#burying alive tw

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 25: you're not delivering a perfect body to the grave

Buried Alive + Storm (metaphorically)

3387 Words; River Runs Deep

TW for discussions of memory alteration, death mention, burying someone alive

AO3 ver

“What did you say in that letter?” Raz asks.

“Nothing important, really.” The reflection of Mail Ford responds.

“Just that I loved her.” Agent Cruller continues. “She just wanted to help, but they pushed her too far.”

“How should we have known?” Mail Ford asks. “It’s not like she was marked ‘Fragile!’” The typewriter passes from his hands to Agent Cruller’s.

“But I thought I knew her, and everything she held inside herself.” Agent Cruller laments. “Ahh, I had so much to learn.”

“Ah,” Mail Ford says, “I guess some packages are better left… unopened.”

And with that remark, Raz is left standing once again in the messy treehouse. He looks at the final piece of the mirror in his hands.

“Ford and Nona…” Raz has learned so much, just from poking around in Ford’s brain. His Nona’s memories of her past have been shrouded in mystery. The Aquatos feared the Psychonauts as much as they feared the Deluginists because of this fact—surely, if the Psychonauts ever learned that Nona used to be Maligula, they would prosecute her.

But Raz has learned so much. His Nona used to be a part of the Psychic Seven! She’s one of them! She and Ford were lovers! And oh, some part of Raz’ mind is almost giddy at the realization, that Ford Cruller could have become his great-uncle—but he pushes that part of himself to the side. Now isn’t the time to be fanboying. Raz has a mission to complete!

Still, the fact that Nona and the Psychonauts are more closely linked than Raz ever thought…

Maybe hiding from them is pointless. Maybe they won’t prosecute her. Maybe they can help.

Raz sighs, and puts the last piece of the mirror back in place. He has a mission to focus on. He pulls out the typewriter, and sets it on the shelf.

The silence stretches on, for a moment.

“Razputin.” Ford’s voice cuts across the space.

Raz turns to the mirror clasped in the body’s hand. “Agent Cruller!” He grins. “How do you feel?”

The reflection frowns. “I’ve done a terrible thing.” He shakes his head. “And so have you.”

“What?” Raz’ voice comes out smaller than he wants it to. “I just wanted to help!” And to see if Ford knows anything about whoever took his Father’s and Nona’s memories—though Raz doesn’t voice that bit aloud. “I don’t know who shattered your mind,” Raz steps forwards, “But now we can find out!”

“I already know who did this to me.” Ford admits. “That’s the first thing I’ve learned in here.” The mindscape begins to tilt, slightly, the sky above Raz starting to twist. “The rest you’re gonna have to see for yourself…”

And suddenly Raz is standing in a dark forest, Ford standing next to him. In Ford’s hands is a shovel, and on his face is a grim expression. He’s no longer dressed in a Psychonauts uniform, instead wearing a shirt and jacket.

“Ford,” Raz turns to him, “What is it?” Who shattered your mind? What are you trying to show me?

Ford points with his shovel. “See for yourself.” He utters, as Raz follows the end of the shovel to a stone archway.

Raz swallows. When he looks to his side again, Ford is gone.

Guess I gotta keep going. Raz walks through the archway, and finds himself in what looks like a cemetery. All of the tombstones are blank.

Slowly, carefully, Raz continues forwards, cool mist curling around his ankles. He picks up figments as he goes, looking this way and that for the answers Ford indicated would be here. The ground starts to curve sharply downwards before him.

Raz turns around at the sound of something scraping. His eyes widen—a massive comb is slowly advancing behind him, already past the cemetery’s entrance.

“Uh oh.” Raz hops on his levball and runs, rolling along the ground and collecting figments along the way. The sky darkens as he progresses, the comb advancing behind him at a steady pace, until the only light is that of Raz’ levball, and two lanterns hanging up ahead.

The lanterns are standing to either side of a deep hole. Raz hops down into it. The comb passes harmlessly overhead.

“Agent Cruller,” Raz calls up, “I’m getting less sure I want to see this!”

And Ford is there, at the edge of the hole, pushing his shovel into the dirt. “Oh no,” he mutters, lifting up a shovelful of dirt, “I don’t think you’ll want to see this at all.” He dumps the dirt into the hole—into the grave, Raz realizes, his eyes widening. Within moments, the grave is full, and Raz is struggling to escape the dirt surrounding him. Air! He needs air!

The dirt doesn’t give, pressing in all around Raz as he struggles. He needs to get out of here! But it’s heavy, and dark, and Raz can’t breathe—

Raz’ hand bursts through the dirt, and he scrabbles for purchase on the ground. His head emerges from the dirt with a gasp, his lungs sucking in all the air they can get. Even though he’s only a mental projection and would merely be dementestrated if he failed to make it out, Raz’ chest heaves and he struggles to regain his breath.

Well, now he’s even more sure that he doesn’t want to see this.

But he has to. So he picks himself up all the way, hauling his legs out of the dirt. He pops free, but instead of landing back on the ground he floats upwards.

No, Raz realizes, looking up above him—or rather, looking below—he’s not floating, he’s falling.

“What?” Raz reaches back towards the dirt, yelping as he falls—

Very slowly.

Okay. Okay. It’s okay. He’s fine. Raz looks back down, at the shapes floating in the gloom below him. He’s not going to go splat. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Sharklike-shapes swim circles in the gloom. Raz angles for a figment, grabbing it as he falls towards a candle-lit ledge. He lands, and runs over to the door, pushing it open.

A bowling alley stretches out into the darkness before him. A single light illuminates the beginning of the lane—and illuminates Bowling Ford, who’s lying supine on the wood, a bowling ball resting in his hands on his stomach. Raz walks up to him.

“Hey Ford,” Raz starts, “What’s the deal with the deep six treatment?” Couldn’t he just drop a memory vault or something? Points for the presentation, but Raz is tired. He has been running around all day trying to fix this, and he would appreciate a break.

“I did what I had to do.” Ford states miserably. “I loved her, after all.”

All of Raz’ annoyance comes to a halt. “Wait, what?” Okay, now he’s wondering if he actually managed to put Ford back together, because that makes no sense. It’s like he isn’t even responding to Raz at all—what does loving Raz’ Nona have to do with burying Raz alive?

Ford lifts his head up. “Someday, when you fall in love, you’ll understand.” He closes his eyes, puts his head back down, and, without any further comment, slides along the lane. A light that wasn’t there before sits at the end of it, backlighting a set of pins that Ford knocks over in his exit.

Oookay then. Raz tries to follow, but he can’t get any further than the edge of the light. Fine. He turns around, walks out the door, and makes his way to the edge of the ledge. There’s two more like it, further down, lit with the warm glow of so many candles. Raz jumps.

He floats down just as slowly as before, but it isn’t long before he comes to a landing on the next ledge, having grabbed two more figments on the way. The window above the door is yellow, this time, instead of the pink of the ledge above. Raz grabs a third figment, and enters the door.

Raz is in the hair salon, now, a single light illuminating a patch of green and yellow tile. Barber Ford sits towards the back, atop a massive jar of Hydrocide™. Raz walks into the center of the light.

“Ford, what’s going on here? What did you want me to see?” Raz is so, so tired of having to jump through hoops. It’s all he’s been doing, today, all he’s been doing since Truman asked him to put Ford back together. Raz would really like some answers now!

“I couldn’t let her go free, she was a danger to the world!” And once again, Ford’s talking like Raz isn’t really there at all. Raz huffs in annoyance. Ford continues, “Even though it was the world that made her dangerous.”

Okay, that’s not helpful. Raz already knows all of this—for all that Nona’s memories of her life before the Deluge are gone, she can still remember bits and pieces of her time as Maligula, for all that she refuses to share those bits. Besides, Raz saw all of this when he was running around in the hair-filled mindscape of Barber Ford!

Still, Raz persists. “I know this! But who took your memories?”

“Safe. She’s safe.” Ford says, like Raz isn’t there at all. “Well, she was.” He frowns. “We all were. Huh.” Ford shrugs, “Not anymore.” He plugs his nose, and falls backwards into the Hydrocide™. Raz reaches out, but Ford’s already gone.

Just like before, Raz can’t go much further beyond the edges of the light—not that there really is anywhere to go. So Raz turns around and leaves the room, standing on the edge of the ledge outside the door.

One more ledge to go. Raz already has a good idea of what’ll be on it.

He floats down through the twisted ground making up the chasm, collecting figments as he goes. The window above the final door is blue. Raz pushes the door open, and walks out onto a wooden floor. A typewriter dominates the space, and Mail Ford sits atop it.

Raz pushes up his goggles. “Look, Ford, whatever I’m supposed to know—just spit it out!” He’s so tired. Is it so much to ask that even just one thing comes easy today? Must everything be a struggle?

“I had to hide her from the world, because they’d never forgive her.” Ford rambles. “And I had to hide her from me, because I’d never forget her.”

Raz’ heart starts to sink. Ford isn’t saying… no. No, he must be confused, or talking about something else. “Where?” Raz asks, “Where did you hide her?” He has a sneaking suspicion as to who she is. He hopes it isn’t true.

Ford shuts his eyes. “She’s with family.” He falls backwards over the bar, sinking down into the slot for paper.

Annoyance and dread fill Raz in equal measure. He was hoping for answers about his Nona, about the Memory Man who took her and Dad’s memories, made them think they were mother and son instead of aunt and nephew, left them with nothing but broken pieces when the illusion finally shattered—

Now, Raz isn’t sure what he’ll find, and instead of being excited by the prospect, he only feels a growing dread. He grabs the Half-a-Mind dancing to the side of the door, and makes his way back out. One of the shark-shaped coffins floats by, a tag dancing on its back. As tired as he is, Raz slows it down with time bubble to grab the tag, then leaps off to float down further.

He tumbles slowly, starting to fall faster and faster—

Raz hits the ground with a thud. He picks himself up, and finds next to a tombstone marked “Maligula.” More importantly, though, he’s in a coffin, and despite his protests it slams shut on him, trapping him inside.

The world around him blurs. Raz finds himself still in the velvet-lined coffin, but now it’s big enough for him to stand in, like some weirdly-shaped hall.

What is it with Ford’s mind and Raz getting buried alive? Is it Bury Raz day? Can Raz catch a break?

Probably not. Raz continues on, the velvet hall expanding around him as he goes until it’s almost the same size as a regular hallway. Clusters of candles sit in the corners of the room he finds himself in, cobwebs hanging from the walls and ceiling. Before Raz is a bed, with two skeletons lying on it.

“Ah!” Raz jolts back. “Who’s that?”

Ford’s voice comes in from all directions, even as Ford himself is nowhere to be found. “That’s your grandparents, Lazlo and Marona. They drowned in the Valermo Dam disaster, remember?”

“I already know this…” Raz mutters. Though it is kind of weird for Ford to know it, he thinks. No wonder the Memory Man shattered Ford’s mind—they must have been protecting their own identity. Which means that Ford definitely knows who they were!

(There is another possibility, sitting at the edge of Raz’s brain. He ignores it.)

“You—what?” Ford sounds genuinely caught off-guard.

“Er—” Raz backtracks. “I mean, Grandpa Lazlo died, but my grandma made it out and came to live with my father.” He tries. It doesn’t sound very convincing.

“No, Raz. She didn’t.” Raz can’t tell if Ford believes him or not. Then again, Ford apparently already knows that Raz’ Nona isn’t really his grandmother.

Something clicks behind Raz. When he turns around, the wall is gone, revealing a long hall. Raz sighs, hops on his levball, and continues forward.

Ford’s voiceover continues. “Razputin, after the fight with Lucy, she was defeated, but alive. I snuck her away from the others and brought her back to the Gulch.”

But… wasn’t Ford’s mind shattered in the fight with Maligula? How could he have brought her back to America? Could he still teleport that far with a shattered mind?

(Unless Ford’s mind wasn’t shattered at all, Raz realizes. He shoves that thought down.)

“I put her in the Astralathe—one of Otto’s inventions.” Ford continues.

Raz comes to a screeching halt at the end of the hall. The room before him has wooden flooring mixed with the velvet, a stained glass window, and a strange machine that Raz has never seen before. His heart sinks. No, no, no.

“Created to make permanent alterations to the psyche.” Ford continues, ignorant to the rising panic filling Raz’ throat. No. No no no. Can Raz go back to being buried alive? Please?

Raz spots the purse behind the machine—the Astralathe?—and darts towards it, needing the distraction. He pulls out the purse tag and attaches it. Ford’s voiceover pauses, waiting until Raz is done to continue. After a long moment, Raz continues on past the machine, towards a blue door at the very end of the room.

“But I knew the world would never forgive her,” Ford says, as all of Raz’ hopes fall apart. “So I had to hide her somewhere safe.”

Tentatively, Raz opens the door. “Oh no.” Oh no, indeed—Raz is standing in the doorway of his family’s caravan, looking out over an empty and darkened version of their campgrounds.

“I hid her among her family, Razputin.” Ford says, “Among your family.”

Raz can’t deny it any longer. “You’re—” he gasps, his throat starting to tighten. “You’re the Memory Man!” He exclaims, “You’re the one who took Nona and Dad’s memories!” Raz’ chest tightens, the weight of the world crashing in all around him. No, no—this can’t be right. No.

All at once, the scenery playing out in Ford’s mind stops. “You… knew?” He appears next to Raz in the mindscape, surprise coloring his face.

Raz can’t be in here for a minute longer. He scrambles for his smelling salts and whips them out, popping them open in front of his face. He needs to get out of here. He needs to get out—

“Razputin—” Ford reaches for him—

+=+=+=+=+

Raz snaps back into his body on the mailroom floor. He looks at Ford, once, his chest starting to heave. No—he can’t do this. He never should have done this.

Ford comes back to himself, whirling around to face him. “Razputin—” He tries, but Raz is already running. He needs to get out of here! He needs space!

Raz runs, using his levball to go faster. He runs, all the way through the atrium into the lobby, outside the Motherlobe entirely, across the floating platforms—

(The water feels his agitation, and trembles in shared rage-hurt. It reaches out to Raz as he passes over it, whispering offers to play and wash his cares away.)

Raz reaches the tunnel to the Questionable Area, and keeps going. He bursts out the other end, his chest and legs burning, and he does not stop—

He can see the fairy lights of his family’s camp strung up, bright against the darkened sky. Raz dashes, intent on getting to his parents so they can all leave this place, or something—

Ford crashes into Raz from the side, stopping him from reaching the campgrounds. They tumble across the ground, Raz’ panic hitting a peak—

“Let me go!” he shouts, squirming in Ford’s hold.

“Listen, Raz!” Ford begins, “I know you’re mad—”

“Of course I’m mad!” Raz shrieks. “You’re the reason my Dad can’t remember his mother’s face! You’re the one who put my whole family into this mess, who forced us to hide Nona without any help!” Tears are bubbling out of Raz’ eyes like steam from a kettle. He finds he doesn’t care. “My family’s had to keep Nona’s past hidden all on our own just because you felt the need to shatter your own mind and run from your problems!” He can’t believe this. All his life, he’s looked up to Ford—wanted to be a hero, just like him.

But Ford isn’t a hero at all.

“You’re right to be mad, Razputin.” Ford sighs. “I was young, and I made a terrible mistake.”

“You could have stuck around!” Raz yells. “Did it never occur to you that they might remember?”

“I had hoped they wouldn’t.” Ford admits.

Raz yells. “Well they did! Except they still don’t remember before the Deluge!” He glares at Ford with every inch of anger in his body, “Nona remembers Maligula, but she doesn’t remember you!” And maybe Ford deserved that, to be forgotten by the woman he loved. But Nona didn’t deserve to have all her memories wrenched away like that. The Aquatos didn’t deserve the fear of not knowing, of always looking over their shoulders for fear of what lurked in their shadows.

“Razputin—” Ford raises his hands in a placating gesture.

“DON’T ‘RAZPUTIN’ ME!” Raz is tired. Raz is so, so tired.

“What’s all this?” Augustus’ voice breaks through the tension, and all of the anger leaves Raz’ body at once. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired.

Ford freezes like a deer in headlights. He opens his mouth—

Raz points at him. “He did it!” He shouts. “He’s the one who messed with your memories!”

Augustus’ eyes snap onto Ford. “What.” He sounds so much smaller than Raz’ father should ever sound.

Distantly, Raz notices his mother and siblings wandering over, Queepie held in his mother’s arms, Mirtala holding Frazie’s hand and rubbing at her eyes. He shoves down the part of him that doesn’t want his family to see him crying—Raz doesn’t have it in him to care.

He’s so tired.

“Why?” Augustus asks, clutching at his chest. “You—why would you—”

“Because I loved her.” Ford laments, “And I thought it was the only way to keep her safe.”

“So you took her memories?” Raz doesn’t know how he has the energy to continue yelling. Anger’s just like that, he guesses.

His mother passes Queepie over to Dion, wrapping an arm around Augustus’ shoulders. She glares at Ford. “You.”

Somehow, Ford manages to look even more rigid. “Me.” He admits.

“You have some nerve!” All of his mother’s ire turns to Ford, and Raz can’t find it in himself to defend the man. “What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done to this family?”

Ford opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“Wait.” Frazie pipes up, bringing everything to a screeching halt. They all turn to look at her.

“Where’s Nona?”

#whumptober2023 #no.25 #buried alive #storm #psychonauts #zaz writes #memory alteration tw #death mention tw #burying alive tw #it's in a mental world but still. this poor kid #the river runs deep au #razputin aquato #ford cruller #augustus aquato #nona is mentioned at various points but she's the only aquato that doesn't show up #the other all show up at the end #BOY OH BOY FORD'S IN HOT WATER NOW HUH #also. i had to watch playthroughs to get the events and dialogue right. and OUGHHHHHHHH #AUGH AUGH AUWAUGH RAZ. RAZ C'MERE SOMEBODY GET THIS BOY A HUG

[penny00dreadful]

STWG Prompt: Waking Up

If Eddie was being honest with himself, he didn’t really expect to wake up. 

The bats had closed in and as he said his goodbyes to Dustin, he could physically feel the life leaving him, all the warmth of his blood slowly gushing out, and he was cold.

Though, being honest with himself again, if he had expected to wake up, he would have expected to be handcuffed to a hospital bed, or hidden away in a back shed at one of the kids houses or maybe waking up in Steve’s room, if he was lucky, like he had so many times before.

He definitely wouldn’t have expected to wake up here.

Dirt falling into his eyes and his mouth through the wooden slats above him, no sound at all apart from his own panic, the cold, the fucking damp cold seeping into his skin, the smell of earth around him, his elbows and knees knocking off the wood as he started to freak the fuck out.

They’d buried him, they’d fucking buried him!

Did no one check to see that he was still fucking alive?

How the fuck was he still alive?!

You know what? Sort your fucking priorities out, Eddie, he said to himself. You can continue to ask questions as soon as you GET THE FUCK OUT!

He kicked, he scrabbled, he dug his fingers in between the flimsy, obviously homemade slats of his makeshift coffin and pulled, having to turn his face away from the dirt falling into his eyes again, holding his breath so he didn’t inhale it, feeling it trickle into his ear but deciding that it was the least of his fucking problems.

The fear and frustration and blind motherfucking panic coursed through him and he drove his fist upwards, punching clean through the wood and earth and laughing aloud with joy when he felt air on his hand, down to the wrist.

They’d only buried him as deep as his arm, what a fucking mercy, holy shit.

Okay, okay, okay, chill. Chill.

He was able to punch up pretty easily so he reared back as much as he could in the cramped space and punched again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

He was able to get one arm out as far as his elbow and he swung it down, digging his fingers into the soft earth as hard as he could, using that as leverage to drag his head up. He spat out the dirt in his mouth, his body shaking with coughs as he wedged his shoulder up and pulled his other arm out.

With two hands free he was able to scrabble at the soft earth, slowly, so slowly pulling and dragging and wiggling until he was still buried up to the hips but he could fucking rest for a moment collapsing onto the ground, half in half out, Jesus H. Christ.

He only allowed himself a moment before he pushed against his arms again, lifting himself up and pushing, kicking until his legs were free and he could crawl a couple of feet away.

His whole body shook forward as he heaved, dry and aching with that gut deep pain because there was nothing to throw up.

Eddie allowed himself to tip to the side, rolling onto his back, closing his eyes and just existing for a moment, trying to grapple with the fact that he just dug himself out of his own fucking grave.

That’s so fucking metal.

It didn’t feel very metal right now but it probably would at some point in the future.

Maybe.

Now he just had to figure out if he was stuck inside of a psychological thriller or a supernatural horror.

He was kinda hoping for the second one if he was being honest with himself.

He should probably stop being honest with himself.

Look at what happened when he was. 

He woke up after taking a fucking dirt nap.

Fuck.

He opened his eyes, looking up at the sky and all he saw was red.

Well…

Fuck.

Again.

Still in this hellhole, then.

Okay.

Probably time to figure shit out, or whatever.

Eddie groaned as he sat up, giving a cursory glance around, hoping that maybe it was just a really red sky type of day in the Rightside Up but no such luck.

He was met by the sight of black vines and a general sense of decay, so yep. Still in hell, great.

There was a thick plank of wood sticking straight up out of the earth and as he shuffled closer to inspect it, he realised it was a headstone. They’d fashioned him a makeshift headstone.

It was simple, he wouldn’t have expected any more given the lack of materials here in the alternate dimension.

Just his name, Eddie, engraved into the wood, no dates, no epitaph, just Eddie.

He didn’t hate it. 

He’d have loved some paragraph about his fuckin sick guitar skills or whatever but he could like simple too.

He rarely did, but he could.

Plus, they took the time in a weird fucky dimension to give him a headstone, how could he hate that?

As he looked closer, he noticed a small little heart near the base, S+E snuggled inside, shallow and hastily carved.

Shit.

He needed to get topside, now.

What a stark reminder that the entire Party thought he was fucking dead.

Steve thought he was fucking dead.

God, he hoped he hadn’t told Wayne yet.

That’s just what he needed, to kill his old man with a fucking heart attack.

Eddie pushed himself to his feet and started walking, not sparing a glance back at his grave, hopeful his next one would be, like, seventy years in the future.

There were grooves cut deep into the earth, practically guiding him back to his trailer, or whatever was left of it in this dimension and Eddie couldn’t stop the sickening feeling building up in his stomach that all of this had been for nothing.

They’d fucking lost.

They can’t have lost, right?

His trailer was just ahead, bisected and falling apart, but he could see the portal glowing so he’d get topside, take a look out the window and see that everything was fine…

Sure, yeah.

Totally.

Eddie looked up, the portal floating above him amongst the debris.

It wasn’t that high, surely if he-

He jumped, his eyebrows flying up into his hairline when he easily reached the lip, hanging by his fingertips off the edge and pulling himself up as smooth as if he was floating in water.

He didn’t exactly understand all those physics Dustin had lectured them all on but this… didn’t seem to be that.

He dropped down to his feet, the amount of colour greeting him almost hurting his eyes but he couldn’t focus on that.

He didn’t have time to.

Because as soon as he straightened up, there was the barrel of a shotgun pressed to his forehead.

Eddie threw his hands up, having to blink a few times before he realised who was behind it.

“Sweetheart?”

Steve was glaring at him, the shotgun held steady and firm in his hand. He looked haggard and dirty and somehow even more injured than Eddie had last seen him.

There was a healing burn along the side of his head, making it look like he’d shaved his hair, there was a deep cut through his eyebrow and his arms were littered with small cuts and bruises, extending up into the sleeves of his dirty polo.

And he was wearing Eddie’s vest. 

He was wearing his vest like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it was part of his wardrobe and had been for a while. 

Despite the fucking gun pressed to his head, Eddie’s heart flip flopped around in his chest, more to do with affection than fear.

“Sweetheart, I-”

Steve pressed the gun against him harder with a furious grimace.

“I am not your sweetheart. What are you?”

“I-” Eddie swallowed. That seemed like a very specific question.

Not who are you, not what are you doing here, not how are you upright and not in the dirt, rotting?

No.

What are you.

“Stevie it’s- it’s me. It’s Eddie.”

Steve pressed in harder again, walking him backwards until he was up against the wall.

“You are not my Eddie.” He hissed. “I buried my Eddie a month ago.” Steve’s finger moved down to rest against the trigger. “Now I’ll ask you again. What are you?”

“I…” Eddie opened and closed his mouth. “I don’t know.”

I won't deny it, @momotonescreaming's Hole Microfic put the worms in my brain for this one. Different vibes but the worms did worm.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve x eddie #penny00dreadful #eddie x steve #penny ficlet #stwgdailyprompt #dailydrabble #established relationship #tw buried alive

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Do What I Cannot

This is based on My Graveyard Song because I was captivated by the idea of Danny’s parents burying him alive. That’s basically the only part I took though. This is about him being confronted with his parents again once freed.

This is unedited so feel free to point out mistakes. Contains graphic description of violence.

-----------

The Justice League’s newest hero has been a wonderful asset, truly! Phantom is a rather powerful hero and even though some of his methods are a little questionable he follows the ‘no killing’ rule more strictly then some of the long-term members. Even if it’s just because he doesn’t want to deal with them as ghosts it still counts. Some of the more magical people have an idea that Phantom is more powerful then he’s letting on, but they don’t push it. After all he’s still just a teenager, they don’t really want to have him dealing with universal threats either.

Honestly even if he weren’t a hero Batman at least would have kept him around for the impressively positive affects he has on Red Hood. Jason had been calmer and more reasonable then he had been since his resurrection since digging up that grave and teaming up with Danny. It was just a little unsettling sometimes honestly, sometimes his eyes would glint with the green of the Lazarus waters and everyone would tense up prepared for an aggressive outburst only for Jason to announce he needed to find Danny and leave. The more suspicious minds found it odd, but they figured it was just because Phantom could calm Jason down and didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Really the only problem was that knowing Phantom had alerted them to a potential new source of threat that they really knew very little about. The JLD knew some but not enough and the ways they had to fight ghosts were clunky and unreliable, they needed weapons that would work on ghosts. Not Phantom obviously, though the overly cautious ones privately thought about him too, just in case you know? And there weren’t many people who specialized in such tech, so of course their search lead them to the Drs. Fenton.

The magic users thought their methods were crude and crazy but had to admit they clearly worked so maybe it would be best to invest in at least some of their tech. At least to study and see if it could be improved on. So they were invited for a meeting, and it was decided Phantom would Not be told. Mostly because they didn’t want to stress him out and also because they’d learned these two were ‘shoot first ask questions later’ types who apparently didn’t believe there was such a thing as a good ghost so they might actually try and kill Danny on sight, which would be awkward.

The presentation they gave to the Justice League was predictably unhinged and they knew well enough to take all of it with a grain of salt, especially the part about all ghosts being evil. Danny had already explained it to them, that ghosts were driven by obsessions which meant they behaved differently then humans but the majority only lashed out when something got between them and their singular passion. Some were different, some had malicious passions and some were more complicated. Diana and J’onn both looked like they were trying hard not to pick a fight but they’d all agreed to smile and nod till they got access to the tech.

There was a familiar sudden chill in the room, looking around Batman could tell a few others felt it too, though Flash was typically oblivious.

“Oh dear,” J’onn whispered before Phantom appeared.

“Hey guys what’s up?” He asked, cheerful but slightly accusatory, they should have known better then to think they could keep the meeting from him. Before they could think of anything to say Danny’s eyes caught on the Fentons and narrowed.

“GET DOWN!” Jack yelled pulling out one of those stupid blasters from somewhere.

“What a perfect chance for a demonstration,” Maddie said, sliding on a pair of gantlets.

“You-you don’t recognize me, do you?” Danny asked, and for a moment he looked hurt, then something happened none of them had ever seen before, his eyes turned red. The toxic green they were used to changed to a deep, blood red and his feet touched the ground as he stalked forward. Jack shot, Danny didn’t break stride, a green shield blocked the blast like it was nothing. Maddie tried to lung and was immediately hit in the gut by one of Phantom’s ecto-blasts, knocking her back against the glass.

Batman leapt up and tried to lung and stop Phantom only to hit a wall that rippled with green, a bubble surrounding the ghost and the two hunters, invisible until struck.

Danny grinned, shark like teeth on full display without any mirth, white hair whipping in an unfelt wind, flowing so it almost looked like flames. “I guess I look a lot different then I did when you buried me alive huh? How long did you leave me? Because you ‘couldn’t kill you son’ so you thought it would be more merciful to lock me away till everything human about me rotted.”

“No,” Maddie gasped, recognition suddenly sharp and painful on her features.

“Yes ‘mom’,” Danny snarled bitterly. Jack tried to shoot again but the blaster was knocked out of his hands so quickly no one was sure what hit him before it could fully charge. “YOU MADE ME! AND YOU ABANDONED ME! You’re lucky someone found me, I would have gotten strong enough to break out on my own eventually and if I had I would have destroyed everything.”

“Oh my god, his parents?” Diana nearly whispered. Batman understood how she felt, Danny didn’t like to talk about how he’d ended up buried ‘alive’, that his parents were the ones who had done it… that was horrific. It made sense why he had never been able to speak about it, but Damn that would have been good to know before they had invited Danny’s abusers to give a presentation on weapons that had no doubt been used to hurt him. And now.. what? They couldn’t get to Danny, it seemed like he had gotten to the point that Raven did sometimes when her emotions overwhelmed her, could they get to Danny? Could they stop him from doing something he might regret?

“You are not our son,” Maddie hissed, her breathing still coming in a harsh wheeze from the blow to her stomach. “Danny is dead! He’s gone. You’re just an acto-entity imitating him, and not even well, you’re just a parasite.”

Danny seemed to be losing some control of his form, it was stretching, getting taller, his fingers curling into dangerous claws tipped with the blackness of the star studded void. “Pathetic mortals, you act as if you will never die, but you will join my kingdom. Perhaps it will be punishment enough to become what you hate, perhaps not. Perhaps I will speed up the process so you can’t hurt anyone else,” He snarled his hands beginning to glow with familiar green of his energy blast.

“Danny stop!” Superman said, hitting the burier to try and get through but not even he could break it. Danny didn’t seem to be responding to them though he was hesitating.

Batman was resigning himself to watching Phantom kill his once parents before Jason walked by him. Batman wasn’t usually taken by surprise, but he was shocked, and worried, both because he could see the green glow of pit madness through the eyes of his helmet, which was worrying, and because he walked through the burier keeping the rest of the heroes out like it was nothing.

He walked to Danny, taking his hand, there was a soft sizzle as the gathered green energy burned Jason’s hand without him even seeming to notice. He pulled Danny down to the ground from where he was floating, pulling the young hero into his arms. Danny let himself be pulled into Jason’s arms, the green energy fizzling out as he wrapped his own arms back around Jason’s waist, hiding against his chest. As the anger faded he slumped against Jason’s chest.

Just as the heroes were breathing a sigh of relief and relaxing Maddie went for the dropped gun. But she wasn’t fast enough as Jason drew his own pistol, the one with live ammo, and put a bullet in her head. Diana cried out in shock and Batman froze as blood and brain matter splattered over the watchtower floor and her body slumped. Before anyone could recover Jack followed, another shot executioner style and Batman had to turn away.

The watchtower was completely silent, enough so that he could hear Phantom’s soft sniffles as he cried into Jason’s chest. When Batman looked back Jason had holstered his gun and was just holding Danny Close. The green had faded enough from his eyes that it seemed safe, Batman approached warily and wasn’t surprised to find that the invisible burier was gone now that both the Fenton’s were dead.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said softly as he heard the approach, without emerging from his hiding place in Jason’s arms where he seemed to feel safe. “I wasn’t actually going to kill them, but I guess my want to, my emotions, were strong enough to make Jason respond. I didn’t mean to call you that way.” He looked up at Jason, his eyes green again though red rimmed from tears.

“It’s alright, I would have done it anyway,” Jason growled, holding Danny even tighter. “I’ve killed people for less, they deserved it.”

Batman took a deep breath forcing himself to keep his cool about his son’s constant flouting of his no killing rule, now was not the time to make Phantom feel worse. “Jason why don’t you take him down to one of the sitting rooms so he can calm down.” No doubt Phantom was reliving trauma, and grieving because even if he wanted them dead they had been his parents.

Jason nodded and scooped Danny into his arm who let out an indignant little squawk and insisted he could walk while making no attempt to actually get down. Jason ignored Danny’s performative complaints and kept the young hero’s head hidden against his chest so he wouldn’t have to see the corpses of his parents while Jason carried him out of the room.

Now, how best to deal with the aftermath of… all this. And later on he really would have to ask Danny and Jason what he’d meant by Jason responding to his energy, because it seemed like there might be something more to their relationship then just Danny calming Jason down and that was worrying to say the least.

Part 2: here

#danny phantom #maddie fenton #jack fenton #Maddie and Jack are bad parents #buried alive #tw gun violence #batman #superman #dc x dp #jason todd #can be read as dead on main #Danny got buried alive #full dead AU #Jason is Danny's thrawl but they're super chill about it

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Hi @naffeclipse I'm very normal about your fic. Have some frantic midnight sketches as extra kudos along with some tag rambling :)

#my ârt #crush depth #crush depth spoilers #fnaf #tw blood #tw drowning #idk how many others apply #anyways this is midnight crow coming out of the shadow realm to scream at you #first of all a cs ramble is on the way I'm still recovering from that fic too #im biting you naff im biting you so dang hard #I don't even know much about iron lung besides watching a play through but damn do you make me want to know more #just. where do I even start. the atmosphere is established so well and even though there was such a small space to work with I FELT it #I felt the claustrophobia I felt the walls and the console and the single dim lightbulb as my only solace in this death trap #the THOUGHTS #poor yn had so much time to just get lost in their head and spiral pretty much constantly #the dread. the constant overhanging dread of knowing there's a 99% chance they're not getting out of there alive and at this point #they just want to accept it and let it end bc there's hardly anything to go back to if they live #naff. look at me. reading some parts made my chest actually tighten with dread. it was so well done. #this poor human just buried in existential horror and just wanting it to end in a slightly less painful way #and the unknowable beings trapped outside who absolutely REFUSE to let that happen #god those eldritch fish were trying their hardest but just couldn't get in #yn was trapped inside while they were trapped outside and I just #I am EXPLODING the more I think about it #thinking about when they thought they were drowning and tried to breathe again #wanting to die but still having that instinct to survive #asking to be ripped apart but still cherishing their last breath of air #I'm shaking you I'm shaking you I'm dying on the floor #ough. #I'll never mentally recover from this and I want you to know I genuinely get inspired by your writing #this has been midnight crow ramblings. I just hit the tag limit. have a lovely night.

[strawberrylabs]

Whumptober day 5 with Wanderer!

Prompt: debris

Whumptober masterlist

Summary: Wanderer regrets his last words to you.

Warnings: Being burried alive, arguments, blood, yelling, death, willing death

It wasn't uncommon for you and Wanderer to get into arguments.

He wasn't always the best with words, or with being honest about his emotions.

Usually conflicts could be resolved within the hour and everything would be fine.

This time it was different.

"Fine! Go ahead and die! Abandon me like everyone else did!"

Spit flew out of wanderer's mouth as his anger seeps through his words.

You had recently come back from a particularly dangerous commission, one where your life was out in danger more than once, and you had received quite a few injuries.

"You know that's not fair! I'm doing my job! You know I would never just intentionally die, that's stupid!"

Normally you were calm when arguing with him. You know he's learning, and you'd usually have patience.

But not this time.

He scoffs.

"Well you're human so I wouldn't put it past you to be stupid enough to die. You would be selfish enough to leave me alone after getting me attached to your mortal ass!"

"Fuck you."

He turns to you

"What was that?!"

"Fuck you! I have been nothing but patient with you these past months as you learn about emotions! I've dealt with everytime you yelled and given you time to calm down! But I will not be called selfish for saving someone elses life! And I will not be guilt-tripped by you accusing me of abandoning you!"

You seethe at him, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"What would you do if I did die? Is my last memory going be worrying about you hating me for supposedly abandoning you? Is my name going to be tarnished by your opinion on my death?"

You could feel yourself boiling with unbridled rage.

"Yeah well maybe it'd be better if you died! Then this false heart wouldn't feel so heavy all the time!"

The silence after his words was heavy.

"I'm going to finish my commissions. I'll come back when you stop being a prick."

You fix him in place with a hard glare.

Wanderer feels a lump in his throat. He'd seen you glare sure, but never at him.

You close the door behind you without a second thought.

Fine. Wanderer would wait. It's not like you could avoid him forever, you live with him after all.

And so he waited.

He would never admit that he didn't sit down once. He would never admit that he didn't stop pacing.

He would never admit that he didn't notice the hours passing, too stuck in his own head.

It was only when he heard someone yelling about the location of your commission did he snap out of his daze.

"Someone said the buildings in the area collapsed!"

Wanderer was out the door in an instant.

Surely you were out of there already right?

The only reason you weren't home is because you being petty, right?

'What would you do if I did die? Is my last memory going be worrying about you hating me for supposedly abandoning you? Is my name going to be tarnished by your opinion on my death?'

Wanderer bit his cheek so hard it bled.

He was an idiot.

Wanderer finally made it to the old village after a few short minutes.

The place was a wreck.

Not a single building was left standing.

But what caught Wanderer's eye was a familiar piece of clothing.

Time froze.

There, in the light of the now setting sun, painting the morbid scene in a sardonic shade of red; lay you. Your lower half covered by rubble of a half fallen, unstable, building. Blood was leaking from where your body disapeared.

He had to get you out.

And he had to get you out now- or else the rest of the building would collapse.

"Hey! You moron, stay with me!"

He got no response.

He left out a breathe when he felt your pulse. But you were unconscious.

"Come on! Wake up! I can't get you out like this!"

He grabs underneath your arms and pulls, eliciting a whimper of pain from you.

"Shit! Come on!"

The more he pulled, the more cries fell from your mouth.

He tried to lift the debris, but it just made the remaining structure unstable.

Before he knew it, hot tears were streaming down his face.

Normally he wouldn't let anyone see him cry.

But in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

"im sorry! Ok?! Im sorry! I know I was wrong, dammit! I know I'm terrible with words and emotions and im sorry I took it out on you! I know it was stupid!"

he grits his teeth, not attempting fighting the tears

"But archons be damned, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me! I need you! You make me whole! You make this fake heart feel something! and I'm not letting you leave me!"

"I'm sorry I said what I did! I was a fool! I know you would never leave me and life would be unbearable without you!

He places his forehead on yours

"so please..." he whispers

"Please! Stay!!"

He feels a hand on his cheek and snaps his eyes open to see your weak gaze meeting his.

One look at your expression told him all he needed.

You weren't making it out alive.

"..I'm staying with you."

You sputter

"You can't! This building will fall any second. You have to go-"

"I don't care! I'm not abandoning you. I'm not leaving the one idiot I love in this cursed world!"

Wanderer moves to be beside you, lying down as best he can to hold you. You action is awkward given the obstacles, but it's morbidly comforting all the same.

No more words are spoken as the two of you look at each other.

No moves were made, now phrases uttered, but the emotion in your eyes conveyed all that needed to be said.

'You loved him.'

'And he loved you.'

You held each other tight as you focused only on one another, foreheads touching.

The last thing wanderer saw as the roof fell, was your resigned, love filled eyes.

And then it all faded to nothing.

Link for part 2(currently a poll to decide what to do)

#whumptober2023 #no. 5 #wanderer x reader #death tw #buried alive tw #wanderer x reader angst #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader angst

[kawaiikenna]

Inspired by this post by @stealingyourbones . No one is safe from the angst. ÒwÓ TW: buried alive.

For those who want to be tagged for continuation; here’s the link to the fic posted on ao3. Subscribe there to guarantee a notification just in case I forget to tag someone. ^w^ Under the Earth; Far from Home

Part 2 for y’all. :3

Danny didn’t know how long he had been in there for. His breathing has become slow and shallow. The last he counted was eight breaths per minute. Lower than his usual resting rate but not too alarming. Now though, he was down to four breaths. His heartbeat had always been much slower than a regular living person at fifty-five beats per minute. It was now hitting at thirty-seven. Worryingly low, even for him.

He groggily cracked his eyes open and was greeted by the same sight he had been staring at for who knows how long now. Silver metal with green cybertronic designs inlaid. A small viewing window directly above him. It was closed though, and could only be opened from the outside. He stared at his reflection in the plexiglass and metal. His face no longer held any kind of muscle or fat. His cheeks had hollowed and eyes had sunken to a damn near skeletal level. When he wriggled his hand up to cautiously touch his face, it was in the same state. Fingers gaunt and skeletal. He could see every single bone in his hand as well as his wrist.

Betrayal panged through his chest at the thought of how he came to be in this situation. His heart had stopped while Danny had been napping on the couch. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence but this time his mom had found him. She had silently freaked out before being his dad in. Together they came to the conclusion that Danny had died. A very logical conclusion for any other normal person. But Danny was anything but normal. The next time he awoke was to his parents shutting the lid on what had seemed to be a coffin. Danny had yelled and shouted until his voice broke and his throat felt raw. He flailed about in his tiny prison, trying to find a way, any way, of getting out. He was rewarded with multiple shocks every time he even so much as brushed the metal sides. When Danny had tried to go ghost he was shocked so badly that he passed out from the pain.

The next time he awoke was to the thudding sounds of something being thrown onto the lid. Panic had welled up in his mind. Gripping his throat and constricting his chest. He was being buried alive. His parents were BURYING HIM ALIVE. Danny cried and screamed again. Begging them to not do this. To let him out. Telling them that he was still alive, that he was still their son and not a ghost.

They didn’t stop. Instead, Danny was left there. Panting and heaving through the worst panic attack he had ever experienced. He was stuck and there was no getting out.

Danny sighed. He knew that he didn’t have much time left. His energy had nearly completely depleted. He was so weak that he couldn’t physically fight his way out. So with the last bit of strength that he could muster, he sent out an emotional distress signal. He didn’t expect a response. One had never come before. So he closed his eyes again, submitting to his fate.

And then it came.

A tiny whisper, but a response all the same. Danny’s eyes snapped open, renewed vigor forcing him to press his hands against the lid of the coffin he had been buried in. The shocks rocking through his incredibly weak body but it didn’t stop him. Instead he sent out another emotional beacon.

Help, help, buried, not dead, alive, alive, ALIVE.

The answering reply;

Alive, help, coming, safe?

No, no, hurt, alive, hurt.

Danny cried for the first time in what felt like eons. Green streaked tears flooding from his eyes to fall down through his hair and to the pitifully thin pillow below his head. This other presence caressed his mind with projections of safety and help. And he continued to cry out for help. The emotional and mental anguish finally breaking through and breaking him down. He could feel himself slipping. His consciousness fading into black. But just before he slipped entirely into the welcoming blackness that was trying to overcome him, the viewing window slid open.

On the other side was a man with mostly black hair save a lock of pure white that was stuck to his forehead by the sweat pouring off of him. His blue eyes kept flickering to a shade of ectoplasm green before returning back to blue. He wore a white tank top that was now grass stained and streaked with dirt. His hands and arms covered in a thick layer of mud. Had he dug through the dirt by hand? Why?

While Danny had been lost in thought, a sound he had never thought he would hear again rang in his ears. The coffin lid hissed as the hydraulic hinges lifted it. And Danny took his first breath of fresh, non-recycled air in heaven knows how long. The sobs that rended themselves from his throat were those that told of a broken and afraid teen. One that had been abandoned by his parents, possibly even his sister and best friends. Someone that had been alone for so long that even sitting in a stranger’s embrace in the muddy rain was euphoric.

Danny didn’t know when the man had picked him up and held him closely. But it was definitely not unwelcome. If anything, Danny tried to press further into the stranger’s chest. Further away from the damned coffin that had been his prison for so long. The darkness of unconsciousness was beckoning again. Even sweeter this time in the wake of his rescue.

So he closed his eyes and Danny fell asleep to the deep cadence of the man’s voice telling him he was safe.

#danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc #batman #dp #jason todd #dc x dp #dc comics #batfam #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #red hood #buried alive #tw: buried alive #have some angst #so much angst #no one is spared

[bleedingintogold]

8 months.

8 months from the time Leader did not return from a solo mission.

8 months since Leader's tracker went dead.

8 months passed as they looked for him.

8 months until his signal appeared on their radar again, beeping bright red.

Heavy rain pelts on their backs as they scoure the forest in search of their missing brother.

"Leader!" "Keep looking, he's somewhere here!"

Teammate came to the horrifying conclusion when he realized that they were standing on top of where Leader should be. No. Oh hell no.

Leader's bright red signal started to beep more alarmingly as they dug into the soil. Within 15 minutes, Leader's tracker went black. They dug faster. It took another 10 minutes before they found a wooden box, a coffin.

Another 3 for them to break it open.

The team burns 30 seconds to pull out a body, cold and light from the box. A body that was once built strong and sturdy, now thin and covered in dried blood.

Medic pulled Leader onto flat ground, immediately attempting CPR. Ribs crack audibly as the team shield them all from the pouring rain under layered rain jackets.

2 minutes.

4 minutes.

The oldest sees no progress, her hand reaching to stop Medic.

5 minutes.

The dead body on the ground comes back to life, coughing violently as he eventually turns over and retches out dirt and blood.

#leader whump #buried alive #team dynamics #whump community #whumpee #whumplr #whump prompt #leader whumpee #near death tw #medical inaccuracies

[serickswrites]

Perfect Body to the Grave

Warnings: captivity, buried alive, suffocation, cpr, unclear character status

Team Leader stumbled in the mud as they frantically searched for the stone that Whumper said would mark where they buried Teammate One just over an hour ago. The rain came down cold and hard on their back as they tried to look for the stone.

"They were alive when I put them there, Team Leader. Would be a shame if you got there and they weren't," Whumper had said as Teammate Two dragged them to a cell.

Team Leader had wasted no time hurrying to where they hoped to find Teammate One. They hadn't accounted for the storm creating so much mud it would be hard to see a stone. They sunk to their knees as they realized that they wouldn't find the stone in all this mud. Their knee collided with something hard and flat and it had their teeth zinging.

The stone.

"Over here!" They called to Teammate Two and Teammate Three as they started to clear the mud. It would take the whole team to clear all the mud from the top of the casket.

"Hurry, they can't have much air left," Teammate Two said as they started to shovel with a frenzy.

"We'll make it," Teammate Three muttered. "We have to make it."

Team Leader agreed. They had to make it. They couldn't not make it. Teammate One was counting on them. The three team members were sweating by the time they had cleared the mud enough that the top of the casket was cleared.

"We're here, Teammate One, we're here," Team Leader muttered as they swung open the lid of the casket.

"No!" Teammate Two's cry came from somewhere on Team Leader's right.

Teammate One lay on their back, eyes closed, their mouth slightly agape. Their face was pale and their lips tinged blue. "Not like this, Teammate One, not like this," Team Leader muttered as they leaned over and to listen to see if Teammate One took a breath.

"They're not breathing!" Teammate Three whispered as Team Leader moved once more.

"Not like this," Team Leader muttered as they pressed their fingers to the pulse in Teammate One's neck. But no beat came.

Without missing a beat, Team Leader began chest compressions. "Come on, Teammate One, come on. Come back to us. Take a breath. Open your eyes. We're here. We've got you."

Teammate Two leaned down and gave two quick rescue breaths. "Please, Teammate One," they begged, "come back to us."

Teammate Three took Teammate One's cold hand in theirs, fingers going to the stilled pulse in Teammate One's wrist. They didn't say anything as tears streamed down their face.

Team Leader couldn't stop. Couldn't bear to think that this was it. That the team had failed Teammate One. That Whumper had won. That Teammate One was....but they couldn't think it. They continued to pump Teammate One's chest with everything they had. "Breathe, Teammate One. Come on. Breathe!"

#serickswrites #whump #whump writing #whumpblr #whump community #tw captivity #tw buried alive #tw suffocation #tw cpr #tw unclear character status #whumptober #whumptober 2023 #whumptober day 25 #“you're not delivering a perfect body to the grave” #prompt: storm #prompt: buried alive #prompt: “they're not breathing” #queue

[normaltothemax]

It’s dark. That’s the very first thing he notices. Not dark like nighttime in the streets of Gotham. Not dark like midnight in his bedroom with all the curtains pulled shut. Dark like the complete absence of light. His eyes are open, he’s sure of it, blinking frantically, like that’ll somehow turn the lights back on, but he can’t see jackshit.

His head hurts, is the next thing he notices. There’s blood, wet and tacky, along the side of his face, starting somewhere in his hairline. His body aches something fierce, there’s not much room to move around, and all of a sudden he’s thrust back into hazy, panicked memories. Memories of waking up in a pitch black wooden box, six feet under, alone and in pain and not having any way out.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” He chokes out a sob, gasping in breaths, dust still settling around him. He’s back in that damn coffin, alive but buried once again, and he can’t fucking breathe because the fear is choking him. Feeling around himself, he searches desperately for something, anything that’ll help get him out. It’s nothing like the casket, except for all the ways that it is. Everything around him is too hard, too sharp, too rough. He has a little more room to maneuver, but there’s something pinning his legs down. He’s not in a suit this time, but civilian clothes, and his head is swimming, but he thinks he remembers being somewhere. A building. The ground shaking.

Then everything went dark.

So. Probably not a coffin, he manages to rationalize, doing his best not to fully lose himself to panic, lest he use up all his precious oxygen before he can get out of here. He tries to slow his breathing, he really does, but it’s hard to manage when he’s back underground with no way out and the fear is so prominent, so clear, it’s practically tangible.

#✦ ic: jason todd #✦ verse: main (jason todd) #✦ open starter #✦ open starter: jason todd #tw: blood #tw: buried alive #idk how to tag that really so hopefully that'll do (but if anyone thinks of anything else to put lmk) #feel free to be trapped with him or part of the rescue crew #i just wanted to traumatize him a little :3c

[coloricioso]

How modern retellings are delegitimizing Clytemnestra:

Something I hate from modern retellings turning Agamemnon into "the worst man who ever existed" to "justify" Clytemnestra's actions is that, by doing so, you're erasing Clytemnestra's power and complexity.

It goes like this:

When you make Agamemnon a greedy man who doesn't care about his daughter, or even hates her, then the entire point of the sacrifice loses all meaning and sense. If for Agamemnon, sacrificing Iphigenia makes no difference from sacrificing any animal, where is the tragedy? Why would Artemis, the goddess, ask for the maiden's sacrifice if she was meaningless to the king? If Agamemnon feels and believes that Iphigenia's life is just like killing a goat because he doesn't feel anything for her, then there would be no dilemma and no trouble in making a decision, there would be no grief and no mourning. What the goddess demands from Agamemnon would be as easy and simple as slaughtering a goat or a bull, so what's the point of Artemis asking anything of Agamemnon? And eventually, why would Artemis bother to save the girl at the last moment if her life was meaningless? When you ignore the original sources and change the story to villanize Agamemnon, you just changed the myth into a thing that no longer makes sense. [Also, the sources themselves say he loved her].

Then, again, the sources don't portray Clytemnestra and Agamemnon being a bad marriage. So, when you villanize Agamemnon and turn him into an abusive husband (who beats, rapes, and mistreats Clytemnestra in every possible way) you're doing two things: a) You're erasing and ignoring the sources that stated just the opposite. b) And, you're ultimately stating that Clytemnestra's motive for killing Agamemnon (Iphigenia's sacrifice) was not enough on its own, and therefore the crime is not justified. Even in the worst version, absolutely made up by Euripides -not canon, not existing before him- where Clytemnestra was married before and Agamemnon killed her husband and baby, EVEN in that version, Clytemnestra says she "reconciled" with him and was a very good wife (Iphigenia in Aulis, 1146).

If for you, the story in the way it was depicted by the ancients is not enough, and you go in to add extra violence, then you're delegitimizing Clytemnestra. You're basically saying that it's not possible that a woman who had a happy family and loved her husband, could become a murderer after her oldest daughter gets sacrificed. According to your logic, more violence and an entire dehumanizing background are needed to explain why she acts the way she does!

I don't like Clytemnestra, but for those who do like her, wasn't her daughter's loss sufficient motive already? Wasn't that enough grieving and trauma?

But no. You need to twist the story and make it go like Agamemnon beat her, raped her constantly, humiliated her, insulted her, and all extra non-sensical mistreating like being buried alive* (and all that was done in public??) because ONLY then, according to you, Clytemnestra would be "justified" to murder her evil husband. Do you see how wrong this is?? How bad it is?? You claim to love your "girl boss Clytemnestra" while unempowering her and diminishing her psychology. 3) And ultimately, it's like failing history lessons. The Iliad is supposed to take place in a historical time when women were meaningful in society. So, depicting Clytemnestra (and Helen) as having a slave-like life is historically inaccurate too.

If people are unable to depict Clytemnestra as a complex character who loved her family and yet did terrible acts after a change of fate, and need to change her story turning her into a victim of domestic violence and sexism so, ONLY then, she will be "justified" to kill Agamemnon, it's saying she was not justified in the first place as the original story goes.

Although this might not be new, the oldest sources (Iliad, Odyssey, Cypria) don't have Iphigenia killed (which was introduced by Aeschylus and later used by Sophocles and Euripides -who, by the way, has different plays that contradict each other on this matter).

If you wanna know which books I'm talking about? Electra by Jennifer Saint, Clytemnestra by Costanza Casati, House of Names by Colm Toibin (*), Ithaca by Claire North, Daughters of Sparta by Claire Heywood, A Thousand Ships by Natalie Haynes, and others.

#every modern retelling I read keeps making me more and more angry #clytemnestra #agamemnon #Like friends one of those books has Agamemnon ordering that Clytemnestra IS BURIED ALIVE for DAYS while they sacrifice Iphigenia #Another book has Agamemnon raping and abusing Clytemnestra or beating her all in public #tw sa #tw rape #tw domestic violence

[fastcardotmp3]

thinking about various versions of Chrissy Comes Back Wrong again and Chrissy, whose mutilated body was buried 6 feet under, who was given a funeral in the local church, a whole mountain of flowers in her memory.

Chrissy, whose body is dead but whose mind is just trapped in Vecna's grasp, trapped where he has control of it, trapped in whatever memory or nightmare he wants to keep her in until she becomes useful.

Until there's reason to release her mind, send it crawling back to a body reanimated with the snapping of bones back into place, breath coming back in choking heaves and embalming fluid still cold in her veins.

And then she's alive again. Alive and 6 feet underground with her name on a placard awaiting a stone yet to be carved.

Alive but different.

Her chest is tight with heaving, sobbing, panicked breaths, but it's like she instinctually knows that it doesn't matter, that she won't run out of air in this pitch-dark box because she doesn't need it.

Chrissy doesn't need air anymore, doesn't need blood in her veins, doesn't need the beat of a heart in her chest despite the way she can still feel the motionless weight of it there.

Chrissy doesn't need any of it, as she scrabbles hands across the lid of her first and final resting place looking for a latch, but she needs something.

She needs to do something.

She needs.

Chrissy has been hungry before, is the thing. Chrissy has trained herself to ignore hunger, as much as a person can do such a thing, but this is unlike any of that.

It's not telling her friends she ate before she left and watching them sip on milkshakes at the diner with a lightness in her head; it's not eating only the meal portioned out for her by her mother and laying in bed with a growling stomach later that night.

It's uncontrollable, this hunger. It's vast and thick and all-consuming to the point where she hardly even realizes when she pushes hard enough against the lid to hear a crack!

She's hardly cognizant of her own frantic movements, doesn't have the wherewithal to acknowledge that she's stronger now, that something about the hunger makes her feel like once she's fed it she'll surpass even this desperation-fueled power.

Soil and insects rain down upon her as she pushes up and up and up; it gets under her nails as she claws towards the surface, in her mouth and up her nose and all over the pretty dress her mother had chosen for her to be buried in.

It was one which made her look particularly petite. It's been torn at the sleeves and the hem is hanging in rags by the time she realizes that in the impulse decision to dig she had locked herself into a singular fate.

Eventually she's going to resurface.

Eventually she's going to have to face the hunger.

---

Nancy Wheeler shouldn't be here.

They have so much work to do, so much to grapple with in the wake of their undeniable loss.

So many lives gone and so much destruction overtaking this town she has called home her entire life and Nancy should really be doing anything but being here.

The sun is setting and the others are having dinner at the Henderson house, one of the few with zero damage caused by the rifts opening in the earth, but Nancy just needs a moment.

She just needs a breath.

She just needs.

"We just keep failing you," she says to a girl's name carved in stone, forever sixteen and forever undeserving of the fate that had befallen her.

Nancy doesn't sit down, just stands on Barb's plot with her shoes sinking into deadened earth, greyed-out grass, and chokes on the feelings she can't have in front of the others.

Not when they're still in this fight, not when there's so much work left to do. She should be doing it. She shouldn't be here.

Fuck, Max still isn't awake and Eddie is on his way to very well losing one of his legs if they can't get his infection under control and Erica is the quietest she's ever been and the Byers boys are attached at the hip like they're scared to let each other out of their sight and Steve is carrying that damn bat around like it's the solution to all their problems and Mike is so much older than he was when he left for California and what is Nancy doing?

"I'm sorry. I'm so..."

She's crying at a dead girl like she's the one who's got it rough. Like she hadn't failed Barb and keeps failing all of them. Like she's not the one who said they should go to the Upside Down in the first place and now Max won't wake up and Eddie might lose a leg and--

The cemetery is empty, this time of day, because the people still sticking it out in Hawkins know that if the sun is setting you should get somewhere safe.

Nancy's stupider, more reckless than they are on paper, just by being here, but really she's just smart enough to know that there's no such thing as safe.

So when she hears a sound like-- like a person choking. Vomiting. Sobbing.

She has her hand on her revolver in the same whirl of motion as she looks behind her.

Nothing.

To the north, nothing.

To the west, nothing.

No one is out this time of day, as the short and hazy sunlight they do get fades into an even hazier orange and then black. But someone is here.

Nancy creeps towards the sound, because if a person is hurt then there's likely a creature nearby too-- a demo-something or other ready to rear back and wield its teeth and claws.

It takes a moment longer than she would like it to for her brain to catch up to her eyes when she sees what she sees. All the input is there, all the information needed to draw a conclusion, but even in Nancy's vast experience of the unexpected, she doesn't know how she could have expected this.

Pink dress gone muddy brown, shredded in places and slashed in others.

Bare feet and blonde hair changed almost entirely in color by the damp of the soil.

Heaving. Choking. Sobbing.

She hasn't been dead long enough for her to have a proper headstone, but the ground torn up all around the plot offers Nancy the final piece to a puzzle she hadn't known she was trying to solve.

Her jaw hinges open and she lowers her gun to clutch it one handed down by her side instead and she breathes--

"Chrissy."

Not a question, because there are a lot of questions here but that's not one of them.

Well.

It wouldn't be, except Nancy's quiet exclamation makes her presence known.

Except, even though Chrissy's chest is still heaving, she stills right there, collapsed on her knees.

Except, when she looks up. When she looks up, it's--

"Shit," Nancy whips her gun back up and trains it on the gleaming red eyes in front of her because maybe it's still a bit of a question.

She really shouldn't have come here.

#I JUST THINK THAT THEY OKAY #nancy wheeler #chrissy cunningham #nancy x chrissy #wheelingham #(is that the ship name help have we decided on one yet) #stranger things #stranger things fic #dot post #dot fic #what if I crawled out of my own grave and you pointed a gun at me and we were both girls (: #tw body horror #tw buried alive #tw implied disordered eating #kas!chrissy #<that will become a tag even if I'm the only one using it

[snowfolly]

Nothing Can Make Up For That

Astarion is released from his tomb. The year of silence is finally over but he struggles to process what has happened, what is happening and what horrors are yet to come.

One shot | 1,863 words | No Beta

CW: torture/abuse/neglect/slavery/implied sex slavery/confinement/buried alive/blood/dark/bleak/self harm

Read on ao3

It's pretty sad- read under the cut

For a time Astarion had screamed ceaselessly in the perpetual darkness, scratching his fingers to tatters, to the bones. They healed in a short time, as they always did, but he would run them ragged again and again.

The pain was excruciating, but at least he felt something when he clawed at the unyielding stone sitting right above his face, weeping and wailing curses at the gods for his fate.

But it had been quite a while since he had uttered a single word. Had been forever since he had torn his fingers to shreds.

The vampire spawn had lived in a fugue state, more or less, for a time he could no longer measure. It could have been months, years in the darkness — could have been days, even, but he wouldn’t know the difference. It didn’t matter anymore, did it?

His mind was distant and blank, or as far away and inactive as it could be as his body screamed for blood, begging for the movement that he simply could not grant it.

Astarion was filthy in a way only an undead creature neglected for an extended period could be, dried out and yet oily, smelling musty and of sickly sweet rot, but he wouldn’t notice these unpleasantries. His mind is numb to all but pain and starvation…. and sound.

Rhythmic tapping, far away but growing louder, brought his poorly slumbering consciousness to the present. The spawn opened his eyes uselessly in the dark, gritted his teeth, and listened intently, realizing that the sound was of multiple footsteps, echoing against the endless stone walls of Cazadors estate. They were approaching the tomb, approaching him.

Astarion gasped as the footsteps halted before his prison and he shuddered at the sound of the stone lid grating over the lip of the tomb, the noise deafening to ears that had only known silence for so very long. The dark figures that had released him said nothing and walked away, and Astarion was so traumatized that he continued to lie still, shaking like a leaf.

He stared above in shock at a ceiling where a lid had covered the world for what felt like an eternity, his starved eyes detected the faintest grays that indicated light.

When the echoing footsteps on the stone floor subsided for an indeterminate amount of time he tried to sit up, but his unused muscles — although unable to atrophy — were so stiff that it was excruciating. He managed shakily to get an arm up on the seal of the tomb, teeth bared in agony, bone-dry red eyes wide, his downy white curls, grown long, hung mussed up and wild.

The spawn didn't need to breathe but he instinctively inhaled air raggedly like a man saved from drowning as his mind, so atrophied from the silence, could barely process what was happening, what had happened, what would come.

Astarion’s mind could barely wrap itself around the fact that he had been released. He could do nothing but cry softly into his threadbare shirtsleeve still propped up on the edge of the tomb, but no tears came from his blood-starved eyes. His body continued to tremble from the shock of the sheer amount of space that he had been denied for so long, his crying turned to wailing, and his body heaved from the sobs as his shattered mind took its time to process the situation.

He was freed from the tomb, but he was far from free. He felt no joy. He thought that he could never feel a thing such a joy ever again.

Astarion should have been furious at the world, ready to tear it and the gods to pieces for this tragedy, for this unjust torture inflicted upon him. But the anger would not come.

He was empty. Gods he was so fucking empty. Drained of everything but unfathomable starvation, excruciating pain and the numbness that his mind has created to save his sanity, a constant state of dissociation to spirit him away from the horrors of his waking life. He had been denied every emotion but sorrow.

Astarion felt the agony of complete and utter sorrow bearing down on him like an incomprehensible weight, crushing him as he continued to shudder and gasp for the damp air that his dead lungs made no use of. He despaired the life he had lost, for the parts of his memories and mind that were gone forever. He mourned for all the time that had been stolen from him and the time that would forcibly be taken from him forever.

Forever. Endlessly.

He wished that he had just died so long ago, beaten to death in that dark alley.

The spawn’s pitiful weeping was eventually interrupted by more footsteps, that of a dark figure, one that he could barely make out with his atrophied eyes. He didn't need to see who it was though. He already knew.

Cazador lurked at a distance, standing silent before his spawn in the darkness for some time as he watched Astarion cry and struggle before casting a fire cantrip to light an oil lantern. The sudden light caused his spawn to cry out once again, the flame blinding and excruciating to eyes accustomed to endless darkness.

Cazador ‘ tsks ’, laughing at Astarion’s pained and dejected form before taking a small pouch from his cloak and throwing it at his pitiful creation. It hit the spawn gracelessly in his blinded face before it fell to the floor with a gross thud.

“Dinner is served, dear Astarion,” the vampire lord smirked wickedly, relishing in his spawn’s anguish, “And how unlike you, little star, to let yourself go like this. You do need to get it together. All that I’ve done for you, and yet you lie about idly for an entire year.”

Cazador sighed derisively, savoring the view of Astarion who struggled to regain his mind and toiled to speak. The vampire lord laughed heartily, for it was such a treat to see his favorite spawn suffering so, once again.

“What a shameful, slovenly creature I have made, am I correct?” Cazador purred and was delighted as Astarion nodded pitifully, “and don’t forget to make yourself presentable, boy. You’ve got lambs to bring to slaughter, and I presume you will not fail to deliver them to me this time?”

Astarion felt like retching, dry heaving of course, as he was nothing but a dried husk after a year without blood, and he knew that he must quickly answer the vampire lord. He managed a croak with a mouth uncustomed to speech, dry as sand, “ Yes master. ”

“Enjoy your dinner, clean up your filth and then look alive! You’ve work to do tonight!” Cazador laughed once again, the sound like broken glass to Astarion, and he watched blearily as his master turned to leave, giving his spawn a dismissive wave before striding down the long, dark hall.

The spawn could barely wait until the sound of his master’s footsteps were out of earshot to cry out as he retched, his gnawing, unfathomable starvation sickening and overwhelming him at the mouth-watering stench of decomposing vermin. He would finally be satiated by the wretched contents of a bag that lay on the ground. Gods.

Astarion managed to heave himself up to step out of the tomb, his stiff legs gave out and caused him to fall to the ground in a crumpled pile during the process. He gasped, his body screaming in agony as he feebly crawled on his arms toward the bag that contained two foul, bloated dead rats. In that moment they seemed the rarest delicacy in all the world to the severely neglected vampire spawn.

And so Astarion ate, devoured, choked up on the hair and coagulated blood that he forced violently from the creatures as he tore into them like an animal starved. After he’d bled them dry he shakily pulled hair from his teeth and gods, he hated himself. He hated this, hated Cazador, hated the entire fucking world.

He sat up weakly as his veins filled sluggishly with the rancid blood of the vermin, giving him enough energy to move his body once more. He was finally able to stand, to stretch, to walk.

The spawn was still starving, still in shock and pain, but he found anger and fear steadily pushing out the numbness. He had work to do.

Astarion walked unsteadily, like a man in a horrible dream as he made his way to the dank washroom to do as Cazador demanded of him. He scrubbed a year's worth of undead grime from his skin, he washed the rot from his mouth, and he combed the wet, tangled mess that his hair had grown into.

He finally dressed in fresh clothes that had been laid out for him, well, they were some of his old clothes but at least not the rags he had wallowed in for a year. He stood in front of the floor length mirror, longing to be able to see himself, desperately hoping that he had made himself presentable enough. Attractive — at least to the damned drunks.

The pale elf ignored his siblings as he passed them in the halls, they were saying words to him, about him, but he could only hear distant sounds, no discernible language. He couldn't comprehend what they were saying because his mind was still shattered, but he knew that he had to hunt, had to not fuck up again and land himself in another year of pure shit. He knew that he must do everything in his power to avoid the most horrendous solitary confinement conceivable.

So Astarion quickly remembered how to smile again, remembered how to wear a mask and be pleasant, be charming, be fake . He had to do these things because he had to lure the stupid godsdamned lambs to a night of practiced pleasure before their slaughter.

Astarion stepped out into the damp chill of the night, startling slightly at the light rain that pattered against his face, and he glanced up into the darkness to see clouds so thick that they blocked any glimpse at the stars and moon. Another lid to block his view.

The pale elf pulled his hood up to save his hair from ruining as he crept into the night once again, picking right back up where he had left off a year before, doing as he had done for over a hundred years prior. He didn’t even have to recall the dark alleys or where the seedy taverns and flophouses were, they were ingrained into his mind, would always be. He could never forget them, or how much he hated them. Gods how he hated them all.

Astarion would let everyone in the entire fucking city die to not have to spend another year lying in that tomb. He would lure and bed every peasant in Baldur’s Gate so that Cazador could make the streets run red for all eternity if only to save himself from the horror of silence once again.

Nothing in the world could make up for the time that he had spent in that tomb. Nothing.

#astarion fanfiction #astarion fic #bg3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion spoilers #tw torture #tw blood #tw abuse #tw buried alive #tw neglect #tw body horror #tw self harn #just awful all around #snowyfic

[kawaiikenna]

@leap-ing @elithemiar-blog @halfblackwolfdemon @winged-scaly-attic-dweller @spideypools @redfoxtail26 @manapeer @8000fangirl @antagonistly @all-eyes-no-dragon @mysticalcomputerdetective @01101010-01100001-01111001 @stealingyourbones

Hopefully that’s everyone. Anyways, here’s chapter two! Drop a kudos and comment over on ao3: Under the Earth; Far from Home. Angst, panic attacks, being buried alive, ptsd flashbacks, as well as depictions of a severely malnourished and emancipated Danny ahead. If any of this triggers you please be careful!

Jason had been ignoring the signs. The itch to go riding that would inevitably end at the cemetery where he had been buried. The feeling like he had something to do there. Some kind of unfinished business that he couldn’t remember. The amount of trauma that was linked with the place made it…difficult, for Jason to even think about going past the cemetery gates.

Both Dick and Tim had gone in to see if they could find anything. They didn’t and Jason tried to put the whole thing behind him. To forget about the whole ordeal. But something kept pulling him back. Now two weeks after he initially started feeling the strange pulling, Jason is standing before the gates. He stares at the wrought iron with a slight distain.

He takes a deep breath and pushes past the gates and into the cemetery. His burial plot was in the southeast corner. So he made his way over to it, hoping that it would make these feelings finally settle. As he passed row upon row of headstones, the feelings did not settle. If anything, something stirred in his chest. Something fearful and desperate. Jason was about to turn around and give up when something caught his eye.

Tucked away in an unkempt corner was a very recent grave. Initially he thought it was unmarked but upon a closer look Jason found a wooden plaque sunken into the muddy ground. It had hastily carved words; ‘To our beloved son. We wish we had known sooner.’

Jason picked up and turned the plaque over to see if there was a name. There was none. Only the words he had seen before. He neatly places the plaque back at the head of the grave.

“Your parents must have loved you a lot buddy.” Jason says, his emotions settling just a bit in his chest. “I hope you rest in peace.”

And as he was turning to leave, something happened. It was like the barest of whispers spoken directly into his mind. Quiet but desperate all the same.

help

Jason turns back towards the fresh grave. He doesn’t know why he did it, but he responded. Not really in words, more of a wave of morbid curiosity. The answering response he got nearly knocked him off his feet.

Help, help, buried, not dead, alive, alive, ALIVE.

An instant wave of panic took over his senses. Suddenly Jason was back in his own casket. Buried underground with no hope of help or rescue. Left alone to suffocate and die a second time.

He was on his knees clawing at the dirt before he knew what he was doing.

Alive, help, coming, safe?

He waited on baited breath. Hoping for a response. Anything that would tell him that the boy buried there was still clinging to life. The further he dug into the dirt the more desperate he became. It had rained recently, just the night prior, so the dirt had become heavy and sloppy. Even with it being freshly turned, the rain had packed it down some. Making it much more difficult to dig through.

No, no, hurt, alive, hurt.

Jason screams into the empty cemetery. He roughly shucks off his motorcycle jacket and his shirt. Leaving him in his boots, jeans, and white tank top. Tiny rocks and dirt shove themselves under his fingernails as he shovels and scoops dirt, throwing it haphazardly, only caring about hopefully, possibly saving the boy.

Jason continued to send mental waves of help and safety through whatever mind fuckery this was. With every desperate cry for help, he became more frenzied and desperate himself. Soon, far too soon, he hadn’t dug even two feet into the ground, he made first contact with the casket. What he wasn’t expecting was to be shocked and for green sparks to shoot out from the box in the ground. Jason pushes past it though. It wasn’t too painful, more of like the kind of static shock you would get as a kid playing on the trampoline. Slowly, too slowly, he uncovered more and more of the box. He had finally uncovered most of it when he noticed a sliding hatch closer to the head of the coffin-like box.

He was not prepared for what he saw on the other side of this tiny window. Blue eyes with a green shine stared up at him. Tear tracks running down his face, glowing a strange green. Black hair limp and lifeless, flopped to one side of the kid’s face. Skeletal hands and fingers pressed up against the mockery of a window as green sparks flitted about. A gaunt, skeletal frame shaking from the constant shock.

Jason hesitated for only a moment before nearly ripping the lid off of the coffin. Hydraulic hinges squealing in protest as stale air flooded out of the box. There was soft sobbing coming from the teen. Jason gently picked him up and pulled him out of the tiny prison. The teen shook in his arms but held tightly to Jason as if his very being depended on it. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans with only socks on his feet. Everything was far too baggy on the boy, only testifying further that he was severely dehydrated and malnourished.

Jason whispered consoling words. What they meant he didn’t know, because at that moment the panic had finally swept him up. Flashbacks and anxiety threatened to swallow him up completely but was staved off by the quivering teen in his arms. It grounded him enough to keep a tight hold on the teen.

~~~

Jason wasn’t sure how long they had stayed down in the dug out grave. Long enough that the sky had turned from an almost dusky color to the city lightened smog of the night. The black haired teen had passed out into a deep sleep a while ago. When he had first fallen asleep Jason panicked, thinking that he had died. But a quick check showed that the teen was still breathing lightly and an impossibly slow heartbeat still thrummed in his chest.

Jason finally pulled them out of the somewhat shallow grave. He laid the teen in the grass and gathered up his clothing. Before he put his shirt back on, Jason chipped away all of the dried dirt on his arms. Anything that was still wet was scraped off and flicked into the grass. With his shirt back on he picks up his jacket and the teen, making their way back to his motorcycle by the gates.

He situated the teen to sit behind him on his bike. He used his jacket to secure the tiny, skeletal body to himself. Settling it over the sleeping teens shoulders then tying the sleeves around his own torso. Once Jason secured the teen as best he could, he took off into the night, phone ringing in his ear.

“Master Jason.” A prim and proper voice answered. “How can I help you this evening?”

“Hi Alfred. I’m going to need medical help.” Jason’s voice is gruff and water from the amount of screaming and tears he’s experienced in such a short time.

Alfred sighs. “What have you gotten yourself into that requires you to visit the Manor instead of your apartment?”

“I don’t need it. I found a boy buried alive in the same cemetery that I was buried in. He’s really weak, most likely severely dehydrated and malnourished. I-I’m not equipped to take care of something like this.” His voice is breaking slightly.

There was a moment of silence. The only sounds Jason could hear were the wind screaming in his ears and the muffled sounds of traffic. The panic he had shoved into the furthest darkest corner of his mind was starting to creep into his thoughts again.

“Alright. Bring him straight into the cave. I’ll have a bed ready for him and I’ll call Dr. Leslie in. I may be able to do many things, this however seems like a situation we need a professional opinion on.”

“Kay. I’ll see you then.”

#danny phantom #dp x dc #danny fenton #dc #dp #dc x dp #jason todd #dc comics #dpxdc #batfam #red hood #ficlet #tw: buried alive #tw: anxiety attack #Tw: severe malnourishment #tw: ptsd #tw: flashbacks #hopefully that’s all of the triggers #let me know if i missed anything

[serendipitous-posts]

Actually kind of obsessed with the idea of . . afterimages of sorts of the previous Golden Guards. 

Some of them are just things left behind, shoes Hunter finds in his room that aren’t his size. He throws them out without thinking too much of it.

Once he steps on a floorboard to find it creaking. There’s a little crawlspace of sorts, full of little tiny things; a red feather, a half knitted scarf, a flyer for a festival, a woodcarving knife. He hides Flapjack in his staff form in there.

Under his bed there are carvings of peoples names-previous Golden Guards, he assumes, since Uncle told him they always lived in this room. Still, property damage? He can see why they were replaced.

He adds his name anyways

(In another world, the next Golden Guard opens the crawlspace and finds the staff. In another world, the next Golden Guard sneers at the name Hunter but still carves his own name into the wood.)

(When the Golden Guards die, they are given no tombstone, no memorial. The carvings under Hunters bed are their obituary.)

Sometimes Hunter feels like people are watching him. Belos tells him he may need to be replaced and it fills him with such certain fear he self immolates.

(Each Golden Guard is different but that doesn’t mean certain things don’t bleed through. Sometimes he jerks awake, dreams of being burnt alive, being turned to stone, drowning in soil, him but not)

(When it happens he goes to the crawlspace and runs his hands over the feather, the flyer with the date cheerfully circled in red ink. The scarf that had never been finished)

Hunter puts his hands into the earth and digs himself a grave in front of Amity and King. It’s more than we got, someone whispers. It sounds ancient. It sounds like a child. It sounds like him.

#owl house #hunter owl house #golden guard #owl house hunter #amity #king owl house #owl house king #emperor belos #tw buried alive #tw burning alive #tw petrification

[serickswrites]

Buried

Warnings: buried alive, torture, rescue attempt, captivity

Caretaker froze as they saw the freshly dug grave, their heart sinking as they realized they were too late. They couldn’t be too late. Whumpee needed them. “I’m here, Whumpee!” They called as they threw themself on the grave and began to frantically dig. 

“I’m here. Whumpee! Whumpee!” Caretaker continued to dig frantically. Whumpee had to be alive. Had to be in here. They couldn’t have been to late. 

“I’m here. I’ve got you. Hold on!” Caretaker shouted as their fingers scraped along a rough, wooden coffin. “Just hold on, Whumpee. Hold on!”

Caretaker looked around for a way to pry open the coffin, eyes landing on the pick axe that Whumper had used to break up the soil before lowering Whumpee and coffin into the shallow grave. “Just a few moments. Help is here, Whumpee. I’m here.”

Caretaker gave a sob as the coffin lid swung off revealing an empty grave. “No. No. Nonononononono!” Caretaker repeated as they sank to their knees. 

On the pillow where Whumpee’s head should have been was a piece of paper. Whumper’s neat script read, “A preview of what is to come, Caretaker. My gift to you since you will be needing one for Whumpee once I’m through with them. Come find us.”

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw buried alive #tw torture #tw rescue attempt #whumpmasinjuly2023 #wij23day 15 #prompt: buried #queue #tw captivity

[whumpinthepot]

@whumpmasinjuly 2023 day 15. Buried.

Credit goes to @zobodahobo

#whumpmasinjuly2023 #whumpmasinjuly #wij23day15 #whump meme #buried alive tw #breezys post