#tw referenced kidnapping

[serickswrites]

I Can Handle It

Warnings: blood, wounds, field medicine, referenced kidnapping

"I can handle it," Team Leader said sharply as they pulled their arm away from Teammate One.

"You're bleeding. Heavily." Teammate One reached out a hand to Team Leader again. "Let me help you."

Team Leader stepped back. "I don't need your help."

"Please, Team Leader, let me help you," Teammate One tried again. Team Leader wasn't normally this angry. Wasn't normally this resistant to help.

"I said I don't need your help, damn it!" Team Leader stumbled as they tripped over a rock. They landed hard on their back. "FUCK!"

Teammate One knelt next to Team Leader. "Please, Team Leader. Let me help. I have gauze. I have tape. I can have it taped up and ready to go in under five minutes. Please."

Team Leader didn't respond as they lay on the ground. They pinched the bridge of their nose and closed their eyes tightly. "I can't do anything right," they said miserably. "It's all my fault."

Teammate One's heart sunk. Of course Team Leader blamed themself. "It is not your fault, Team Leader. We'll find them. We'll get them back. But you have to let me help you. You won't be any shape to find the others if you are hurt. So please, let me help."

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

whoops wrote some stuff for “c!benchtrio in a sleepy 80s town where every myth is real and no one is normal” au. yes the cabinet is polybius. of course it is.

TW: period typical ableism, references to period typical homophobia, mind control, referenced kidnapping.

tommy loved saturday.

one, it meant he was off school. school was a fucking hell system designed to tear out the individuality of kids and turn them into little worker drones- at least, that was what wil reckoned, and wil was probably the smartest person in town by account of haunting the shit out of everyone over the past few centuries, so tommy believed him. besides, he struggled to sit still for long enough to write, and tubbo couldn’t read the words, so they spent most of their time staring at each other in detention anyway.

but that wasn’t the main reason. the two of them skived off school half the time, though in their defence it’s kind of hard to go when you’ve got seven government conspiracies, three independent mad scientists, several different types of aliens, at least one fae court, and whatever the fuck sam was on your tail 24/7. honestly, being kidnapped by half of them was probably better than an english lesson where the teachers shouted at him for writing in the proper british way he was taught instead of suddenly switching to the dumb american shitty way. his organs might have been rearranged last time he'd gotten abducted by a flying saucer, but at least that meant he looked cool on x-rays.

no, the real reason saturday was great was that saturday was arcade day.

if tommy wasn’t religious, he'd call the local arcade his church, but that felt disrespectful to Her Lady Prime (though, considering the amount of gods he'd met in sleepy l'manberg he was convinced that there was probably enough gods in oregon every video arcade had one). still, he approached the day phil would drop off him and tubbo at the doors for a whole day with reverence, and as the man who was not his father (he actually wanted him) dropped them off, he handed them enough coins for an extra with a wink.

that was another reason tommy loved saturday. school didn’t really accept local cryptids, unfortunately, but with a mask, hat, and a long enough skirt, ranboo could blend in as a weirdo teenager instead of a local nightmare. besides, he liked the flashing lights.

ranboo was in first, as always, and rushed tommy and tubbo into a big, big hug the second they entered the doors. he knew when phil dropped them off, and had started waiting to ambush them.

“ugh, gross, man,” tommy said, not sounding annoyed at all. “we're twelve now. too old for little kid cuddles.”

“why?” ranboo’s voice had a vibration to it like an insect. it made tommy feel comforted.

“because you get beat up if you're weird, y’know!” tommy flushed. “i don’t wanna get beat up, fucker.”

tubbo raised an eyebrow. “tommy, have you met a normal person in this town?”

“well, no-“

“there. look, are we going to play some pac-man or not?”

“ugh, no!” tommy said, giggling as he pushed the other boys away. “pac-man is so uncool. now, frogger? that, man, is truly radical.”

ranboo blinked. “what’s a radical?”

“it’s just one of tommy's weird big kid terms, boo.” tubbo said, ribbing ranboo and grinning at the disgusted face tommy made. tommy didn’t have any issues with, y’know, those sort of people. people who got mad at boys kissing boys were stupid. the issue was that tubbo was far too young to be flirting with anyone. that stuff was gross. “he just wants to be cool, y’know. that’s why he’s got that stupid mullet.”

“mullets are so cool, fuck you,” tommy said, sticking out his tongue in a not at all childish way. “anyway, now are you two gonna go all K-I-S-S-I-N-G, or will you- oh my Prime, what the fuck is that?”

every machine in the building was empty of players. all except one, a blank looking cabinet, which had a line that looked a million billion miles long.

ranboo raised an eyebrow. “good game, i guess?”

“no game is that good. not even frogger.” tommy shook his head. “that’s like… remember when that fucking weird government dude had all those pills and shit? that made you all fuzzy and do what they say?”

tubbo gasped. “you can’t say that, tom! you know he has memory issues. stop being a dick.”

“fine! sorry.” tommy threw his hands up in frustration. “but anyway, you see that blank fucking stare on their face? well, most of there’s, purpled seems fine but he's got the whole being not human thing going. that’s the look ranboo had when that dream fucker gave him the pills. that’s mind control, innit?”

“don’t remind me of dream,” ranboo said, growling.

“oh, yeah. sorry man.”

“anyway… do you think that might be involved? if it’s to do with governments… i'd rather not get cut up by a lab, thank you. we need to stop it.”

“chill out, ranboo, being cut up isn’t even that bad if they give you proper painkillers and shit,” tommy said, ignoring the weird stares ranboo gave him because of that. “besides, y’know i'll never say no to uncovering some secret truth. it’s almost as fun as frogger. tubbo?” tommy paused, turning to his other best friend. “uh, tubbo?”

there was a far away, dreamy look in tubbo’s eyes. not those of brainwashing, but desire. “i want to take that thing apart,” tubbo said, sounding overjoyed. “i need it. i need that beauty so bad.”

well. it was better than the barrels of radioactive material he'd seen tubbo carry into the shed. tommy couldn’t deny that. “then, let’s go figure shit out, then.”

[whumble-beeee]

Show Me What You're Made Of

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 2

CW: escape attempt, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), past captivity references, needles mention, tied up, gunshot, general violence

* * * * * * * * [There are some scenarios in which you will want to invite a staged escape attempt just to foil it. Usually, this is done as a way to give hope to your captured hero only to viciously rip it away, but it can also be useful in making them reveal any powers they may have previously kept hidden.

It must be noted that inviting a non-staged escape attempt is very risky and generally a terrible idea, as there is always a chance the hero will be able to overpower you. Don’t get cocky, and always have a fail-safe. If done correctly, a failed escape attempt can be devastating to both a hero’s emotional and physical well-being and aid in long-term hero-keeping.]

* * * * * * * *

Stan was not a fast runner in any capacity. Especially without the use of his cane or any magical intervention to help his knee move along.

He could run without a mobility aid, sure, but that didn’t mean that a sharp pang of protest from his damaged knee didn’t light up his entire leg with every heavy step, and it certainly didn’t mean that he had the balance required to keep running smoothly like your average able-bodied person.

That realization blasted him like a truck as soon as he stood up and took his first steps to bolt toward the door, but at that point, it was way too late to turn back. 

He pitched himself toward the wall and slammed into it with a methodically placed shoulder, using the cold cinderblocks to keep balance. With that support, and if he ignored the steadily increasing pain-filled protest from his leg, he could practically run normally! 

Then a yell. He could hear footsteps pounding up behind him, gaining on him.

For a brief moment, he could already feel the iron grip around his wrist or his shirt, or the arm snaking around his stomach, the heave backward just as his fingers brushed the door handle, the slam to the ground, how he’d be bound up and forced back to that stupid chair and probably be tortured or whatever else the mercenary saw fit to do to him. 

Fuck that.

If he couldn’t outrun him, he’d just have to fight him off.

Stan whirled around and sent out the sturdiest force he could muster to grab onto the bounty hunter's ankle. Just enough so that it caught in the air and missed the floor entirely, and the hunter pitched forward with a surprised shout and fell face-first into the concrete floor, the residual blue glow of the magic still half enveloping his leg. Stan could feel the energy seeping out of him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop to see the rest of the damage before turning around and booking it again.

He slammed the mercifully unlocked door open wide and frantically ran outside, hesitating for just a moment because he didn’t expect to run face-first into what looked to be a warehouse wall, complete with a wide hallway he couldn’t see the end of, high ceilings, blank walls, and cold clinical lighting like a goddamn horror movie.

And no exit door in sight.

He raced to the nearest hallway turn, ignoring his pounding head and screaming weak knee and imminent exhaustion and burning lungs and the ever-threatening presence of the bounty hunter and just focused on the one and only task of ‘RUN!’ He couldn’t afford any other thoughts.

He finally barreled past the blind corner, and there was a door! Stan allowed himself a small relieved laugh at the sight of it.

A flash of the mercenary streaked in his periphery. Stan only squeaked slightly. He needed to get away, to slow him down again, he was so close, so close. So he twisted around to throw some sort of magic bullshit at him again when–

And his knee torqued.

He stumbled.

Lost his balance.

He shoved into the wall again so he didn’t fall flat on his face, and tried to push up again and run, or attack, or do something. And in that moment, despite everything, he saw a flash of red on the back of his hand that he hadn’t noticed before that drew all his attention; A tiny little smiley face, no doubt carved in the first time the bounty hunter messed with him when he was tied to the chair.

Then the bounty hunter tackled him to the ground.

Stan fought to get back up, but all he managed was a terrified shuffling of limbs and a feeble attempt at drawing up enough energy to fight the mercenary off as he quickly pinned Stan down with a straddling of the hips and threw a devastating punch across Stan's jaw that made him have to blink exploding stars away.

He held up his arms to protect his face, instinctively trying to curl up and away from the source of the pain. Noise surrounded him, that frizzy buzzing sensation filling his head with cotton and making it hard to think. His entire body felt like it was seizing up.

He wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t done yet.

“GET OFF!!”

Stan used every last bit of power he had to push the man off of him. The walls around them glowed an electric blue, and the bounty hunter lifted violently up into the air with a surprised yelp. But not before he grabbed the front of Stan’s shirt and dragged the hero right along with him with an equally terrified shriek. 

Then Stan slammed face-first into the ground, barely managing to get his arms under himself in time to soften the landing. One which was not made any softer by the person landing on top of him.

“Holy shit... you don’t know when to quit, do you?” the voice above him cut through heavy breaths, a suddenly prominent southern twang vibrating through a growl of his voice.

Stan felt a punch in the right of his ribcage.

His muscles seemed to stop working entirely for a moment. Then a strange blooming agony started working its way outward throughout his torso.

His eyes unfocused. He curled in on himself as much as he could. It wasn't much at all. He couldn’t move. He felt an increasing pressure emanating from the area, the unbearable stinging pain spread throughout his torso and he squeaked trying to hold in a full-blown scream, breathless yet barely able to suck in a single gasp into his shuddering body. 

He barely even noticed when a hand tangled through the hair at the back of his head until it yanked him up and arched his back, causing what felt like knives stabbing through his ribs. He gritted his teeth. If nothing else, he wasn't going to give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of hearing him scream. 

The hand slammed his face down into the ground. The sides of his vision starting to go dark. Then slowly receded back again. A ringing sound reverberated throughout his entire body, and he all but went limp pressing his forehead into the floor.

“Y’know, runt,” the voice of the bounty hunter penetrated Stan’s clouded mind with hard breath. He could feel the man messing around with his belt pouches as he pressed his knee sharply into Stan’s lower back. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to use this. I think it's demeaning and kinda inhumane, but you just had to fuck around and find out, didn’t you?”

Stan shook his head and squirmed fruitlessly, terrified of whatever this guy could possibly think was demeaning and inhumane. 

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because suddenly a strip of smooth leather ran under his neck and pulled tight under his Adam’s apple. 

Stan froze mid-struggle. Clenched his hands, and his teeth, arched his back and pressed his face into the floor even more. He could only see bright white. 

He already knew what the collar felt like.

And suddenly he wasn't in the dingy warehouse corridor anymore.

"No, no, no no no NO NO PLEASE STOP PLEASE!!"

The red eyes flicked down to his sister, pressing her face into his side and squeezing into him as tight as she could.

Then back up to him, holding his hand out threateningly, blue glow dancing across his fingertips.

“How old is she?”

He snarled, arms protectively pulling her into him. “Stay AWAY from us!”

The eyes softened slightly.

So why was a gun still pointing at his head?

–

He threw his hands violently out at the person in all-black combat gear and a slight electric blue glow enveloped their side. Their narrowed their eyes and hissed in annoyance.

“Collar the older one, and for gods sake, find the younger one and dispose of it or something.” The person in all-black combat gear nodded at him. “She’s the only one we need alive.” 

–

He tried to fight back. He didn’t have the cane back then. Didn’t need one.

His powers were so new, and they were so many, and he was just a kid.

He never stood a chance.

The gun. The eyes behind it. Red sparkles, red and scary.

He faced them down. 

They were supposed to be gone forever.

Then the rough woven fabric of a collar too tight around his neck.

The large hands squeezing his upper arms painfully, forcing him forward.

Restraining him.

Fighting.

Held down.

Experiments. 

Needles.

NEEDLES.

Where was his family?

He clutched at the collar as it wrapped around his neck. He could feel his powers leeching away as he fought to keep his freedom.

CLICK.

The sound reverberated through his skull.

And now the cycle had begun anew.

An arm wrapped around his chest and strong-armed him to his feet. Stan would have screamed if he remembered how to. Instead, a strangled gasp choked out of his vocal cords as a heavy hand clasped onto his shoulder and propelled him forward. 

He immediately stumbled and fell to one knee, agonizing pain bolting up and down his bad leg and almost face-planting in the process, because when were his hands cuffed behind his back again? 

He felt the collar sitting on his throat and he tried to bring his hands up to rip the damn thing off, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, he couldn't, he tried but he couldn't.

A voice lilted somewhere all around Stan, and he could feel the hands grabbing at him. He shrieked and fell forward, scrambling all of six inches before he was backed up and shivering against the wall staring up at the heaving bounty hunter.

He did not look amused.

“You are so pitiful, you know that?”

Stan brought his knees up and pressed his face into his legs, as if that small protection could put the world between them.

“Chiquito, if you don’t get your ass up and walk with me back to that room, I will pick you up and throw you over my shoulder like a sack of goddamn potatoes and spike you into the fucking floor when we get there, do you want that?”

Stan stared glassily into the floor. “... you– you– y-you were– you were there-ere.”

“I was–... What?”

Stan’s gaze snapped to his eyes. Those dark eyes. He couldn’t see it now, but he was sure there was a red glint in the right light.

“You!” He shouted, as if that would clear up his babbling. “You were– it was you!”

The mercenary stared at him. Then clenched his fists, looked up, took a hissing deep breath, and released his fists again.

“You can have a mental breakdown when we get back, runt. Are you gonna walk there or am I dragging you there?”

He didn’t remember. 

Of course he didn’t remember, it must have been ten years ago. Stan was just a kid, and everyone thought he was a girl back then. He himself thought he was a girl back then.

Things were different now. Things were going better.

“I– I– We–... Walk.”

“Great.”

He reached down and dragged Stan up by the upper arm, completely ignoring the way he violently flinched and tugged back. 

Stan did his best to keep up, but in addition to hunching over the searing pain in his chest and trying to ignore the prickling bruise that must have been forming on his cheek, his leg was oozing spikes of lava up and down his entire hip and leg. Stan stumbled and almost pitched forward if it hadn't been for the bounty hunter's iron grip. 

The bounty hunter groaned incredulously. “Oh my god!” 

“Wait, wait, I– Don't–!”

That was all he managed to get out before he was swept off his feet and thrown over the man's shoulder, hitting the soft part of his stomach right on the bone, knocking the wind from his lungs and setting his side on fire all over again. And now he was upside down. His brain felt like it was made out of slime.

He barely managed to gather his bearings enough to start kicking and yelling when he was unceremoniously dumped against the wall, where his head cracked against the cold cinderblock and he bounced to the ground with a strangled gasp.

The world went bright white as the searing pain shot through his entire being, snaking around his brain and squeezing it in a chokehold so that there was no more thought, nothing else but the primal urge to curl up into a little ball to protect himself and the silent open-mouthed screams of a trapped animal clawing desperately for its life, seizing and twitching and paralyzed all because of a too hard smack to the head short circuiting any chance it had at survival.

Stan could barely feel anything over the deafening ringing in his ears, the buzzing feeling in his body as if he were entirely made of bees, the dizziness tilting the world around him on its axis like some bad carnival fair ride.

What was that all about?

Then he finally spotted the mercenary again, coming at him once more with chain in hand, and he may as well have been dunked in ice water with how fast that image sobered him up.

He clumsily kicked out with all his might, pressing his back into the wall as much as possible to get away while simultaneously realizing that with the wall behind him, probably concussed, dizzy, tied up, and in agonizing pain, there was no way he was going to win this fight.

He kicked anyway.

Even as the hunter seemed to grab the ankle of his good leg easily, he still tried to slam his foot into the hand of the bounty hunter to just get him off. He even managed to get a solid kick in, causing the hunter to jolt back with a pained cry and let go. 

Stan felt some sort of twisted sense of pride that he managed to get a hit in even in his sorry state.

Which was quickly crushed when two hands grabbed either of his ankles and lifted them up high into the air, so high that Stan was only touching the ground with the upper part of his back. He couldn’t even use his arms for extra support with the way they were firmly stuck near the small of his back.

There was panting above him. “Alright, you gonna–”

“Let me GO!” Stan yelled, trying once more to kick out of the hold, pressing painfully down into the ground with the back of his head and writhing around erratically in one last herculean act of defiance. He kicked even as his bad knee screamed for him to stop, to rest, even as the fists around his ankles just tightened and became more rigid in response, even as the mercenary grunted out a string of curses trying to wrangle him in.

He wasn’t just gonna give in.

“¡Basta ya! Fucking stop, you lost!”

“Fuck you, make me!”

A sharp kick struck him square in the middle of his spine, and he nearly cracked his teeth with the clench of the jaw he made trying to hold back the scream. He almost involuntarily had to take a moment to catch his breath, then before he could start his protestations again, the cold metal claw of a manacle clamped around his ankle and locked in place with a final click click click that made Stan’s hairs stand on end.

But he was still upside down. The mercenary didn’t let go.

In fact, he held Stan up by only one leg now, and seemed to be fiddling with something that Stan couldn’t see because of his own overturned and battered body getting in the way. He could hear each heavy breath the mercenary seethed out, each one filling him with more dread.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The adrenaline of the situation finally started to ebb away as it started to sink in that he was well and truly trapped, leaving room for the much more paralyzing fear that Stan had been battling since the moment he woke up here. 

Not to mention the blood rush from being upside down for so long was stinging at his face and making his brain hurt. And dizzy. And everything felt like it was shrouded in clouds. Or maybe that was the concussion.

“Jesus Christ,” the mercenary finally breathed. “One hell of a fucking kicker…”

Stan wrenched his head up to snarl at the man and tried to kick his hand off his ankle.

He snatched it out of the air mid-kick, haphazardly pressing a small bundle of twine into his skin as he knocked Stan’s ankles together and held them there as he began to wind the thread around them.

“Yeah, no more kicking.”

Stan still tried to wriggle out with increasingly weaker and weaker cries of anger, even as his ankles were anchored together, even as the blood rushed to his head and made him more and more dizzy, feeling the pressure in his face rising, and his breaths becoming shallower and slower.

Even as all of his efforts did absolutely nothing, and he was left panting and shaking with effort to not go completely limp as his legs were still held up high above him.

Stan didn’t even have the energy left to fight anymore. Tears stung at his eyes as he finally let his head lay on the ground.

“All tuckered out?” the mercenary's voice came from above him. “This seems to work pretty well on you. Maybe I just just let you hang like this for a bit. I’ve got this like, chain thing in the middle of the room hanging from the ceiling, I could probably just like, clip this in–”

“No, no, no, no no no…”

“You’re sure?” The southern drawl was ever-present. “Just wanna make sure you learned to never fucking do that again… y'know, I could hogtie you, you’re already most of the way there.”

Stan felt something break just then. He heaved in a desperate, hitching breath. “Just… please just put me down. Please.” 

His voice was barely even a whisper. Every breath put more strain on his lungs.

A moment passed.

Then the hold on his ankles released, and his body came crashing to the ground. His feet hit extra hard, and his bad knee felt like it was being attacked by angry stinging bees. 

But he didn’t care.

He just rolled onto his side so he wasn’t lying on his bound wrists and lay there.

He heard the boots of the bounty hunter approaching him, and he used whatever energy he had left to open his eyes and stare up at him, pleading with him to not actually hogtie him, whatever that meant. He didn’t think he could handle more.

But the bounty hunter just stared back down at him, briefly meeting his eyes before giving his body a once over, then a small nod. He nudged Stan lightly with the toe of his boot, and Stan’s wandering eyes opened and focused back on the man before he even realized they had closed.

“Not gonna pass out on me, are ya?” the mercenary asked, as if they had just had a light sparring match instead of an irrefutable beatdown.

It almost seemed like he cared. Maybe he did.

Stan swallowed. “I’m– not.”

“Good. Don’t.”

The mercenary whipped around and started to walk away, giving Stan a faceful of the revolver strapped to his hip, still completely clipped in and unused.

He never stood a chance, did he?

Despite everything, a feeling of something akin to a mix of rage and sorrow bubbled up within his stomach.

“He-hey! Wait!”

The bounty hunter turned to face him again quizzically, and somehow that made Stan’s annoyance just grow.

“You didn’t even–” Why was he mad about this? “You didn’t use the gun! Coward!”

The mercenary’s gaze shot to his hip. Then back up to Stan. His nose twitched. Face blank, calculating.

Then in one smooth motion, the gun was out of the holster and pointing directly at Stan, and a deafening blast rang out throughout the entire room.

Stan felt a burning sting whiz by his ear, high-pitched and cutting through air microseconds before the blast shook him to his core. He screamed and ducked into himself, violently shoving back into the wall and cowering into a small ball.

Even as the ringing died down and Stan realized he wasn’t a splatter on the wall behind him, the stinging on the shell of his ear didn’t die down. It got more intense. He felt a single drop of something tickling down the side of his ear before dripping down onto his shoulder. Then another.

His attention ripped up to the mercenary, only to scramble further into the wall when he found the gun still pointed at him. 

Another drip.

The mercenary flipped the revolver once and shoved it firmly back into its holster.

“I’ll use the gun next time.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy

[riahlynn101]

Whumptober 2024 - Day One: "Search Party."

Word count: 1,106

Trigger warnings: Implied kidnapping, referenced child death, heavily implied child neglect, feelings of guilt, and talk of depression.

Welcome, everyone, to year 2 of me writing FNAF whump for a month straight! I hope you all enjoy :D!!

Fandom: FNAF movie (pre-canon)

--

Mike wants to cry. He wants to sob into his mom’s shirt, while she holds him. But he’s too old for that, and his parents are needed by the police. 

He wraps his arms around himself, listening as the police talked in hushed whispers to his grieving parents. The small amount of hope they had, had been whittled away by the constant media presence camped outside their home, and the calloused looks of people that ‘would have never let their children get taken.’

It had been like this for weeks, and Mike honestly didn’t know how much more he could endure. He knows he has to be strong, if not for himself, for his parents. His parents are already cracking at the seams. 

His mom either sleeps too much or not at all. Mike sometimes hears her, from his place in his room, screaming Garrett’s name. 

And his dad isn’t much better, though he somehow manages to keep going to work. He argues with his mom a lot, something that Mike wishes he would stop doing (there exists a fear in him that, if his dad keeps pushing, mom will crumble and break). And when he’s not arguing with mom, he’s drinking away their leftover money. Money that could be better used on finding Garrett.

His dad, in a way, seems convinced that Garrett is gone. That it’s a waste of resources trying to find him. 

Mike feels hopeless and more hopeless still when, after the officers stop talking, his mom lets out the most heart-wrenching cry. He hasn’t heard her cry like that, ever. Not when Garrett disappeared. Not when dad screamed at her, begging her to stop looking. And not even when a reporter shoved a microphone in her face and asked if she thought this was her fault. 

It pierces Mike’s soul, like an icepick. He feels it in his chest. 

He places a pillow over his ears, trying and failing to block out the sound. It doesn’t work. His mom’s screams of anguish carry all the way down the hall. 

Mike knows then, without being told, that his little brother is dead. That he’ll never get to play with him again or tell Garrett he loves him. All the maybes are shattered with the force of his mom’s cries. 

Maybe if he hadn’t turned away-

Maybe if his mom hadn’t spilled the pop-

Maybe if his dad looked over his shoulder, just once-

Maybe if Mike had gotten chicken poxs like the rest of his seventh grade class-

And maybe if his dad hadn’t decided to remarry-

There are so many things that had to go right for everything to go so horribly wrong. 

His dad had sunk into a depression after Charlie and momma’s deaths (his first mom, the one that abandoned them. The one that his dad told him to never talk about). And despite what his dad might say now, he had loved momma. Loved her enough for Mike to be shocked when he started dating his mom. 

He had been young at the time, maybe four at the oldest, but he remembered feeling confused and a little angry. It felt like his dad tried to fill the gaping hole in his heart with a new family. A new wife and, later, a new son. 

Mike found he didn’t have any vitriol for his new mom. She didn’t look at him with eyes full of sorrow, or brush him off whenever he needed a hug. She forced them to sit together as a family every night, and helped give life to Mike’s very best friend.

He hugged his pillow, nausea growing with every passing second. He knows that, at some point, his parents will need to talk to him about Garrett. Or maybe they won’t.

Maybe they’ll just forget to tell him, letting Mike stew in a hell of his own making. Reliving the moment he failed Garrett, over and over and over again. 

He cries. 

“Mike,” a familiar voice calls. Instantly, all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Part of him wants so badly to look up from the pillow he mashed over his face, but the other part of him fears what he may see. 

Tiny footsteps come closer to his bed. They sound so loud, standing out even against his mom’s sobs. “Mike,” Garrett, his supposedly dead little brother, calls again. “Look at me.”

He shook his head. “Nuh, no. You’re not real. Go away.”

Hands, smaller than Mike’s own, grip his bicep. They’re cold, inhumanely so, and when they clamp down, shocking him enough to drop the pillow, he sees the partial decayed body of his brother. 

He’s dressed the same as he had been that day. His skin is tinged gray and his eyes have a film over them. “Mike….”

He screams, thrashing around. 

“Mike?” His brother says, hands wrapping around his wrists. “Mike, wake up.”

“Mike?”

He blinks open his eyes. His room is dark, only lit up by the hall light streaming in through the open door. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, groggy and a little shaken up. His dad stands above him, imposing and unreadable as he’s always been. 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Just a nightmare,” Mike says, feeling silly. His heart continues to race, though, unperturbed by stupid things like “reality.” 

“Was it about him?” 

Mike doesn’t need to ask for clarification. They both know who him is. It hurts to talk about him, and it hurts to say his name. So, they don’t. They talk in circles, pretending that he never existed. 

“No,” he lies. “Just a monster.”

His dad hums, not convinced in the slightest. But he does what he always does, and ignores the problem until he can’t anymore. “Okay.” He ruffles Mike’s hair. “Try to get some sleep.”

And despite being fifteen now, a sudden urge to be held and comforted by his one semi-functioning parent courses through him. “Dad?” He calls out. 

His dad pauses in the doorframe. “Yes?”

“Can you ho-”

A high-pitched cry echoes throughout the house, signaling Abby’s wakefulness. It was both a blessing and a curse having a new baby in the house. And one that he’s usually grateful for, but right now he just wants his dad. 

“Duty calls,” his dad jokes, hurrying out of the room. He shuts Mike’s door behind him, leaving the room in pitch-black darkness. 

“Hold me,” he finishes. He turns over, facing the wall. “Goodnight, dad,” he murmurs, already drifting off. 

In the quiet of the room, unheard by the sole occupant, a tiny voice responds, “goodnight, brother.”

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 22 - Modern Brumaria

This is probably the future of the Soldier Boy AU, or any other universe with gang!Kamaria. Also it's much longer than my other Whumptober fills because I'd already been working on it before Whumptober. Bruno belongs to Izzy and is used with her blessing!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

Masterlist

No. 22: Vehicular Accident

Contains: lady whump, broken bones, dislocation, mild gore, head injury, referenced panic attack, referenced trauma, hospital mention, kidnapping mention, delirium, whipping mention, romance

.

.

This day has completely sucked. Well, it started out normally enough, but then she’d been triggered in the grocery store of all places when she saw a bald white man who reminded her of Roderick. And trying to hold the panic inside because she was in public just made the fallout ten times worse when she finally gave in. Always does, as Bruno likes to point out. Never stops her, though, she’s too stubborn for her own good - another bit of Bruno wisdom that he needs to turn on himself.

He and Shadi have tried their best to make the rest of the afternoon not suck, they really have. But come evening, Kamaria is still feeling off. She needs air. She needs to just not think for a while, which is what she tells her husband as she slips into her leather jacket and boots and straps her knife to her hip. 

“Be careful, love.” He kisses her forehead, then her cheek, concern etched into his handsome features. “And call if you need anything.”

“I will.” She’s not sure who looks more pitiful, Bruno or Shadi, as they watch her reach for the door. She gives one a smile and one a scratch behind the ear, then heads to the garage. 

The rumble of her bike underneath her automatically eases a little of the tension in her shoulders. Driving it far too fast, zipping around curves and past cars with the landscape flying by in too much of a blur to decipher, is even better. All of her concentration has to go into handling the bike. She doesn’t have any time to think about anything else. 

Once she’s way out of town and her mind isn’t so much of a swirling mess, she slows down and sits up straighter, raising her visor so that the wind can hit her skin. It’s nearing dark, and the roads out here are practically empty. Her thoughts slowly move back toward the grocery store, to Roderick and the feeling of being caught doing something she shouldn’t be that had overwhelmed her in that moment, but it doesn’t bring the same buzzing sensation beneath her skin as earlier. 

What would the real Roderick actually think, if he could see her living this life, going out and buying groceries whenever she needs them instead of living off of stolen goods, peaceful and happy with a husband and two dogs and a house of their own and absolutely no one to punish them for their mistakes?

He’d hate it, that’s for sure. But he’s not around anymore, so what he thinks doesn’t matter.

She’s getting closer to being ready to go back home, but before she’s made up her mind to actually turn around, a rumble of thunder sounds above the motorcycle‘s engine. Kamaria glances up at the sky. While she was lost in thought, dark clouds had rolled in, looming heavily overhead. 

Guess that’s my cue.

Checking for oncoming traffic, she U-turns and starts back toward home, picking up her speed just a bit. Fat drops of rain plop loudly onto her helmet. Within seconds, they’ve turned smaller and more and more frequent, until she’s being pelted in the face and has to use one hand to slam her visor back shut. The road is already soaked, so she keeps her pace around the speed limit. 

A few minutes into the trip, headlights are reflecting in her mirrors. They’re too bright to see what kind of car it is, but whoever’s driving is clearly impatient, coming up close behind her and hovering. Kamaria just rolls her eyes and resists the urge to slow down even more. There’s no one else anywhere around, just the two of them, the wet road, and the trees, so it’s not like they can’t pass her if they’re that desperate. 

Which they do, though not before tailing her long enough to make sure she understands their aggravation. Engine revving, the car pulls into the oncoming lane and comes flying by. She doesn’t even have time to react to slow down and let them get back into the lane. Just before they’ve fully passed her, they swerve back over, clipping the front of her bike with their back bumper. 

Her front wheel immediately dives to the side. She jerks the handlebars hard back into place, but there’s not enough traction on the slippery road. In the blink of an eye she’s spinning out, careening toward the edge of the road and the trees. 

The motorcycle tips as it reaches the grass. Her leg hits the ground first, pinned underneath the body of the bike, followed swiftly by the rest of her, head rattling inside her helmet as it slams into the pavement. That’s not the end of it, though. The bike is falling, dragging her with it, off the side of the road and down the steep embankment. It slams into a tree and she finally tumbles free from it, but by then it’s too late. She can’t stop. She’s rolling, violently, hitting trees, flipping, and rolling some more, everything a blur of brown and green and pain. Somewhere along the way she loses her helmet. 

By the time she comes to a stop, she’s lost consciousness, as well.

…

It’s unclear how much time has passed when she wakes. She’s barely even aware that she was unconscious at all, only that she opens her eyes to a dark canopy of trees overhead and rain dripping in her face. Wincing and blinking it away, she tries to turn her head to the side and is met with blinding pain shooting streaks of lightning through her vision. 

It takes a moment before she can see straight and breathe again. Moving very, very slowly this time, she cranes her neck to look back up the hill toward the road…the road that isn’t in sight at all. She fell a long way. She can’t see her bike, either, so she can only hope that it’s somewhere up top, still visible to passersby. 

Coaxing the arm that hurts the least into motion, she fumbles for her pocket. Empty. No phone, of course, that would make this far too easy. 

Okay, she needs to take stock of her body. Obviously her head is in bad shape, she probably hit it on a tree after losing her helmet. With the same hand, she reaches up and gently prods a wet, sticky patch on the back of her skull, gritting her teeth at the pain that responds. 

The arm she’s using is in a familiar bit of pain, itself, though it takes more thought than it should to pinpoint why. Dislocated shoulder. Of course, that was to be expected. Her shoulders have been dislocated so many times in her life that it takes very little to do it again. The other arm is worse, though, it feels broken. With a bit of support from the dislocated left arm, she picks up the right so that she can see it, holding her breath against the pain. 

Oh. Yep, that’s definitely broken. In a bloody, something is sticking out through her jacket sleeve kind of way. Right. She carefully sets it back down. There’s nothing she can do about it right now. 

Her left hip hurts, too, where she landed on it when the bike tipped, but she doesn’t bother trying to move it or look at it. As far as she can tell, those few things are the worst. Everything else on her hurts, but it feels like scrapes and bruises, not broken bones. 

It’s been a really long time since she was in this amount of pain. She isn’t used to it anymore. But that doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when she’s stuck in the bottom of a gulley with no phone and no one who knows where to find her. She highly doubts that the car stuck around to call for help. She needs to pull herself out of this situation, just like the old days, which means she’s going to have to embrace the pain again. 

Slowly, though. This is one of the worst head injuries she’s ever had, and if she gets too eager she’ll just knock herself back out. 

Inch by inch, Kamaria pushes herself up onto her left hand and the unbroken part of her right arm, stopping to breathe through her teeth and let the forest swirl around her after every movement. With one last heave, she’s sitting upright, clutching the sides of her head and squeezing her eyes shut. 

Halfway there. Now she just needs to stand. 

Her right leg seems to be in fairly decent shape - minus the long, bloody scrape she can now see on her thigh that tore right through her jeans - so she puts most of her weight onto it. She’s trying to move slowly, but it’s leaving her in awkward positions and she keeps almost losing her balance. Part of her wants to give up and collapse. Somehow, though, with the support of a nearby tree, she fights through the dizziness and pain and makes it to her feet. 

It’s a really, really long way up to the road.

Her first step onto her left leg is nearly her only step. Fire shoots through her hip, she instinctively jerks in response, and her vision fills with lightning again. But she manages to fall into the tree trunk and stay upright, clinging desperately and gritting her teeth until the worst of it passes.

She has to do this. No one is coming to help her. Not because there’s no one who cares, not anymore, but Bruno won’t have any idea where to find her once he realizes that something is wrong. It’s all up to her.

With that in mind, she pushes onward, keeping her weight off a hip that’s likely broken as much as she can, and grabbing onto branches and trunks whenever they’re available to pull herself along. They aren’t available nearly as often as she needs. 

But she’s dealt with worse than this before, right? She can’t think of any specific examples at the moment, but that’s probably just the concussion messing with her. There was the stabbing incident. That didn’t involve broken bones or head injuries, but it did involve a lot of blood loss and trying to get back to base without passing out. She survived that, she can survive this, too. She has to. Back then, all the incentive she had for making it was continuing her path of revenge. Now she has a husband, a home, a real life and someone who loves her and needs her as much as she does him. She can’t let him down. 

Each step is agony. Her vision cuts in and out, her whole body throbbing. She has no idea how far she’s actually made it, only that it seems like the road should be much, much closer by now than it actually is. It doesn’t look like it’s gotten any closer at all. Maybe that’s just the rain pouring down her face messing with her perception, though. 

She takes another step, reaches for a branch hanging just in front of her. It’s farther than it looks, though. Her fingers just brush the leaves as her foot slips on the mud and wet brush beneath her, and suddenly she’s falling. 

She feels every bit of pain when her body hits the ground, but she’s unconscious before she has the chance to scream.

…

She’s been gone too long. 

Bruno tries to give her the space she needs on days like this, he really does, which is why he didn’t protest her going out on her own or start worrying too much when the rain began. Even when the rain kept pouring and there was still no sign of her, he reasoned that she must have found someplace to stop and wait it out. 

But she didn’t call. Didn’t text. And when he finally gave in and texted her, checking in just to make sure she was alright, she didn’t answer. Never even opened the text, in fact. 

Which would make sense if she had given up on waiting out the rain and happened to be riding at the time. But she still didn’t come home. 

Bruno looks over at Dante, who’s watching him pace the house with growing concern, and punches her name on his phone screen. There’s silence in the speaker for a couple of seconds, then the generic voicemail message that Kamaria never bothers to change drones to life. 

He pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. Her phone is off. Why would her phone be off? Even when they need alone time, they always keep themselves available, knowing their spouse will respect their needs unless it’s an emergency. It doesn’t make sense for her to have turned her phone off. 

Something is wrong. 

Without delaying any further, Bruno snatches his jacket from the closet and goes to his own motorcycle in the garage. He has no idea where Kamaria went on her ride. Just from their house there are two choices of directions to go, and from there it branches off into infinite possibilities. 

But he doesn’t care. He’s going to find her. 

…

Kamaria drifts in and out of consciousness. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she needs to get up and move, but she can’t really remember why. Everything hurts. She doesn’t want to move, she just wants to keep lying here until maybe the pain gets a little more bearable. 

So she lets herself burrow back into the darkness. When she wakes again, she’s struck with a sudden sense of urgency. She can’t just lie here. She has to get up, her father will be waiting on her to return. He doesn’t care about missions gone wrong, he just cares about obeying orders to perfection, and she’s already late. She’ll get whipped for this. Ten lashes for each hour she was missing. How many hours has it already been? She has to get up, she has to make it back. 

She tries to move, and passes out in a wave of pain through her skull.

The next time that she finds herself staring up at the canopy of trees, she has no idea where she is or how she got there. She’s wet, and she hurts. Must have been Roderick again. He probably beat and waterboarded her. She can’t remember what it was she did wrong this time, but chances are it doesn’t matter, anyway. Their ideas of punishable offenses are usually things she can’t avoid no matter how hard she tries. 

Her last thought before losing consciousness again is, I want Bruno.

…

As he rides, Bruno calls the local hospital and police station, just in case. No one has seen or heard anything about a black woman with green eyes and a large scar across her face named Kamaria Stenberg. 

He goes from fretting that she may have gotten into a wreck to wondering if somehow she’s been taken again. Kane shouldn’t have any way to get to her, right? And none of his cronies should have a reason to want to take her, they were just following orders the first time. Then again, maybe one of them is holding a grudge, or enjoyed having her in their clutches a little too much. Or maybe it’s someone from her old life, animosity among gang members dies hard and there were plenty of people back then that wanted to get their hands on her. Yeah, they’ve moved states to get away from all of that, but that doesn’t mean anything. If someone really wanted to track her down, they could.

He’s sick to his stomach, thinking of all the possibilities as he forges on through the pounding rain. It’s been hours. Her phone is still going straight to voicemail. The two-lane stretch of road he’s currently riding is one he knows she frequents, but he’s gone all the way down it without any more sign of her than any other street he’s been on. He turns at the end, riding around a few more blocks with his heart in his throat before heading back up that same road, back toward town.

There’s a skidmark on this side. He’d noticed it out of the corner of his eye coming past the first time, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. This time he pays more attention, though, slowing down as he reaches it. It, because there’s only one. Not two, like a car, but one single mark. Like from a motorcycle. 

Bruno pulls over quickly, punching the button for his hazard lights, and tugs off his helmet as he climbs off the bike. Running over to the mark, he follows its trajectory with his eyes first, then his feet. It’s probably nothing. He’s trying not to get his hopes up and also fighting back dread at the same time. 

But then he stands with the toes of his boots hanging off the edge of the pavement and looks down the embankment, and he sees the large rivet that something left behind as it skidded through the mud. He sees bark missing off the bottom of a large tree trunk, like something smashed into it at top speed. 

He’s moving again almost before his mind has caught on, slipping and sliding to the tree line. He wants it to be her as desperately as he wishes that it’s not. Then he sees it, just a couple of yards past the first smashed tree - a motorcycle, lying on its side. He doesn’t have to see it up close to know it’s hers. But he goes over anyway, as fast as the uneven terrain will let him, eyes darting around the area. 

She’s not there. It’s her bike, like he knew it was, and it’s scratched and dented from its fall, but there’s no Kamaria to be seen. No sign that she was ever even there.

Could she have gotten up, walked away from a crash like this? But then he would have passed her on the way somewhere, right? And he’s already confirmed she hasn’t been to the hospital. 

Or maybe his second fear was correct. Maybe a wreck was just the start of it, just the method someone used to grab her, and that’s why she’s not here now. 

Fingers buried in his hair and chest heaving, he takes a few steps back and looks around wildly. “Kamaria!” His voice echoes through the trees, down into the hollow below. “Kamaria!”

…

Someone’s calling her name. It must be her mom. She’s really, really tired, she must have stayed out too late again, playing in the creek in the woods behind their house. She didn’t mean to make her mom worry.

“Coming, Mama,” she mumbles, trying to find the energy to get up. Her head hurts really bad. She doesn’t remember why. Mama will make it better, though, she always does. She’ll probably give her some of the pink medicine that’s supposed to taste like cotton candy, and plenty of kisses. 

Kamaria is about to fall back asleep, thinking of her mom’s kisses, when another noise jolts her back awake. Leaves are crunching and branches shaking somewhere above her, like someone or something is sliding down the hill toward her. Automatically her hand moves to grope for a knife at her hip, but comes away empty. She tries the other side - nothing there, either. Maybe there’s one in her boot, but she can’t make her body bend to check. Why is she out on a mission without all of her knives? If she was stupid enough to lose them all, and even her gun, then she deserves for whoever or whatever this is to get her. 

“Kamaria? Kamaria!”

She still doesn’t know who it is until his face appears above her, fear carved into his handsome features. “Bruno,” she breathes, a smile spreading across her face. “What’re…you doing…here?”

“Looking for you.” His hands cup her cheeks, and wow, they’re so warm. He needs to keep doing that. She didn’t know how cold her face was before now. “You’re gonna be okay now. I’m gonna get you help.”

She hums a little as he pulls his phone from his pocket and punches buttons with his thumb. “Better not…let my mom see you. She says…she says ‘m not allowed t’ have…t’ have a boyfriend. ‘Til I’m thirty.”

He holds the phone up to his ear, looking down at her with a strange look on his face that she doesn’t quite get. “Wait until she hears I married you.”

He starts talking to someone on the phone and it’s a lot for her to follow, so she just stares up at the trees and enjoys the one hand that’s still on her cheek. It stopped raining at some point. It was raining earlier, right? It’s nice that it stopped now, and that Bruno’s here. 

“Kamaria? Love?” The hand is patting her cheek now. “Open your eyes for me, love. I need you to stay awake.”

She didn’t realize she’d closed them. Wrinkling her nose, she whines a little. “Tired.”

“I know you are, but you have to stay awake for now. The ambulance is on its way. Come on, open those gorgeous eyes for me.”

She complies, but gives him her best unamused expression. “My head hurts.”

He grows even more solemn. “I know. I found your helmet way up there somewhere. Can you tell me what else hurts? Your leg is scraped up pretty good.” She feels him gently lift her shirt. “Stomach is, too. I don’t see any concerning bruising on it, though I’ll bet you cracked a rib, at least.”

“Head,” she repeats, trying to think past that all-encompassing, throbbing pain to see what else there is. “Hip. Arm.” Almost as an afterthought she adds, “Shoulder.”

“No, I don’t want to move her.” He sounds like he’s talking to someone else. The person on the phone still, maybe. “Hip…” He carefully prods at both, eliciting a gasp and jerk from Kamaria when he touches the injured one. “Left hip. I’m guessing broken, based on the reaction, but could be dislocated. Left shoulder is definitely dislocated. And, uh…” Leaning over, he touches her hand, but quickly pulls back. “Right arm has an open fracture. Yeah, I’m staying on. How far out are they?” He listens for a moment, free hand coming back to rest on her cheek. “They need to hurry up. I’m worried this is more than just a concussion.”

She really wants to go to sleep. Now that Bruno is here, she feels much safer. Maybe now that he’s asked his questions he’ll let her nap.

“Stay with me, Kamaria.” His face is close to hers again. Eyes normally blue like the sky look more like storm clouds in the dim lighting.

“You’re…pretty.”

She somehow expects him to smile at that, but he just keeps looking at her with that worried expression and lightly strokes her hair. “Thank you. So are you.”

“Mean, though. Won’t let…me sleep. And…lost my knife. Can��t…stab you.” 

“We’ll find your knife. And if you try your best to stay awake until the doctor says it’s okay to sleep, then you can stab me all you want after, okay?”

“No,” she whines. She’d like to bury her face in his chest, but she can’t move. “No doctor. Hate doctors.”

“I know, love. But I’m afraid you have to go this time.”

“Will you come?” She doesn’t want to go alone. He just got here, and the doctor is scary.

“Of course I will. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“Can…Shadi come?” 

“Tell you what, I’ll check and see if she can come visit you while you’re there. Alright?”

Kamaria sighs and lets her eyes drift shut again. “‘kay.”

“Eyes open. Come on.” He pauses, turns his head a little. “I hear the sirens. They’re almost here. I’m gonna have to let them work on you to help you feel better, okay? But I’ll be right here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.” Bending down, he presses a warm, gentle kiss to her forehead. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, Kamaria.”

[mamabelverse]

Chapter 7: Where's Mabel!?

Summary: Another fall day in Glass Shards Beach, New Jersey. The Pines family were doing their normal things. Or, at least, until a certain point...

Until... they noticed somebody missing.

It's starting... I hope you're ready, everyone!

[cryptid-on-a-string]

Yaaayyy yipppeeee hooorayyyy its a cute little ransom letter !!

(I actually asked my dad to write the handwritten part, because I just couldn’t get the “doctors handwriting” to look convincing enough, so yea thanks dad) (it says “don’t try to grow a brain, Vick!”)

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Honor in Crisis

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam, NTT, Titans, JLI, Arrowfam, Flashfam, GL Corps, Infinity Inc

Summary: Every chapter will focus on one character specifically and then I'll update their statuses in order.

This is a no powers au/fix-it fic for Heroes in Crisis. I wanted to focus on the characters and their healing. I decided that'd be easier to put some of these characters in a fic like this and work on it more from a real-world perspective. I DO want to say that I do not believe healing is linear so don't plan on a clear-cut happy ending. I'd say (and idk for sure) we're gonna eventually get a bittersweet ending for certain characters but nothing tragic.

Chapters: 8/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Kole Weathers, Lilith Clay, Eddie Bloomberg, Michael Carter, Michelle Carter, Rani Carter, Grant Emerson, Roy Harper, Grant Wilson, Joseph Wilson, Thaddeus Thawne, Bart Allen, Helen Claiborne, President Thawne, Todd Rice, Alan Scott (DCU), Damon Matthews

Relationship(s): Damon Matthews/Todd Rice

Additional Tags: No Powers AU, Canon Divergent AU, Fix-It Fic, Angst, TW // Suicide Attempt , TW // Domestic Violence Mention (Siblings) , TW // Referenced Child Abuse , TW // Kidnapping , TW // Child Abduction

Chapter Eight: Emesis (Thad Thawne)

Thad lay on his side, staring at the wall while a nurse checked his vital signs. The wall had a peculiar pattern, speckles so close they made designs and spots in some areas. Thad honed in on a collection of spots that looked like a face. "Hi, my name's Nurse Aya. Can you tell me what your name is?" Nurse Aya asked. Thad met eyes with her and took a shaky breath.

"Thad," he answered, "I feel sick." The nurse grabbed an emesis bag and helped him hold it to his mouth while he threw up. Thad had only been in the hospital for fifteen minutes. The EMTs injected him with something that slowed him down, but it made him so sick to his stomach that he thought he'd come down with the flu. The nurse threw the emesis bag in a medical waste trash can, and she checked his temperature. He apologized to her and tried to explain that he didn't have a weak stomach.

"They had to give it to you to get you to calm down," Nurse Aya whispered. Thad looked around.

"Is my brother okay?" Thad questioned.

Nurse Aya regained eye contact and waited for him to calm down. "Your brother is fine. Your brother is fine," she repeated, "Right now, what's important is that you get some rest while you wait for the doctor."

Thad nodded. "My twin's okay?" Thad whispered. Nurse Aya nodded.

"He's alright," Nurse Aya reassured. Thad recalled a fight that happened less than thirty minutes before his hospitalization. He couldn't remember what it was about, but he knew he'd hurt Bart. It was a bloody mess, and he convinced himself that everyone hated him for it. That's why no one came to visit him. He was sure of it.

A man entered the hospital room and waved. "Thaddeus?" the doctor questioned. Nurse Aya excused herself, and Thad nodded. "I'm Dr. Xochipepe. So I feel compelled to ask you if you prefer Thaddeus or some short and sweet form of Thaddeus."

"Thad or Theo's fine," Thad whispered.

"Okay, well, you can call me Dr. Xochi. Zo-chee," he sounded the name out for Thad.

Thad nodded, waiting for the doctor to run tests, but he didn't. "Your brother insisted on telling me you were manic," Dr. Xochi stated, "Would you describe the events preceding your hospitalization as part of a manic episode?"

Thad understood the question, but thinking took so much effort. All he wanted to do was sleep. "I've fought my brother tons of times... But this time, I almost—." Thad looked down at his shirt and rolled onto his back. "His blood's all over me... Does he need anything?"

"He's going home with your uncle tomorrow afternoon... And your cousin said she needed to pick up something for you to wear. You care for each other. I can tell... Thad, have you ever been in residential treatment?" Dr. Xochi questioned.

Thad was hospitalized once before, but he was younger then. A lot younger. Thad nodded and shut his eyes at the thought of it. Then Helen came to get him. And she was safe and warm and everything he'd never had. "I hurt myself when I was a kid because I wanted to get away from my grandpa," Thad answered. Familial kidnapping. The hospital was cold and impersonal. He swore he'd never end up in a place like that again.

And hurting himself was an understatement. Thad jumped out of a car on the freeway, shattering his elbow and hitting his head. When he woke up, he was too frightened to explain why, so he lied. "How long ago was that?" Dr. Xochi asked.

"I was thirteen. That doesn't have anything to do with this. I didn't hurt Bart because I was scared. I don't remember why I hurt him, but I wasn't scared of him," Thad explained. He shut his eyes in the hopes that Dr. Xochi would go away. "I'm not going home tonight, am I?"

"I'm afraid not," Dr. Xochi replied. He asked a handful of common sense questions before asking the difficult questions. "Do you feel like you might want to harm anyone still?"

Thad thought about his question for a long time. "I don't want to... But I think the damage is done. I've never done anything this terrible before. I don't know how any of them could ever forgive me," Thad mumbled, "I wouldn't forgive myself if I were them." Thad lay down again and tried to find the face in the wall. When he couldn't, he shut his eyes again. Thad didn't want to talk anymore. He wanted it all to fade away. Thad hadn't slept in days. He hadn't wanted to. Now, all he wanted was sleep.

"Thad?" Dr. Xochi asked. Thad pressed his face into the pillow.

Thad started crying softly into his pillow. "I don't want to talk anymore. I need some time," Thad mumbled. Dr. Xochi made a soft noise and distanced himself.

Thad curled into a ball and thought about Bart's head cracking against the pavement. It permeated his dreams. Pursued him in nightmares. He didn't sleep long as they woke him and transferred him to the inpatient facility.

It was pitch black outside, but this facility seemed different from the rest. Thad started signing paperwork, and after they checked him in, they offered him a change of clothes. He showered and changed before climbing into bed in the room they assigned him. His roommate lay staring at the ceiling, but he never turned to acknowledge Thad. That was fine. He didn't want to be noticed.

Thad's guilt would've kept him awake if it weren't for the sleeping pill the nurse gave him. His body ached, and his head hurt. Eventually, the pain became an afterthought as his body gave way to fatigue. He ran a bruised hand through his hair and enjoyed a dreamless slumber until he awakened with a jolt to his screaming roommate. Thad turned to the other boy and watched as the nurses did nothing. After nearly a minute of uninterrupted screaming, his roommate laid down and went back to sleep as if it were nothing.

Thad hugged his knees, visibly shaken up by what he'd witnessed. He couldn't go back to sleep after that, so he sat in place until it was time to get out of bed.

[serickswrites]

Unhand II

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings: physical violence, bruises, unconsciousness, referenced kidnapping

Caretaker came to slowly. Painfully slow. Everything hurt and it was hard to make sense of things. Someone was tapping on their cheek. Trying to wake them.

"Come on, Caretaker," Teammate Two's voice came. They sounded far away.

Caretaker was so tired. It would be so easy to slip back into the awaiting dark. So easy.

"None of that. Come on, Caretaker. Open your eyes," Teammate Two urged.

They knew it was bad. It had to be bad for Teammate Two to try and wake Caretaker that way. They struggled to open their eyes.

"There you are," Teammate One's voice came distantly.

"Caretaker, Caretaker," Teammate Two said again.

Caretaker shut their eyes rapidly. It was too bright in the clearing. Too bright and it made their head hurt. Their head hurt so much. Their whole body hurt. Why wouldn't Teammate Two just let them sleep?

"Where's Whumpee, Caretaker. We're getting you help, but if you're hurt, Whumpee must be hurt, too. Where are they?"

Teammate Two's words had Caretaker wrenching their eyes open. Whumpee. Whumper had taken Whumpee. Whumper had kidnapped Whumpee. Whumper made promises to torture Whumpee to death.

Caretaker tried to sit up and the world tilted on its axis. "Easy there, Caretaker. Take your time, it's ok."

"Nottttt 'kay," Caretaker muttered as they tried to sit up once more. "Whumpee."

"Where are they? You let us worry about them. Just focus on healing yourself, Caretaker," Teammate One said. They were much closer this time.

"Whumper. Took them. We have to find them." Caretaker inhaled sharply and rolled to stand. Though the world spun around them, Caretaker didn't stop. They had to find Whumpee. Had to make sure that Whumper didn't make good on their promise.

Tags: @cpt-winters @thequestingbunny @bloopdydooooo @tiny-feral-arachnid-man @inscrutable-shadow @bookworm7543 @lgcgjd @madmadder @mefattortoise @lthrboy @st0rmm @whumppsychology @gala1981 @whumperofworlds @hiding-in-the-shadows

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Primetober Day 4: With Friends Like This…, with all bonus prompts (Fighting, verbal abuse, and destruction of property.)

Dragon AU. In an act of defiance, Tommy tries to damage other parts of the “hoard” Dream keeps him trapped in. Dream, coldly furious, makes Tommy regret it without even lifting a finger. Warnings for self harm, suicidal thoughts, kidnapping, abuse, torture, referenced mutilation, referenced child death, dehumanisation, infantilisation, possessive behaviour, and threats of violence.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s knuckles bled.

Wood and bone and stranger material aside lay rend to nothing in the hoard of treasure, the magic inside them diffusing into the air. Shards of glass and crystal dug deep into his skin, leaving wounds Tommy could only hope would scar, marring his skin, breaking him too.

If he could not leave this gilded prison, he’d tear off the gold and refuse to play nice. He’d bite and scratch and scream and make himself no longer worthy of hoarding.

Prime knows how long he’d been in this cave. He couldn’t see the days change, and Dream’s sleeping schedule was erratic enough that he couldn’t rely on that either. He’d grown a little taller, and his hair was a lot longer, so it had to have been a while, yet the images of blood and fire and pain still felt like it was yesterday, waking him up with screaming fits the rare times he caught sleep.

He was sixteen when his home was destroyed. When the monster from the storybooks burnt everything to the ground, gutted soldiers effortlessly through their armour, tore kids hiding in the corner to shreds. Tommy was the only survivor, though trophy seemed the more appropriate word. 

If you were to ask Dream, he’d say it was because Tommy was the only person he’d met with the guys to stand against him without trying to hide behind iron shells and sharp sticks, with only his fists and a scared yet determined look in his eyes. Tommy got the impression it was more because being the great and terrible monster who destroyed villages for fun was a lonely life, and he was just the unlucky son of a bitch chosen to try and play therapist to a fucking dragon, but he knew better than to say it. He wanted at least one working arm, if nothing else.

He liked to imagine he was grown now. No longer a child under any stretch of the imagination, no matter how little Dream treated him like a “hatchling”, as he called it in his weird way of speaking. He was grown, and no one could call him a kid again without them being the childish one. He was mature now, like Tubbo was.

That thought felt like a flaw through the chest. Prime, he missed Tubbo. At least he never saw him die. He could delude himself into believing he escaped, somehow. It was a blatant lie to himself, and he knew that, but it served to cushion the blow, just a bit.

So did breaking things.

Priceless artefacts lay shattered, rare collectables and historic art pieces and ancient magic. Gone, destroyed, bloodied. They were a part of the same hoard Tommy had been trapped in, Dream seeming to view chasing him down, hurting him until he couldn’t move, and dragging him back to the literal gilded cage he spent most his time in as a game, and Tommy reckoned they’d been there longer than he’d been alive times, like, a billion. They weren’t doing anyone any good.

But even if they would, he didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. He just wanted to hurt Dream. He wanted to show him he wasn’t a cute little pet human to coo over and torment, a jewel to keep locked up in a display case. No, he was Tommy, angry, violent, human. If Dream wanted to hold him captive, he had to know that Tommy would make it as difficult as possible.

And maybe, just maybe, Dream would kill him, and he could join Tubbo.

He breathed heavily, exhaustion overtaking him, and he dragged himself up the endless pile of useless stuff to the soft blankets and endless pillows at the top. Even if it meant locking himself back into a display, he didn’t mind. Maybe then Dream would see what he did. Maybe then Dream would fucking listen to him.

Halfway up, though, he felt a heavy tug on the back of his tunic, the only warning before claws dug into his back and he was dragged back to the ground. He landed with a thud, before something shifted and in a flash, he went from a paw holding him down to the weight of a person pinning him.

Opening his eyes, Tommy looked up at his own face.

That was one of the torturous things about Dream- his insistence on parading a parody of Tommy’s form around. Warped, a sickly pale green and with his monstrous features slapped atop, but still recognisably Tommy as of his capture, the same scratch wounds on his arms, the bruises on his face, and almost unscarred, unlike the mess of burns and cuts and injuries coating Tommy now. It was uncanny, and still, it made Tommy long for a time he’d never get back, when he felt whole in body, mind and soul, and not an empty shell.

“Tommy.”

Dreams’ voice was calm, eerily empty of any emotion. His face was blank, too, and that was scarier than anger. Dream loved being able to emote in his human form- grinning and giggling like an idiot whenever he was mildly happy, crying his eyes out when he was a little disappointed. Not even bothering with that told Tommy that whatever he felt, it was so far past bothering to even show. He wasn’t even sure if that thought made sense, but it was hard to make sense out of anything through the blind panic.

“I- I-“Tommy’s voice died in his throat.

“Quiet.”

Tommy shrunk, instinctively expecting a broken bone, another missing finger maybe, but Dream just stared down, expressionless. “I know what you’re trying to do, hatchling.” His tail wagged aggressively behind him, thumping loudly on the ground in contrast to how eerily calm he looked. “You’re trying to piss me off, so I decide you’re not worth keeping, and I’ll let you go or kill you, right?”

Tommy nodded his head, unable to speak.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, little one.” Dream let out a barking laugh, one that lacked any humour. “I don’t care about how valuable something is for you humans. Gold, silver, gems, your sticks you use to access magic and scribble papers, they only matter because they interest me. And Tommy… you’re far more valuable than any other thing here. Unlike all my other trophies, you’re fun to play with.”

Dream smiled slowly, baring sharp teeth awkwardly stuck into a human mouth. The memories of such razor-sharp blades digging into his flesh sent phantom pain through the scars left by them, agonising enough that he couldn’t help but whimper. There was no ambiguity as to what he meant by that, and it sent a chill up Tommy’s spine. He wouldn’t even be allowed to die, not while the monster from his nightmares had fun torturing him like a cat would a mouse.

“But of course, I can’t let you just get away with that, can I? I have a reputation to upkeep.” There was a faint hint of what might have been sadness in that, barely peeking through his unreadable tone, but it disappeared as soon as it broke through. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. You’ve shown me that doesn’t work, haven’t you?”

He grinned again, and Tommy’s stomach dropped. “No, no. The second you step out of line again, Tommy, I’m going take you to show what happened to your little human lair, and I’m gonna destroy one more for each little mistake you make. And I’ll make sure you see every second of it. Maybe I’ll even bring some humans back to take my time playing with, before I get bored of them. Maybe I’ll make you hurt them too.”

Tommy felt sick. He couldn’t even bear to think about- about the outside, about his home. The image of it, picturesque and whole in his memories, still caused him to tear up, let alone the nightmares. The idea of seeing it now, ruined and shattered, seemed horrific, and even worse was the idea of anyone else going through the same thing, seeing their home burnt to the ground, dying horribly in the wreckage. Or being brought back to- to really, just be tortured, and then probably eaten once Dream got bored or hungry or whatever, without even the scattered, confused kindness Dream tried to show to him.

And the idea of doing what was done to him to others? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. No. No, he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing that agony.

Tommy tried his best to stay calm, to be a Big Man, but like a goddamn pussy he couldn’t help himself but burst into tears.

Absently, Dream ran a claw gently across his face, curiously tracing the path of the tears, eyes widening slightly in fascination. “Don’t worry. Just be the perfect treasure, and that won’t have to happen, ’kay?”

“H-how?” Tommy’s voice was strangled, terrified. It took all he had left to even say them. “How do I- do I stop that?”

“Just don’t try stupid shit again, alright? And talk to me. It’s interesting, hatchling. I’ve never had anyone to talk to before.” It was said so casually, but even in this state, Tommy was struck by how fucking sad that was. Dream really was doing this out of loneliness, wasn’t he? Maybe… maybe it wasn’t so bad to stay here, and be friends with Dream.

“Okay.” Tommy nodded, hating how weak he sounded. “J-just, please. Don’t hurt anyone else.”

“I can’t promise that.” Dream sounded sad again. “I- I exist for a reason, y’know, Tommy. Some things are made to ruin. They don’t have a choice. Do you think I want this? This pile of useless goods? This lonely existence? There needs to be a villain for every hero.” Dream sighed. “I don’t wanna talk about this. It’s- I’m not meant to; humans and hatchlings aren’t to know.”

The idea seemed strange. That Dream was as much a prisoner as Tommy… it didn’t make sense, yet Tommy found an odd sense of kinship in it. Maybe that’s why Dream seemed so oddly fascinated that he chose to fight him. Maybe he’d fought his role already. Maybe… he could find a way to make Dream only hurt him.

Or maybe it was a lie. But Tommy would let himself believe a comforting one, if only to give him the strength to stop Dream from doing what he did to him to anyone else.

After all, no one but Tommy deserved it.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Posting schedule: Friday Misdemeanor, and Wednesdays for one the occasional one shot. Tag lists are always open. 

Join us in the VoxTek Discord server for a Vox themed Hazbin place to hang and get teasers for upcoming chapters! 

my AO3 and Kofi

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart 

Cover done by @redvexillum

Human Alastor x married reader Rated Adult for adult themes,triggering content and sexual content. Potentially DD:DNE, mind the warnings Series Trigger Warnings: Adultery, stalking, Sexual assault, Rape, smut, Domestic Violence, Time period accurate views on women and domestic violence and skin color, murder

Summary: Fading away in an abusive marriage, each day passes just the same as the last. Painful monotony eats at you until a pair of warm brown eyes sparks the idea that you could have something more. When a business deal between men sparks a torrid affair, how long can you keep things going before the fire either leaves you a burnt out shell or burns up everything around you?

And what becomes of the radio host who thought he was above the fickle fires of the heart when the match he strikes burns his hand instead? Can he possess what rightfully belongs to another man without leaving everything he has fought for in ashes?

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59. 60

MisD Sidepieces: One shots or fics that take place in a MisD AU or are MisD canon but written by another.

Inappropriate Demeanor by @nyx-umbrakinesis (Canon placement, end of chapter 22)

Audio Chapters by Nyx Productions: Chapter 1: part 1 part 2, Chapter 2:  Part 1, part 2, part 3, chapter 3, Part 1, part 2, part 3, Chapter 4: Part 1, Part 2,  Chapter 5: Part 1, Part 2, Chapter 6: Part 1, Part 2

For Eternity (Completed)

Banner by @redvexillum

Alastor x Angel!Wife Oc (Isabel) Rated: Adult Warnings: This fic contains sexual content, explorations of consent within Angel Dust's contract in relation to sex work, Sexual assault, Possessive and obsessive behaviors, Power dynamics, Adam being an ass, kidnapping, Vox is in hell for a reason, Val is in hell for a reason, Vox has a weird thing for Alastor, Angel Dust is sweet as pie, murder, revenge, implied sexual assault and harassment, miscarriage and death.

Summary: Isabel died young, leaving behind her husband to pick up the pieces. Finding herself in Heaven, she waits for her husband to join her. And waits. And waits. Years and decades pass as she faces the realization that Alastor may not be joining her in Heaven, leaving her largely alone in a realm of double standards and fake smiles.

She must decide if she is going to move on from her marriage or do whatever it takes to reunite with her husband. Would he even still want her? Would she survive the dangers to find him? Would the cost be worth what could be gained?

Is Heaven really Heaven if the one you love isn't there with you?

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Another day in Paradise (On hiatus)

Pairing: Eventually Alastor x OFC, later- light Alastor x ofc x Lucifer Rated: Adult for eventual smut Content warnings: It's Hazbin Hotel- this feels redundant. Sex, eventual smut, referenced implied suicide to be discussed in more detail later, drugs, drinking, poor coping, toxic behavior, controlling behavior, cannibalism, idk, it's fucking Hazbin Hotel, if it's worth a content warning it's probably going to come up at some point? Religious trauma. reader has a name/is a oc.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4

A Taste of Sugar

Alastor x reader Rated: Adult for smut TW: blood kink, bondage, reader with trauma from food insecurity Summary: As you work through the trauma of your life and starving to death, you dismantle your stash of snacks for what you hope will be the final time. Snack cakes, cookies and crackers are given to everyone around you, except one resident in the hotel whom you knew wouldn't enjoy or consume the treats. Then, as the flow of treats tricked to a stop, stash dismantled, small brown boxes containing treats began to appear at your door. Simple, delicious and seemingly homemade treats without so much as a note.

He watched and he waited, each week for your offer. Each week, no offer came and again he left his gift at your door. Why would you not think of him? Why would you not see him? What did he have to do for you to consider him?

Chapters: 1,  2 

Wild Flowers (One shot)

Alastor x readerRated: Adult, 18+ Content warnings: Sex pollen trope and related questionable consent due to intoxication, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, knotting, praise, dancing that shouldn't be that sexy, biting, a touch of blood drinking, female masterbation, some possessiveness, Alastor being a bit of an ass

Summary: You had always loved flowers, so when you found a patch of pretty purple wildflowers growing in the small forest behind the hotel, you didn't think twice about picking a small handful to bring back to your room. While they smelled lovely, you were wholly unprepared for the side effects of exposure or the repercussions of offering the terrifyingly handsome Radio Demon a smell on your way to your room.

With your body burning from the inside out with an overwhelming need and a displeased Radio Demon pushing his way into your room, you have no idea what you're in for.

All you wanted was to pick some flowers but you got so much more.

Audio version brought to you by @nyx-umbrakinesis,  Pt1, Pt2, Pt3, Pt4, Pt5, Pt6.

Steamy Situations 18+  (One shot)

Alastor x readerRated: Adults only Warnings: Smut. It's shower smut. Female bodied reader. Careful with your shower sex.

Summary: You're hot and bored and your husband is busy working. If only there was a way you could distract him, get some of his attention and cool off. Audio Fic credits: Read by the lovely @nyx-umbrakinesis (Audio fic part 1, part 2)

Read me to sleep? (One shot)

Alastor x readerRating: G Summary: After a long, shitty day out and about you drag yourself home to the hotel to seek shelter and comfort in the one place you knew you could find it.

Home is where the heart is (One shot fluff) 

Vox x Reader Rated: General Warnings: I accidently spilled a little angst on the fluff serving. Sorry?

Summary: You're cooking dinner when your secret boyfriend comes home. Caught up in the moment, confessions are made and hearts are put on the line.

A Bed of Electric FLowers (One Shot)

Header done in part by the wonderful, amazing, fantastical @redvexillum

Vox x ReaderRated: Adult CW: Sex pollen trope, sex toy use, female masterbation, Vox's glowstick dick, way too many tv details, Male receiving oral,

Summary: A unexpected floral arrangement is delivered to your door as you're trying to ignore the lingering absence of your flat faced boyfriend. When Vox returns home and finds you in a compromising position, he's eager to assist even without a clue as to what has you so worked up.

Sister Dearest (One shot)

Requested: Vox x Alastor’s!Sister!Reader rated: Adult

Summary: Sneaking out of the protection of the protection of your brother's district was dangerous. Not only did you risk Alastor's wrath, you risked catching the eye of some unsavory characters. While you could meet many friends upon the streets of the forbidden tech district, you find Vox and his alluring promises of a good time.He knew of your brother and seemed to hold no animosity, surely he was a friend to the Radio Demon, right? Surely you could trust his company, right?Right?

Power (One Shot)

Vox x Reader Rating: Explicit 18+ Warnings: Porn without plot, Power dynamics, Secretary reader, Choking on dick, Office blowjob. 

Summary: Vox is wound tight after his on air showdown with the newly returned Alastor. The show must go on though and you have just what he needs to get into the right headspace to move forward. 

(None, for now)

(None, for now)

[riahlynn101]

Day Seventeen: "Leave Me Alone."

Trigger Warnings:  Implied/referenced murder, kidnapping, Wiliam being delusional, childhood trauma, and severe abandonment issues.

Set in the FNAF movie universe.

--

William considered himself a fairly patient man. Co-owning a diner geared towards children and families tested it daily. 

It had taken weeks of watching and waiting, but he’s sure now is the right time to move.

William gets out of his car. The house is dark, all the lights seem to be off. He opens the front door, slinking quietly into the house. 

It’s a mess. 

He spots his ex-wife slumped over at the kitchen table, head resting on a pile of papers. From here, William recognizes the familiar picture of the boy he kidnapped and murdered not four months previous. 

Inwardly, he smiles. 

Turning his head, William sees the person he’s here for. 

Michael is asleep, curled up on the couch. He mutters in his sleep - a habit he’s had since early childhood. William’s heart aches suddenly. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to lay eyes on his son. Nearly a decade in fact. 

Without thinking any further, William scoops his son up. He’s bigger now. No longer a tiny toddler, but still surprisingly light. 

Michael murmurs in his sleep, shifting closer to his dad’s chest. Something like pride wells up in William’s chest. Even after all these years, his son still recognizes him. 

He leaves the way he came, making sure to sneer at his ex-wife as he does so. Stupid bitch thought she could take what was his. The memory of coming home to an empty house still burns. 

But….William got her back, ten-fold. 

He places Michael in the passenger seat, buckling him in, and covering him with a blanket from the backseat. 

William starts the drive back to Utah. He still has a business to run, and he’s sure his son would like being back home. Nebraska just doesn’t have the same feel as Hurricane. 

-x-x-x-

Mike wakes up to the sound of the radio playing classic rock. Something his mom hates. Says it hurts her ears. Dad also isn’t fond of it, choosing to play softer sounding music instead. The only person who likes it even a little bit is him, and he only listens to it through his walkman. 

Groggily, he reaches up towards his head, trying to feel for his headphones. Maybe he fell asleep with them on. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it is kind of amazing his walkman hasn’t shut off yet. 

Next to him, someone snickers. A larger hand ruffles his hair. “Goodmorning, sleepy head,” a man says. 

Mike tenses. Slowly, he looks at the man. He’s tall, taller than Mike’s mom or dad. Glasses sit perched on his nose, and he wears a button up-shirt and slacks. 

Mike’s heart starts to race. Memories come racing back to him. Things that he forgot following his brother’s kidnapping. Things that he needed to remember, but couldn’t while being interrogated by the police. 

He screams….

…and screams…

…and-

The car is jerked roughly onto the side of the road. A hand slaps itself over his mouth, cutting him off. 

Mike’s heart beats wildly against his ribcage. 

“What the hell is your problem?” The man asks, sternly. 

He makes a noise behind the hand, but it comes out muffled. The man lets his mouth go, but there’s a warning look in his eyes. As if he wants Mike to try something. 

“You…you’re the man. The one that took….” he trails off, unable to say the words. In a tinier voice, Mike asks, “are you here to kill me?” In no way does he want to die, but if it means being with his brother again, then Mike would be okay with that. The last few months have been hell on all of them. And he misses his little brother terribly.

The man looks at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Why would I kill my son,” he says simply. 

His blood runs cold. “Your son…? No, sorry….I’m not-”

A fury flashes in the man’s eyes. He grabs Mike by the shoulder roughly. “Yes. You are.” He shakes him a little. “Don’t pretend you’re not.”

Mike shakes his head. “No, I have a dad.”

The man lets him go, settling back in his seat. He laughs. “You do, huh?” 

A little freaked out, Mike nods. “Yeah.”

“Your dad,” the man starts, “isn’t going to save you now.”

The car starts up again, but Mike’s too shocked to say anything. Because the man sounds so sure of himself, like he’s planned everything out from start-to-end. And it makes sense. If he stole Garrett….then what hope does Mike have of being found?

He stares at the door. Maybe he can-

“Don’t even think about it,” the man says in a monotone voice, his eyes still firmly on the road. 

Mike spends the rest of the drive, looking out the window. When they stop, he tells himself, he’ll escape then. Or if they pass by a police car, Mike can wave them down. 

But both of those things never happen. 

-x-x-x-

William pulls into the driveway. He parks the car, looking expectantly at his son. Maybe seeing the house will jog Michael’s memories. He doesn’t blame his son, of course, for not remembering him. His ex-wife probably did a great job of erasing him from their pasts. And the guy she ended up re-married to, likely replaced any remaining memories Michael had of him. 

Still, the fact that he was replaced at all, hurts. 

Michael looks at him, not a hint of recognition in his big brown eyes. Eyes that used to look up at him with nothing but unconditional love. 

William sighs. “Guess not, “ he mutters under his breath. He gets out of the car, going over to Michael’s side. The minute the door opens, his son tries to make a break for it. But William catches him instantly. 

He’s carted inside, screaming all the way. 

Thankfully, no one’s outside. And even if they were, none of them were likely to help Michael. They would just chalk his screaming up to a kid having a tantrum. 

He carries Michael, kicking and screaming, all the way to his old bedroom. Everything is still the same, minus the bed (which he recently bought in expectation that his son would be home soon), and the lack of windows (which he boarded up to stop his son from being able to escape). 

As carefully as he can-given that his son is trying to bite him-William places Michael down on the floor. “There,” he says. “Home at last.”

Michael looks up at him-not with any form of fondness or love-but with anger and fear and….disgust. 

“Leave me alone. This isn’t my home,” he snaps, getting to his feet. “I want to go home!” 

Chuckling, William pats his son’s fluffy curls. “But you are home, and,” the expression on his face darkens, his hand tightens its hold on Michael’s hair, “no one is ever going to take you away from me again.”

[bloody-cupcakes]

Yandere/dark Tenth Doctor x reader; he helps you celebrate your birthday

Tw: yandere/dark content, soft yandere, threatened force feeding (it doesn't happen though), implied kidnapping/Stockholm syndrome, gender neutral reader, the Doctor uses affectionate pet names such as star, angel, and love, brief swearing, referenced past hypnotism/mind control

A/N: it's my birthday and I happen to share it with none other David Tennant himself so naturally I had to write something a little dark with the Tenth Doctor in order to celebrate 🥳🎈🎂

The bed dipped down beside you as you tried to play it off like you were still asleep. "Happy birthday, star," the Doctor softly cooed in your ear, gently shaking you as you laid there. Obviously he figured out you were faking. "It's time to get up so I can give you your gift."

You pressed your face closer into the pillow and let out a defiant huff. "I don't wanna," you whined quietly, almost too quiet for him to hear. As much as you might've enjoyed your birthday before, you'd recently been dreading its approach due to the circumstances you found yourself in.

Part of you had hoped that maybe he wouldn't remember, and then you could say you didn't remember either if it ever came up in further conversation, but unfortunately you had no such luck. You didn't even question how he knew it: at this point you didn't want to know where he got any additional information that you didn't willingly give up.

"I said, it's time to get up." His tone was a bit more forceful than before; it made you gulp nervously and sent shivers down your spine. "I don't want to have to repeat myself again, understood?"

"Yes, sir," you responded obediently, your voice sounding timid and meek as you slowly sat up in the bed. "I'm sorry." You stuck your bottom lip out and widened your eyes, trying to make yourself look as innocent and unsuspecting as possible, something you knew he always fell for.

"I guess I'm just a little upset that I won't be getting to spend today with my family." It could very well have been a bold faced lie, but he didn't need to know that. It wouldn't matter, anyway. You knew he wasn't going to take you back home, but at the very least you were hoping for some sympathy, which you got.

"Oh, angel..." His voice went back to its usual soft spoken tone as he pulled you onto his lap, his brow furrowed as his eyes filled with concern. "I know you miss them, love, but I can't take you back. You know that. Besides, this is your home now." He gestured to your room inside the TARDIS, one that he filled with items he'd taken from your old place.

Against your better judgement, you cuddled up close to him on his lap, nuzzling your face into the side of his neck. You inhaled the scent of his aftershave, something that you thought you'd always hate when he first took you. Now, though, it provided you some much needed comfort whenever you were feeling down.

"I'm going to go get your gift, okay? I'll be right back." You made a soft noise of protest as he slipped you off his lap and back onto the bed, watching as he got up and left the room. Pouting, you crossed your arms and just sat there, waiting for him to return.

The Doctor soon returned, carrying a plate with a large slice of birthday cake on it. He chuckled upon seeing the grouchy look on your face. "I told you I'd be right back." He walked over and took a seat back on the bed, setting the plate down in front of you. "Boy, you must've missed me an awful lot, hm?"

You stuck your tongue out to show you didn't appreciate his teasing. "Careful, otherwise your face is going to freeze like that." He picked up the fork and stuck it in the slice of cake, breaking off a piece before holding it up. "Look, I got your favorite."

Knowing exactly what he wanted, you kept your mouth shut, refusing to eat the piece of cake on front of you. If you were in a better mood, then maybe you'd be fine with it. After all, you'd grown used to him feeding you, even if it was a tad bit degrading.

But today was just not the day for all of that. You couldn't be sure exactly what time it was, as there wasn't a clock in your room, but you were fairly certain he'd woken you up just past midnight . Honestly, the nerve to not even let you sleep on on your own birthday.

"I don't want any. I'm not hungry," you mumbled as you looked down, not feeling brave enough to meet his gaze, even if you were openly defying him by refusing the "gift" he'd gotten you.

"Very funny, star. I woke you up early, so now you're going to be a brat and refuse to eat your cake," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes at you. "Look, would you just eat it? It's only one slice, love, c'mon now."

"No. I said I don't want to," you blurted out in frustration, glaring at him. The moment his eyes darkened, you felt your blood run cold, realizing you'd made a mistake. "I- I'm sorry, I'm just a little tired-"

Your poorly made excuses were cut off quickly by the Doctor's harsh tone. "I don't care how tired you are, do you hear me? We are going to sit here until you eat every damn bite, if I have to force it down your throat."

A loud whimper of fear escaped you at his scolding tone, causing him to let out a sigh as he recognized he'd gone a bit too far. "Love, I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to be so rough sounding with you," he gently reassured you as he shifted closer to you on the bed.

Deciding it wasn't worth it to fight him (despite how much you really didn't want to be held), you allowed him to pull you onto his lap for a second time. "I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean to upset you in that way," he spoke in a low and soothing voice while wrapping his arms around you.

"You were mean," you choked out as your eyes began to fill with tears. Although it was ridiculous to believe, especially with no proof, you always thought he'd done something that made you much more emotional and sensitive than you used to be, just so he could have the chance to comfort you.

(Technically your suspicions weren't all that far off, as he'd asked a favor from his best enemy back when he first took you. He figured that maybe if you were more docile and submissive it'd be easier to make you stay with him, so he convinced the Master to hypnotize you in an effort to change the chemistry of your brain and make it so you'd be dependent fully on him. Of course, you didn't know any of this, though it wouldn't have surprised you even if you did.)

"I know I was, love, and I'm sorry." He reached over and moved the plate, resting it on your thigh as he picked up the fork again. "Just eat this, then you can go back to bed, okay? I promise." The offer was certainly tempting, and the cake didn't actually look (or smell) that bad.

"Okay," you sniffled in a small voice, opening your mouth just enough for him to stick the fork in. The taste of the buttercream frosting hit your tongue first, the silky smooth texture followed by the fluffiness of the cake. The Doctor smiled in delight as he watched you eat it.

"Good, good. There you go, see? I knew you'd like it." He broke off another piece from the slice and held it up to your mouth again, feeding you in almost the same manner a mother would to her child. "You're doing so well for me, star, I'm so proud of you."

You felt your face heat up in a blush at his praise, humming happily as you continued to eat. His words of encouragement pushed you to keep eating, even if you weren't really that hungry to begin with. A full belly and an empty plate later, you were finally done, licking your lips clean of icing.

"See, that wasn't so bad, now was it?" He placed the fork on the plate and set them both down on the bedside table. "Did you enjoy your gift, star, hm? I thought you might like it, seeing as that's your favorite."

As you were still savoring the final bites of the slice of cake, you nodded your head eagerly. He grinned in response, glad to know you'd liked it. "Good, I'm glad." Noticing there was some icing smeared on your upper lip, he leaned in and dragged his tongue across it suddenly, an action that left you both shocked and flustered.

Laughing at your reaction, he gave your lips a quick kiss before saying in a low and suggestive voice, "I'm sorry, angel, I just couldn't resist. You looked too sweet not to taste for myself."

Too embarrassed to say anything, you turned and buried your face into his chest, which only caused him to laugh harder. "Oh, star, you're always so easy to tease." He ran his hand up and down your back in a comforting fashion, smirking playfully.

A soft yawn could be heard coming from you as drowsiness started to overcome you. "I'm really tired, can I go back to sleep now?" You asked in a sleepy mumble, looking up at him with eyes that were droopy as an effect of being woken up in the middle of the night.

"Of course you can, love. I won't keep you awake any longer." He pulled the covers over top of you before flicking off the lamp beside the bed. Pressing a loving kiss to your head, you could hear him faintly murmur just before you drifted off to sleep: "happy birthday".

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: implied/referenced past kidnapping

inspired by this post. @sickfictropes

grumpy caretakers. specifically with sunshine whumpees. whumpee got kidnapped for an extended period of time- sometime over months- and comes back quiet. like, distinctly just changed, their eyes looking dead.

and maybe caretaker didn’t show it well, but whumpee had been their sunshine. throwing out smiles that caretaker swears could relight the sun, smiling and talking and always staying at their side no matter how many times caretaker tried to brush them off.

but now.. they’re just quiet. their eyes full and dead looking. and it throws caretaker off, massively. they aren’t used to the quiet, they aren’t used to not having whumpee around to fill the air. so they do. well- they try, awkwardly. they talk about anything and everything. things whumpee missed while they were away, shows and celebrity news and friend drama.

and whumpee finds such comfort in them, because they know that they’re safe with caretaker. caretaker doesn’t understand why- they’re a self proclaimed jackass, and they were never particularly caring before, although post-whump they’ve been trying desperately to be kind and gentle and soft in all the ways whumpee is because god damnit, they’ve been through enough. whumpee keeps coming back to caretaker, getting so close to them for reasons caretaker doesn’t understand. It’s not like they treated them particularly well before. whumpee goes to caretaker for comfort, and they don’t understand why. meanwhile, whumpee is staying with caretaker because it settles something instinctual and terrified in them to have someone like caretaker with them and trying to keep them safe.

[gloomyteddybear]

crazy all-over & for you

oneshot

cw/tw: vague-ass spoilers for twin peaks; creepy fluff; danny's very delulu; some allusion to kidnapping but it does sound more like trapping (staying under coersion/ obligation/ dependency, not necessarily the baby-type); good ol' referenced child abuse (thanks johnson-senior); matricidal ideation (but you kill eachother, idek how to tag this shit)

can be read as a sequel to 'vulture.

when you become a writer or an avid watcher, you begin to take notice of patterns, tropes they're called. repetitions of behavior that makes up a character's personality, you know them at a glance and your immersion is ruined; eventually due to them, your taste begins to change towards the unpredictable. you want something more real, more marking, more scarring, more... if you want it done right, do it yourself.

danny lost his immersion in life. during his many years limping on earth, each life-lesson hammered in the teachings of his father.

teachings-rants that sounded like it described someone, that talked about people, about relationships, about loyalty, about fear, about respect, about trust, --- about consequences for breaking that trust.

'people are... you can't trust people to stay. you gotta tie them down, give them a damn good reason not to leave.' he slurred, his sour breath stank of fermented and stale bread, clutching tiny-him by the shoulder to look'im in the eye. ('just like you give them something to cry about' went unsaid)

if he were to describe his father in movie tropes, it'd be the crazy homeless man who was right all along. sounds harsh, but it's true. raving about the war, being watched, communists, trees and (his phobia of) spiders.

he learned everything from him, he was thoughtful as a father, always preparing him for the worst case scenario so he didn't need to worry too much while making contingencies for unaccounted variables.

a slap against the back of his head (it hurt, always made him cry when he was younger, but kid-him knew he held back) always reminded him to never let anyone sneak up behind, watch his surroundings.

he was his father, who did dad things like making sure his room's not clean (perfectly horizontal pennies), got food on the table (always canned), kept the house clean (the stomach-acid smell of white vinegar) and safe (gun safety, tourniquets, traps)...

gave him... affection (the heavy shoulder pat when danny finally got that deer) and told him bedtime stories, even though he grew too old for them (gunfire, the fading light in their eyes, shells-hock).

sure, danny hid under his blankets like a spider's cocoon and pretended to sleep when he was drunk (suffocating safety), but... he truly tried raising (a soldier) him.

his role in that relationship is stoic, patient and efficient. but you... 

you didn’t know him by his real name– only as meek, weak, jed olsen--- you were... too... (minds eye picturing himself gesturing weakly with his hands to all of you) too you for danny, out of his league. but this man he pretended to be, meek but earnest, maybe he has a shot--- sure his typecasting was off (gaunt, grey, gangly and definitely not giddy) in his role as jed the only thing that salvaged his performance was his acting.

he couldn't reduce to just a love interest... it was... as if you were real. not a character unlike these... figurants--- these extras.

you warranted softness, normalcy, something he learned when comparing his childhood to others- he never had. you wanted a movie date (more like you were appalled that he never watched twin peaks, and wanted to amend that. but a man can dream) and he could never say no to you.

so danny has to make sure jed's house is clean. which includes... removing the evidence and preening himself 'til he looks presentable to his... (not a date, not a date, not a) series-binge-hangout-slash-maybe-comma-hopefully-sleepover.

danny grabs the collage of pictures on his wall and throws them into a shoebox beneath his bed (worst case scenario he'll say it's a sex-toy box, and lose more of his pride in the process) he feels kind of bad, like a parent boxing his kid's toys for a garage sale after they went away for college (not like he'd know what that's like, on neither end), he locks his bedroom for extra precaution.

now onto the... situation at hand... well, the ghostface's killings were described as messy crimes of passion, it's not going to be clean. it's not like he uses that sink to brush his teeth, anyway (it's broken to only use cold-freezing water, it's practically fate). it's not like the sink has visible traces of blood (it dries dark enough to look like usual inescapable grime) but-what-if you wanted to use the restroom and got sick?!

bleach, his father taught him, is just chemical white-out. he bets his father never thought he would use his knowledge of skinning deer for--- well maybe he did. gloves and a mask, disposable. his first bought-instead-of-handed-down sweater still has that pink-salmon-flesh spot.

danny uses mint air freshener this time, still have the same (spider) smell-of-crime warding-off properties of white-vinegar without the gag-inducing smell.

you shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits knock on his door. speak of the devil, but you weren't a devil, and he wished you'd appear as often as he thought of you. you smile at him, a hand holding what he assumes is the tape you brought.

danny keeps a hand on the door and stares as you enter, and closes it for you--- cushioning the doorknob behind him with both hands, he rocks backwards on his heels and plants his weight on the door until there's a 'click'. shoulders pressed against the wood as an anchor. trying to project playful, not predatory.

---him following soon after, he smiles. you smile back waving the tape in your hand. the ecstasy of having your eyes on his, it's a combination deadlier than any drug. he'd kill for one look, he'd die for one glance.

(4 weeks and 5 days of knowing him, you were so trusting its as if you wanted him to---)

"ready to create a conspiracy board? i'll even tell you if you're getting warmer," you smirk, all teasing "but for now, get us the snacks, henchman! don't want you to get spoiled for the plotwist."

jed made a mock "sure thing, boss." with one of those smiles he knew made his employers give him less work and spun on his heel to grab them (wasn't hard to, his pantries are practically for cobwebs). danny splurged a bit from his okay-ish paycheck, is it sad that this is the only indulgent thing he bought (aside from the hobby items) and it wasn't even for himself?

danny arrives, with the colorful packaging in his arms. all your favorites--- a coincidence that he also likes them (you two have so much in common it's like fate).

he sits beside you on the couch and you swing your legs over his lap, using him as a foot-rest when there's a perfectly available coffee table, oh-well. danny's not complaining. but jed does make a half-attempted whine-complain at the treatment.

you keep a close eye on his expressions, as jed plays up some of his reactions, not even paying attention to the show. the knowing smiles you had whenever anyone cried during the show, the dissecting gaze as you watch him just like he watched the show... it looked...his fingers twitched and he dismays at the lack of camera.

then, danny feels the weight on the couch dip and your neck is resting-bending uncomfortably on the arm-rest.

you're sleeping.

he resists to keep watching the series without your supervision (see? he has impulse control), and ejects the tape, keeping a mental-note of the hour-tally (a few episodes subtracted, for more time with you.)

danny stares, you looked so peaceful, untouched by the ghostface's reign of terror. this was where you belonged, in his... under...no, at his mercy.

he reached out a hand and trailed the delicate lines of your neck, he could just crack-snap your neck and get it over with... but it needs to be special, not just one-and-done murder, there has to be a build-up, some meaning for you, because this means so much to him. you have this stabbing grasp on danny and he wants to make sure that the feelings are mutual--- it needs to be mutual, its only good if your hands are also on his vulnerable throat. the only way you'll be allowed to die is by his hands and him, yours.

you both, at the same time. you will become his legacy and he will become yours, your deaths intertwined like veins of the same pulse. that's something to put on the headlines, a romeo of juliet but on-with purpose--- not due to some stupid misunderstanding but a mutual death.

you made your choice when you came here, you had to know what you were getting into, the newbie in town when, coincidentally, the murders began and he just-so-happens to be there to report ghostface's every move--- like a demented slasher-parody of peter parker. because you wouldn't be here if you...

if you... what if you didn't. you were only there because you didn't know. if you did, then you're danny's; if you didn't, then you're jed's.

that can't be. there's a narrative, a storyline, a fate. you were fated to be. you and danny. forever. 

he's had a taste of what it feels to have you in his life, and it feels like---love a-and... it's like you wanted him t-to...  (obsess, desire, envy, bleed).

--- and, and now he just can't let that feeling go. can't let you go, if you're not staying for danny, he'll just... tie you down and give you a damn good reason to stay.

[szftzy]

tags: possessive behavior, forced adoption ( definitely not kidnapping.. ), platonic themes, also tw referenced child neglect but not too bad,

(gender neutral child reader)

platonic yandere zhongli pt.2 (proshippers dni)

a continuation to this → post, and some of you requested for it so hopefully this is enjoyable :]

needless to say, you felt helpless.

the man seemed harmless at first glance, but i guess not everything is what it seems. it was difficult to breathe properly, which- said man has enveloped your head into his chest

your still In shock on how easily you were taken from your family in just one week and held captive here. all of your freedom stripped away

and even more shockingly, he treated you well. comforting you whenever you had a meltdown, or whenever you threw a tantrum. never raising his hand or his voice. but It was obvious he was just trying to do this to deceive you. are you sure?

ever since you zhongli held you captive against your will in his den, nothing was going great (obviously). it was a mix of emotions and conflict. for the first few days you had been scared to even make a single move in fear of what he would do.

and as he had been treating you well, he was making sure you ate well, comforting touches and such. it all would’ve been great! if you forgot the fact that he was holding you against your will, trapped In a den Inside the forest.

but you still miss home, your old home. do you? whenever you expressed such sayings to zhongli he would always brush it off with words that would seem comforting out pf context

but ypu decided today, to make your shot. in more context, an attempt to escape. this plan wasn't guaranteed to work but it was better than staying here

laying your head in his chest, attempting to wiggle out of his grip slowly but surely in attempts to not awake the man.

when you (surprisingly) escaped his broad grip— stumbling a bit out of the surprise, the bed creaking from the movement , carefully balancing yourself; you continued to make your way to the door.

opening the door, which makes it emit a loud creaking noise, you suddenly freezed. careful not to wake the unaware man.

(what you weren’t aware of was his possessive eyes, each time you would try to squirm out of his grip.)

carefully continuing, you closed the door quietly. and made your way to the front door, passing the kitchen and living room (lounge?? idk what to call it..) slowly but surely you got to the front door

but, behold. it was locked, Great. now where would you find a key? an idea blooming, searching for a bobby pin in the pocket of your shorts.

When you found it you immediately went to work, trying to unlock it without making too much noise, all of a sudden. it successfully opened; surprising yourself, you made sure the other in the house was still asleep by straining you ears to hear for any footsteps; none.

getting confirmation it was safe, you then made your way. shutting the door gently after you, you then ran for it. leaves crunching beneath your feet as you raced as fast as you could.

——————————

hiding in the bushes was a painful process, apparently while you were making a run for it, halfway through. zhongli woke up, and currently you were in a tight situation

steadying your breathing, curling up on yourself. your heart was pounding, you didnt know if he could hear it or not. fear blossoming in you as zhongli was near your hiding spot

The familiar sound leaves crushing, coming towards your way. suddenly it stopped. holding your breath, for a couple of seconds he just stood there. thankfully he walked away. almost crying In relief, you curled up on yourself.

and then the situation hits you. god, why did this have to happen? you just wanted your older siblings and parents back.. you didnt expect all of your joy to be taken In one singular week. as tears dripped down, you decided to wipe them and get on with it..

and when you finally lifted your head up, peeking. you found the coast clear. Thankfully. and as you stood up ready to make a run for it-

a firm hand grabbed the scuff of your shirt, and you got dragged back Into a dreadful familiar chest. as you looked up to your captors face, It was none other than zhongli. a hurt and confused expression on his face.

fear filled up your entire core. oh.. was he gonna kill you now? all the worst case scenarios flashed In your head, he was clearly upset with you. and he was definitely keeping you here just to toy with you..

you just shut your eyes and just accepted It, tears like a waterfall. and then you got embraced Into his chest, once again. he was probably just deceiving you again.

—

zhongli was worried. did they not like him? he was clearly doing something wrong, but he doesnt know what? hes just so sad for his fledgling, It was clear that their “family” back then was selfish, seeing them flinch to his every touch

but they have no worries now! he took care of them, seeing as their recent.. attempt was a clear form of discomfort, he would try his best to love them even more. his little adorable child.

he hadnt had someone to take care of In a while, since he all his children now are long grown and doing adepti work. and of course he has no problem! It was just a little lonely without a companion there to light up the house.

but hes sure his little ray of sunshine will enjoy It, he’ll make sure of It. since they won’t be leaving for a long while anyway.

he was just so sad, when he woke up this morning to find you gone. but no worries! he’d find you and take you back home, since you clearly got a little lost.

using his elemental sight, It was no work to find you, seeing your little form curled up In the forest bushes. he didn't wanna terrify you (again) so he decided to take you by surprise.

as a archon, and a dragon. zhongli has very well hearing senses, so he could hear your sniffles, and quiet sobbing. his heart clenched. He may be a ruthless god, In the eyes of others but he was still sympathetic, especially to children. who he has a soft spot for.

he pretended to walk away, but still lurking. watching for your every move. as he saw you freeze for a second, before getting up. he caught you by the scruff.

holding you to his chest, he missed you dearly, and seeing such a pure and genuine child be so upset kills him. he whispered to you soft words, promising a better life of comfort then your old one.

then he realized it upon seeing your form shake, you thought he was gonna hurt you. oh, young dear.

“Im sorry dearheart, for all this stress you went through. I didnt notice, but Its okay. your under my protection now, you wont have to worry about someone hurting you.”

and as you started loudly sobbing, the situation hitting you as you realized, that escape Is futile. and he hushed you and hugged you like a father would a crying child. and then carried you In his arms.

sobbing turned to crying, and tears died down to sniffles, and as you calmed down. which he was happy to see, you finally spoke. your voice cracked from not using your vocal chords In a while.

“please, just let me go.. I wont tell anyone about this, I just wanna go home..”

and then he paused. taking a moment to say something, you waited in anticipation. then he softly spoke out.

“Oh dearheart. This Is home. because your mine. my youngling, my sympathy.”

Mine.

that word was stuck Inside your mind, maybe.. just maybe you could have a good life. maybe you were actually basking In his warmth and comfort. you just didn't wanna admit It. that was your thought thought as you slipped away, Into a dreamless sleep within his arms.

as you guys made It to the way “home.”he noticed your limp state. completely unaware of the loving possessive look zhongli was giving you.

Mine

my child, my sympathy.

(Aight time to go get some milk again 😭🔥🙏)