#whumpwhumpweek

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 2: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Cursor Alan AU

Summary: Alan is very easy to fool, they just don't know to what extent...

Tag/s: Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Broken Bones, Major Injuries

Alan, in short, was not accustomed to living as a stick figure. Most importantly, he didn't know what was good for him and what wasn't. While it was better as a cursor, he could easily access knowledge from around the world. Now, he no longer had access to those kinds of things.

He could no longer simply summon a book or retrieve his notes where he had been jotting down his thoughts and other information about the other hollowheads.

In essence, he was prone to believing things that were sometimes not real.

And the gang had been having too much fun with that. It was all in good fun, really. Alan was always a bit naive and overly trusting. Second wasn't always around to keep his friends in check.

"Did you know that if you bite your toe, you'll be able to levitate?" Green said, lying on his stomach as Blue chuckled. "Really?" Alan perked up, resting on Blue's legs, his hair messy as Blue worked on tying and styling his own hair.

"Yup," Green confirmed, winking at Yellow, who shook his head and chuckled, occupied with painting something in his hands. Red groaned, rubbing his eyes as he scribbled something in his book. Second had left Alan with them and instructed them to keep an eye on him in the meantime, so now they were tasked with entertaining Alan, who was easily amused.

And easy to trick.

Alan frowned and turned to look at Red. "Whahht? Ish it noht real? Shhhould I bite myh toe and thry it?" Alan asked, tilting his head. Behind him, Blue chuckled before quickly coughing to cover it up, while Yellow cleared his throat.

Green had a mischievous grin on his face. "Green," Yellow warned, his tone almost threatening, but Alan just stuck his tongue out, peering at his feet and wiggling his toes, tempted to try what Green was suggesting.

Green started giggling, glancing at Yellow, who shot him a glare that could almost wither any living being in sight. "Green," Yellow growled, his tone serious, making Green pout.

"I was just kidding," Green said with a shrug. "You can't bite your— Alan, don't bite your toes!" Green yelped as Blue laughed, watching Alan struggle to bite his toes, with Yellow and Green attempting to stop him, while Red shook his head.

. . . .

"Alan is really easy to fool. Next time I see you four messing with him," Chosen said, pointing at each of them before clenching his fist. Green awkwardly laughed, his face pale. "I didn't mean to—" Green started, but Yellow forced him to bow, pushing Green's head down.

"He meant it," Yellow added as Blue snickered.

Chosen raised a brow at them before chuckling and rolling his eyes. "Next time, be careful. He tends to believe things that are just plain impossible," Chosen warned, giving them all a stern look.

Green pouted, scratching his cheek. "Aye aye, captain," he replied, mock saluting as Chosen tousled his hair with a laugh.

"Choooo! Wahnt to go outshide," Alan said, peeking from the side, grabbing Chosen's shoulders and shaking him, a pout on his face as they all groaned.

"But we just went outside earlier," Red added as Alan pouted, lying on the floor and stretching his arms and legs, nearly kicking Yellow in the process before letting out a yawn.

"Outshhide?" Alan asked again, looking at Chosen, who sighed. "Not outside," Chosen corrected, wagging a finger as Alan whined. "You can go out with Agent," Vic chimed in, walking past the living room, carrying two boxes in his arms.

Agent followed, holding four. "Yeah, if you want," he added as Alan perked up, quickly pushing himself up with his arms.

"Reallyyyy?" Alan exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement as he got to his feet, stumbling slightly as he ran towards Agent, who chuckled under his breath.

"Alright, let me get the boxes in my truck, then I can drive you to the park," Agent said, walking out of the house. Vic dropped the boxes at the back of the truck as Chosen reminded Alan to wear shoes before they left.

"You two going out?" Vic asked, dusting his hands as Agent hummed, carefully placing the boxes on the back of his truck before closing it.

"Yeah, I'll meet up with the others. They can talk with Alan. I know Ballista has been wanting to do that," Agent said, stifling a chuckle when he saw Alan whining as Chosen fitted a large jacket over his body and zipped it up.

"Noooo," Alan whined, walking towards Vic and tugging at his jacket, letting out an annoyed grumble.

"You need that because while it's not exactly snowing, we don't want you getting sick again," Vic reminded, fixing the zipper and zipping it up.

Alan only pouted as Agent chuckled. "Come on, let's get to the park. I'm sure you miss Ballista," Agent waved a hand as he climbed into his truck. He heard Alan cheer, climbing into the passenger seat with a bit of difficulty until Vic helped him up.

"Shhorry," Alan pouted as Vic buckled him into the seat, securing it before patting Alan's shoulder. "You're good to go. Don't stray from Agent, okay? Be careful, and never talk to strangers," Vic warned, glaring at Agent who just laughed.

"Don't worry, I'll watch over him," Agent assured, and Vic smiled in response. "I promishhe I wihll do all of the shhtuff youh shaid," Alan declared with a grin, and Vic rolled his eyes. "Be sure you do," Vic said, tousling Alan's hair before climbing down from the truck and shutting the door.

"You ready?" Agent asked, and Alan nodded eagerly.

. . . .

"Agent, oh and Alan as well," Primal mused, hand on her chin as Agent and Alan trudged in their direction. Agent smiled while Alan skipped excitedly, almost tripping and slipping along the way.

Luckily, Agent was always there to steady him. "Ballishhta!" Alan cheered upon spotting the smaller stick figure who waved back eagerly. "Al! Man, it's good to see you again," Ballista laughed as Alan rushed towards him.

"Ballista, can you watch over him for now? I need to get something from the truck. Primal and Hazard, you both come with me," Agent said, gesturing with his thumb towards his truck where the boxes were stacked.

"What are those?" Primal asked, following after Agent.

"Just some stuff Vic is willing to give away," Agent explained, his voice fading as Hazard ran after them.

Ballista grinned, turning towards Alan and placing a hand on his hips. "What do you want to do today?" Ballista asked as Alan tapped his chin in thought.

What did he really want to do? He was already outside, one thing checked off. Now that he was outside the house, what did he want to do next?

"Alan?" Ballista called again as Alan shrugged, pouting. "I donhh't know," Alan said, scratching his head. Ballista chuckled in response.

"That's alright, we can sit here. See?" Ballista sat down on one of the benches as Alan eagerly followed suit, a small grin on his face. Ballista watched as Alan tried to cross his legs, looking awkward due to his tall stature.

Not even Primal could cross her legs; she always had to stretch them out when sitting down.

Alan struggled a bit before giving up, lowering his feet to the ground with a slight pout as Ballista stifled a laugh with a cough. "Anything you want to talk about?" Ballista asked, tilting his head as Alan hummed.

Staring at the sky, then at the trees, the children that was running around before back at Ballista and shaking his head.

"Not a man of many words, eh? I understand. Vic said you still have trouble talking and your throat hurts," Ballista remarked, and Alan nodded vigorously. "Hmm, I don't know what to talk about either," Ballista shrugged as Alan pouted.

The smaller stick figure hummed, his eyes wandering around the park before focusing on Alan.

"Ish it true thaht if I jump offht a chair I can flyh?" Alan suddenly asked, making Ballista raise a brow. Jump off a chair? Ballista thought, feeling the urge to laugh, so instead, he let out a snort.

"Maybe... yeah, what the heck, it is real," Ballista laughed, nodding as Alan perked up. "D-Doeshh ihht have tho be only a chhhair?" Alan asked, almost bouncing with excitement.

The idea of flying again was so thrilling for him that he couldn't quite think logically about jumping off something high not equating to flying.

Thinking Alan was joking, Ballista laughed. "You can try jumping off a tree," Ballista suggested as Alan gasped with excitement. "Reallyyy?" Alan asked, turning to gaze at the tallest tree in the park.

For him, it was the tallest tree because he couldn't reach its lowest branch, considering the other trees were small due to their low branches.

"Ballista!" Primal yelled, carrying boxes in her hands. "Yeah?" Ballista replied, sitting up. "Come help us here, you goof!" Primal called out before walking away.

Rolling his eyes, Ballista said, "Don't leave, stay here, alright?" Alan nodded, watching Ballista hop off the bench and run off as fast as his little legs could carry him

Alan pouted for a moment, disappointed that their conversation had come to an end. His eyes then landed on the large tree, a grin spreading across his face as he stood up. Glancing towards where Agent's truck was parked, he saw Ballista and the others occupied with their backs turned to him.

Quickly, he dashed towards the tree, hiding behind the trunk with a soft giggle. He gasped in awe at its height before gripping the wood with his hands and placing his feet on one of the ridges.

Climbing wasn't his strong suit, but the park had provided small steps for people to ascend and use the branches as a viewpoint. Alan was certain he had seen children sitting on the lower branches before, so he believed he could do it too.

With a soft grunt, he pulled himself up, his knees bent at an awkward angle that likely tore a part of his pajamas around his knees.

Alan let out a soft whine as he ascended, settling on a branch and inspecting his knees, finding small wood chips and a little rip.

"Awwhh," Alan whined, pouting, brushing the wood chips off his knees as he slowly moved towards another branch. His legs shook slightly, the folded position feeling strange as he supported his weight, half-crawling and half-walking towards the next branch.

It didn't take long for him to reach the edge of the branch, peering down at the ground, his arms shaking with a mix of fear and excitement.

He could fly again!

Dark had said he could do it by jumping off a chair, and Ballista added that it applied to trees as well. Would it really work?

Alan grinned, wobbling slightly. He had missed his ability to fly, and now that he had a solution, he could finally do it again!

Hanging his legs off the branch, he let out a soft giggle. Turning towards where he could barely see Agent's truck, he noticed Primal talking with Hazard and Ballista struggling to carry boxes until Agent decided to help him by taking two off his load.

Alan giggled to himself, focusing instead on the ground below.

The height was so dizzying. He found himself unconsciously leaning forward before steadying himself and letting out a breathless chuckle. There was a strange, fast thumping in his chest—it was his heart.

Was his heart supposed to beat so fast? Maybe what Dark and Ballista were saying was true!

With that thought, Alan slowly slid off the branch.

. . . .

"Hey, where's Alan?" Agent asked, walking towards the bench and finding no one there. He heard Ballista run up to him, panting. "I left him there. I even explicitly said he should stay there!" Ballista exclaimed, gripping his hair in panic.

Agent narrowed his eyes, biting his lip before hearing footsteps. He turned his head and saw Alan walking towards them with a slight frown on his lips. "Creators, Alan," Agent breathed out a sigh.

Approaching the tall stick figure and placing a hand on his shoulder, Alan flinched, moving away from him, teeth gritting, left arm limp, and right hand twitching over his shoulder.

"Alan? Are you alright?" Agent asked as Alan only looked down. "Ballishhhta and Darhhk lied tshho meee," Alan pouted, sniffing slightly as Agent turned to Ballista and gave him a look.

Ballista shrugged, shaking his head in confusion.

Agent sighed, turning back to Alan, who absentmindedly rubbed his arm, wincing. "I wahhnt to gohh hhhome," Alan said, his gaze still averted, causing Agent's brow to furrow in concern.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Agent asked, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch Alan without him flinching.

Alan had always accepted touch from everyone, making it strange for him to suddenly flinch away without reason. "Mhmm, okay," Alan murmured, his voice low and hard to hear.

"Homeeee," Alan repeated, raising his head, as Agent scrutinized him. Alan looked pained, with dilated eyes, teeth scraping his lips every few seconds as if he was holding back sounds, and he appeared pale.

Sweat glistened on his face, and he seemed a bit unsteady on his feet.

Agent sensed that something was amiss–something is wrong with Alan.

"Ballista, get Primal and Hazard," Agent instructed, and Ballista nodded, darting off to fetch them while Agent guided Alan back down the bench, preventing him from toppling to the floor.

"Alan—Alan, are you with me?" Agent asked, concerned, as Alan blinked at him with a confused expression, letting out pained whimpers. "Myyyy armhh, it's hurthhing," Alan murmured, sniffing and wiping his eyes with his right arm, clearing away tears.

Agent's brow furrowed as he turned to examine Alan's left shoulder, finding nothing visibly different as he was still wearing his sweater. However, he noticed wood chips on Alan's leg and a rip in his pajamas over his knees.

"What happened, Alan?" Agent asked, reaching for Alan's left arm to roll up his sleeves. Alan let out a pained yowl, resembling a cat howling in distress.

"It hurts!" Alan growled, baring his teeth and clawing at Agent's hand with his right hand.

Agent raised both hands in a calming gesture, observing Alan cradle his left arm delicately, his complexion noticeably paler.

"Darkhh shhaid I could flyyy againnn, jump off a thhree," Alan mumbled, pouting. Agent's eyes widened, noticing a peculiar protrusion on Alan's shoulder. He then observed Alan's face, realizing his blinking had slowed, and he seemed to be struggling for breath.

"Damn it," Agent muttered, quickly rising to his feet. Just in time, he heard Ballista and the others rushing in. "Agent, what's wrong? Ball called us," Primal inquired as Hazard nodded.

"Call Vic. I'm taking Alan to the hospital—Alan!" Agent exclaimed as Alan collapsed off the bench, landing in Primal's arms before Agent could reach him.

. . . .

"For crying out loud! Both of you— I'm going to strangle you!" Vic growled, his fist almost clenched like a claw as Dark and Ballista leaned away, turning towards each other with sweat on their brows.

"I'm so sorry, boss. I didn't think—Fuck," Ballista moaned, dropping his head into his hands as Vic sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't realize he took it seriously! That conversation was months ago when he had just turned into a stick figure," Dark argued, though he appeared angry, mostly at himself and his own foolishness.

He should have anticipated that Alan would dwell on it. The guy had mentioned missing his ability to fly; naturally, he might naively believe it could be possible by jumping from such a height.

Vic only sighed. "I understand it was an honest mistake," he began before groaning. "He broke his whole arm; it needed to be set back. He might need weeks of bed rest."

Ballista groaned as Dark muttered a curse under his breath.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 6: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Teen Alan AU

Summary: Second wakes up to find Alan is still awake, he worries.

Tags: Comfort no Hurt

It was rare for Second to wake up to any kind of noise. Not because he was a deep sleeper—far from it—but living with the Color Gang had effectively desensitized him to most sounds. They were loud, chaotic, and utterly unpredictable, but he’d learned to tune them out. Survival instincts, probably.

Still, as he cracked one eye open, the clock above his bed glowed 4:00 AM. And yet, there it was—that faint, incessant click-clack of a keyboard, piercing through the silence. He groaned, tempted to kick the wall dividing his room from Yellow’s. Why does he type so damn loud?

Yellow was either a nocturnal maniac or just suicidal. Second was honestly leaning toward the latter because, as far as he could tell, the guy never slept. Always hunched over his laptop, obsessively typing away. And now, at a most ungodly hour, that rhythmic tapping was starting to grate on Second’s nerves.

Not that Second didn’t love the gang. He really did. He didn’t even care when they raved at 3 AM or when Green decided to set things on fire for no reason. But sometimes… sometimes, he worried about their well-being. Did they sleep? Did they eat? Did they even breathe half the time?

With a sigh, Second sat up on his bed. His legs dangled awkwardly over the edge—curse these stupid Minecraft-sized beds—his knees pulled up to his chest every night just to fit. One of these days, he told himself, he’d build a bigger bed. But not today. Today, he had to deal with Yellow.

Getting to his feet, he stretched lazily, his joints popping faintly in the silence as he shuffled out of his room. The hallway was dark, the torches removed—Blue’s doing, no doubt. Second stifled a yawn and trudged toward Yellow’s room, the persistent keyboard clacking still ringing in his ears.

But as he approached Yellow’s door, he paused. The sound wasn’t coming from there. Still, for good measure, he cracked the door open.

Yellow was curled up in his bed, his laptop hugged tightly to his chest, blanket kicked halfway off the mattress. Even in sleep, the guy couldn’t let go of his precious laptop. Second sighed, stepping inside to pull the blanket over Yellow’s shoulders. The other stirred briefly but soon settled, his breathing steady and deep once more.

Second exhaled softly, relieved, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door with care. But the tapping noise still lingered, echoing faintly in the quiet house.

If it’s not Yellow, then who?

He checked Green’s room next. Nothing. Green was snoring softly, sprawled across his bed like a starfish.

Blue’s room? Also a no. Blue didn’t even own a laptop, and Second doubted he’d ever touch one.

Finally, he peeked into Red’s room. Red was fast asleep, curled up with Reuben, the pig snoring loudly beside him.

Scratching his head, Second stood in the dark living room, baffled. His brain, still foggy with sleep, struggled to piece it together. 

His brain is still fogged with sleep, and all he wants is to crawl back into bed and drift off again. But that incessant tapping noise isn't helping, and lack of sleep has always made him easily irritable.

Who's making that noise? The thought nags at him as he drags himself toward the door, his steps sluggish. He cracks it open slightly, only to wince as a blinding flash of white light hits him right in the face. A Google tab is open, set to Light Mode, and the harsh glow stings his eyes. He quickly shuts the door, rubbing his face in confusion.

Everyone else should be asleep by now. It’s late—no, early. Too early. Which means there’s only one possible culprit.

Alan.

Alan must have forgotten to mute his mic again.

Second mutters under his breath, still groggy as he pulls the door open once more and steps out. The glow feels even brighter now, and he squints, focusing on the scene ahead. Sure enough, it’s Alan. The teen is hunched over his desk, tapping away at something.

What on earth is he doing at this hour?

Second crosses the desktop, his irritation giving way to curiosity. It’s 4 in the morning—no kid should be awake at this time, let alone working on something.

“Alan?” Second calls, his voice sharp enough to startle the teen. Alan jerks upright, his head snapping toward Second, his face pale in the light of the monitor.

“S-Second? Why are you still up?” Alan stammers, his eyes wide.

Second tilts his head, arms crossed like a disapproving parent. His foot taps rhythmically against the desk. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Alan winces under Second’s gaze, his hand flying to the back of his neck as he rubs it awkwardly. Now that Second’s eyes have adjusted to the brightness, he notices the dark circles under Alan’s eyes. They’re heavy, like bruises, evidence of more than just one sleepless night.

When was the last time this kid even slept properly?

Second tilts his head. He doesn’t know much about school, not firsthand anyway. Between everyone in this computer, Red is the only one who’s experienced it—and even then, it was monster school, which Second doubts is remotely the same. But he does know this: school shouldn’t push someone to the point of exhaustion.

“What’s got you so stressed that you’re still awake at four in the morning?” Second asks, his tone softer now. He hops onto the google tab to peer over on what Alan is looking at. A few landscape images are open in separate tabs, scenic views of mountains, beaches, and forests.

Alan’s face darkens, his shoulders slumping under the weight of Second’s question. “A-Ah… how did you know?” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. He buries his face in his hands, his words muffled as he continues. “We have this project for school… We’re supposed to illustrate a place that holds our best memory.”

Second waits for him to talk again. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Alan explain.

“But…” Alan hesitates, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t really have a place like that. I’ve never been anywhere that meant something to me. So I’ve been… searching for pictures. I thought maybe I could… I don’t know… fake it.” His cheeks flush with shame as he admits it, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap.

“Oh… Does it have to be somewhere outside?” Second asked, his gaze flicking between the images on the screen—pictures of forests, beaches, and other scenic outdoor locations. There was a distinct pattern.

Alan tilted his head, seeming to consider the question. “Ah, well… She didn’t explicitly say it had to be outdoors,” he admitted, his voice tinged with hesitation. “But I kind of assumed it would be.”

Second snorted, shaking his head. “If she didn’t explicitly say it, then why not draw something different? Like, I don’t know… the interior of your house?”

Alan fell silent at that, rubbing his forehead as if the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. “That’s true… But what if I get it wrong?”

Second sighed. “You said yourself that she didn’t say anything about it having to be outside. So, let me ask you this: what’s a place you really like?”

Alan hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “I guess… home? I mean, Mom is here, you guys are always around, and DJ drops by more often than not.”

Second chuckled, leaning forward and smirking. “Then there’s your answer. You don’t need all this,” he said, standing up and closing the images Alan had been browsing.

Alan blinked, then let out a small laugh, his shoulders visibly relaxing as if a weight had just been lifted. “Ah… You’re so right, Second,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck while adjusting the glasses on his face. His tone carried a mix of relief and embarrassment.

Second raised a hand, cutting him off before he could say more. “But first,” he said, voice firm, “you need to go to sleep.”

Alan froze, blinking in surprise before blushing. “I guess… I was overthinking it a little too much,” he admitted, his voice shaky as he scratched his cheek in embarrassment.

“You don’t say,” Second replied dryly, tilting his head.

Alan giggled softly, covering his smile with his fist. “Good night, Sec.”

“Good night, Al,” Second said with a fond sigh, waving him off. “And go to sleep right away—it’s already four in the morning.”

Alan gave him a sheepish thumbs-up as he stood from his chair. “Sleep well,” he added as he moved to his bed on the far side of the room. Second watched as Alan straightened his blankets and lay down, finally reaching for the lamp beside him and switching it off. The room dimmed, leaving the faint glow of the computer screen.

Second allowed himself a small smile. “Mission: Make Alan sleep—success,” he whispered, pumping his fist in triumph. He felt a flicker of pride in his chest.

But the moment didn’t last long.

“What are you doing?” a groggy voice asked behind him.

Second let out an undignified shriek, spinning around to see Red standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Reuben, nestled in Red’s arms, let out a loud, snorting yawn.

Caught red-handed, Second froze, his face heating up. “…Nothing.”

Red stares at him, unimpressed.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 8: NIGHTMARES OF BEING FORGOTTEN

Reality Warped Alan AU

Summary: Alan ruminates.

Tag/s: Hurt no Comfort, Emotional Hurt

It’s been weeks now since I found myself trapped here — inside my own novel. If you don’t already know, my name is Alan Becker. I’m the author of Animation vs. Animator, and somehow, a few weeks ago, I woke up in this strange reality. My reality. In the body of the antagonist of my story — Alan.

At first, I thought it was incredible. Amazing, even. To see this world I built with my own hands, to breathe life into the characters I once painstakingly crafted. It’s surreal, really, to stand face-to-face with the very creations I poured my heart and soul into. But… at the same time, I keep asking myself: why me? Why was I sent here? And why… alone?

I can’t lie to myself — I don’t want to. I miss my life. I miss my family. I miss my wife, Kaori. I miss my friends. Even my mom… and we’ve never had the closest of relationships. My siblings always seemed to understand her better than I did. But now, even her constant nagging about my work feels like something I’d give anything to hear again.

I huff quietly to myself. It’s already past midnight, and yet sleep eludes me. It always does. How could I sleep when I’ve done nothing all day but exist? When my days consist of lying around this unfamiliar house, unable to muster the will to do anything? It feels… wrong.

This isn’t the life I’m used to. Back home, I was always busy. Running errands, writing, revising, pouring everything I had into my story. Here, everything feels stagnant. Quiet. Too quiet.

“Ugh…” I groan, rolling over in bed for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. My thoughts won’t stop racing. I want to go home. I like it here, I really do. It’s… nice. I’ve made new friends — Null, for one. And I’ve even started to repair my broken relationships with the stick figures. I think. Maybe. But even with all of that… it’s not enough. It’s not home.

Do they know I’m missing? I wonder if Kaori has realized I’m gone. Have my friends? What about my family? Are they looking for me? Did they call the police? Have they sent out search parties? Or… am I just gone? Like a ghost, or someone who slipped out of reality without a trace.

I bite my lip, a knot tightening in my chest.

Time here feels… strange. It’s been weeks for me, but I have this gnawing feeling that time in the real world moves differently. What if it’s been months? Or years? What if they’ve already given up on me, assuming I’ll never come back?

But what could they even do? Even if they searched endlessly, they’d never find me. I’m stuck here. Trapped in this story. In this body. And the worst part is… I don’t even know why.

My stomach twists as a darker thought creeps in. What if they think I left on purpose? What if they think I just… ran away? That I got tired of my life, of them, and decided to disappear? The idea makes my throat tighten painfully. I don’t want them to think that about me. I’m not running away. I’m not.

But… maybe they’d think it’s believable. I’ve always been the kind of person who runs from his problems, haven’t I? God, I’ve done it before. My mom and I had that fight about my future — about how she didn’t think I was making the “right” choices. I couldn’t handle it, so I left. That’s how I ended up living on my own and meeting Kaori, so maybe it was for the best… but still. The pattern is there. What if they think I’m doing it again?

I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face, trying to push the thoughts away. But it’s no use. My mind is like a dam that’s been ready to burst, and now the floodgates are wide open. I can’t stop it. I’m spiraling.

I pull my knees to my chest, my fingers tangling in my hair as I try to steady my breathing. I don’t want to acknowledge the shaking in my hands, the way my chest feels like it’s caving in. But it’s there. I feel it. And I can’t escape it.

This is it, isn’t it? This is my life now. I’m stuck here, in this world I created, while the people I love move on without me. They’ll forget me. Maybe they already have. Maybe they think I abandoned them. Maybe they hate me for it.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I tasted the salt on my lips. Hot tears stream down my cheeks, dripping onto the blanket I’ve been clutching like a lifeline. A pitiful sniffle escapes me, and I hate myself for it.

God, I’m so pathetic, aren’t I? Always desperate for approval, always caring what others think. I’ve spent so much of my life hiding who I really am — the messy, insecure parts of me. The parts I’m too ashamed to show.

Disgusting. That’s what I am.

I bury my face in my knees, my voice barely above a whisper. “I want to go home…”

But deep down, I know. No matter how much I want it, no matter how much I cry or plead or scream into the void… I might never make it back.

And that thought breaks me all over again.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 4: (not) ASKING FOR HELP

Creator Stickman Alan AU

Summary: After being saved from Halo and having his memories wiped (it didn’t work of course… of course, 06 would never let him rest). Alan finds himself… broken. He refuses to accept help.

Tag/s: Hurt no Comfort, Injury/Burns, Family Dynamics

Alan never liked asking for help, he’s always able to do what was needed. Whether it’s a chore or some other stuff. He would almost always never ask for help, that’s just– basically against his nature. 

He is an able bodied person, he can handle being tired. He can handle being out of breath to do something his body is not quite used to.

He can handle–

“Alan?” Alan flinched, his head bumping the roof of the kitchen cabinet, causing Second, who called him to let out an ‘ooh’ as Alan rubbed the back of his head, turning towards the orange hollowhead who held on a wince.

“Sec” Alan mumbled, his other hand holding an orange juice he had been trying to sneak out from the fridge. “Alan… aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Second asked, an amused smile in his face as he tilted his head.

There they go again, treating me like a child. Alan thought, dismayed, his hand tightening on the bottle in his hands. It took him a lot of self control to not burn the whole bottle in his hand.

He’s been doing that– trying his best not to get angry. Everyone has been treating him like some kind of… glass. Walking around on eggshells around him.

"I am, I just need something to drink," Alan replied, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a sip, secretly wishing it were alcohol instead. Well, beggars can't be choosers, Alan thought dismally as he heard Second clear his throat.

"Do you... Do you want to talk?" Second asked, rubbing his hands together nervously, briefly rising on his tiptoes before settling back down as Alan wiped his mouth.

Talk? What is there to discuss with an amnesiac man? Alan pondered humorously, feeling a strong urge to laugh. Instead, he let out a snort. Second raised a brow, which then smoothed out as Alan shook his head, waving a hand dismissively.

“There’s nothing to talk about, just… getting some drink” Alan gestured at the refrigerator as Second forced a smile, nodding. “Ah..well–that’s good” Second mumbled, disappointment bleeding out of his tone as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Alan only hummed, throwing the empty bottle on the bin before dusting his hands.

. . . . 

Alan is by no means a patient person, he lacks every corner of patience. That also means, he is much more prone to being… angry. Not to other people, most to himself.

There are a lot of times he gets very very annoyed at how he was treated, and in the process he decides to break a whole damn mountain in the forest in his anger.

“Just because i’m acting like i’ve forgotten everything DOES NOT mean i get to be treated like i’m–i’m fucking STUPID!” Alan shouts, kicking a whole rock down the mountain, fuming.

Smoke comes out from his mouth as he lets out another shout, letting out a growl as he burns a tree, and another one. And another one as well. He’s sure if Second saw him doing this, he would be gracefully horrified.

Alan, the amnesiac, the poor guy, the one that was forced to fight–in that DAMNED ARENA. The one that lost his OWN dignity. His eye sight being stripped away, HIS hearing being taken away.

EVERYTHING was taken away.

“Calm down calm down” Alan mumbled to himself, steaming smoke coming from his mouth as he continued to pant, huff and growl (like a damn dog). His fist clenching and unclenching in a pattern to control his anger, to let it simmer. TO forget.

Treated like a delicate glass, how does it feel? Alan Becker

“Shut up, shut up” Alan growled, pressing a finger to the side of his head, ignoring the pounding headache the voice is giving him. Ignoring the anger that is slowly coming back, He ignores the way his hands are bursting with fire, the heat making him sweat.

He ignores how his hands–his fingers are digging to his scalp as he continues to pull and tug his hair.

“Shut up, Shut up–LEAVE ME ALONE!” Alan yells, blindly throwing a fireball, more whispers and laughs he hears. Yet when he opens his eyes he sees none (always no one, who is it, whose voice is it, he’s going craz.

He could feel the touch in his skin, how–how he held his chin, forced him to kneel–used a damn chair. His weight on his back.

Alan pants, his chest heaving, his eyes watering as smoke hits his face, his hands still burning. He could see how his fingertips are starting to blacken. The smell of burnt flesh, the pain–the mind numbing pain he can feel starting from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulders.

He knows he should stop his fire, extinguish it. Because he’s burning his skin, he’s burning everything, the grass underneath his fingers is slowly turning to ash.

Yet all he do was cry, tears falling down, his mouth letting out such an animalistic wail as he watch his hands burn, he could see droplets of tears falling down his arm, before sizzling when it meets the fire.

Alan squeezes his eyes shut, his head pounding as more laughter are heard. He could hear that fucking laugh, the giggle, the taunts. He could feel phantom hands touching his hair, petting him as if he’s some kind of damn dog.

Stop it, fucking stop it. Alan thought, more sobs coming out of his mouth. It’s embarrassing how it took him a long time to understand that those wails was coming from him.

He’s somehow thankful he was in the forest, no one to hear him but the trees around him, and maybe the birds that was chirping above his head.

Alan can only cry, both from pain and both from being cursed to remember everything.

. . . .

“Alan?” Victim whispered, seeing the white hollowhead raise his head, he was laying on his arms, his hands tucked under his chest. “Hey” Alan mumbled, forcing a smile as Victim entered the room, his hand on the door and a small smile in his face.

Alan could see how rumpled Victim’s suit was, how his hair is a little messy. Perhaps he came from the search, where him, Chosen and Dark were searching for Halo. Yet, none of them could find him.

Alan eyes the stain on Victim’s shirt before his eyes travel up to Victim’s face. “Would you like to talk?” Victim asked, taking a seat beside Alan who moved a bit to give space. 

“About?” Alan asked, lowering his head again on his arms. He knows he should act lively, excited, happy. Like how he was before, how he was so so naive, so eager to please.

“What have you been doing? I know me, Chosen and Dark have been so busy with… our mission” Victim paused, his selection of words almost made Alan scoff. 

Mission? Mission to find the person who had hurt me? What about you Victim? Will you also kill yourself, knowing that you had hurt–

Alan shuts his mind briefly, shut up shut up shut up…

Victim does not deserve that, it was valid. His anger was valid, the hurt he gave Alan was valid. It was all valid. Alan should just swallow the bitter pill, that the same person he is talking to is the same person who had also forced him to crawl like a dog, the one that had forced him to throw his dignity away.

He may be the same as Halo, but Alan—Alan loves him… he…loves him, his own creation, his own child, his own hand that had the pen, that made the stroke. It was never lovingly, but Alan made him. Then threw him away.

Alan’s pain and suffering are not the same level as Victim’s, he was overreacting. He must be, Victim deserves kindness, after experiencing so much from Alan’s hand.

And Alan? Alan deserves pain, hurt, suffering… death

“Alan?” Victim’s voice called, forcing Alan out from his mind. A soft–gentle hand on his shoulder as Alan raises his eyes up at Victim’s. “Hey” Alan replied, smiling, it was not forced anymore… maybe.

“You okay?” Victim asked, rubbing his hands over Alan’s shoulder, such a calming gesture made Alan relax, his once tense posture gone, he’s almost melting under Victim’s hand that he forgot he had to respond to Victim’s question.

“Me? Everyday” Alan whispers, a real smile appearing in his face as Victim mimicked the gesture, his hand leaving Alan’s shoulder.

Alan suppressed the urge to chase the touch, to tell Victim to pat him again, to rub his back, to hug him. He wanted all of those–HE wanted more. But Alan knows–dogs don’t get to pick which bone they want.

They only should take what was given to them.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 5: MOTION SICKNESS

Duck Alan AU

Summary: Alan never really told everyone he is still experiencing motion sickness. And everyone is slightly–careless. Thank goodness he has Second to back him up.

Tag/s: Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting and Nausea, Comedy

As much as Alan loves his little goobers—AKA Second, The Gang, a bit of Dark, and of course Chosen—they aren’t exactly careful when he's around. It’s Alan’s fault, really, for not telling them that his VR is still a bit buggy after Dark’s initial tampering. A slight movement can send his vision spinning like he’s the goddamn sun orbiting the earth on a sugar high.

Now, it’s his fault for not mentioning it, but that doesn’t mean they should—

“Catch!” Red giggles, throwing Alan toward Blue, who jumps over a slime block and hugs Alan to his chest before tossing him to Yellow, who then passes him to Green. “Guys,” Alan protests, the AFK symbol above his head flickering away as his vision swirls, still getting thrown around.

“Green, catch this!” Blue laughs, slamming Alan into Green, who lets out a loud ‘oof’ as feathers scatter in the air while he falls on his back with Alan on his face. “Jesus Christ,” Alan moans, covering his eyes with a wing. His VR is still malfunctioning, even after he tried to fix it.

He hears Red and Blue giggling as a yellow blur helps a green blur up to his feet. “You alright, Alan?” Blue asks, crouching in front of the duck, who only lets out a small groan and waves a wing. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. What the hell are you four doing?” Alan asks calmly—he has to stay calm; he can’t just blow up at these kids.

“We were just playing around,” Red says, lifting Alan into his arms. Alan suppresses a groan as his vision spins again, feeling nauseous. “With my body?” he swallows hard, his stomach churning. For a moment, Red says something, and Blue laughs again as Alan squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push down the nausea. His skin feels clammy, and he rocks his legs to quell the urge to vomit. He manages to slip off the VR and stumbles to the bathroom, where—well, he vomits.

Red turns to Alan, the large AFK symbol still hovering above his head. “You think he’s annoyed at us?” Blue asks, just as Green leans on Blue’s shoulder. “No way, we were just having fun. He’s probably just upset we didn’t ask him for permission,” Green sighs, and Blue gasps.

“Damn it, you’re right!” Blue exclaims as Yellow approaches, spinning a purple feather between his fingers. “Alan?” He taps the duck’s head, but the AFK symbol remains.

“Maybe he’s angry,” Blue’s teeth chatter in fear as Yellow taps a fist on his head. “Don’t be stupid.” Finally, the AFK symbol above Alan disappears. “Guys, never do that again,” Alan says, his voice low as he trudges off.

“So he is angry,” Red whispers to Yellow, who just sighs.

. . . .

It’s safe to say it’s not easy to shake off the nausea from being tossed around. After walking away, Alan had to rush to the bathroom again and vomit his guts out.

“I thought I fixed that already,” Alan groans, tempted to lay his head on the rim of the toilet bowl, rolling his lips in disgust at the thought.

As he cleans the bathroom almost religiously, he can’t help but remember this is the same toilet he uses for… well, you know. Naturally, that makes him feel even more nauseous.

It’s time to tell them to be more careful, or he’ll never touch the VR again.

Of course, he wouldn’t do that—he can’t leave his kids—er, the teens—by themselves. With them switching between the Outernet and his PC, who knows what they’re up to?

It’s terrifying to think there’s a whole civilization in the internet—or outernet, whatever! Alan is still getting used to all that.

But he knows Second and the Color Gang are incredibly careless. While he trusts Chosen to look after them, he knows Chosen is busy with his own life.

And Dark, despite being newly fixed, doesn’t inspire confidence in watching over the kids. Alan doubts whether fixing Dark’s code even mattered since his personality hasn’t changed.

“Are you okay?” Second asks as Alan finally slips his VR on after taking an anti-nausea pill. He usually avoids medication, but this time, he’d swallow his pride to avoid feeling nauseous until he falls asleep.

“I’m fine, but they need to be careful,” Alan says, flailing his wings in frustration. Second chuckles nervously, wringing his hands. “Did they—play ball with you again?” he giggles.

Alan almost glares—if he weren’t a duck, he might look scary. Second giggles at that. “Worse, I AM the ball,” Alan clenches his wing into a fist as Second stifles laughter. “I can tell them off if you’d like,” Second offers, but Alan sighs.

“Who am I to make you do that? I’m an adult, a working adult. I can talk to them myself,” Alan grumbles, knowing he wouldn’t actually scold them, despite the discomfort they caused.

Second crosses his arms, worry etched on his face as he taps his chin. He knows about Alan’s issue with being picked up and moved around without warning.

There’s a bug in the VR system that makes Alan’s vision go haywire, leading to the worst nausea imaginable. He’s never had motion sickness before; it started after Dark tampered with the system and caused a seizure.

Suddenly, Second huffs, surprising Alan. If he had brows, they’d be raised in confusion. But alas, ducks lack eyebrows.

“Then I’m telling them myself! If you have another seizure, you can’t use the VR!” Second scolds, and Alan gasps in offense, wing over his chest, bill agape in shock.

“A teen talking back to an adult?!”

“Excuse me?!” Alan exclaims as Second stomps off, rolling up his sleeves as if ready to throw punches. “No! Wait!” Alan calls, chasing after the teen.

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 7: NOWHERE TO GO

Ascension to Godhood Alan AU

Summary: DJ comes home to see Alan injured. 

Tag/s: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Toxic Relationships

WARNING: SELF HARM, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION

DJ’s heart was hammering in his chest as he stood frozen on his doorstep. His front door had been busted open, the lock splintered into jagged pieces, and blood—thick, dark, and horrifyingly abundant—was smeared across the frame. It looked like some wild animal had been slaughtered right there. The sight made his stomach churn.

“Door’s open... blood on the floor...” DJ mumbled under his breath, his voice low and shaky. He wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to react. Panic? Call for help? Run?

The house loomed before him, unnervingly dark. None of the lights were on, and an eerie stillness hung in the air. Whoever had done this—if they were still inside—they might be hiding in one of the rooms. DJ swallowed hard. His first instinct was to call the police, but he hesitated. Calling them would mean letting them search his entire house, and if they did...

They’d find some things DJ would rather not explain. Things he wasn’t exactly supposed to have.

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as if that would somehow soothe the rising tension. “Damn it,” he muttered. He didn’t really have a choice, did he? He couldn’t just stand out here forever. Whoever—or whatever—had done this was inside, and only he could figure out what was going on. Call it stupidity or desperation, but DJ knew he had to go in.

Steeling himself, he took his first step inside, carefully avoiding the pool of blood on the floor. The metallic tang of it hit his nose almost immediately, making him grimace. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior as he peered into the shadows. More puddles of blood dotted the floor, leading further into the house. Faint smudges of footprints trailed along the hallway, too large and erratic to make sense.

DJ hesitated, glancing back at the open door. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to shut the door, and pretend he never saw any of this. He was too tired for this kind of chaos—he hadn’t slept properly in days, and now here he was, walking into what looked like the aftermath of a horror scene. But something deeper—curiosity, maybe foolish courage—kept him moving forward.

The blood trail led to the kitchen. DJ approached slowly, his breaths shallow and his muscles tense. He stopped just outside the doorway, gripping the doorframe for balance as he peeked inside.

“Alan?” DJ’s voice cracked as his best friend’s name escaped his lips. He stared, wide-eyed, at the figure slumped on the floor. Alan was leaning against the counter, his scarf tied haphazardly around his waist as a makeshift bandage. Blood seeped through it freely, staining the fabric a deep crimson.

Alan’s head lifted sluggishly, his pale face and glassy eyes barely registering DJ’s presence. “Alan, what the hell—” DJ’s words died in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside him. His hands hovered over Alan’s side, unsure where to begin. The sight of the blood-soaked scarf made his stomach twist, but he forced himself to focus.

“What happened? Talk to me,” DJ demanded, his voice steadier than he felt. His fingers worked quickly, pulling the scarf away to inspect the wound. Alan groaned weakly in protest, his body twitching under DJ’s touch.

The gash was deep, stretching from Alan’s waist to his hip. It wasn’t gushing blood anymore, but the sluggish flow was still alarming. DJ pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to suppress the memories of old bar fights—back when he’d seen this much blood before. He shook his head, forcing himself back to the present. This wasn’t the time for reminiscing.

“Hang on, I’ve got you.” DJ stood and scrambled to the cabinet, yanking the door open to grab the first aid kit. He returned quickly, dropping to the floor again as Alan’s head lolled forward slightly. “Hey, Al? Stay with me, okay?” DJ called softly, his hands moving with practiced precision as he began cleaning the wound. Alan’s skin was cold to the touch, his breaths shallow and uneven.

“I fell into a trap,” Alan mumbled, his voice barely audible. DJ froze for a moment, his brow furrowing. A trap? The words didn’t make sense. Who would dare set a trap for Alan? No one in the outernet was stupid enough to cross him. Alan was the kind of guy people avoided, not targeted.

“A trap?” DJ asked, his voice laced with disbelief as he resumed his work. He cleaned the edges of the wound, thankful it wasn’t as deep as it had first appeared. Judging by the jagged edges, it looked like Alan had snagged himself on something sharp—maybe a blade, or some kind of spike.

DJ worked with careful hands, dabbing antiseptic over the wound. He expected Alan to flinch, to hiss at the sting, but instead, Alan just sat there, unmoving, his gaze locked on DJ. His eyes were blank, watching as if through a window—detached, almost like a spectator to someone else's pain. It was unsettling.

"Who did this?" DJ asked, his voice soft but firm, breaking the silence. He glanced up, hoping for an answer. Alan didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give anything away.

DJ sighed, biting his lip in frustration. He wanted to demand answers, to shake Alan out of whatever daze he was in, but the exhaustion clinging to Alan’s frame held him back. Instead, he waited, watching, his own resolve faltering.

Finally, Alan muttered, his voice low and heavy, “I’ve got nowhere to go. It’s here, or I let myself bleed out.”

The words hit DJ harder than he expected. There was a weariness in Alan’s tone that made his chest ache. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to pull Alan into a hug, to tell him it was okay, that he could always come here, no matter the circumstance. But he stopped himself. Alan wasn’t the kind of person to accept comfort easily.

“Okay,” DJ said quietly, steadying his voice. “Okay, it’s fine.”

He adjusted Alan’s posture, gently guiding him to sit up straighter, giving himself better access to the wound. The cut was deep but not enough to need stitches—thankfully. DJ wasn’t sure he had it in him to stitch Alan up. He could handle patching himself up if it came to that, but doing it to someone else, especially Alan, made his stomach churn.

DJ worked quickly but carefully, pressing gauze over the wound and wrapping a bandage around Alan’s torso. He was mindful not to pull it too tight, just enough to hold the gauze in place. “Is it too tight?” he asked, looking up at Alan.

Alan shook his head, a faint motion but enough to assure DJ. “It’s fine,” he murmured.

DJ nodded, finishing the job. He wiped away the last traces of blood from Alan’s skin and gently tugged his shirt back down. “Do… do you need a change of clothes?” he asked, wincing at how awkward he sounded.

Alan didn’t answer immediately, his expression unreadable, but after a moment, he gave a small nod. Just that little gesture had DJ’s heart clenching. He’d take anything to keep Alan here, to make him feel safe—even if it was just offering clean clothes.

“H-How about I move you to the living room first?” DJ suggested, his voice soft as he scanned Alan’s pale face for any sign of discomfort.

Another nod. DJ stepped closer, wrapping Alan’s arm around his shoulders to help him stand. Alan let out a low grunt but didn’t fight it, leaning on DJ as they hobbled out of the kitchen and into the living room. DJ guided him carefully, lowering him onto the couch with as much gentleness as he could muster.

He knelt beside him, checking the bandage for any fresh blood. To his relief, it was still clean, no sign of new bleeding. “Good,” DJ muttered to himself, glancing up at Alan.

Alan’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed, his face slack with what might have been sleep—or just exhaustion. DJ stayed there for a moment, watching him. The tension in Alan’s body seemed to have loosened, even just a little, and DJ allowed himself to feel a flicker of relief.

Quietly, DJ got to his feet and headed to his room. He opened one of the drawers in his wardrobe—a drawer that, over time, had come to hold a few of Alan’s things. Pulling out a clean set of clothes, he returned to the living room.

Alan hadn’t moved. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling in the dim light. DJ hesitated, not wanting to wake him, and instead placed the clothes gently beside him on the couch. For a moment, he just stood there, his eyes on Alan, before forcing himself to turn away.

The kitchen was still a mess. Bloodstained towels littered the counter, and the floor needed cleaning. DJ grabbed a rag and wiped up the smears of blood, his movements quick but methodical. Once the floor was clean, he propped the front door shut with a chair. The doorknob was broken but. Right now, Alan needed him more.

DJ stood in the doorway, glancing back at Alan on the couch. His heart ached at how small he looked, curled up and vulnerable in a way DJ wasn’t used to seeing. He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat.

For now, nothing else mattered. Alan was here. And DJ would make sure he stayed safe.

“Al?” DJ called again, his voice edged with concern.

Alan’s eyes cracked open into narrow slits, his hand shooting out to grab DJ’s arm just as he was about to touch him. His grip was firm, almost instinctive, and his wide, glassy eyes locked on DJ’s face with a sharp intensity. DJ froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“H-Hey… don’t move too much,” DJ stammered carefully, trying to keep his voice steady. Alan looked like a cornered animal, poised to fight.

Alan blinked a few times, his body visibly relaxing as recognition dawned in his gaze. Slowly, he released DJ’s arm, his hand falling limply to his side. He leaned back against the couch, watching as DJ reached for a spare set of clothes folded neatly nearby.

“Want to change now? Do you need help?” DJ asked, his tone soft but tinged with worry.

Alan pushed himself upright, sitting straighter despite the strain it clearly put on him. His gaze flicked to the clothes in DJ’s hands, and for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. He sighed, shaking his head. “Just help me to the bathroom.”

His voice was low, quiet—almost distant. DJ nodded without hesitation, stepping closer and offering his arm again. Alan grabbed it, his grip tight but shaky. Together, they hobbled to the bathroom in awkward synchronization, Alan leaning heavily against DJ for support.

Once they reached the doorway, DJ helped Alan inside, watching him lower himself onto the closed toilet lid. Alan sat there, breathing heavily, his face slick with sweat. He looked pale—far too pale.

DJ frowned, his brows knitting together as he handed Alan the spare clothes. “Just… call me if you need help,” he said gently, before stepping back and shutting the door behind him.

He exhaled a shaky breath as soon as he was alone, running a hand through his hair. His worry was like a knot in his chest, tightening with every second. He made a quick dash to his room, kneeling down to pull a large box from under his bed. Inside, nestled among various odds and ends, was a small bottle of painkillers. He rolled the bottle in his palm, staring at it for a moment.

It had been a while since he’d needed to use these.

Snapping out of his thoughts, DJ shoved the box back under the bed and hurried out. He saw Alan emerging from the bathroom, one hand braced against the wall for support as he slowly made his way back to the couch.

“You should’ve waited for me,” DJ fretted, rushing to Alan’s side and slipping an arm around him to help him the rest of the way.

Alan shook his head, his expression unreadable. “I’m already intruding. You’re doing enough.”

DJ bit his lip, his chest tightening at the words. “I just want to be here for my best friend,” he said quietly, his voice soft but firm.

Alan’s eyes flicked to him, studying his face for a moment before looking away. His shoulders sagged slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured, closing his eyes as he sank into the couch.

DJ hesitated for a moment, then retreated to the kitchen. He carefully avoided the still-drying puddle on the floor—the one he’d hastily cleaned earlier, stained with Alan’s blood. Grabbing a glass of water, he filled it and returned to the living room.

Alan was sitting up again, his gaze fixed on his side, where his wound was hidden beneath his shirt. His expression was pensive, distant. DJ placed the glass of water and a single pill on the coffee table in front of him.

“Will you tell me now how that happened?” DJ asked, his tone steady but edged with quiet urgency.

Alan’s gaze shifted to him, his brows furrowing slightly. For a moment, he seemed to debate whether to answer. Finally, without a word, he reached for the water and the pill, swallowing them both in one smooth motion. Setting the glass back down, he met DJ’s eyes.

“Do you want me to be honest?” Alan asked, his voice calm and strangely empty.

DJ blinked, caught off guard by the question. “U-uhm… okay,” he replied hesitantly.

Alan didn’t speak right away. Instead, he reached down, gripping the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he lifted it, revealing the bandage on his waist. With his free hand, he traced a finger along it as if outlining the path of its wound.

“I did this to myself,” he said quietly.

The words hit DJ like a slap to the face. “W-What?” he stammered, his voice rising. A surge of anger and disbelief coursed through him, making his blood boil. “Why?!”

Alan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at DJ. His gaze remained fixed on his wound, his expression almost bored. “What else could I do to come here?” he said with a shrug. “I didn’t have any other reason.”

DJ gaped at him, his mind racing. His heart pounded in his chest as realization dawned. Alan had hurt himself—on purpose—just to have an excuse to come here. Who in their right mind would do that?

But then it hit him. Between the two of them, neither of them was really in their right mind.

“Alan…” DJ whispered, his voice breaking. Before he could stop himself, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Alan in a fierce embrace. Alan let out a soft, startled noise, but DJ didn’t let go. He cradled Alan’s head, burying his face in his neck. The metallic smell of blood and sweat didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.

“What do you mean you need a reason to come here?” DJ’s voice was trembling, his words spilling out in a rush. “So you hurt yourself? You don’t need a reason to come here! You’re my best friend! You can come whenever you want… so please… don’t hurt yourself like this. Please.”

DJ sniffled, tears streaming down his face before he even realized he was crying. His body trembled, shaking uncontrollably with the fear of losing Alan—not to someone else, but to Alan’s own self-destructive tendencies. The thought clawed at his chest, leaving him breathless.

Alan sat quietly beside him, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he didn’t move, he had a distant look in his eyes. Then, as if compelled by something deeper, he reached out and wrapped his arm around DJ’s waist. His touch was steady, grounding.

“I see,” Alan murmured, his voice low and calm, though his eyes narrowed slightly as he began to rub DJ’s back in slow, soothing circles. DJ shuddered under the touch, his sobs hitching in his throat.

“I-I want you to visit me,” DJ whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling with vulnerability. “But you don’t need a reason to do that, Alan. Can’t you just… can’t you visit me without hurting yourself?” His words stumbled out, fragile and pleading, as his tear-filled eyes searched Alan’s face.

Alan didn’t reply right away. His silence felt heavy, almost suffocating. For a moment, DJ’s heart sank, and the terrible thought crept in—Did I say the wrong thing?

But before the thought could settle, Alan lowered his head, letting it rest against DJ’s shoulder. His voice came out in a whisper, barely above a breath. “This… this is my penance for hurting you.”

DJ froze. The words hit him like a punch to the gut. “Penance?” he repeated, his voice cracking as he leaned back slightly, his hands gripping Alan’s shoulders tightly, keeping him in place. “What the hell are you talking about now?”

Alan lifted his head, his gaze meeting DJ’s. There was a strange calmness in his expression—as if he didn’t care. “I’ve hurt you. Over and over again. I know that. This… what I do to myself… this is my way of showing you I’m sorry.” His voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something deeper—pain, or maybe guilt (is–is it really?).

DJ’s brows furrowed, frustration bubbling beneath his grief. “Stop it,” he said, shaking his head as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. “Stop saying useless things, okay? No one cares about this… this penance bullshit! I don’t care about it, Alan! There’s nothing to forgive, and you—” His voice cracked again as he clutched his chest, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Alan blinked, his expression shifting to one of genuine surprise. His wide eyes seemed to search DJ’s face for some kind of answer, some clarity he couldn’t find on his own.

“Stop asking for forgiveness,” DJ continued, his voice trembling with raw emotion. “You didn’t do anything wrong. But you—” His voice broke entirely, and he placed a hand over his chest again, as though trying to hold his heart together. “You doing this to yourself? It hurts me, Alan. It hurts me, too.”

Alan’s gaze softened, and for the first time, the detached distance in his expression seemed to falter. Slowly, he reached up, gently brushing the tears from DJ’s face with his thumb. 

“Alright,” he said softly. The word was simple, short, but it carried a weight that felt almost out of place. He continued to dry DJ’s tears in silence, his movements careful, deliberate.

DJ sniffled, his breaths uneven as he tried to compose himself. His hands trembled as they fell to his lap, but Alan didn’t stop watching him. There was something in Alan’s eyes now—something quiet, contemplative, like he was letting a thought simmer in the back of his mind.

Finally, Alan broke the silence. “Does this mean you’ll help me?” he asked, his voice soft but probing (There was it again, a tone in his voice that he uses when he wants something…).

DJ’s eyes widened, startled. “H-huh?” he stammered, caught off guard by the question. Before he could say anything else, Alan leaned forward, wrapping his arms around DJ again in a firm, almost desperate hug.

“It’s incredibly taxing to work alone,” Alan murmured, his voice muffled slightly against DJ’s shoulder. “You’re right. It’s lonely to do everything by myself.”

DJ hesitated, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides before he nervously returned the embrace. His mind raced, trying to process Alan’s words. Was he trying to get him to work with him again?

That world. That perfect world.

“A-Alan…” DJ trailed off, his voice barely a whisper. He bit the inside of his cheek, his thoughts a storm of uncertainty. Finally, he managed to muster a quiet, “Can—can you give me time to think about it?”

Alan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he hugged DJ tighter, his grip firm but not suffocating. DJ thought he might have heard a soft laugh, or maybe it was just his imagination. When Alan finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost serene.

“Okay,” Alan said simply, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his lips, he hides it from DJ.

---

If you guys see DJ being manipulated by Alan, please leave him alone. He worked hard for that spot /ref - S

[chickenkurage]

The Alan Whump Whump Week!

Now that Fashion Week has come to an end, let us thank JM again. We will be having an Alan Whump Whump Week, where all my Alan's gets whumped to the hell and back. The prompts are shown but what would not be shown is what AU gets that prompt! So, it's all a surprise <//3. So, are you guys ready for your favorite Alan AU to get whumped? :DDD

To answer some of your questions...

Where will the Whump Whump Week be posted? - It will be posted on our tumblr! This will be under Tumblr Only Fics

Is this AA exclusive? - Nope, the whumping will happen in their own universes, the Alan's will not be interacting with each other on this one

Is this an event that happens every day or do you post erratically? - I might post two in one day, who knows...

Starting Date: December 27, 2024

Ending Date: April 22, 2025

[chickenkurage]

(TAWW!Week) DAY 3: TRUST ISSUES/FORCED PROXIMITY

Farmer Alan AU

Summary: Alan and DJ’s life around the 1940’s. Their relationship in the beginning was never so wholesome in the first place....

Tag/s: Hurt/Comfort, Trust Issues, Injuries, Suicide Ideation, Violence, Thoughts of killing, Unhealthy Relationships

There weren't many beings that Test Subject 1 trusted, not even his creator. That scientist had forced him to do such things—to be created as a weapon was the last thing he had desired. To them, he was just a weapon, a test subject, a mere object.

He felt like nothing, and he wanted to escape.

Having been there for so long, awaiting a new mission, a task where he would spy on some Americans, observe them, infiltrate their systems, and gather more information than his creators could ever imagine.

Was he meant to do this forever?

A mere tool for them to exploit until he could no longer serve his purpose, to be discarded and replaced by a new one?

"Hey," the other stick figure called, red in color, sharing a form almost identical to his. They were alike, differing only in color and abilities.

"What?" Subject 1 croaked, turning to him, his throat aching from the smoke he had generated while frying the American’s computer. His hand trembled, his mouth still tasting of ash from burning those useless codes.

"Are you okay?" the other stick figure asked, tilting his head as he slowly moved closer, sitting beside him. The black hollow-headed figure eyed him closely, hands twitching. He didn't trust him, but he too had been created recently and had been on missions spying on humans.

"Hmm," Subject 1 mumbled, not particularly keen on conversation.

He had never been much interested in talking, never having used his vocal cords for speech. Subject 1 hadn't even known he could produce sounds until this other figure arrived and started speaking to him.

"Are you bored?" the red hollowhead asked again, tilting his head and staring at Subject 1, who turned to look at him, studying his face.

It seemed as if he enjoyed irritating him. This notion furrowed Subject 1's brows and made him clench his teeth.

Should I just end him? Put an end to his pointless suffering; perhaps he would be grateful afterward. Subject 1 pondered, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fists.

Being manipulated by humans was far from exciting or enjoyable. Subject 1 knew this firsthand, as he did not experience such things. Excitement? Fun? Those concepts did not exist for him. Only pain, death, and suffering...

"Do you want to spar?" the red hollowhead suggested, his hands clasped in eager anticipation.

Spar? Why would he want to spar with me? Subject 1 wondered. He had defeated him numerous times already, and he didn't find pleasure in it. In truth, he felt remorseful; it was evident that the red hollow-headed figure was unaccustomed to such brutal fighting.

"Why?" Subject 1 rasped, coughing once more as dark smoke billowed from his mouth, his throat tightening as he watched the red hollow-headed figure lean back, waving a hand to disperse the smoke that made Subject 1 cough.

"Are you okay?" he asked, placing a hand on Subject 1's shoulder, which Subject 1 pushed away a bit more forcefully than intended. Still coughing, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe, the red hollow-headed figure let out a small hum, now patting Subject 1's back as the coughing subsided, replaced by deep breaths.

"Maybe not today, huh?" he remarked with a small chuckle as Subject 1 turned to face him. "Not today," Subject 1 mumbled, rubbing his throat in an attempt to soothe the ache and itch on his vocal cords.

Is this the result of not speaking? Interesting...

"You know, it's been a while since I was created, yet—I never caught your name," the red hollowhead mentioned, his hand returning to his lap, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb on his knuckles.

Subject 1 exhaled heavily, letting out a small sigh and a huff.

He's quite chatty.

"Just Subject 1," Subject 1 replied quietly, swallowing hard as he lightly giggled before it turned into a small chuckle. "Subject 1? You never gave yourself a name?" the red hollow-headed figure inquired as the other turned to him.

"No," he answered in a whisper, causing the red figure to stop laughing, thinking he must be joking. He let out a small breath of apology, "Sorry—I thought—" he stammered, waving his hand nervously, prompting Subject 1 to huff in amusement.

He waved his hand, indicating that he didn't mind.

"Alright—do you want a name? I chose one for myself," he offered, pointing to his chest as Subject 1 sighed.

Does he want a name? Not really. He sees no need for a name when no one here bothers to use it. "You should have a name so I don't have to keep calling you Subject 1," he suggested.

Clapping his hands together, the sound reverberating through the space, causing Subject 1 to suppress the urge to flinch. His hackles rose once more, but when he heard a soft whisper of apology from the other, Subject 1 decided to lean back again.

"Do you want a name?" he inquired, turning to face Subject 1.

If he's insisting so much, why not?

"Go ahead, any name will do," Subject 1 murmured, leaning back, closing his eyes, and savoring the burn he felt. He stretched his aching legs and cracked his fingers.

He heard the other mumbling to himself, silently snapping his fingers as he hurried to think of a suitable name. Perhaps he was taking this more seriously than Subject 1 had anticipated.

"You know, there's a TV show I watched," the red hollowhead mentioned, prompting Subject 1 to open his eyes and turn to him. "Mhm," Subject 1 hummed, mildly interested in the conversation.

Rest sounded inviting, but it might be impolite to just stand up and retreat to the other corner of the space to sleep while the red hollow-headed figure continued to chat beside him. Subject 1 pondered, his thoughts drifting as weariness and sleep clouded his mind.

"His name was Alan, and he's a really good actor," the red hollowhead explained, gesturing as he spoke. Subject 1 nodded, emitting a small hum. The name Alan sounded pleasant—simple and not too extravagant. I like it, he thought.

"Does Alan sound good to you?" the red hollowhead asked as Subject 1—Alan—nodded half-heartedly. "Great! Then you can call me DJ. Nice to meet you, Alan," DJ said, extending his hand towards Alan, who gazed at it before shaking it.

They had been confined together for almost three weeks, and perhaps this was the first formal introduction they had exchanged.

"Alan, nice to meet you," Alan replied, clearing his throat as he exhaled more smoke, which DJ casually waved away, letting out a small giggle.

"I hope we get to work together more," DJ expressed, to which Alan simply hummed in response.

. . . .

He should have been more cautious and less eager to please. Alan was never one to seek approval eagerly. However, he had noticed that their creators tended to be calmer and kinder to them when their missions were successful.

Consequently, Alan had been working diligently to achieve success, aiming to find tranquility away from the confining black box they were always thrown into.

Conversing with DJ was enjoyable, but he longed for his own space, his own spot to rest. A box with only four corners could only accommodate so much for the two of them, especially with DJ persistently urging him to spar then and there.

Or the sounds the other would make if Alan had beat him, the painful whine, and whimper. The small cries… 

It was becoming wearisome.He hated hearing it, he hated hurting–

"Alan, are you okay?" DJ whispered, crouching over him. Alan let out an involuntary groan, gesturing for him to back off, his stomach paining and his leg twitching.

He had come close to being deleted, almost becoming one of those codes he had burned. He should have been quicker.

"Alan—" DJ began, placing a hand on the black hollowhead's shoulder, feeling him tense, seizing his arm. "DON'T touch me," Alan growled, teeth clenched, suppressing the fire that threatened to erupt from his mouth, not wanting to accidentally harm DJ.

"Al..." DJ said, using that pet name again, the term the other had given Alan. As if they were close friends, which they weren't, were they? DJ acted as if they were friends… something intimate, as if they didn't attempt to harm each other when their creators grew bored of them.

With no mission to undertake, Alan and DJ would be forced to fight against each other until their bodies failed them, leading them back into the black box once again.

There they would be back to lick their wounds and hide away for the rest of the hour, days, or if they are lucky… weeks.

"Sorry—" DJ whispered, seated beside Alan, who was still struggling to catch his breath, his chest heaving, his mouth emitting black smoke and red fire intermittently, causing DJ to move back due to the intense heat.

"Sorry," Alan coughed, pulling himself up to the wall next to DJ, who simply shook his head, observing as Alan shivered, his body trembling, his leg twitching, one hand pressed against his stomach as if he had been stabbed there.

"Let me help you," DJ offered, rubbing his hands together. He felt Alan's gaze on him. "What—?" Alan croaked, sounding surprised by DJ's offer.

"Let me help you," DJ repeated, turning towards the black hollowhead who was almost scorching holes in his face with his gaze.

He could likely assist, considering he had witnessed Alan using a laser on him that came from his eyes. DJ still felt the lingering burn on his arm from where it had struck him before; although it had healed, he couldn't forget the scent of his flesh burning and the sheer pain of trying to mend it.

Alan remained silent, focusing on his twitching leg. DJ interpreted this as consent, rising to his knees and examining Alan's leg, his hand hovering over his pants.

Glancing at Alan, who watched him closely, seemingly prepared for an attack with his fists clenched at his sides, ready to push DJ away if he tried to harm him.

"Relax," DJ reassured, placing a hand on Alan's knee and patting it gently, causing Alan's body to gradually unwind. "Sorry—it's difficult to know whether we're fighting or on good terms," Alan whispered, as DJ winced.

That is true; most of the time, they fight or are forced to fight. Even their training sessions felt like they were aiming for each other's throats. Sharing the same sleeping space felt as though one would carefully and slowly strangle the other.

There were many times Alan found DJ staring down at him, his clawed hand close to Alan’s neck, one move and blood would spill out from Alan’s throat.

There are many days where neither of them sleeps, both wary of each other.

"It's okay, I'm here to help you now, and that's what matters," DJ whispered, hearing Alan exhale a sigh, finally reassured that they weren't about to engage in a fight. "Okay," Alan breathed out, his breath hitching as DJ touched his leg.

"That's good," Alan murmured, his eyes slowly drifting shut.