Fanfiction and Such

The only thing that has ever made your mutation slightly tolerable is isolation, but despite your best efforts, you’re unable to avoid people entirely. You still need food. Which is why you’re currently standing in the closest grocery store to your tiny little cabin, utterly overwhelmed by the emotions of three hormonal teenagers that entered shortly after you arrived.

You try to ignore them, but it’s too much. Your skin is crawling with their anger and insecurity, the feelings building until you just can’t take it anymore. You have to get out. Now.

You abandon your half-filled cart and rush out of the store. You’re so focused on getting away that you don’t even notice the woman in front of you until you collide with her. You start to apologize, but you freeze when you notice something: this woman has no emotions.

How the fuck does this woman have no emotions?!

Your eyes grow wide in horror, “oh god! What’s wrong with you?”

The woman just smiles, “so many things, little star, so many things.”

“You…you’re quiet. Why are you quiet? Are you sick? Do you need help?” You probably don’t make any sense, but you are way too freaked out to properly explain yourself.

Somehow, she understands you, “I’m not sick, little star. My mutation just counteracts yours.”

“Your mutation? You’re a mutant too?”

“Yes, I am.”

You realize you haven’t actually let go of this woman yet. You’ve spent this entire interaction with a death grip on her shoulders. You try to let go, but you’re scared that the quiet will go away if you stop touching her, “I haven’t met another mutant before…what can you…I mean, god. This is probably rude, but how are doing that? What’s your mutation?”

“It’s not rude to want to understand. I’m telepathic, I’m able to shield my mind from your abilities.”

“Oh, that’s…thank you for telling me,” You stumble over your words, overwhelmed, “I’m y/n, by the way. Sorry, I should’ve introduced myself earlier.”

“I’m Madelyne, but you can call me Maddie,” the woman - Maddie - smiles gently at you before her expression shifts to something sadder, “you said you’ve never met another mutant, does that mean you’re all alone?”

You nod, “it’s easier that way. Being around other people is hard with my powers.”

Her eyes widen, “but you’re so young, you shouldn’t have to take care of yourself.”

You have no idea how to respond to that. Does she actually care? Is she just being nice? “I’m fine, really. I’m used to being alone,” you shift awkwardly. This is your first real human interaction in months and you have no idea what to do. You settle on your usual approach: fleeing. You glance at the road behind Maddie, finally letting her go, “I, uh…I should probably start heading home if I want to get back before dark.”

Panic briefly flashes across Maddie’s face and she moves to grab your hands, “no, wait. Little star, I can’t let you leave,” her grip on your hands tightens as she grows increasingly upset, “I can’t let this happen again, I can’t just let you wander alone without protection. I promised myself that I wouldn’t abandon another child.”

You blink, rapidly realizing you’ve walked into something much bigger than you expected, “I’m not a child,” you tug against her hands, “let me go.”

“I said that I know this must be shocking news, but you don’t need to worry. Let me take care of this, okay?”

Fisk’s voice is so calm, so steady. You latch on to that steadiness like a drowning man that just got thrown a life preserver, and you nod before considering the implications of your actions. You’re vaguely aware of Fisk speaking to one of his men - when did they get here? - and you watch blankly as Mr. Rivers is dragged out of the room. Part of you knows you should be concerned about that, but you’re too shocked to react.

Fisk looks back at you, “well, my dear, I believe a paternity test is in order. We can go to the clinic now.”

You almost nod again, but stop at the last moment. You can’t seriously be thinking about going to a secondary location with Wilson Fisk. Snap out of it, y/n!

“Right, great idea. Alternative idea, though: maybe we can both just pretend we never got these letters and go back to whatever we were doing before my mother died? I’m sure you have important crime lord things to do.” Oh god. Did you just say that out loud? You close your eyes, bracing yourself for Fisk’s anger, but it never comes. You gather the courage to open your eyes and see that he’s…smiling?

Fisk laughs, actually laughs, before reassuring you, “I’m sure you’ve heard terrible things about me, but I can assure you that you are safe with me. There is no need to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” liar, “I just try not to go to secondary locations with strange men.”

“That is very wise of you, but I’m not a strange man, am I?”

You bite your lip, “well…no.”

“Would it make you feel better if someone else knew where you were going? Maybe a friend? I could call someone for you.”

You hold back a hysterical laugh at the thought of Matt, Foggy, or Karen getting a random call from the man they helped put in prison, “it’s fine. I’ll just text someone.”

“Very well, you can do that on our way to the clinic, then,” before you can refuse, Fisk ushers you out of the building and into a long black town car.

You stare at your phone, trying to figure out who to text. Matt’s busy with his mysterious trip, Karen would insist on accompanying you, and Foggy…well, you suppose he’s probably the most reasonable option. You sigh and open your text thread:

You: don’t freak out Foggy: terrible opener, but continue You: I’m maybe kinda sort in Wilson Fisk’s car right now?

You decline Foggy’s call.

Foggy: what?? Foggy: are you okay? Foggy: do you need help? You: No, it's fine. He told me to tell someone where I'm going, so I don't think he's planning to kill me or anything.

Another call.

Foggy: why were you with him in the first place? You: it's a long story. I'll explain everything later, okay?

A third call.

Foggy: hell no

A fourth.

Foggy: pick up the phone

A fifth.

Foggy: I will trace your location and show up with Daredevil if you don't answer my call

You sigh heavily and answer the call, "I doubt you have Daredevil's number, Foggy."

"I'll make a signal. Like Batman."

You laugh, "calm down. I'm fine, see? Completely alive and well."

"What does Fisk want with you?" Foggy sounds appropriately suspicious.

"Right now? A paternity test."

"WHAT?!"

"Oops, sorry, Foggy. Looks like we're going through a tunnel or something. Talk to you once I'm back home. Bye." You quickly hang up your phone, shoving it in your bag to ward against the barrage of texts you're sure you'll get once Foggy tells the others. You're not quite ready to deal with that yet.

You almost jump when Fisk suddenly speaks, "you live in Hell's Kitchen?"

"What?"

"On the phone, you mentioned Daredevil."

"Oh, right. Yeah, my current place is right in the middle of the kitchen," god, you wish you were home right now.

"Do you live alone?" Fisk's eyes scan your body. His gazes lingers on your second-hand clothes and worn out shoes, clearly assessing your wealth.

"No, I have a roommate. He's great."

"Your roommate is a man?" Fisk seems almost...offended?

"Uh…yeah?" You have no idea why he seems to care so much about your living situation. It's not like he knows you.

You're saved from Fisk's continued questioning by your arrival at the fanciest medical clinic you've ever seen. It looks like they'd charge you more than your monthly paycheck just to breathe the air in that place. You hide behind Fisk's considerable form as the two of you walk inside, shielding yourself from the staff's judgemental eyes.

You carefully built a back door into one of your father’s lesser-monitored accounts in the initial chaos and used some of the money to buy a house outside the city. You quietly moved in after the funeral, installed the best security possible, and told absolutely no one where you were - not even Harry.

Which begs the question: how the hell is your brother in your living room right now?

“Harry?” You’re unable to make out more than his outline due to the darkness of the room, but you’d recognize him anywhere, “what’s going on?” You try to keep your voice steady, but you know it shakes. Why would Harry suddenly show up after two years of no contact? More importantly, why would he break into your house instead of knocking like a normal person? This cannot possibly be good.

“There’s no need to be afraid, y/n, I just want to talk,” Harry gestures towards a mug on the coffee table, “I made you tea. You like it with honey, right?”

You nod slightly, picking up the mug and sitting as far away from your brother as possible, “…thanks.”

The two of you sit in silence for several long moments. The moonlight shifts and suddenly your brother’s face is no longer in shadow. You gasp softly at the scars twisting up his cheek, “god, Harry. What happened to your face?”

Harry reaches up to touch the scars, “Spider-Man happened.”

“I…that’s terrible…” you bite your lip, trying to find the words, “is that…I mean, is that why you came here? To my house?” You wince, realizing how insensitive that sounded, “it’s not that I don’t want to see you, of course…I just…it’s been so long…”

“My house,” Harry corrects calmly.

You blink, confused, “what?”

“I know you’ve been slowly draining one of dad’s accounts for years now. Except it isn’t his account anymore, is it? It’s mine. So really, anything you’ve bought with that money belongs to me.”

You wince, bracing yourself for an angry rant about stealing from family, or maybe a demand to pay his back, “look, Harry. I can explain.”

Harry just smiles, “no need to explain, I understand. Though I do want you to know that you could’ve just asked me, y/n.”

“…really?”

“Of course, it’s my job to take care of you.”

You flinch, deeply unsettled by those words. There’s no way Harry could know that’s what your father always said, right? It was just a coincidence. You drink some of the tea, trying to collect yourself. Your voice shakes again when you speak, “thanks, Harry. That’s uh…that’s good to know,” you swallow, “is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“No,” Harry smiles again, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “after this happened,” Harry gestures to his face, “I realized that I’ve been focusing on the wrong thing. It isn’t about getting revenge for what is lost, it’s about protecting what I have left.”

You nod slightly, trying to figure out where this is going.

“I want you to come back home, y/n. It isn’t right, you living alone like this. I never should’ve let you leave. I mean, how am I supposed to protect you like this?”

You freeze, once again hearing the echoes of your father in Harry. You fight against your growing panic. Harry’s words are just a coincidence. He’s not your father. He hasn’t taken the serum. He would never hurt you like that. You’re just overreacting.

You take a deep breath, “I’m a big girl, Harry. I…appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself.”

Harry frowns, his eyes hardening, “I’m worried about you, y/n.”

“…why?” You ask cautiously.

“Well, you know. With your…history, who knows how bad you’ve gotten the last couple of years. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself like mom did.”

No. No, no, no. No. This isn’t happening. Not again, “Harry,” your voice is tight, nervous, “you know I’m not like mom. I’m not sick.”

“Of course I know that, but after your suicide attempt…well, everyone else will think you are.”

“What…what did you say?”

“Poison is a little cliche, I know, but easy to reverse. I don’t want to actually hurt you.”

The tea.

You drop the mug, watching in slow motion as it shatters at your feet. You can already feel the effects of whatever he gave you in your system. It’s getting harder to think, harder to breathe. You stumble forward, mumbling weakly, “why?”

Harry catches you, effortlessly lifting you into his arms, “dad was right about everything, y/n. You need someone to take care of you.”

You hear sirens outside, and feel the weight of what’s about to be set in motion pressing down on you. Suffocating you just as much as the poison. All the while, Harry just smiles down at you, “everything is going to be okay now, y/n. I promise...”

God, part of you wants to strangle this lawyer, “and now you want me to go to some office building uptown - which will take me at least an hour to get to, by the way - today because my mother left me something that has to be opened in person?”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t come to me because…?”

“Your mother named someone else in the will. We have to meet them.”

Jesus Christ, this is not how you wanted to spend your day off, “fine. I’ll be there this afternoon,” you hang up before Mr. Rivers can say anything else.

The rain once again fills the unnatural silence of your apartment. You haven’t thought about your mother in years. In fact, you’ve made a rather valiant effort to pretend that you never had a mother. What could she possibly want to give you? Who else is named in the will? Why did that lawyer seem so freaked out by a simply estate execution?

Well, you guess there’s only one way to find out.

If you were feeling uncharitable - which you are, considering the fact that you’re completely soaked by the trip over here - you would describe Mr. Rivers as a mousy little man. His suit is cheap, his hair is thin, and his eyes hold a sort of feral anxiety common in captive animals. Despite the rain, he’s pacing outside the building when you arrive.

“You’re late,” it’s not a statement, it’s an accusation.

“The train was delayed.”

“Fine, just…follow me and be quiet,” Mr. Rivers practically hisses before leading you inside an aggressively bland office building.

The sleek, modern interior of the building gives absolutely no clues as to what happens here. You’re almost certain it’s impossible for a building to be any more nondescript, none of the offices even have signs in front of them. The office Mr. Rivers leads you into is more of the same: cold, modern, and lacking any distinguishing features. The only thing with any sort of personality in the room is a large painting hanging on one wall. It’s modern art, of course, but it’s the good sort of modern art. Clearly someone actually cared about this piece. It wasn’t made merely for some tax evasion scheme.

“Lovely, isn’t it? It’s one of my wife’s favorites,” someone speaks from behind you, their voice deep and confident.

You recognize that voice? Why do you recognize it? Oh…that’s right: you’ve heard it on the court recordings from Matt and Foggy’s biggest case. You recognize the voice because it belongs to Wilson Fisk.

The other person named in your mother’s will is Wilson fucking Fisk.

You slowly turn, trying to hide your sheer panic. Judging by the way Fisk’s eyes narrow, you’re not doing a very good job, “are you alright, my dear?” The sound of genuine concern in his voice is jarring.

“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine, sorry.”

Fisk is already guiding you to a small couch near the window before you even finish speaking, “there’s no need to apologize, the news of your mother’s death must have been upsetting.”

You nod slightly, looking down at your hands with a small sigh, “how…how did you know my mother?”

“I had a brief relationship with her as a young man.”

“Oh,” you have enough self-control to keep your next question to yourself: why the hell would she name you in her will?

Mr. Rivers clears his throat, “thank you for coming on such sort notice, sir,” he’s only talking to Fisk. Treating you as if you don’t even exist. Granted, this is not the first time a lawyer has ignored you in favor of someone more powerful, but it’s particularly irritating when you’re here because of your mother. Mr. Rivers leans in slightly, lowering his voice as he speaks with a conspiratorial air, “I’m sure this is just some stunt.”

You scoff. Your mother was many things, but a liar was not one of them. If she named Wilson Fisk in her will, she had a good reason.

Fisk seems to agree with you as he glares at Mr. Rivers, “you said there were letters?”

“Yes, here,” Mr. Rivers digs through his briefcase and pulls out two envelopes. One of them is unceremoniously shoved into your hands.

You read the letter. Then re-read. Then read it a third time in the hope that something has changed. Nothing has. The words on the page remain the same, no matter how much you wish they would say something different:

Otto makes a strangled noise, "no, Ms. Osborn. We didn't sleep together," he seems uncomfortable with this line of questioning. Otto expected many different reactions to you waking up in his lab, but this was not one of them.

"Please, just y/n. Ms. Osborn was my mother, god rest her soul," you prop yourself up on your elbows as you continue to watch him, "if we didn't sleep together, how did I end up in your bed?"

"You're collateral, my dear. Insurance that your brother brings me my tritium," Otto pauses, staring into the distance for a moment, "...at least you were."

You laugh, instantly understanding the implication, "Harry didn't fucking care, did he? Let me guess, he asked for Spider-Man instead?"

"Yes," Otto seems more upset by your brother's indifference than you do. His arms have stopped tinkering with whatever is on the table and have instead started chirping at him.

"So are you going to kill me then? Since I'm useless?" You move to hang halfway off of the bed, one of your arms swinging in the air, "or am I bait for Spider-Man?"

"This isn't a game, y/n," two arms pick you up and gently move you to sit upright against the headboard.

You hum, pulling your knees up to your chest, "I know it isn't. Honestly, I've been waiting for something like this to happen."

Otto looks at you in confusion and vague concern, “you’ve been waiting to be kidnapped?”

"A kidnapping, an overdose, a mental breakdown, maybe something flashy like a helicopter crash? People like me don't usually get happy endings, Dr. Octavius." The playful energy drains out of your eyes and your voice grows cold, "I'm tired, Otto. I lost both of my parents, Harry's too obsessed with revenge to give me the time of day, and most of the people who talk to me are trying to sleep their way into the family fortune. I just want it to be done."

Otto frowns, staring at you sadly. He moves to sit down next to you on the bed, "my dear...I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt this way."

You shrug, "it's okay, I work pretty hard to hide it."

One of the mechanical claws hovers in front of your face, making what you can only describe as a sad warbling. You laugh slightly and reach out to touch it, "you know, these things are pretty cute," more claws come over, nuzzling against you. You look up at Otto after a few minutes of playing with them, "I guess I should probably go, huh? Since I’m useless and you don’t seem to want to kill me.”

“No,” Otto says quickly.

“No?”

“Stay here. With us. We can help you, protect you…maybe even from yourself.”

You frown, “I don’t want your pity, Otto. I’m going to leave now,” you push yourself up from the bed, only to be instantly pulled back down by the arms.

Matt left on unspecified business three days ago. God only knows what business a mostly unemployed lawyer has outside of the city, but that’s really none of your concern. What is your concern is the unnerving quality of the newfound silence in your shared apartment. You keep expecting to hear Matt stumble in late at night, making vague excuses about boxing or a rough encounter with a door when you notice his bruises the next morning. Instead, you just hear the never-ending rain.

You’re exhausted and uneasy, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for something terrible to happen.

Waiting, perhaps, for a phone call.

“Ms. Y/L/N?” You don’t recognize the voice on the other side of the line. It’s high and nasally, altogether grating, in your opinion.

“Yes?”

“Your mother is dead.”

It started innocently enough. Your neighbor’s door was open, and really, you were just being a good neighbor by checking in. 

You peer curiously inside the dark doorway, knocking gently on the frame, “Max? Are you in there? Do you know your door is open?” 

There’s no reply, just a strange buzzing coming from deeper in the apartment. You shrug and go to close the door, only to jump back in surprise when the handle shocks you. A voice breaks through the buzzing, “you remember my name?”

You cautiously enter the apartment, concerned that your neighbor may be sick or injured, “Max? Are you feeling okay? Your voice sounds weir-” Your question is cut off when you finally see Max. Based on the strange blue glow beneath his skin and the fact that he’s actively sparking electricity, you’re going to guess that he’s not okay.

Max slowly tilts his head, repeating his question, “you remember my name?”

“Yes? You…you’ve lived next to me for like two years, Max. Why wouldn’t I remember your name?”

“No one remembers me, I’m a nobody.”

You frown, trying to move closer to Max without getting zapped. A sane person would probably try to put more distance between themselves and possible electrocution, not less, but this is Max. The guy you talk to in the elevator most days, the one that helped fix an electrical issue in your apartment when the landlord was dodging your calls. You have to at least try to help him, “you’re not a nobody, Max. I know you. And, I mean, I don’t know if we’re friends but I’d like to think that we’re friendly.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

The closer you get, the worse Max looks. Something is very wrong, “well, I can be your friend. And, uh, welll…friends help each other, right? I think you could really use some help right now.” You pause, realizing you can’t just bring your weird glowing neighbor to a hospital, “I don’t really know how to help, but maybe we could find Spider-Man?”

Electricity sparks wildly, moving far closer than you’re comfortable with, “Spider-Man is a liar! He only pretended to be my friend!” You flinch as Max turns to you with clear anger, “are you a liar, y/n?”

“No! No! Of course not, I wouldn’t lie to you,” you desperately search for a way to diffuse this situation. Maybe you could just change the subject? That’s a stupid idea, but your only other option appears to be death by electrocution, “hey, Max! I just remembered, it’s your birthday today, right?”

He pauses, the electricity calming down slightly, “it is my birthday…”

“Great! I actually have a gift for you!” Your voice is just a bit too cheerful to be genuine, but Max doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah! Here…” you dig through your bag, pulling out a little handmade bracelet, “it’s not a lot or anything, but I figured since you seemed interested in my bracelets the other day you’d maybe like one of your own? I didn’t really know what color you like, so I went with rainbow beads and added your name in black…” Oh god. You’re rambling. You’re rambling and Max is just staring at you. You’re totally going to die. You’re going to die because you suck at gifts. Also because your neighbor is insane, but the gift thing will definitely be a factor. 

You close your eyes, waiting for the inevitable end.

And waiting.

And waiting. 

Jesus, what’s taking him so long? You slowly open your eyes and see that Max is…crying? What the hell?

“You made this? For me?”

“Uh…yeah?” You tentatively hold out the bracelet.

 The electricity dies completely as Max takes the bracelet, “I haven’t gotten a gift in a long time.” Max slips on the bracelet, smiling slightly. You’re about to speak when the sound of sirens fill the air.

“Uh…Max? Are those heading here?” 

The electricity starts back up, only this time it avoids you completely. You’re standing in the center of Max’s apartment like you’re in the eye of the storm, watching as walls and furniture are struck. Even through the noise of Max’s powers, you hear heavy boots on the stairs. A lot of heavy boots. 

You scream as cops rush into the apartment, already firing. You run to hide behind Max, maintaining a death grip on his shoulders, “Max! They’re shooting at us! WHY ARE THEY SHOOTING AT US?!”

Max lifts you into his arms, forming a barrier of electricity around the two of you as he easily climbs out the window. You scream again as he carries you inhumanly fast through the city, seemingly jumping between power lines, “Max! What’s going on!?”

“I’ll explain soon, y/n. For now, just know that I’ll protect you. You’re my friend, my only friend, and I’m not going to lose you.” 

Not a couple of photos. Not something that can be written off as Steven leaving them behind. No, there was an entire box of photos in his car.

You look through the box with growing horror. There’s literally thousands of photos in here: photos of you at work, at home, running errands, with friends. Photos taken from all distances and at all times of day. Photos taken this week and photos that must’ve been taken months before you even met the boys.

What the fuck is going on?

You have to get out of here. There’s no good explanation for this. As much as you want to trust Marc and Steven, there’s no garuntee that Jake isn’t going to go full serial killer on you.

You turn around only to directly collide with Jake. He notices the box in your hand and smiles, “do you like these photos of you? I have a lot more.” This is bad. Maybe you can play dumb?

“Photos? What photos?” Maybe not that dumb, “I mean, I found this box but I haven’t really looked inside.” You try to slowly move away from Jake, but he cages you against the car. You don’t like the look in his eyes as he stares down at you.

“Don’t lie to me, cariño,” Jake leans even closer, “I know you saw them.”

You swallow nervously, looking for an escape route. You’re in a back alley in a rarely traveled part of town. There’s no way to get out and it’s unlikely anyone will be coming to save you, “why…why do you have these? I thought you didn’t like me…”

Jake lifts his hands to cradle your face, “I do like you, y/n. Marc and Steven think I like you too much. They’ve been keeping me away from you, shoving me into the headspace whenever you’re around.”

“…oh,” you try to pull away but Jake’s hands follow you.

“It’s okay, though. We had a nice a long chat and the others aren’t ever going to keep me from you again,” his hands travel down, wrapping firmly around your shoulders.

“What…what does that mean?” Did he hurt them? Can he hurt them?

You glance down. Sickly green bruises are already forming on your wrists, and the phantom pain of a too-tight grip lingers on your skin.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” You call out to someone who is not there, begging a ghost for help.

You try to stand, only to be hit by a wave of nausea. You lean over and heave. All that comes up is bile.

“Don’t do this to me!” A secret door opens and you’re shoved inside, falling headfirst into a shelf. You look towards the door despite the pain, clinging to a desperate hope that someone will save you. All you see is the man who put you here in the first place, his face now revealed to you. The man is your father. The man is not your father. Somehow both of these things are true.

The door opens while you’re still heaving. Your father runs to you, pulling you into his arms, “y/n! Oh god, did he hurt you?”

The minute his hands touch you, everything snaps into place: the fight, the escape attempt, the Goblin. You try to push him away, not wanting his touch, “leave me alone! Please don’t hurt me!”

“I would never hurt you, sweetheart,” your father speaks softly as he carries you over to a small cot, as if he can dampen the terror left by the Goblin. Pain flares and you lose time. Suddenly you’re on the cot, medical supplies scattered nearby and no memory of how they got there.

You glance around the room as your father bandages your head, still not shaking your unease. There are plenty of rooms in the manor that the Goblin could've locked you in, yet he choose the one full of creepy chemicals. You carefully ask your father, “why did he take me here?”

“We’re going to make you understand, sweetheart.”

You do not like the sound of that, “…understand what?”

“Understand what we’ve achieved,” your father gestures towards the vials, “the performance enhancer Oscorp developed works. It increases strength, improves senses, promotes healing-“

“-creates evil second personalities,” you mumble your little interjection almost inaudibly, but you can tell your father heard you.

“No, no, no. It’s not like that. The Goblin isn’t evil.”

“He killed people! He could’ve killed Harry!”

“He’s just protecting me. Protecting us. If he didn’t take care of the board, we would’ve lost Oscorp. How could we take care of you then?”

“I can take care of myself!”

Your father grows increasingly agitated as you continue to fight back, glancing at something that you can’t see, “no, you can’t! It’s not safe! You need us!”

You stop trying to argue. The father you knew is long gone, there's no hope of him seeing reason. You summon what little strength you have left for another escape attempt. You don’t even make it to the door before strong arms lift you into the air.

The Goblin is back.

“Now, now, princess. We really need to work on this little habit of yours. Can’t have you running all the time.”

“Fuck you!” You spit, kicking wildly.

“Good little princesses listen to their fathers, y/n."

You manage to slam an elbow into his nose, hearing a sickening crunch and feeling warm blood on your skin. The Goblin just laughs as he carries you back into the darkness, "so much fighting, and for what? We're helping you. Maybe after we give you the serum you'll behave."

Your panic increases tenfold as he carries you towards a glass chamber, “no! Don’t do this! I won’t fight anymore! Please!”

“You had your chance to play nice, princess. Little old Norman was going to give you a choice,” the Goblin spits out your father’s name like it’s poison, “but we’re past that. You need our help. You need us to fix you."

He places you inside the chamber and you pound against the glass. Sobs of pure terror wrack your body. Your words are an incoherent mess of “please” and “no” and “don’t.”

Toxic green gas begins to fill the chamber. The last thing you see before you’re lost in the fog is the Goblin’s bloody smile. His too sweet voice taunts you as you begin to lose consciousness, "it will be over soon, princess. When you wake up, you'll be perfect..."

“Ah, very good, liebling. It took your brother much longer to recognize me. But then you always were the clever one.”

Farouk slowly fades into existence in front of you, his body wavering like a mirage. You take a moment to look him over. Everything about him is polished and composed, from his perfectly pressed suit to his spotless shoes. So this is the real Amahl Farouk, “you can’t hide from me, you know that. Your appearance may change, but you can’t mask your emotions.”

“I can’t hide from you anymore, my dear. I do recall spending nearly thirty years in hiding.” God, he’s so smug. You’ve always hated that about him.

“Yeah, well, I was drugged out of my mind so that doesn’t really count,” you shake your head. Why are you trying to defend yourself? This is just a distraction technique. You need to focus, “why am I here, Farouk? You don’t care about me, only David.”

He frowns, “I do care for you. You are my baby, just as David is.”

You scoff, “your baby? You possessed David, not me. You didn’t want me.” You know you shouldn’t be upset about this, having Farouk in his head has ruined David’s life, but you can’t help but wonder why everyone always picks David over you. Is there something wrong with you? Are you not even good enough for the monster?

The fortune telling stand disappears and suddenly Farouk is standing right beside you, cradling your face in his hands, “azizam, have you ever considered that I possessed David because I wanted you?”

“…what?” You’re so confused that you don’t even try to pull away.

“I want you, y/n. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. That is why you are here.”

“What do you mean?” You catch yourself leaning into Farouk slightly, drawn in by his warmth. You know you shouldn’t trust him, but he can’t fake his emotions. You can tell that he genuinely cares for you.

“Your brother, David. He is…unstable. A…what is the phrase?” Farouk pauses and then snaps his fingers with a smile, “ah - a time bomb!” He grows more serious, “Your brother is a ticking time bomb, and I want to save you before the inevitable explosion.”

“Save me?”

“Yes, save you. Take you away. Get you out of the blast radius, if we continue with the metaphor.”

You hesitate. You should reject him on principle, but he might be right about David. As much as you love your brother, he’s changed recently. He doesn’t seem like the man you used to know anymore.

Still…to leave? To join Farouk? That would betray everything you and David have been through. You can’t do that. You take a deep breath, carefully considering your words, “I…I appreciate the offer, Farouk, but I can’t just leave David.”

Farouk frowns slightly, but you don’t sense defeat from him. Instead there’s…pride? Why would he be feeling pride at your rejection. Something is wrong.

“Ah, my star, you misunderstand.”Farouk begins to fade again and this time you go with him. You try struggle, but it does nothing. You look around to find yourself in a vast white expanse - no where to go, no place to hide, no one to help. Just Amahl Farouk smiling at you like the cat that got the canary.

There’s blood everywhere: the window, the floor, your clothes, your hair, even the ceiling. It looks like a low budget horror movie, complete with your body on the ground. After two failed attempts to get up, you resigned yourself to laying here until you either die of blood loss or Frank comes home. Whichever comes first.

Personally, you’re rooting for blood loss, but the sound of the front door opening tells you that Frank getting home has won. Fuck. You close your eyes and will yourself to bleed a little faster - Frank can’t yell at you if you’re unconscious.

“Doll, I grabbed dinner from that Thai place you like,” Frank moves deeper into the apartment when you don’t respond. “Darlin’? Where are…” He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

Time stretches into an eternity. This is Frank’s worst nightmare. You, his baby, the one good thing he had left in this world, are lying there damn near inches from death. His head swims as he rushes to you, “no, no, no, not you. Y/N? Baby? Can you hear me?”

You force your eyes open, looking up at Frank with blurred vision. Part of you knows that the Frank Castle standing above you is not your helpful next door neighbor. Part of you knows the Frank Castle standing above you is a man who betrayed your trust, a man you swore to never forgive. But...this isn't really forgiveness, right? You can go back to being mad at him once you're better. Maybe just this once it could be like it used to. You whine softly, reaching out for him, “hurts…make it stop.”

Frank picks you up, careful to not jostle you too much, “shhh, it’s okay. ‘M gonna make it all better, okay?”

You nod weakly, leaning into Frank as he carries you into the bathroom. He carefully sets you down and grabs his med kit from under the sink, "I need to treat your injuries, okay? This will hurt."

You nod again. He definitely isn't lying about it hurting. The process is long and painful. You’ve managed to cut yourself quite deep in several places, but thankfully not enough for the emergency room. Frank speaks gently as he treats your wounds with military precision, "what happened, y/n?"

You wince as he applies antiseptic, his gentleness surprising you. Is this really Frank? "Do we have to do this now?"

"Gotta talk about it eventually, darlin'. Besides, need you to stay awake for me." Yeah, this is Frank. Always so practical. "Did you fall?" And that's also Frank. Always thinking the best of you.

"No...I...I broke the window on purpose," you should've lied, gone along with his explanation, taken the easy way out. Honestly, you're not sure why you didn't. It would be easy to blame the pain, but some part of you just doesn't want to hurt Frank anymore than you already have, "didn't think it would do...well, this."

"This is what broken glass does, doll,” his voice is calm, not a hint of anger present.

You blink, confused, "you're not mad?"

"No, y/n, I'm just disappointed," somehow that's worse, "thought you were smarter than this."

"I'm sorry."

Frank pauses as he wraps a bandage around your wrist, looking up at you for a long moment. His eyes are far too vulnerable when he finally speaks, "am I really that bad? Do you hate it here that much?"

"No, I just..." You stop, wincing as he starts to stitch up your biggest cut, "I don't...Frank, you kidnapped me-"

"That's not-"

You cut him off, "no, let me finish. You kidnapped me, Frank. It doesn't matter that I knew you before this, and it doesn't matter that you just want to keep me safe, and it doesn't even matter that I would've said yes to living with you if you had just asked me! This is insane! You can't keep me here forever, Frank. I'm losing my mind."

"You...you would've lived with me?"

You push away slightly from Frank once he finishes the final stitch, letting months of anger pour out of you, "yes, you idiot. I like you, Frank. You're a good guy and you take care of me. Hell, you were almost like a dad to me, but dad's don't fucking kidnap their kids."

"There are people in this city who will hurt you because you're important to me, y/n. I can't just let you go," you feel your anger increasing, but before you explode again, Frank continues, "but we could go somewhere else."

"What?"

"I have new identities for us and there's a place up north, a cabin. You could go outside, even interact with other people. We'd be safe. Free. Together."

You pause for a long moment, staring at Frank in shock. He has new identities...a cabin...he's been preparing for this. He...he wasn't going to keep you here forever, "well why the fuck didn't you just tell me that!?”

Frank laughs, "so that's a yes, then, doll? You'll go with me?"

Huh.

So maybe punching through a glass window is slightly lower on the list of 'things you shouldn’t do when you're kidnapped by Frank fucking Castle' than you had originally expected. At least so far as it forces Frank to actually tell you things. You'll have to keep that in mind, though maybe you could punch a plastic window next time. Reduce the blood and all.

Harrow is incredibly paranoid about you interacting with anyone outside of his cult, and he will go to extreme lengths to avoid that happening. He doesn’t hide his behavior either, because he’s essentially brainwashed you into thinking his behavior is completely normal. Harrow has done his absolute best to keep you entirely insulated within his cult, so you legitimately do not have a frame of reference for how dysfunctional your relationship with your father is. Even if Harrow has only recently become your father and you do have experience with the outside world, it would likely only take a few months of cult indoctrination for you to believe that the world you used to know is wrong, not him.

Thankfully for your sanity, as long as you stay within the confines of the cult, your father actually lets you have a lot of freedom. You're not locked inside of his house, you're not limited to interacting with only him, and he doesn't even monitor your location all that closely. He trusts the other members of his cult to keep you safe and ensure you don't leave. Which, admittedly, means it's a false freedom since you're just under a more hidden form of control, but you don't know that.

The one thing your father does limit is knowledge of the outside world. No one in the cult is allowed free access to the internet or to outside technology, and you are not an exception. If you do receive information about the outside world, it's always going to be about how bad it is: crime statistics, information about poverty and wealth inequality, stories about murder and violence. The view you get of life outside the cult is that it's terrible and dangerous and you're so incredibly lucky to be safe with your father.

Now for some more autism specific things.

Harrow would definitely latch on to the whole "rigid sense of justice" piece of autism, viewing your strong convictions as some sort of gift from Ammit. If you were born after he became Ammit's avatar, he may even believe that you are a partial reincarnation of the goddess. Even if he doesn't go that far, he definitely puts you on a pedestal as pure and innocent.

There are two possibilities here surrounding whether or not Harrow reads your scales. On one hand, he might read your scales immediately after you're born or the first time he meets you. If your scales balance, he'll prove to himself and his entire cult that you are a worthy child. If the don't, then he did you a mercy. He would have discovered your sins eventually, and this way he doesn't have to give you false hope. On the other hand, Harrow might already be so obsessed with you and so delusional that he doesn't even see a need to read your scales. You're his son, obviously your scales are going to balance. He doesn't need to confuse or scare you with the whole formal process.

Harrow absolutely refuses to allow other people to make you feel lesser because of you autism. If anyone so much as suggests that there's something wrong with you or that you need to be fixed, then they're obviously a sinner. One time a member of the cult tried to force you to "overcome" one of your sensory issues and he just straight up killed them right then and there. There's no room for hatred in Ammit's paradise and that includes ableism.

Circling back to the whole "autistic people are more vulnerable to cults" things, there's a pretty decent chance that multiple members of the community are also autistic. Even before you came around, Harrow was already welcoming towards autistic people. As we see in the show, his cult is very progressive: offering vegan food, living communally, learning multiple languages. It's not a stretch to say that they're also very accessible.

Do you need any accommodations for your autism? Consider them already done. Sensory tools, quiet spaces, specific foods - Harrow will get you whatever you need without complaint. He wants to make your life as easy and comfortable as possible because it decreases the likelihood that you will ever want to leave. And, really, why would you ever want to leave? This is a good situation for you: you have a supportive and loving father, an accepting community, and an accommodating home. It's perfect as long as you ignore that your entire life is ultimately controlled by your father and his creepy death goddess cult.