Abusive Father - Tumblr Posts

Child Dazai x Child reader~Escape (Part 1)

~Hello there!Thank you for reading my stories, it’s a pleasure knowing that people enjoy my writing!This oneshot is angsty, which means that it is sad.Please, don’t read this if you don’t like violence or gory things and blood.I don’t know anything about Dazai’s parents, or a lot of things about his past.This is just fiction.If any of you has those problems at their home, please don’t stay like that and seek help.There are people that help the other.Take really good care of yourselves.I don’t support violence.Thank you very much~

Dazai hid in his lonely dark room.It was too big for him, but he loved it because he could stay much more safe here, than everywhere else.

“WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?YOU BETTER GET OUT!”A man screamed.Dazai shivered at the sound of the wooden stairs cracking loudly.

The door for his room was forced open by his father.

“You are such a coward, Osamu.”He kicked a lamb and it broke into thousands od glass pieces, some of them piercing the kids skin.

Dazai covered his mouth so he wouldn’t scream from the pain and to not get heard from his fathers.

Sadly, a small gasp was enough for his dad to take him from the collar of his pure white shirt and slam him on the floor.

Osamu felt his arm break from hitting the marbe floor so hard.A tear escaped his eye and he tried to keep it to himself.

“You are such a baby.Always crying for help, aren’t you?Men don’t cry”The cruel man snickered and kicked his child in the eye, making it blue and purple.Dazai closed it and felt the metallic tasting liquid falling from his eye to his ear.

“So weak and fragille.Just like your mother.”Dazai was so angry, that he wrapped his fingers around the man neck and he snapped it.No one had the right to insult his mother.

His father changed character and begged him to help by screaming, grabbing his leg and letting him drag him down the stairs, where his mother was.

When Osamu saw her, he run to her side and held her hand.He kissed her palm and waited for something, hia father long forgotten on the staircase.

“Osamu, leave.Remember that i love you.”The woman’s breathing wavered and Dazai waited until she died.He closed her eyes and kissed her forehead.

He stood up, took a full loaded gun and left the house.He looked around him and when he didn’t see anyone close, he walked away.

Some time later, he sat on the ground.He closed his eyes and waited for the cold to pass.

After 5 to 10 minutes, someone covered him with a blanket.Dazai opened his eyes and saw a shivering child, probably the same age as his, sitting on the cold, dirty ground.

He looked down at the blanket and frowned.It was very thin and ripped, like the kids clothes.It had patches from other fabrics taped on it.

“Aren’t you cold?”The child stared at him for a while, but then it’s face turned to a horrified one.

“I’m sorry.It’s very dirty, but i promise it keep you warm.”It spoke hoarsly, like it had to speak for ages.

“Do you mean that it will keep me warm?”He asked.The child’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes.I’m sorry for not speaking good.I don’t go to school.”

“It’s okey.Thank you for the blanket.”They smiled at each other and stayed like that for a while.It was past midnight by now, the sky was still dark.

Six months ago, when the protagonist had first appeared in the middle of the villain’s compound, scrawny and half feral, the villain hadn’t thought much of it.

And then it happened again.

And again.

The villain thought something of it.

“Let me work with you,” they had begged. The villain was almost certain the protagonist was homeless. “Please, I have powers, I can—”

The villain said yes.

Maybe it had been whatever remnants were left of the villain’s stupid heart. Maybe it was the chocolate donut they had that morning. Maybe it was the desperation coming off the protagonist in waves.

Maybe they were just bored.

They paid it no mind.

The protagonist did have powers, but they were minor. The kind you see in small children, the first in a bloodline to mutate powers. Their great grand children would wield enough power to level buildings, be heroes and villains and everything in between. But for now, they sat in preschool classrooms and summoned the tiniest spark of flame.

The protagonist, trembling like a fawn, sweat slicking their brow, seemed to be one of those children. Albeit an older version.

Not useless, exactly. They had a startling affinity for picking locks—which explained the ability to get into the villain’s compound—a willingness to fight anyone, and a lack of fear. But they weren’t exactly the most useful sidekick the villain could have picked.

The villain wouldn’t trade them for anyone else, though.

Their stupid, half dead heart, it seemed, cared for the protagonist.

So, when the hero set out to kill the protagonist, the villain knew they would do anything to keep them safe.

They caught the hero’s hand, twisting to shove them backwards a step, and they felt rather than saw the protagonist wince.

“Violent today, aren’t we?”

The hero was seething, and it unsettled something in the villain. The hero was unstable, yes. But the villain had never seen them try to kill someone before; they hadn’t even considered the hero might try.

They dodged another blow, the hero’s power blasting apart a building behind them. Their spine prickled, and they dropped to avoid the next hit.

“Just itching to go to prison for homicide, hm?”

When the hero didn’t even attempt to respond to their half-assed banter, the villain’s gut roiled.

“Protagonist,” they said between breaths. “Leave. Now.”

“No.”

They managed to throw the hero to the ground, risking a glance at the protagonist. They were covered in dust, supersuit dirty and torn across one calf, but their feet remained planted, shoulders set. “You heard me. Go back to the compound—“

The protagonist’s eyes widened, and the villain knew they had turned away for too long.

The villain went down hard, ears ringing, as the hero shook out their fist.

“Stop it,” the protagonist’s voice cracked. They took a step forward, wavering like they weren’t sure if they should run or fight.

“Go,” the villain coughed, and the protagonist flinched. They rolled onto their back, struggling to stand as the hero’s power flickered dangerously.

The villain knew, innately, that the next hit would kill them.

The villain sucked in a painful breath.

The hero lunged.

And the protagonist, voice wrecked with fear, screamed, “Dad.”

The villain’s heart stuttered.

There was a flash of light.

In front of them, panting for air like they would never get enough, was the protagonist. The hero’s fist was planted against their chest still, and the villain could tell it had been a death blow. Anyone, even the villain, wouldn’t have survived.

And yet—

The protagonist stood, unharmed.

“Dad,” they said again, and the hero didn’t quite flinch, but it was close. “Stop.”

The silence was deafening.

Something in the hero’s jaw tightened.

“Move,” the hero said lowly. The protagonist didn’t falter.

“No.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“What exactly will you do to me if I don’t listen,” the protagonist gave a sharp laugh. “Hit me? You tried that already.”

The hero sucked in a breath.

“I am your—“

“You are my nothing,” the protagonist corrected. “Certainly not my father. You lost that right when I was eight.”

The villain managed to push themselves to their feet.

“That was stupid,” the villain murmured, but it didn’t have any heat to it. “You couldn’t have known that would work. You had no idea if you could survive a hit like that.”

The protagonist very pointedly did not turn around, shoulders tense.

“I did,” their voice was strained. “He lost the right to fatherhood when I was eight, remember?”

The hero didn’t say anything, but the villain thought that might have been shame creeping its way across their face.

Oh.

Oh.

The hero—

The villain had been harboring the child of the most powerful being on the planet for six months. A child the hero had tried to kill, or at the very least, hurt.

Their heart stuttered.

They had been harboring the most powerful being on the planet, their mind corrected. A drop of blood slid its way down their spine. Power grew with every generation, and with the hero already so powerful, any child they had would be something close to a god.

“You said you had mild telekinesis,” the villain said numbly. The protagonist half turned to look over their shoulder, eyes shiny.

“My mom,” the protagonist. “I got it from her. The rest…”

From the hero.

The protagonist scanned the villain’s face.

They were searching for signs of violence, the villain realized. The protagonist wasn’t afraid of the hero anymore; no, the protagonist had seen the worst they could do. But somehow, the protagonist had begun to care for the villain. And they were terrified the villain—the person they trusted the most—was going to hurt them over a secret. The villain could see it all, scrawled across the protagonist’s face clear as day.

The villain was going to kill the hero. Painfully.

“Protagonist,” the villain kept their voice even. Gentle. Slow. “I’m not mad. And I’m not going to hurt you.” Their eyes slipped past to the protagonist to the hero.

“Him, however, I will be.”

The protagonist worried their lip between their teeth, and the villain watched as their power—their true power—sparked along their shoulder blades.

The villain stepped forwards—

“Don’t,” it was little more than a whisper.

The villain stopped.

The protagonist slid in front of the villain once more. “Just,” they raised a hand, as if taking a moment to choose their next words. “Stay.”

The villain stayed.

When the protagonist’s attention turned back to the hero, it was bloodthirsty. It spoke of war, and hatred, and revenge.

“You’re going to leave,” the protagonist’s voice was sharp enough to cut skin. “And you aren’t going to come back. I don’t care if it’s because you don’t want to, or because you know that if you do, I will kill you and I’ll like it—you won’t come back.”

The hero swallowed.

“The city needs me.”

“You are a plague to this city, and I am ridding it of you. Get. Out.”

The hero stumbled a step backwards, as if they had been hit. Their expression twisted.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” the protagonist seethed.

They all knew the protagonist meant it.

The hero was halfway down the block, news vans and reporters scrambling their way onto the scene with cameras raised, when the protagonist called after them.

“Oh, and Dad?” The cameras snapped to them, and the protagonist grinned. It was vicious—it looked like the villain’s. “Parents who abuse their children don’t get to be heroes. Especially not you.”

They waited a beat, two, three.

The press exploded.

Above the din, power crackling around them, the protagonist mouthed two words.

“I win.”