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proudfreakmetarusonikku · 2 years ago

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Whumptober Day 8: Panic attacks and Disassociation.

Bench Trio Royalty AU. Tommy refuses to play along with the big happy family facade, and due to the conditioning his adoptive “father” put him through, panics until he's disassociated entirely. Warnings for kidnapping, abuse and torture that have gone on since a very young age, infantilisation, dehumanisation, neglect, xenophobia (in a medieval everyone hates the country right next to them way), self-victim blaming, mutilation, self hatred, forced family dynamics, conditioning, panic attacks, and disassociation.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s life felt like a mess of conflicting ties, pulling him in each and every direction until he was split into two.

First off, he knew he wasn’t an Enderia native. That much was evident with a look- he was short, covered in flesh instead of carapace, and strangely coloured in comparison to the enderians he grew up around, lacking a tail for balance and instead having awkward-ass wings that bumped into everything. Father usually kept them bound behind his back for convenience since he wasn’t allowed outside anyway, and he had no fucking clue how to fly, but that meant they ached and pointed in weird directions and had areas where his soft, downy feathers were rubbed raw, revealing scarred and bony flesh. He was an abomination amongst his peers, and it was no wonder only Father and Ranboo liked him.

Yet, he held no attachments to the place he was born in. The few memories he had of the Empire were vague and fleeting- being held by a dark-haired man, a tall, pink-haired man teaching him to fight, and the fuzzy appearance of his birth father- and he held little feeling towards them except a vague longing that maybe he would have been allowed to grow up if Father hadn’t taken him in.

Even in the small circle of people who actually talked to Tommy, his allegiance felt pulled between Father and Ranboo. And Tubbo, he supposed, but while the Mercis prince was new enough Tommy hadn’t quite gotten a feel for him yet, he got the feeling that he and Ranboo were at least tentatively on the same side, even if their marriage was arranged.

He supposed it was safe for the two of them to hate Father, but it never was for Tommy.

Ranboo was the heir, and it’s not exactly like Tommy could inherit, being a glorified hostage, so him living was non-negotiable, though Tommy got the feeling Father would have killed Ranboo to replace him with Tommy if he had the opportunity. Tommy was the target of Father’s abuse and kindness alike- yet he rarely so much as looked at his own flesh and blood. And Tubbo dying would start a war with the beastmen, and as fucking off his rocker Father was, he wouldn’t risk that unless he knew he could win.

But Tommy? As long as he could appear in the diplomatic meetings to be shown off to the people he supposed were once his family, the unspoken implication any aggression of the Empire onto Enderian territory would result in his suffering, Father could do anything to him. He’d showed up to some of them with concussions and broken arms. And he knew he wasn’t meant to know this, but he’d seen the experiments Father kept in the dungeon. Death, it seemed, was not as permanent as he once believed.

Such a thing was an offence to Lady Prime in all ways, but so was kidnapping a five-year-old and treating them like a punching bag their whole life, so it wasn’t really a surprise Father wasn’t as devout as he pretended to be. Just disappointing. Father had been the one to introduce Her to him, and praying together, despite Father’s oddities, was one of the few times in Tommy’s life he felt free because it was forbidden to use what was said in prayer against another faithful. Now, he spoke carefully to avoid Father’s endless wrath or, even worse, his pride.

Not that he hated Father, of course. On a good day, Father was downright doting, even if he refused to let Tommy act like a grown-up. Ranboo was his age and getting married, for Prime's sake! He wasn’t the little kid everyone treated him like, talking down to him and not letting him do shit or go outside or so much as choose his own fucking clothes. But Father at least listened to him, unlike the servants. Father refused to let him learn Enderian, and while of course royalty knew the Empire’s tongue, to any common servant, he was as unintelligible as the toddler he was treated like.

It’s just… Ranboo and Tubbo treated him like an equal, not a pet. They weren’t as kind as Father ever was, but that meant they weren’t condescending. And they’d never hit him- not once. That he didn’t understand- when the soldiers took him away, they hit him a lot, and he never could really walk without a limp after that day. Father never hit him that much all at once, but he’d done worse over the years, sometimes just because he was curious to see how non-enderians cry. Even the maids pulled on his hair and dragged him hard enough to leave bruises when he got in the way, because Father had told them he needed discipline. He simply deserved it, for being obnoxious. Ranboo and Tubbo were just fucking saints or something.

Tommy sighed, flopping onto his bed, far too big for him and done up in hideously bright greens. He knew it was Dream’s trademark, but he could be less obnoxious about it, right?

Wait. Wait. Wait. Nononono.

Father. Father’s trademark, Father Father Father.

He wasn’t allowed to call Father by his name. That was wrong, that was bad. Bad bad bad bad. It wasn’t proper; it was Tommy pretending he was older than he was; it was Tommy defying the family; it was proof he was just a stupid evil horrible spy, who only cared about the family he never knew and not the ones who raised him. Else, why would he be defiant? Else, why wouldn’t he adore his role as the eternal innocent?

Phantom knives clawed up Tommy’s skin, branding him a liar, a monster. Carved emblems of his owner, the man he refused to call a father. Shouting in a language he didn’t understand. He was eight years old again, and everything hurt. Everything hurt. It was his fault.

The air felt like it was made of lead, suffocating Tommy as he curled up as tight as he could. Tears pricked at his eyes, feeling like a hot knife as they made their way down his cheeks. His heart felt like it was beating at a million miles a minute, like it’d explode out of his chest. Was he dying? It felt like he was dying.

The cells, filled with corpses not allowed to rest, in the dungeons under the castle forced their way into Tommy’s mind. If he died, he’d become one of them, because no fucking way Father would let him die. He was awful, too awful to let him rest far too loving to let his adoptive child go, ever. Ever ever ever.

He could feel everything as his wounds were stitched shut, the medicine keeping him still but not unconscious. The next day, he’d say something wrong again, and they’d be opened up. They scarred over badly, ugly raised marks across his upper arms and back, circling his wings. He was part of the family, whether he wanted to be or not. The eternal little brother. Father told him as much.

Tommy tugged at his hair, pulling out chunks, and that only made him feel worse. So, so much worse. It felt like when Father would drag him by his hair when he got into places he shouldn’t. It’s not like he was ever told why. Sometimes, he thought Father made excuses, like how he made excuses to give him extravagant gifts. It felt like he was breathing hot coals, like he could feel them on his skin.

Burying his head in the blankets, he sobbed and sobbed, until he couldn’t remember why he was sobbing. The pain running through his mind and body overwhelmed him, and his mind blurred over. There was no Tommy, and there was no mistake, and there was no feeling. He cried, but he could no longer feel a thing, just numbness in his chest.

It didn’t matter what happened while he felt like this. He simply felt too tired to even care.

He let his body relax as he stared at the wall. His head was completely empty, all thoughts gone, except for the vague idea that it was so silly to get so upset over everything.

After all, he just needed to listen to Father, and everything would be okay, right?

#My writing #ailesswhumptober #c!primeboys #dream smp #kidnapping tw #abuse tw #torture tw #infantilisation tw #Dehumanisation tw #neglect tw #victim blaming tw #self hatred tw

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symphonicsoul · 2 years ago

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Morality Meme || Accepting

anon asked:

Something he hasn't been asked before (as much): 💋: How easily is he tempted? (Absolutely does not have to be in *that* context. Think material gain, favors, etc)

Buckle up, this is gunna be long and a RIDE.

The trick is when it comes to Kumo on the topic of "tempted" (and not that as you said) is there are two sides to this ->

The idea of tempting or the idea of giving into temptation.

Considering the original question doesn't specify which side we're going to, we're going to go with temptations.

And there are a lot of them and if you want to view things like candy, sugar, indulgences, etc - Kumo gives in often and easily.

The thing about it is though, is, that it's entirely riding on an outsider's perspective of Kumo's actions and if someone like, say Kaze, were to just let Kumo be and react to situations for a week however he so pleases and then judged him on how he reacted over that week -> through an outsider's lens it would appear that Kumo caves to temptations at nearly every turn.

But we're not going from an outsider's perspective. We're going from Kumo's perspective and that is an entirely different situation. This is also why the boys clash so often because the outsider's perspective simply doesn't know / understand why Kumo is doing what he's doing.

In Kumo's mind, he almost never caves to temptations and when you look at the world from his eyes - he's right.

It's taken over two years - real time - for Kumo to dance in front of Kaze (dance in general) totally carefree and to just move, DESPITE the fact, his body tingles and his skin prickles whenever he hears the sound of any form of tune. Kumo hears sound with his entire body but he hasn't combusted yet with his overwhelming full body urge to just move. And when he wanted to sing, he removed himself from what he assumed was Kaze's earshot because he did not want to nor did he feel comfortable doing so in front of the man. He made himself smaller instead of just caving to the urge and singing regardless of whether or not anyone could hear him.

He resists the urge to just flip himself upside down more often than not because he knows it annoys his Other to no end when he does so and he hasn't taken to the sky to just go exist inside a cloud for thirty minutes because of a previous threat to shoot him down if he flew ahead.

Kumo needs to be in the air to breathe properly but yet he has remained mostly grounded due to his extreme fear of angering Kaze. And I do mean extreme.

In Kumo's mind, he doesn't act outside of the boundaries that have been set for him, to the point of even denying his own needs to an extent, if only to keep the peace.

An Outsider's perspective would lead them to tell you that Kumo is a spoiled child that gets whatever he wants, whines and cries to achieve that and lives of sugar and candy that sleeps all the time.

Kumo's perspective would tell you, he is a terrified abuse survivor who is slowly dying due to a curse that is killing him little bits at a time so he sleeps as much as possible because he's running out of energy, who only eats what sugar they can afford and deemed acceptable despite needing it to literally function, drinks half the water he needs because of lack of storage issues, and only cries when his emotions become too much and he can no longer control them. The emotions only come out when the bottle holding them cracks.

An Outsider's perspective would tell you "Spoiled Royal."

And Kumo would even resist the temptation then to tell that person to go fuck themselves because spoiled is the last thing he's ever been. Those two words rub him raw enough to make him bleed but he won't say that either because causing confrontation is improper and he has an aversion to fighting and yelling so he avoids them at all costs.

How often and easily does Kumo give into temptation? He doesn't.

And I say this for a multitude of reasons but mostly that when Kumo "gives into temptation" for something, he's not giving in at all actually. He's been given permission to do something, so he is acting on that permission.

As a prime example, in Kumo's mind, his relationship to Kaze (not with. TO) functions solely around the sentence "I obey you." Because that is how he feels about that man at its root core. He loves him. He cares about him and one might think that his vision is being deluded by his feelings towards Rorahm, but Kumo told himself to come to terms with the fact that Rorahm was dead many months ago.

He no longer sees Kaze as that man. He sees the essence of Rorahm the person as dead but the name Rorahm remains as simply a name and that is why Pilvi and Seejvariil will still use it. But at the core of it, that's where Kumo's mind sets "I obey you." so he would never dare defy someone like Kaze - someone he holds extreme fear in even if "giving into temptation" is doing something is literally a basic need for his survival.

And he's been like this his entire life so whether Kaze is aware of it or not, Kumo was built with a foundation that tells his mind to obey before all else and that includes giving into any form of temptation that could be for his own benefit. Even at seven, Kumo would ask his teachers "Could we maybe color?" instead of just simply coloring as a seven year old should.

Even as a child, he was asking for permission before he did something and that includes: coloring, singing, dancing, drawing, painting, napping, cuddling, eating his favorite foods or really anything at all.

Kumo doesn't give into temptation because he defaults to permission before all else. Even in a relationship type context, Kumo didn't even haul off and kiss Kain. His brain absolutely thought 'I would like to kiss him' but instead of just doing so - Kumo proceeded to ask Kain "Would it perhaps be acceptable if I kissed you?"

Kumo is obsessed with the concept of consent and he means that by way of his own AND everyone else's. He does not just do things to do them. He will check to make sure he's not inconveniencing anyone by doing something. Even if that thing is a nap. He will tell someone he is going to take a nap before he does so. He will also tell that person they can wake him for any reason if they require him even if sleep for him right now is literally life saving.

Kumo's body has become a shattered broken mess of spreading soul scars because he won't fall to temptations of any kind for any reason. He will not prioritize himself for anything and his childhood had a lot to do with it. His current day issues also are what's causing this because having events like:

the 12 years of torture and abuse of all kinds in Gaudium,

Kaze's use of aggressive force, degrading language and dismissive attitude (using his body to intimidate, putting Orthrus flush to his neck to intimidate, back handing him with Orthrus for breaking eye contact, " you foolish boy"/ "spoiled royal" / "spoiled brat", calling him a liar when kumo said he loved him, telling kumo he needed to throw away his love because he was a sword, and an all around lack of general care or concern for Kumo's well being),

and the recent recapture by Anarchy

has only worked to solidify his belief that he needs to inconvenience those around him as little possible and that his existence and needs are things that can inconvenience others.

He doesn't function for material gain either. Ever. He didn't haul off and just go buy the Makea Meloni. No, he begged Kaze for it. (He asked for permission) Even with his goals to take the throne and become King of Wonderland aren't for material gain. He's literally doing this to heal the pain and turmoil in Wonderland to starve out Chaos - therefore weakening their enemy so they can stand in the face of it without causing so much death and destruction.

He's literally aiming for that seat, not for material gain or power. He's a Misterican Royal - they serve their people, not the other way around - so he's doing it to enlist himself into service of the people of Wonderland and therefore the Universe and he won't just declare himself King, even though the seat is currently empty. He is working to get Wonderland's approval before he does so.

Because at the end of everything, no matter what the situation is - Kumo operations on permission before all else.

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heulwenflower · 1 year ago

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Laugh

Tw:details of abuse and sa,abuse an d sa in general,csa(not detailed),self destructive behaviour,toxic relationships(both platonic and sexual),victim blaming behaviour

!!please read poets note!!:

I don't use flowery language in this one.it doesn't go into deep detail but it does call the acts by its name.its a rant poem I wrote while triggered about a coping mechanisms and my anger.i felt so ashamed for so long that my truama response is anger and humour.im sharing because I'm not the only one and if it makes pepole feel less alone.please skip this poem If you even have a thought it might be triggering

Laugh

Laugh while they degrade you

Laugh while they put you down

Laugh when they manipulate you

Laugh because you can't communicate anymore

Laugh then cry when you go home

Laugh when you realise you were a glorified side chick

And offal is being treated better than you

Laugh when he grinds on you

Laugh when you get transported to months prior

Laugh while pepole laugh at it happening

Laugh when you realise your best mate is taking photos

Laugh just to get through it until your angel appears

Laugh when days later everyone sees it as a joke

Laugh when you realise everyone there knew what happened to you months prior

Freeze when he grinds up and grabs my boobs

"Maybe don't do that"

Freeze bewildered as your mates do nothing

Realise your clown make up has been broken

No longer the jester

Now worth just as much as the keeper said i was

Why the fuck didn't I Laugh that time

Cry when realising how far dad went

Puke when trying to explain

Laugh when explaining it to your boyfriends best mate

"Its fine"

Because its always got to be fine

Huh there's the laughter

Freeze when you get told its not your fault for the first time

Fuck up your life when you realise no one really cared

Get pissed to be a good boyfriend on his 21st and fuck that up too

Get angry when they act clueless

Cry when they protect those who hurt you

Freeze when you realise you getting exiled like your abuser

Feel the anger when you realise the punishment doesn't match the crime

Plot screaming at them all

Stop

Time stopped

When I realised

How

Many

Pepole

I've

Referenced

This

Poem

Self compassion

I acted like a dick

But truama isn't meant to be collected

And I speed ran that collection

When dreaming of 6ft under

You dont realise what's going on 6ft above

You still think 6ft above is where you left it

It's not

It's no excuse etheir

But I can't think what they want me to belive as to why I acted that way

So fuck laughing

I refuse to be your jester toy anymore

And don't you dare find a replacement

#abuse poetry #truama poem #tw abuse #tw csa #tw sa #tw toxic behavior #tw victim blaming #tw self destructive behavior #poetry #poets on tumblr #poem #writers and poets

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cardinal-contest-king · 1 year ago

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You don't deserve this. Any of this.

Some people are just sick in the head and like to make it known. For every person who tries to help, another seeks to harm.

B-But... I d-didn't do e-enough. I-If I did m-my job right t-the first time, I w-wouldn't be in t-this mess. O-Or if I l-listened, a-and just.. t-told someone a-about t-the guy b-back at the h-hospital... t-this is only h-happening because of what I f-failed to do. T-That makes it m-my fault. W-Which means I d-deserve it.

I-If.. If I n-never ran a-away from N-Norman.. n-none of this.. w-would b-be happening....

#ruby posts #rotomblr #asks #tw self blame #tw implied abuse #tw selfhate

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t0rschlusspan1k · 1 month ago

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They did things I’ve never been able to talk about, and will never be able to talk about. I don’t know how. I don’t want to find those words. I have a history of violence, but the public record of it will always be incomplete.

When it was all over, I pushed my bike home and I pretended to be the daughter my parents knew, the good girl, the straight-A student. I don’t know how I hid what happened, but I knew how to be a good girl, and I guess I played that part exceptionally well that night.

Later, those boys told everyone at school what happened or, rather, a version of the story that made my name “Sl*t” for the rest of the school year. I immediately understood that my version of the story would never matter, so I kept the truth of what happened a secret and tried to live with this new name.

He said/she said is why so many victims (or survivors, if you prefer that terminology) don’t come forward. All too often, what “he said” matters more, so we just swallow the truth. We swallow it, and more often than not, that truth turns rancid. It spreads through the body like an infection. It becomes depression or addiction or obsession or some other physical manifestation of the silence of what she would have said, needed to say, couldn’t say.

With every day that went by, I hated myself more. I disgusted myself more. I couldn’t get away from him. I couldn’t get away from what those boys did.

— Roxane Gay, Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body (2017)

#quotes #Roxane Gay #tw: abuse #tw: victim blaming #tw: psychological abuse #trauma #self-hate #violence against women #Hunger #Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body #2017 #2010s

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sorry-little-girl · 3 months ago

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Fuck

WHY CANT I BE FUCKING NORMAL

They’re probably right is was nothing

I’m just overreacting

#tw implied sa #tw self blaming #tw implied abuse

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symphonicsoul · 2 years ago

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.: The Devil's Toll :.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He doesn't understand why his hair is getting stroked so lovingly but he also doesn't know why he's finding it so hard to pull away. There is a small hand brushing through white locks over and over and he doesn't quite know how he ended up leaning his head up on His Excellency’s chair like some kind of lounging cat but here he is doing just that nonetheless.

Words: 2.9 k Pages: 6 TW;; Depression, PTSD, Submission, Mental Illness, Survivor’s Guilt, gaslighting, possession, isolation, abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse, self blame, objectification, manipulation, injury, mental breakdown, intimidation, love bombing, dissociation, conditioning, punishment and praise, rewards, murder

His stomach twists in disgust as he realizes the true stakes of the situation and now if he moves wrong that hand in his hair will turn into a variable claw in the matter of a few moments. He hates how he can't remember ever laying down like this and quite frankly he can't remember waking up this morning either.

It's becoming more and more frequent in recent days. He's missing entire chunks of time and he doesn't quite know what to make of it. He's missing chunks of time and he can't remember when was the last time His Excellency killed him. Somehow this seems like more of a bad thing than a good thing for as strange as that sounds. Shouldn't one want to be spared the pain of death? Well yes, and of course he does too but this also means that when the time comes that he inevitably messes up again, when His Excellency makes a move for punishment it will be the most severe one he's received to date.

He's not stupid. He knows how this game works. Praise and Punishment walk hand in hand with this little beast and right now those same hands are in his hair and he can't move. He can't pull away no matter how much he wants to and he can't even flinch or breathe wrong unless he wants those small but deadly fingers ready to tear snow colored locks right out from his head.

It's always such a wretched sensation.

Nothing is worse than the feeling of his hair being pulled. He hates it. He hates the feeling and he hates the way it makes him feel so vulnerable. How the pain of it will bring him to his knees and have him fighting back the tears at the sensation. You would think one who has died as many times as he has would have more pain tolerance for something seemingly so simple but the sensation of even the root of his hair going taunt is enough to send his nervous system into overdrive.

But what he hates the most is how he can feel himself start purring. He doesn’t know why he does it. He tries to tell himself to stop but he can feel those fingers grow softer as they stroke through snow. The louder he purrs the softer they get and he hates himself for finding so much comfort in the sensation. He hates himself for finding peace in this. He should be running away from this beast as quickly as his body would carry him. He should be fleeing at any chance he gets but instead he allows himself to sink into his place on the arm of this chair as that little monster continues to comb through fluffy spikes with a gentleness that could only be described as care.

That can’t be right.

That’s just not possible, and he hates how many times he feels like he’s had this conversation with himself as of late. The beast does not love him. The demon does not care. The little devil felt nothing for him but yet those lips part and purr out affections of their own.

“You’ve been so well behaved as of late, Precious.” The small emperor sounds as his hand continues to work. “You’ve done your tasks so well. I’m proud of you, my Little Cloud. You’ve been such a good pet. Perhaps you deserve some time out of the castle? I think you’ve earned it.”

He only increases the volume on his purring in response as if doing so will show his gratitude for such a notion but his lips are hanging in a frown behind the thin metal covering his face as the boy of pink continues.

“You can go with Herba the next she leaves.” The Tyrant offers as he finally pulls his hand away and out of the Misterican’s hair. “But when she leaves you know the rules. Her word is as good as my word and you are to do whatever she asks of you. You understand, don’t you Precious?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“That’s my good boy. You’ve become so well behaved. I’m so proud of you, Makenshi.”

His purring only grows louder as those hands return to his hair and he doesn’t know how long he stays like that but it’s long enough that he doesn’t remember falling asleep. Did he fall asleep? He doesn’t know. He does know that he woke in his own quarters the next morning and he was met with Herba throwing her arms over his shoulders to bring him into a very tight and very unwanted hug and she leaned to try to push a kiss to his cheek and he could only lean himself the opposite direction so far to avoid contact.

“Makenshi.”

His name was trumpeted in his direction in a small but authoritative voice and it has the Misterican standing up straight giving this damnable woman the space she needed to push those poison painted lips directly to his cheek even if it was covered in metal. Dull jade is looking forward into the main hall with the entirety of his form tingling to both get away from this woman and get off the ground. The place just above the little demon’s head is calling his name because then he is both in eyesight but at the same time away from this gaggle of absolute morons.

If he could never associate with any of them for the rest of his life ever again, he’s sure he could find a way to be happy. If only Rorahm could finally wake up - but - jade moons downcast at the thought because at this rate his sun would never rise and he was going to be stuck here for the rest of said life. Should he make the most of it? Should he adjust?

No. No. Listen to yourself Makenshi. You’re falling for that monster’s tricks!

But are they tricks?

It’s been too many years and he doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t remember the sound of his Mother’s voice and he can hardly remember his Father’s face. He tries not to think about them too much because he doesn’t want to get himself all upset and then in turn upset His Excellency. The Tyrant isn’t exactly one to be any form of comforting if he were to simply explain that he was thinking about home. In fact, he doesn’t want that little monster anywhere near anything to do with Misterica in the first place, so it would probably be for the best to simply forget it all anyway. If he can’t remember then the little beast can manipulate it against him.

He can’t seem to remember most things lately anyway.

He can’t remember going to sleep the night before and he hardly can make sense of the morning. He just wants this woman to get off of him but instead she lets herself sink down to wrap her arm around his and lean herself up against him like they were anything that could be considered close - which was comical in his mind when the closest he would like to be to this

woman would be to watch her burn.

Still he just adjusts to the feeling of her hanging off his arm as he focuses his attention on His Excellency instead because the only thing he ever needed to do was to keep the little gremlin happy and as long as he did that he’d keep his head. Why was the beast smiling at him the way he was? He doesn’t like it. It’s making his skin crawl almost as much as the feeling of the plant witch hanging off his arm is.

“Makenshi, I am assigning you to assist Herba today. I expect you two to cooperate while you’re out in the field. Herba knows what needs to be done, so you simply need to follow her lead, and I shouldn’t have to repeat myself with what we discussed yesterday, do I?”

“No, Your Excellency. I remember.” He sounds, raising his free arm to cross it over his chest to give this pink haired abomination a half bow. What he was saying he remembers, he doesn’t know. Quite frankly, he doesn’t even even the day before. Yesterday? He couldn’t tell you. Herba’s face was where his memory picks up and he hates that too because there is something about thinking about yesterday that is turning his stomach but he couldn’t tell you why.

So now they’re returning to that damnable airship and he hates being on it. It’s nauseating and the amount of pollen in the air is enough to make him sick. His stomach is twisting in knots As he takes a seat. He doesn’t feel well but there is the sound of jingling chimes in the air as he looks over to the open deck just to the right of him. Chimes blowing in the wind and it's enough to tell him to just focus on the sound of something pleasant for once as he lays his head down and tells himself to just go back to sleep. She’ll wake him when they get there. She always does.

And he’s sure it’s for something nasty. It always is.

He won’t do it this time though. He’ll never kill again and he doesn’t care how badly His Excellency beats him to death for disobeying orders. He will not stain the Holy Blade with yet more blood of the innocent… He just needs to not think about it and sleep. He’ll fight with her when he wakes up. His Excellency might be able to get the better of him but Herba won’t. He will never let that woman -

“ ‘kenshi-darling? ‘Kenshi-darling, wake up you silly willy. If you told me you were tired, I would have gotten you a blanket, lovely.” She smiles at him with a face that is possibly dripping with more venom than it ever has before. Her smiles are always fake and they turn his stomach, but she is taking him by the hand and he’s letting her. He doesn’t feel like fighting with her.

It’s a quiet town they’ve found themselves in this time. It’s closer to the outer reaches of Wonderland but not quite all the way out. A town that has larger than normal buildings built up and a large building he wonders if it is a church of some kind on the other side of town. She has him by the hand as they walk, and the people of this village don’t seem to be paying them any mind. Children are laughing, the smell of fresh bread is in the air and the city itself seems at peace.

Herba is leaning herself in to cling to his arm as if they were some sort of couple and it is taking everything in him not to shake her off. She just seems to be happy to take a stroll with him and he doesn’t understand what the catch is. Why did His Excellency let him out of the castle if there was nothing wicked for him to do? Why let him just come take in the sights of Wonderland if they didn’t mean for him to cause some kind of havoc?

She’s strolling through the local bazaar with him as his nose catches the smell of sugar and it’s been so long since he has got to eat anything truly sweet. He sniffs once and then again and she’s making an Oooh? Sort of sound that he doesn’t like as she takes him by the hand to lead him towards the source of the scent.

“You like sweets, don’t you, ‘kenshi? I’ll buy you something. I’ll buy you something nice, for how good you’ve been lately. Tell me what you want. Anything and you can have it. We all deserve a little treat every now and then.”

Is she serious? She can’t be.

The Church bell is ringing in the background as she pulls him along. A grin slipping on her lips as she pulls him into the middle of the marketplace, only to look back at the Misterican with bright eyes and a poison purple smile.

“Anything you want, ‘kenshi-darling. Name it, and it’s yours.” She pauses to look towards the church and watches as the streets seem to fill as if the building is emptying further with each chime. “Must be noon.” She sounds returning her gaze to her companion only to watch as a pale hand reaches back towards the hilt of his blade to rock it free with a single click.

“ ‘kenshi-darling?” She sounds but still just continues to watch the man move. The swordsman takes his blade up into his grip and it is held out towards her at length as if extending the tip in her direction. Mist rolls out from behind bared teeth in plumbs when the devil growls. He’s pushing off a foot to take off in a dead lunge in her direction but instead of striking at the object of his absolute hatred, the man of white races past her directly towards that of an older man down the way of the lane of the marketplace and cleaves the poor soul clean in two.

More Mist rolls out from parted pale as his blade is swung to send a flood of white colored energy racing through the stalls like a spark on a wick until it reaches its destination and half the bazaar goes up in a massive explosion. Screams fill the sky as citizens start to scurry and scatter.

“The White Devil!!” They cry. “The White Devil has come for us all!”

Red stains window panes and runs along the cracks of the cobblestone as the carnage continues. The man of snow does not cease his hellsent symphony even as men and women alike fall to their knees to beg for their lives. Their lights are snuffed out regardless. Children struck down with little concern and explosion after explosion brings building of stone tumbling to the ground.

Before long the symphony of sayonara falls silent and the Maestro of the Massacre stands center stage, crimson dripping from the Holy Blade stained with sin once more.

Only one other life remains and a dangerous gaze of dimmed jade is turning to glare daggers at the plant like woman. He’s raising his blade and taking stance to charge her when she merely raises her hand in his direction and snaps her fingers together.

Jade eyes go wide before they start blinking rapidly and soon their owner is looking all around him with horror etching itself into his features. Anger overcomes him as he refocuses on Gaudium’s Lord of Plants and Potions only to scream.

“What did you do?! Answer me! You didn’t have to kill them!”

But he only gets a small laugh in response as she floats over to him to rest just over his shoulders.

“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. You did this, ‘kenshi-baby. This was all your work. You killed them all gracefully and you didn’t leave a single one alive. Truly expert skill.”

“You’re lying!” He hisses as his mind starts to reel at the possibility. Her lungs didn’t sound like she was lying.

“Am I though?” She asks coyly. “Look at your sword.”

And her hand is pointing a finger down causing jade eyes to drop along with it even if he’s scared to do what she’s asking. The Maken is in his hand and it is covered in blood. He’s covered in blood.

His hand is trembling as the Maken is released and a deep guttural scream escapes him from down in his belly as the Holy Blade clatters to the ground. His hands are flying up to slip into white locks in between his horns only for the scream to get louder.

What was going ON?!!!! This wasn’t right!!! He doesn’t remember ANYTHING!!!!

His entire body is shaking as his knees hit the ground. All he can do is scream. He killed these people. He slaughtered an entire town and he doesn’t even know how or why. He can’t remember their faces. He never knew their names. He slaughtered these people and -

Herba is wrapping her arms around his shoulders as she hovers there next to him for the moment, nuzzling her face in close to his own.

“ You did so good today, ‘kenshi-darling. Let’s go home and tell, His Excellency, about what a good job you did. I’m sure he’ll reward you. Oh and !” She’s letting her feet hit the ground to shuffle over to the now destroyed stand of the vendor from earlier that had been selling all sorts of sweet treats and she picks up what appears to be some sort of hard candy on a stick and extends it out to him. “I said I’d get you anything. A treat for doing such a good job.”

But he couldn’t eat anything now. Now it would only taste bitter.

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symphonicsoul · 1 year ago

Text

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ He knew and he didn't know how he was supposed to ignore it. Every day the cracks got wider. Every day the fault lines continued to crawl forward on his chest and slither down his legs like an infection he had no way of ever finding the cure for. It's a cruel sick reality that he's had to come to face each and every time he dares to stand in front of a mirror, disrobed before a bath or catching the sight of his own reflection as he looks just over his shoulder while he changes into his night clothes.

He knows. He knows. He's known.

How do you ignore such a thing as your death stretching out and cracking over your skin? His heart is as shattered as his soul is but hearing it out loud is an all new sense of plunging into an unending purgatory where he's caught between this twisted space between life and death. Not quite dead yet but not quite living anymore either.

He couldn't call himself a ghost anymore even if the only thing his mouth ever did was speak from the graveyard of a lost civilization. It's hard to hear it. It's hard to hear that's no hope for him even if hope was that fickle little thing he only ever dared to pick up from time to time. Hope was a rose he should know better than to touch because while it looks beautiful from afar it pricks him every time.

It pricks him and the blood flows. It pricks him and the tears stream leaving the prince only able to wrap his arms around himself as he crashes to the ground in a weeping mess of shattering stability. He can't keep it up much longer. He doesn't know how much he can keep on the mask of his sanity before he shatters before them all and reveals the fragmented monster that rests just below the surface.

They - they were the only family he had left and he didn't need them to see their prince - their King as such a discomposed wretch as this. He knows Revon will hear the crying in the hallway and he doesn't know how to halt his tears before the man returns to his post. He'd sent him away for only a moment. He'd sent him away to check on the others while he took a moment to change in his nightgown before he would attempt to find rest this evening but seeing the mess that was his body had that little beast's voice echoing in his mind again.

"There's no saving you." He's said as he felt that phantom touch of the poisonous pink python that lives in his mind. Forever haunting his every move. "There's no saving you precious. My beautiful Little Cloud, this is your fault for defying me. Look at what you've done to yourself."

And he couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny that the beast was right. It was his fault for rebelling. His was his fault for daring to snap back at the hand that kept him safe all these years since he crash landed in this world. If you could call that safe. Was it? No. He knew that tortuous environment was anything but -but it was - all he knew since he landed here and if he had just kept his head down and obeyed then -

-then he wouldn't be dying like this. A dying immortal. What a joke!

Even if that little beast is half way on the other side of Wonderland he can see feel hands ghosting over his back as he holds his nightgown close to his chest unable to even get the damned thing on to cover his bear chest. He's a shattering mess and - and - and -

"You know this is all your fault, don't you Little Cloud? I warned you didn't I? I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me again, didn't I, my pet?"

And it's all he can do to stare back at the wretched picture of himself reflecting in the mirror. The warzone walking. Look at the mess he'd turned himself into and his lips finally part as the cries slow and tears silently stream over his face.

"Yes Master. "

“There’s no saving you.”

As his heart shattered so did the strength in his legs sending him collapsing to the ground. Somehow he had known what their answer was going to be and yet he still found himself screaming in anguish.

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purriors · 7 months ago

Note

Flux - A mistake you made that won't let go.

//implied child abuse/neglect

i. i didn't try harder. for her.

if i had been better, more successful, stronger, just more noticeable in any way, would she have noticed me? would she have finally treated me like who i was to her?

i wish i tried harder. i wish i could've gotten her to notice her own fucking child, if i just tried harder if i were more successful if i was a better person, she would've loved me.

#//not a mistake. not really. they think it was a mistake but they're self-blaming.#irl pokemon #pokemon irl #rotomblr #pkmn irl #irl pkmn #tw implied child abuse #//ask to tag

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aleksatia · 4 months ago

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Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

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