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deadsetobsessions · 3 months

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Spider in Gotham AU- Pt.2

[Pt.1]

Peter’s no stranger to memories that comes as nightmares. There’s something different to them, the taste of terror that’s tinged with a feeling of “that’s happened.”

Flashes of Aunt May, dying as he stood next to her while choosing the city over her? Old hat. Inky darkness surrounding MJ falling as Peter reached for her, over and over again? Been there, seen that, didn’t even get a sick scar out of it. Racing against the clock to defeat some bad guy or an unknown threat? That’s his Thursday.

But this?

This isn’t his. It’s real, Peter could tell that much. Sure, it’s wrapped up in silk hisses and heart crushing terror, but Peter could always tell whether a nightmare was a nightmare or whether it was a memory.

This was a memory. Not his. His. It’s complicated.

“Your father, papito, he-,”

Then, it’d be the ruffle of his hair, brown eyes. It reminded him of his mom. But the crease of these eyes were different. Hardened, mean. Even towards him.

“Well, he said no, but I knew what he really wanted.”

The base of Peter’s neck always crawled when he remembered that line. His spider-sense warned him that whatever he’s remembering, he would not like.

“Ey, Peter.”

“Huh?” Peter blinked, looking up from where his arms were elbow deep in wires.

“Don’cha need gloves with that?” Frank asked, munching on some jerky. They were sitting in the living room, repairing a TV and a washer Frank had somehow managed to lug back to the apartment. It’s a toss up between Frank’s network of orphans (Peter included), street rats (these things are not mutually inclusive), or his own slightly higher than average strength. Not that they needed to thrift broken things, considering Peter’s funneling money from offshore bank accounts belonging to this America’s 1%. They just made it so easy! He and Ned had been hacking into government bases in middle school back on his world. This world? Not even a challenge. Regardless, this was kind of like… Frank’s version of those fancy sensory boxes for Peter.

“Oh, no. It’s not plugged in, see?”

“How’re ya gunna know it works then?”

“Plug it in after I’m done. Turn it off and on, you know?”

Frank stared at him, then rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

“If you burn down that portion of the house, at least we’ll be warm for a bit.”

“Thanks. Your confidence in me is astounding.”

“You talk like an old man.”

“I do not! Excuse you! If I’m old, you’re the expired knock off cup ramen in the back of a convenience store!”

“Yo, shrimpy, that’s rude, ya hear?” Frank snickered, impressed at the quip. The Alley kid turned brother stood up to plop next to Peter.

“So… you gonna go…?” Frank made a whooshing sound and held his hand in a web shooter position.

“Tonight? Prolly. Anything I should look out for?”

“You’re gunna get yourself killed, but yeah, heard the gang’s back up north.”

Peter flashed a smile, dimples coming out. “I’ll try not to. Thanks, Frank.”

“Anytime, Spidey.”

Frank, though little (to Peter), was a good friend. Then again, considering Peter saved his ass both in mask and out of it, it’s to be expected. One would think that after eight years of hiding his identity, Peter would be better at it. Then, he got punted into a different world and got made by a child.

To be fair, the circumstances all but screamed Parker Luck, so Peter’s not counting this instance.

See, the first few days of this sudden cohabitation, Peter had asked Frank to find them furniture. Both because he was getting real sick of eating on the floor and because Peter needed to fix his suit to match his much younger body. Then, once he readjusted the shrinking nanotech and the spider legs to fit him in a way that wouldn’t break him, Peter had promptly swung out of the building and went patrolling. He stuck with the wandering Frank, taking out muggers and robbers and everything in between and past that around the area where Frank is.

Looking back, Peter realized how lucky he was when he decided to go on the “helping joyride” at the beginning of the evening. His spider-sense activated way later in the night, the moment where he began seeing and sensing the cameras that kept pointing towards him. He ducked and dodged out of the way, and eventually, the feeling left. Somebody was watching. And he doesn’t know where they stood on the moral side of things.

Anyways, it happened after three weeks and a half of going out and just… settling into life in Gotham. He had already been struggling to find a way home, scouring the libraries around Gotham on any subject that would aid in his multiversal travel. Peter would like to know which emo kid named this city.

Eventually, Parker Luck decided to strike once more.

“Get back, freak!” The lady brandished a wicked knife.

Talk about deja vu.

“Oh no! Knives! My greatest weakness!” Spider-Man yelled, sticking to the shadowed windows as he let his voice echo in the alley. Gotham had a lot of nice hiding places. Spider-man dropped down on her head like a bat out of hell and webbed the knife out of her hands. He webbed the mugger up onto the alleyway above normal reach, and told the man to call the police.

Frank screamed, just as Spider-man wrapped it up, loud enough to reach his enhanced hearing.

“Wait-!” The man tried to stop him, but Peter, small, trained, and having readjusted his reach, slipped away.

“What’s your name?!” The guy he saved yelled at his back.

Spider-man, distracted, yelled back, “SPIDEY!”

He shot webs upwards and used them to slingshot his way towards where Frank was. And… car! Peter used his webs to swing up, up, and let himself fall to gain momentum. At the last moment, Peter shot a web to the top of the car and pulled himself to it.

Shit, shit, shit. He’s stupidly attached to the kid, and he was stupid enough to let Frank go out into Gotham looking both well-fed and well clothed.

The world slowed as he locked eyes with a terrified Frank, who was getting dragged into a car.

The world narrowed to speed and Spider-Man landed on top of the car roof, sweeping his leg out and thankfully remembering his much shorter reach. His foot collided with the kidnapper’s face with the equivalent force of a grown up, slightly annoyed Peter Parker who’s letting his strength go a bit unchecked. Basically, they went flying, blood spewing out of the undoubtedly broken nose Spider-Man had just given them.

Standing on business, the shorter webster promptly flipped down wards as he all but glued the would-be kidnapper to the curb.

“You alright?”

“You’re- You’re that new mask.” Frank whispered, scuttling away from the car where he’d been dropped.

“Yeah, man. You okay?” His voice modulator came in clutch.

“Fuck. Fuck, I gotta-” Frank stumbled. The kid looked like he was one bad break away from snapping. Peter hated it when kids got that terrified look on their faces, it reminded him of himself, helpless as Ben bled out because they should never have to fear something that much.

Something’s wrong, though. As much as Peter wished otherwise, Frank was a Gotham bred and true alley kid, through and through. These kids don’t spook easily. Peter already stopped a couple of kidnappings and at least two of the kids had yelled at him to stay out of the way before unloading a rain of nut kicks on their kidnappers that left Peter wincing for days in sympathy. Frank being this spooked? Something’s going on.

“Woah, easy there, I’m not gonna hurt you,”

Frank shot him a half hysterical, half condescending look. Yeah, that’s more like it.

“Ob-obviously. I have to go before more of them comes,” Frank muttered.

“More of them? You know what they want?”

Frank stared at him, looking up and down at his blue, red, and gold ensemble.

“I can help,” Peter promised.

“What’re your thoughts on metas?”

Suspicious.

“Uh, they’re fine? Depends on the person, why?”

Frank sighed. The skinny teenager, barely 14, tugged at his hair. “They’re traffickers. Meta kids, mostly, so the Bats don’t do nothing. I- uh, I got caught.” He held up a thin wrist, showing Peter his new accessorie, a think metal bracelet that was beeping red.

Peter cursed in his head. Fuck, of course he’d stumble into a-

“Caught? You’re a meta?”

Frank nodded. “Strength. This is an inhibitor, illegal kind, you know?”

Well, that explained how he got all of those furniture without struggle.

“Right. Hey, don’t stress, kid, I’m a meta too.”

Frank blinked.

“What?”

Peter walked up the side of the car and did jazz hands.

“You’re a meta?! But- but you’re a mask operating in Gotham!”

“Yeah…? Is that weird?”

Before Frank could reply, Peter’s sense screamed and Spider-Man shoved Frank away from the spray of bullets.

“Move, Frank!”

Peter flipped away, vaguely aware of Frank’s gaping realization. He took down the shooters in quick succession, stopping the speeding car with his bare hands and some webs.

“Shooters, no shooting!” He yelled, liberally applying force he tended to keep under wraps. Frank was like a brother to him, and there is no universe where Peter Parker would hold back when his family was in danger.

When he got back to Frank, who had oddly stayed instead of running, Peter found out why the kid stayed.

“Peter?!” Frank hissed lowly, looking more pissed off than terrified. “Are you fucking insane?! Why are you running ‘round as a mask?!”

“Shhh!” Shit, he got made. “Come on, get back to the apartment and we can talk there. I’ll get rid of this-”

Peter casually snapped the bracelet in half, tearing the tracker out, and tucked it away to study later.

“Fuckin’- shit, fine, but you’re explaining everything, motherfucker!”

They split, Peter guessing correctly that he was in another lecture of a lifetime.

——

“Your vigilante name is Spiderman?”

“Hey, I can hear you say it without the hyphen! There’s a hyphen in there!”

“You’re not a man! You’re a twerp!”

“I’ll show you twerp, you-”

Five minutes of tussling later, in which Peter did not try to bite Frank’s arm off, thank you very much, Frank leaned back on the couch.

“Besides. People in the streets are calling you Spidey, anyways.”

“Spidey?”

“Some dude you saved from a mugging said you told him.”

Peter slammed his head on the floor where he was laying face down.

“Ughhhh.”

——

“He could have been great. I saw his potential.”

Anger. But he shouldn’t be afraid. The woman loved him.

“Hey, Peter. You’re up here again.”

“Hi.” Peter stayed curled up. His mind had refused him sleep for the last three nights, causing dark circles to appear underneath his eyes. The memories of what he assumed to be this world’s Peter was merging with his. What he’d seen so far did not fill him with confidence of a happy childhood. Flashes of wielding weapons, the sterile smell of a metal dissection table, and hundreds and hundreds of spiders crawling over him, getting startled into biting down. Plus, the stress of tracking down the meta trafficking circles in Gotham was no joke. He doesn’t know Gotham nearly as well as he knew New York, and he had to be extra careful running around and trying to catch every bit of the circle before making any moves. Frank was helping with his network of homeless Meta kids, but the traffickers were everywhere except for Crime Alley.

He should be dead. They sold his body to an organ harvester who dumped his venom filled corpse on the side of Gotham. At least he didn’t have to worry about killing his alternate version.

“Everything all right?” Red Robin clambered down to sit next to him, cowl hiding the concerned scrunch of his brow. He’s never seen Peter like this.

Peter grumbled, staring down at another alleyway. He knows his alternate died. His shit excuse for another sold his body to an organ harvester, when he seized on the operating table, who dumped his venom filled corpse on the side of Gotham. At least he didn’t have to worry about killing his alternate version. He does, however, have to worry about missing vital organs.

“I… remembered something.” Peter remembered a lot of things. And pretty much none of them were good. This Peter suffered a lot in his short life.

Red Robin nodded. The issue of Peter’s spotty memories had come up in their discussions over the past month.

“Ah. Something unpleasant?”

Peter thought back to the voice who, despite all of the other, highly traumatic memories, haunted his brain like nothing else.

“He didn’t live up to it. He refused to kill. So I made the decision for him.”

“Yeah. Not for me, but unpleasant that I know about it.”

“Yeah, I get that. You wanna talk about it?” Peter hid a small smile. Even though Red Robin kept his tone light, the concern still bled through. Warm. It made Peter feel warm. Even if it appeared that the Bats don’t really care about the trafficked meta kids… maybe Red Robin would come save normal kid Peter if he got kidnapped. A backup plan to consider. For now…

“Sure,” he said. Red Robin waited patiently.

“I think, I remember someone. Maybe, maybe my…” Peter grimaced. “My mom? She… told me something. And uh, I think I’maproductofrape.”

“Oh,” Red Robin said, so awkwardly that Peter had to crack a small smile despite the gravity of the topic. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too. Not myself, but for…” Peter waved a hand. “You know.”

“Yeah.”

“She wasn’t a good person,” Peter whispered and hated how he missed the browns of her eyes- her middle name was Marie, and god, Peter wished he hadn’t known that because he gets why her eyes reminded him so much of his own mother- and she besmirched everything Mary Parker stood for.

“You have our combined potential, Peter. Make sure not to be like him too much and live up to it, papito.”

“It’s okay, to love her even if she hurt other people,” Red Robin said, gently ruffling his greasy hair. Peter’s spidey-sense tingled and he ducked away. Red Robin withdrew his hand. “Because you can’t really help that. Trust me, I’ve tried. You just have to make sure they don’t get the chance to do what they did again.”

Cold, cold voices and his voice gave out from screaming. “You really are your father’s son. Never being able to do what’s necessary.”

And Peter wondered what happened to Red Robin and who hurt him. Peter would just like to talk. Red Robin reminded him of himself, way back when being Spider-Man meant finding out Harry became Green Goblin. Pained. Tired.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed. But that’s not really a problem, considering the last thing the organ harvester said before dumping him in an alley. “She’s dead in a ditch in Siberia or something. I’m not really worried she’ll do it again.”

“Uh.”

“It’s cool,”

“Right. Have you… remembered your dad?”

“Yeah. He’s in Gotham,” Peter unfurled a little.

“You want help tracking him down? I’m good at that kind of thing.”

Peter glanced at Red Robin. “I think you just admitted to being a stalker.”

“Vigilante,” Red Robin shrugged, like it explained everything. And yeah, it kind of did. Peter snorted.

“Nah, it’s okay. I don’t want to meet him anyways.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t know about me,” Peter ticked off his fingers. “I’m a literal walking, talking, breathing reminder of his trauma. And I don’t need a dad.”

Red Robin looked at him silently. Peter doesn’t think about it.

He never wanted to see his parents suffer. An alternate version of his dad, hurt so irrevocably by an alternate version of his mom?

Peter hated that this Catalina dirtied his mother’s name, and went against the most fundamental parts of what the spider symbol was meant for. And considering he’s been doing this longer than her, he had first dibs on defining it. He’ll look after his dad, as long as he’s stuck in Gotham. It’s only right.

“His name? Oh, my son, it’s Richard Grayson.”

——

Peter, who Trusts his instincts: no head rubs?? awwwww

Tim, who’s been trying to get a dna sample for the last month: how does he keep evading me?? He must be a genius or a spy or- *spirals down the conspiracy board*

——

Tim: I’ve connected the dots!

Peter: you’ve connected jack shit

——

Listen, the moment I learned Catalina Flores’ middle name, the pieces clicked, okay? Like legos. It’s like, former FBI agent in this one and former CIA agent in Peter’s home universe? Wow. Middle name Marie? Mary Parker? Incredible. Spider themes run in the blood apparently?? They both have brown eyes!! Trying to do good with no qualms about murder!! (I’m assuming since Mary Parker was SHIELD and I don’t think SHIELD cared much for the sanctity of human life if it threatened the country or something)

#tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon #Peter Parker #I think you know who his mom is #nightwing #batman #red robin #Frank the Crime Alley kid #Tim Drake #Tw: mentions of torture #Tw: human experimentation #bruce wayne #dick Grayson #gotham #Tw: mentions of human trafficking #Catalina Marie Flores #tarantula #Spider in Gotham AU

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howtoliveasahumanbeing · 25 days

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I wish my brain would stop existing sometimes... why didnt the stupid scientists take that out while they were at it...? Maybe then I wouldn't have so many thoughts about jumping off a building or into the river nearby... I dont know if my ability would work for those... I think I got water in my lungs when I jumped earlier...

But I dont wanna worry Pin... he said I could be his little sister, and is letting me stay with him... he's really one of the only people who ever cared about me... I don't wanna worry him but I want this feeling to go away... maybe if I make sure I live and don't tell him, I can keep doing it...

#bsd #bsd oc #bsd rp #bungou stray dogs #tw sui ideation #tw implied sui attempt #tw referenced torture

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lashlamb13 · 9 months

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Whumpees that are happy drunks

• lightly joking about trauma they could never even talk about before

• giggling about how fucked up they are

• sharing details of their torment through laughter, Caretaker is horrified

• Whumpee’s friends/family seeing them happier than they’ve been in years while intoxicated

• Caretaker(‘s) having to just smile and laugh along because they don’t want to upset Whumpee

#tw alcohol #whump ideas #whump tropes #whump #implied/referenced torture #low-key my own OC but whatever #it counts

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adrift-in-thyme · 6 months

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Whumptober Day 20: “You will regret touching them”

Aaaaand now for today’s fic

Read on Ao3

- Warriors & Time

- Summary: Time finds a wounded Warriors

CW for implied/referenced torture, captivity, nonconsensual body modification, blood and injury, and brief mention of vomit

———————————————-

If he clenches his teeth any harder, Time is certain they will break.

He stands in the middle of a cell – small, cramped, and smelling of sweat and vomit and blood – hands in fists, heart thumping an erratic beat in his ears. A blue eye stares up at him from the corner, bright in a too-pale face. The other is sealed shut with swelling and blood. The proud green tunic is sullied as well, the scarf long gone. Blonde hair so meticulously cared for lies limp and filthy. Strong hands tremble, bound together behind a hunched back.

“Captain.” It is half a whisper, half a low growl.

Warriors makes a small, muffled noise as though trying to respond through the dirty cloth tied tight between his lips. Time’s fingernails dig into his palm.

Here before him sits the hero he and his brothers have spent the last week searching for. He should feel relief. All he can feel is red-hot anger.

But there isn’t time for that. Warriors needs him. His big brother needs him.

Sheathing his sword, Time drops to his knees. Puddles of blood dot the floor, some mere splatterings, others worryingly large. He pays them no heed, reaching forward instead to tug away the gag. Warriors breathes a raspy sigh of relief as it falls.

“...bout-bout time you showed up, S-Sprite,” he teases in a voice so hoarse it’s nearly unrecognizable. His breath catches in his throat and he coughs up a mouthful of blood.

Time does his best to ignore it.

“I’m sorry that we kept you waiting,” he murmurs as he sets about undoing the ropes that bind the captain’s hands and feet. The apology tastes bitter. What good does it do now? The heroes had gone as fast as they could. And still, they had been too late.

Warriors shivers, suddenly, and Time is struck by how very small he looks.

“But don’t worry,” he says, gently, trying not to dwell on the fact that his big brother should never look that way, “I’m here now. You’re safe.”

Warriors gives him a weak smile.

A few more short moments slide by, in which Time works to untie the ropes. They are thickly knotted, but he has slipped from far tighter bonds. And soon they fall away to join the filth on the floor. Warriors lets out a sharp hiss of pain.

“S-shoulder,” he explains at Time’s concerned look. “Dislocated.”

That can’t be the only thing out of place, Time thinks, bitterly. The way he is struggling to breathe speaks to a few broken ribs at least. And as for the rest of him…well, he can only guess at the extent of the damage.

Anger flares up in him once more. He shoves it down.

“I don’t have Hyrule’s healing powers,” he says, reaching into his pouch. “But I have a fairy. Her magic should be enough to tide you over until I can get you back to camp.”

Warriors blinks dazedly. “You…you’re the only one h-here?”

A grim smile pulls at Time’s lips. “Yes. I came across this place entirely by chance. The others were taking a short rest and I saw no reason to drag them along on a search that would likely lead to another deadend. It’s alright, though. No one is here anymore…except for you.”

If they had been they would have regretted it, he thinks, bitterly.

Pushing the dark thoughts away, he lifts the bottle out of his pouch and unscrews it.

“Here, this should…”

He stops short as the fairy darts forward. The lighting in the room is decidedly dim, which he supposes is why he hadn’t seen it before. But now in the pinkish glow of the fairy’s magic it’s painfully obvious.

The word “murderer” is carved in jagged, blood-red lines into Warriors’ left arm.

Time’s vision goes crimson.

“Captain…” It’s everything he can do to keep his voice level. Suddenly, he’s a child once more, kneeling on the battlefield, begging his brother to stay alive, to stay with him. He’s a child being hurtled back through time without truly understanding what that even means. He’s a child being laughed at and thrown aside by the man he has been tasked with defeating.

He’s a child helpless and weak.

Late. Much too late.

“...did they do this to you?”

For a long moment, Warriors doesn’t reply. He merely watches the fairy do her work, gaze dull and almost detached. There are tear-streaks on his cheeks, Time realizes now, curving through the patches of blood and dirt.

“Their fa-families died in…in the war,” he murmurs at last, voice hollow and defeated. “They…they blame me.”

Time forces himself to take a breath.

Of course, they do. That is always the reason the traitors give, as though placing the blame on the hero can assuage them of their own guilt, justify their horrific deeds.

“Well, they’re wrong,” he says, firmly. “And believe me, anyone who does a thing like this was never in their right mind in the first place. You do not carry the blame of a war you didn’t even begin, but fought bravely to end. You are a hero, captain, not a murderer.”

Warriors drags his gaze up to him, something terribly vulnerable within it.

“Y-you’re really somethin else, Sprite,” he whispers, breath hitching. A small smile tugs at his lips and somehow it makes him look even more young and broken than before. “How c-come you say everything like…like you mean it?”

Time places a gentle hand on his good shoulder and he seems to melt beneath his touch.

“Because I do. I meant every word. Why hide from someone who can always tell when I’m lying?”

Warriors chuckles, slightly. It almost sounds like a sob.

The fairy finishes her dance and zips back to Time.

“I’ve done all that I can,” she whispers. “The word that they hurt him with…I lightened it as much as I could.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, inclining his head. And with a soft jingle, she disappears. He turns his attention back to Warriors. “We’ll see if there are any spells or potions capable of stopping that from scarring. There is no reason for you to carry the false burden they have placed on you.”

The captain merely gives a small nod, eye downcast once more. His shoulders are uncharacteristically slumped and he hugs his arm to his body, as though eager to hide it. At the sight, the anger abates somewhat, replaced by the ache of his heart.

How dare they do this.

Time reaches out and draws him into his arms. Warriors slumps, bonelessly into his embrace, trembling slightly with pain and exhaustion and emotion.

“It’s alright. It’s over,” he says, softly, echoing the words Warriors had soothed him with so many times during the war. “I’ve got you.”

Carefully he rises, lifting the captain up as gently as he can. He wants nothing more than to tear this place apart, to find those who did this terrible deed and make them wish they had never been born. But his priority right now is Warriors. He needs rest and healing and for that cursed word to be wiped off of his skin. He needs safety and reassurance.

Vengeance will have to wait.

Though if he has his way it will not wait very long. The perpetrators were gone when he got here, likely cowering from the punishment even they knew they deserve. But once he finds them – and he will – he won’t hesitate to do what must be done.

No one touches his big brother without coming to regret it.

#whumptober 2023 #no.20 #‘you will regret touching them’#implied/referenced torture tw #blood tw #injury tw #captivity tw #nonconsensual body modification tw #mention of vomit #trin writes #lu warriors #lu time #angst #hurt/comfort #whump

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annaraebananawriter · 1 year

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Hello My Old Heart

Hello everyone!! I give you, as promised, Hello My Old Heart, the winner of the poll. This is based off that one ask Calcium_Cat got about what if OSD!Dream and OSDiff!Dream met. I was immediatly taken in my angst of it all and knew I had to write about it.

Now, it might not be entirely in character, as I did nothing more than skim the original sources to double check things, but I think it turned out well regardless. I did take some inspiration for Coraline and Alice Through the Looking Glass, which you will see. But that’s just more so as an explain for why these two are meeting in the first place.

I don’t really have much to say, really! So I guess this is it! Happy reading!!

Fandom: Undertale/UTMV

Characters: (One Small Dream) Dream (Who belongs to @calcium-cat), (One Small Difference) Dream, and background (One Small Difference) Nightmare and background (One Small Difference) Cross (Who belong to @warriorstale001)

Warnings: Very vague implied/referenced torture, and I think that’s it. Let me know!

Summary: “Based off of this post from Tumblr. Or: What happens when OSD!Dream and OSDiff!Dream meet? Let's find out. (UTMV, One Small Dream belongs to Calcium_Cat and One Small Difference belongs to Warriorstale001, Dream sans Centric)”

Word Count: 3382

~oOo~

Dream was playing hide and seek with Crossy and Kiki when he found the mirror.

He admits to breaking the rule of hiding in the dungeons. But he really wanted to up the playing field. Crossy and Kiki always seemed to find the most wild places to hide and he wanted to be the one with the best hiding place for once. They already knew every spot on the main floor, though, and upstairs were their bedrooms and it was boring to hide in bedrooms. There were only so many places there.

So, while there was a rule they followed about not hiding in the dungeons, it wasn’t really enforced too much. And they wouldn’t think to check there until they’ve run out of places to check. It’ll be fun. He’s sure of it. They’ll enjoy the challenge.

And it’s not like they wouldn’t find him. They always found him. It’ll just take longer than it has before, that’s all. It’ll be fine.

Of course, this was all before he found the mirror.

In the dungeons, there was a row of cells. They never got used much. Past them, there were a few rooms they used as storage. It was out of the way. Nobody really went down there unless they really needed something. It was perfect. Dream slips inside and has to pause for a minute as he disrupted the dust and choked on it. Once his breathing was back to normal, he looks around.

Nothing too exciting. Boxes and shelves and cobwebs in the corner. And dust.

And the mirror in front of him.

This mirror didn’t belong here. He knows that much. It was easy to tell. It was a nice mirror, with engraved details along the top and sides. It looks new. But he knows none of the others had bought a mirror, and if they had, they wouldn’t immediately put it down here to get ruined. No, this mirror was not brought here by anyone in the castle. But if it wasn’t, how did it get here? Who brought it? Surely it didn’t just…appear all on its own. That was impossible.

Dream steps closer, peering at his reflection. It seems like a normal mirror. Nothing special to it, just odd that it was here instead of upstairs. Maybe he should go and get Crossy and Kiki and they could check it out with him. Maybe they knew where it came from. If not, maybe Nighty would. If not…then it was a mystery. And everyone loves a mystery now and then, right? It would be cool to try and solve this one.

He reaches out to touch it.

Something scurries over his foot, spooking him, making him yelp, and he falls forward, his other hand flying forward, hoping to catch himself on the mirror.

Only, his hand goes through the mirror and he tumbles onto the floor.

Dream lay there for a moment. “Ow…”

He feels more winded from the fact that he just fell through a mirror than he did from falling on the floor. You’re not supposed to go through mirrors. That’s not what mirrors are for. They’re not doors. Why was it, then, that he just did the impossible? Was he magic? Well, yes, he was, technically, but was he fairy-tale magic? Did his dream finally come true?

Picking himself up, he wipes off his pants. He blinks at the room. Everything seems off. Wasn’t that shelf on the opposite wall when he walked in? And that box, wasn’t it over there? And that one over here? “That’s odd.” He stands there. Why is everything backward? “Um…” Turning, he stares at the spot where the mirror should be. It’s empty. “Well, that can’t be good.”

Where did the mirror go? Mirrors don’t just walk away. Where did it go?

Thoroughly unsettled and a bit frightened, he backs up. “I should head back. Nighty’s probably worried.”

In the hallway, everything’s backward too. Frowning, he tries to go in the direction he thinks the stairs will be. If everything’s backward, they’ll be on the opposite side. But he pauses a few steps in. He looks back distracted.

There’s negativity in the air. And it’s not coming from Nighty or any of the others.

It’s someone else.

But the only rooms down here are storage rooms and cells. Nobody else is here. Unless…someone was? But why would Nighty capture someone?

The negativity is steady. It tugs at him, almost pulling him toward where it's coming from. Should he let it? But Crossy and Kiki and Nighty…he should get back to them. He should tell them what just happened. They’ll know better. They usually do. And they’ll get more worried the longer he doesn’t return.

But this negativity…it feels familiar, somehow, for someone he doesn’t know. He’s the guardian of positivity. Shouldn’t he help this person? Or try to? He can always go back and get the others. Always. It won’t take too long to go and check.

Glancing back, he slowly turns, heading down the hall. “Just a quick check, Dream,” he says to himself, saying it over and over again in his head to make sure it sticks.

Following the negativity, he goes further into the dungeons, passing empty cells. It’s dark and cold down here. It makes him shiver just a bit. He pulls his cape around him. Getting closer, he slows down, coming to a stop in front of what he expects to be another empty cell.

It’s not.

The person inside flinches as he gasps. They look up, and their eyes widen. Their mouth opens a bit. Their negativity doesn’t leave, but it does fade, replaced with confusion and surprise.

But it’s none of this that made him gasp. It’s not what he expected, yes, and it is surprising, but he’s more so concerned with the person and what they’re wearing than anything. Their clothes are ripped and dirty, yellow vest stained with blood. They seem to be chained up, too, arms spread across the wall. They shift and the chains clank against the wall, but they don’t seem to notice, their focus all on him.

And Dream’s focus is on the crown they wear.

The golden crown that was, if he was seeing things correctly, given to them as a gift from their brother, way back before the villagers really settled down.

The golden crown that looks exactly like his.

Eyes wide, Dream looks at Future Him.

How was he here? This shouldn’t be possible. One of them should be gone if the other is here. What’s going on? And were those bandages? Was Future Him injured? Why? How? Nighty would never allow him to be injured. And this looks like a bad injury. Maybe Nighty couldn’t stop in time, or wasn’t around? But then surely Future Him wouldn’t be in a cell if Nighty knew he was injured and needed to heal.

Then…Nighty must be gone. Or they must be captured. Or something like that. Nighty was probably on his way here to rescue them. Yeah. Then it was a good thing Dream was here. He can help Future Him escape before Nighty finds them, making it easier to get out of there. Then they can get home and deal with this situation without any trouble.

“Woah.” Dream breathes, stepping closer. “You look awful.” He grabs one of the bars. “Are you okay? Do you need help? Don’t worry, I can help. We’re in the dungeons, right? The keys should be around here somewhere. I’ll find them. Stay here.”

Without giving Future Him time to say anything back, he moves down the hall in search of the keys. Humming to himself as quietly as he can to make his own soundtrack for this important mission, he peeks around the corner and finds another hallway of cells. But at the end of that one, when he peeks around this corner, he finds Crossy asleep in a chair. His arms are across his chest, head hanging. He seems to be sound asleep. But still, Dream tip toes as he comes closer.

For a moment, he’s confused. How is Crossy here when they were just playing hide and seek together? He couldn’t have gotten here that fast. It’s just impossible. And he’s asleep, too. That’s even more impossible. He would’ve had to be gone for hours for this to happen. Was he? No, no. He can’t have been. Something else was going on here.

Something really, really weird and wrong.

Looking around, he doesn’t see any keys. But remembering stories where the characters found keys on the guards and used them to escape, he eyes Crossy again. He feels guilty for having to do it, but it’s better he tries than gives up. And if the keys aren’t there, he’ll just have to keep searching.

He rummages through Crossy’s pockets and much to his surprise and delight, finds a ring of keys. He takes them out as silently as he can, barely keeping from saying anything in celebration. Somehow, he succeeds.

Smiling to himself, he rushes back. He’s a little out of breath by the time he arrives.

“I’m back!” Dream says, making Future Him look up in surprise. That’s a little hurtful. Of course he would come back! Why would Future Him think otherwise? “Let’s see…not that one…no, no—here!” The cell clicks and he slips inside, barely holding in a cheer—that would definitely wake Crossy up. He stands by Future Him, eyeing the chains. “Um, I don’t know if the key to the chains will be on this ring. There were two there. We’ll just have to try them all and see.”

Luckily, it was on there, and the chains around Future Him’s wrists click open. Dream quickly does the same with the ankles. Stepping back, he waits. Future Him doesn’t move. Concerned, he shifts in place, unsure what to do. Should he…help? But what would he be helping with? Before he needs to decide, though, Future Him’s legs buckle and he crashes to his knees, catching himself with his arm before he can fall on his face.

Yelping, Dream crouches beside him, hands hovering. What should he do? What should he do? Future Him blinks, slowly, and stares at him. His eyes are wide. Disbelieving. Slowly, he reaches up a hand—which is shaking, by the way, they should really find out how to stop that, it can’t be healthy—and rests it on Dream’s cheek.

Blinking, he lets Future Him do what he wants. Maybe it’ll make him feel better.

The other hand joins, resting on his other cheek, and Future Him’s expression breaks into one he can’t pin down. Swallowing, he speaks, voice raspy, as if he’s used it too long, or maybe not enough. “You’re…real?”

Dream blinks again, concern increasing. “Yeah.” Tilting his head, he frowns. “Did you think I wasn’t?”

Future Him doesn’t respond, still staring. Though his hands do drop, clasping together in his lap.

“Um.” Dream sits, crossing his legs like how he’s been taught. In any other situation, he might be getting a story read to him by one of Nighty’s boys. “So…what happened?”

Future Him looks confused. “What do you mean?”

Isn’t it obvious? Dream gestures around the cell. “Why were you chained up? How did you get here? How are you here in the first place? Because I’m here and you’re here and I’m pretty sure we’re the same person and I’m also pretty sure we’re not supposed to exist together.” Or at least, that’s what the movies always said. “And who wounded you? Why?”

The last question makes something in Future Him shudder, face darkening. Then, he shakes his head, a faint smile taking over. “I feel as though I should be asking you the questions.” Future Him turns his head, coughing into his shoulder. “Why are you here? How did you get here?”

“Well…” Dream says, “I was playing hide and seek with Crossy and Kiki. The bedrooms were off limits, of course, but they didn’t say the basement was off limits, so I decided to hide in one of the storage rooms—the ones past the dungeons, that way.” He points, knowing Future Him would get the idea.

Leaning back, he thinks, at the point where he’s not sure of the details. “And then I saw a mirror, which was odd because everything else was dusty and the mirror wasn’t. I tried to touch it because it must be magical if it wasn’t dusty like everything else. Only my hand went through the glass, which was weird, and then something—I think it was a rat—ran over my foot and I fell. When I got up, the whole room was, like, swapped around. If that makes sense? And when I looked back, the mirror was gone.” He is quiet for a moment as he remembers. Then he brightens. “And then I found you.”

Future Him’s brow furrows. He seems to be struggling to keep up. Dream doesn’t blame him. It does sound a little weird said out loud. “…Crossy and Kiki?” he says after some time, saying the names slowly. “Do you mean…Cross and Killer?”

Dream nods, happy that Future Him recognized them. “Yeah. Who else? There’s also Dusty, who was busy experimenting in his room, and Rory, who went out with Nighty for groceries—and you already know who Nighty is.” As he lists them, he gets to his feet in excitement. “Oh! There’s also Roro, but he’s not around as often as the others.”

“I…see.”

Seeing that Future Him was still worried, Dream smiles, trying to reassure him. “They take really good care of me, don’t worry.”

Future Him just looks at him for a moment before looking away, rubbing his wrists again.

If Dream thought he looked horrible from outside the cell, he’s even worse close up. Bandages wrap around him everywhere, even covering one of his eyes. His brow is still furrowed, heavy lines etched on his face. He seems to be lost somewhere, no longer in the present. Does he need help getting back? He’s not sure if he’ll be able to help. Future Him doesn’t seem to be in much harm, though, so it’s probably fine.

But his one eyelight is dim, and he seems to be weighed down by something. He looks exhausted. He looks sick, actually, with a faint seen of sweat on his forehead. They should really get back upstairs and get him to a bed. Of course, they might run into the others, but maybe they can get lucky and avoid them until Future Him is asleep and he’s sneaking out of the room to go and inform the others of what happened.

From the far end of the hall, a door thuds shut.

Dream freezes in place, feeling much like he’s about to be in trouble. But then he recognizes the aura that seems to be walking toward them. He relaxes. It’s just Nighty. That’s good. He might be worried he was away for so long and scold him for being down here without permission, but once he sees Future Him, they’ll have bigger things to worry about.

That’s if it even is his Nighty. He realizes it might not be. This might not even be his world—he remembers watching a few movies where the main characters went to an alternate world with different versions of themselves or their friends. This could be the same thing. Would answer a few questions. But that shouldn’t matter. It’s Nighty. It’s still his brother. He’s still the same person. Nighty will want to help, of course, because no matter his version or another one, Nighty is a big worrywart and Future Him needs someone to worry over him.

His brother is the perfect person for the job.

Beaming, he steps forward, already calling out “Nighty!” when he gets pulled from behind and tugged close to Future Him’s chest.

Blinking, it takes him a moment to catch up. He tries to wiggle out of his hold, but Future Him is apparently really strong and doesn’t budge an inch, tightening his grip and pulling him even closer. He’s facing his chest, nothing but his shirt and bandages in his vision, which is terrible because Nighty will need someone to explain to him what’s going on and Future Him is in no state to do that and he can’t explain tucked away like this.

Physically moving doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere, so he tries to talk to Future Him. “Um, future me?” he says, turning his head. “It’s okay, it’s just Nighty—”

Above him, Future Him shushes him, repeating the motion more times than is necessary. “Just stay quiet.”

“But it’s Nighty.”

“Nightmare.” Future Him says, though it sounds like he’s talking more to himself than anything. Shuffling, he slowly moves back into a corner, bringing Dream with him. “You mean Nightmare.”

Dream frowns. What’s the difference? “I think I mean Nighty.”

“Just—” Voice breaking, Future Him seems to stop breathing for a moment, before remembering he has to breathe to stay alive. His breathing gets all funny, coming out fast and short. “Just trust me, okay? Stay silent, stay hidden.”

“But why?” He feels bad for whining like this, but what else can he do? This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They shouldn’t be hiding like something’s coming to get them.

It’s just Nighty.

Future Him still seems to be talking to himself, distant answers as he watches the door like it might spring to life and attack them. “He won’t be able to hurt you like this.”

“Why would he hurt me? It’s Nighty…” Dream gives one last struggle, Future Him’s arms tightening around him even more—honestly, how tight can he go? It feels unnatural. Safe, yes, very, but uncomfortable.

Glaring at the bandages in front of him, he huffs. He is so confused. And concerned. Who wouldn’t be? This was nothing like how his Nighty explained things. Nothing at all. Future Him wasn’t supposed to be injured and chained up. Future Him wasn’t supposed to be hiding him from their brother. Even with all of these pieces in front of him, this puzzle was so difficult to put together. He hated it. He wanted to go home. His home, not this weird backward place where Future Him was behind a cell and their brother seemed to have something to do with that.

It…was their brother, right? What is he even saying, of course it is! Future Him was just…he doesn’t know. Mistaken, maybe. Yeah. Mistaken. But Nighty would never imprison him, he knows Nighty, he would never do that. Maybe he was reading things wrong. Maybe Nighty didn’t do all of this, maybe he was here to rescue them! That would make more sense. That would be more like Nighty.

But if that was true… then why was Future Him acting like this? Why was his breath hitching, why was there the slightest tremor in his arms? Why was he hiding Dream? What was going on here?

As Nighty’s aura enclosed on them, the comforting feeling of safety and reassurance and everything his brother was, he leans forward, focusing. It’s easier to do this in such a close proximity. He focuses on Future Him and gently reaches out, trying to feel for his emotions and soul. It’s harder to hide that way. Maybe he can get some answers, at least something to go off of.

Immediately, he regrets it.

And surrounding both is a vicious mix of heartbreak and betrayal.

Bitterness pools in his mouth and he gasps in surprise. From Future Him, the emotions crowd around him, blocking out Nighty’s aura entirely. They’re rapidly switching, hovering in the air, going back and forth and back and forth between desperation, need to protect him, can’t let him be seen, need to protect him, and fear, why is he here, why is he here, it hasn’t been that long, please go away, I can’t handle any more pain.

…what? What?

That’s not right. This can’t be right.

Swallowing the bitterness, Dream automatically grips the back of Future Him’s shirt and he shifts, trying to look up at him as he whispers, “Why are you so afraid of him…?”

#my writing #my fanfiction #fanfiction #oneshot #undertale #utmv #dreamtale #one small dream #one small difference #dream sans #osd dream sans #osdiff dream sans #background osdiff nightmare sans #background osdiff cross sans #tw implied/referenced torture #hope you enjoy!!

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tildeathiwillwrite · 4 months

Text

Merry Whumpmas 2023 Day 31: Free Day

And... that's a wrap for Whumpmas 2023! Thanks for reading my contributions, I'll see you all in the New Year!

This is the third (and final) part of a hero x villain story that I accidentally created during Whumpmas.

Part 1 | Part 2

TW: blood, surgery, medical staples, referenced abuse, painkillers

Hero was lying on the couch in Villain’s safe house, staring at the ceiling and impatiently waiting for painkillers to kick in, when the door burst open. Villain stumbled inside, covered in blood. Hero shot to their feet from the couch, gritting their teeth against the pain caused by the movement. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Villain bolted the door and leaned heavily against it, breathing raggedly. “Yeah,” they mumbled, pulling off their mask and tossing it onto the nearest surface, “I’m fine.”

“But you’re covered in blood!” Hero protested, anxiously following them into the makeshift surgery room, the original purpose of which they hadn’t yet discovered. Hero stared in horror at the rips on the back of Villain’s suit, revealing the deep cuts underneath.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Villain muttered, rummaging through their medical supplies in search of something. “And it’s not all my blood.”

“You need stitches—”

“On my back? It’ll be fine, I just need a mirror.” Villain held up a medical staple gun. “I’ve done this before. Hurts like hell, but works just as well as stitches in a pinch.”

Hero wordlessly turned on their heel and left the surgery room. Snatching the bottle of painkillers off the small table by the couch, Hero returned and held it out to Villain.

Villain took the pill bottle and set down the staple gun to take the medication. “Thanks,” they said softly, shaking out what was probably more than the recommended dosage and swallowing it dry. They winced and made a face. “Think I might have bruised ribs, too.”

“Sit down,” Hero ordered, picking up the medical staple gun. “I can do it.”

Villain frowned. “You sure? You’re still not a hundred percent—”

Hero shook their head adamantly, ignoring how the movement jarred their own injuries. “I’ll have a better angle than you and your mirror contraption. You don’t need to do everything yourself.”

“Oh…” Villain said softly. They boosted themself onto the table and sucked a deep breath in through their teeth. “I guess… I guess you’re right.”

Hero took a second to clean their hands and put on gloves before they moved behind them and picked up a clean alcohol wipe. “This is gonna sting, but I need to get rid of all this blood.”

They didn’t miss how Villain’s hands curled into fists as they wiped away the blood from the scratches. “How’d you encounter my team, anyway? Did they come to you?”

“Yeah…” Villain hissed through gritted teeth. “Just two of them. Not the fire one, thankfully. I hate fighting them. It was the one who can turn into different animals and the one who has the sound… gun… thing…?”

Hero positioned the head of the stapler in the center of the first of the cuts on Villain’s back. “Guess that’s where you got the scratches?”

“Cor—” Villain began just as Hero pulled the trigger. They yelped, flinching away from Hero. They glared over their shoulder. “Now that’s just mean.”

Hero shrugged. “I didn’t want you to tense up. Get back here, I gotta put one more in that cut and then another two in the other one.”

Villain closed their eyes and pressed the heels of their hands against them. They breathed slowly, purposefully, until they removed their hands and moved back towards Hero. “Alright,” they mumbled, fingers gripping the table's edge so hard, the knuckles turned white. “Fire away.”

Once the first staple was in, the rest of them went in swiftly. Villain flinched away every time, but only a few seconds later would order Hero to put the next one in. Finally, Hero had Villain pull off the top part of their suit so they could cover the cuts in bandages. Villain kept their eyes forward throughout the process, but Hero didn’t miss how their cheeks flushed when they removed their shirt.

“Okay,” Hero said, removing their gloves, “I’m done.”

Villain slowly pushed themselves off the table, wincing at the pain the movement caused. “Oh… that’s gonna bug me for a while.”

“Will your part of the city be all right?” Hero asked anxiously, wondering what would happen if their team decided to invade while Villain was recovering.

Villain waved their hand dismissively. “Yeah, they can handle themselves. I think I threw your old team off your trail by acting all annoyed that they’d showed up and really playing up the whole ‘sworn nemesis’ deal we had going.”

“Oh…” Hero said softly. “And they fought you anyway?”

“They didn’t take too kindly to my very reasonable request that they’d leave me the hell alone. Sure, I got all scratched up but I shot your shapeshifter buddy in both legs and broke the other one’s sound gun so I don’t think those one’s’ll be coming after us anytime soon.”

“Did they ask about Whumper? About how… you killed them?”

Villain smirked. “Nope! I forgot to tell you about this earlier, but I moved the body to the complete opposite side of the city from us. If anything, they probably think you killed them.”

Hero stared at them for a long few seconds. “I…” they stammered, trying to gather their thoughts, “I… why are you doing all this?”

Villain blinked. “Huh?”

“Saving me, stitching up my wounds, throwing off my other teammates, letting me stay at your safehouse…” Hero’s vision blurred as tears began to drip down their face. “I… what have I done to deserve all this? You’re risking everything for me, and I don’t have anything to give you in return….”

“Oh, Hero…” Villain murmured. They took Hero’s hand.

Hero froze, gazing down at it in surprise.

“I saved you,” Villain said, “because it was the right thing to do. You would’ve died in that alley from Whumper, so I took you to safety. I stitched up your injuries because you would’ve died from infection. And I’m letting you stay here because out there, those bastards would just recapture you again.”

“What…” Hero whispered, “What are you saying?”

Villain smiled. A soft, genuine smile. “I care about you, Hero. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I abandoned you.”

More tears began to well up. It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I…” Hero stammered, heart racing, “I care about you too. Please… please don’t get yourself killed trying to protect me. I don’t know… I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Me neither,” Villain murmured, a dark look crossing their face. “Me neither.”

#merry whumpmas #my writing #whump #whump scenario #hero #villain #hero x villain #surgery #painkillers #tw painkillers #stitches #staple gun #medical staple gun #implied abuse #old wounds #referenced torture

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serickswrites · 6 months

Note

If I just may present my favorite whump dichotomy to you:

Inexperienced Caretaker wanting to comfort Whumpee so badly, but is afraid to initiate any type of physical contact with the recently rescued Whumpee because they're scared of triggering their trauma

Whumpee who takes Caretaker's reluctance as disgust, as in, they think that Caretaker is too disgusted to touch them after finding out what Whumper did to them

(anyway get well soon!)

Hello, Anon! This is such an interesting idea! Who doesn't love a good misunderstanding? Please enjoy my simple attempt at this!

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, implied non con, hurt/aftermath

Caretaker tentatively knocked on Whumpee's door. They didn't want to startle Whumpee. Didn't want to scare Whumpee. Didn't want to make Whumpee uncomfortable in anyway. "Can I come in?"

"Yes," Whumpee's voice came weakly through the door.

Caretaker opened the door and walked over to Whumpee's bed. They started to reach their hand out to touch Whumpee, but thought the better of it. Whumpee wouldn't want to be touched after everything. Whumpee needed time. They needed to heal. And Caretaker was doing a shit job taking care of them. "Can I bring you anything? Coffee? Tea? A snack?"

Whumpee stared out the window, ignoring Caretaker's attempts to make eye contact. "No. Thank you."

"Oh, well if you're sure. Just give me a shout if you need me." Caretaker quickly backed out of the room. Rest. Whumpee needed rest. And time. Lots of time. Caretaker kept interrupting their rest. Whumpee just needed rest. And Caretaker needed to let them do that.

***

Whumpee felt disgusting. They were disgusting. How could anyone want to touch them, to help them, after Whumper touched them like that? Even Caretaker was disgusted by them. Caretaker could barely stand to be in the same room as them, let alone touch them. How could anyone want to be around them after they let Whumper do all those things to them?

It was hopeless. Whumpee knew there was no changing how others felt about them. No erasing what Whumper did.

But they were so terribly alone in their feelings and in their pain. But who could ever want to help them? Who could ever stoop so low as to associate with them now that they were so tainted? They deserved to be alone, because they were so disgusting.

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture #tw implied noncon #hurt/aftermath #requests #queue

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halfagone · 1 year

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The Ghosts of Phantasm's Past

The story goes: Andrea "Andi" Beaumont fell in love with Bruce Wayne, but before they could be wed, she returned the engagement to Bruce, and fled to another land. She would not return until many years later, when she would come to Gotham City under the guise of 'reorganizing family finances' by day, and donning the costume of 'Phantasm' by night. All this to avenge her father's murder at the hands of the Gotham mafia and mob bosses.

But. But in the margins, there's a note of little detail, that often goes unnoticed. Nearly two months after fleeing to Europe with her father, Andi (not Andrea, not Phantasm, Andi) finds out that she's pregnant with Bruce's child.

She is currently on the run from the mafia, with the chance she has to pick up everything at any given time to run for her life. And she is pregnant with her ex-fiancé's baby.

There are three things Andi can choose to do here. (Well, there is a fourth, but it had been no more a passing thought before it'd been dismissed with certainty.)

She can screw all sense and raise the child herself, no matter how dangerous it might be, no matter how solitary a life it would undoubtedly be for her baby to stay constantly alert and vigilant.

She can bring the child to their father, to be raised by the man she'd once given her whole heart to. But that runs the risk of someone finding out about her involvement, finding out that she's not as 'in the wind' as her hiding might imply. She can't afford to put Bruce and their baby in danger. That just negates the whole point. Or...

She can give the baby up for adoption, give them the better life they deserve because she knows, she knows, that she can't give it to them.

Andi chooses Option 3.

And for the longest time, it seems like she made the right decision. She choose not to be a part of her baby's (her son's) life, because if she thought she could get away with that, she wouldn't have given him up in the first place.

So she lives without regret, only vengeance and spite and grief. That is, until she returns to her first home, her old stomping grounds. She murders mob boss after mob boss in cold blood (the same way they'd killed her father), and for the first time in years, she feels alive. Her heart is pumping, there is a thrill to her hunt.

But then. But then, when she bursts into the Joker's base, she finds that the man had been planning on securing one more victim that night.

That night she comes face to face with her son for the first time since she'd given him up. He's bloody and broken and a step away from death, but she takes one look at him and knows: This is my son.

She does not take Joker prisoner that night. Instead, she puts a bullet between his eyes and takes her son away. Far, far away, and hopes, prays, that this time- this time he'll be safe.

Bruce doesn't agree with her idea of 'safe'.

#dpxdc #dpxdc prompt #this came to me like a fever dream #if anyone wants to write this #PLEASE DO!!#probably would do her character better justice than i could #the names matched i couldn't NOT do it #i want more bio kid!Danny AUs #that don't have Danny and Damian as full-blood siblings :/#variety is the spice of life #sometimes y'know?#could probably include all the batfam #if you played your cards right #i know that's what i'm planning #tw: implied torture #tw: implied/referenced murder #i should probably stop now lol

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lady-wallace · 6 months

Text

Whumptober Day 17 - "Lost in these Memories" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

More Fugo whump for today's @whumptober fic, (With Stand Hugs!)

~~~~~~~

Prompts Used: Collar, Touch Aversion, 'Leave me alone' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character: Fugo

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati made up the tray of food, purposefully placing the bowl of soup, the spoon and napkin, and the glass of water as he mentally prepared to face his youngest team member again.

It had been five days now since Fugo had gone missing on a mission—three since he had been found, and he still hadn't left his room since they'd brought him home.

Bucciarati wasn't entirely sure what to do. Any attempt he had made to coax Fugo out had been met with firm denial, and while he could certainly understand such a reaction after a traumatic event, he knew Fugo was suffering and, worse, suffering alone. He had so far refused any comfort Bruno or Abbacchio tried to offer him, simply staying curled in bed, wrapped in blankets.

Bruno sighed and knocked on the teen's door before letting himself in, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.

"Fugo? I brought you some dinner," he said quietly as he entered the dim room.

Fugo briefly looked up at him from the book he was reading before flicking his eyes downward once more. "You can just put it there," he mumbled nodding to the side table.

Bucciarati did as asked and hesitated before he left. "Pannacotta, I'd like to check your injuries again if that's okay?"

Fugo's hands started to shake instantly and Bruno felt terrible for even bringing it up, but an infection wasn't going to do him any better either.

"No—n-no. I really can't stand anyone touching me right now. I—I can't. Please. I can do it myself. I promise I'll clean them well."

Bucciarati closed his eyes briefly, but nodded. "Alright. I'll leave the medical supplies in the bathroom for you. But if you need help with the ones on your back—"

"I don't! I'm fine!" Fugo snapped, then ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," Bucciarati told him gently. "Please try to eat something. And let me know if you need anything else."

He slipped out of the room, and his fists clenched in fury the instant the door was closed, teeth grinding.

He and Abbacchio, along with the other soldati had already demolished the gang who had taken Fugo, but what good did it do when the damage had already been done? Fugo had been doing so well recently. He'd stopped jumping when Bruno and Abbacchio accidently brushed him, just generally doing better with human proximity. He'd even started to accept hugs when he was having bad nights, calming in Bruno's careful hold.

And now all of that had been erased instantly by the cruelty of his captors, using his aversion to touch against him. Mocking, hurting, using knives and fists to demolish the fond touches Bruno sought to provide when he was sure Fugo would be okay with it, taking that gained trust and tearing it to pieces.

The image of Fugo when they'd finally found him in that cargo container would forever haunt Bucciarati's nightmares. Shivering in a corner, bloody and bruised, bound hand and foot with a collar locked around his throat, keeping him upright so he could not pull away from his captors without choking himself.

Even the act of freeing Fugo had sent him into a panic attack and there was no comfort Bruno could offer aside from words, which was harder than he had thought it would be.

One look at the teen panicking and sobbing had sent Abbacchio back out to start delivering a justified beat-down of the bastards who had dared hurt Fugo.

And when they got him back, Bucciarati had only been able to do the bare minimum to tend to Fugo's injuries before he flat-out pushed him away and retreated to his room where he had stayed ever since.

Abbacchio met him in the kitchen, breaking Bucciarati out of his brooding thoughts.

"How is he?" the other man asked quietly.

Bucciarati shook his head, grabbing bowls to dish soup out for him and Abbacchio even though he wasn't hungry. "I honestly don't know what to do. There's no telling how long this will go on, especially if he refuses help—"

Abbacchio held up a hand. "First of all, hovering isn't going to help him," he said.

Bruno huffed. "I know that. And I'm trying not to, it's just…"

"I know," Abbacchio replied with a sigh. "I don't like seeing the kid like that either. But he needs space right now. He knows he's safe here and that's going to have to be enough for the moment."

Bucciarati pressed his lips together, knowing the other man was right.

Abbacchio's advice didn't help when he heard Fugo screaming in his sleep that night. He had to get up to see him even though he knew he would be rejected.

"Fugo?" he called as he tapped on the door, hearing the moaning and shifting of blankets. He opened the door and saw the boy wound up in his sheets, struggling, eyes and jaw clenched tight as he let out breathless sobs, chest heaving too quickly.

"Pannacotta," Bruno called firmly, standing beside the bed.

The blond only continued to struggle against the sheets, breaths becoming more and more panicked. Bruno finally had to reach out and help, unable to watch this anymore.

But Fugo flailed the instant Bruno touched the sheets. "Don't!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!"

"Panna, I'm just…" Bucciarati tried, but he pulled away.

Fugo's eyes finally opened and he scrambled to sit against the head of the bed, eyes darting around frantically, not seeing anything.

"Panna," Bruno called again and his head whipped over toward him. "You're home. You're safe. It's just me here."

Fugo's face crumpled, and he curled into himself. "I hate this, I hate this," he cried.

Bruno pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat carefully, making sure he wasn't in any way crowding Fugo.

"It's okay, Pannacotta."

"No it's not!" Fugo snapped, scrubbing at his eyes as he hugged himself, fingers digging into his ribs. "I-I fucked up! I got captured, and I l-let them control me, and I c-couldn't do anything about it!"

Something rippled in the corner and Bucciarati looked over to see Purple Haze materializing. The Stand moaned forlornly as it hugged its knees and rocked back and forth. Fugo didn't even seem to realize his Stand was out, proving how much distress he was currently in. As long as Purple Haze didn't start punching things though, Bruno wasn't going to worry about him.

"You didn't let them control you, Fugo," Bruno told him firmly. "They tortured you."

Fugo shook his head. "But I'm the one who let them see how much it bothered me. I told them to stop, but they—they just made a sick game of it. And I forgot—I almost forgot how much it could hurt." His voice hitched on a sob again. "Because I didn't have to worry for so long but now every time I try to sleep, it's just…that in my head again. But worse, because it's that and my recent capture combined."

Purple Haze wailed again, echoing his user's distress, burying his head in his knees.

Bucciarati's heart ached to hear Fugo talk about it. To know that his mind was so cruel as to combine his recent trauma and that of his horrible past only hurt all the more. He could only imagine how much mental anguish Fugo was going through.

"I don't…know how to make it better," Fugo sobbed. "I didn't want to be like this anymore, but they fucked it all up and I don't know what to do to fix myself."

Bucciarati barely resisted the urge to reach out and offer some form of comforting touch to Fugo. The boy was shaking so hard, just barely keeping the panic under control.

"I am so sorry that this happened, Panna," Bruno told him sincerely. "But none of it was your fault. It was all those bastards back there, and they won't be hurting anyone ever again—I can assure you of that. And you don't have to 'fix' yourself. There's nothing to fix. You survived, Panna, and sometimes that's its own strength."

Fugo didn't say anything. He simply pulled his knees up, making himself small, arms wrapped around himself. Bruno didn't think it was possible for someone in a room with another person—and a Stand—to look so alone, but Fugo was suffering so much right now that his pain burrowed deep into Bucciarati's soul and curled up there.

Purple Haze wailed again and Bruno straightened up, knowing he had to ask at least, for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Do you… want a hug?" he asked softly, seeing the way Fugo kept hugging his arms to his chest. "It's okay if you don't but I wanted to offer."

Fugo let out a soft sob. "I-I do but…I don't think I can handle that much touch right now. I just…I just want it to be like it was before and I'm so fucking mad!"

Purple Haze moaned, rocking forlornly in the corner. That was when Bucciarati had an idea.

"Panna, do you mind if I try something?" he asked, holding up his hands, palms out. "I'm not going to touch you, but please let me know if any of this is too much."

He manifested Sticky Fingers and the Stand crossed the room to kneel in front of Purple Haze. Fugo's stand shifted and looked up at the other. Sticky Fingers slowly opened his arms, not making a move, but waiting.

Purple Haze hesitated, moaned, then suddenly lurched forward and practically tackled Sticky Fingers backwards, letting out a mournful sound.

Bruno watched, shocked as Purple Haze curled up against Sticky and his Stand held onto Haze tightly, rocking him back and forth. It was an odd sensation, both physically and mentally comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket and just the perfect temperature.

After a few moments, Purple Haze started to let out a gurgling, almost purring sound, drooling against Sticky Fingers' shoulder.

Bruno glanced over to Fugo to see how he was taking this, and saw a slight embarrassed flush on his cheeks, as he watched the Stands, but his breathing had calmed down a little and he wasn't quite so tense anymore.

"Is it okay? Like that?" Bruno asked him hesitantly.

Fugo nodded. "Actually, yes. It's not bad at all."

Bruno smiled, relief flooding him. "That's good."

Fugo clenched the sheets in his hands, staring down as his cheeks flushed again. "Could you…stay, until I fall asleep?" he mumbled.

"Of course, Panna," Bruno replied, settling into the chair. "I won't go anywhere."

Fugo let out a shuddering sigh and lay back down in the bed, allowing Bruno to help untangle the rest of the covers and tuck them back into the mattress. He then took up a book and stayed there reading until Fugo fell asleep. All the while, Sticky Fingers and Purple Haze stayed cuddled together on the other side of the room.

Over the next few days, whenever Fugo was having a hard time, Purple Haze would appear somewhere in the apartment and Bruno or Abbacchio would deploy their Stands for comfort and hugging. Abbacchio had been somewhat hesitant at first, but Moody Blues had had other ideas, going directly up to Purple Haze and pulling him into a firm embrace.

Another week passed and Fugo finally ventured out of his room for more than just the bathroom and water.

"Feeling better?" Bruno asked kindly as he set some breakfast in front of Fugo.

The blond nodded, and though he was still covered in bruises, showing up all too much on his pale skin, he did look a little better. He picked at his nails, then looked up at Bruno. "Could I…try a hug?" he asked.

Bruno didn't say anything, simply opened his arms to let Fugo come to him.

The boy hesitated, then got out of his chair and came forward, tentatively looping his arms around Bucciarati before he leaned fully into him with a long exhale.

Bruno lightly wrapped his arms around Fugo's shoulders. "How's that?" he asked.

"I think I'm getting there," Fugo said sincerely.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

If you want to follow me on other social media or ask about commissions, find my info on My Carrd

#whumptober2023 #no.17 #collar #touch aversion #leave me alone #jojo's bizarre adventure #fanfic #aftermath of torture #implied/referenced torture tw #illusions to past abuse tw #pannacotta fugo whump #parental bruno bucciarati #sentient stands #stand hugs #jjba part 5 #angst #hurt/comfort

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aftgficrec · 8 days

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My favorite fics are soft andriel, and teen andriel.

Here’s my recs:

Raised on little light by maqicien

Falling is a lot like drowning by chaoticas_hell

This wasn’t in the prophecy (series) by Arirmis

(Account locked) Raise me up so you can watch me fall by Yes_No_ofcourse

And this last one is angst and dark but I do love it

Hiding scars under exy gear By rinz

Wow, that’s a lot of recs in one submission! Usually we just get one or two 🤣. - S

You can find some of those fics here:

‘Raised on Little Light’ here (since updated)

‘Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning’ here (since updated)

‘Raise me up so you can watch me fall’ here (locked, now complete)

This wasn’t in the prophecy by Arirmis [Rated T/M, 73294 words, incomplete, last updated Feb 2024]

Percy Jackson AU where all of the foxes are demigods, Andrew meets Neil shortly after his mom dies, and joins him on the run instead of going back to camp. Part one spans from their first meeting to their first kiss; Part two will take place a few years later, when certain circumstances force them to return to camp, and Andrew has to deal with what he left behind, on top of their current problem. While both fics should be able to be read individually, it does make more sense if you read them in order :)

Part 1: Cross your fingers, here we go (T, 25037 words, complete)

Millport is a horrible, dry as fuck little town in the vast nothingness of the dust hole that is Arizona, and Andrew hates it with vigor. He has been tracking a horde of Manticores for weeks now, and isn’t that something? A half-blood having to chase after the monsters. He is starting to feel like one of Renee’s hunters, when Andrew is pretty sure the nasty scorpion-cats should want to kill him more then he wants to kill them. Or, Andrew expected to find all sorts of things on his first quest. He didn’t expect a twitchy, blue-eyed half-blood with monsters on his heels, and he surely didn’t expect to fall in love with him.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death

Part 2: Mortal Bodies, Timeless Souls (M, 48257 words, incomplete)

„Minyard! Get your ass up and put some armor on! Abby, Greene, get the infirmary in shape, border control just spotted a motherfucking Drakon in the woods!“ As if Wymack’s order triggered it, a ear grating screech echoes all the way to the big house. The camp counselor curses. „Move it people, there are half-bloods out there that need to get to safety!“ Or, for two and a half years, Aaron has been grieving the brother he buried, only to learn now, that Andrew is very much alive. He also has a scarred little shithead in tow, that Aaron wants to punch in the face regularily. Life is fun like that.

tw: blood, tw: violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/non-con, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: child neglect, tw: assumed character death, tw: vomit

Hiding scars (under exy gear) by rinz [Rated M, 34309 words, incomplete, last updated March 2024]

Juggling a mobster serial killer household and high school is harder than Neil had anticipated. and that goth kid on the roof really needs to mind his own business. OR a high school AU where neil and mary never run from nathan and neil meets the foxes in private high school instead.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: imlied/referenced torture, tw: graphic violence

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highcaliberstupidity · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 4 Tortured Love Rating Explicit CW's/Tags Dead Dove Do Not Eat (Ghost explicitly tortures Soap), Main Character Injury, Implied/Referenced Main Character Death (mention of Ghost killing Gaz, Price, and others), torture, toxic love (Ghost tells Soap he loves him while torturing him), sick love, betrayal, open ending Characters John 'Soap' MacTavish, Simon 'Ghost' Riley Summary

“W-Why are y-you doin’ t-this?” And this one comes out as a sob, rattling up out of his chest and clawing at his throat as hot, sticky tears track down his bruised, grime-covered cheeks. And it shouldn’t be this way, Soap was trained to resist interrogation, had passed it with flying colors just like everyone else. But getting this treatment from Simon of all people, was one thing no one could have ever prepared him for. For a long moment, Ghost doesn’t move, just remains crouched where he is, stroking a soothing thumb across his jaw as he holds his weak head up. “Because I can.”

Soap wakes up when the tines of the cattle prod dig deep into his thigh, body seizing against his will as his head is thrown back in a wordless, soundless cry.

The shock zaps through him long enough that he nearly passes back out, and everything hurts when it's finally drawn away from his skin. He can’t stop himself from going limp, boneless as his chin falls against his chest. The smell of burning flesh overwhelms the cloying mix of urine, blood, vomit, and other copious amounts of bodily fluids, choking him.

“You in there?” Ghost’s familiar accent drums against his head, somehow both soothing him and seeing off alarm bells as a hand grabs his bloodied chin and tips his head up.

Big brown eyes meet his, and he remembers when he used to think those eyes were sweet, that they reminded him of a soft, gentle animal.

But now he can see the buried bloodlust, the predator that lurks behind those deceitfully sweet eyes. He wishes he had enough fight in him to spit right between them, to hock up a mouthful of spit, blood, and bile just to watch it drip down his mask.

But he can barely bring himself to keep his eyes open, leaning the full weight of his head into deceptively gentle hands. The same hands that have been taking him apart for god knows how long, cutting him, hitting him, breaking him, shocking him.

He remembers when he used to love those hands, and he thinks a fucked up part of himself might still.

“There you are love, gettin’ tired?” He sounds so sweet when he says it, but Soap’s long since learned how to read him, even with the mask. He can see the smug furrow of his brow, the gleeful crinkle to the edges of his eyes, and the way his nose bridge scrunches as his teeth bare in a sneering smirk.

The first days that Soap had been in his ‘care’, he’d snarled and howled at him, cursed him, snapped at him, all to hide his hurt.

But Soap’s tired.

He’s so tired.

“S-Simon…” It comes out as a whimper, his spilt and torn lips trembling as he finally loses the battle against the tears that have been burning the backs of his eyes for days. Ghost’s eyes blink softly at him, the skull mask tilting to the side as he leans closer. Soap swallows, tries to find his voice again. “W-Why?” It hurts, it hurts so badly to speak, but he has to know.

“Why What, Johnny?” His big brown eyes almost look doleful, but he can still see the way he smirks, knows he’s enjoying playing with him.

But getting this treatment from Simon of all people, was one thing no one could have ever prepared him for.

For a long moment, Ghost doesn’t move, just remains crouched where he is, stroking a soothing thumb across his jaw as he holds his weak head up.

“Because I can.” When he finally speaks, his voice holds a tinge of giddiness to it, and Soap feels his chest clench painfully. “Because I want to.” Somehow those words are worse than every last bit of torture Ghost has laid upon him. “Do you know why I haven’t killed you yet, Johnny?”

He knows Ghost will want a verbal response, he always does, but Soap can’t speak, his throat too choked now. So he shakes his head instead, eyes scrunched shut as he tries so hard to fight back the tears streaming down his face.

But Ghost doesn’t hit him, doesn’t even tut with his usual disapproval.

“It’s because I love you.” And Soap keens, using the last of his bodies strength to wrench himself free of Ghost’s hands. Because he can’t take that, he can’t hear that.

This isn’t love.

A firm hand clamps down on his cheeks this time, and Ghost’s voice drops into a dangerous growl.

“Open your eyes love, you’ll look at me when I’m fucking speaking to you.” And he tries, he tries to fight him off, but he’s weak, useless. Finally, he has no choice, lips trembling as he slowly fluttered open his red, red eyes. “Good boy, don’t worry, we’ll train you right up Johnny, have you following orders like a good little attack dog in no time. Just like before.” But it won’t be, it won’t be.

But Ghost doesn’t give a shit about his internal turmoil as he holds him in place.

“I spared you by choice, because you treated me differently.” And Christ, Soap wanted to fucking spit on him again. “Price and Gaz, all those other fuckers, they treated me like I was fragile, like I was some kind of ticking time bomb.” Because you were, you fucking were! “But the one man who worked with bombs for a living, for fun, treated me more like a human man than any of them did. You wormed your way right in Soap, right on into my chest. Don’t think I could root you out if I fuckin’ tried.” The hand holding his face releases him, but before he can snatch it away, it fists into his hair instead, drags him in close, and he struggles.

“D-don’t, don’t, s-stop, stop fucking t-touching me!” He hisses despite the pain in his ruined throat, struggling as violently as his broken body can manage. “Your s-sick, your fucking sick!” The hand in his hair turns into a palm cupping the back of his head, and he feels clothed lips press against his forehead in a mockery of a lover's soothing kiss, feels split wide open under such a gentle gesture.

“It’s alright Johnny, it’s alright.” He soothes softly, thumb rubbing soft circles in his overgrown, matted hair. “Don’t you worry love, I’ll take care of you.” And Soap wants to vomit at the implication, wants to shove him away, wants to impale himself on Ghost’s butcher knife because he doesn’t know how much he can take before his mind breaks.

“Don’t you worry sweet thing, you’ll see, just give it time.” Those lips press again, as his body shakes with sobs and his struggles abate as his chest heaves from exertion and the weight of his exhaustion has him leaning into, and not away, from the gentle hands of his torturer.

He gives in to the crushing tide of black, as a wide, gloved hand strokes gently over his head, ears filled with the haunting tune of Ghost’s soft hum.

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howtoliveasahumanbeing · 23 days

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Remains of what was

Inspired by @headchamberlain’s recent story for Ivan

Tw/cw for sh implications, blood, talk of gore, mentions of suicide attempts

Standing in front of this place again was like something out of a nightmare, even with a lack of emotional processing. The building was horribly broken down, parts of the walls simply missing, cracks slithering up the building and glass covering the ground outside. They’d known someone had destroyed the place, but somehow wasn’t expecting this.

Walking inside, it was even worse than the exterior. Glass covered the floors, doors burst off their hinges, some walls entirely broken, areas where the ceiling had collapsed to the ground. It felt familiar yet so new at the same time, easily able to see their younger self in these halls but at the same time everything looked new and different.

They start walking down the now darkened hallways, remembering how the white of this whole building always used to give them headaches, but it was much easier to handle with the lights shattered. They wander through halls they’d never been in, finding interest in everything, despite not knowing what it looked like previously.

They eventually stumbled upon the eating area, which they’d always hated, having only been there once or twice but everything about it had sucked to them. The amount of people, all the noise, those blinding lights, the feeling of food settling in their stomach. It all made them want to throw up. But they could almost handle it now, it completely barren and dark. They run a finger along one of the broken tables, dust coating their pale skin in an instant.

Wiping it on their shorts, they continue walking along, finding the door to the kitchen broken open, somewhere no experiment in this place had ever been allowed in. It was less damaged in there, apart from the fridge door being ripped off, almost all the food completely gone, but anything left was rotten enough to make them nauseous. They quickly cover their nose and run out of the room, trying to get as far away from that smell as possible. It smelled way too close to rotting flesh for comfort.

Making it back into one of the hallways, they find the rooms each experiment had to spend most their time in, counting the numbers as they went.

“237, 238, 239…”

This continued until they stumbled upon their own old room, scratches on the door from the rampage that rendered this place abandoned. Carefully opening the door, they walk in, finding it the same as they’d left it. Their bed was all bland, having gotten their blankets taken away after trying to make a makeshift rope with it, and their desk just had a few messy carvings on it.

They doubted there’d be anything there, but they’re decided to check the desk drawers anyway, finding a small scalpel in one. The still shiny blade was still stained crimson from when they’d forgotten to clean it off afterwards. They stare at it for a moment before grabbing it and putting it into their pocket, ignoring how their skin burned just at the familiar touch of the blade in their hands.

They quickly leave their old room after that, trying to find any other room they hadn’t explored (that wouldn’t just be a replica of their own room). Eventually they stumble upon the communal bathroom, remembering how you’d have to have a doctor escort you there any time you went to make sure the experiments wouldn’t try and ruin their work. It was pretty bland, just a regular sink, shower and toilet having bathroom. Minus an overflowing amount of bloody bandages in the trash can, Mitsuyo knowing full well some of those were their own. Though, something about seeing their own reflection was strange.

It was still Mitsuyo, but they couldn’t recognize that.

They didn’t even have any memory of their past appearance to go off of, but their reflection just looked wrong… their ears beginning to ring and vision blurring, their hands hitting against the sides of their head in an attempt to get it to stop. Only when they heard a loud crash and felt something dripping down their hand did their senses clear up. In front of them now was a broken mirror, blood dripping from the base of the crack. Looking down a bit, they realize why their hand felt wet, small glass shards were embedded in their knuckles, blood pouring from the wounds. Despite how to most people this would be painful, they simply begin pulling the glass shards out of their hands, dropping them into the sink before leaving the bathroom.

Walking back down the hallways, a constant drip now accompanying their footsteps, they check the labels on some of the doors, eventually finding an office of sorts. Carefully turning the doorknob, their blood staining it in their wake, they carefully walk into the room and into uncharted territory. It looked like how they’d expected, mainly just the desk and chair but they say that as a win. There were also bookshelves and filing cabinets lining the walls, the cabinets labeled by wing of the lab. Mitsuyo quickly walks over to it and scans for their wing, finding wing B pretty quickly (luckily they were capital letters). Opening the cabinet they scan for their name, finding their own file before pulling it out, being very careful not to stain it with their blood.Sitting down at the desk, they open the file with their good hand, the papers starting off with just some basic information.

Name: Mitsuyo Kakuta

Birthdate: March 8th, ????

Sex: X

Height: 3’1”

Weight: 30lb

Blood type: O Positive

They flip pasted that page, finding a picture of the car crash that almost took their life. They actually hadn’t known there were pictures taken of that, but it made sense. All accidents like this tended to have pictures. They could see the ambulance that picked them up, the blood from their wound but luckily not their own body. They’d found out through overhearing doctors their arm, about six inches below the shoulder, was taken almost completely off by the car running it over, but there had been no nerve damage. Thats why they’d been brought there.

Flipping to the next page, they see documents of the experiments done to them going on for several pages, from simple cuts to see if they’d heal, to the doctors cutting them open while they were conscious and pulling out their organs to see if they could survive without them. They’d honestly blocked out so many of those experiments, they didn’t even remember what organs were actually put back or not. It just got more and more graphic as the pages continued, causing them to flip through pages as fast as possible trying to find anything that wasn’t about those experiments. Though, when they saw what they’d flipped to, they didn’t know what was worse.

On the page, there was a picture slid between the sheet protector, of a man and a woman standing side by side, hands intertwined, both wearing rings. In between the two was a little kid, their eyes clearly different colors despite being in black and white. All three were smiling brightly at the camera. Their hand slipped from the file, letting it fall to the dust coated desk before running out of the room, not even processing as they hit the floor, glass cutting up their hands and knees, continuing to run until they found the front door, sprinting out without hesitation.

They’re left panting for breath once they stop, blood dripping down their knees and hands, but they couldn’t care less. It didn’t hurt, so why did it matter, as long as they were out of there. They take a deep breath, wondering if the air that entered their body actually went anywhere, before they start walking away from that hellhole once again.

#bsd #bsd oc #bsd rp #bungou stray dogs #tw referenced torture #tw sui ideation #tw implied sh

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autistichedgehogs · 1 year

Note

Your uquiz mentions a frontier sonic captivity fic, may we have a link?

i’m assuming you mean the forces option on question 8—i was speaking generally. there’s not a fic i can name at the top of my head since there’s a lot of fics on ao3 that elaborate on the time sonic was LITERALLY TORTURED FOR SIX MONTHS that forces just… brushes over. if any of my followers have any recommendations, feel free to comment

#i recommend searching through the ‘implied/referenced torture’ tag #<- never thought i’d type those words LMAO #there’s a lot of fics where sonic gets fucked up lol #i would hunt some down but i’m sick rn and don’t have a lot of energy /gen #asks #torture tw #<- just mentioned but to be safe

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queenofdenest · 2 years

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Title: in the mouth of trauma (is silence not an act of violence too?) Fandom: Hetalia Warnings: creator chooses not to use archive warnings Relationships: Est & Liet & Lat Characters: HWS Est, HWS Liet, HWS Lat, HWS Rus, others mentioned Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Psychiatric Torture Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Dissociation, Disordered thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Mental Instability, Historical Hetalia, Soviet Union Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mentioned Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Past Attempted Suicide

Summary: it's time to leave behind everything they have done to him, but how does one begin to heal when the wounds no longer cover his body, just his mind?

AO3: the link to read it on ao3

A/N: So I'm going to be honest, I never thought that the first fic (Isolation) would have a sequel but when I sat down, my brain really said that that story was not done yet. I don't know yet how far I'm going with this, so far there are two more fics set during this time period that are much less *gestures at everything involved in this fic* then this, but those will definitely not be done this month, maybe next month. Though I'm actually hoping to have some happier things to share soon.

I do warn to please look back at the tags as every single one of those are mentioned throughout the fic - unlike with Isolation, I can't give paragraph specific warnings as basically every paragraph has a triggering content in it. Like this fic is more than a tad bit darker than the previous fic, sorry. That being said, I have listed every single tag I believe needs to be there, if there is one missing please nicely let me know. If you need to take a break while reading this, may I lead you to video of mine.craft yt Go.odTimes.WithSc.ar being hilarious?

All mistakes are my own, my beta is asleep so they haven't read this over for me. Information is at the bottom as it always is for my historical works.

Lastly, title is from Blythe Baird – “Pocket-Sized Feminism”, no real reason besides I really like it. Prompt is from Fict.ober 2021, "You have no proof". dedicated to my beta, who's asleep right now, who talked with me about this fic, and to my mother who read the ending to tell me it didn't suck.

Last warning, this fic is dark and to please read the tags.

____

The sun is setting when he’s dragged out of the room – fear in his stomach as they grip his arms roughly, leading him down the hall to the shower rooms.

He hates the shower rooms.

He never used to mind the shower rooms or what they represented – group showers – but ever since he was dragged to one after that tortuously long car ride, thrown to the grimy floor in a building he assumed was abandoned, and all but tortured by the soldiers who seemingly took great pleasure in what they were doing, he has had trouble with them. It’s like they no longer represent the idea of being equal with the other people in there*, instead they are the place where bad things happen.

He hopes that’s not what’s going to happen now.

Not again.

He knows he wouldn’t survive it; his body is weak and tired. The doctors have been raising the dosage of the medication* they were giving him; they wanted him far too docile. And while his nation physiology did wonders to get rid of most medications quickly, even at doses that would incapacitate or kill a human, he was being given doses every few hours. He knows it’s been absolutely annoying the head doctor – the man had threatened to force a bottle of poison down his throat, as if somehow he controlled how his body worked.

Higher and higher dosages and more pills forced down his throat by a maniac and those who appeased him.

He forces himself back to the present, to the soldiers, and tries to even his breath out as rough words are tossed from one and another, their meaning lost on him in his terror. They must be chatting about what they plan to do to him, of what is going on – and if he focuses, he knows that he could understand the words, but there’s a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s sometimes easier to live in the world where he can feign ignorance; any question they might ask him is in vain if he lets his mind wander away from him to times where things were much easier. To times where the terror is no longer lurking.

He takes a deep breath as the door swings open, the sound of another patient – victim – screams from somewhere in the building as he is thrown into the room, the memory from the first time this happened echoing in his movements.

Get in there!

He is, for once, thankful that they had taken his glasses when he was moved into this particular place; they had made a horrible sound as they had hit the grimy floor once before and he has no desire to hear that same clink, especially since he can hear in his head the sound of throaty laughter and footsteps moving closer to him -

Didn’t hear me, did you traitor? I said get up!

Rough hands grab him once more, “Up, up,” they say, the Russian words falling quicker, “We have no time for this, get up.”

They aren’t shouting. Their words are harsh and demanding, but they’re not shouting and so he manages to bring himself back to the present, to help himself to his feet. More hands touch him and he lets himself be directed to the first open shower, staring at it in fear. He knows how this goes.

“We are right out the door – don’t try anything, we will know,” one of the men says, dark eyes piercing as he points to the entrance. “Shower quickly, shower thoroughly.”

Let’s get this evidence off you, not that anyone would believe a fucking traitorous bastard such as yourself.

(he didn’t believe himself either)

He feels himself nod and watch as they leave the room, doors swinging behind them. Part of it feels that his mind goes with them, sliding out the flesh he’s been placed in and following them across gleaning white tiles, past a set of weak doors, to stand and wait until he’s done with the directive given to him.

It still leaves the body behind though, and he knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’ll be forced to by one of them: the last thing he wants is more hands touching him.

Even if the hands that hurt the most has long since been gone, he can still feel haunted by them; still feel the burn of bruises forming against skin that has grown weak since his first capture – the time when he was young, not the one done by the brutes manning the Soviet army.

His shaking hands drop to his clothing, sea green eyes darting towards the door for a brief second before he starts with the buttons on the shirt. He doesn’t look at his body after the shirt is gone, instead his eyes go distant as he stares at the tiled walls, hands dropping to his pants.

He had been a fighter once*, he thinks as fearful hands shed the last protection he has on him.

Most saw him as a homebody and he is – he’d never argue that he was most at home among his people; farming, learning, living, breathing in the fresh air, but when war had brought itself to his doorstep, he never backed down. He met challenges with a straight back and a fierce strength that had won him many battles and many scars. He had been set against bigger nations, more powerful then he’d been and been told to give up, submit, things would be easier if he did, and he had told them that he was never going to bend, never going to break, and he had never done so.

And yet – right as the water turns on, the sound of the pipes creaking from all around him; the water, lukewarm at best, spraying against his bruised flesh, he feels like breaking now.

He knows he can’t, whatever is going on will need him to carry that same strength that he had carried as a child, but the fragility of his mind after these long months – years, possibly – keeps him flitting between the nation he once was and the man who learned to keep his head down to avoid anymore trouble than his existence already brought him.

He grabs for the soap in front of him, the filthy looking bar slimy between his fingers, slimy against his bare skin. Not that he needs it to feel slimy, but it does it’s job as best as it could. Dirty water sits for a second at the drain before being sucked away, disappearing forever.

Come here, I swear it’s like you live to disappoint – get in the bath already, can’t have the doctors asking questions if you show up looking like a cheap whore.

(the doctors don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t care)

His nails bite into the soap as he grips it hard, two deep breaths in, two deep breaths out.

I don’t want to share my traitorous bitch.

(lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies)

The shower shuts off, there’s a towel sitting on the broken sink and he reaches for it, forcing himself to focus on the story of the broken sink and not that monster’s words. He doesn’t remember who told it – either Dmitri, who was there for expressing disappointment in the current regime, or Linas, who was there because his father had spoken out against the Soviets but who lied to protect the old man – but it was one of them who told him in whispers late at night through the gaps in the solitary wing’s broken walls the story of the broken sink.

It wasn’t particularly interesting, he thinks as he swipes away the moisture on his skin. Mostly he had listened because he had been down there for over two weeks and his voice had all but disappeared from singing and screaming for far too long. It was, though, a sign of what kind of behavior was tolerated there.

A nurse enters a clandestine relationship with a patient. She uses the shower room as it’s the easiest place to clean up and she knows the schedule of her fellow nurses so can tell when will be safe to take her patient lover there to interact. A doctor, one who had been trying to court her, found out one day and decides to do something about it. He decides he will kill the patient and to do so, lures the poor addled man to the space on a night she’s not supposed to be working. While waiting for the other, he rips the pipe from the sink and hides near the door, ready to kill the other when he walks in.

And walks in the other man does but with the nurse. The doctor was shocked and drops the pipe, but in his rage at seeing them together, he kills the patient anyway, bashing his head against the sink, over and over and over again, until the porcelain breaks and bleeds.

While this is happening, the nurse has run off to get help, fear overriding all sense she has as she worries for the man she loves. She returns with help but it’s too late for the patient and the doctor, who is covered in blood, coldly turns to the guard she had brought and tells the man, “The nurse here has been colluding with this patient to kill me – I overheard their plan and decided to act before either could get me.”

He is believed. The nurse is sent away, left to die in whatever painful way they want her to in a gulag somewhere. The doctor continues to work there. No one cares; not about the nurse wrongfully convicted, not about a patient sent there for mental problems being murdered by a man meant to help him, and definitely not for a doctor with blood on his hands and not a shred of guilt in his soul.

He has internalized that lesson here – no one cares about any of them – and it’s been proven far too often as every day passes.

A soldier walks in right as he’s putting his underwear back on and it takes all he has to hold back the urge to cover his body with the towel, to shy away from this man who looks more a child than an adult. But hold it back he does, instead staring at the man as fabric is thrust towards him. Russian is spoken, his brain still far away in another world.

The soldier looks back towards the door before licking his lips and saying, “Clothing, for you,” in a language* he’s not heard from anyone not him in far too long.

Estonian.

His language.

He reaches for them, the sight of his glasses calling to him and the fabric familiar as his hands clenches around them. “Thank you,” he says carefully in that same language.

He’s not scared of what will happen if a nurse or doctor hears him. He’s spoken it far too often for someone who’s been punished for doing so. It – along with the dozen or so other languages he knows – have been the one thing that has comforted him through everything, and while he’s not thankful for having to learn them how he did, he is thankful he did learn them.

The solider – a boy no older than 20 – gives him a smile, as if he’s done something good, and nods again, motioning to his hands. “Please, hurry,” he says, in Russian this time, before turning and leaving.

Despite the thankfulness that comes from hearing his own language from another's mouth after being removed from the two other nations who spoke enough of it to keep him from going crazy, he’s still uneasy; he’d be stupid not to be. He still has no idea what is going on. This was nothing like how they moved him from the first facility to this one – that had been done through drugging him and him waking up in a moving vehicle, his eyes blinded and his hands tied again.

The soldiers, the same from when he was first taken from Mister Russia’s manor, had laughed at his panic.

“Look at the traitor – scared of what might happen.”

Still, he does what he’s told, dressing in the clothing given to him, his glasses first. They look familiar, like something he owns back at Mister Russia’s home, but he can’t see how they could’ve gotten them. To go there and ask for some, or even to go there and grab any clothing, would be tantamount to admitting that he was taken somewhere where his other clothing was either damaged or gone – it’d be admitting something.

Which, he knows for certain, they did not – would not – want to do.

He had yelled it over and over again at the first facility. They had no right to do what they were doing – there were laws* that they had to listen to when it came to people like him, they would be in trouble. Of course, as time puttered by, he had come to the realization that no, they wouldn’t. For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to bring everything to the other nations.

Something that he did not – would not – want to do.

Looking at himself in the cracked dirty mirror, he presses his hand against the starchy feel of the button up shirt sleeves; to the softness of the sweater vest, the stiffness of the pants. He’s even got a belt – for a flash of a second he wants to wrap it around his throat and one of the pipes that line the ceiling – and it’s surprisingly easy how he falls right back into comfort as he coils it around his waist and buckles it.

He looks normal.

It feels weird.

The boy soldier comes back, smiling as he does so. “Ah, Mister Russia said you would like those – your brown haired brother wanted to give you a different outfit but what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets.” His Russian is not as rough as the others are. In fact, he can, for the briefest moment in all of history, pretend not to hate the language, but for him to pretend that it still doesn’t grate at his skin like a serrated blade being drawn down his skin on it’s side, would be a lie that even he can’t speak.

“Mister Russia?” His – Eduard’s – Russian is perfect as always: he’s always been gifted orally.

You’ve got such a talented mouth – makes sense for a traitorous little bitch.

Linguistically talented.

For the most part, it’s been a blessing as no matter how much he argues that he will refuse to learn a new language, the nations who have held his land have followed the same script when it comes to forcing him: refusing to speak to him in any language not their own, refusing him books that aren’t in their language, refusing him time spent on his own land or among his own people, ignoring him should he speak any language that is not the one they were trying to force upon him. He knows that, for most of them, it was never done maliciously, but he still resents them for it*.

He’s always hated that his language was considered lesser by some; hated that he was expected to learn while they were not.

But that’s bygones – thoughts he uses to distract himself from the terror that he’s been living in. Sometimes late at night he would pretend to argue with nations from his past about it, going over words out loud in the slurred state that he was often left in until he felt like he had properly argued his point.

“Yes, Mister Russia is demanding you home,” the boy solider says, who motions to the door behind him, “We have been sent to do so.”

It takes the air out of his lungs for a moment to hear that. He knows that going home does not mean going back to his country but instead back to Russia’s manor home, and yet he feels the slightest bit of happiness. He hates the idea of going back there – the representation of Russia was not a sane man; history had taken it’s toll on him and he took it out on others* – but it was better than waiting every night to see what torture befell him.

Tell me, are all nations weak like you?

“Why?” It falls out of his mouth before he has the ability to tamp down on it; kill it before it kills him. Especially when he knows the answer – what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets – that will come.

There’s a shrug before, “I don’t know. We were told to get you, bring you to Moscow where you will wait for Mister Russia to pick you up. That’s it,” is said. And like good soldiers who do not question what their orders are, here they are.

“I’m ready then.”

____

If he expects that they’re going to walk him out like he was brought it – dragged by his underarms, blindfolded, clothes a mess, thrown to the ground like a piece of trash they wanted nothing more than to get rid of – then he’s mistaken. Instead, the boy soldier calls for his fellow soldiers, men who look older and as if this job is beneath them. One stands in front of him, one stands in back, and then one on each side.

It’s like he’s being protected but he knows the truth: it’s so that he has no thought of running, no way to try if he even wanted to.

Eduard flinches as the doors to the building swing open, the bright light of the sky burning his eyes a bit. There are two small cars sitting in front of the stairs, the head doctor whispering to another soldier near the passengers’ side of one of them.

He wants nothing to do with whatever conversation is happening, the head doctor is as cruel as the soldiers from before, but as a thick manila folder is passed between the two men, he wishes he could hear what is being said – perhaps it is about him and his mental state.

Perhaps it’s about the drugs given to him that have started to wear off and what they did.

Perhaps it is about the harm that has befallen him while in their care – a soldier who took too much liberties whenever he had the chance, the male nurses who slammed him up against walls and forced his mouth open to push pills past his lips, a female nurse who pinched him whenever he would doze off during the day as she didn’t want him to ruin his sleeping pattern.

Perhaps it is about the other things that even in his thoughts Eduard will not mention.

Whatever it is, the soldier has it packed away in a locked briefcase before Eduard has even approached them, the quartet of solemn faced men marching him slowly.

“Ready?” The man asks and, by the way the others nod their head, it’s obvious that he is the one in charge of it all. “Good, get in the car.”

The door is opened for him, the boy soldier slides in first and Eduard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he follows. His body wants to shake, the last time he was in a car like this was -

I bet you like being surrounded like this – all helpless and needy.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to scream – wants to laugh – wants to take the knife from the belt nearby and stab until he feels better – but instead he nods and lies like he’s been taught to do since his country was taken from him and his people, “Yes, thank you.”

He’s polite even when he doesn’t want to be.

“Good, soon you will be home.”

It’s not his home, sits snugly on his lips. He had said that once to the Russian nation and received a backhanded slap for it, along with a long, long lecture about not being respectful enough. Eduard had felt he was being respectful, especially given that that time around, he hadn’t added any poison to the taller nation’s drinks.

Instead he says nothing, holding back the flinch that threatens his body once one of the other soldiers slides in to sit next to him. He can’t reach any of the doors, he can’t escape, he can just stare off in the distance and disappear from this world as he learned to do while locked up in solitary.

The driver in front – the soldier that was talking to the doctor – starts the car in silence, a quick bark of orders done too quick for Eduard to focus on translating to the other soldiers, before they’re off; the psychiatric facility nothing more then a minor stage piece in his personal history.

He should feel something, he thinks as they leave what had housed him behind and he’s able to see where he was being held. He should feel anything but all he can think is about how nice the little wooded areas look as they bypass them; how even if he hadn’t been blindfolded on the drive up, he still wouldn’t have been able to see anything with how late he had arrived.

So, in that case, for what other reason then but to make him feel helpless, did the original soldiers have him blindfolded and tied up, knelt on the floor between their clothed legs like a common whore?

But even with that thought, he can’t force himself to feel anything else but a solemn ache in his bones.

He’s just tired.

He wants home – his real home – and to hear his language as he goes about his everyday. He wants to hide away somewhere no one would ever look and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore. He wants to set himself upon the international stage and scream about what they have just let happen, and at the same time, he wants nothing more than to sew his mouth shut and never speak a word to anyone about the crimes committed against his person; against the other patients in the places he was sent to, against his fellow nations left behind in that manor.

He can’t do that though. To sew his mouth shut would be to prove to the psychiatrist who said he had gone crazy right, and they weren’t correct. He was fine – he would be fine, he would be fine and he was going to be fine. He had to be fine.

The definition of fine is different for them all though and Eduard – Estonia – is unsure what it means for him.

He knows how he’s been expected to act by those who’s owned his land, as every single other nation had different expectations of him, and he’s knew what it meant when he had his own bosses recently, and he just barely remembers what it meant the years before his country got taken, but none of those times has moments that come even close to now.

To the fear and loathing he feels.

To the memories that come and go as they please, as if they had etched themselves sharply against his skin and nary a touch would inflame them, jolting him back to the when.

To the sickness that settles in his gut at the idea of not rebelling while at the same time screaming at the idea of rebelling.

He feels hands on him at all times, hears the senseless roar of static in his ears when he loses focus. If he stops to listen for a second, he can hear the footsteps that echo as they walk down hallways, back and forth, back and forth. He feels desperate for something to distract him while at the same time fearful of being distracted by what may come.

If what they had wanted had been to permanently unsettle him, then they have succeeded, because for the life of him – and what a long life that is – he cannot seem to believe that there will come a day when he is not haunted by this; not hopelessly followed from home to home, room to room, city to city, space to space, by the violence that has damaged him so completely.

Damage that, for many reasons, he will have to carry by himself, because who could he even tell?

(He’s not telling, he promises, he would never!)

Who would even believe him?

(No one, he’s heard it all throughout this ordeal. No one would believe him – no one would listen to him – no one would care.)

The thought of telling Mister Russia barely flits in his brain before he’s batting it away. The other nation would not care, in fact, Eduard – Estonia – is sure he can actually hear what the other nation would say if he spoke of the abuse he has suffered at the hands of the other’s men. “You deserved it. You should not have been trying to betray the family. Now you have learned your lesson, are you going to be good now?”

You’ve brought this on yourself.

(pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop)

He internally shudders at that thought.

No.

Out of the question.

(Not that there even was a question – because he’s not going to tell, he swears, he would never.)

Eduard – Estonia – would never tell Latvia, it would traumatize the younger-looking nation and after spending most of his whole (imprisoned, captured) life with the other, the last thing he wants to do is put more of a heavy burden on the poor boy. Latvia has enough trouble, Eduard cannot add more.

No one cares where you are.

No one cares that you aren’t at Mister Russia’s house – it’s like nothing has even changed. It’s because you are not important. You are nothing but a traitor – no one misses a traitor.

And that goes for Lithuania too.

His relationship with the other is still slightly rocky after their fight from a few years ago, when Lithuania had first found out that Eduard – Estonia – was hoarding illegal books and pamphlets. He had been worried about what might happen to him should he be found out; what Mister Russia would do, what the Soviet government might do. Eduard had just told the other that he’d be fine, the worse that could happen was he got on Mister Russia’s bad side for a bit and had to spend time apologizing a lot; things that he basically did whenever he was caught speaking his own language.

“The government can’t touch us and it’s not like they’re going to be nicer to our people if we don’t join in on these protests,” Eduard had said while Lithuania had shaken his head, worried nonetheless.

He has no doubt that the Lithuanian would be horrified by what has happened to him, if he were to speak about it, but he also knows that Lithuania has his own troubles in the form of his abhorrent admirer that is their captor.

(And in that same vein, perhaps the other would, silently, blame Estonia for what befell him. The other had warned him, had expressed worry after worry after worry, and in his utter arrogance, Eduard – Estonia – had just waved him off. Perhaps if the other learned, he’d say You deserved it, I told you so, it’s your own fault, what did you expect them to do? And Eduard would have to live with those words coming from the mouth of his own friend (brother) for the rest of time.)

Even if he didn’t, what kind of person would he be if he forced his own problems onto someone already so troubled?

Not a good person, he hears in his head, the voice of his main tormentor echoing words he had spoken during late night torture sessions and early morning sessions. You’re not a good person at all. A weak nation, a bad friend, a terrible person. You get what you deserved.

Bile rises. His stomach clenches.

Deep breath in.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shaky breath out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

The soldiers in the car don’t notice – or don’t care – which is nice after the incessant watch he had been placed on while in the facilities. He supposes it makes sense to watch him so severely. They had him marked upon arrival, as someone who could, without a moment’s notice, seek to harm himself, even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Before they had placed him in the protective care of the doctors and nurses of the Soviet Psychiatric field, he had never once thought about harming himself.

Now it’s a fight to ignore those thoughts.

There was no one, he returns to his previous thoughts, no one in that house he feels comfortable telling. Whatever lie that has been used to excuse away his absence is the lie he will give when asked, as soon as he finds out what it is.

“Look.” The boy solider grabs his arm to get his attention, one gloved hands pointing out the window.

Estonia-

–Eduard, a name passed to him by a brother that betrayed him and held onto after said brother had disappeared out of sentimentality; a name that had been spoken by destruction in the forms of humans trying to get him to break, hoping that he would crack as their own nation had done; a name that he doesn’t really connect to but refuses to leave behind because has he not left behind enough nations to the tide of time—he mourns for the representations of nations that had once existed but who’s existence was not long enough for them to be properly recorded in time—that he wishes to hold onto something from a nation that had once been kind to him?*-

–looks up briefly and sees a city rising from the dusty horizon.

How long has he been in his own thoughts?

Long enough that the drive has passed him by and the city of Moscow looms into view. Long enough that the fear that had been abated by his senseless thoughts comes back in it’s fullest to sit like lead in his stomach, bile displaced and rising to his throat.

He forces a smile. “Moscow?” He asks even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, we are almost there,” says the driver, his accent rougher then the boy soldier – and how long will he stay a boy soldier, he wonders. Maybe he becomes a soldier, no longer a boy, after he has used force to detain a person, following the lies gifted to him by whoever is in charge. The first time he drags a person through the streets, leaving them bloodied? Will he stop being one after his first, but not last, murder? Perhaps he will commit a rape beforehand, signaling to his fellow soldiers that he is a man who can force himself onto anyone he wishes as long as he wears the colors of his army.

Estonia doesn’t have any fairy tale ideas of what war looks like; he sat in the woods with his men trying to fight off an army of stronger opponents, watching them die and suffer, trying his hardest to help where he could, but that doesn’t mean he condones the acts that he knows are committed. Once, war had been ugly, nasty, dirty and drawn out but eventually over – now it’s the aftermaths that people struggle to move on from.

Still, he banishes the thought and instead decides to focus on getting his thoughts together. He can’t keep disappearing into his own thoughts – if he is going back to Russia’s house then he’ll not have the same amount of time to do so anymore, and if he wasn’t truly going back there, then it would probably look better if he was able to pretend he’s still at his best.

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath in, and like all his people had said back when he was a child nation and the looming threat of the crusades sat like an ugly shadow on his doorstep, locked everything that was not helpful away until he could unpack it at a later day.

____

When they arrive at a building, they speak quickly and roughly to each other, their words sliding from their lips faster than his slightly addled brain can keep up.

When they arrive at the building, the driver – commander? - says that they will be waiting in front of Mister Russia’s office there. He says that he expects Estonia to be on his best behavior because they have no clue how long it will take for the other nation to show up.

When they arrive at the building that decides his fate, Estonia is done packing away all the mental anguish, the trauma, the horror, the terror, and he notices that they are treating him as if he is a child who might wander off if not properly retained.

It’s demeaning.

“I’ve sat through more boring things than you can think of, I’ll be fine,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, as they exit the vehicle. The words are much nicer than any of the biting (tearing, searing) words he wants to say. “If I do get too bored, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some way to entertain myself.”

The commander does not find him charming.

They make sure to walk in the same group formation as before; only this time, they follow like little rats the driver with his slow gait and commanding eyes. The walk to the building is slow, tension in his body rising sightly as he waits for something to change – for them to grow angry like the first set of soldiers that brought him somewhere or for them to rush him into a room and begin beating him – but nothing does and they enter the building.

There’s barely anybody, he notices as they walk through corridors and up a flight of stairs, nobody but them. It’s unnerving to think of being in a building with just these men, but it gets more unnerving as they come to a stop in the middle of a corridor two flights up, where a small retinue of others are standing in the way. It’s a small group, four men versus their six, but the way those men stand is just wrong. It’s as if there is nothing weighing down their shoulders: they stand proud and smug.

The head soldier – the driver, the commander, the rough and angry and too tired to still be here man – sighs to himself, mutters “What the fuck are they doing here,” under his breath, and squares his shoulders as one of the men in the other group comes to stand in front of them.

“We are here to take the representative of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic* to speak with our boss,” This man says, as he approaches. His voice is honeyed, hoarse, and full of warning as he comes to a stop in front of the commander, his arms held behind him. He gives a little nod to the other soldiers before his gray eyes zero in on Estonia. “We will be holding onto him until he is picked up by the USSR.”

His hands form fist, the threat under those words are there, he knows it, and he can see the commander frown. Hopefully the commander won’t let him be taken by these people, but Eduard doubts there is much he could do if they do decide to leave him with them. Logically, a dark part of his brain goes, it’d be easier for them – not having to deal with two nutcase nations.

“No.”

Estonia blinks. His brain is quiet for once as he takes in the sight of the soldiers steeling themselves for a fight while the other group looks at each other in confusion. He understands their thoughts, they are the type of men that one does not say no to, no matter who you are, but the commander does not seem to care about their place in the pecking order and stands plainly in place. But it cannot be that simple, Eduard thinks as the room falls into silence. You can’t just say no.

“What?” The man asks, frowning himself. “We have orders -”

The commander gives a bark of laughter, harsh like the wind against the skin in the middle of winter in poorly dressed clothing and all of the thoughts of how this man seemed weary fades as his true form comes out. His shoulders shrug as he grins slightly, “We were given orders by Mister Russia himself, to keep our eyes on this representation until he, himself, arrived to pick up the ESSR.”

He wishes they would stop referring to him as ESSR - it’s not his name, it’ll never be his name, he wants nothing to do with the farce of a name – but still, he holds himself stationary as those around him decide his fate, as he has been taught to do.

“Our boss-”

“I do not care about your boss,” the commander says, eliciting murmurs from the other men. Their boss must be very important that the words the commander says are met with such disbelief “I only care what my nation has asked of me – he has asked me to stay nearby the ESSR, to deliver the ESSR directly to him upon his arrival, and to then accompany them both back to the manor in which they reside.”

The other man frowns. It feels antagonistic, the way he does so – as if he’s weighing his options on just shooting the commander in order to get rid of him.

Estonia, for a second, feels his heart stop. He doesn’t care for anybody in the hallway, but the idea that he might become at mercy to these sharp angry men, with no one to stop them from whatever they want with him: he feels sick.

Again.

A door opens, bringing the rising tension to a standstill as a secretary exits the room right behind the men, her shoes clacking on the tiled floor. She takes one look at the soldiers and the unnamed men and frowns. Blue-gray eyes narrow as they meet his own, either she’s surprised that there are more people than she expected or she thinks he looks bad. Nevertheless, she shakes her head before she speaks, “He’s ready to see you,” right to him, ignoring the others around.

He’s been spoken at for the past however long he’s been held, but barely spoken to – a few times he’d have a human prisoner to interact with, but those times, were far and few in-between – so for a moment, he can just stare at her before the boy soldier pushes on his shoulder, alerting him back. He gives a nod to her and looks to the commander. “Hopefully I’ll only be a few minutes so you don’t get in trouble with Mister Russia,” he says with a slight smile he doesn’t feel.

The commander gives a short nod before directing his men to stand with their backs against the opposite wall, and Estonia follows the secretary into the room.

His stomach drops upon entry. He’s been here before and he knows it – the memories from that first night echoes in his brain as his feet force him to continue forwards, to the chair sat right in front of him. Estonia doesn’t know the name of the human in front of him, doesn’t know what position in Russia’s government he holds, but he knows that this is the man from that night all that time ago. This is the man that condemned him to two different mental facilities and a long period of torture*.

He lowers himself into the chair, eyes immediately drifting to the ground as he remembered the last time – how he had looked this man straight in the face and been violently assaulted for it. He wants to look up, to let him know that the nation of Estonia has not broken, but even the thought of it brings a shiver to his spine. Still, he takes several steadying breathes before he does let his eyes drift upwards, hiding his fear the best he can as he waits for anything.

“It has been a year and six months since you darkened my office door, do you understand what that means?” He asks, his nasally voice echoing through the room. Estonia doesn’t even get a chance to answer before the man continues, “It means that there will be questions about where you’ve been – do you know what you say?”

Of course he doesn’t, but he knows that whatever the answer is will be the furthest from the truth that they can get.

“You have been helping us with secretarial work; updating paperwork, helping with computers, things of that nature,” The man continues on, hands clasped on his desk, smarmy smile planted on his face. For a second, the man pauses before leaning close and speaking, “We have been very good to you while you’ve been with us; no harm has come to you.”

His breath leaves his body as his eyes widen slightly, staring at this man in disbelief. That lie would work if everyone he interacts with for the next hundred years are idiots, of which his neighbors are not. Some of them are self-centered, but none of them are so self-centered as to be able to believe no harm has come to him when he looks as he does. “No one will believe that.” It comes out without meaning to, just as his slip up did (kill it before it kills you) and the official’s face falls, ever so slightly.

“You have no proof,” He snarls, slamming his hands on the desk and standing, his chair hitting something hard behind him. Estonia flinches as he reels back, eyes closing as he waits for a physical attack. It takes the official a second to calm down before he’s forcing his fake smile back on his face and sitting back down. He clears his throat before he continues, “You must realize that you do not have any proof whatsoever of where you have been, whereas we, if questioned, can produce much evidence of you being in the locations we have given.”

Falsified evidence is not evidence.

“Of course, I worry for your mental state if you truly believe whatever it is you are imagining you have been through. Surely you do not need a stay in a psychiatric facility to help you remember the past year?” Eduard’s heart constricts in it’s cage made of his ribs. It’s not even a hidden threat. The man leans in conspiratorially, his smile dropping. “Because, between just us, I have not heard the best things about those facilities. My colleagues have spoken how they are trying to fix the rampant abuse that seems to breed in those locations but I am sure we can find you somewhere safe if you were to stay in one, yes?”

It’s a verbal slap in the face; an openly cruel one.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts. Or well, the one thought that he keeps repeating in his head. “I won’t say anything,” he says after a moment. The man seems to wait for a second and Estonia knows what he wants, but all he can manage to say is, “Not that there is anything to say.”

This seems to ease the room a bit but still the official sits still.

“Because, I’ve been-” He can’t lie like this. He can’t say the lie given to him. It sits on his tongue, heavy as the feel of sopping wet clothes, weighing you down in the water. “I’ve been well.” He manages after a second.

The man smiles, nodding slightly as he grabs some papers off his desk. “Good, remember that if someone asks.” The pages are shuffled in his hands before one makes it way to the empty desk space in front of Estonia. “Now, can you tell me about this?”

Estonia stares at it for a second, his emotions haywire. It’s nothing more than a typed page of words, but it’s the words – inflammatory, anti-soviet words – that scream at him. They’re the reason he was sent away, they’re the reason he suffered.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” It’s his voice, he knows it is, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I’m sorry.”

This is a lie, much bigger than the one this man wants him to tell to others, but it’s a lie he’ll die with. The man who wrote that has two kids and a wife and takes care of his mother as his father was killed during the war and Estonia will never speak his name.

The man hums and places down another page of words – this time written by a man who left his teaching position in a university when the communists came to power and who survives life on bad humor and copious amounts of liquors – and asks, “How about this one?”

“No.”

The man’s face sours as he nods his head, placing down another one, and another one, and another one. “And these?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Is his palms sweating and his heart rapidly beating in his chest? Yes. But that doesn’t change that fact that he will not sell out his fellow dissidents.

Narrowed eyes meet his and for a second, he wants to speak out of fear, but instead, Estonia pulls in on himself, allowing a moment of weakness in hopes of that being the thing that forces this man away from him. It doesn’t though and he slams his hands on the desk again, moving to stand.

The door opens.

“Now what do we have here?”

Once upon a time, Ivan’s voice was the one that haunted his nightmares – the abuses that he suffered at the Russian nation’s hands plagued him still – but now other voices take that place and all he feels is a sense of bitter relief at the sight of the other nation. Better the devil you know, his brain supplies for him as he watches the government official straighten up and force a smile onto his face.

“Ivan!” The man greets, walking around his desk to stand right next to Estonia’s shoulder. A hand finds its way to rest on him, squeezing lightly. “You were supposed to check in with my secretary.”

Russia’s smile grows, eyes narrowing as he moves one step forward into the room. The man moves back a step, his hand falling from Estonia’s shoulder before Russia moves forwards again. “I didn’t want to,” he replies, head tilting and shoulders shrugging, “I will be taking this one now.”

The man stops smiling, swallowing a gulp of air before he says, “I’m afraid, sir, that we still have a bit more to discuss.”

“I don’t care.” Russia lays a hand on his shoulder and Estonia takes a moment to deep breath instead of flinching. Reactions make the other nation interested and Estonia has not survived his house with the least amount of trauma – which is not saying much – by showing his interesting reactions the other. “Stand up.”

Stand up or I’ll break your legs!

A hand yanking on his hair. Curses are shouted. Get on your knees bitch.

“Up, up, Estonia, we have places to go.” Russia’s childish voice cuts through the thoughts in his head, the ones trying to slink their way out of the box.

He pushes down on them, closing his eyes before he moves to stand up. Once standing, he straightens his shoulders ever so slightly and tries to force himself back into his normal around Russia. “Yes, Mister Russia, sir,” he says after a second.

There’s a dangerous look upon the other nation’s face and even though it is not directed towards him, Estonia can recognize this for what it is: a power play. It’s not the first time the Russian has fought with his government in this passive aggressive way, but it is the first time that another nation has fallen into harm because of it. Well, that and his own arrogant stupidity.

“We are leaving now,” Russia is saying, his voice sickly sweet. “I’m sure I will see you in a few weeks, Yuri.”

The man – Yuri, a name that rings some kind of bell in Estonia’s head – nods and moves to sit right back down. “Of course,” is said in fake cheer, “I look forward to our conversations.”

Russia turns without saying anything else, Estonia takes one last look at the man – he has a name now, his brain tries, but forever he will only remember him as ‘the man’ – and the stern look that has fallen across his face speaks more words than their previous conversations did.

He will be watching, waiting for Estonia to take one step out of line to drag him back here. Estonia didn’t break how he wanted him to and this man will try for a second time at some point in the future.

It chills him to the bones.

____

The drive back to the manor is shorter than he remembers. It seems that as soon as they get in the car, they are halfway there.

Logically, Estonia knows that’s not true, but he barely remembers any of the drive until Russia is telling him how much Lithuania and Latvia has missed him. A warmth blooms in his chest as Russia says, “Poor little Latvia has worried nonstop even after I told him of your employment as a secretary – you left so suddenly,” that he can even ignore the dig at the lie he’s replied with multiple times already.

It seems the Russian knows that he’s lying but is waiting for him to say it instead of confronting him on it.

Estonia is thankful for that. He knows that eventually it will come to a head, but he has much more practice at hiding his troubles than Russia has with patience, and so he believes that he will be safe for a while longer. Which is good, because with the fear he holds tight in his body, being confronted about everything is not a thing that he really wants to deal with at the moment.

“You will have the rest of today to settle yourself,” Russia was saying, his voice far more relax than Estonia figured he’d be knowing he was being lied to. “I expect you to help around the house though tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He’d need something to keep his mind off his thoughts. “Thank you, Mister Russia.”

A hum, but otherwise, the conversation is dead.

Which is fine for the Estonian. There are no more words that need to be said between them – theirs is not a relationships marked by the tentativeness of scraping past injuries yet a willing eye towards their future, instead it is a sinking ship upon which the captain has chained his men to the mast to await their watery grave. There is no comforting words to be given between the two of them; no apologies for governments overstepping, or trying to incite mass protests, or the past deeds they have done against each other. No sense in looking for forgiveness or anything more than surface level interactions.

The car pulls into the driveway by time Estonia thinks to open his mouth to ask about the others – is Miss Ukraine doing well? What about Miss Belarus? Has Prussia driven Lithuania to murder yet? - and all his questions disappear as he spots Lithuania and Latvia standing next to the open door.

There are bags beneath their eyes but the relief in them outshine anything else.

Estonia waits until Russia opens the door for him, letting the other nation walk ahead like he knows to do. It takes everything he has – and the slimy feeling in his gut – to resist the urge to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He’s not one for hugging usually, but he wants the comfort that comes from such a hug.

“Welcome back, Mister Russia,” they greet, a smile on their faces. For once they don’t look as forced. “Welcome back, Estonia.”

“Lithuania, Latvia.” He nods his head in greeting. His eyes meet Lithuania, the all knowing older brother figure, and he knows that Lithuania knows that he is not alright and if Lithuania knows than it’s only a matter of time before Latvia knows.

Russia is speaking though, giving them directions, and Estonia barely listens to a single word he’s saying. Instead he’s cataloging the other two in his mind. It’s been so long and the only mention of the two while he was gone was vague threats towards them and his tormentors telling him how little they missed him.

Lithuania looks as if death has visited him every night; the fatigue in his body is so noticeable that Estonia is worried immediately. The other never lets anyone see him this tired – not unless he can’t help it. The way his body seems to sag even as it’s standing straight makes him wonder what sort of harm has befallen Lithuania while he was gone.

Latvia is, at least, only trembling, but there is something beneath the surface of his eyes that that worries the Estonian. It’s anger, directed straight at Russia. Whatever has gone on while he was gone has brought an emotion to the Latvian that Estonia did not know the other could feel. Of course, he knew that Latvia could feel anger – everyone could, but he truly believed that Latvia’s other emotions were too weigh over by fear and trauma.

“Anyway, go, go,” Russia says, cutting into his thoughts as he pushes on Estonia’s back. The Estonian holds back a hiss as the other nation continues, “Remember, I expect you all to be ready to do your duties early in the morning.”

“Of course,” they all manage to say at the same time as the Russian leaves to go elsewhere in the manor.

The first words out of Lithuania’s mouth as soon as they are alone, Latvia attaching himself to Estonia’s midsection, are, “What did they do to you?” and for a second, Estonia pauses in his movement to welcome the hug, unsure of what to say.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, either the truth (he promises he won’t tell, he’ll never tell) or the lie, when Lithuania shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, we’ll deal with that later, let’s just get you safe.”

Not comfortable, safe.

Estonia nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel that again, but he knows that as long as they are living in Russia’s home, he definitely won’t. There is no safety in a place you cannot speak about – no safety in a place you were forced to come to. There is no safety in a place where you will be watched until you mess up – and Estonia knows himself, he will mess up at some point. He will begin piecing himself back together tomorrow and sometime in the future he will misstep and he will be dragged right back in front of that man to answer for it.

The only way to not be is to let this silence him; let this be the only warning he needs to keep himself in line.

But he can’t, he thinks as he’s lead through the house and towards their shared bedroom. In silence, there is some quiet acceptance that this is what it is now and Estonia, bruises fading, body aching, soul shattered, cannot accept this.

He refuses.

____

Additional Notes: Anyway, sorry for the dark fic yet again, seriously hoping the next thing I have for you guys is a lot more happy. I've got like 80% of a happy fic finished but like the last bit is kicking my ass.

Historical notes && information:

*Takes place literally right after Isolation *Being naked in literally so many other places are not as sexualized as it is in America, and like group showers/saunas/nude beaches are all fine because it's like the great equalizers - which like I get but at the same time I don't really want to see anyone nude ever so *shrug* *There's far too many medications for me to list but like just pick a benzo that was in production during that time and you'll have what I was thinking of. *Ten thousand percent little baby Estonia fought against the Nordics during their viking era (bby!Est as a little sea faring child who just wants the vikings to piss off is a thing thank you for coming to my ted talk) and everything and one day I'll write a fic for that, but like look through their history, Estonians really fought a lot - their resilience in the face of occupation is truly admirable. *This kid's the product of an Estonian mother and a Ukrainian father and honestly only exists for this one series fic. *I have talked about this before and I'll talk about it again, there's got to be some kind of agreement between governments, otherwise any goodwill is immediately shattered. I mean, I'm not politician (I have morals) but I am a person and if I found out that the gov of another nation tortured my nation, I'd have no desire to see any sort of friendship grow. *What is is with occupying governments deciding the native languages are icky and like banning their usage?? Especially since the Estonian language is so pretty??? It's literally like lilting and pretty and !!!! But anyway, historically, Estonian was not considered pretty by all those occupying nations and was either outright banned or just not considered important over said occupying nation's own language. As stated, I don't think the nations who owned Est was doing it maliciously - unlike their govs - but more so in a practical, lets not rock the boat, sorta thing. *There is enough evidence in the manga/webcomics, anime, and other supplemental material that states that Russia was volatile towards the Baltics while they lived with him, ergo Trauma. *This entire paragraph is a headcanon. First bit, 'a brother that betrayed him,' according to an Estonian history book I have, prior to Livonia joining the whole religious thing, ancient Estonians saw them as a (kinda) brother nation, afterwards not so much. (Really sold out a family relationship for a place to live (for legal purposes, this is a joke)). Secondly, "left behind enough nations to the tide of time", there were quite a bit of nations in that area that have come and go: Courland, Semgallia, Ingeria, etc, and I know they most likely don't show up because Hima-papa hasn't done research on them/gone that deep, but I like to think that they probably just faded after a while. Lastly, I don't think some nations got to choose their own name. Like I'm not going to get into it here, but the name Alfred was only really popular in America from the late 19th century to the 1930s, so why would America have that name if it wasn't given to him by the reigning country - Britain? Anyway, I, especially, believe in the way of Est & Lat that they were named by Prussia & Livonia and since human names aren't that important, they just went a long with it. I got more thoughts, but this is already long enough. *Name given to Estonia during the Soviet period. We don't like -∞/100. *This man is/based after Yuri Andropov, the real life chairman of the KGB during the time this fic is taking place. He was really really a bitch who "sought the destruction of dissent" and was lead the way in committing people to psychiatric hospitals for dissidence. I don't know if I have to put allegedly here to avoid any troubles but like it was written about and everyone knows so fuck this guy.

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