the more her palms sweated. Her mouth went dry, and she felt as if her throat was closing up, and no matter how much air she gasped for, she couldn’t breathe—

“Mother?” Aemond asked, and he sounded uncertain. Alicent tried to smile at him, but it came out as a grimace. Odd flashes of memory were filling the queen’s mind—the smell of herbs, a thin scarecrow of a hand covered in mottled flesh reaching for her, peeling skin and the smell of ointment, three rats moving along a bedroom's rafters—and she was going to be sick. She felt liquid working its way up her throat. The queen stood, ignoring the stares of the feasting courtiers, and placed her son down into her chair. She swallowed convulsively.

“Aemond,” Alicent said, voice strained, “stay with your father. I’ll be right back.” She rushed out of the side door behind the dais, ignoring Viserys’s shouted queries. Alicent could hear Aemond crying. She opened the door, barely managing to shut it before the vomit finally caught up with her, spilling out onto the floor as Alicent gasped and coughed and spluttered. Half of it landed on her, soaking the silk of her cornflower blue gown. She heaved and heaved and heaved until she was sure it was over. It's back.

If she were mad enough to return in her current state, the princess and her lickspittles would likely die from laughter. Of late, no one enjoyed her misfortune more than Rhaenyra, Alicent knew, though the queen had means of getting back at the wretch, means which she would allow to grow fat and ripe before she reaped them. The light of the windows illuminated swirling dust motes, highlighting the red in Alicent’s hair.

Her mind felt disoriented as if she’d just banged her head against the floor. Placing one foot in front of the other, Alicent allowed the simple rhythm of left, right, left, right to guide her back to her rooms. The servants ducked their heads as she passed them by. Alicent could sense their eyes following her. I’ll have Larys deal with them. Half the court was at the feast, or elsewise enjoying the grand pyromancer’s entertainments Viserys had ordered put on in the city, so the corridors were deserted.

“Talya!” Alicent’s voice sounded shrill to her ears, as she burst into her apartments. “Are you here?”

Her gown stuck to her clammy skin; she pulled it off, the acrid smell of sick almost overpowering her senses.

“Your Grace?” Talya appeared — from whence Alicent knew not — with an armful of linen, dark eyes wide with disquiet. A frisson of cold understanding settled into them as she took in her queen’s panicked state.

“Water,” Alicent gasped, but the handmaid had already abandoned her previous task, running to fetch a small wooden basin and filling it with tepid water from the ewer. The queen was able to master herself then, as Tayla locked the door and peeled off her mistress's shift and hose and stockings, wiping away her sweat with a cool cloth as Alicent stood in the basin. It was only when she was clean and dressed in a new shift, that the gut-churning fear within her subsided.

“It happened again, Your Grace?” Talya asked, bony fingers digging into the red rough spun of her apron.

Alicent nodded, taking in slow, steady breaths. Viserys will be wondering where I am. She’d left Aemond there, she realised, and anxiety prickled its way up her spine, replenishing her dying dread.

“Clearly. And I was so sure it was over with.” Alicent let out a scornful laugh. Much good that assumption had done her. “I do not know what is wrong with me. Perhaps I've gone mad.”

The handmaid shifted from foot to foot. “You should talk to a maester.” Alicent looked at her sharply, but Talya was uncowed. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you’ve been like this since young Prince Aegon’s birth. I worry that it'll worsen, should you ignore it again.”

Most servants wouldn’t dare talk to the queen in such a manner, but Alicent had an understanding with Talya. When the young queen returned to her rooms dead-eyed and trembling at night, with the scent of Viserys’s rotting flesh still in her nostrils, it was Talya who attended her and set her at ease.

Alicent scoffed. “I’m sure Maester Mellos shall find my ailment to be eminently curable. ‘Oh yes, Maester, I cannot stand the sound of my husband's voice. It sends me into hysteria.’” Her voice hardened. “No, Talya. Any maester would think me insane. They’d take my children from me. I have borne this malady for six years. I can bear it six years more.” Alicent poured herself a cup of mint cordial from a nearby flagon, swilling it about her mouth to remove the lingering taste of vomit, and stood up in one smooth movement. “Now help me dress. I require another gown.”

The queen returned to the feast garbed in a gown that reminded her of home. The high-necked bodice was all Myrish lace, delicate as a spider's web and stitched onto a panel of cream silk. The tippet sleeves were so long that their points brushed the floor, lined with miniver and edged in a grey dark as smoke. Let them think I left for frivolity. A change of clothing to soothe my vanity. Her eyes slid across the hall. The feast had well and truly reached its peak, the noise so loud that it almost shook the rafters.

“You should never have left so abruptly,” the king told her, as Alicent seated herself with easy grace. She could see Viserys’s pockmarked face, frowning at her out of the corner of her eye, but took no notice. “Aemond’s been pestering my daughter. See to him, before he causes any more trouble.” He glanced meaningfully down at his ruined tunic. 

Sure enough, she found Aemond perched on the arm of his half-sister’s chair. The boy was talking her ear off, something to do with dragons. “Is it true that Syrax is fat?” The little prince asked and Alicent winced.

His half-sister replied in a flat voice, “Perhaps it seems that way because she’s no longer a juvenile.” Rhaenyra fiddled with her golden rings, as Laenor handed Jacaerys to a nurse. The babe wailed as he was carried out of the hall.

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone knows that Aegon’s dragon is prettier,” Aemond declared, with that strange confidence that was unique to toddlers alone. “He even looks like the sun. That’s why he’s called—”

“Sunfyre,” Rhaenyra interrupted, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I never would have guessed.” The golden coronet sitting atop the princess’s braid flashed in the light filtering through the stained glass windows.

Rhaenyra had dressed in her usual opulent fashion. Her gown was one of darkest red, like freshly spilt blood, slashed with rich purple damask at the skirts. A heavy chain of gold, to match her coronet, sat along her bodice, wrought in the shape of falcons. 

Beside her, Ser Laenor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The heir to Driftmark looked handsome in a mauve doublet, with the seahorse of House Velaryon picked out on his yellow half-cape in hundreds of tiny winking diamonds.

Aemond had finally noticed his mother, running to her with a squeal of joy. “Alicent,” the princess murmured, as Aemond buried his chubby face in her skirts, “I understand that you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence. I do wonder at your hasty departure, though. Was it Aegon?”

Alicent’s mind had gone blank, her limbs leaden with sudden fatigue. “What?”

“Were you seeing to another one of my half-brother’s mischiefs, Your Grace?” Rhaenyra took a sip from her glass. The princess's cheeks were flushed pink, her lips stained with Arbor Red. “That boy can’t keep his hands to himself.”

Alicent felt her hackles rising. The princess was freshly twenty-one and Aegon six, and yet she hated her half-brother with a passion that took the queen’s breath away. “Rest assured, Rhaenyra, Aegon is in his rooms, watched over by Ser Criston.”

Rhaenyra is a fool, Alicent reminded herself. Should she wish, Alicent could ruin her with a single sentence, but Ser Criston’s life stayed her hand. The Marcherman had proved himself a faithful knight. She would not use his past mistakes against him. Princess Rhaenyra had thrown herself onto the Kingsguard, stolen his honour and played him for a fool. In doing so, she’d earned herself a dangerous enemy in his person. The queen thought of brown-haired sworn swords and uncanny resemblances. He was not the princess’s only enemy, of late.

“They’re bringing the cake!” Aemond’s high-pitched voice broke Alicent out of her reverie.

Sure enough, servants swarmed their table, carrying honeycombs and sugar spun into the shape of slender towers, cream cakes and fruit tarts, a giant towering jellies and date scones, along with all the fruits of summer. Viserys slurped as he ate a melon, bits of its pale flesh stuck between his yellowing teeth. Juice ran down his chin, as he reached for another.

“Only one cake,” Alicent warned Aemond. She would not have her son sickening himself before his nap. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you share some more with Aegon upon the morrow.” 

Her son's response was not the one she’d anticipated. “Aegon’s always sad.”

Alicent sighed, beginning to usher Aemond back across to their seats when she heard Rhaenyra’s voice, loud and distinct amidst the tumult of the feast.

“As well he should be,” the princess's voice slurred. “He should be flogged. That’ll teach him to keep his hands to himself. Who was he to touch my mother's belongings?”

Alicent froze, breathed in, and felt her chest expand with it. She glanced at her husband but he was pretending deafness, eyes focused on his lemon cake. So it would be up to her to defend their child. Again. 

“Prince Aegon is being punished as we speak, princess. Surely you’ll not hold a grudge against him forever?”

It had happened three days past. Viserys had bid his eldest son sit, as the king worked on his miniature of Old Valyria. The child had soon grown bored, and the king had been concentrating intensely upon his craft, or so Eddard the stonemason had told her.

Whatever had happened, Viserys had paused when he heard the sound of crashing glass. Prince Aegon, curious as all children of six were, had accidentally broken a Myrish lens. Glass from Myr was worth its weight in spice, and this glass had been a gift to Queen Aemma from the Free Cities, upon her coronation, and a keepsake of her husbands upon her death.

By the time Alicent had arrived, Viserys’s face had been puce with anger, and Aegon bore a red mark on his cheek where he'd been slapped. Their son's fingers had been bleeding from the broken glass, but the king hadn't noticed, so full of rage was he. Aemma Arryn, Alicent realised with sadness, would be appalled.

“‘Punished’?” Rhaenyra's brows furrowed. “He’s been locked in the nursery. That’s hardly sufficient.”

Alicent could hear the courtiers whispering, likely remarking on yet another incident of familial disharmony within the royal House. “Aegon has already apologised for his mistake, step-daughter. You can always purchase another Myrish lens. Such things are replaceable.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“You would know all about replacements, since you are one,” Rhaenyra sneered. The princess had been wroth for a long time now, ever since her uncle had eloped with Lady Laena. “I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve my half-brother. That boy gives us only grief.”

And you’ve given your husband horns, Alicent thought but did not say. 

“You would do better to engage in self-contemplation, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, loudly enough for half the hall to hear. “Your son’s features are rather unique, for a Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to reply, features contorting with fury, but her father spoke first.

“Alicent, enough,” Viserys hissed. “Do not make a spectacle of yourself, woman.”

Worry not, husband, your daughter makes enough of a spectacle for us both.

She would’ve said it too, but little Aemond was looking at her, eyes wide with confusion, so Alicent swallowed her reply, ignoring Rhaenyra’s mocking smile and Viserys expression of quiet relief.

Some Targaryen’s, Alicent had come to find, were cowards.

The throne room was uncomfortably crowded. Viserys had shown himself for once, having gathered the strength to leave his sickbed and sit his iron chair. Rhaenyra stood to his right, conversing with him in hushed tones. Alicent had dressed lavishly for their guests, in a gown of dark green satin, its sleeves and bodice slashed with pure cloth-of-silver, that shimmered in the light. She sat on a throne of gilded wood, watching the milling courtiers below.

The queen had been pleasantly surprised when Viserys had told her of the invitation he’d extended to her kin. It’d been nearly a half a decade since Alicent had had cause to meet with her uncle, Lord Hobert. The Lord of Oldtown had brought his son with him. The last time she’d seen Ormund, he’d been a gangly boy of fifteen. He’d used to humour Alicent and her brother’s, back when they were still children residing in the Hightower, playing come-into-my-castle with them, and other games besides.

Now Ormund was a man-grown, with a wife and children of his own and there was a gulf between them, wrought open by separation and the passing of years. He and his father bent the knee to them, eyes on the floor.

“Your Grace’s, Princess,” Hobert said, “it is a pleasure to visit with you. We were flattered by your invitation, my king. To what do we owe the honour?”

A dreadful prescience nagged at Alicent, one she did her best to ignore. She’d asked her husband the very same question, and he’d dismissed her, murmuring something about the importance of reaffirming bonds between family. Raven’s sent to her father in Oldtown had been equally ineffective. Ser Otto Hightower had served two kings —and perhaps a third in the future, if all went well—and his time at court had taught him well the importance of silence. He had not been forthcoming about his plans, simply commanding her to fulfil her duties as she always had. Yet Alicent sensed that it was Otto who’d driven Viserys to his chosen course. Why else would the king have invited the Hightowers to the Red Keep?

“Lord Hobert, you and yours have ever been leal to the Crown,” her husband intoned, “since the Conqueror’s day. Was it not the Hightowers of Oldtown who were the first to acknowledge our ancestor’s right to rule? Such good service deserves a reward.”

The queen frowned. Lord Hobert and her cousin were still kneeling — they’d not been summoned all this way for a history lesson. As the king’s illness had progressed, his mind had begun to wander. Alicent was seized with the sudden fear that Viserys wasn’t quite lucid. She stared at him intently. Her husband wore his robes of state, blackest silk shot through with gold; the crown of the Old King girded his brow, its seven gemstones gleaming. For all her worries, though, Viserys’s eyes were sharp. Alicent breathed a sigh of relief…then felt her breath stop as the king continued.

“As such, we have decided to bestow upon you the fosterage of our youngest son, Prince Daeron. He shall leave the Red Keep with your party within the fortnight.”

Alicent gaped. She’d not been told of this. No one had mentioned Daeron being fostered. She thought of her little boy, six years old and cheerful. To be sent away from all he knew at such a tender age—it was too much, even for the likes of Viserys.

“Husband.” Alicent’s voice was edged with barely restrained panic. “Surely such a thing could wait a year, at least until our son mounts Tessarion.”

Her father’s secrecy now made a terrible sense. He hadn’t wanted Alicent to know about his intentions for his youngest grandson, even as he set his plans into motion. Otto Hightower may have been in Oldtown, but his influence over the king’s councilmen remained. For all that Viserys had banished him, he could not strip away the alliances his erstwhile Hand had formed at court.

She could see it in her mind’s eye. The letters the king's advisors must have received, the way they’d slowly convinced the king of the merits of Otto’s suggestion, subtly, with no mention of her father, and entirely out of Alicent’s sight. Of late, she’d been absent from meetings of the small council. Her Aemond had caught a fever, and whilst Alicent had been tending to him, the lords had no doubt plotted and planned and played her false.

And now they come for Daeron.

The king eyed his wife, considering Alicent’s suggestion, and she felt the beginnings of hope. All she wanted was a year. One year more for Alicent to hold her youngest son close, her baby, her well-behaved boy, who didn’t flinch away from her touch in fear, or look at her with eyes that were far away. Him and Aemond — they were her soul’s joy.

But then Rhaenyra spoke, her voice high and clear in the quiet of the room: “Her Grace is a mother - her heart cannot bear the thought of losing a child, even to kin. But you are the king, Father, and know your duty even when it is hard. I say to send the boy away. We cannot wait until he mounts Tessarion. How long might that take?”

The princess was smiling, smiling, smiling as she said this, lips turned up with triumph. Any chance to spite the queen, any chance to exercise some cruelty. His name is Daeron, she thought wildly, not ‘the boy’. Alicent felt the urge, deep in the marrow of her bones, to take Rhaenyra by the scalp, thrust her into the swords that made up the Iron Throne and watch as her face was cut to bloody ribbons.

Not so pretty then.

But Viserys was already nodding, even before the princess had finished her sentence. Her husband turned back to Lord Hobert, and Alicent bit her tongue as they began to discuss the necessary preparations. She would not be able to sway him now. Alicent’s eyes met Ormund’s.

He looked away.

Alicent felt somebody shaking her and could hear shouting: “My Queen, awake, awake! Something has happened to Prince Aemond.”

Alicent shifted under the weight of the bedclothes, understanding coming to her slowly through the groggy fog of disturbed sleep. Aemond: she bolted up, all at once, fumbling around as she disentangled herself from the furs. A brazier had been lit, and it cast lurid shadows all across her guest chambers, as Talya and her ladies dressed her. From there, it was a short walk to the main hall, Talya five paces behind.

Alicent’s heart was in her throat as she entered High Tide’s hall - she could hear its loud beating. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, it went. She could see her husband, atop the Driftmark Throne, face in his hands and Rhaenyra’s bastards, bloody and wounded. The Kingsguard, all seven members, stood around them. Ser Criston’s knuckles were white against his sword’s pommel. Lord Corlys and his wife stood beside him, clutching their sobbing granddaughters, silent and grim. The princess was nowhere in sight. 

Aegon and Helaena stood in front of the hearth, tears running down their cheeks. The queen wiped her clammy palms against her skirts and went to her children, soothing Helaena with gentle touches. For once, the girl allowed it. 

Aegon slipped his hand into hers. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. Her eldest son was shaking, his purple eyes wide. Distantly, she heard the roaring of a dragon.

“Where is my son?”

The denizens of the torchlit hall murmured lowly to each other, but none would answer their queen. Alicent saw her father, standing at the very back and caught his eye. When Otto looked back, his gaze was full of grief.

Bile rose in her throat. “Where is Aemond?” Alicent asked, louder now, her skin pebbling with gooseflesh despite the heat of the room.

“Ser Criston, show her,” the king commanded. He still held his face in his hands.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. The knight approached Alicent as if she were some mad beast. “My queen,” he said, and his voice was impossibly gentle, “calm yourself as best you can.”

“I want to see my Aemond.”

Something has happened. Alicent knew it from her father’s look, from Viserys’s hunched figure, from Ser Criston’s gentle tone. The knight gripped Alicent’s hand in his own and guided her to the back of the hall, where a padded bench lay. Someone lay slumped atop it, a white sheet over their head, someone with a child’s figure.

Alicent stared at that white sheet for a full minute. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM. The queen’s blood was ice in her veins as she reached for it, pulled it back and saw—

A knife. Through Aemond’s eye. Its serrated edge shone dully, wet with his life’s blood. The world spun and blurred and then reshaped itself.

“Take out the knife,” Alicent whispered. “Take out the knife! Don’t leave him like that.”

Ser Criston reached over. The blade squelched as it was pulled out of the socket, and all Alicent could see was Aemond's expression, a rictus of pain. Alicent was certain that her son had died like that, alone and screaming.

Alone.

She fell to her knees, tears running down her face. She could taste them on her lips, fresh and salty. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

“Wake up,” she said to her son’s cooling corpse. Alicent shouted at the top of her lungs, the hall echoing with the force of her shrieks. “Wake up! Wake up! You have to live, you’re only ten, you have to live and grow and take up the sword—you’ve always loved it, my special boy. Don’t you want to be a knight? You must marry and have children. You’re a prince, don’t you see, Aemond?  Stop this at once, rouse yourself, you must needs live!”

She could hear whispering behind her, a voice saying, “She’s lost her wits,” and another murmuring about bastards and kinslaying and yet another, shushing them both. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Aemond didn’t heed her. The boy stared with sightless eyes at the ceiling, as if he weren’t ignoring his mother, as if he weren’t being disobedient to the one who’d birthed him in a bed of blood. Alicent came closer, still sobbing, and cradled his head in her arms, holding him close, her tears falling onto his face. She kissed her child’s head and felt the hard curvature of his skull against her lips. Blood was running down Aemond’s cheek from his bloody eye, pooling onto the bench below him, coating Alicent’s fingers.

My babe, my boy, why does he not look at me? The blood staining Alicent’s hands twisted itself into the shape of a grave, split into strange writhing creatures, slithered up her arms and face, blinding her until her vision was filled with red. BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

The queen heard the sound of a door swinging open over her heartbeat, and Rhaenyra’s tinkling laughter reached her ears. She turned to look. The princess had arrived with her uncle, both of them dishevelled and talking loudly. It took her but a moment to realise what had happened. She saw her bastards. Her smile died.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

And then: “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them. The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question.” Viserys’s desperate face. “My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons.”

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Alicent glimpsed the bloody knife on the floor, the one that’d killed her son. She stood and slid it up her sleeve. Her world was red. The princess was still kneeling in front of her bastards, back turned. Alicent walked forward. The princess stood and turned towards her, but not quickly enough. Alicent stabbed the knife through her arm, felt it cut through gristle, felt it scrape against bone.

BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM, BOOM-DOOM.

Rhaenyra's blood splattered across the stone floor. That was sweet, but her screams were sweeter.

Lyman Beesbury’s body was still lying in the chamber of the small council, when the queen returned there at dawn to meet with Ser Criston. She’d dispatched him to Dragonstone with half a hundred men-at-arms, the night of the king’s death. Alicent had smelt Viserys rotting through the wooden door and acted accordingly.

Her sworn sword stood before her now, a bloody sack in his hand. “Did you find them all?” Alicent asked him, almost trembling with anticipation.

“Most of them, my queen.” The knight hesitated, his expression nervous. “For all we took them unawares, Prince Daemon managed to escape with his sons.” Ser Criston’s hands were crusted with viscera: acting as the queen’s headsman was a bloody job.

“Princess Rhaenys? The girls?”

“I had to kill the princess. She wouldn’t stop fighting, you see.” His expression was almost distressed. “But the girls have been taken captive.”

Ser Criston upended his sack. Five heads rolled out, bouncing onto the floor and stinking of decay. For Aemond. Alicent gloried in the sight.

"Good," Alicent looked into Criston's beautiful eyes and cupped his cheek. The knight leaned into her touch. "You've done well, Criston."

Much later, after all was said and done, the Lord Confessor found the Dowager Queen alone in her chambers. She held two skulls on her lap, one of them large, the other small. Larys stood shadowed in the entrance, out of sight and listening.

“Your grandsire lies dead, little bastard, no more to bolster your crimes. Here’s his crown. Go on, have a look.” The queen hefted the small skull in front of her face. Its empty sockets had a clear view of the jewelled crown girding her brow. “And you, the beloved daughter, how did you die? In bed, at play, or dining, with the laughter of your loathsome get ringing in your ears? It matters not. I ask you, what is Viserys's favour worth now? No doubt your soul burns in some fiery pit, under heavenly purview.” With sudden violence, Alicent threw the skull down. It cracked. “Aemond, be well content. You are avenged, as has ever been mine intent.” 

[thetasteofbeautyandlove]

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, he’s gonna be so fucking mad at me… he told me not to do something dumb and I do THIS..?! Fuck, there’s so much blood… god I can’t breathe… this is so bad… this is so fucking bad…

[ivoryghostyy]

── .✦ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ɪʟɪᴀꜱ ᝰ.ᐟ

⌗ㆍTHE ENEMY PRINCEノ, ⌗ㆍHISTORICAL AUノ, ⌗ㆍRUTHLESS TYRANTノ

「 i actually started working on this one for a while now, but i had to put it on hold for a bit. idk if anyone noticed, but i actually posted this on accident at some point—i panicked, man,,,, 」

「 tw: mentions of war, death, blood, etc., minor character death, implications of using sedtives, angst, hurt/comfort (?), using people as pawns, the typical power dynamics in a historical setting, breakdowns, panic attacks, lots of crying, this one made me kinda sad tbh, etc... 」

“commander–!!” your name is a jumble on their tongue, rolling off in a mess of intelligible words.

crimson stains the rough terrain, flooding your nose with the metallic scent of blood. swords tear into flesh, leaving bodies in a mangled heap on the ground. are they faces you recognize? you don't stop to think about it.

you hear nothing but the agonizing sound of war; smell nothing but the pungent scent of blood; and see nothing but an infuriated shade of red.

do the cries of your friends still haunt you?

───────────────────────────────────────────

you sit up with a gasp, greeted with a familiar burning in your chest. worse than a stab to the heart, the ache tears into the very core of your being. a splutter of coughs slip from your throat, but they do nothing to ease the pain.

the thin curtains rustle with the night breeze, illuminated by the moon. your exhausted eyes drift out the window—anything to distract you from the torment that plagues your life. every waking moment is a torturous echo of your failures, of the lives you carry over your shoulders.

like a parasite, it crawls up your spine and nestles into your mind. it's an incessant reminder of the blood that stains your hands.

a tear rolls down your cheek, and you can almost taste the salt on your tongue. you curl up, making yourself smaller. these are the only times you allow yourself comfort. having lived in a battlefield, you'd grown used to constantly keeping your guard up. an enemy could be lurking anywhere, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

they would laugh when they slit your throat, dangling you by they hair before claiming your head. would the kingdom mourn if they saw such a gruesome sight? will they grieve the loss of a hero, or will they lament the failure of another tool?

the thought sends you an entirely different pain, something you believe will never truly cease, even if you rip your heart out of your own chest.

a tool. isn't that right? a weapon to wield against the threats that oppose your kingdom—your home. bitterness seeps into the pores of your sweaty skin, leaving you trembling as you heave another sob.

───────────────────────────────────────────

“your majesty!” calls an urgent voice.

the panic is answered with an arrogant tone, one that speaks with long years of luxury. the posh, aged voice grumbles within the throne room as the king places down his golden chalice.

“can't you see i'm busy? this best be important.”

───────────────────────────────────────────

the war is over, yet it feels as if you've never left the battlefield. it's a memory you can never forget, a burden you must shoulder for the rest of your life. it's ingrained into your bones, carved into the deepest parts of your mind.

you've won the battle, but nothing will make up for what you've lost.

hundreds were slain, and many were left injured beyond recovery. most were buried in hastily arranged graves, but the others were much less fortunate—with their bodies missing from their own coffins.

some were forgotten altogether. a memory that died alongside their final breath.

to the nobles, they were simply pawns for a sick game of chess. but to the people, they were family. they were parents, siblings, sons, and daughters. to you, they were friends; comrades. a found family that you grew to love, to trust, to cherish. you gambled your lives together, if only to make it back alive.

but now, you're the only one left.

───────────────────────────────────────────

“c-commander,” he calls to you, choking out his final words. blood dribbles down his chin, teeth stained with red as he grins.

“no, no, don't even think about it! we'll make it out of this, please, just hold on for a little longer, –!”

what was his name again? it feels like such a long time ago… the faces are blurry, but their voices are clear. you hear the agonized cries of the other soldiers in the frontlines, fighting for their lives.

“li.. sten, ya brat,” he chuckles, and you can feel the red staining your hands, pooling over the ground. you remember who he is to you, like a brother that you never had. much older, and yet he was merely your second-in-command. he always did teased you about it, didn't he?

“yer still young," he rasps out. his voice is rougher from all the blood pooling out his mouth, seeping into the barren soil.

"yer old man's- ugh, lived a good life. heh, lasted longer than.. i thought," he coughs, eyes drooping. he's losing his breath now, holding on to the final moments of his flickering life.

“don't blame yerself, kid. hah... don't regret... nothin'...”

he gasps, voice fading to a whisper. he's gripping your hand one last time before he falls limp, closing his eyes.

"it's not your fault."

───────────────────────────────────────────

the wind cries with you, bellowing within the dim room. the tears drip down your chin, shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and yet you force yourself to keep it down—to bury the pain deep in your heart, to close it off from the world, never to be heard again.

you bite your lip, muffling your whimpers as another presence makes itself known. the moon does little to illuminate the dark, shrouding the intruder in a veil of shadows. trembling hands reach above the bed frame, gripping the familiar handle of your dagger.

a tense silence chills the room; you're only graced with the sound of howling wind and the faint light brought by the night sky.

for a moment, you begin to think it was your senses playing tricks on you. had the nightmares gotten so bad that you've lost your mind?

but a moment was all he needed.

the dagger flies out of your hand, sliding across the floor as you wrestle with the intruder. the mattress sinks from your combined weight as he pins your wrists above you, holding you down with a monstrous strength. something pokes your skin, sinking into your skin before you can react.

all the sleepless nights have done a number on you, highlighted by the dark circles under your eyes. you had overworked yourself, spending your days like a mindless drone. you're haunted by the memories of your slain comrades, living like an empty shell of a person.

is this it? after struggling for years in a war, you ultimately die by the hands of an assassin.

pathetic.

a tear rolls down your cheek, and then another. you've resigned yourself to your fate, but that doesn't mean you've no regrets. guilt and despair cling to you like a vice, like chains that weigh you down every single day. losing your found family is one thing, but knowing you could have stopped it is another.

you barely even noticed the shift in your position, pulled into a soft chest, and held like a prized treasure.

“shh. i'm not going to kill you, precious.”

he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. a large hand pulls you closer, tightening his hold on your frantic form. “you're alright now, always safe with me. shh, shhh, don't cry,” he wipes your tears, trailing his hand down your neck.

“come on. breathe with me, yeah? in and out, just like that,” he pulls back, cupping your face as the drowsiness begins to cradle you, lulling your mind into a reluctant slumber.

“that’s right, don't fight it.”

the voice urges you, stroking your head. your eyes grow heavier by the second, and all the fight leaves your body as you slump against him.

“good,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck.

the last thing you see is a pair of intense, golden eyes before your vision goes black.

“sweet dreams, my rose.”

───────────────────────────────────────────

the man, who seems to be an aide, clears his throat. but it does little to hide the way his voice trembles as he speaks.

“t-the hero, your majesty. they're gone!”

[moochalove]

Last Nights Mistakes and New Beginnings (Pt. 2)

(yandere!kazuha x pregnant!reader x scaramouche)

Another part finished!!! This kinda scratches my brain but i need more…. so expect a part 3….

i got into some darker themes and I intend to keep them around so please be warned.

word count: idk but it’s pretty long 🗣️

not proofread 😋

TW: panic attacks, yandere themes, implied noncon but nothing detailed

Rolling over to stretch you notice the sun seeping through your curtains. Ah, that’s right, he’s still here. Well you suppose it wouldn’t hurt to drop him off wherever he needed to be, then come back and sleep some more. With one last stretch you stumble out of bed, heading to the living room you notice Scara curled up with the blankets surrounding him. He even sleeps weirdly….. You stop and think for a moment, should you wake him up? Or should you just let him sleep longer…

“It’s not nice to stare, Y/n.”

Cutoff from your thoughts you take a few steps back, eyes settling back down onto his now awake figure. “S-sorry, I was just trying to figure out whether to wake you or not- I…” Rubbing his eyes he throws the blankets off of himself. “Yeah yeah, save it.”

And you thought you were cranky when woken up early, huh.

“I’ll give you some time to get ready.” Turning on your heel you walk back to your personal bathroom wanting to wash up quickly, “By the way, hope you slept well.” You weren’t sure why you were inclined to say that. Shrugging it off you leave him to gather his stuff. Scara, on the other hand was taken aback by the comment. Was he a flustered? Maybe. Surprised? Definitely. Was he gonna reciprocate the act somehow? Hell no, it’s not like he owes you anything! Nope, nothing at all! Huffing he folds up the blanket before placing it back in the basket.

While reaching down he notices a funny looking book, “How to prepare for motherhood!” Did your sister leave it here? He was curious to ask you more questions but it definitely wasn’t his place. Shrugging he ignores it and tosses the somewhat neatly folded blanket onto the book.

Coming out of the bathroom your face was freshly clean, teeth: brushed, hair: combed, contacts in if needed. You were dressed casually, but still wearing a baggy shirt so no one would notice your baby bump. Grabbing your keys you jangle them around before teasing, “let’s go drop the baby off~!” “Ugh, as if!” his face is slightly red and churned. He combs his hand through his hair- you are reminded of a certain someone by this singular action.

Staring at him your mind floods back positively bad feelings. The way he treated you oh so gently, like a porcelain doll that would crack under too much pressure. And the way he pleased you like a lover should. As if he’d been a starving man and you, his first meal- but it seems you were just a side dish- an appetizer before the real meal he could ravish any other day.

Scaramouche stared back at you a little distraught, “Oh my g- What is it now? You look like a deer in headlights.” He’s already poking your face and shaking you slightly.

Your mind is retelling you the events of that night at a pace you can’t even comprehend. The tight feeling in the head that hurts so much yet feels hollow and empty is telling you something’s wrong but you haven’t been caught up to speed yet-

“Hey, this isn’t funny! What’s wrong?” he sounds genuinely concerned.

Once your mind starts running at a pace you can’t imagine, it starts linking certain events of your life together like it’s some tragic movie. A horrible one at that.

Scara is shaking you now he’s practically begging you to snap out of it. Oh, how you would laugh at the way he’s begging, the way he’s actually concerned. You wouldn’t think someone like him had it in him.

By the time you regain consciousness you’re lying on the couch with an ice pack on your head with a straw attached to a bottle of water. Trying to move and get up at the sudden reminder that you were supposed to drop Scara off you shoot up only for your head to pound in return, “Ow… what the f-“ this action causes you to lay back down.

Scara is practically inches away from you, eyes wide with relief and a small smile plastered on his dumb looking face. “You’re awake! I was sooooo- um..” he quickly backs off with a sigh, “I was just getting tired of being here, was just about to call someone to come pick me up. But it seems sleeping beauty has finally woken up!”

“What the hell happened?” you reach to hold your head, slowly recounting the events that led up to a blank space in your mind. Your face scrunches up, realizing you had a panic attack in front of Scaramouche…. You contemplated on telling him the truth of making up some random bullshit. Both of you look like you’re about to say something, “So-“ “I’m-“, with a small chuckle of you both wait to see who will speak first.

“I just wanted to say that i’m.. I’m sorry for whatever that was earlier. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps I didn’t get enough sleep.” Your words trail off and your ears start to feel a little warm. “It’s okay, Y/n, I-I was worried about you, you know?” Scaramouche trailed his last words, looking off at some painting you have hanging up on your wall, “Anyways… I’m not too sure what happened with you but it’s none of my business so don’t try n explain yourself because I really don’t care ,” you could only feel a little guilty and embarrassed but you nodded along, “Let’s go grab some dinner.” Huh? Why did he wanna get dinner? Perhaps he felt bad about what he said? Oh well, it’s free food! Surely you would need to replenish all your engere after this whole ordeal. Plus, you needed to stay healthy so the growing life within you can stay alive and healthy.

You’re hit with a sudden realization that you’re not wearing an oversized shirt or sweater of some sort. Had he removed it in attempt to see if there was something physically wrong? Like a wound of some sort? Okay- maybe if you get up slow enough he surely won’t notice? right? RIGHT? Just act natural- slow and steady does it! Or do you just look awkward slowly rising? Hit with a sudden way of embarrassment you shoot up before turning to run to your room to change, “O-oh no…. I forgot my phone… in my room… haha… i’ll be back….!” slamming the door behind you you’re sliding the oversized hoodie on and grabbing your phone then putting some casual slip-ons. When you walk out you notice the previous hoodie folded up to where you were laid.

“O-okay! let’s go!” He can tell you’re still frazzled just by the way you’re so inconsistent with your actions and moods. Maybe it was just “that time of the month” for you. Scara knows how scary women can become during that time. It’s best if he just ignores it and goes along like nothings wrong, lest you end up berating him like his sister did that one time.

The car ride was silent, only asking where he wanted to eat and some small talk.

When your food comes out, piping hot and steaming, you’re fighting the urge to cool it the best you can before shoving it in your mouth, very well knowing that choice would result in a burnt tongue, and the roof of your mouth scorched. Scaramouche on the other hand- he’s taking his time cutting the food up into nice bite-sized pieces, although you see he’s also fighting the urge to scarf down uncut meat that’s laid on his plate. You both hadn’t eaten all day after all so of course you’re making an excessive amount of noise with exaggerated huffs and puffs, blowing your food cold. The way you’re both chugging your drinks down. I’m sure you would both regret ordering the amount of drinks you did when the bill is shown.

Both of you stare at each other while the bill sits in the middle of the pile of plates that would soon be taken away.

“Well, I take this is your treat? Of course for making me stay longer than I wanted to-“ before he can finish you’re cutting him off with a overdramatic voice, “Oh thank you! I’m so relieved knowing that you are paying tonight!” He can only scoff, he’s using an unopened straw and pushing towards you. Your face churns as you can practically feel your hairs popping out but you still put on a cocky smile, “I’m sure you’re well aware of what you just did? Whoever comes in contact with the bill must pay-“ “IT WASNT DIRECT CONTACT!” With another overdramatized action you’re pulling out your wallet with a slight ‘sigh’. All the while Scara is watching joyfully.

On the way back to the car you get a phone call.

Maybe it was a work related issue? Not wanting to risk it being an important call you answered it.

What happened next you could’ve never anticipated would happen.

All you really remember was that the call consisted of Kazuha, who was clearly drunk, and busying himself with a woman as you could hear giggles, moans and whimpers coming from himself and the other participant. He claimed you left with Scaramouche and he was still with you. Claiming how he must’ve left with you, since he went missing after you both got kicked out, and how he never came back to their shared apartment. The way he kept reiterating that he “wasn’t upset, just disappointed” I mean, he wasn’t wrong- you did leave with him but it’s not like you guys did anything? It scared you a bit how controlling he was trying to be even though you weren’t even in a relationship with him. The last thing he said before he hung up was that he would be over soon and that he didn’t want to hear any excuses. It scared you even more how he kept his calm and collected demeanor up. If it weren’t for the context you’re sure you’d be excited to see him.

Scaramouche is already waiting in the car, growing impatient by the second. Once you sit down your mind starts to slowly pick up the pace. What do you do? He said he would be there soon? How soon? Was he just planning to talk it out? Was he worried about his friend? Should you be honest? What if- A hand placed on your shoulder snaps you from thoughts. “Knock it off. You’re doing that thing again.” Hah, it was obvious that you were freaking out. Taking a deep breath you start to explain the situation. By the time you get halfway through explaining Scara is urging you to drop him off at his house and for you to get home and lock up, or go to a friends house.

The car ride was… something to say the least…. Speeding when nobody was around then acting like normal law-abiding citizens the next second.

Tires screech loudly from when you slammed on the brakes. Scara practically went flying and hit the window. He’s unbuckling the once neglected seatbelt, before he you exchange numbers in case anything happens, like if he needs to contact the authorities if you can’t. Stumbling to the backyard to sneak in. You, on the other hand, you’re speeding back home on the back roads. You had planned on parking inside the garage and locking up. From what Scara had told you, every now and then Kazuha will get absolutely wasted and make the worst decisions possible.

Also mentioning that ever since his friend’s death he’s been a lot more controlling of certain people. Like apparently one time he was so invested in the woman he was practically bat-shit-crazy over her, tracking her every move, monitoring who she spoke with, what she wore, and even some of her actions. Once she had enough and wanted a break from him he let her go, surprisingly he let her go, but soon after she was allegedly admitted to a mental hospital. Surely these are just rumors, right? There’s no way that someone like sweet and caring Kazuha would actually be like this? Right?

Once you’re parked you’re heading inside and locking everything up. One thing you should’ve did was let a friend know of the situation but it totally slipped your mind.

You decide to wait it out in your room. Laying on your back and gently rubbing your stomach, “It’s okay. Mommy is gonna be okay. So please, don’t worry..” Your skin is stretching every day, it’s an uncomfortable process but a needed change. It’s not like anyone was gonna see your body again after this. Nope, the one time you drop the “strong independent young woman destined to be the next ceo act” you end up pregnant, and the father also happens to be a sleazy alcoholic who was also crazy.

You could feel the sorrow in your heart. Eventually, you would have to tell your child that he shouldn’t be the kind of man his father was. Well, that can be something you worry about in the far distant future, for now you just gotta keep him alive and well.

There’s a gentle knock at the door.

You just have to wait it out.

It turns louder, more impatient.

It’s now a loud pounding. You can hear your name being called gently despite the knock being the opposite.

•

•

•

It stopped. Maybe he’s finally regained his composure and is willing to give up. Huh? Is the door know rattling? Really? Is he really trying to do what you think he’s doing? Crap. You don’t have enough time to hide.

Once the door swings open you’re locking your bedroom door and reach for your phone. Hell. you need help. Oh god. He’s already at the door, rattling the door handle and banging on the door. You’ve barely opened the keypad. You’re frantically tapping the screen.

Once the call goes through you feel as if you’ve been saved! Surely they’ll come help!

A hand is placed over your mouth firmly, “Ah, i’m so sorry, it seems my girlfriend’s sister dialed this number! Yes. I assure you everything is alright! No, no need to send someone over. I understand, we’ll give her a thorough talking. Thank you.”

Once you hear the call end your blood runs cold. You want to scream and make a break for the door but you’re not sure if you can make it.

Kazuha lets out a huff before combing through his hair, “I wish you would just talk to me, Y/n. I wish you would just listen.” He tosses the phone off into some corner before he’s pushing you down on the mattress.

You try protesting to his attempts to undress you, yelling at him saying he’s drunk and that he’s being delusional. It seems to go through one ear out the other, he’s not listening. But his calm and lover-like demeanor is present all the while. He’s kissing you gently and whispering sweet nothings in your ear, he’s feeling up and down your body, squeezing whatever his hands can grab. You hate how he’s acting like he didn’t do anything wrong. You want to scream and disappear from the face of the earth, hoping to never see his face again.

Kissing your neck seems to draw you from your thoughts, “My sweet little princess, be honest with me. What did you do with him?” you gulp nervously (or is it from fear?) you reply, “After we got kicked out, I dropped him off at his moms place. I swear baby- we didn’t do anything. It’s not him I love, it’s you!” oh how you wished to rip your tongue out and scrub it clean. With a ‘tsk’ Kazuha is starting to fiddle with his pants, “I already told you to not make excuses. Please, sweetheart, just tell me what you did and i’ll forgive you.” Covering your face, hiding your eyes, threatening to spill unwanted tears you try refuting but he seems to stuck on the idea you “cheated” even though you did nothing wrong.

The rest of the night is another blurry one, but not from the alcohol, from unwanted memories. From that day on you tell yourself you’re gonna take a break from work and fly home to spend the rest of your pregnancy with your family. Sure it seemed irresponsible and you didn’t exactly have the funds for it but you’re sure once you tell your parents your situation they’ll understand and lend a helping hand.

•

•

•

Scaramouche on the other hand, he’s sitting in his younger self’s bedroom, everything is outdated to his likings now but some things remain to what he still enjoys. A cracked phone lays before him, wondering if he should call to see if you’re alright, perhaps the situation has changed? Biting the skin of his inner cheek he decided against it, ultimately deciding to call in a few days.

Fiddling with the cheap metal rings on his fingers his mind keeps wandering back to the idea of you. Had you really caught his interest? You? Of all people? Pfft, as if some lowly scum such as yourself could dare to invade his mind! Yet, here you are. The way you laugh, your smile, your everything. It truly captivated him.

He thinks back to how you both practically agreed to take care of your new baby, Meowmeow. Hopefully you would be able to feed her tonight. He needs to consult his mother about his new cat so he can get all the finical support he needs. Although he’s sure she’ll just flash him a dumb smile saying, “Oh, such a silly thing to want to invest in. Well, it’s not like you ask for much so i’ll be a good mom and help my son!” or at least something along those lines.

His mind also plagued him with not so happy thoughts, like the idea of you truly disliking him and pushing him away. Maybe revoking his rights to care for your stray animal and shutting him out forever. No use in worrying about it now, it’d be best to do something else for now. Even when his mind would slip in images of you here and there. Oh well, it’s not like he didn’t mind.

[theartsynebulawhodoodles]

my personal interpretation of how killer would act if wounded is hard to describe but I’ll try my hardest.

i feel like killer would be like an injured wild and or feral animal. despite needing help, he will attack anyone who comes close (if in stage 3)

he wouldn’t speak of the wound, and would try to hide it. he would hide it as best as he can because of the idea that nightmare would smell his weakness and return to kidnap him again. he can’t risk letting that happen again.

he would feel the pain, but it will feel muffled compared to the threat he faces.

he might hide away and have a silent panic attack as well.

[rico189sspamtonhell]

Sibling Bonding

Got inspired by an rp @dunderhead99 and I were doing! Very angsty, very demure.

Circe belongs to me

Bailey belongs to @dunderhead99

Lenny belongs to Mr.Warburton

The air was crisp out as Lenny led Bailey to the edge of the manor where the forest met their property lines. He didn’t enjoy coming here as it brought up bad memories of that awful wolf attack, but this small section was the only section without cameras or microphones for their family to spy on them with. The topic he wanted to discuss with his older sister was…a delicate one to say the least. One he didn’t want getting back to the rest of their siblings lest they tell Father.

Father could never know about this discussion. If he did…it would be Lenny’s head served on a platter rather than wagyu steak tonight.

“Uh, Lenny, why are we all the way out here? You know how Papa feels about us being near the woods. Especially after what happened last time.” Bailey eyed the forest warily. It felt like at any moment that awful wolf would jump out to finish what it had started.

“Because I need to talk to you about something. Something that can not get back to Father or our other siblings under ANY circumstances. And no, this isn’t just another mission to try and get rid of you. We learned very quickly not to try that again.” With her constant glancing at him and their surroundings, he felt like he had to clarify that quickly. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for getting that idea. The last time he said he wanted to spend quality time with her, he’d nearly abandoned her in the middle of the forest, and they were both nearly eaten by a wolf because of it.

Bailey still felt a little on edge, but mustered up a small smile. She wasn’t one to hold grudges, even if he deserved it. Whatever he wanted to ask must be really important if he came to her of all people. As a big sister, she’d listen to her little brother.

“Well, we’re here. And I’m listening. So…let it out.”

Lenny glanced to the side with a furrowed brow as he mulled over how to start. It was so hard being vulnerable around anyone, even family. He loved his siblings, but they would never understand. If he had brought it up to them they would have laughed in his face before storming off to tell Father “for his own good”. But…Bailey was different. She was a Wigglestein, but she wasn’t cruel like Father or cold like them. Maybe…Maybe he could afford to be vulnerable. Just this once.

“You…You like that Cree girl, right?” He began.

Bailey tilted her head to the side as she heard that question. Why was he so interested in her love life all of a sudden?

“Um…Well…Its complicated with her, but…y-ya. I guess I do like her.”

Lenny inhaled deeply as he steepled his fingers together.

“And…how did you…figure out you liked her?”

Bailey’s brow furrowed as she struggled to find an answer to his question. She was just a teenager, young and dumb and crushes were a new playing field that the sheltered ice mage still had yet to tackle. Especially with someone as stand offish as Cree.

“Well…I guess…I started talking to her one day and…and after a little while I got butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw her. She made me feel warm and fuzzy whenever we brushed hands. And…I guess I just started liking being around her.” An awkward smile graced Bailey’s lips as a soft pink grew on her cheeks. Just thinking about Cree made her feel all bubbly inside. Lenny mulled over her words as the pieces to this nauseating puzzle began to fall into place. Butterflies in the stomach, check…Feeling warm and fuzzy, check…liking being around someone…check, he supposed… His thoughts circled back to the girl who was making feel all…out of sorts. Like…like nothing a Delightful child should feel about some feral brat. Yet…

Circe Sinclair…The bane of their existence. The one brat who wasn’t afraid of them in any capacity. It didn’t matter what technology they brought to the fight, it didn't matter what they said they’d do, she would pounce and hiss and scratch like no other kid was brave enough to do, even at the detriment of her own well-being. Each of them had the bite marks to prove it.

Despite being smaller than her, the little brat had the bravery (or stupidity) to go toe to toe with Alessandra of all people. The little brat who wasn’t afraid to tell off Bruce. The stupid brat who always had their hair in their face, who always had paint and stickers covering their face. The little…the little brat who…

The little brat who didn’t kick up a fuss when the teacher paired him up for their baby raising assignment because he was the odd one out while his siblings paired with each other…The little brat who actually had been a pleasant partner and snagged him an easy A despite his less than stellar paternal instincts.

Circe, who…he found himself enjoying the company of despite their clashing ideologies. Circe, whom he suddenly found himself partnering with during assignments, even when he wasn’t being forced to work with her. Circe who was strangly endearing even with her less than polite and tidy mannerisms.

Butterflies in his stomach…Yes, he had been getting those though he initially chalked it up to something he had eaten or nerves. But then the warm and fuzzy feelings had begun. He could say it was the warmer weather, but two symptoms in a row? This could only mean one thing…

He…He Lenny Wigglestein had a crush on that brat Circe Sinclair.

The warm and fuzzies of finally acknowledging that fact were short-lived as dread overtook him. 

Circe who was always getting in the middle of adult plans to keep pesky brats like her under control. Circe who had made enemies of most if not all adults in the city. 

Circe Sinclair who was on top of Father’s ‘I hate this child so much, I will murder them on sight’ up there with Nigel fucking Uno, how in the fuck did she get above even Nigel fucking Uno?

Sweat drenched his palms as his breathing picked up. It suddenly felt very, very claustrophobic in his helmet. Was it always this hot in here? Why couldn’t he breath?

“Lenny?”

He could barely hear Bailey’s voice as his thoughts clouded his mind.

“Father’s going to kill me.” He managed to mumble out. His breathing was picking up as he struggled to breath inside the confines of his helmet. His hands flew up to claw at it, struggling to get it off. Why was it so damn tight all of a sudden? 

And his heart. It was pounding in his chest. Was he dying? Was he having a heart attack? Was it a panic attack? He only ever had those when they failed Father.

Failed Father? He hadn’t done anything. No, no he did do something. Something terrible. He fell in love with the enemy, with a feral stupid brat like Circe. What would Father say if he found out? No, not if. When. He knew everything. Did he already know? Was he planning an awful punishment just for him?

“L-Lenny!”

“Father’s going to kill me.” He repeated as tears began to roll down his cheeks. His hands gripped the mouthpiece of his helmet as he wrestled with it. Get it off, get it off. He couldn’t breath. Someone, someone help him get it off!

He could feel another pair of hands grab onto his shoulders. Father? Had he come for him? Was this place bugged all along and he’d heard everything?

“Lenny! Snap out of it, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

“FATHERS GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME!” He shrieked out in terror as he finally managed to pull off the constricting helmet. He tossed it far away from him as he inhaled deeply, desperate for air. It wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. He still couldn’t breath. His hands shot up to claw at his throat, desperate to yank off whatever was making him unable to breath.

Now that it was off, Bailey could see the tears running down his cheeks.

“H-He’s going to, he’s going to kill me. A-A Delightful child shouldn’t feel like this. He hates her, he’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill her. He’s going to-” 

He was cut off as he felt gentle hands carefully peel his hands off his neck. As he felt cool skin instead of Father’s scorching heat, he finally allowed himself to look up. He could see concerned blue eyes instead of yellow ones burning with hatred. Bailey?

“Lenny…I need you to breath, okay? Ten in, ten out.” It was a trick her doctor Persephone had taught her whenever she would panic during sessions. It helped her…maybe it would help her brother.

Lenny’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to make sense of her words. Ten in. Ten out.

Finally, he slowly took in air for ten seconds, then let it back out for ten. In, out. In, out.

It was…it was starting to help ground him and bring him back. Father wasn’t there. He didn’t know. Only Bailey knew…and despite their differences, Lenny knew she was a safe space. She wouldn’t tell.

“Ten in…ten out…” He repeated the exercise for a minute before he finally felt he could stop. He was still a trembling, teary eyed mess, but at least he could breath again.

He felt so low letting her see him like this. A Delightful child didn’t show such weak emotions. This was a dog-eat-dog world. Weakness meant you’d be torn apart and thrown to the wolves. Yet here he was, crying and sniffling and snotty like one of those stupid snot-nosed KND members. It was embarrassing. Yet, even as he wiped his tears on his jacket sleeve, Bailey only looked at him with concern and compassion. “Oh Lenny…You think Papa will be angry that you like Circe?”

Lenny sniffled as he slowly nodded.

“Have you heard the way he talks about her? He calls her all kinds of names, he encourages Alessandra to get into fights with her and gets upset if she comes back having lost. He hates her, I just don’t know why and...and I already know he’ll hate it if he finds out I’m friends with her, let alone have a crush on her.”

Bailey looked to the side as she gnawed on the inside of her cheek nervously. She wanted to say something, anything to reassure her brother that Father wouldn’t be mad but…she knew he was right. Circe was a kind and respectful kid, but she actively fought against adult tyranny along with the KND. Not only that, but he seemed to have some kind of personal vendetta against her, although she didn’t know why. He just seemed to hate her despite having a crush on her older sister. If he did find out…Who knew what he might do?

“...Then…Papa just won’t find out. Okay?”

His stomach churned at the thought of keeping anything from Father. It went against all his teachings that had been drilled into his head. A Delightful child didn’t keep things from their Father or their fellow Delightful siblings. But…

Yes, he could do this. He’d keep it from Father…Just this once…he wanted something that was truly his. Something light and care free, even if it was just a silly friendship with a feral girl. Just this once…

“O…Okay…”

Bailey offered up a smile as she let go of his hands. She wanted to pull him in for a hug, but they weren’t there just yet. Besides, he was never one for physical displays of affection.

“Cree baby sits Circe a lot…Sometimes I go to help because she’s a handful…Maybe you can come with me. You can call it a spy mission to get Miss.Persephone’s secrets or whatever.”

Lenny was silent before a moment before he slowly nodded. He liked that…Being able to see Circe outside of school might be…nice.

The grass crunched softly as Bailey went over to his fallen helmet and held it out for him to take.

“Now, dry your tears and lets go home…I’m sure Papa will be missing us.”

He looked between his helmet and back up at Bailey who was still smiling so softly. He didn’t know why she was helping him after how he treated her, but…but he was just glad that she had been willing to listen and was willing to lie for him. Just like a big sister would.

He wondered if this was how Circe felt with Persephone as her sister. If it was…he supposed he liked having a big sister…

He reached out and took his helmet, placing it back over his head. He hoped it would hide the tears still staining his cheeks. Hopefully his other siblings would still be napping by the time they made it back, otherwise they may have questions. But Lenny was a smart boy, he’d weasel his way out of it just like he always did.

“..Bailey?” He suddenly piped up as they walked together. Bailey looked down as she heard his voice.

“Ya?”

“...Thank you…”

Bailey’s eyes widened for a moment before an even wider smile formed on her lips. She kept close to Lenny, glancing occasionally at the tree line to make sure no wolves were stalking about.

“...Anytime, Lenny.”

[areiacannaid]

Declination

I have finally been able to finish this short story inspired by this prompt/story idea from nilswolf8 where Halt joins Morgarath. Here is the final chapter.

Previous chapters

Read on AO3

Chapter 4

Halt hadn’t wanted to send him on this mission, he’d said that Will wasn’t ready for it—that he was too young. It was something which, at the time, had rankled, stung. He was fifteen now; old enough and well-trained enough to handle himself. It had made Will more determined than ever to prove that he could complete what would be his first solo mission, and complete it well. But now, with the agonizing clarity that so often came with hindsight, he had started to wonder if Halt had been right. Things had gone far worse than he could have possibly imagined and now he had no idea what he would do.

Restless energy lent itself to his muscles as he found himself pacing the length of the safe house, trying to shove aside the sense of panic that built steadily within him as the minutes passed. Gilan was supposed to meet him here after he finished his own mission, but he was already hours late. Will worried at his lower lip as he found himself wishing for and dreading his brother’s arrival. After all, Gilan, like Halt, always seemed to know what to do. But, at the same time, explaining to him just how badly he had failed, wasn’t an appealing prospect. 

The coded knock sounded suddenly on the door, shattering the eerie quiet of the room. Will finally stopped pacing, letting out his breath as he unlocked and opened the door, moving aside so Gilan could enter.

“Where have you been?” The words tore from Will’s throat with much more force and anger than he’d intended.

Gilan tilted his head to consider him a moment, eyes narrowed, before a slow smile spread across his face.

“Out,” he said finally, stepping past Will, the sarcasm in the words contradicting the smile.

Will rolled his eyes in response, despite the pounding in his heart that constricted his chest. There had been no malice in Gilan’s reply, he knew. There never was. He watched as his brother headed to the back of the room to place down his supplies. The twisted feeling in his stomach couldn’t bear the silence anymore and so he drew breath to speak, an effort that was stymied by the realization he had no idea where to begin or what to even say. He was gathering himself to try again when Gilan beat him to it.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” he asked Will quietly without turning around. It was as if he was somehow privy to Will’s thoughts or, perhaps, he had merely read Will’s expression when he came in.

“Yes,” Will admitted softly.

“Are you alright?”

“For now, but not for long.”

Gilan did turn then, calculating gaze seeking answers as much as asking for them.

“I killed Morgarath’s men. The ones sent to assassinate the Courier and her apprentice.”

One eyebrow rose at that announcement.

“Why?”

The question was curious, not accusing. Gilan didn’t seem to care much that Will had just admitted to the cold-blooded murder of their allies, but he did want to know why Will had made such a glaring tactical error.

“I couldn’t let them kill her, kill either of them!”

“The Courier and her apprentice?” Gilan asked blankly, eyebrow still raised.

Will could only nod.

“Again, why?”

“I had to get close to them both for my mission: to get into Baron Arlad’s court. And I… I love her, Gilan, the Courier’s apprentice—Alyss. I couldn’t let her die.”

Gilan searched his face as if looking for there to be some sort of punchline to this. But, when he realized there was none, that Will was serious, the other eyebrow went up to join the first. He grinned, closing the distance between them.

“I have to say, I’m happy for you Will, but you certainly picked the worst way possible to fall in love.”

“This is serious, Gil!” Will protested, put out, and more than a little frustrated by his brother’s casual attitude. “Did you not hear what I said about killing Morgarath’s men?”

Gilan merely shrugged. “If they’re all dead they can hardly go informing Morgarath of what you did. It was risky, but not irreparable. We can come up with a cover story.” He began, but stopped as he became aware of Will’s expression. He narrowed his eyes. “They are all dead, aren’t they?”

“One may have gotten away.”

Gilan blinked at him, disbelieving.

Will felt a flush of anger. “The fight got a little complicated and, at the end, I had to choose between saving Alyss or killing the last man!” He took a breath, hands trembling, before adding in a small voice. “I don’t know what to do, Gilan.”

For a brief moment, Will saw his own fear reflected in his brother’s eyes and now entirely serious face.

“Morgarath won’t tolerate treason. And if you run, you know he’ll do whatever it takes to hunt you down. Revenge seems to give him a certain… pleasure.” He made a crude gesture not bothering to hide the sneer that curled that last word.

“I know,” Will said, holding his head in his hands. “He’ll never stop trying to kill me.”

“Unless you're already dead. I’ll report to Morgarath that I saw what happened after the guard fled, report that I killed you for your treason, and then completed your assassination mission for you. It will give you and the Couriers the chance to run, disappear.”

~x~X~x~

Halt made no sound as wove through the shadowed wood to the small cabin that served as their safehouse in this area of the Kingdom. He moved with the shadows of the clouds overhead so that he seemed to weave fluidly around the patches of silver moonlight. He was, for all intents and purposes, invisible to any eyes that might be watching. 

Hearing the sound of urgent voices coming from inside the cabin, he didn’t head towards the door but instead to the windows. They had only shutters and a latch to close against the chill of the night. They weren’t very well made and sound carried clearly through them.

He froze to listen and was just in time to be made aware of everything about the results of Will’s mission. But in light of everything that had happened, that outcome seemed almost trivial. Or, rather, like another log to be added to an inexorable bonfire. 

His old adage of always expecting something to go wrong in order to avoid disappointment had clearly been far too conservative of a saying. If this situation taught him anything, it was that he should have expected absolutely everything possible to go wrong all at once. 

Biting back something that was half a sigh of exasperation, and half a breath to calm a racing heart, he reached up to silently undo the latch of the cabin’s unlit back room window and slip inside.

 “So we’re set on the plan then?” Gilan’s voice carried to him as he stood in the shadow of the back room's door jam. “We will fake your death and I will report it to Morgarath.” 

“There’s only one problem with that,” Halt interposed his voice into their conversation, causing both of them to wheel around, more with surprise than fear, he knew. He was pretty certain that, even distracted as his two apprentices had been, there were very few people who could sneak up on them, of which Halt was one. 

“Halt!” Will said as he and Gilan both turned to face their mentor.

One glance at his students showed that neither had expected Halt to be here. After all, he was supposed to have still been at Morgarath’s stronghold.

“I’m sorry, Halt,” Will said, realizing a little belatedly that his mentor had obviously heard everything.

Halt’s steely gaze flicked away from Will when Gilan found his voice, caught on the substance of what their mentor had said first.

“Why can’t I fake Will’s death? It’s too late to stop the man who escaped, and I won’t let Will be hunted down for Morgarath’s pride.”     

Halt let out his breath, his arms uncrossing to hang loosely at his sides.

“It won’t work because Morgarath will sooner kill you than listen, Gilan. He found out about Malcolm’s little rebellion and it won’t be long until he finds out that you both were helping him.”

Though it hadn’t seemed possible, Will’s expression shuddered even further at that announcement.  

“Helping?” Gilan asked innocently.

Halt glared, not falling for it. “Yes, helping. Malcolm told me about your little project.”

“He did?”

“Apparently, he was under the misapprehension that I already knew about it. What he’s been doing: taking up the guise of Malkallam, stirring up the populace against Morgarath. That was never going to end well.  It turns out he was betrayed by someone he trusted, someone who was completely loyal to Morgarath. It won’t be long until it comes out that you two helped him: gave false reports to Morgarath about his movements to protect him. What were you both thinking?” He demanded.

“I was thinking that Malcolm is family,” Will admitted stubbornly.  

And Halt couldn’t argue the point. Will was right. As the years had passed, the bird-like healer had grown very close to them. 

“He needed help. I couldn’t just not help him.” 

For as long as they had known him, Malcolm had been the equivalent of a slave, captured and forced to serve at Morgarth’s whims. Halt knew that had never sat well with his two apprentices. All told, it really should not have come as a surprise that Will and Gilan had risked themselves to help him when Malcolm had managed to set himself up as Malkallam, rebellion leader among the suffering peasantry in Morgarath’s lands. Halt felt the anger slowly drain from him as he thought it. Though it just as quickly sparked again as he swung his gaze towards Gilan.  

“And I suppose that’s the same reason you decided to move past simply currying favor with the soldiers and the army?” He demanded, words scathing.

Halt saw Will shoot a confused glance between himself and Gilan. Halt knew Will was well aware that Gilan was often sent by Morgarath to lead his troops. Gilan was skilled at it, and the soldiers respected him—likely far more than they respected most of the other commanders like Foldar who cared nothing for their men’s safety and would stay behind, protected, during battle while they threw away the lives of their own men. Will, however, clearly didn’t see what Halt was upset about until he spoke again.

“I know it was you who got word to the 8th infantry and helped them escape.”

Will’s eyes widened, then widened further still when Gilan didn’t deny it. 

“I served with them for years. Their reward for those years of service and being among the most elite of Morgarath’s troops was a false accusation of treason followed by the guarantee of a painful death. And it was all for no other reason than Morgarath’s pride and paranoia at their strength.” Gilan was silent a moment before he looked Halt in the eyes. “The truth is, Morgarath was right to be paranoid—and now the 8th are indebted to me. And they aren’t the only ones. I’ve made connections and curried favor with several of the top divisions.”

“Did you ever stop to consider doing that was treason?” Halt demanded angrily.

Gilan looked genuinely confused by Halt’s fury, confused and frustrated. 

“I thought that was what you wanted me to do?”

Halt’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You thought I wanted you to stage a military coup?”

“You can’t have expected that I would ever actually be loyal to Morgarath.” Gilan looked almost offended by the mere notion. “Especially not when you told me yourself that you weren’t loyal to him either—that you were just using him to get what you wanted.” The shadow of a vicious smile twisted his lips as he leaned forward. “Well, I wanted something too.” 

Halt felt his blood run cold, a horrible twisting sensation racing across his scars to settle in his chest. He couldn’t believe his ears. “You would betray our position here, everything we have worked for, for the sake of the Kingdom?”

Gilan’s eyebrows rose in surprised incredulity before drawing downward in anger. He shook his head adamantly.  

“I don’t care about the Kingdom and its politics; I care about us! Growing up with King Oswald, I saw nothing much better than Morgarath and we have suffered because of it. Training under you, I realized that the only way that we can truly stay safe and free from the wars, whims, and powerplay of others is to be the ones in power. And what about the people like us, those caught up in this and left to suffer and try to stay alive while other people play games with their lives?” 

Gilan hadn’t raised his voice but Halt felt himself flinch as if he had. Truth had a bite sharper even than hatred. It was something that had been whispering in the corners of his own mind, a whisper that had grown steadily louder as the years passed by. But now that it had been given voice, it was chilling. 

How many of those innocents ruled by Morgarath and King Duncan had loved ones they cared about as much as Halt cared about his apprentices? How many of those people had been like his little sister Caitlyn, who just wanted to live in peace and carve out some small measure of happiness from the world? 

Caitlyn had cared about people… so had Crowley. Halt closed his eyes as another truth rang in his mind…. He had started to care again too. As the years passed, he had slowly started to realize that not every person was a potential threat… and that there were things worth protecting—things far more precious than his own survival and safety. 

Gilan shook his head softly. “I wanted it all to stop, Halt. I’ve been moving pieces to that end ever since I was given my first command. But if the game is up for me as well before I could finish it, then so be it. Will and I will run together.”

“No.” Halt said firmly, stepping forward and placing a hand on each of his students’ shoulders and squeezing gently. “We will do what we can to help Malcolm and then we will all run together. Morgarath no longer has anything to offer me that I would value more than I value the two of you.”

They couldn’t defect to the Kingdom, that much was certain. People like them, ones who had served the enemy for so long would never truly be trusted. Once a traitor, always a traitor after all. Besides that, Halt had no desire to put himself at the service of a King—none of them would ever be worth trusting. 

But if they left the country entirely it would do nothing to solve the problems of the people here. They would have to try something different, and Halt thought then that they might just have the connections they might need to do so. They had the network for gathering information he and Will had set up in King Duncan’s land. They also had the networks that Gilan and Malcolm had set up in Morgarath’s lands. 

~x~X~x~

Crowley urged Cropper down the wooded path, coaxing as much speed from the little horse as he dared, considering the low light of the late hour. His mission was of some urgency after all. He needed to get to Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief before first light if at all possible. The plea the Baron had sent to the King was nothing short of an emergency. If it was wholly accurate, it could spell disaster for the Kingdom as a whole. 

Baron Douglass was many things, but he’d never been one for undue panic or exaggeration. This was why he, and King Duncan, had decided it would be safest to respond immediately. Duncan had already mobilized a small force and they were only a day behind Crowley. His task had been to ride ahead and provide any necessary immediate assistance and gather all the necessary intel to send back to the army so they would be fully ready when they arrived. 

His mouth set itself in a grim line at the thought. Things had been relatively stable for the past year and he had no desire to return to the chaos and near constant warfare of the many years before. And this news was akin to an ill omen, boding its inevitable return. 

It had seemed for a while that they were on the back foot against Morgarath. Defeat had been all but guaranteed. All they had been doing was staving off the inevitable—something Crowley had been more than willing to do… up to his last breath. But then, things began to change. Morgarath’s kingdom had begun to destabilize, piece by piece. It had started with the peasants' Rebellion in Morgarath’s lands, and then with the disbanding and would-be execution of the 8th infantry. 

The 8th were of Morgaraths most elite troops. They, along with their commander, were the only unit in Morgarath’s army that had earned his grudging respect for their skill, discipline, intelligent tactics, and shocking lack of brutal, cruel, or dishonorable conduct when compared to any other of Morgarath’s divisions or commanders. He supposed that might well be the reason Morgarath had wanted to get rid of them. However, the 8th infantry escaped Morgarath’s judgment and had, along with some more disgruntled troops, joined the peasant uprising. This left Morgarath to fight a war on two fronts, from within and without.

But the change wasn’t just in Morgarath’s lands, it was in the King’s lands too. For them, however, it wasn’t destabilization but its opposite. Key generals of Morgarath’s had been taken out before or during battles. There had been destructive raids on enemy encampments and supply trains undertaken that they had not been a party to. There had been advanced warnings of attacks and plans given, along with the foiling of several assassination attempts. The few reports given back to him of those who had done it were vague, nothing more than rumors of a ‘hooded man’.  

And not everything had been on a large scale either. He’d heard more vague reports of people being helped or saved by a ‘hooded man’ all over the King's land and even Morgarath’s. After looking at the reports of these incidents, their locations, and timing, Crowley had come to the conclusion that this… vigilante… for lack of a better word, could not be one man alone, but rather two or three men working under the guise of the ‘hooded man’ to the same end. 

It could be that the ‘hooded man’ had started as one individual and the others were copycats. However, their actions and movements were too professional, consistent, and organized for that to be the case. To what ends the ‘hooded man’, or rather 'men', were operating, he was not yet certain. And that unsettled him almost as deeply as the means behind them. To have access to the amount of intelligence needed to pull all that off suggested an information and informant network that would rival that of the Rangers and Couriers combined. And that was a terrifying prospect. His only solace was that they did not seem to be currently acting against the interest of the Kingdom. 

He was pulled from his thoughts by a warning rumble from Cropper, some scent or sound causing the little horse to warn of potential danger. Alert now, his eyes were able to pick out the obstacle of several fallen trees and branches spanning the length of the highway ahead. A trap. He pulled Cropper to an immediate stop, turning his head to his left even as he began to wheel the little horse in that direction. 

Even amateur roadside bandits would know that most warriors were right-handed, and so they would give themselves an advantage to approach from the left, where a defender would have to wheel or reach awkwardly across to defend. They likely would try to block his retreat as well. 

Sure enough, he caught sight of movement from the left and behind. Crowley had an arrow knocked and aimed at the closest shadowed figure on his left, letting his arrow fly even as Cropper pivoted gracefully around. This gave him a larger view of the area. That was when he saw it. They weren’t just coming from the left and from behind, they were coming from all sides and there were far more of them than he had anticipated. Even in the moonlight, he could see that they were also far better armed and armored than any average highwayman group had any right to be. 

These men were soldiers. Crowley’s next arrow felled another man and he had only just enough time to roll from his horse’s saddle in order to avoid the quarrel flung towards him from one of the three crossbowmen he could make out. He fell and heard the bolt hum past his ear. He hit the ground in a recovery roll and rose smoothly into a crouch, another arrow drawn aimed, and fired at his enemies, first to one side of the road and then the other. The crossbowman fell along with a swordsman. 

That was when reflective defense gave way to grim understanding. Even with a Ranger’s speed and accuracy, he knew there were too many, and he had no cover. Another bolt whizzed past his face, opening a gash across his cheek in its flight. Cropper reared and kicked in a desperate attempt to protect his master from the approaching men, but it wasn’t enough. Crowley set his teeth then, determined that if this was going to be his end, his attackers would pay dearly for it. 

Then suddenly, several of the men nearest him fell in quick succession. He could see the glisten of a broadhead arrow protruding from one of the bodies, along with the clothyard shaft from a longbow—vastly distinct from the short quarrels of his adversaries. 

It gave Crowley the space and breath he needed to rally, and move to some cover. He once more aimed and shot at blinding speed. The unseen archer that had come to his aid was dropping as many enemies as quickly as he did, if not quicker. Ranger-level shooting, his mind supplied. And it was exemplary Ranger-level shooting at that.

From behind their respective cover, he and his ally were able to take on the last of the soldiers until the clearing was once again silent. Hearing and seeing nothing of the strange ally that had come to his aid, he was about to open his mouth to address the night at large when a voice spoke first. 

“Baron Douglass of Highcliff Fief is working for Morgarath—has been for some years now, in secret.”

Crowley easily pinpointed the voice’s location in the dark, turning swiftly in that direction, bow still partially drawn for the sake of caution. Having honestly expected one of the voices of his Rangers, he was taken a little aback. The voice did strike a chord in his memory, but not enough to belong to one of the men he’d been working closely with and leading for the past 10 years. 

As he watched, he saw a figure slowly melt into view, once again unsettlingly Ranger-like in his movements. His right hand was raised in a gesture of peace, his left hand still clutching his strung longbow. His shape was reminiscent of a Ranger as well. His ally was a cloaked and hooded man… perhaps one of the ‘hooded men’. 

“Morgarath’s been getting pretty desperate lately. And all this was his idea of a trap… an assassination attempt.”

“Damn near successful too,” Crowley said with some feeling before adding, the thanks apparent in his words, “if not for you.”  

The hooded man offered a nod of acknowledgment. Despite Crowley’s genuine gratitude at the man's intervention, there was something about him that whispered in warning in the back of his mind. It was something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something wasn’t right. But he had precious little time to dwell on it as the man turned to make his leave. 

“How did you find out about this? Do you have any proof of what you said about Douglass and Morgarath?” he asked then, his words stopping the man’s planned retreat. 

The hooded man stopped, offering only a shrug as he turned back around to face him.

“Who else knew that you’d be on the road this late?” he asked eventually instead of answering. “These were clearly no simple highwaymen. If it's physical evidence you need, you might find it if you search the bodies for correspondence, or got a confession from one who is still alive.”

The man’s voice was quiet, the barest edge of a Hibernian burr lilting the words in a way that was… so familiar. That was when it hit him; the recognition caused a pit to open up in his stomach even as an old pain flared up near his heart.

The hooded man, the one who had been destabilizing Morgarath’s holdings, aided the kingdom, and assisted the peasantry on both sides of the war. Crowley knew him. His fingers flexed on his bow, undecided whether or not to draw it further back. This man was his enemy… but he had not always been. This man had wreaked havoc on the King's land… but he had also just saved Crowley’s life. 

“Halt,” he said, the name coming out tight with a painful mix of emotions he could not hold back.

“Crowley,” came the quiet reply, his words thick with an emotion of his own.

A soft breeze rustled the forest branches overhead as they faced each other, a question unanswered riding with the breath of the wind.

[weaverpop]

Tired of the Berries! — Lionsword/Lotusnoodle Fic (The Berry Wartm)

Tw angst, blood, and hints of panic attacks.

“I’m telling you, Strawberries are better!”

Normally, hearing Nezha speak was like a blessing to mk-

-But right now, he just wished his boyfriend would calm down. He loved it when Nezha got passionate, but-

“Strawberries aren’t even naturally sweet! They have to be sweetened to get that flavor! It’s artificial! Blackberries are all natural!”

-but this was just ridiculous!

Mei smacked her head against the tabletop, and Mk couldn’t even blame her. Jing and Nezha had been going at this for a while, and they were all getting tired of it. It was cute at first, but it had gotten to the point where it was all they talked about!

It was to the point where the guards of the celestial realm didn’t even look up at their voices rising! They were smack dab in the middle of the pavilion!

“At least Strawberries have a flavor! Blackberries just taste like sour nothing!”

Mk looked over to azure, who looked just as done as he did.m, and they nodded. It was time to-

“Both of you enough!”

A scratchy voice cut through their argument, and what seemed to be a random advisor stomped up to them.

“This is extremely unbecoming of the future emperor and his father!”

Nezha and Jing both frowned, and turned their attention fully to the advisor, clearly irritated.

“Advisor Jiangshi, the only unprofessional behavior here is yours. We are nearly having a debate-“

“Your arguing is what you’re doing-!”

“Advisor Jiangshi you are quite out of line—!”

“Silence!” The advisor waved his hand, whixh lit up in an all too familiar symbol. One that made MK’s stomachs turn as he realized what was happening—

The circlet around Nezha’s neck lit up. As did the cuffs on Jing’s arms.

Both men nearly collapsed in an instant, howling in agony. Well, Jing was. Nezha’s cry was cut off as his airway was blocked. Everyone else immediantly sprung into action, Macaque and Wukong taking down the advisor in an instant, dissipating the horrid symbol. Azure was able to grab Jing before he hit the ground, as did Mk and Mei with Nezha.

Mk felt himself shake with the force of Nezha’s harsh coughing and gasping, as the Prince tries to deseperayly take in as much air as possible. He tried to blink away tears in his eyes, but poor Nezha couldn’t catch his breath long enough to do so.

Mk simply lowered Nezha to the ground (with Mei’s help), and wrapped his arms around him. The lotus boy just buried his face in Mks shoulder, as if trying to hide himself away from the pain. It broke mk’s heart.

A sniffle caught his attention. At first he thought it was Nezha, but when it repeated Mk realized it was coming from…

From…

Mk looked up quickly, and saw Jing curled away from Azure, from everyone. He was holding his wrists tightly to his chest, and his head was bowed in a way that his hair obscure his face. But from what little mk could see, it was clear Jing was crying.

That little bit of information concerned Mk greatly. Nezha, whose breathing was slowly calming, wasn’t crying. Even Wukong hadn’t cried. They’d been in pain yea, but it wasn’t a crying type of pain. To see Jing in such a states.

“Who the hell are you to do that?!” Roared macaque, and MK’s head snapped to the downed advisor, who looked terrified. Guards had come over as well, and were currently in the process of restraining him.

“I was meatly correcting their behavior-“

“Who gave you that right?!”

“The Jade emperor—!”

“The Jade emperor is dead. And you have just attacked your leaders.” Growled one of the guards, hauling him up. “You’re coming with us.”

It was quiet for a moment, the other guards and people clearing out the pavilion to give the group a moment. Something Mk was greateful for. Nezha pulled back, taking in a deep, calming breath.

“Are you ok?” Mk tenderly ran a hand down Nezha’s neck, and the other nodded with a shiver.

“Yes, I am. It was just that, while I don’t need to breathe, it’s still very jarring.” Nezha took another steady breath, and looked over at Jing.

The progoda king hadn’t moved at all. You’d have thought the was a statue if it wasn’t for the shudders that would wrack his body every now and again. Azure sat next to him, looking deeply concerned, as did Macaque and Wukong.

“He won’t let anyone touch him,” Macawue admitted, nervously chewing on his scarf. “not even Azure.”

“Father?” Nezha removed himself from MK’s hold, shakily getting to his feet. He tried to call out again. “Father? Are you alright?”

Nothing.

Then, Jing inhaled a sharp breath, shaking as he held it in. He seemed to be holding back, and Mk didn’t know why… until he saw the red that was slowly staining his sleeves. Nezha seemed to have clocked this as well, as he immediantly moves to be next to him.

“Father- dad, your bleeding-“

The other flinched the moment Nezha tried to to bus him, and Nezha reeled back as if he’d been burned. After a moment, Nezha looked to azure, and asked. “Would you take him to Lao Tzu?”

Azure nodded, and the others stood up as well. “It would be best if you all go on ahead. Give him a moment.”

Mk nodded, and he halled Nezha stumble away for some tea, everyone but azure and jjjg following. Mk tried to tell himself that it was fine. That Jing just needed a moment to to pull himself together. Azure would calm him down and get him patched up.

But even as they round the corner, getting further and further away, Mk could still hear the gut-wrenching sobs that Jing lets out, as well as the quiet reassurances that Azure was trying to give.

Ref

@pixelatedpest

As you requested >:)

[shobio-enthusiast]

Routine break: Chapter two

"Filling the space"

Requested by: @niftynoya

Warnings: descriptions of a panic attack and brief mentions of self-harm (A character is implied to clutch their fists until they draw blood).

Summary: Before he knows it, everyone has already changed their clothes and rushed out of the clubroom. Practice had wrapped up a solid thirty minutes ago, and there was no reason for Tobio to stick behind.  And yet he does. He does, because he can tell exactly what's gonna happen if he puts a foot outside that room right now. He wants to see if maybe, just maybe, there's something different in his eyes when he plays with the ace– something that could lead Tobio to at least hope he's feeling somewhat uncomfortable with his absence.

Chapter 2 on Ao3!

[c0nstantlydying]

i had a really bad dysphoria attack today.

it was because i put on a dress. i put on a dress, and i didn’t see me. i saw a girl, a kind of pretty girl. and i fucking wish i was her. she looked like she would be happy if she didn’t have my mind.

the mind wants to look in the mirror and see a boy. maybe a handsome one but they’ll settle for anything masculine, really. one with a flat chest and a boxy figure and a deeper voice. that would match up with the mind.

yeah. anyways, my body didn’t feel mine after that. i was kind of possessed. it felt like a skin suit, a disguise, something very very wrong except i couldn’t take it off. i got really angry at my body and started just clawing at it. so that was my relapse for the evening, i guess. i didn’t bleed but i ripped apart my skin with my nails.

but it’s hard to think of it as self harm when the body i’m harming doesn’t feel like mine. so i keep on cutting up this worthless girl body. i’m sorry, [deadname], that it had to be like this. you deserve better. instead you get this abomination as your future.

[hellwasempty]

made art of expiration girl

[lunolu]

I made a little comic about Caelus going through his traumas, as a aeons-know-how-old stellaron. It’s not canon whatsoever and in fact is my headcanons and views of the character.

!!!WARNING!!!

Even though most of it is implied, this comic does contain graphic depictions of abuse, murder and death; it is also heavily focused on a panic attack. It’s monochrome, so the blood and scars are just various shades of grey, but if you are uncomfortable, please be mindful of that.

If I didn’t mention any warnings here or in tags please feel free to let me know

Click image for better quality. Click alt to see text better

Thank you if you read this far (･ω･)

[tinywafflerat]

I forgot to post him but uh. here he is

angst yaaaay