#pandora hearts fic

[antihero-writings]

If Everything Breaks

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Summary: Break doesn't like to dance…but maybe just this once || A tale of Break as he grows accustomed to his life with the Rainsworths. My fic for the Chained Pandora Hearts Zine! Written to go alongside @paraffinegg’s art!!

For a while I’ve had some headcanons on how Break picked his new name, and I thought, what better time to write about it than my zine fic!

When Kevin opened his eyes, the light was too bright. No…not eye-s. Just the one. The other’s empty socket throbbed like mad.

As said eye adjusted, vague shapes became clearer: the bed he was on, the tables and chairs around him—(too lavish a room for him)—and finally a person.

“My name...is Alice.” 

He shot up, knocking his head against the headboard.

She laughed...an oddly bright sound.

Framed in sunlight, a woman was smiling at him.

“Where am I?” he demanded, voice hoarse.

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rude to address a duchess’ daughter so informally, you know.”

His eye widened. This unassuming lady was a duchess’ daughter?

“I am Shelly Rainsworth. ...You showed up at our door covered in blood. ...Quite an entrance, I must say.”

The Rainsworths? He searched his brain but couldn’t find record of the name.

“And you are?”

No one had asked his name in a long time. And if he had told them, well…he would’ve had to kill them.

No one had asked his name in a long time. And if he had told them, well…he would’ve had to kill them.

“You killed so many people! What a fool you were!”

Best not pronounce his identity just yet. For her sake.

“You don’t want to tell me.” There was no question, nor distrust there. “That’s fine. But I need something to call you.”

Her smile was not wicked, nor pitying.

It had been a long time since anyone treated him like more than a monster to be feared, or a toy to plucked and prodded—his important parts ripped out; broken like all the promises of a better world—

“...keep breaking just like that…

If all the people break, and the world breaks…

and everyone and everything goes mad…

Then I can be normal...right?”

He looked away, reaching for his left eye, finding bandages and blossoming pain where sight was supposed to be. He grimaced before answering softly:

“Break. Just…Break.”

********

A world bathed in golden light, music coiling in the atmosphere. With its cues feet glided, hands entwined, and dresses fluttered just above the ground like broken butterflies’ wings.

A cacophony of meaningless noise.

It’s all mad. 

Kevin stood by the stairs as if painted there.

It wasn’t that he disliked balls…okay, no, he did; balls, banquets…gatherings of any kind, really. But, this was the Rainsworth’s party, so attendance was mandatory.

Too bright lights, too loud music, gossip picking at his skull, and, well…people. It all blended together to create a painful buzzing in his head.

The crippled butterflies flew in the other direction around their cage.

“Come on, Cheshire, let’s dance!”

The dancing was the worst part. All those moves to remember, so much to get wrong...and for what? A good show? He had no talent for it, but hopping around, without stepping on anyone's toes—a trained monkey to someone else’s tune, and an uncompromising paradigm—held no appeal for him anyways.

Count the seconds. How many left?—

What do I have left to lose?

“Be it my arms, my legs…I grant you whatever your heart desires!

So please…change the past for me!”

Count the steps. Trace the sequence.

So many wasted moments in pursuits of stillborn dreams, the pattern already predetermined.

“It’s that man.” The hiss came from the side of the room.

He knew who they were talking about; whispers were his loyal familiar.

Kevin wasn’t looking, but he could feel her eyes burning holes in him, like she was trying to snuff out a cigarette.

“The one the Rainsworths took in.”

A second burning hole. His thoughts would surely catch fire.

He shut his eye, his knuckles white on the staircase railing.

“Have you seen his eyes?”

He silently refuted her statement: Nope. Just the one, Dear. The other was stolen away. Apparently they’re a precious commodity to little lunatics in the center of the universe.

“I know right? Red.”

Fingers shoved into his eye socket, pain boring through the hole left…

Screaming rending the air—was it his voice? His throat was burning—

“Fu-fu It’s beautiful.”

“They make him so creepy!”

“I still don’t understand why they took him in.”

“Don’t they know how to take out the trash?” Laughter like venom.

He leaned back, putting his hand on his forehead, trying not to let it travel to his socket.

The words wove around his inner works, pulling taut. He tried not to think of death—(theirs, or his own)—as an excuse, or escape. But too often his mind drifted to a darkened room full of coffins, and a little girl begging him to stay.

Was it his fault, then? Was all of this…inevitable?

“Break!”

The word was a crack in reality. Another, better world, reaching out to him.

If there is such a thing.

He looked up, as if at the bottom of a mineshaft, to see Shelly on the staircase above him.

The thing about being in a high position is one gains the luxury of indifference; those in power rarely care for those below them. They can afford not to.

She caught his eye and motioned for him to come up to her.

...The Rainsworths were different.

“Come quickly, there’s a man covered in blood!”

Dare he? Surely he must stay against the wall, he was plastered there after all.

This room shone gold. Yet the Rainsworths were brighter; they were a kind of light those in the room knew nothing of. So bright were they that those in the dark dare not touch them, for fear of being shown in the sun for what they really were.

She put her hands on her hips.

...He dare not disobey.

And what was becoming of him? He didn’t feel brighter since meeting them. What if it was the other way around? With each step closer he swore he could hear the pieces of his shattered heart jangling in his chest, and wondered if instead he’d leave them all bleeding on those sharp edges.

A blur went by, closely followed with—

“Dance with me, Reim!” Little Sharon came pelting after.

Reim hid behind Sheryl’s chair on the floor below, and Rufus proceeded to scold them.

Laughter like sunshine breaking after rain.

He looked at Shelly, who raised an eyebrow.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in perhaps…ever.”

He was smiling? Better wipe it off.

“So…something tells me you don’t feel like dancing.”

“I never cared for it, Shelly-sama.”

“Let’s see, you don’t care for;”—She counted on her fingers—“people talking to you, people looking at you, people…aaand dancing now.”

He rolled his eye. “I mean it. I really can’t.”

“What do you say to a lesson?” She held out her hand.

He stumbled back.

Was this some punishment? He tried to think of anything he’d done to deserve this.

“It would disgrace a lady such as yourself to be seen dancing with a servant.”

“We could use a good scandal.”

“I—” he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d step on your toes.” He was running out of excuses.

“I don’t doubt it.”

What wasn’t she getting about this?

Shelly bounced her hand persistently.

No. He couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Dare touch her. Surely he’d infect her. Why was she bothering with him? Pestering him, like she always did. Like everyone always did. Treating him like a lost puppy, when they should just leave him in the rain to die.

The request was soft: “Please dance with me, Xerxes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “…What did you call me?”

He never spoke of his past, but he knew those whispers, ever at his heel, were indication enough of something dark in his ill-conceived adulthood.

“Well, I figured if you’re keeping a fake name, you’ll need a second. Or, in this case a first—Break sounds better as a surname, don’t you think? And I thought Xerxes was rather fitting.”

“How?” He snorted. “Isn’t it a name for ancient kings and heroes? I fail to see how I fit that.”

How could a knight wear the name of a king? How could a villain bear the name of a hero?

“That’s why I picked it.”

He backed up, his eye widening.

He didn’t understand what she was, or why she ever spoke to him. All that light was sickening...yet…

This woman saw him, not as a monster, or a toy…but as some sort of hero. How was that possible?

The name didn’t fit right. But she smiled at him, and though the light was sickening... it was oddly warm.

“Break might not like to dance, but tonight we are not Break and Shelly. I am the Queen of Hearts, and you are my Mad Hatter.”

“...Who said I was mad?”

She grinned.

“You must be, or you wouldn’t have come here.”

He could choose to turn away, leave this place, believe the whispers snaking through him. Reject the name, her kindness, her light.

He sighed, averted his eye—

Just this one. 

And took her hand.

[okamigamer1]

Happy Holidays and Pandora Hearts Exchange time @daisyachain I was your gift partner for the exchange! I wrote some Elleo Elliot trying to confess to Leo fluff and angst for you ✨️

And thanks so much to @i-prefer-the-term-antihero for organizing the exchange 💕

[lulublack90]

Prompt 4 - Sign

@jegulus-microfic December 4, Word count 173

Previous part First part

“Why is Potter staring at you?” Barty asked as he dolloped rice pudding into his bowl along with an obscene amount of raspberry jam. 

“How the hell would I know?” Regulus sniped back at his friend. Barty pulled a face at him and went back to swirling the jam into his rice pudding. 

Once Barty was occupied again, Regulus scanned the Gryffindor table and locked eyes with James again. It was like they just knew when the other was looking over. It was uncanny. 

His heart thudded in his chest as he stared into hazel eyes. That had to be a bad sign, an omen. He shook his head and looked away. There wasn’t a single chance that he would ever fall for his brother's surrogate brother. No, not a single one. 

“James Potter’s staring at you,” Pandora told him in her airy soft voice as she squeezed herself in between Regulus and Barty. 

“Yes, thank you, Pandora, I am aware,” Regulus grumbled, his eyes flicking up again and catching James’s. Damn it.

Next part

[lafamilledelioncourt]

✨don't touch my babies✨

[longlivethewhump]

5 whump fics I highly recommend

If you like whump without a whumper, I'm sure you will enjoy these fics.

Attack on Titans

beyond the walls (written by Federtanz, link here, one-shot) : if you are craving for levi whump then read this one. He's suffering (a lot) from broken ribs during all of the story.

Fullmetal Alchemist

Crash (written by Sevlow, link here , one-shot). Ed and Roy are caught in a car accident. Roy is gravely wounded and ouch, this must hurt like hell.

One Piece

Spots of the Leopard (written by Eilike, link here, 3 chapters) : there's a very interesting flashback of Sanji suffering from broken ribs after his fight at the Baratie. What a shame he didn't have a scratch in the manga !

D. Gray-Man

Breaking Point (written by Fortune Maiden, link here, one-shot). This is about our poor Lavi being tortured, and the way his health is slowly deteriorating.

Pandora Hearts

00:00 surgery (written by Katy Starcatcher , link here, one-shot) : Break has to endure a painful surgery without anesthesia. TW this one is a little bit gory.

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

Thank you sooo much everyone for following me ! I love sharing stuff with you and the whump community is wonderful. When I was young I used to think I was insane for liking whump and I was ashamed of it. But now I know it's totally okay and that I'm not alone!

[lordsardine]

.

[sainz100]

upcoming Carlos x chess content soon ❤️♟️✨

[sunsetsmakemesad]

Last day🥲

[notxjustxstories]

oc pride challenge 2023 ↬ tropes week ↬ cast full of gay

tag list: @witchofinterest, @megdonnellys, @foxesandmagic, @villanele, @sunlitscribe, @arrthurpendragon, @pinkykitten, @bravelittleflower, @ochub, @anotherunreadblog, @valdrinors, @eddysocs, @ocappreciationtag, @stareyedplanet, @superspookyjanelle, @reggiemantleholdmyhand-tle, @raith-way, @noratilney, @richitozier, @wordspin-shares

[crazymecjc]

every day I am haunted by the fact that we know next to nothing about what happened in the ten years between oz getting thrown into the abyss and the beginning of actual plot. there’s lore in there!! there’s soup!!! Give It To Me!!!!!!!!

[antihero-writings]

The Uninvitation

Fandom: Pandora Hearts

Summary: Shelly's funeral was very nice. Everyone said so. Break isn't so sure. As he stands at her grave, an unwelcome visitor shows up. Written for the Pandora Hearts Month 2023 Prompt: "Grave."

It was a very nice funeral. Everyone said so.

As if funerals can be nice.

Sure, the sun was shining, the snow was sparkling. Maybe that made it nice. But should the “niceness” of funeral be measured in the kindness of the weather, and the youth of the flowers?

Then again, of course it was nice; Sheryl had spared no expense; the ceremony, the food, the flowers, the decorations were each extravagant in their own ways. Shelly surely wouldn’t have cared about pomp and circumstance, but nice plates and vases were all Sheryl had, so the rest of them weren’t about to stop her.

Sheryl always stood tall, but one day Break found her hunched over Shelly’s things, holding tight to one of her dresses, smiling softly, weeping. When he sat beside her, even though he didn’t ask, she told stories of when she was a child, murmuring old proverbs about how mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters.

So, no. They weren’t going to stop her.

And as she sat telling him stories, she had had the audacity to pause, look up, and ask, “Xerkkun, how are you faring?”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me, Sheryl-sama.” in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

Even though they both knew she had more than one reason to worry.

On a normal day, she would have pressed him on the matter. That day, she nodded, and looked away. They both knew talking about it would only be the hammer that smashed their fragile forms into bits.

How was that ‘nice’?

…Then again, of course it was nice; Reim had insisted on organizing it, he and Rufus shouldering as many of Sheryl’s burdens as they could, (though she still insisted on carrying more than her fair share). Rufus could be heard barking about how the roses were supposed to be red, and how the table was supposed to go over there, and the banners were all misaligned…

Break would never admit it, but he was grateful.

Then again, of course it was nice: the speeches everyone gave were full of the prettiest words.

The officiant said some generic adage about the Abyss one always hears at these things, and how she would be back to this world before long, which made everyone put their hand over their heart, and their kerchief at their eyes.

Sheryl told stories about when Shelly was a child, and liked to steal her shoes, and when she was an adult and liked to steal her duties, interrupted by those proverbs she iterated earlier, until Rufus had to take her, sobbing, off the stage.

Even Rufus, with his flowery, old words made a speech that was nice enough. Break had rolled his eyes about his turns of phrase, and profuse tears, but…even then.

It was nice.

Sharon told them all she wanted to say something, and they feared she wouldn’t get beyond the first sentence. They feared this was too much weight to put on a little girl who had lost her mother, even if she willingly took the weight on herself. But she stood tall at that podium, and voiced her speech and her stories with pride and eyes that shone with both joy and sorrow, and the crowd breathed a sigh, knowing she was far braver than they realized.

She’d make a wonderful duchess some day.

And yes, Break couldn’t deny, that was altogether nice.

They even asked Break if he wanted to say something. And maybe he did—he wouldn’t start sobbing halfway through—but…somehow he knew, if he started speaking about the woman who saved his life in more ways than one, then the words just might gush out of him until he was yelling, and cursing, and laughing like a madman. So he said something about how it would be ridiculous for a servant to speak at a noblewoman’s funeral, and bit his tongue.

He laughed to keep from crying, and he was sure they thought he was crazy. And maybe he was. He had never been someone particularly likable at first glance, and had heard gossip for a long time—about red eyes, bloodstained pasts, and underseved blessings—and wasn’t about to start caring what the world thought now.

He didn’t cry. No one would fault him if he did—it was a funeral after all. Still, he didn’t intend to.

Maybe that made him strong. And maybe that made him afraid.

Afraid he’d live up to his name.

Maybe it was something about caring. Crying meant showing he cared, cared a lot, cared too much. And caring meant losing. And crying meant a little girl and coffins and snow and “Don’t leave me!” and “Do you want to change the past?”  and “They were the most important people to you, and you couldn’t save them.”

And that wasn’t very nice to think about.

He always carried candy in his pockets, and the funeral was no exception. Some people probably thought he was insensitive, but it was all he could do to keep from biting his tongue until blood was all he could taste.

They were all fakes anyway. He didn’t want to waste his words or his tears on them.

Maybe the ‘niceness’ of a funeral is measured in how much sobbing one can hear. True, there was rather a lot of it. Even if they didn’t know her, and were only crying on general principle, rather than any specific memories, and later they would go about their days with dry eyes, and forget the nice funeral, and the nice woman.

Did that still count as nice?

The Nightrays were there; Gilbert had said he was sorry (sounding as if he thought it was his fault) and he meant it. Vincent, toeing the ground and playing with his hair, said it was all very sad, and hadn’t meant even that. (And Break would have done something violent and stupid if it wouldn’t have caused a scene). The other Nightray siblings bowed, and respectfully offered his condolences. The Vessalius’s were there too, or at least what was left of them. Oscar had tried to make them all feel better with words of encouragement, and beverages to cleanse the soul, and Ada had bawled, even though they never met.

Sure. Maybe that was nice.

Shelly was a ‘Kind girl.’ A ‘Strong woman.’ A ‘Wonderful duchess.’

Maybe that’s why they thought it was nice; they all had very fond memories of the woman who was nice.

They didn’t even know the half of it. The sunlight, the, smiles, the salvation.

He opened the box, and she was waiting for him there at the bottom.

What happens when she fades into he wind too, like all the shadows?

Despite the strength in her speech, Sharon had wept silently into his coat. He ran his hands through her hair softly, all the while praying this nice funeral would end soon.

And even then, even when she had been crying so much, for so long, even then she had the strength to stand up straight, to give sorrowful smiles, and bittersweet words to all the porcelain nobles who told her how sorry they were, what a shame, and what a nice funeral it was, and if she needed anything, don’t hesitate to send for them.

Well, she definitely had her mother in her.

Three queens on the chess board. How did he end up with them?

They all offered their condolences. With fake words, and fake sympathy, and fake offers to help.

They didn’t really know her.

As the funeral ended, Reim asked Break if he wanted a drink. It was appealing to have a quiet drink with a friend, who knew Shelly, and knew him, and wouldn’t fill the air with empty platitudes. But, if there were ever a day he wished he could drink to forget, it was today. So he laughed and said he was thinking of staying and talking to her for a while. But he knew his laugh didn’t sound quite right.

Reim nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away.

Break decided to stay. To stay, and talk, alone (at last, alone,) to her grave. His words weren’t for the masses…but he’d spare a few for a stone.

When he finally stood alone memories—the good, the bad, and the beautiful—came like a flood, and he found himself at a loss for what to say. All the ‘Thank you’ and ‘I’ll miss you’s seemed worthless in the face of a name and a date on a headstone. The end of a life.

Is that all a life is? Some wordy flowers, some flowery words, a tear or two, a date on a headstone, and a nice funeral?

The last time he stood at a headstone everything was wrong with the world. Grief wasn’t a heavy, sad thing. It was a writhing, hot, angry thing. It came with a desire for vengeance, not against those who took them, but against time. And maybe, today, after the forward march, time was still unjust tyrant, and still needed a sword run through him. Or maybe Shelly lived the best life she could, and she wouldn’t want him to to be mad—in emotion or in mind .Would rather he hold flowers than a blade.

He still had the sword beside him. Just in case time came knocking.

And standing here, trying to think of what to say, and how to say it, his eyes stung with water. He sat there silently thinking until the silence filled up his lungs.

Today, grief was a heavy, sad thing.

And in this moment, alone, at the grave

Reality broke.

It cracked, and the pieces fell. Were stolen away. Something bore into it, and two red eyes shone through the hole.

“Do you want to change the past?” Asked the shadows in a deep, discordant voice.

And Break paused, eye widening, the red shimmering, swimming in itself.

See? Crying meant the Abyss.

Then…a smile crept onto his face. A spreading, stretching, stained, disdainful thing.

“Where might you be from?” He asked in the most nonchalant voice he could manage.

“I’ve come from the Abyss to help you. I can change your past, if you let me.”

Break looked down, still smiling, scoffing. “That would be a lovely thing, wouldn’t it?” He chuckled. “Make it so she didn’t have to die. Not that day at least.”

The hole grew bigger, pieces of reality falling off.

“Maybe,” Break continued, looking at the ground, “there’s another strand of time in which everything's alright."

“Yes, yes, exactly! I think we can help each other!”

A hand reached out of the hole. Cotton and lies.

“Maybe.”

Crying meant the Abyss.

And caring meant “Promise me you will keep living your life with everything you have until the very end.”

His staff clicked.

“Or maybe you're ruining a perfectly nice funeral." He chuckled. "You should find a better source of sustenance than human souls."

When he turned around to head back inside, reality refused, and only ash remained.

[pyrriax]

hi tumblr im pyrr pyrriax and im in my trimonthly artist arc, lord help me and all the projects that are currently sitting in my drafts while i am lured in by the siren song of drawing

[hes-a-tough-kid]

I’m lost…

[okamigamer1]

Happy Pandora Hearts Secret Santa Exchange Holiday time!

@lana7779 I was your exchange partner and I wrote Break x Gilbert modern day established relationship fluff fic! I hope you enjoy it💚❤️🎄 Merry Pandora Hearts 😁

@i-prefer-the-term-antihero

[cinammonelles]

Remember when i said i was gonna be more insane abt pandora hearts?

Yeah, this is the result. Enjoy <3

Summary:

Jack Vessalius was like a perfectly still body of water. Unchanging, serene, picturesque. Like the calm before a storm. No one knew what lay under that calm, unruffled exterior that gave away nothing. He was but an apparition. A shell of a human being, like they say. A shell that was given a name by a little girl one snowy day.

[fivekrystalpetals]

Doing this ship meme for the ship I am currently absolutely obsessed with 👍

(x)