#implied abduction

[whumblr]

Rise and shine

On how to get your Whumpee fully awake and ready for the day!

With a splash of (icy) water

Random acts of violence

Spooning :3 (arms tightening around them when they try to move)

Caretaker screaming

Gunshot :))

Tasing

Gradually choking

Delicious breakfast smells (that they aren't allowed to have)

Phone call (when they're not yet in captivity, they answer groggily and fly awake at the sound of a familiar voice)

Followed up another morning by: Kidnapping

Dragging them out of bed by the ankle, throat, hair, whatever

A slap

Gentle words, soft threats, promises about things that will happen to them today

Crack of the whip >:D

Or just don't. Let them sleep in and punish them for being late

[niconebula]

Okay, I really want Watching and Dreaming to include in it's themes a conversation about The Collector's immortality and King's self professed semi-immortality. The big elephant in the room is that King is eventually going to outlive all of his family and friends dozens of times over. He starts implying that they have this kind of connection and understanding to Eda, but we haven't seen it play out yet. This is the reason it's important to set him and the Collector up as the genuine best friends I'm sure they will start (slowly) becoming by the end of the series.

I find TOH to be a death and naturality positive show. Caleb will never actually speak from his grave to Belos, there's no communicating with the dead and any attempt at a reversal of the natural cycle, like Belos re-animating tons of Grimwalkers, is obviously framed as being bad. I could make a whole post just on this topic. It's also why I'm not completely on board with the guy from the in-between being THE titan himself.

It's been said by Dana that The Collectors are all about being unnatural, resisting change, and preserving time. They collect so that things may never fade, and the Titans were in direct opposition to this in their creating of new, different life through death. Therefore, I'd like them to tackle the theme head on with King opening up about his existential dread and uncertainties. One of my fears ever since the big reveal was that they were going to find some magical way to change King into a mortal being so that he could be with his family in a 'normal' way. This would be a bad move for a lot of reasons; primarily that it blows a hole in the legacy he carries as the last Titan and representative of his people. Though it might be comforting to him to live the life he originally expected, it would take away his unique identity. With the Collector, a lot of theories hinge upon his magic being drained in some kind of way, making him into a normal mortal child as a solution to his problems. I'll be really disappointed if this happens. I'm not against them preserving a large part of his magic somehow in an amulet to allow them to access it once they come of age and maturity (incredibly specific because this is my idea right now). But anything further would be taking away their identity as well as making King once again alone by the time the Clawthornes die (again unless they do it to him too.. it would be bad though).

Both being the only one of their species remaining from the war (though there may be more Collectors further out there), their reconciliation is an incredibly strong theme. And for King to know that he's not alone in trying to accept his history and Titan-hood, and everything that entails. I'm also just incredibly curious about the kinds of things they would get up to in the farther future including some inter-dimensional or worldly travel and for King the rebuilding of the Titan species; a lore topic for another day but I tend to think King only having a dad is quite literal in that Titans are a 'male' only species and reproduce in a kind of magical asexual way.

[ilikedetectives]

*Act 3 Minthara spoilers* So in this scene if you have Yenna in your camp and Orin abducts Minthara, we got a little more info about Minthara's past in Menzoberranzan.

"Not the first. I killed my sister in her crib to secure my inheritance."

The more I learn about her upbringing the more I'm deeper into Minthara brainrot.

[no1ryomafan]

Was showing my irls ZXA cause I had shown ZX off before and it was already a trip-my tv fucking broke but that’s a different story-since I haven’t seen the cutscenes in FOREVER but I realized a detail I don’t know how I missed even if no one mentioned it:

There are multiple capsules in Greys room laying face up and the glass is broken, and given Pandora said Grey was going through the mind control sequence, this all but fully confirms the evil mega men we see using the guardian biometals are under mind control and awoke out of these capsules before Grey.

This is information I don’t know how to fucking process.

[necros-writing-stuff]

SERIAL KILLER EDEN WHO KEEPS YOU ON A LEASH AND NAKED ALL THE TIME! For anyone else curious, this came from a discussion Necro and I were having on making Eden worse lol

Okay okay what about him trailing his hunting knife up your bare thigh while he looks over you, a dark glint in his eye. You can't pull back any further, pressed against the cold hard wall of the cabin, a heavy weight around your neck as you try not to panic. Even though this could be the moment where he finally gets rid of you. Where he gets bored of his plaything and buries you beneath his gardening plot.

It never comes, though. You're stuck being pulled around by him for months - or neatly chained up when he hunts alone. You used to flinch every time you heard a scream in the forest, knowing the hunter's axe had found a new target. You used to feel queasy eating any of the food, unsure of where the meat came from. You used to sob and beg when he'd pry your legs apart, eager to use you. Used to.

It was a numb feeling for a long while. Counting to 5 over and over again in your head, congratulating yourself for getting through the last 5 seconds and hoping you'd get through the next. A sense of routine has settled in, though. A sense of comfort and belonging that should never have existed.

The soles of your feet have become rough, no longer aching as you walk around the cabin or the rocks around the spring.

When Eden presses himself against your back, his hand worming its way between your thighs, you spread your legs further apart without thinking and grind against his fingers with a sigh.

When Eden pulls you into his lap and keeps your face against his chest, the tang of copper staining his clothes doesn't make you upset anymore. Instead, you snuggle in closer, feeling appreciative of the warmth he provides your nude body.

When a gunshot rings out in the forest beyond the clearing, you continue about your set tasks while paying them no regard beyond wandering if Eden will bring you a blood-soaked ring or necklace to wear.

The temperature falls as winter rears its ugly head. You're begging Eden to relax more as he ups his workload to prepare for the snowy months, desperate for the warmth he provides. You push too far sometimes, being put over his lap and spanked until you apologise good enough for him.

You've accepted that you'll have to grit your teeth and suffer the cold, doing as you're told and keeping your home clean. Keeping Eden happy.

Until he opens his closet one night, the old hinges creaking as he rifles through the bottom while you clean the dishes from dinner. Your teeth chatter as you work, determined to keep moving to stay warm until you can get in front of the fire and bask in the flames on your husband's lap.

The soft feeling of fabric draping over your shoulders halts your movement as your head whips around. A fur coat. Big on you, but small for Eden, you think.

"One of the first I ever made," he mumbles as he does up a button on the front. "I was much skinnier back then. Wasn't eating a lot. Hadn't learned to hunt properly. This was the first bear I'd ever brought down."

He kisses the top of your head as you thank him with a genuine smile, burrowing into the warmth. Your turn in his embrace, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down for a kiss. That sense of belonging feels heavy in your heart. Even when you tut after bringing your hand away, finding a drop of red on your fingertip.

"You missed a spot," you chide as you pick up the washcloth and wipe the blood from his neck. It's a miracle he gets by without you, honestly. It's a miracle that you don't find fear knowing where the blood came from.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

My time has come!

A writing request! Could be OCs or generic whump, whichever you're more comfortable with!

Whumpee and Caretaker got into a bad argument, and Whumpee leaves. Caretaker left them alone for a few days until they learned that Whumpee has been kidnapped and being held as bait for them. Despite the fight and the fact it was a trap, they rescued Whumpee from their kidnappers. Cue apologies and hurt/comfort ❤️

Thank you so much for the request! (Rules here)

It took me about two weeks but I managed to get 3600 words out of this prompt, and I chose to go with the Gunblade Duo (Draven and Octavian). I had a lot of fun with this, enjoy! :D

CW: swearing, blood, guns, concussion, passing out, tied up, knife wounds, implied mauling, abduction, referenced abduction, arguing, death, alcohol

A/N: This takes place during The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure and is not canon to the story. There is some reference to the events leading up to this one-shot, and implied reference to the events of The Watcher and the Thief. None of that is relevant for reading and enjoying the story :)

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @pigeonwhumps

The trek back through Zariya was even more tense than the initial trip. Octavian must’ve sensed Draven’s displeasure. He was silent for much of the journey, only speaking to point out notable sounds and scents. Draven should’ve offered thanks. It was what a decent person would have done, considering any of the people they avoided due to Octavian’s warnings could have had ill intentions.

Draven, however, wasn’t in the mood to be a decent person.

“I apologize that the party was a bust,” Octavian finally said. They were drawing close to the safe house where the devar and Reese were staying until Draven felt it was safe for them. Octavian was, for some reason, even more paranoid than Draven about keeping the kid safe, so even if Draven decided the search for her had subsided, they might still be stuck with her for a while yet.

“You don’t sound very sorry,” Draven muttered as they rounded a corner, dodging around the pool of light illuminated by a nearby street lamp. The party had been his idea; to draw out some of the higher-profile targets the evening before a full moon. The smart ones would decline. The foolish ones would accept and try to depart early.

Unfortunately, only one of them was clever enough to avoid the party. Of the ones who attended, only one tried to leave early. And that was because she hated staying around the crowd of partygoers for too long.

“Personally, I don’t see it as a total loss.”

Draven exhaled sharply. “Really? How so?” When they’d returned to the party, he’d been pissed to discover that two of the attending targets had slipped out while they were distracted with the noblewoman. This little piece of information had turned one confirmed suspect into three.  Three more lycanthropes they had to track down. Draven was beginning to get sick of the whole thing. But money was money, and he was getting paid a lot of money.

Octavian indicated a pair of figures ahead of them on the street, and they ducked into an adjoining alley. “I spoke with a former Draigo contact. Most of the human confidants were never made public, we’re lucky I recognized him from a previous mission.”

Yeah. We. “And?”

“He all but confirmed what I already suspected. The stronghold in the south burned down before the plague claimed its first victims. It was unrelated.”

“And this is relevant because…?” They emerged from the alley. Draven quickly glanced around before turning south. Almost there.

Octavian hesitated. “I… it means that I can trust my memories from right before… you know….”

Draven rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Are you still annoyed that those targets got away from us?”

“Of course I’m annoyed!” Draven snapped, stopping in his tracks. “More than annoyed, I’m fucking furious! The plan was to eliminate four difficult targets from my list, not one!” He folded his arms, glaring at Octavian. “And your ‘relevant’ information was all but useless. It was a complete dead-end, and the cost is definitely coming out of my pay, and—”

Octavian hissed through his teeth sharply. “Of course it all comes down to money for you. Typical.”

Draven folded his arms, hands clenched into fists. “At least I’m not the one in denial about the greatest tragedy in the last decade!”

Octavian’s mouth snapped shut, and his expression changed from mild annoyance to barely concealed rage. If looks could kill, Draven would be six feet under and decomposing. “I can see myself to the safe house.” He finally spit out through gritted teeth, “Good night, Cozenson.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, quickly melting into the shadows between the buildings. Draven gritted his teeth and walked in the opposite direction. He needed a drink.

- - - - -

Of course it all comes down to money for you.

Typical.

Draven knocked back the remnants of his drink. The alcohol did little to numb the shame that curled around his mind, threatening to pull him under. He slammed the shot glass on the counter, causing the other empty glasses to rattle. Since when did he care about what de Silv thought... of all people! 

A few feet away, the bartender of the random tavern Draven had stormed into eyed him with a questioning look. Draven waved him off. “I’m done for the night, I’ll settle my tab now.”

He fumbled with the strings on his coin purse with numb fingers, growing more annoyed by the second. Drinking away his frustrations had never worked in the past. Why would it this time? And now he was guaranteed a hangover in the morning. 

This was all de Silv’s fault.

The door to the tavern opened, and several pairs of feet stomped on the wooden floor. A bit late for a party. Draven finished paying for the drinks, frowning as the bartender grabbed the money with a fearful expression on his face and quickly ducked into the kitchen. As he turned to leave, he found a group of five well-armed men, all wearing identical black metal masks, standing behind him. “I was just leaving,” he said, moving to walk around them.

The group moved with him, keeping between him and the door. “Look,” Draven snapped, words slurred from the alcohol, “As much as I’d love to settle whatever score you got with me, I’m surprisingly not in the mood. So if you could just get out of my way and we could go on with our merry lives….”

No response. All five men stared at him in silence. Well, he assumed they were staring at him. He couldn’t tell, what with the masks completely obscuring their faces.

“‘Kay,” Draven muttered, reaching for his pistol, “I did warn you.”

His attackers sprang into action, surrounding him on all sides. But Draven only focused on the one directly in front of him.

Crack! Cra—!

He only got to aim one shot before he was tackled from the side. Even with unsteady hands, his aim was true, and he earned a cry of pain and a spray of blood for his efforts. The second shot went wide, the bullet embedding itself in the far wall. Draven stumbled sideways as his assailant tried to wrestle the gun away from him, the other three advancing.

Temporarily freeing his gun arm, Draven slammed the butt of the pistol against the side of his attacker’s head and pressed the business end against the bare skin of his neck. The other man stumbled back, one hand clutching his head, the other pressed against the burn caused by the hot metal.

Draven whirled around and almost fell over as the world continued to spin. He swore and drew his other pistol, blindly firing with his non-dominant hand as he stumbled backward towards the door. He didn’t notice the movement behind him until it was too late.

Thud.

Pain exploded in Draven’s head. The force of whatever had hit him sent him to the floor, his weapons falling from numb fingers and clattering out of reach. What…?

What… in the depths…?

Strong hands seized him and began to drag him away. Draven watched through half-open eyes as one of the remaining masked men picked up his pistols. Darkness bled into the edges of his vision.

They… they don’t want me dead…?

That… that’s not…

…not good…

…fuck…

…

- - - - -

Octavian dealt with his anger in the only way he knew how: sharpening his knives. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized, especially since he officially started working with Draven. It wasn’t just anger that prompted him to do something repetitive like knife sharpening, it was also worry, and stress. Both were also incredibly prominent in his life.

As a result, they had become incredibly sharp over the last couple of years. So sharp Octavian didn’t notice he had cut his hand until Reese pointed it out. “You’re, uh, bleeding.”

His jaw clenched as he carefully set the offending weapon aside and accepted the handkerchief she handed him. “I must’ve been more distracted than I thought,” he muttered, wiping away the pale red liquid from the cut. It wasn’t deep, thankfully, but it was long, cutting along the side of his left pointer finger.

Octavian stared at the cut, watching the blood drip down his hand in morbid fascination. At least I’m not the one in denial about the greatest tragedy in the last decade! Even if the words had come from a place of emotion, intending to hurt, he couldn’t deny the truth behind them. Call it optimism, call it hope, it was all the same.

Denial.

He pressed the cloth against the cut as Reese returned—when had she left?—with one of Draven’s spare bags. She handed Octavian the augri and bandages before sitting down next to him. She picked up the knife, still wet with his blood.

“…It’s been three days.”

Octavian hissed out through his teeth. The clear liquid was cold against his skin but searing hot like fire on the wound. Three days since the party, yes. Three days since we last parted, yes. “And?”

Reese carefully cleaned the blood off the edge of the weapon. The edges of the bandages on her forearms peeked out from underneath her sleeves. Her own wounds were healing, but they still needed to be covered. In a couple more days, she wouldn’t need the bandages. “I just… three days… is kind of a long time… to be left alone…?”

“You’re worried about Cozenson.”

She nodded.

Octavian sighed through his nose as he wrapped a thin strip of cloth around his finger. “He can handle himself.”

Her jaw tightened, and she hesitated before speaking. “You’re still angry with him.”

Octavian made a noise of indifference.

“So… so you don’t think any one of his enemies might have gotten him? You’re not worried at all?”

He opened his mouth to argue that no, he wasn’t worried, and if the hunter had gotten himself into some sort of mess he could very well get himself out of it, but the look on Reese’s face made him reconsider his words. He exhaled slowly and held out his hand. She handed over the knife, and he slid it into his sheath.

The truth? Octavian was concerned, now that Reese had brought it up, that Cozenson had left him alone for so long. Granted, Octavian hadn’t gone out to meet him at the guild over the past three days, but even so, Draven barely went a day without checking up on Reese. He pretended otherwise, but he was as interested in the girl’s safety as Octavian was.

“If it’ll make you feel better,” he began, rising to his feet, “I’ll go check up on him.”

Reese jumped up and thrust the bag at him. “Here. You might need it.”

Octavian nodded and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. You know the rules.”

She all but shoved him towards the door, bolting it behind him as soon as it was closed. Octavian wasted no time setting off northeast, towards the Hunter’s Guild. He would ask around there first. And if nobody knew where Cozenson was, the next step would be breaking into his apartment.

And if the apartment offered no clues? Octavian brushed the thought aside as he turned up his hood to hide the tell-tale silver of his hair. It was early morning, and few people were nearby, but he didn’t want to risk running into Reese’s abductors, who were no doubt on the lookout for him. He still received odd looks from passersby, but it was better than nothing.

He wasn’t a skilled tracker for nothing. But he’d rather not have to go that far. A trail three days cold was going to be a nightmare to follow.

Octavian had only just gotten into the northern district of Zariya when he was approached by a familiar face. Thaddeus Kaneson? Octavian had worked with him briefly back when he first joined the Hunter’s Guild. As far as he was aware, Thaddeus would have no reason to know about his and Draven’s current job. Their partnership, maybe. Why is he here?

“De Silv,” the hunter greeted softly, joining him.

“Kaneson,” Octavian replied, not slowing his pace, “I thought you were in Caenum.”

Thaddeus shrugged. “I was. Got called back.”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

“No, it’s not.” Thaddeus stopped and pulled out a sealed envelope from a hidden pocket on his duster. “This was dropped off late last night. Nobody saw who did it.” He held it out. “It’s for you. I got the short straw of trying to deliver it. Glad I found you quickly.”

Octavian hesitantly took it. His name was scrawled on the front with thick, dark letters. Thaddeus turned to leave, but Octavian touched his arm, stopping him. “Have you seen Cozenson? Within the last couple of days?”

The hunter paused, thinking. “Can’t say I have,” he said, cracking a grin. “Why, did you lose your partner?”

Octavian sighed. “I’m concerned that he might have gotten himself into a situation that I will need to rescue him from before he gets himself killed.”

Thaddeus’ grin grew wider. “Celestials, you did lose him! Well, if I find him before you do, you’ll owe me drinks at the Laughing Bear.”

“I highly doubt that will happen, Kaneson.”

Thaddeus turned away, chuckling. “We’ll see about that, de Silv.”

Octavian let him go, fiddling with the envelope until the hunter was out of sight. Shaking his head, he ducked into the shelter of a nearby alley and turned it over. He ran a finger over the wax seal. Unbroken, but he knew there were ways to open it without damaging the seal. No design was imprinted on the dark red wax, the color oddly similar to human blood. Either no signet or the person who’d sent the letter did not want to be known.

Octavian’s suspicions grew as he broke the seal and pulled out the letter. One page, same messy lettering.

We have your partner. If you do not turn over Reese Takari, we will kill him. You have one week.

The paper crinkled under the force of Octavian’s grip, but he didn’t care. It was dated the night of the last full moon, three days before, with an address scrawled below the note. No signature, but he didn’t need it to guess who had sent it.

And he’d rather be damned to the depths than give Reese’s abductors what they wanted.

- - - - -

“I think I finally figured out what your mask reminds me of.”

The guard who had been assigned to watch Draven did not obviously react, but Draven noted the way his jaw visibly tightened under the stupid metal face mask.

Draven smirked despite the pounding in his head and the aching in his joints from being tied to the chair for so long. “Your mask specifically looks like a little obedient watchdog. One who only knows how to follow the orders of someone who’s done nothing but bitch at you.”

The guard, celestials bless his patience, remained motionless, holding his handgun, as he stood about as far as he could get from his charge without leaving the small, windowless room where Draven was kept. He had originally been in the main area of the random warehouse in the merchant district, but with the front door right there, he couldn’t help but almost escape twice. Now, he was about as far away from the door as he could get, though there were plenty of windows just outside the room.

“Personally,” Draven continued, “I don’t see why your boss—whoever the depths that might be—makes you wear those stupid masks. It’s not like I couldn’t identify you by the way you stand or anything.”

The guard’s knuckles turned white as he resisted the temptation to strike Draven across the face. Or at least that’s why Draven assumed he was gripping his weapon with such strength. Any more force and the gun would probably snap in half.

“So… when did your boss say the time limit was again? Three days left, now? I have a job to get back to.”

No response.

Dammit. Worth a shot.

Draven sighed and ran his fingers along the ropes tied around his wrists for the hundredth time since he’d been bound there after the second escape. Both of the knives hidden in his sleeves had gotten confiscated, all he had left was the one in his boot. Which was currently out of reach.

Not that it would do him much good at this point. With the one guard between him and the only exit, and at least two more standing outside between the door and the nearest windows, he wasn’t getting very far. They might actually shoot him this time if only to keep him from attempting escape with a more permanent solution.

Draven opened his mouth to ask another question, but before the words left his lips, the sound of shattering glass pierced the air. The guard jumped, startled, and darted out the door. Draven cocked his head, listening as chaos reigned. Screaming, shouting, gunshots, and running footsteps as his captors tried to contain whatever had gotten inside.

The person in charge, who wore an identical black metal mask with a single gold stripe across where the forehead would be, had claimed they could handle Draven’s partner if he chose to fight his way through. “De Silv would have no choice but to accept,” he’d gloated, “I have thirty men armed to the teeth. What does a single hunter have against that?”

Besides, Octavian had no reason to risk the kid for Draven. 

Why would he, after what Draven had said to him? 

If Draven were in his position, he would have just left him and gotten himself and Reese out of Zariya days ago while her abductors waited in vain.

Just as the thought crossed Draven’s mind, a familiar face appeared in the doorway. “Cozenson,” Octavian said in greeting. He was covered in human blood, the dark red liquid dripping from his knives and smeared on his face and clothing.

“De Silv,” Draven returned slowly.

“Surprised to see me?”

He sighed. “A little bit, yeah.”

Octavian casually tossed one of his knives into the air and caught it deftly. “I couldn’t just leave you to die at the hands of these masked imbeciles. I’m not you.”

The last sentence was unspoken, but the look on Octavian’s face implied it well enough. Draven opened his mouth to argue, to deny, but he hesitated. Octavian would know it was a lie. “Look,” he said, after a moment of thought, “I’m sorry. For what I said to you. I wasn’t being fair.”

The look of pure shock on Octavian’s face was priceless. “I….”

“I know, I’m apologizing. Big shocker.” Draven jerked his head to the side, indicating the ropes binding him to the chair. “Could you let me out? My hands are getting numb.”

Octavian blinked and slowly nodded. He crossed the small room in two strides and quickly sliced through the ropes. Draven jumped to his feet and staggered, vision tunneling. “Shit,” he muttered as Octavian steadied him. “Don’t get a concussion while drunk.”

“Noted.” Octavian considered the blood on his knives, lips pressed into a thin line, before wiping the blood off and sheathing them. “I also apologize. For leaving you alone. However much I detested your company at that point, we are partners.”

Draven sighed. “Yeah, couldn’t agree more.” He slowly stepped out of the room, noting the copious amount of blood and broken glass littering the warehouse floor. The bodies of the dead lay scattered about haphazardly. Most had died by Octavian’s blades. Two appeared to have been mauled. “So… thirty men?”

“Some of them fled,” Octavian said softly. “They assumed they were dealing with an elven hunter. They were half-right.”

Draven’s eyes landed on his guns, which rested on a table across the vast room. They appeared undamaged, thank the celestials. He could always get new guns, of course, but those were his guns. They’d seen him through many a hunt and duel and scuffle. He began to pick his way over, avoiding the corpses and the worst of the blood. “You seem conflicted.”

Octavian trailed after him “I think anyone would, in my position.”

“Has everything gotta be a damned riddle with you?” Draven reached the table and picked up one of his guns. Empty. The boss must’ve unloaded it. Pretty clever for someone working with limited knowledge. He gave the room another glance. From what he could see, none of the masks on the dead guards possessed the golden stripe. “Octavian, did you happen to kill a guy with a stupid-looking gold streak across his mask? ‘Cause that guy was a particular brand of asshole. And also the one in charge.”

He glanced back to find his partner staring into space, eyes moving back and forth. “No,” Octavian finally said, refocusing his attention on Draven. “He was one of the first to flee.”

“Damned coward.”

“‘Damned coward’, indeed.”

Draven returned his guns to their rightful places on his belt and gave the warehouse one last cursory look. “Guess I’m rooming with you and the kid for a little while.”

Octavian nodded. “Her abductors are surprisingly resourceful. She must’ve been a valuable prisoner.”

“Still hasn’t told you anything?”

“No.”

Draven sighed. “I don’t know what they did with the knives I kept up my sleeve, but I’m tired, my head hurts, and I want nothing more than to go home.”

“Shall we depart then?”

“Celestials, stop being so formal. Let’s get out of here.”

Meme Summary

[whumpbump]

Cw: implied future SA, mentions of sobriety from drugs and the effects it had, stranded and abducted at gunpoint

Whumpee hadn’t even realized how low their gas was getting until they saw the next rest stop wasn’t for another 35 miles and it was too far to turn back.

“Ugh. You did it this time, Whumpee.” Grumbling under their breath, they tried to see if they had cell reception. It was a fairly traveled road, but it was late.

As time dragged on, Whumpee slowly went through all their contacts. No one was awake, or answering at least. Whumpee felt like they deserved that. They’d just gotten clean and they were attempting to start a new life away from the town they grew up in so they could stay clean. Everyone was used to Whumpee’s antics and reaching out hysterically at random hours so one rarely picked up when Whumpee called.

As hopelessness set in, a spark of hope flickered. Headlights! Whumpee waved their arms while standing a safe distance from the road near their car.

The van came to a halt a couple feet ahead, and the driver rolled the passenger window down.

“You alright?” the shadowy figure asked.

“Not really. I’m about out of gas. Would you happen to have a gas can with you? I, I could pay you! I have some cash on me!”

The figure chuckled darkly. “I can think of other forms of payment that would work.”

Whumpee’s stomach dropped. They backed away slowly. “Oh um actually I think I’ll just wait for my mom to pick me up. Thanks for stopping though.”

The voice changed from a sultry smooth to a grating harsh. “I don’t think that’s true, and you no longer have a choice. Get in the van.”

Knowing better than to argue after hearing the click of a gun, Whumpee tearfully entered the van. The tears began to roll when they saw a dirty mattress in the back. From their experiences, they knew enough to know they were in serious danger.

Upon seeing what was in store for them, their heart surged as they tried to jump back out. There was no lock to be undone on that side of the car. They were trapped.

[searenbound]

I think Midoriya would be the most likely candidate to become a yandere.

He already has obsessive tendencies and a stubborn refusal to let others go even when they actively push him away and mistreat him because he has a savior complex.

What’s stopping him from looking at his loved one and thinking he needs to protect them? What’s stopping him from going to the extreme and abducting them in a twisted since of responsibility?

[poptart-cat-78]

The visuals of “Down Bad” from The Eras Tour be like:

[csaventing]

Maybe im just crazy, maybe nothing happened to me. I have the most vile memories of being raped as early as 2 or 3 years old but im scared if i made it up, or that it was dreams, or something i saw in a movie, or something else. But it doesn't make sense, because i remember them abducting me, but maybe i made it up. But then why do i remember being in the place i was abducted, i was there 1000%. Maybe i wasn't abducted, maybe i was just taken for a innocent ride to a innocent place and that nothing happened, but then why do i have severe trauma from it? Or what if i dont have trauma from it, maybe im not traumatized? i remember being traumatized from a terrifying show that aired live on television when i was a child and if a CHILDS SHOW traumatized me then who is to say that what happened to me was traumatic, maybe i got traumatized for no reason. But it dosent make sense because why do i remember being raped, there wasn't even just one person there was multiple of them.

Omg, we relate so much to how the thoughts are going here.

[modern-day-kleavor]

Selfie with my latest work!! :333 I can't actually show my work because I'll get flagged, so you just get the legs haha

[cxldblxxded]

cad's timeline

( to get an understanding of why he is the way he is )

1996 - cad is the last egg to hatch out of his clutch of siblings. he lives as a snake for the first year of his life in an abandoned hunting shack somewhere outside mobile, alabama. it's a hungry year as he learns to hunt on his own. one of his sisters ventures outside and disappears.

1997 - he's a year old. cad starts being taught how to be a human. it's much more complicated than being a snake.

2001 - he's five, now. he discovers the local library. the librarians are concerned about the dirty little boy that rummages around their shelves, but he's not the only stray around these parts, so the only help they can offer him is in the form of books. he teaches himself to read and devours whatever he's given, soon graduating from picture books to short novels. another sister vanishes without a trace.

2007 - now he's eleven. he's walking back to his shack with his arms full of books when he's discovered by boys a little older than him. they try talking to him, making fun of him to provoke some sort of response; he can't talk back. when they discover this, they turn violent, and cad experiences the cruelty of humans for the first time. unable to scream, all he can do is take the beating until they get bored and leave him covered in mud on the side of the road.

2009 - on the morning of his thirteenth birthday, cad almost gets eaten by a hawk while sunbathing. it lifts him about 20 feet in the air before he turns back to a person and is dropped. he never emotionally recovers from this incident.

2012 - he's sixteen. puberty has turned him into a gangly little thing. he still goes to the library, but he's been cautious ever since 2007. people still jeer at him sometimes, and he's learned to run when they do. his shifting is fluid now. one of his brothers has disappeared.

2014 - he's eighteen and officially on his own. his mother barely waits for the clock to strike midnight before she's gone, and gradually, his remaining siblings leave too. he's the last to hatch, and he's the last to leave the shack in search of greener pastures.

2015 - he's nineteen. greener pastures don't seem to exist quite yet, at least not in alabama. however he does go hitchhiking and gets picked up by someone who bothers to ask his name. caduceus is officially born.

2016 - he's twenty now. he goes hitchhiking and the person driving tries to kill him, or worse. there's a fight, the guy's on top of him, cad gets a hand on his throat, and he's dead. cad never emotionally recovers from this incident either. he doesn't hitchhike anymore and develops motion sickness, which he thinks is a physiological reaction to something(?) but in reality is a ptsd response. in the same year he gets played with by a stray cat, which also traumatizes him.

2019 - cad's twenty-three and he thinks he's finally getting the hang of the whole snake/human thing. of course, this is when the shovel incident happens and cad is reminded how much people hate him for existing. he barely survives and spends the next two years living exclusively as a wild snake, too frightened to approach human settlements. no, he never emotionally recovers from this incident.

2021 - he's twenty-five now. cad misses fried food and books and every other thing that makes him human and decides to give it a shot again.

2023 - he's twenty-seven. whether it's going well for him or not remains to be determined.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Day 7: Lyric Inspired

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of fear/panic, claustrophobia, implied abduction, mentions of pain/suffering, death, blood, torn flesh, eye-loss, descriptions of decay/rot, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(A few months ago, I was able to pre-order a signed copy of Nate’s newest album, Scrap Heap; it should be here any day now! And in honor of such a heavy addition to my collection, I created a brand new NateEgo. You can find more information about him here.)

Day 1  Day 2  Day 3  Day 4  Day 5  Day 6

___

Goosebumps prickled over [REDACTED]’s arms at the sound of dull, heavy footsteps proceeding down the corridor behind him. He knew he had to keep moving, but his heart sank once he realized that he’d reached a corner of the maze. A dead-end.

The only way out was to turn around and go back the way he’d come. But he couldn’t do that.

Because a large, metallic hand was suddenly grasping at the threshold he’d just passed. A familiar figure loomed in the entryway.

This animatronic had been following [REDACTED] throughout the maze for almost ten minutes now. [REDACTED] knew that he probably should’ve expected this—he was in a haunted house, after all—but he figured that the animatronic should’ve stopped pursuing him at some point. Hell, he’d already passed a few other animatronics during his visit, but none of them had tried to do what this one was doing.

Wasn’t this particular one supposed to be on a stage somewhere else in the building? 

[REDACTED] stared up, up, up at the glowing red eyes that probably should’ve started burning a hole into his head by now. The animatronic wasn’t talking or singing like it had been earlier. It was completely silent, just leering down at him with that maniacal, hungry grin.

The animatronic took a step forward. [REDACTED], acting on instinct, took a step back.

He was forced to keep backing away until he hit the wall behind him.

The animatronic slowly came closer and closer. It almost appeared to be getting even bigger and taller than it already was.

___

S̷C̸R̵A̷P̵ ̸H̶E̶A̴P̷!̵

Mechanical engineering didn’t always make for glamorous work. The jobs in that field paid well, sure, and taking the necessary courses in college to get such a degree meant you might be able to participate in the odd round of robot combat or two.

Even so, being a technician didn’t guarantee you a spot at some classified robotics laboratory. More often than not, your best bet would be to start out at a place like Ransom Recycling, and while the work done in such a place was indeed important, it didn’t change the fact that it was literally a junkyard.

Your current job hasn’t been as exciting as you’d hoped, but you know better than to complain. A dirty, boring job is still better than no job at all. Besides, there’s always the occasion that you get to work with things more interesting than the usual scrap.

Like tonight, for instance.

You stroll down the dirt n’ gravel path, pushing a large, empty industrial cart along. You scan the hills of scrap, taking time to look over the rubble carefully. You see remains of several cars—some were still intact but had obviously decayed over time, and some were smashed in a way that suggested their drivers may or may not have found licenses inside cereal boxes. You see corroded hubcaps, broken metal rods, and too many unrecognizable cubes (the form trash took on when it was put through the compactor on the west side of the yard) to count.

The junkyard’s latest client had come not from a dealership, but an entertainment service. Just a couple weeks ago, a local haunted house—Panic Plaza, to be specific—had been forced to close its doors. You had read news articles about this, but you just can’t remember the exact reason for the building’s shutdown. Panic had been a hotspot for thrillseekers around town, and the fact that it’d been open for more months than just October attested to that.

And while Panic had employed several people to dress in grotesque costumes in order to frighten their visitors, its real strength had come from a series of animatronics.

Animatronics that, wouldn’t you know it, had been dropped off at the junkyard earlier this week. Why they’d been brought here instead of being sold off to a similar business, you have no idea. The representative from Panic hadn’t said much about them; hell, he’d only stuck around long enough to discuss the delivery with your bosses. Maybe the animatronics had malfunctioned in a way that Panic somehow just couldn’t recover from?

Whatever the case, the bosses had made it clear that they wanted at least one animatronic to be salvaged before they returned (they’d just left to haul some repaired cars the next town over).

Now, if they’d only made it clear where said animatronics had been placed in the yard. . .

Your foot suddenly strikes something hard, something that catches around your ankle. You don’t even have time to register the pain before you lose your grip on the cart and go sprawling down. You hit the ground with a thud, and after catching your breath, you turn over to sit on your haunches and glare at the offending object.

Your frustration quickly transitions into anxiety as you realize that the offending object is in the shape of a human arm. One that just so happens to be lying close to something that’s shaped like a human head. . .

You gape like a fish as you hurriedly get back to your feet. Thankfully, before you can really start panicking, you notice how a dim ray from the setting sun shines against the arm and head in a way that is very clearly metallic. They still stand out against the coppery grime that surrounds them, but they definitely haven’t experienced the horrible decomposition that unattended human corpses are infamous for.

Right, you think, trying to stop shaking. We just received a bunch of broken-down robots. That’s all this thing is.

You calm down, but not completely. The fact that the head and arm are positioned in a way that suggests their owner has been crushed and is desperately trying to crawl out of the pile isn’t what you’d call assuring.

I̷ ̴r̵o̵t̶ ̸a̶w̴a̴y̸,̸ ̸a̷n̴d̵ ̵I̷ ̵l̴o̷o̵k̶ ̴d̴e̵a̷t̶h̵ ̶i̴n̷ ̷t̴h̵e̶ ̶f̴a̸c̸e̸

I̴ ̷s̴t̴a̶r̴t̷ ̴t̵o̴ ̷w̸i̴t̵h̶e̵r̸,̷ ̴a̴n̷d̶ ̵I̵’̵m̵ ̶t̴r̶u̸l̵y̷ ̴a̴f̸r̴a̷i̴d̸

You place your hand over the head, just to make sure it’s smooth, cold and hard instead of oozing, soft and decayed. Now that curiosity has overridden your fear, you grasp either side of the head and give it a tug. It does budge, but only by a couple inches. You grab the arm around its wrist and pull again, being a bit harsher this time. The screech of metal scraping against metal crashes against your ears.

You pause, frowning at how you’ve only made a bit more progress. You spend  a minute or two pushing chunks of scrap away from the head, managing to reveal a metal neck and shoulders, but the rest of the robot is well and truly stuck.

You pace around the pile and eventually come upon a long, flat piece of metal that has been bent near one end. You pick it up and slide it in between the robot’s back and the rest of the junk on top of it. You leverage it, pulling it to and fro. The ensuing chorus of scraping is less than pleasant, but you can see that this new method is working. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, the robot is coaxed out into the open.

Finally, you’re able to grab hold of the robot’s waist and pull it free. Or, attempt to, at least. It’s out, but it’s also heavy as hell. You can only hold it for a moment before you’re forced to drop it.

You turn it over on its back, then straighten up to finally get a better look. You recognize the animatronic and instinctively brace yourself for it to start belting a morbid verse.

This is Scaredy, Panic’s official mascot.

The animatronic is missing one of his arms, as well as both of his legs. His remaining forearm, neck and head share a silvery-white finish. A black bowtie is attached to his throat, where a person’s collar bones would’ve met. The casing on his torso alternates between black and blue in a way that looks like a vest being worn over a separate shirt; though it’s all one piece, certain areas are slightly raised, having been carefully designed in order to sell the illusion of Scaredy wearing clothes. Some kind of 3D printing process, maybe?

Plastic on top of Scaredy’s head seems to have been given the same treatment—it matches his blue “shirt” and resembles short hair, to the point where it looks like an undercut with side-swept bangs.

You focus on the animatronic’s face and can’t help but freeze.

A long, thin, straight opening runs down the center of Scaredy’s mug, which is comprised of six segmented plates that all fit together perfectly. Hell, they almost seem to be floating. The crevices between each of these plates offers a small glimpse of wires and frames here and there. His mouth has been crafted as a perpetual, wide-open smile, like the robot is in the middle of laughing or singing.

The expression would’ve looked innocent enough, but not if the several teeth lining Scaredy’s maw have anything to say about it. Said teeth are all long and sharp, catching the light like actual blades—you have no doubt that, if you were to brush your hand against them, blood would easily be drawn. There’s a bright red circle on either side of the animatronic’s jaw. It reminds you of the rosy cheeks that would’ve usually been seen on a clown, but somehow, it doesn’t take away from his design.

The teeth would’ve looked threatening enough, but apparently whoever had constructed this thing had given a resounding Fuck it, I can do better! Because you feel a legitimate chill run down your spine as you gaze into Scaredy’s eyes.

A pair of red pinprick-pupils stare up at you from black-as-oil orbs. Eyebrows can be found above them (since when did a robot even need eyebrows?), the same color as the robot’s hair and narrowed in a way that makes it feel like the animatronic is judging you—no, sizing you up. His grin makes that feeling even more prominent.

Worse still, his eyes are glowing. The illumination is dim, but it’s still there.

You hold a hand over Scaredy’s face, waving it from side to side. His eyes don’t follow your movement. The glow remains, but that’s it.

He’s not alive, you remind yourself, shaking your head. He’s a machine—one that’s not even in working order. Get a hold of yourself!

You know this has to be the case. Scaredy hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t made any noise. He’s definitely seen better days. He’d clearly been here for a good while. And if he was still functional, then why would he have ended up at the junkyard in the first place?

A̷ ̷g̵r̴e̵a̷t̶e̴r̶ ̵p̸u̶r̶p̴o̴s̸e̶ ̶l̵e̵f̵t̷ ̶m̷e̶ ̸a̵l̶l̴ ̸n̸o̴t̶ ̴t̶h̴e̵ ̴s̸a̶m̸e̸

M̴y̸ ̸t̸i̵m̵e̵ ̶i̷s̴ ̷r̴u̸n̴n̴i̷n̴g̶ ̸o̶u̵t̵,̸ ̷b̸u̵t̵ ̷y̶o̸u̸ ̷c̴o̷u̷l̸d̴ ̴n̶e̵v̴e̴r̵ ̷f̸o̵r̶g̸e̵t̴ ̷m̶y̵ ̸n̷a̴m̷e̶

You continue searching through the heap until you recover a stray, artificial left arm, which matches Scaredy’s right arm perfectly. The next ten minutes are taken up by even more digging. During this venture, you happen upon more abandoned, dismantled robots; no doubt they’re Panic’s other attractions. 

They’re all just as dirty and ruined as would be expected. But you can’t salvage them all at once, and Scaredy already has your attention. These other ones will have to wait.

 Apparently it’s your lucky day, because you manage to discover two mechanical legs; first the right one, then the left. Both are black and end in what honestly looks like a pair of blue combat boots. You hold the legs close to the empty sockets at the bottom of the animatronic’s torso just to be sure they belong to him.

That’s it. You’ve officially found all the pieces of this neglected, unnerving animatronic.

Using all your strength, you load Scaredy into the cart and wheel it around, beginning your trek back to the maintenance warehouse.

The animatronic is in a position that forces him to stare at the sky, but the way his eyes glow does a great job at making you feel like he’s watching you whenever you look away from him.

___

The animatronic towered over [REDACTED]. It didn’t take up the entirety of the space here, but it would’ve been impossible for him to slip past it without brushing against it.

[REDACTED] been in a group when he’d first entered the building—and obviously, they’d all been separated from one another. Something in his gut insisted that that wasn’t supposed to have happened. In fact, it almost felt like he was the only person in the maze now. He knew that couldn’t be right. . .but he couldn’t hear any other footsteps nearby. He couldn’t hear the voices of any other visitors. Pre-recorded screams and whispers were echoing throughout the maze via intercom, but that was it.

Why? Had he wandered into a restricted area somehow? Was that why the animatronic had been stalking after him?

The animatronic slowly turned its head from side to side, though its eyes never left [REDACTED]. But other than that, it was standing perfectly still. It almost gave [REDACTED] the impression that the animatronic was listening for something.

Like it was wondering if the two of them were truly alone, too. . .

[REDACTED] wasn’t at the point of hyperventilation, but his anxiety made his lungs feel heavy. He was trying to keep his breathing slow and even, but it just seemed so loud.

[REDACTED] swallowed the lump in his throat, then lightly shook his head.

The animatronic wasn’t an actual threat. It couldn’t have been—if that was the case, then this place would’ve been investigated and subsequently shut down a long time ago.

He shifted in place, planning to sidle past the animatronic.

The animatronic’s arm was a blur. He’d only realized it was moving after it’d slammed into him.

Spots flashed in [REDACTED]’s vision. The air was immediately knocked out of him. He crumpled against the wall, sliding into a heap on the floor. Pain bloomed throughout his chest. His instincts told him that nothing had been broken, but he automatically knew that his ribs had nearly bent when the animatronic struck him.

[REDACTED] shakily tried to pick himself up, but a pair of large, cold hands materialized around him. One arm snaked around his waist to clutch at his stomach; [REDACTED] could feel a set of digits dig into his skin through his shirt. The other harshly grasped the back of his neck as though he was a misbehaving kitten.

All the while a strange, unnatural hissing crept into [REDACTED]’s ears from somewhere directly behind him.

___

W̴e̷ ̸w̷i̷l̴l̴ ̸n̷o̶t̸ ̴b̴e̵ ̷s̴p̸a̷r̵e̷d̶,̶ ̸w̸e̵ ̷w̵i̴l̴l̸ ̶n̸o̸t̵ ̶b̵e̷ ̴s̷a̸v̵e̵d̷

S̵o̸ ̸t̵a̷k̶e̷ ̴t̵h̵i̷s̸ ̴t̵o̷ ̵y̶o̸u̸r̸ ̵g̷r̷a̵v̴e̶ ̴w̷h̷e̶n̵ ̶y̷o̷u̵’̷r̸e̸ ̴j̶u̷s̴t̷ ̷a̸ ̵k̷i̶d̷ w̵h̶o̴ ̴l̷o̵s̸t̸ ̶t̷h̵e̷i̴r̴ w̷a̵y̵

Panels suspended from the ceiling flicker, humming and buzzing as they bathe everything below them in bright, artificial light. Roller tool cabinets are sequestered in the corners. Six large, steel worktables have been lined up in two rows of three at the center, with a generous amount of space between each of them. Three of the four walls are almost entirely covered by pegboards—the hooks lining said pegboards support a variety of different tools and mechanical parts. The fourth wall is taken up by a garage door, which is currently open and allowing the fading sunlight to peek in.

You push the collection cart through that same garage door, pausing to type a code into the keypad on the wall beside it. The huge door rumbles as it lowers itself to the ground. The soles of your shoes squeak against the interlocking rubber mats that cover the warehouse’s floor. You wheel the cart over to the nearest worktable, then take Scaredy by his shoulders and drag him on top of it. His arm hangs limply over the edge, his fingers brushing against the floor.

You pause, then walk to that desk in the corner of the warehouse, which is currently covered in papers. Those papers are blueprints and specs outlining the designs and functions of the robots that have been dropped off here. You flip through them, searching for the ones on Scaredy.

Your sibling had worked at Panic Plaza while it’d been open; you can recognize many of the animatronics from the trips you’d taken to pick them up after hours.

A precious few were similar to Scaredy, but most of the robots had been vaguely shaped like animals, with claws, fangs, and puckered, snarling snouts. Some had boasted matted, tangled fur while others had rubbery scales. According to the blueprints, however, those robots were pretty simple: their endoskeletons looked almost like those wooden, poseable figurines that were used for art reference. Their monstrous appearances, while surprisingly elaborate, had been nothing more than costumes.

Finally, you find what you need and bring it over to your table, setting the papers down by Scaredy’s head.

You examine the ends of Scaredy’s severed limbs. . .well, the damage around his connecting joints isn’t too bad. You lift Scaredy’s left arm and peer into the area where it’s obviously supposed to connect to his shoulder. You see a group of rectangular caps positioned in a circle. The interior of Scaredy’s shoulder matches this perfectly.

Those things are specialized magnets. Scaredy’s already been here for a couple days, and the scrap that had been heaped on top of him would’ve definitely soaked up some heat when the sun was out. The changes in temperature must be why the magnets in his joints lost their strength. You check the blueprints, then poke at the short cables that are hanging out around the magnets. These must be here as a precaution; to help the arm move without pulling the magnets away from each other.

You set the arm down next to Scaredy, then cross the room to push one of the roller cabinets closer. You open it up and search through its drawers. Looks like you’ve got some spares to work with.

The next few moments see you removing the ruined magnets and replacing them with some brand new ones. You clean up the ends of the cables, then carefully hold the arm close to Scaredy’s shoulder. The magnets immediately snap together with a series of loud clicks, which would’ve delivered quite a painful pinch if you hadn’t been keeping your fingers out of the way.

You take hold of the cables and, one at a time, guide them about inside the shoulder until you feel them securely catch onto something. You then lift Scaredy’s forearm and slowly maneuver it this way and that. The arm remains snugly in place, but the parts aren’t grinding against one another. That’s good.

As you get to work repeating the process with Scaredy’s legs, memories begin flooding your head.

You’d been a paying customer at Panic once or twice. You’ve seen the haunted house for yourself, seen how each of the attractions had their own unique way of frightening guests. Scaredy’s schtick had been singing, and it had been surprisingly effective. 

That’s actually why your sibling ended up getting a job over there: they’d helped write the songs that were recorded for Scaredy to perform. Aforementioned songs were played on an intercom throughout the building so customers could always hear him, no matter where they were.

Now, you wouldn’t blame anyone for doing a double-take upon hearing that, because seriously? People got freaked out. . .over singing, of all things?

However, to say something like that would be to ignore just how much of an edgelord your sibling really was. You couldn’t remember Scaredy’s songs word-for-word, but you definitely remembered how they sounded like GWAR and Creature Feature had created a lovechild. Scaredy sang about twisted stuff all the time: murder, torture, general insanity. . .

He’d even been programmed to threaten customers in the intervals between his songs. (You were still kind of surprised that Panic’s owners had drawn the line at swearing.)

T̷o̴o̸ ̴d̸a̵m̷n̶ ̷l̴o̵n̶g̴ ̷t̸h̷a̶t̷ ̶I̴’̷v̸e̵ ̸r̴o̵a̷m̶e̵d̵ ̶t̴h̸e̶s̶e̸ ̶h̵a̵l̷l̶s̴ B̶u̴t̸ ̵s̴o̸o̴n̵ ̵y̷o̷u̸’̷l̴l̸ ̶j̷o̷i̶n̴ ̷u̵s̶ ̸f̷o̵r̸ ̶a̴ ̷b̴i̷t̶e̶ ̵a̴n̴d̴ ̷y̶o̶u̸ ̷c̴a̸n̶ ̸l̴i̵v̶e̴ ̴w̵i̷t̵h̷i̷n̶ ̵t̴h̴e̶s̴e̷ w̸a̷l̵l̶s̵

Time passes, and look at that! Scaredy is whole again.

You’ve made good progress, but holy shit, this guy is huge! How the hell did you not notice that before? You saw how his head was bigger than that of a human’s, but still!

You scan the animatronic’s blueprints—eight-foot-three? Who decided that was necessary? Then again, it has been quite a while since you last saw him. And in any case, perspective is just really weird.

Scaredy’s back and neck are supported by the table, but he’s clearly taking up every inch of space; if you try to move him forward to accommodate his lower half, then his neck will probably hang over the end and leave his head to touch the interlocking mats. Like his arms, Scaredy’s legs are draped across the floor in an awkward way. Had he been a flesh-and-blood person, his current position would’ve promised terrible future back problems.

The animatronic is still, unsurprisingly, filthy. So, you take a can of Acetone from the cabinet, then find a clean rag in one of the storage tubs and begin the long task of wiping down Scaredy’s front. It seems his metal hasn’t started rusting yet.

In just a couple moments, Scaredy’s finish is practically gleaming against the lights above. The silvery-white could easily be compared to cake makeup or deathly pale skin, and either way, he looks appropriately creepy. The dark blue and black of his clothes and hair help to compliment it. And his dark, piercing eyes really pull the look together. He really looks like he could still be functioning. . .

But he isn’t, because you’ve still got work to do. You decide to start opening him up now; if you can’t see any issues on the outside, then they’ve got to be on the inside. You glance back at the animatronic’s blueprints. There should be some small buttons around his face and arms. They can disengage some parts of his casing.

You peer down at his face and can’t stop yourself from shuddering at his grin. You gingerly hook a finger between two of Scaredy’s teeth and pull his lower jaw down, further opening the animatronic’s mouth to reveal a small device inside. It’s a custom-built fog machine. You remember how, when he was still active, it always looked like smoke was pouring from his jaws whenever he talked or sang. That, and the way his teeth would gnash together like some unhinged cartoon character, had added a definite coolness factor to his intimidation.

The slits between Scaredy’s faceplates culminate into a hole that bares an uncanny resemblance to the nasal septum of a human skull. When you discover a small button inside, you start giggling. Scaredy is supposed to be all unnerving. . .and one of his features is booping his nose? You shake your head happily. Whoever designed him knew exactly what they were doing.

You then carefully reach down, keeping your hand well away from Scaredy’s jaws, to tap at the newly-discovered button.

KA-PSSSSSSSSsssssss!

Though you’d barely put any pressure behind your touch, the faceplates pop open so violently that the animatronic’s entire head jerks back, as though he’s been struck.

Your laughter quickly transforms into a startled shout as you rip your hand away and back up a good few paces. A few long seconds dragged by as you warily stare at Scaredy. When he fails to spontaneously combust, you hesitantly move closer to continue the examination.

. . .So that’s what the prints meant when they said not all his systems are electricity-dependent. . .

That’s probably why his eyes are still lit-up after all the time he’s been out of commission.  

Scaredy’s faceplates are folded back on hinges, surrounding the head in a way that  almost resembles the petals of a flower. . .or the remnants of someone’s face having exploded from the inside out, but with a lot less viscera.

The interior of the animatronic’s head shines with dark gray metal. His expression can’t really be called an expression anymore. His teeth have been arranged to form a smile, and his eyes are still glowing brightly. But without his face plates, Scaredy just looks like he’s blankly gawking at whatever is in front of him. A nest of thick wires has been organized into rows and layers that vary in length around his eyes and mouth.

Galvanized cables: some of the strongest materials you can work with. There must be even more inside the rest of his body—if the rest of his systems are as complex and unique as you think they are, then they’d need as much support as possible for him to move around and keep his balance.

You had taken a Human Anat & Phys course in back college. You remember a particular diagram, one that displayed different parts of the body without any skin. Now that you think about it, Scaredy’s wiring looks shockingly similar to human facial muscles, excepting the lack of eyelids and lips.

You press the nose button again, flinching at how Scaredy’s faceplates snap back into place as quickly as they’d opened. Following the blueprint’s guidance, you push the black button on Scaredy’s plastic bowtie.

Hssssssssssss.

Right above it, a rectangular segment on Scaredy’s throat slides open.

As you’d suspected, more galvanized cables are coiled about, making the animatronic almost look like he has more than one esophagus (which, logically speaking, would put his harmonization module in the role of his vocal cords). 

The module in question is in the shape of a tube, covered in rows of small buttons and dials. It’s connected to cables at bottom and top, but there’s an empty socket in the center of the controls. Which means it can either be charged along with the rest of Scaredy’s body, or just charge independently.

You retreat to the back of the room and wheel over a small, compact, multi-adaptive generator. You’re confident that it won’t fry Scaredy’s systems when it’s hooked up to them. The generator rumbles to life as you turn it on, and after some cautious examination, you take hold of one of the extending cords and plug it into the socket. The module gives a small, muffled hum at first. You figure it’ll need some time to warm up, so you return your focus to the specs to find out which button does what.

It turns out you were very wrong about that, because out of nowhere, the animatronic starts screeching.

You jump at least a foot in the air as it drills into your ears, reminding you of that type of TV static that’s always unnecessarily loud (this is even louder. To the point where you’re sure it can be heard all across the junkyard). Not only that, but Scaredy’s recorded voice is there, clearly trying to fight its way up through the shriek, which results in a garbled mess that sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

Your hands fly to the module, pressing every button and turning every dial in a panicked attempt to make the distress call stop.

You manage to lower the volume. Still shaken up, you look back and forth between the specs and the animatronic. Chunks of dialogue start popping up through the static. It takes a couple minutes of trial and error, but eventually, you find the right combination.

The static subsides, and after about ten seconds of blissful silence. . .

“NE-EXT VICTIM!”

Although your heart is still hammering in your chest, you smirk. That was Scaredy’s signature catchphrase. The animatronic’s voice has a slight echo to it—it’s scratchy around the edges, but not so much that his singing would’ve been jeopardized. His tone is snide, as though he knows things about whomever he’s speaking to despite it being impossible for him to know aforementioned things.

W̶e̴’̷l̴l̸ ̷o̴n̶l̸y̵ ̷w̸i̶t̴h̷e̷r̷ ̷a̶w̷a̵y̵,̶ ̴w̵e̷’̵r̸e̸ ̶g̷o̸n̶n̷a̴ ̷f̷a̷l̶l̶ ̶t̸o̷ ̷d̵e̴c̶a̵y̵ ̶I̶ ̵a̶l̷w̵a̶y̴s̷ ̵c̶o̷m̶e̸ ̷b̵a̴c̶k̷,̷ ̵y̴o̷u̵’̵l̵l̵ ̴n̷e̴v̷e̵r̶ ̷s̴e̷e̴ ̵t̷h̵e̵ ̸l̶a̸s̵t̶ ̶o̷f̴ ̴m̶e̵

Tiny lights begin blinking on the harmonization module. You toggle with it some more, but apparently Scaredy’s musical-performance mode isn’t functional right now. (Not that you mind. You need to focus, and Scaredy’s songs are. . .distracting, to say the least.) The animatronic can still speak, but that’s a bit easier to deal with.

At the press of another button, Scaredy lets out a sardonic cackle.

“Well, well, we-ell! What we have here—more adrenaline-junkies, huh? It’s been way-ay too long since I’ve had an au-audience to murder!”

Considering how the rest of Scaredy’s body is still without power, his jaw isn’t moving up and down as he talks. You aren’t sure whether that makes the animatronic’s words more or less creepy. You decide that you might as well go through the rest of Scaredy’s audio. That way you can take note of any hiccups before you start working on the animatronic’s other systems.

“Trying to escape? Well, you’d b-better do it fast; listening to my music comes with a high risk of your brains spla-a-attering on the walls!”

Panic Plaza’s building had been designed as sort of a maze; every section had more than one entrance or exit, so customers couldn’t really predict what order they’d be visiting each of the attractions in. And that wasn’t even mentioning how the sections were treated like escape rooms. Customers would have to solve certain puzzles in order to advance towards the end, and the length of their visit depended on what they did and how they did it.

From your experience, Scaredy’s section had been littered with hidden tools for guests to use. Scaredy would pace around his stage as he performed; he’d lunge at those who strayed too close, but to your knowledge, that was all he did besides singing and taunting.

“Can you believe how sharp this mic st-tand is? I think I’ll make a shish-kabob out of you with it!”

“You need to get away from this thing.”

You find yourself pausing. You think you’d just barely heard. . .something after Scaredy’s line. But you can’t be sure. Are your ears playing tricks on you?

You turn one of the dials, listening more carefully than before.

“You can knock-k-k on that door all you want. . .but the button to open it is on my guitar! Come up onsta-age and press it! I DARE you!”

“You’re in serious danger.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. There’s definitely another voice piping up in time with Scaredy’s words. The new voice is weak and raspy; you really have to concentrate in order to hear it.

“Where will you go if you stick around with me for too long? EVERYWHERE. You’ll go EV-EVERYWHERE. ”

“What happened to me. . .wasn’t an accident.”

Was this part of Scaredy’s programming? You supposed it would be a clever mechanic, but you can’t remember hearing anything like this back at Panic. And why would you? Not only have you not visited that place for such a long time, but Scaredy’s music had always been so loud. Anxious that you might have done something wrong, you turn the generator off and remove its cord from the module’s socket.

“They knew what happened.”

Scaredy is no longer speaking. But that doesn’t seem to stop the other voice. And now that you don’t have to dissect its words through Scaredy’s lines, you realize just how miserable it sounds. You obviously can’t see the other voice’s owner, but just by listening to them, you can instantly tell that they’re exhausted, that they’re sickly, that they’re in terrible pain.

You unconsciously rest your hand against Scaredy’s face. . .and something suddenly gives way beneath your palm. A chorus of metallic clicking suddenly sounds off from what could only be further inside the animatronic.

Vvvrrrrmmm-sssssssshhhhhhhh.

You turn your head just in time to see a rectangular panel on Scaredy’s stomach slowly start sliding open. You blink, then peer down at the animatronic’s face. It takes you a few seconds to realize that the bright red circle on Scaredy’s right cheek is actually a button of its own.

How could you have missed either of those things earlier?

You look at the specs, and they. . .don’t say anything about a cheek-button or a stomach hatch? Why?

“They saw it for themselves, but they didn’t do anything about it.”

The words hang in the air. The other voice suddenly seems much louder and clearer than it was before. In  fact, it almost seems to be echoing. . .from inside Scaredy’s stomach.

W̷e̴’̴r̸e̴ ̷j̵u̵s̵t̶ ̷a̵ ̶h̵u̵s̶k̴ ̴o̸f̴ ̶o̷u̸r̴ ̵n̶a̴m̷e̴s̵,̶ ̵a̶ ̷r̷o̵t̵t̷i̶n̶g̴ ̸p̴i̸l̸e̵ ̷o̶f̷ ̶p̴a̵i̸n̶ ̶I̴’̷l̷l̷ ̴s̴e̵t̷ ̶y̵o̶u̷r̵ ̵w̶o̴r̴l̸d̵ ̸o̸n̴ ̶f̴i̴r̷e̷ ̴a̴n̴d̷ ̴s̶e̸n̸d̶ ̸y̸o̴u̴ ̶s̷t̶r̸a̵i̴g̶h̵t̸ ̶t̵o̵ ̴t̶h̷e̸ ̵s̸c̴r̶a̶-̶a̶-̴a̷-̴a̴p̷ ̴h̸e̸a̵p̵!̴

You fish a small flashlight from the cabinet and turn it on. You spend the next moment staring at the animatronic, listening for the other voice, trying and failing to make yourself move. Eventually, you creep over to the middle of the table. You aim the beam over Scaredy and peer down into his stomach. You’re shocked to discover that the animatronic’s interior is hollow. You can see Scaredy’s inner systems—his wiring and endoskeleton—but they’re being held in place by metal frames.

Due to Scaredy’s size, his stomach seems to offer enough space for a person to fit inside, so long as they kept their knees to their chest. Not comfortably, but plausibly.

But why? You expected to find some kind of engine or calibrating device. Why would a singing animatronic need what can only be described as a storage tank?

“They didn’t even try to get me out. Even though they were covering their tracks, they still just left me in here.”

Well, the answer is technically right in front of you. On one hand, it’s impossible for you to know what has happened inside Scaredy. And on the other hand, you’re desperately trying to convince yourself that the reddish-brown stains covering Scaredy’s interior are only rust.

But you can’t exactly ignore the other things you’ve found in Scaredy’s stomach.

The stench that’s working itself into the air is metallic, but it’s also. . .moldy. Fleshy. It’s not as strong as it would’ve been while fresh, but it’s definitely still there.

Your hand is trembling, but the flashlight somehow isn’t distorting what you’re looking at.

Scraps of fabric are caught between gears and prongs—and those scraps are covered in dark stains. Tendons are criss-crossing up the walls like roots. Strands of torn, discolored, mummified skin are practically melded into metal, along with clumps of matted black hair. Your vision lands on something that looks like a withered grape. It’s cloudy and veiny and—

An eyeball. It’s a human eyeball that has flattened and liquified with decay.

This is the point where your muscles finally start to disengage. The flashlight falls from your hand to clatter on the floor. You stumble back, not stopping until you collide with the wall behind you. You cling to that wall, as if it’s somehow going to help you get further away from the animatronic.

Your stomach has always twisted at the thought of what would happen if someone got their hand caught in a garbage disposal. You never thought you’d have to actively avoid thinking about what it would be like for one’s entire body to be caught in a garbage disposal.

But it looks like Scaredy makes for a pretty good example of that, huh?

You hadn’t eaten much earlier today, but you still can’t stop yourself from retching. You head is swimming, your throat is closing in, you have no idea why this is happening—

“You shouldn’t have taken me away from the others,” the voice inside Scaredy whispers fearfully. “It’s not fair that I get away from the pile and they don’t. They’re going to look for me. They’re going to take me back. . !”

___

The floor suddenly disappeared from under him. [REDACTED] reflexively started floundering for purchase, but the animatronic’s grip didn’t falter in the slightest. It barely had to make any effort in order to lift [REDACTED] up.

For a brief few seconds, [REDACTED] was simply being held in a parallel position.

And then, air was rushing past him as he was quickly moved backwards. He felt his shoes collide with something solid, and his legs were instantly forced to buckle as the animatronic continued shoving him back.

[REDACTED] heartbeat rang in his ears. Now acting on pure instinct, he began writhing against the animatronic. He frantically punched and kicked, barely even feeling the dull pain that came with striking something made of metal.

“Hey! S-stop!” [REDACTED] cried. “Let me go! Let me GO!”

The animatronic didn’t respond. Why would it have?

The room was a blur as [REDACTED] craned his neck, trying desperately to look at his attacker as if that would do anything to help. The animatronic’s blood-red, glowing, unmoving eyes were still fixated on him. Despite its expression, there was absolutely no emotion in those eyes.

Somehow, that only made this worse.

[REDACTED] also managed to catch something he definitely hadn’t seen before—a section of the animatronic’s stomach was gone. A gaping cavity had appeared in its place.

The animatronic was steadily forcing him into that cavity.

[REDACTED] didn’t stop fighting, didn’t stop screaming. His throat quickly grew raw, but he could barely hear himself over the sound of his own pulse.

His sides grated against the edges of the animatronic’s torso. His body was involuntarily contorting, constantly being forced to shift.

In what felt like no time at all, [REDACTED] felt his back collide with the same area his shoes had first touched. He was crammed into a seated position with only his head and arms outside the animatronic. [REDACTED] braced his hands against the animatronic’s exterior, trying desperately to pry himself out.

The animatronic reacted to this via connecting its palm to his forehead and violently pushing him back. [REDACTED]’s head slammed against the wall inside the animatronic. His skull throbbed. Everything was spinning.

Before [REDACTED] could even try to reach out again, a large, rectangular shape slid into place before him, quickly cutting off his view of the room outside and turning his new holding cell pitch-black.

The next seconds dragged by in a painful way, feeling like hours apiece.

Despite his panic, [REDACTED] could only sit in silence.

This animatronic—this thing that wasn’t even sentient—had just hunted him down and stuffed him into its stomach. There probably wasn’t anything outside the animatronic to suggest that [REDACTED] had ever been there in the first place.

He vaguely felt rhythmic motion around and beneath him; the animatronic was moving, seemingly unaffected by the new weight it was carrying.

Why had this happened? How had this happened? Had the animatronic done this before—done this to other visitors? Was this supposed to be some fucked-up part of the experience. . .or was the animatronic malfunctioning somehow?

That was the thing to finally snap [REDACTED] back into reality.

The animatronic may have been enormous, but its stomach was cramped, tight. [REDACTED] could just barely fit inside; there was simply no room for him to kick. But that didn’t stop him from squirming as much as possible, as aggressively as possible.

“HELP ME! HELP ME!” [REDACTED] screamed. “SOMEONE TURN THIS THING OFF! GET ME OUT OF HERE! PLEASE JUST LET ME OUT!”

The chamber shook and rattled around him, but the animatronic didn’t pause its movements.

Outside, [REDACTED] could hear the muffled sounds of screaming.

He knew it had to be part of the maze’s special effects.

And, although his instincts were begging him to deny it, [REDACTED] also knew that his own voice blended in with those screams perfectly. . .

___

I̸ ̶a̶l̸w̴a̸y̶s̷ ̴c̶o̵m̶e̵ ̴b̴a̴c̸k̶,̶ ̸y̷o̴u̵’̴r̸e̷ ̷n̶e̶v̵e̵r̷ ̷g̸e̴t̴t̸i̵n̵g̵ ̷r̸i̵d̸ ̴o̷f̷ ̶m̷e̸ ̵I̸’̸l̶l̷ ̸s̶e̸t̶ ̸y̷o̷u̵r̴ ̷w̵o̵r̸l̷d�� ̶o̶n̶ ̶f̶i̴r̵e̵ ̶a̵n̸d̵ ̵s̸e̷n̵d̷ ̴y̴o̸u̶ ̷s̸t̶r̴a̷i̶g̷h̸t̵ ̶t̸o̸ ̷t̶h̷e̵ ̴ ̵S̴C̶R̸A̷P̶ ̷H̸E̶A̴P̶!̴ ̷S̴t̷r̶a̸i̵g̸h̴t̶ ̴t̷o̵ ̴t̴h̵e̶ ̸s̴c̵r̶a̶p̴ ̵h̸e̸a̷p̶!̷ ̶S̷t̴r̴a̴i̴g̴h̸t̷ ̸t̸o̷ ̵t̷h̷e̵ ̴s̶c̴r̷a̶p̷ ̶h̶e̵a̸p̶!̸

@that-bat   @sammys-magical-au   @ineedallofthehugs @captainrose35  @yancy1nancy  @sw33tst4rs @echoing-night  @dungeon-dragons-dragons @pumpking1sheepy  @whumpitywhumpwhump

[wheucto]

rewatching the oj exit interview for some reason and oj says "thrown into another competition against [my] will again." which. ??

[three-bunnies-in-a-trenchcoat]

I like how the triforce is just sentient in some of the games

[n1ko-whoisdefinatelynotacat]

It was pretty late. They were sitting at their desk, working on one of their coding projects. They had a lot to catch up on, and too many nightmares to make sleep possible. So they just got going.

They couldn’t stop thinking about how they’d looked when they first gained their new powers. That weird glowing yellow form.

…

They couldn’t explain it, but it scared them. There was just this… weird feeling they got about it. Like it wasn’t them. It was just some weird instinct. What if that’s really what it was?

…

What if, for some reason, they had to use it?

Would they disappear into their mind, attacking without thought?

…

What if they hurt someone they cared about..?

Could that happen?

They groaned and put their head in their hands. There was so much going on. Out of everything, they got overwhelmed with this feeling of… loss.

They were 15. And within the past few weeks, they’d had several life threatening encounters. They’ve watched people get hurt.

…

They watched someone die.

They were 15! And they’d gone through more stuff than most adults!

…Was this how the other Niko’s felt? Most of them were significantly younger than them!

Was it how [Redacted] had felt during and after the calamity that stole so much from it? Was it how he felt now?

…

It felt loud. Like they could hear the others despite them being asleep. And their emotions felt so much more volatile than normal…

…They really should sleep.

But how could they when they felt this panicked about everything?

There was flashes of everything they’d gone through the last little while.

The pain of a bullet entering their shoulder.

The yellow that spread across the ground they laid upon.

[Redacted]’s pained yell as a grunt slammed their foot into his wing.

That moment they watched as a literal ten year old got shot in the shoulder, just as they had only a little while before.

Getting kidnapped, tortured, and having to fight for their life.

Watching, powerless, as the person they thought of as dad took a blow meant for them, and literally died.

The near burning sensation that came from their new powers.

It was just so much. They needed to stop thinking about it.

But it still felt far too loud.

Why could they hear the others if they weren’t speaking..?

They shook their head, and forced themself to refocus on their work, completely unaware of the golden tears that had started running down their face.