You realized around 102 objects… well, technically dateables, as Skylar called them.
After you realized them, they had to leave since ofcourse, they wanted to pursue their own dreams. Which of course is fair! But…
It hurts… alot.
They left you… alone in this big house.
As you head to the kitchen early morning, you look around your house. It feels so familiar yet it feels like a bittersweet memory you can’t forget. It feels like a void you can’t escape. A cage with no key.
You arrive in the kitchen, you open up (cabrizzio)— the cupboard to get (daisuke) some dishware to make breakfast.
After breakfast, you go upstairs, going up.
Every step reminding you of the dateables you can’t even hear from anymore. You go to your room. You’ve had enough. You’re done crying over them.
You go to your computer. You’re moving out. Selling this house, starting a new life. Away from here, away from them.
Mac, your lovely diva of a computer tends to see over your search history. (Yes… including your… suggestive searches). And they’ve seen your tiktok reposts… you’ve reposted tiktok rants of relapsing, cutting yourself, self harm jokes, thinking of committing suicide.
They’re REALLY concerned.
So they approach you one day.
“Hey… darling… algorithm of my love. source code of my life…”
“Yes, Mac?”
You ask, as you just cook dinner for the two of you.
Mac responds… ever-so hesitantly.
“Are you… ok? I’ve seen your reposts… it’s worrying me.”
You don’t respond. The whole world feels like its on pause. Like a reboot message on a computer when it notifies you of a virus, but you’d normally cancel that notification though.
But this time? You can’t skip this. You can’t ignore this conversation.
You can’t ignore their face.
You frantically try to explain yourself.
“Ah! Uhm! Well… its… I.. uh…”
Yet you can’t. You never anticipated this moment. You reposted those videos to vent. To feel comfort. To say the things you’ve always wanted to say, yet can’t…
You didn’t think anyone would look at your reposts.
Well… atleast until now.
Mac, already filled with tears, speaks up
“Hun, I’m really concerned for you. You know you can talk to me… right?”
You hesitantly speak up, albeit a bit quietly. Trying to defuse the situation
“Mac, its fine dw! I can handle it all on my own.”
Mac replies, a bit angry that you’re lying to them infront of them.
“Why are you lying?! You have these reposts where you consider killing yourself! Where you make jokes on cutting yourself or hurting yourself! Don’t you see, what hurts you hurts me back?! Don’t you trust me enough to talk to me about these things”
You quickly retort.
“I do! I just don’t want you to worry about me”
Mac retorted fast
“You don’t then! Do you not feel safe with me?!”
Your heart stops. Thats not what you intended to do!
“No, Mac. I’m sorry thats not what I meant!”
Too late. Mac already wheeled away in their wheelchair.
TW: angst. mention of suicide and self harm. fluff at the end
Mac, your lovely diva of a computer tends to see over your search history. (Yes… including your… suggestive searches). And they’ve seen your tiktok reposts… you’ve reposted tiktok rants of relapsing, cutting yourself, self harm jokes, thinking of committing suicide.
They’re REALLY concerned.
So they approach you one day.
“Hey… darling… algorithm of my love. source code of my life…”
“Yes, Mac?”
You ask, as you just cook dinner for the two of you.
Mac responds… ever-so hesitantly.
“Are you… ok? I’ve seen your reposts… it’s worrying me.”
You don’t respond. The whole world feels like its on pause. Like a reboot message on a computer when it notifies you of a virus, but you’d normally cancel that notification though.
But this time? You can’t skip this. You can’t ignore this conversation.
You can’t ignore their face.
You frantically try to explain yourself.
“Ah! Uhm! Well… its… I.. uh…”
Yet you can’t. You never anticipated this moment. You reposted those videos to vent. To feel comfort. To say the things you’ve always wanted to say, yet can’t…
You didn’t think anyone would look at your reposts.
Well… atleast until now.
Mac, already filled with tears, speaks up
“Hun, I’m really concerned for you. You know you can talk to me… right?”
You hesitantly speak up, albeit a bit quietly. Trying to defuse the situation
“Mac, its fine dw! I can handle it all on my own.”
Mac replies, a bit angry that you’re lying to them infront of them.
“Why are you lying?! You have these reposts where you consider killing yourself! Where you make jokes on cutting yourself or hurting yourself! Don’t you see, what hurts you hurts me back?! Don’t you trust me enough to talk to me about these things”
You quickly retort.
“I do! I just don’t want you to worry about me”
Mac retorted fast
“You don’t then! Do you not feel safe with me?!”
Your heart stops. Thats not what you intended to do!
“No, Mac. I’m sorry thats not what I meant!”
Too late. Mac already wheeled away in their wheelchair.
!DISCLAIMER! This is a HURT/NO COMFORT fic (my take on how the classic 'break-in' would play out, and let me tell you...it's not pretty)
CW (pls read them): Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert, Home Invasion, Kidnapping, Robbery, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Angst and Tragedy, Hurt No Comfort, Gun Violence, Torture, Psychological Drama, Use of Knives, Panic Attacks...the Author Regrets Nothing.
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 5: 𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐌𝐞
What does loss feel like? They say we all experience it eventually. Who knew we would all live the same nightmare together?
TW: Depictions of Violence/Injury, Kidnapping, Emotional distress & Threats of harm (yada yada you get the point)
Rage.
That's all he saw in that moment.
Pure rage.
Volt can feel it spread everywhere. From his feet to the top of his hair. It crawls under his skin like wildfire—only this fire is blue, electric, deadly. His breath trembles with every sharp inhale, and electricity sparks off him in frantic, snapping bursts.
A deep, furious blue blooms across his hands, surges up his arms, spreads across his chest like lightning branching over storm clouds. It climbs his throat, his jaw, his cheeks—until he’s glowing like a charged conduit ready to explode.
His hair follows, the white strands flaring outward, rising weightlessly as if gravity itself is afraid to touch him. Thin bolts of electricity crackle violently through the curls, weaving between them like living threads of light. Every inch of him is hot, bright, and lethal. Ready to snap.
It doesn’t take long—it happens when he hears it.
Your scream.
Torn out of you, raw and terrified, echoing through every corner of this house as the agents surround you.
Volt’s whole body spasms. And then... finds release.
CRASH!
His power breaks through the crystal barrier that keeps him caged. The sound of the glass breaking sounds satisfying to his ears. The lamp’s bulb explodes outward in a violent burst of blue light, glass shattering across the floor like a storm of glittering shrapnel. The socket hisses. Sparks spit out. The air itself seems to recoil.
And Volt stands in the center of it—manifested fully, electricity coiling around him like a serpent ready to strike.
He trembles, fists clenching and unclenching, every muscle tight with a desire to strangle. To kill.
“That’s it!” he snarls, voice crackling like a live wire hitting water. Absolutely ear-splitting. “I’m done watching!”
Eddie appears beside him a split-second later, pulled into manifestation by the surge. His boots land hard on the shaking floor, his own dark wire hair snapping with static from Volt’s own overflow.
“Volt!—” Eddie warns, breath sharp, chest heaving. He looks at your tied-up form. Your bruised and bloodied skin. Broken glass lying at your feet. His own body feels hot and tense, yet he tries to remain in control. “You need to calm the fuck down!”
“Calm down?!” Volt’s voice basically crackles—lacking any humanness—his face a vicious snarl as he turns to face his other—furious—partner. “Didn’t you hear what this bastard said?! They’re taking them!”
“You almost blasted glass in spark’s face! You need to control yourself.” Eddie was quick to snap at him, you are the only thing on his mind. “You could have burned them, or worse, blinded them!”
Volt’s electricity dims a little at his words, but his intense glare still carries its violent, neon glow.
“They laid their hands on them, Eddie. They hurt them!”
Eddie grabs Volt’s arm, gripping hard enough to anchor him. Volt’s energy seems to transfer into Eddie’s own flesh. The physical presence of his anger connecting them both. “If you fry the room, we lose them. Focus.”
Volt clenches both of his fists, knuckles now gone a sparkling white.
“I am focused.”
Eddie’s jaw tightens—but he holds Volt’s stare. Holding off the storm.
“They’re taking them,” Eddie says through his teeth. Saying it hurts more than he would like to admit. “Right now. We don’t have time to blow up the damn house.”
A low, dangerous hum fills the office as Volt’s form brightens to an even deeper, darker blue.
“They’re not leaving this house,” Volt snarls, the sound is horrifying. “Not with my livewire.”
Eddie’s eyes flick toward the agents—Grey and his sick smile, Crowe, cussing in pain and confusion. Just looking at them fills Eddie with an anger he can’t describe. A murderous one.
He gives up whatever restraint he had left. In doing so, he releases the storm.
Eddie steps closer to Volt, mirroring his stance. He lowers his voice.
“Not without a fight.”
No matter how much you begged, how much you tried to fight the ropes cutting at your wrists. The world still went black.
The dark cloth surrounds you from all sides—encapsulating your head.
It's hot and humid already. Thanks to your haggard breathing beneath a thick gag. No way of screaming for help.
Who was even coming to help?
Not your neighbors, they couldn’t hear you. Not Sam, who was out of town. Not the police, they’d never get here in time.
No other human was coming.
No one knew.
No one saw.
No one was coming.
You were alone in this and currently losing any hopes of winning. Of seeing another day.
You don’t want to die.
But you’re starting to believe you might.
And as they haul you across the floor—
your bound feet scraping wood—
Some sudden movement can be heard from outside the dark void of your vision.
You don’t have time to process what it might be before it happens again. Loader this time.
BOOM!
CRASH!
SLAM!
THUD!
CRACKLE!
RIP!
So many sounds. So much noise. You feel the movement from where you are on the ground. The noise is a combination of wood banging, fabric ripping, electricity snapping, and metal grinding.
When the mix of human confusion hits your ears, you know it's not them causing the ruckus. Rather, it's your house—trying to save you. Trying to defy the odds—not in your favor—to get you back.
A rough hand grabs your shoulder, yanking you backward, dragging you along the ground. Your arms ache. Your lungs burn. Your muffled cries break apart into frantic sobbing as you flail helplessly behind the hood. Never had you felt so useless.
Things slam onto the floor. Hard.
Another impact. Heavier—the vibration shakes your whole body.
You know it to be your bookshelf. You hear the multitude of books that once hung on its shelves fall to the ground, the sound so similar to that of hail hitting a roof. The bookshelf itself follows soon after.
Lyric throws what he can at them. Launching his books as far as he can manage, whilst trying not to hit you in the process. The rain of book spines pelts the men—some strikes glancing off shoulders, others catching ribs or arms.
“What the hell is going on!” Crowe shouts, ducking as a heavy hardcover whizzes past his head.
Lyric hovers off the ground from where he stands—papers swirling around him. His arm is already pulled back as he tries to aim a hardcover fantasy novel at the man's head.
“Oh, hush!” Lyric snaps, voice sharp and theatrical, dripping with outrage. “You don’t deserve footnotes, let alone dialogue!”
With that, he lets the book shoot from his hand, the book landing right at the back of Crowe’s skull.
Shelly continues the rain of objects when Lyric runs out of books. Her inhuman stamina aids her as she throws whatever is on her. She throws cardboard boxes, potted plants—even a small barrel cactus. All while grinning ear to ear.
“Oh we’re doing THIS?” she shouts, hyped, borderline feral. She’s so pumped that she feels her bolted screws on the wall might come loose.
“YEAH BABY! LET’S GO! DEFENSE! DEFENSE!” Shelley chants, her voice absolutely thrilled, even as she wobbles slightly.
Grey is able to duck before the small barrel cactus nails him in the side. The potted plant smashing into the wall behind him. Shattered ceramic and dirt scatter across the floor.
“MY BAD WALL BRO!” Shelly hurries to apologize to Wallace. The bruly man only stands there, arms raised as he yells “WALL!” not in anger but to join in to Shelly’s own determined enthusiasm.
Crowe manages to move away from the shelf’s aim, dragging you with him.
“YOU GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY PAL! OR ELSE THE PENCILS ARE NEXT!” Penelope gives a scared squeak in surprise. But Shelly doesn’t notice, too busy aiming her next box, with Beau coming in to help her.
The men make the mistake of getting too close to the window. Where Curt and Rod are waiting.
Curt moves first.
The teal curtains rip themselves straight off the rod with a loud metallic screech—fabric snapping out.
Curt lunges, wrapping Crowe up from behind.
“Nah, bro, we ain’t doin’ this today—not with OUR human.”
Crowe stumbles hard as Curt tightens the bind, locking him in. Curt grunts, muscles straining as fabric winds further up Crowe’s arms and chest.
“Say less, Curt! Man’s lookin’ like some busted burrito!”
Crowe tries to stagger forward, but Curt just yanks him backwards again.
Rod guffaws at the man’s attempt.
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s what I THOUGHT, lil man!”
But then—
Crowe pulls out a knife.
Rod freezes. Curt’s eyes go wide.
“Hey hey HEY HEY—whoa!” Rod shouts, but he’s too late.
SWISH!
TEAR!
Curt chokes out a hard sound and clutches his side as blood blooms through his black shirt.
Rod’s yells, voice cracking at the end. If this were any other situation, Curt would have thrown shade at him for that, but instead, he’s clutching at his side.
“CURT—CURT—!”
Curt tries to stay latched on. Refusing to let go.
“Man, I’m good—just—hold up—” He grunts.
“You are BLEEDING,” Rod says, grabbing him around the waist, practically forcing him upright. “Curt, come on, dude—let him GO!”
Curt clenches his jaw, shaking, breathing ragged.
“He ain’t takin’ them, man.”
Rod pulls at him harder. The thought of losing both Curt and you is too much for him now.
“Curt, listen to me, bro. LET. GO. I got you.”
Curt finally releases.
The torn curtain drops.
Rod drags him backward, arm around him—face twisted in worry and heated anger. He stares at his friend, his brother from another mother, bleeding in his arms. He turns to look at you, too—still screaming through the gag, struggling on the floor.
What do I do?
His mind spins.
Do I stay?
Do I fight?
Do I protect him?
Do I save them?
How do I choose?
He can’t. He simply can’t. It’s too much to ask of him. Anyone he picks, he will only end up losing someone else.
How much more will it take?
Dasha doesn’t waste any time.
While Rod clings to Curt, she pivots on her heel and charges. Not toward Crowe this time, but toward the exit, toward Dorian.
To cut off their escape.
She slams her entire weight into Grey’s side like a human battering ram. The impact bounces through the hall, sharp and brutal. Her boots skid across the hardwood, bracing, digging deep. She locks herself into that doorway, refusing to budge, a wall of metal edge and muscle.
Grey grunts, driven back a step, breath forced out of him. He tries to push her aside, but the desk doesn’t budge.
For a split second—she remains in place.
She thinks she's won.
No one gets past.
But Grey recovers fast. He snarls, braces one foot against her frame, and kicks.
The sound is sickening—metal compacting against the heel of his boot.
She feels the impact on her chest. The force dents her panel sharply inward, collapsing a corner of her surface; the blow sends tremors through her whole structure. The impact jolts everything stacked atop her body—Chance, Mac and Penelope—sending them tumbling to the floor in a chaotic cascade of clattering dice, monitors, and spilled pens.
Dasha staggers, hands rising to clutch at her chest. Wind blown out of her.
“Chyort!” She curses weakly.
Her body is shoved to the side by the tall man, who then turns to look back at the other agent.
“Useless,” he spits at Crowe, voice furious. “Move. I’m taking over.”
His boots stomp hard against the floorboards as he reaches you, grabs the ropes binding your arms, and yanks—violently.
Your entire body jerks.
“MMPH—!! MMPHHH!!”
The gag buries your scream deep into your chest, forcing it to vibrate against your lungs instead of the air. Bile creeps up your throat. Grey drags you forward like dead weight, your knees scraping uselessly against the floor, catching on every groove until your skin stings.
“Stop struggling,” he snaps, annoyed, breathless with effort. “I’m sick of everyone's bitchin’ ”
Your scream chokes again, wet and desperate. Every plea that leaves you burns.
Crowe grabs your ankles to help, and together they drag you like some bagged animal across the wooden floor. Until something blocks the way.
Dorian.
He has seen everything.
Every moment of this horror.
He remembers the first slam downstairs—Dorian’s own shouts of pain when the agents splintered his door open.
He was there when you pleaded with Hector to hide Skylar—unable to keep them from going upstairs.
Fixed to his post as he saw them tackle you in your room—or during the interrogation.
Fuck, how it pained him to watch!
Every drop of blood, every heavy tear, he saw it all. And now he can’t unsee it. He’s sure none of them can.
They’ve all fought. (They still are.)
But...it wasn’t enough, was it?
Because he failed.
He failed them.
He failed you.
He promised to hold you tighter than anyone else in this house.
And yet here you are—
Ripped from his grasp.
The door doesn’t open when Grey turns the knob.
“Ugh, for fuck’s sake.” A deep growl escapes his throat. He yanks on the collar of your shirt, lifting you upright slightly. He leans in close to your covered face; you can’t see the evil snarl he bears.
“You and your house have pushed me to my fucking limit. I have a job to do, and I will see this through.” You pull back but fail to create distance between you. “Make peace with whoever you believe in, or whatever you talk to in this blasted house.”
His voice drops as he shifts closer, you practically feel his breath through the mask.
“Because once I break open this door, you won’t be coming back.”
Your body trembles violently—your sobs strangled and broken.
Grey bares his teeth.
“And this goddamn door—”
He rears his leg back—
“ISN’T—”
—and kicks, wood splintering.
“STOPPING ME.”
The impact thunders through Dorian’s frame. As the entire door collapses to the ground.
You scream.
The most agonizing, high-pitched, blood-curdling scream you can muster from your heaving throat.
That's all it took...
For this house to lose you forever...
Nothing seems to help. No matter who tosses themselves at who or blocks the path here and there. They are already in front of the back door.
“Took us a while, but we made it, sweetheart.” Crowe doesn’t care to hide the bitterness from his voice as his nails grip onto your ankles. You can’t cry out anymore—you’ve finally lost your voice from exhaustion. Only small, quiet sniffles come out.
“Head out first, Crowe. I have to make a call before we go.” Grey releases his grip on you, handing you over to his partner.
“Ah—yes, the boss would like to know that his pretty package is on its way, isn’t that right, lovely?”
Your heart feels so heavy, it’s unbearable. And your mind is on its last straw of sanity. They took everything you have: your safety, your dignity, your happiness, your family.
You can’t even say goodbye.
They took that away from you, too.
“Please...”
“Huh? You say something sweet, sweetheart?” The man holding you chuckles, mocking you.
“Please...let me go...please....” The only response you get is a nasally laugh.
“I’m sorry...so so sorry...” You don’t apologize to him, rather those in your home—any who are close enough to listen. As this is goodbye.
“Please forgive me...I love you—”
And that was the last thing you said—before something knocks you unconscious—and everything goes black.
Crowe takes the back of his pistol and hits the back of your skull with a quick ‘whack’. You go quiet and limp in his arms.
He adjusts you over his shoulder and makes his way out the broken door, not before giving that same door an ugly grin. Meanwhile, Grey reaches to activate his earpiece and connects to the comms, eyes flicking toward Crowe’s retreating figure.
“Extraction secured. We have the alternate package.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Good...you know what to do."
“…Sir?” Grey asks after a moment, thumb rubbing along the wheel of a small silver lighter in his palm. The flame clicks on, then off, then on again. “Orders on the house?”
Silence.
A crackle of static.
And then, through the distortion—
“Do what you’d like.”
Grey stills his movements. “Meaning—?”
The line dies with a sharp ‘beep’.
Outside, the wind moves through the broken doorway, carrying dust and the faint smell of rain. The night presses heavily against the house on the hill, as though trying to sink into it. Every room feels hollowed out, emptied of any life it once had.
Floorboards don’t creak.
The clock doesn’t tick.
The walls remain quiet.
Nothing waits.
Nothing stirs.
Only the stillness remains.
And in the cold, muted dark, the house stands forgotten beneath a moonless sky. The life it held—now gone.
Thinking of the "Volt kills the home owner" fics where something goes wrong during the confrontation at the breaker box and he forgets he is literally electric
And thinking about Nightmare never letting him have a night of peaceful sleep again, making him watch the events over and over as himself, as Eddie, as their Live Wire, watching himself kill them, watching him kill himself, feeling it and waking only to relive it over and over
