#WHILE THAT ANKLE MONITOR BEEPS.

[kcyars52]

They keep purposely forgetting how she was partaking in harassing her husband’s rape victim. She’s targeting him which directly affects her.

Nicki fans keep treating that shit like an arranged marriage or something and it’s hilarious to me because like…she chose the rapist? She did that lmao

[queenshelby]

Daughter Dearest (Part 11)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (47) x Step! Daughter (21)

Warning: Infidelity, Smut, Dysfunctional Family

Tag List will be updated soon! Please comment and engage!

The following few days passed like a blur. Cillian was in London, working and attending some meetings for another movie while you finally got rid of your ankle monitor, gaining some freedom.

You applied for a few jobs in the hope to save enough money to move out again, even before you were scheduled to relocate to New York to attend your photography course, while your mother was busy shopping for Award Season dresses with your sister who was keen to be a third wheel at the Golden Globes and Oscars that year.

"Why do you even want to go to these award shows with them? I mean, don't you feel weird about it?" you questioned your twin-sister Cliona one evening, as the two of you sat together in the kitchen, eating leftover pizza and chatting, while your mother was putting Sadie to bed. 

"Because it is fantastic for networking," she replied, chewing on a slice of pizza. "You never know who might be there and, besides, these events are great opportunities to show off," she added smugly, throwing a smug smile at you.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes and ignore her comment, allowing her to talk some more. Cliona had always been more interested in your stepfather's status than you had and, although you sometimes wished that you didn't care about her attitude towards his fame, it bothered you a lot lately.

In recent days, you had become particularly moody and being in a house with her and your mother, often alone, didn't help your nerves, despite the fact that you did love them.

On top of that, you had tried to push Cillian out of your head, telling yourself that what had happened between you two was a mistake and nothing more, but try as you might, you couldn't forget it.

You couldn't forget the way he had touched you, made love to you, or even just looked at you. You had never felt so desired in your life and although it scared you, it also excited you beyond belief.

It was a push-pull experience that made you yearn for his presence while, at the same time, you wanted things to go back to the way there were before, when you didn't have these feelings of guilt and shame constantly lingering over you when your mother and twin-sister were around.

"So you aren't coming to any of the awards then?" Cliona repeated her previous question with a pout, which mad you realise that, this entire time, when you were thinking about Cillian, she had been talking to you.

"W-what?" you said, snapping out of your daze. "Um, no, I won't be attending any of the awards shows with you guys. It's not for me and I have too much on my plate at the moment," you lied, even though you had no job and not much to do, other than wait for your course to start.

Cliona shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, as if implying that you were missing out on a great opportunity, before finishing off her slice of pizza and standing up from her chair.

"Well, I'm heading to bed. See you tomorrow," she added, before walking out of the kitchen and leaving you alone in your thoughts.

You sighed and leaned back in your chair, staring out the window just as your phone  beeped, signaling a new text message. 

"You've got the job!" was the message written in big bold letters on the screen from the nice bartender at a local establishment to which a friend had introduced you to the day before. 

Excitement bubbled inside of you, and your troubles seemed to vanish at the sight of the single message. You were absolutely broke , so this opportunity couldn't have come at a better time. You would be able to start working within the next few days, which provided a sense of financial security and a diversion from the drama you had created with Cillian.

Cillian, himself, arrived back home later that week just as you were about to head out for your first shift at the bar.

You were dressed casually in a pair of dark jeans, a fitted grey shirt and your hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail.

"Hey," you greeted Cillian as he walked through the door, looking exhausted but happy to see you, his eyes lighting up as they met yours.

"Hey," he replied, retaining his distance which, in your opinion, made this encounter somewhat awkward.

Luckily for you though, you were an expert in the art of small talk and, even though you hadn't mastered it, your tone sounded light and casual.

"How was your flight?" you asked, as he placed his luggage down and unzipped his jacket.

"Long," Cillian replied with a weary sigh before his eyes met yours again.

The connection was undeniable, burning with a passion that refused to quell. But he had his integrity, and perhaps that was something he would never compromise. Not even for you.

"Where are you off to?"  Cillian inquired, his gaze falling on your outfit while you were fidgeting with the house keys.

"Oh, I've got a job now ," you informed him cheerfully, attempting to keep your tone light while trying to overcome the fluttering feelings in your chest.

"Where at?" Cillian asked, raising an eyebrow, and you wanted to smile at his enthusiasm, but you held back, taking a deep breath instead.

"Just a bar, in town. It's called O'Rielly's and is really nothing special," you lied, trying to downplay the significance of this job, but Cillian could see right through it.

"That's great though," he said with a warm smile, making your heart flutter uncontrollably. "Well done," he told you, knowing how you wanted to pay your own way. 

"Thanks. I really needed this. I was starting to feel like a burden around here," you muttered, not meaning to make the conversation heavy.

Cillian narrowed his gaze upon hearing that, sensing there was something more to your statement.

"You're not a burden, Y/N, and you never have been," he asserted, closing the distance between you, his hands resting on your upper arms reassuringly.

"Oh, I am sure my mother would disagree with you right now," you chuckled, not wanting to tell him about the many fights you had with her in recent days, all because you felt like a leech living in her house. "But listen, I really have to go. My shift starts at six," you said, zipping your jacket closed and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Do you want me to drive you?" Cillian offered, breaking through your thoughts.

For a brief moment, you imagined what it would be like to spend a few more minutes alone with him in the car. But you quickly shook off that dangerous thought.

"Thanks, but I can take the bus," you said, smiling weakly. "Despite, you just got off a six-hour flight,"  you added.

Cillian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off. "No, really. I've got this," you insisted, already moving towards the door.

Cillian sighed, looking like he wanted to say more, but he seemed to think better of it. "Alright, but call me when you get off work. I will pick you up. You shouldn't take the bus that late," he said, his voice firm.

You paused and looked back at him. "You worry too much,"  you said, but there was a small smile on your faces as you said it since you found his concern heartwarming.

"Only because I care," he replied with a warm smile before he allowed you to leave.

When you arrived at the bar for your shift, you found it bustling with people, eager to escape their daily routine. You took a deep breath to steady your nerves and walked behind the bar, where the manager was waiting for you.

"Ah, Y/N! It's good to see you. Here, put this on," she said, handing you a shirt. "I'll show you the ropes."

The first few hours flew by quickly, with you learning the ins and outs of the bar, how to make drinks, take orders, and keep the customers happy.

The pace was fast but exciting, and you found yourself enjoying the buzz around you, serving drinks, laughing with the patrons and relishing in the anonymity and the freedom that came with working at a separate place of employment.

When things started to slow down, you checked the time on your phone and saw it was already after midnight. There was no way Cillian would still be up, you thought to yourself, as you dried your hands on your apron and walked towards the front of the bar but, just as you were about to bring up the bus schedule again, your phone buzzed with a new message.

"I'm still picking you up," it read, causing your heart to skip a beat.

You smiled to yourself, thankful for his concern and hit 'Reply,' typing out a quick thanks and an estimated time for the end of your shift. You knew that there was still some cleaning up to do, which would take about thirty minutes or more.

You put your phone back into your apron’s pocket and got to work, finishing up as quickly as possible and the friendly bar manager, Jeremy, offered you a drink on the house after you finished lifting up all the chairs.

"You did extremely well today," he praised, touching your shoulder. "And thanks for taking the shift last minute, you really saved me," he smiled, noting that you weren't actually meant to start until the week after. 

"I am glad I could help," you responded before noticing him flirting a little with you.

"I enjoyed working with you tonight Y/N. I am serious," Jeremy added with a wink, making you blush slightly and laugh off his compliment. "And you can have as many shifts as you want," he went on to say, which caught you off-guard, since most places usually put new hires on a light schedule.

"Oh, really?" you asked, trying to hide your surprise. "I mean, that sounds good," you added hastily, before taking another sip of your drink.

"Absolutely. I would love to have you on the team, you are a star already," Jeremy complimented you again, causing your face to flush with heat.

You chuckled nervously and glanced down at your phone, checking the time, and saw a message from Cillian: "I will be there in a minute," it read, making you plan your exit. 

"I, uhm, I gotta go now if that's okay?" you  said shyly, biting your lip as you met Jeremy's gaze. His eyes lingered on your lips for a moment longer than necessary before he looked away, just as Cillian reluctantly pushed open the door to the bar, looking straight at the two of you.

"We are closed," Jeremy announced, trying to sound imposing, but you interrupted him.

"It's okay. He is just...uhm...picking me up," you stammered, shuffling your feet nervously as you broke eye contact with Jeremy. "He won't let me take the bus and now this is all really awkward," you then blurted out, causing Cillian to raise an eyebrow.

"I am Cillian. Y/N's..." Cillian paused before saying the word. "Stepfather," he clarified hesitantly, offering a polite smile and his hand to Jeremy for a handshake. There was a slight tension in the air as Jeremy hesitantly shook Cillian's hand, eyeing him carefully, before finally giving you a nod. 

"Oh, right. Of course," Jeremy said, seeming to understand that there was nothing more to this interaction, which made you feel more at ease. 

"I'll just...uhm...go and get my things from the back then," you muttered nervously before quickly scurrying towards the back room to collect your belongings.

You could feel both Cillian's and Jeremy's eyes on you as you gathered your coat and bag, your heart hammering away in your chest.

You had never been very good at hiding your emotions, and it seemed that both men had picked up on you feeling somewhat out of place right now. 

"Okay, I'm ready," you eventually said, brushing a lock of hair out of your face as you walked back out to the front of the bar and, after Jeremy thanked you for your hard work, you followed Cillian out of the door, your heart still racing.

"You know you really didn't have to stay up for me," you said as Cillian opened the car door for you.

"I know. But I wanted to make sure you got home safely. Besides, I was still up anyway," he replied, his tone serious.

As you sat next to him in his car, you couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious about Jeremy and how he had been looking at you throughout the night and, it was also something that Cillian had picked upon. 

"Everything okay?" Cillian asked, seeming to sense your discomfort.

"Yeah, everything's fine," you lied, forcing a smile.

"I can see the bar manager has already taken a liking in you," Cillian said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Yeah, I think, maybe, he has," you confirmed, looking out of the window of the car as Cillian expertly drove through the quiet streets of the city.

"Then again, he works in a bar. I am sure he has taken a liking to many women who have worked there," Cillian replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

You remained silent for a moment, trying to decipher his intent, but you chose not to press further at that moment.

"Are you jealous?"  you blurted out, immediately regretting the words as soon as they left your lips. It was the last thing you wanted to imply, given the circumstances.

Cillian glanced at you and raised an eyebrow, causing you to quickly backtrack.

"I mean, not that you have any reason to be, of course. I am just your stepdaughter after all," you added hastily, your cheeks flushed as you watched Cillian's expression soften.

"No, I'm not jealous," he replied softly. "I am just concerned about you, that's all. I don't want to see you getting hurt."

"Sure, we will leave at that," you nodded, understanding his concern, and looked away, embarrassed that you had even brought it up.

The rest of the car ride was quiet, with neither of you speaking. But, despite the silence, the tension between you two was palpable. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, and your heartbeat quickened as you tried to ignore the thoughts and images that swirled in your mind.

The memories of the connection you shared, the intimacy you both had experienced, and the desire that still lingered, seemed to be clouding your judgement, and you couldn't help but long for that closeness again.

The car pulled up outside the house, and Cillian turned off the engine, allowing the silence to envelop you. He shifted in his seat as he glanced at you, his gaze piercing through the darkness. You could sense that he was trying to read your thoughts, but you couldn't find the words to explain what was going on in your head.

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions, conflicting desires, and unspoken truths that clashed together, creating turbulence you were struggling to navigate.

"We should go inside and get some rest. It's late," you  said softly, your eyes meeting Cillian's. There was a lingering tension between you both, as if his gaze could combust the emotions resparking within you.

"Yeah," Cillian  replied after a moment, his voice almost a whisper. He let out a long breath before he opened his car door, stepping out on the pavement.

Only after he had fully closed the car door did you realize that you had been holding your breath. It was then that you released it in a sigh, feeling strangely disappointed that the night had ended like this, with awkwardness and silence and no connection between you both, except the remembered one.

You quickly exited his car, feeling embarrassed at how much your feelings for him had control over you at times, now that he was ignoring them too.

"Goodnight, Y/N," Cillian muttered, almost under his breath after you both stepped inside, as if he was too afraid to say it any louder.

You turned to him, your eyes wide with surprised and confusion, before you replied with a hoarse "Goodnight" and walking up the stairs, leaving Cillian to stand alone in the hallway. 

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[kayhi808]

Now & Then 2

Thank you again to @armystrong980 for such a brilliant idea. 😘 Hope you enjoy this.

Propped up in a chair, blonde head leaning against the wall behind him, legs stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles, Steve hasn't left the Med Bay since they've revived you. You've yet to awaken, but its only a matter of time. Still unable to believe that he found you in that HYDRA facility and was able to bring you home with him.

The steady beeping of your heart monitor assures him this isn't a dream and that this is real. Steve's concern is that if you'll remember him or not. He doesn't think his heart could handle it if you didn't remember him either. All this time he's been without a family and now you and Bucky were alive yet still out of reach.

A soft moan comes from your bed & he's immediately at your side. He frowns at the restraints they had to put you in. He saw the scars at your wrists and ankles from previous restraints. You start moving your arms & legs, but there's very little give. These he know won't hurt you but it doesn't relieve the anger he feels. Your breath picks up & your heart monitor speeds. Steve slips your hand into his. "It's ok, Y/N. You're safe. I got you." He rhythmically brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

He can tell you're struggling to regain consciousness by your ragged breathing, the furrowing of your brow & the frown on your lips. "You're ok, Y/N. You're doing so well. You're safe. Open your eyes for me. Please. Please wake up for me."

Your eyes flutter open & its a sight Steve thought he'd never see again. Looking into the eyes of his Soul Twin. His joy quickly evaporates with the look of terror on your face. Your struggle against the restraints increases. "Hey, you're safe, Y/N. Y/N! Please Y/N." You squeeze your eyes shut turning your head away from him, letting out screams that shake Steve to his core. It's primal & wounded & a sound he NEVER wanted to hear coming out of you. He releases your hand & steps away. You start sobbing & a team of medics & guards enter. You start screaming again, turning and twisting in your restraints trying to escape. Your terrified eyes lock onto Steve's & without saying a word, Steve gets between you and the medics.

"Captain Rogers?"

"All of you are upsetting her more. I can handle her. She isn't a threat."

******

The man got the scientist w/ syringes & agents with guns to leave the room. He kept them from hurting you. He goes to the door after they leave & flips the lock, "See? They won't come back in, ok?" Your eyes track him as he crosses the room to the foot of your bed. He slowly reaches for your foot and you try to jerk it back. "Take it easy." he holds up his hands. "I'm going to take these off, ok?" You nod. He starts to unbuckle the restraint and you try to pull your leg free early & his hand clamps down on your calf, "Hey! Don't kick me." His hold is firm but not punishing. You relax & nod again. Watching his every move. You like his voice, but something about it bothers you. It makes you sad.

As the last restraint is unbuckled, you pull your legs up to your chest, sitting the furthest away from him. He slowly backs away to lean against the door. His eyes are so full of sadness as he watches you, you actually feel bad for him. You don't understand what's happening. "Thank you," you softly whisper & he nods & gives you the saddest smile. You frown. The sound of his voice makes your brain itch. It's like a memory? Something you've forgotten. You bring up your hands & bury it in your hair, trying to relieve the "itch".

"What's wrong? Are you in pain?" He now stands at the foot of your bed. "Talk to me and I can help you. I promise."

"Your voice."

"What about my voice?"

Tugging at your hair before releasing it. "It makes my brain itch & my heart...it makes my heart hurt."

You see excitement in his eyes & you don't know why, "Please....please trust me for just a little while. Close your eyes & just listen to my voice." He backs up all the way to the door again. Trying to make you feel safe to close your eyes while he's still in the room.

"W...what are you going to do??"

"Nothing. I swear. I'd NEVER hurt you." Pressing himself up against the door. "I won't move from this spot." You take a deep breath & nod while letting your eyes drift close. "Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived a young Prince Steven whose world made him ill. Until one day, he met a lost fairy in the woods who said she could help him if he could find her pet dragon. They would fly the dragon to her home & the young prince would never get sick there..."

"Stevie," you barely breath out, tears sliding down your cheeks. It's the story you created to entertain him while he was too sick to go outside and play. It's his voice. The voice of your best friend. You open your eyes. All you can do is stare at the man at the door. Shaking your head. "Who are you?" He looks nothing like your 5'4", 90lb best friend.

"Steve Rogers."

Your eyes rake him from head to toe. "Not possible."

"It's me, Y/N." He walks closer to your bed & kneels down by your bedside. "Look beyond all...this." His hands sweeping over his face & body. "You have to remember me." His blue eyes. Oh so familiar blue eyes, bright with unshed tears. "We're Soul Twins." He gives a weak laugh at the term you bestowed on yourselves at the age of 6. He reaches out & touches the faint scar on your chin. "You got that the day we met Bucky."

At the mention of Bucky's name, your heart breaks remembering your time with HYDRA and you sob unconsolably. You reach out to Steve & he immediately takes you in his arm and you let him. You have your best friend, but a new fear grows. Will Steve ever forgive you for how HYDRA used you against Bucky?

*****

Over the next few months, you stay with Steve at the Avenger's compound. In the beginning your days were spent being interrogated...questioned about your time with HYDRA. You opened up about Bucky, and to your surprise, Steve wasn't mad at you. In the beginning, HYDRA would get Bucky to comply with their orders or you would suffer the consequences. Bucky wouldn't resist them. He'd do anything to keep you safe. But then, if he'd fail a mission, they would punish you. They controlled Bucky by using you.

As their technology got better, they started wiping his memory and would have full control. You went back to tending & healing their Super Soldiers. It'd break your heart when Bucky would be sent to you & he wouldn't recognize you. You loved this man since you were both children. They treated him atrociously! You couldn't work on him without crying. You would pretend that deep down, he still remembered you. He knew you under the stoic soldier facade. You had to believe that.

It didn't take long for you and Steve to be caught up with each others lives. You were inseparable again. He helped you try to assimilate into the world today. Helping you, made him feel not so alone. He knows the struggles you suffer through because he went through that or is even still going through it.

******

It was a beautiful day, for such a somber event. Peggy Carter's funeral. Steve had taken you many times to the Care Home to visit with Peggy. Steve's love. It angered you at how HYDRA had a hand at destroying all your lives. You. Steve. Peggy. Bucky.

You and Sam were by Steve's side though the funeral, but he was now visiting with Sharon Carter, so you and Sam decide to get drinks at the hotel bar. Of all the Avengers, you get along best with Sam. You were arguing over something ridiculous when you see the TV above the bar, breaking news of a bomb explosion in Vienna; a picture of Bucky as the Winter Soldier is up on the screen. "Sam." nodding up at the TV. Throwing some money on the bar, he grabs your hand & pulls you out of the bar to hunt for Steve.

*****

Sharon was able to give Steve a heads up on Bucky's location. Him and Sam are getting ready to leave for Bucharest. "I'll have a car pick you up & return you to the Compound."

"What? No! I'm going with you to find Bucky," frowning at Steve.

"Y/N, it's too dangerous. I'm not taking you to Romania."

"Hon, this isn't going to be the Bucky you remember," Sam trying to gently let you down.

"I know! This is Soldat. He knows ME, not YOU. Who do you think he'll listen to? He'll trust me. We don't have time to argue about this. Sharon & the CIA have orders to shoot on sight. Please, Steve."

Growls, "Fine, get in," shoves you into the car. "But you will do exactly what I say. No questions asked. Is that understood?"

You salute, "Yes, Captain!" Sam laughs & Steve glares at you. You don't care, as long as he takes you with them. You needed to see Bucky. You'd promise whatever you had to.

@severelykinky @elijahssuit @ordelixx @moonlovefairy @cjand10 @vicmc624 @marianastudiesart @thefandomplace @longlivedelusion @snowkestrel @insomiax @babybreathbabes @k-marzolf @danzer8705

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

Proposal

{Masterlist}

Contents: References to Lobotomy, Begging, Hero Whumpee/Villain Whumper.

+++

“D-don’t! Please fuck please I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

Hero’s pleas went unanswered. Having a power inhibitor lodged in their body somewhere they didn’t even know made them helpless. Strapped to a medical bed simply with padded restraints on their wrists and ankles. The monitors beeping in the background idly displaying their vitals.

Villain was preparing everything. Whatever the fuck they were preparing. A table with syringes of unknown substances and tools that Hero wished they hadn’t learned existed. What other procedure could possibly be done with something that looks like an icepick. What did Villain call it? A leucotome or something.

“P-please Villain. I-I know we don’t even really know each other that well and of course it’s my job to stop you from hurting people… but this is going too far. Please, you have to see that.”

Villain was humming a tune. Humming! While Hero was terrified for their life. Even if they knew the procedure wasn’t meant to kill them, it might as well be death. They wouldn’t be themselves, just a shell, a husk. As Villain sauntered over with their tools in hand, Hero’s heart sunk.

Fighting fruitlessly against the restraints. Thrashing with all their might.

“Don’t you fucking dare! You can’t do this you can’t! Please g-god fuck you cant…”

Villain put a strap over Hero’s forehead and pinned their head down tightly to the bed and secured the restraint. Hero’s struggles dying down, not by choice.

“J-just please reconsider this. What’s the point of doing this? I’m just one hero, there’s hundreds of others that are going to fight you even if I’m gone.”

Villain brought up the ice pick and leveled it at an angle above Hero’s right eye. The Hero couldn’t move out to fear and their breath was short, uneven. Their gaze flitting between the weapon and Villain.

“C-Can we please just talk about this? For two seconds please please.”

Villain drew the pick closer to Hero. Unbearably close. If Hero even twitched the sharp point would touch their eye. Their eyes were tearing up. They couldn’t believe how much fear was running through them. This had to be a nightmare. But it wasn’t.

“Please I’m sorry I-I… I won’t ever get in your way again. You won’t have to worry about me. You’ll never see me, I-I…”

Hero shut their eyes when Villain brought up a hammer looking tool to the butt end of the pick. Ready to pierce into his skull. Their heart pounding out of their chest, hands trembling. They couldn’t help the tear they shed.

“I’m so fucking sorry. For the love of… please don’t do this to me, please please I’ll do anything. I won’t be a hero anymore, I’ll disappear. Or just fucking kill me instead!”

For a few beats nothing happened. Hero didn’t dare to open their eyes. Not wanting to face the horror that awaited them as a few more of their tears shed. Only to be met with a gentle warm touch grazing their cheek. Making them flinch away with a pathetic whimper.

“I won’t kill you, darling.”

The voice almost a whisper, yet smooth and crystal. Hero hesitantly pried their eyes open to peer up at the Villain.

Villain leans down over the bed as they place both of their hands next to either side of Hero’s head on the bed. Caging them in as their breath fans over their face.

“I have a proposal. Not much of a choice because I’ll keep you either way, but this next part depends on you. Should I keep you after you turn into a cute little vegetable with no thoughts or will. Or…”

Villains right hand cups Hero’s left cheek. Caressing it in a mockingly comforting manner that only sent chills through Hero’s body.

“… would you like to stay who you are and willingly stay with me? Be my little pet. All you have to do is never leave me, never disobey, never run back to the hero’s association. All mine. What do you say?”

+++

Date: November 24, 2024

[starry-bi-sky]

you can't choose what stays and what fades away

No light, no light in your bright blue eyes I never knew daylight could be so violent A revelation in the light of day You can't choose what stays and what fades away

(and I'd do anything to make you stay)

------------

Shen Yuan wakes up in a woodshed.

He's in a body that's not quite his own.

(WIP also available on ao3!)

He wakes up in a woodshed.    

No, actually— let him correct himself. Shen Yuan does, indeed, wake up in a woodshed, but it’s not the first thing he realizes upon waking. No, in fact, consciousness comes quite slowly to him; sluggish, his mind attempting to slog through calf-high bogland without exhausting itself. It’s like he’s trying to drag himself to the surface of a river with a weight tied around his ankle, the weight trying desperately to drag him just as quickly down.    

His senses come to him just as slowly, his hearing and touch and smell and taste all trying to claw its way up back into existence till they’re thrumming beneath the thin skin of his body. Yes, it’s very much like trying to wake up from a long, deep sleep where he didn’t get quite enough rest, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he had collapsed again. His mouth is dry, his lips feel crusty, and his eyes are sealed shut by congealed-whatever-mixture of disgusting bodily fluids his eyes are capable of producing.    

Much like breaking free from sleep-paralysis, the moment he’s able to register that he’s actually sensing things again, the strange, spongy film that had been dampening them suddenly crumbles and collapses. Everything rushes forth like water spilling out of an open dam, or maybe like blood from an open scab, and Shen Yuan is abruptly accosted by the world and its sounds and sensations.   

The sun is hitting his eyes in just the right way that he can see the light burning behind his eyelids – which, that can’t be right, his curtains should be drawn, -- and there’s the distinct and gentle sound of wind rustling past, of birds singing softly, and the faint trill of music floating through. Shen Yuan is abruptly imposed with the mental image of a yellow autumn leaf falling delicately onto a still pond, that is how tranquil the world around him sounds.    

It is so, so, incredibly cliche, that he can’t help but open his eyes with a deep rooting incredulity planting itself firmly in the core of his chest. What he expects to see is the ceiling of his bedroom – the ground is hard enough that, for a moment, he thinks he may have fallen asleep on the floor again, or perhaps the hospital, because then that would at least explain better the tranquil sounds in his ears and the sunlight hitting his face.   

(Except he doesn’t smell the familiar sting of septic and cleaner, nor does he hear the beeping of the heart rate monitor beside him, the bustle and soft murmur of nurses outside that are always on the move. There’s no paper thin and slightly scratchy blanket laid over him. And never, not once, has he been subjected to the sounds of an eight-hour tranquil music ASMR while in the hospital.)  

(In fact, his nose feels rather stuffy. The same way it gets when he has a runny nose that just dried or a bloody nose that just finally stopped bleeding. He smells dirt and wood, and— and… is that blood?)    

There’s still crust clinging to his lashes and the corner of his eyes when he opens them, so his vision is immediately blurred in the way only recent consciousness can create. But even then, he can see the roof clearly enough to know that this is neither his bedroom nor the hospital. Shen Yuan sits up while his heart drops right out of his chest, regretting the action immediately as an ache shoots up his arms and staunchly reminds him of a terrible soreness spread throughout his body, one that he was not previously aware of.   

The hiss he makes is involuntary, and the sound rusted and weak, irritating his sore throat while his head pounds behind his eyes like a hammer against a nail. Get your bearings, Shen Yuan, he thinks, vision swimming, sucking in his dessert-dry bottom lip between his teeth and catching it on the incisors. The air does nothing for the inside of his mouth. Where the fuck am I?  

His eyes flick around the crust poking irritably at his corneas, as he tries to soak in where exactly he is. On instinct, his hands come up to flick away the crust obscuring his sight, and when he pulls his fingers away, there’s dark, brown-red buildup crumbling against his skin.   

Wh—? Shen Yuan rubs his eyes again, and realizes there’s a flaking trail coming from his eyes down his cheeks that, when he rubs at it, peels off into what can’t be anything but dried blood. It does nothing for his rapid-beating heart and the sinking shock and horror settling between his ribs. Why has he been bleeding from his eyes?    

He looks up from his hand. That shock and horror rising as he finally, finally takes in his surroundings, while also realizing, his dry tongue running against the back of his teeth and the corner of his mouth, that he was tasting blood too. Faint and stuck against his gums, but there.   

Shen Yuan is surrounded by cut wood, and beneath him he’s sitting on an old, tattered blanket. He’s wearing robes. Robes, worn and slightly dirty, made of a pleasant-to-the-eye green and white fabric, and straight out of every single Xanxia novel, drama, and poster he’s ever read and seen. There’s a simply, if slightly tattered, white fan tucked against his thigh.   

Oh, oh no. His hands fly up to his hair and— yep. Yeah, slightly tangled but undeniably soft and smooth, black hair slips against his fingers like silk and pours over his shoulders and down his back. It’s ten times longer than it should be, ten times longer than he’s used to, and he’s sitting on the ends of it. He releases his hair only so Shen Yuan can slap his hands against his face, automatically picking at the trail of dried blood on both corners of his mouth. His fingers are chilled against his skin, and he ignores it to trace his new (he thinks—the bow of his mouth and the curve of his cheekbones feels achingly familiar) facial features.   

Whose face am I wearing? What book have I entered? Because wasn’t this transmigration one-oh-one? The last thing he remembers was becoming incensed with the ending of Proud Immortal Demon Way and, in the middle of his scathing rant, dying of food poisoning. This was totally transmigration one-oh-one. Dying after reading a book, only to wake up in a place that was not the modern world, only to realize shortly after that they were now in the book they had just read?   

Wait— if he follows that trope, then... Shen Yuan’s heart decides it’s had enough time in his stomach, and leaps right into his throat. His eyes flitter around anxiously. There are bamboo stalks rising out the window, and the music he’s hearing, Shen Yuan realizes belatedly that it’s the sweet plucking of a guqin. Oh no. Don’t tell me--   

Like an activation phrase, a too-loud notification ‘ding!’ goes right off in his ear, resulting in Shen Yuan flinching violently as a too-bright and eye-stinging blue message box seals open into existence right before his eyes.   

[ SYSTEM Successfully Activated! Welcome to the world of Pride Immortal Demon Way! You are ‘Shen Jiu’ -- otherwise known as Shen Qingqiu, thirteen-year-old Disciple of Qing Jing Peak. Currently your actions are restricted due to a frozen OOC function that will eventually be unlocked after you familiarize yourself with the world. ]  

No! Of all the people he could have been transmigrated into, did it have to be the villain? Scum Disciple Shen Qingqiu? No— no, of course it was the villain; wasn’t that also transmigration one-oh-one as well? That the transmigrator was either the hero, the villain, or an NPC related to either one?   

Was this karma? Was the world enacting karmic justice on him for all those late nights spent arguing with internet randos online when he should have been doing something productive with his life? Of all those hours spent countlessly researching mythical beasts and animals and folklore all so he could tear the author a new one for his terrible plot and even worse papapa? Did Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky inflict some kind of curse on him that resulted in him being dragged into his shitty, shitty, stallion novel to act as the same guy who later gets his limbs torn off and pickled by the main protagonist?   

It had to be. That’s exactly what this was. This was karma.   

(Oh god, he’s never going to see his family again, is he? He’d died. He’d died in his world, he knows it. That’s how this always goes. At least he hadn’t been hit by a truck, at least he’d died somewhat originally. But he died. He’d been choking and everything went dark. The fluid filling his lungs, the lack of air, the steady crawl of blackening fuzz slowly encircling his vision--)  

(Who will find his body? How long will it take? It’d only been a week prior that he’d gotten into a fight with da-ge and the others, and they usually give him space for a while when they do. It’s not like Shen Yuan had any close friends left either--)  

(Will they find him rotting? Will they blame themselves? What will they think?)   

--(...Oh god, who was going to tell Hai-ge--?)--  

Shen Yuan drops his face into his hands, ignoring the throbbing of his skull and the influx of nausea that sloshes from his chest to his stomach as he does. He groans, low and painful, ignoring the sharp sting of his throat it causes. Does it have to be Shen Qingqiu? He asks, and wonders if the SYSTEM needs an audial vocal command or if it would just--   

[ You have been chosen to play Shen Qingqiu, the Scum Villain Disciple! ]   

Annoyance burrows into his throat. That’s... not what he asked. His teeth grind against each other, the stupid message box burning into his eyes. That at least answers that question, though. He won’t have to talk aloud to communicate with the SYSTEM, so at least he won’t look insane for talking to himself in public. Why does it have to be Shen Qingqiu?   

[ Shen Qingqiu plays a vital role in Pride Immortal Demon Way! You have been chosen to take on his role as the Scum Villain Disciple. ]   

What vital role!? Shen Qingqiu, sure, had a role in the beginning of the book as the disciple who did nothing but cause a ruckus and trouble on Qing Jing Peak when the protagonist’s back was turned; trying to drag Peak Lord Luo Binghe’s precious name through the mud while inciting what was basically tyranny by clawing his way up to a Head Disciple position through being a green tea bitch. He then went and used that power to abuse and bully the younger disciples when the adults weren’t looking.  

He only got away with it for so long because Luo Binghe was so busy with important missions and night hunts and the sweeping-of-peerless-beauties off their feet off the peak, that when he was on Qing Jing, it wasn’t long enough to realize just who was behind the disruption. And Shen Qingqiu was sneaky about it, so it took even longer. 

Only coming to a head at the Immortal Cultivation Conference when demons attacked and it all came to light like a hellish volcano, resulting in Shen Qingqiu not only finding out about Luo Binghe’s status as a half-heavenly demon, but also him being pushed into the Endless Abyss. He re-emerges half a decade later, brimming with demonic cultivation and a half-crazed lust for power and vengeance — revenge that ends up failing because he’s going up against the powerful protagonist.  

He causes a handful of actual problems before Luo Binghe finally has enough, and in the end, Shen Qingqiu ends up with his non-vital limbs cut off and stuffed inside a jar like a human pickle. A horrifying and befitting ending for any villain and antagonist of the main character.  

That is to say, nothing about him is actually vital. He was, for all intents and purposes, pretty much a low-tier cannon fodder villain meant to boost up and accentuate the protagonist’s abilities in the beginning of the book. A way to introduce the audience to the might and intelligence of the main character and their problem-solving skills when there is a ‘mysterious figure’ going around besmirching his name.  

Which... may just work in his favor, actually. Shen Qingqiu ended up with the fate he got because he went against the protagonist, a big no-no in practically every trashy novel. So, solution so Shen Yuan doesn’t end up a human stick? Don’t get in the protagonist’s way.  

That annoying ‘ding!’ rings in his ear, causing yet another flinch out of Shen Yuan as a notification unapologetically forms in front of him.  

[ WARNING: OOC! Host’s refusal to stay in character will result in automatic point deductions. If Host’s point score gets too low, SYSTEM will automatically mete out punishment. ] 

Of course it wasn’t that easy. Of course not, because why would it be easy? Of course there was a point system, this was a SYSTEM after all. Of course he couldn’t just avoid the villain’s fate, because that’d be too easy. His annoyance simmers out across the plane of his chest, and he decidedly ignores the faint tremor in his arms and the pulsing beat of his heart as he picks himself up off the ground and stands.  

His legs, much like his arms, tremble, and his head swims. He pushes through it, ignoring the ill-feeling of fear making itself home in the pit of his stomach. He should ask what those punishments are; what they’ll look like. He should ask about the point system, about how to increase his point score, about all the functions in the SYSTEM and what he has available, and what he does not.  

He should ask how old he is – because he’s much smaller than his old adult self had been; probably child-sized? -- and where he is in the book. What year is it, how long until the Immortal Cultivators Conference. Just when is he? 

Shen Yuan reaches out to grip onto a particularly towering stack of firewood, careful not to knock it or himself over. It feels like physical therapy all over again. Granted, a primitive, unsupervised, cobbled-together version of physical therapy, but physical therapy, nonetheless.  

His foot kicks against the fan, he’d frankly forgotten about that, and it slides off the blanket and across the dirt. His fingers twitch to grab it, something possessive and uncomfortably vulnerable rearing in his lungs – ah, an instinctive emotion from the original goods then? He’s heard of that in other transmigration stories he’s read, the novels failed to mention the full extent of how strange it felt.  

(It felt so eerily natural to want to pick it up. Of course he’d be upset about kicking it, and the unhappiness of dirtying it slots itself against him like second nature. How strange. How creepy.)  

Instead of asking any of that though, Shen Yuan turns his bitter mind inwards to the SYSTEM and asks, perhaps, the most important question of them all; Why did you bring me here if you were just going to kill me again?   

Isn’t that unnecessarily cruel?  

[ Host has been brought to Pride Immortal Demon Way because it is our sincere hope that Host can transform this stupid work into a magnificent, high-quality, first-rate classic! As part of the welcoming package, and to help ease the transition, a few things have been left in Host’s inventory! We hope you enjoy your time in Pride Immortal Demon Way! ]  

To change-- 

To change--?  

To CHANGE--?  

Indignancy surges itself from the tips of Shen Yuan’s fingers to the crown of his head, anger not unlike every single time Airplane threw away an interesting plot point for sex fuzzes out his vision and turns his pounding headache into a full-fledged migraine. His grip on the firewood tightens, and he can feel the rough and textured bark digging into his skin. 

His mouth curls inward, the cracked skin splitting down the middle of his bottom lip as Shen Yuan threatens to snarl at the SYSTEM. How the fuck am I supposed to change the plot if I can’t even change the way my character acts!  

[ Reminder to Host: The OOC Function is frozen, but not permanent. Once Host has become properly settled in and completed the tutorial will he be able to unlock it. ]  

Fine, fine! He has half a mind to unload a string of curses at the SYSTEM, because apparently its rules were as stupid as the author who made this world. Shen Yuan refrains; he doesn’t know how sentient the thing is, and upsetting it right now when he has no idea when he is – nor does he know a thing about the point system -- would only be detrimental for him in the long run. 

Instead, he lets loose a groan from his throat that could be more accurately compared to as a growl. With his one free hand, Shen Yuan drags his palm down his face, and then loops it back up to comb it through his hair. ...His hair that is much longer than it used to be, and which is snaggled with little knots and tangles that he’ll have to get out.  

He hits the first knot and immediately withdraws his fingers, freeing up a few strands of ink black hair while he’s at it. With a quick wrist shake, the strands fall to the floor and Shen Yuan leans the rest of his weight against the log pile. Some of his anger cools down until it’s nothing more than boiled water gone cold, and he sighs out through a clogged-up nose until there’s nothing more than a quiet pressure of unease curled around his shoulders.  

There’s really not much he does know about how Shen Qingqiu acts – after all, he put up a responsible and dutiful disciple front when he was in the presence of Luo Binghe, and was only then revealed to be a scumbag later down the line. Which only got backed up with secondhand accounts of the other Qing Jing Peak disciples.  

He didn’t show up often either, since most of the time Luo Binghe was off the peak. Nobody wants to read about a powerful peak lord being a teacher after all. Many more interesting things in the world around him than his students.  

SYSTEM, how old am I? He must be pretty young if he bases it off how small he is – although, Shen Qingqiu didn’t have much of a description in the first place. He was only described as having skin as white as jade, with glossy black hair and a noble air surrounding him. Height, eyes, and finer details like that were left unmentioned. Why did I wake up in a woodshed? What time is it? 

[ Host is currently thirteen years old! Last night Shen Qingqiu experienced a severe Qi Deviation after having an altercation with the Head Disciple. It is early morning; the other disciples will be getting breakfast. ] 

That doesn’t explain why he was in a woodshed. But at this point, Shen Yuan was starting to believe that he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of every question he asks. That does explain the blood in his mouth and crusted on his face – and the soreness and exhaustion currently wrought through his body, though.  

In a rapid set of blinks and a little bit of mental fiddling, the message notifications disappear out of his sight and the rest of his senses begin to filter back in, the SYSTEM seeming content to disappear into the back of his mind – which, wow, feels just as weird as the original goods’ instincts from earlier. 

More of his own strength had returned, enough that Shen Yuan feels comfortable with pushing himself off the firewood stack and standing on his own. Making sure that his legs won’t collapse under the weight of his own body, he takes a tentative step forward and drops his gaze down to the little white fan sitting on the ground.  

...The idea of leaving without it returns that discomforting, vulnerable feeling from earlier, as if he had walked out without a shirt on. The hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up on its own with unease. Shen Qingqiu was mentioned to hide his face behind a fan in every appearance he made, it must be the original goods’ emotions he’s feeling then. Again.  

He leans down, his core trembling just a little, and plucks it right off the ground. The grooves of the wood fit against his fingers perfectly, hinting at weeks, if not years, of use and the oils of his hands wearing it down. He beats the side of the fan against his leg lightly, ignoring the bruising-aches it shoots up his thigh, and brushes off the dirt clinging to it.  

Without thinking, Shen Qingqiu flicks it open and flutters it about for a few quick beats. The unnerving, skin-crawling sensation marking across his spine settles down, and he snaps the fan shut before reaching for the door.  

[ OOC: Host should make himself look presentable before being seen in public. Failure to do so will result in immediate point deduction. ] 

Shen Qingqiu grits his teeth again, there’s nothing in here but dirt and wood, how am I supposed to do that? It’s not like he had the whole layout of Qing Jing Peak memorized; Luo Binghe was barely on so where everything was, wasn’t important. Is there some kind of bathhouse somewhere?  

Which, if there was, he wasn’t planning on using until it was entirely empty – the mere thought of it returned that gross, uncomfortable skin-crawling discomfort. He’ll shower at night, thank you, repressing a shudder at the horrifying idea of someone potentially walking in on him.  

[ OOC: Shen Qingqiu would never bathe with the threat of other disciples around. There is a nearby creek that Host can clean himself up at. ]  

That’s really not much better.  But, so long as he isn’t undressing in public, he can probably just... wash the dirt off and get his hair damp enough to detangle it. If Shen Qingqiu was sleeping in here, then he probably has a change of clothes somewhere around here, right? He should look around for any hidden bags before leaving.  

He finds a small qiankun pouch tucked safely between a set of wood logs near the blanket, and inside it is a clean set of robes for him to change into, which, perfect! The robes he was wearing right now weren’t terribly dirty, but there were a few dirt spots visible enough that Shen Qingqiu was sure that he’d probably get a point deduction out of it, or a scolding from senior disciples.  

(Does Shen Qingqiu sleep in the woodshed often? Shouldn’t he be in the dormitories?)  

He plucks the bag out of its little hidey-hole, giving it a place on his belt, along with his newly acquired fan, and turns towards the door. Shen Qingqiu crosses the room in the span of a few large steps, and just as he’s about to curl his hand around the handle, he... pauses.  

It’s only for a split second, a moment of hesitation, of personal confirmation that, once he opens this door, there will be no going back. Not that there was since he opened his eyes, but, it would cement it.  

Shen Qingqiu breathes in a shaky breath, and then opens the door to the rising sun.

[vaporwavebeach-writes]

Kinktober Day 5 (Collaring)

BTAA Scarecrow x Reader (NSFW)

(1,522 Words)

Summary: There’s a kill collar around your neck

Warnings/Tags: 18+, gender neutral reader, tied to a chair, collaring, fear play, a little bit of psychoanalysis, light knife play, dom/sub dynamic

Notes: Ok, now this one was just TOO FUN to write LMAO, u can read this as a continuation to this or as a stand alone, either way, enjoy the fic!!!

-

An abrupt chill dances up your neck, waking you to your surroundings. Eyes opening groggily, you awaken to thick, rough twine digging into your wrists and ankles, keeping you tied to the arms and legs of a wooden chair.

You try to look around, but you feel something heavy and metal around your neck. It’s when you hear the beeping of a heart monitor when you realize exactly what it is.

“Good morning, sunshine.” You look up in front of you to see the Scarecrow, leaning his hands back on the table behind him, standing with his leg crossed casually. His voice is his usual brand of eerily cheerful. Amusing, but terrifying to be on the other end of, as you have seen by working for him for a while, but unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky this time.

The collar begins to beep slightly faster, hardly noticeable, but your boss, Scarecrow- Dr. Jonathan Crane, he seems to pick up on your nerves easily. Behind his raggedy, burlap mask, you can see the stirrings of morbid excitement as he cocks his head playfully.

“No need to be nervous,” He says nonchalantly. He leans back further, sitting on the table. “You know the drill by now.”

You begin to wonder what you could’ve possibly done to end up to be the next victim of one of the Scarecrow’s infamous kill collars. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” You ask bluntly.

“Oh! Right to the point,” he chuckles. “Well,” he clears his throat, “It all depends on you- Don’t get scared, and you get to keep your head.”

You roll your eyes, hearing his spiel dozens of times already. “Yeah, yeah- Got it, like you said, I know the drill.”

The Scarecrow gets up, stalking ever so close to you. You feel his cold hand find its way under your chin, tilting up your head to look deep into his gaze. You’ve seen him do this several times, you know this is just an intimidation tactic to toy with his victims.

“So what did it?” You begin, unfazed by his potent glare. “Was it the fact that I knew too much about what was really going on here? Or was it when I reduced you to nothing but a quivering mess when I caught you fucking yourself to the thought of me?”

He lets out a low chuckle, placing a hand on your shoulder, circling around you menacingly. “You could say that.”

“To which one?”

“Oh, I don’t think it really matters too much,” he stops behind you, “…What matters…” You feel your feet come off the floor as he tilts back the chair, “…Is that we need to make an example out of you,” he darkly murmurs in your ear. You let out an involuntary yelp as the chair is suddenly pushed forward.

The kill collar starts to beep slightly quicker now, but it was getting harder to tell if your heart was picking up due to fear, or arousal. Either way, you refuse to let whatever emotions you’re currently feeling be the death of you. Taking a deep breath, you attempt to stabilize your breathing, which the Scarecrow notes aloud.

“Breathing techniques, huh? You must’ve been paying attention to all those times you’ve seen me collar someone. Why? Did you see yourself ending up in a situation like this? Did you try to prepare just in case you did?”

“I learned from the best,” you sigh sarcastically.

“Aw,” he chuckles, “You know, complimenting me won’t get you out of this…” Crane fishes around the inner pocket of his jacket. He makes his way around you once again as the glint of his switchblade is caught in your peripheral vision. “Now answer the question,” The blade is held directly to your chest. “Please.”

“Alright,” You gulp, the beeping of the collar stays consistent. “Yeah, I did think this is how things would end, but you know what?”

“What is it, little lamb?”

“The fact that you have me here, like this, means that I’ve gotten close.”

Crane leans over the back of the chair, cocking his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“I learned some real nasty secrets about your experiments with using JoyCure, an unauthorized drug, on your patients,” you explain, “and, I had you completely spineless for me, the fact that you have me collared here, means you’re afraid. You’re afraid that I know too much about you, criminally and personally, so you have me here to not only kill me, but to kill the fear of knowing about the leverage I have on you.”

You look him dead in the eyes as you make your case, showing him that you are not afraid and refuse to be afraid, no matter how much he tries to make you believe it. You almost forget he still has the blade to your chest until you feel the cold metal trail down and eventually off your flesh.

A low, bubbling, snicker sounds in the warehouse. “My, my,” whispers Crane, awestruck. He toys with the switchblade, fiddling with it in his hands. “Now look who’s playing psychiatrist.” His low snicker erupts into an uproarious laugh, like a hyena. “Oh wow, that is an interesting theory to say the least, and you do make a very promising point,” his voice is directly behind you now. “I can see how you’re trying to flip the dynamic here, thinking you have some control, but unfortunately…” his hands find their way to your shoulders, pinning you to the back of the chair. You hear a sadistic hiss in your ear. “…You’re wrong.”

The air of his breath tickles the side of your neck. Hearing the flick of the switchblade snapping open, the knife is held to your chest once again. However, the knife continues to slide down your uniform- a simple jumpsuit to protect yourself from any chemicals from his fear toxin that may be lingering around the warehouse. The fabric tears and you are left vulnerable, opened up with your underwear exposed. You don’t say a word, but the collar’s heart monitor audibly speeds up.

“There it is…” he whirls around, admiring your exposed flesh- your exposed emotions. “There’s that fear I’ve been so longing to see.” Behind his mask, you could tell he was grinning sadistically. Attempting to keep standing your ground, you keep your head held high as the Scarecrow prowls over to you. “Or, wait a second… maybe, it’s not fear.”

Oh shit.

“Hmmm,” he ponders aloud, “it’s very hard to tell with you.” He claps his hands, throwing his head back. “Well!” his head comes back, the eyes behind his mask eye you up carnally. “There’s always solutions that we can test to distinguish which response is which.” At this point, he’s doing it just to mess with you. Prowling behind the chair, he leans forward, directly to your ear. “…I am a man of science, you know.”

His cold hand drops to your chest. He feels up every inch of your exposed body. Shuddering, his fingers find their way to your undershirt, sliding between the fabric and teasing your nipples. A restrained moan exits your mouth as lightly pinches them.

“Interesting response,” he purrs “someone who is feeling fear wouldn’t have that reaction, so obviously, you’re feeling frustrated…” He lets go of your nipples, flicking his thumb over them. “…Sexually.” You hardly notice that the collar’s beeping sounds faster this time.

“It’s fascinating,” he continues “how fear and arousal are so similar.” His hands finally make their way to your inner thighs, caressing them, teasing. “Heavy breathing…” He drags his hand across your underwear. “Adrenaline, pumping…” His hand finally slips into your underwear, you jump when he finally glides his fingers over your sex, “…Heart, racing.” The beeping of the kill collar continues to ring out.

Gathering the arousal that drips out of your aching sex, Crane applies more pressure and friction against the spot that makes you squirm. He fucks you with his skilled fingers. You breathe out amorously, not giving a shit about the kill collar, which rapidly increases in its beeping, sealing your fate as you come violently.

When you come down from your euphoric high, you realize your head is still on your body. You’re alive. Breathing heavily, you turn your head as best you can, confused, facing the deranged psychiatrist, who lets out an amused chuckle.

“Oh yeah, forgot to mention,” Crane makes his way over back to the table, leaning back casually, soaking in your disheveled state. “That kill collar? It’s a fake.”

Flicking open the switchblade, Jonathan makes his way over to you, using it to unscrew the heavy, metal collar which unclamps from your neck immediately. You feel the sweet relief of being able to move your neck once again, only for the Scarecrow to take your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look at him.

His eyes bore into yours deeply. “I needed you to know how easily I can make you squirm.” His voice drips with sadistic venom. “This was just to show you who really has control here.”

[literatecowboy]

Dr. Feelgood

2. Fucking Brits

Find part 1 here Summary: You've been in trouble at work several times before for "lack of professionalism" but now you've gone too far. You've been reassigned to Task Force 141 as a temporary doctor to replace the ones they've made quit out of frustration. You must either prove yourself and earn your former position back at a prestigious military hospital in California or face dishonorable discharge. Author's Notes: This is my first fanfiction - please be gentle. Additionally, the reader's callsign is "Feelgood." I have done my best to write the reader as ambiguous regarding appearance, but she/her pronouns and AFAB anatomy will be utilized. I hope for this to be a slow-burn romance with Simon "Ghost" Riley. Warnings: Gunshot wounds, medical terminology and procedures

-----

You didn’t enjoy sleepless nights, but you were used to them. Despite Gaz coming in at Price’s behest to watch over Ghost while you slept, you were too full of adrenaline to rest and as a result, spent the night getting to know the sergeant better. 

In the early hours of the morning, Soap had visited and joined the conversation for a while before the two departed for a workout. Although your stay with the 141 was intended to be a punishment, you found yourself enjoying their company. When you returned to your home base in California you were sure you’d keep in touch. 

Ghost had been quiet through the night to your surprise. He hadn’t woken yet - his body eagerly accepted the rest following such a traumatic injury. 

Of course, it could have been worse - though you were glad it wasn’t. 

One thing that startled you about the medical arrangements of the 141 was that there was no medical support staff on hand. Soap had informed you that their previous medic had retired and the other nurses and caregivers had either trickled out before their former doctor’s resignation or quit just after him. 

Your mind had wandered from where you sat at the computer, quietly reviewing the incomplete medical histories of the 141. It was too quiet. 

Behind you Ghost jolted in bed, sucking in a deep lungful of air and scrambling to sit upright. His eyes were wild and the heart rate monitor he was attached to began to beep more rapidly as he ripped the oxygen mask from his face with a shaky hand. 

In the next instant, you were up and out of your seat and racing for him, dodging the mask as it was hurled at you with surprising force. 

“Lieutenant, it’s okay! You’re safe, you’re in medical!” you cried as you reached him. He reached for the needle in his arm but before he could tug it out and stop the IV you shoved his hand away and grasped gently at his tattooed forearm. 

“Ghost, take a deep breath for me, okay?” you pleaded, laying your hand over the top of the tape that kept the needle in place and using the other to push gently at his chest, trying to get him to lay back down. 

“Ge’ offa me.” he snarled, reaching forward and shoving you back from your shoulder. The force sent you stumbling back, shocked, as he gasped for breath. Ghost kicked frantically at the blankets until they pooled around his ankles, eyes darting as he scanned the room. His chest was heaving and he swung his massive legs off of the bed, grunting in pain as he put his weight on his legs. He stumbled forward, clutching the area where he’d been shot, and crumpled to his knees. 

Recovering quickly, you surged forward again and knelt on the floor with him, catching him before he could fall forward and collide with the floor. You could feel his heart racing against yours as you embraced him, gently helping him sit back on the cool tile so he wouldn’t faceplant. 

“Take it easy there, big guy. You’re alright,” you murmured, taking care to avoid putting any pressure on his wound. As soon as he was seated safely on the floor a large hand pushed you back and away from him, though this shove was more gentle than the one before. You sat back on your heels and eyed him warily, your own heart racing. A few minutes of silence passed as Ghost caught his breath.

“You okay?” you chanced, earning a glare as Ghost looked up at you. 

“Do I look alright?” he practically growled, arms limp at his sides. 

“You look like shit, man, you got fucking shot.” the words came from your mouth before you could think or stop them. Ghost blinked, huffed out a little chuckle, and then winced, gripping his wound. 

“Sorry,” you muttered, looking down as you fisted your shirt.

“S’alright. You’re honest,” he grumbled.

“Can I get you into bed then?” 

“I usually like to know the names of the women who take me to bed.”

“Get fucked– sorry, sorry. I’m Feelgood. I’m…uh…the temporary doctor. Let’s get you up.” you said, offering your hand as you felt your face get hot.

“Don’t touch me.” Ghost growled, gripping the IV pole and using it to slowly pull himself upright. You raised your hands. 

“Alright man.” Silence lapsed back between you two as Ghost sat back down on the edge of the bed before scooting over and lying down. You tried to help him pull the blankets back up but he swatted your hands away. 

“You’re the one who’s in trouble and got sent here. I read over your file,” he stated after a moment of watching you fuss with the IV bag and trying to distract yourself. 

“It was an overreaction. I won’t be here long,” you said briskly, making your way back to his bedside. Ghost snorted. 

“I need to look at your wound to make sure you didn’t pull any stitches during your fall,” you said, putting a hand on the blanket.

“M’ fine.” Ghost grunted, folding his arms over his chest. 

“You’re not. You got really lucky - the entry and exit wounds were clean and no shrapnel was left inside of your abdomen. No bones were broken, no digestive organs were damaged, and I didn’t have to perform a laparoscopy. You’ll recover fully.” you said. 

“If I’ll be fine, can I leave?” he asked.

“No.” you snapped, rolling your eyes and turning to sanitize your hands and put on gloves. 

“Push your blankets down and pull up your shirt, please. It doesn’t have to be far - just to expose your wound,” you said. When you turned back around, Ghost had not done what you had asked. 

“Do you want to die of an infection?” you asked bluntly after a moment. “It’s a nasty way to go, you know. Oh, and even if it doesn’t kill you, you could be permanently disabled.”

“Would an infection mean spending more time here with you?” Ghost grumbled. 

“Yup.”

Ghost pulled down his blankets and just barely inched his shirt up past the packed and bandaged wound in his abdomen. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You and Ghost remained in silence as you removed the dressings and examined his wound. 

After cleaning it and rebandaging it, you instructed him to roll over and did the same with the exit wound. 

“Gonna leave me alone now?” he asked as he rolled over to lay back down. You rolled your eyes. 

“For now.”

Time passed slowly after that. You cataloged the supplies present in the medical office and bustled around arranging the med bay how you liked it. Once Ghost’s IV ran out you replaced it and he didn’t bother to thank you. He watched you the entire time, cold eyes following you back and forth across the room. 

You were in the office now and the lack of sleep was catching up to you. Night was coming again and you were dozing at your desk, your computer monitor having gone into sleep mode a while ago.  

Ghost took the chance. Silently, he slid out of bed, bare feet finding the ground and this time supporting his weight. He flicked the power off on each of the machines he was connected to and pulled himself free of their wires before he snagged the IV bag from its hook and tucked it under his arm, padding slowly out of the room and down the hall toward the rec room. 

–

The next morning Soap found you slumped over at your desk, snoring lightly. Ghost’s bed was conspicuously empty, and when he felt the sheets, they were cold. He shook your shoulder gently and you started, sitting up and wiping sleep from your eyes. 

“What time is it?” you grumbled, pushing your hair back from your face and yawning. 

“About seven-thirty. Lass…I think you’ve got an escapee,” he said gently, gesturing out the office door and toward the empty hospital bed. 

You shot up in an instant and stormed out of the office, fury and worry mixing in your stomach as you caught sight of the empty bed. 

“Fuck!” you shouted, spinning on your heel and looking at Soap with wide eyes. 

“Where is he? Where’s his room?” you cried, dragging him out of the med bay and looking frantically down both hallways. 

“Fuck, where’s my room?” you asked after a moment. The dark circles under your eyes suddenly felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as the exhaustion hit you. It was your third day with the 141 and you hadn’t had a shower or slept in a proper bed. 

“You two share a wall. Come on, I’ll show you.” Soap said. He led you just down the hall and pointed out Ghost’s door, but before he could point out yours, you were hammering on the door with your fists. 

“Lieutenant Ghost, get your sorry ass out here or I swear to fucking Christ you are a fucking dead man!” you shouted, grabbing the door handle as it twisted and the door was pulled open from the inside. He loomed above you with an imposing figure, looking down at you with annoyance in his eyes. 

“The fuck do you want?” he hissed, folding his arms over his chest. You noticed the conspicuous lack of the IV in his arm and looked past him to see it discarded on his dresser. 

“Fucking– you need to get back to the fucking med bay!” you practically shouted, gesturing wildly. 

“M’ fine,” he grumbled, moving to shut the door on you. You wedged your foot in the door and leaned your weight on it, scrambling to prevent him from shutting you out. 

“You have a bullet wound, Ghost! You need to be under medical care!” you cried. 

“You said I’ll be fine,” he grumbled, pushing the door open again and glaring at you. 

“L.T., I think the doc has a point…” Soap said, trailing off as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. This made Ghost pause, glaring at Soap. 

“Come on, if not for me, for him.” You pleaded, looking back at Soap and offering him a tight smile. 

“Come to chow with me and then I’ll walk back with ya, L.T. Come on now, we wouldn’t want to leave such a lovely lady in that med bay all alone, right?” he asked, clapping Ghost on the shoulder firmly and smiling at him. After a moment, Ghost nodded stiffly and stepped out of his room, the door shutting behind him. 

“In the meantime lass, you get a shower and relax. I’ll take care of him and give you a break.” Soap said with a wink.

“Don’t patronize me, Sargent. I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” Ghost grumbled as he strode down the hall and towards the mess. Soap headed after him after seeing you off with a wave. 

–

The long, hot shower helped wash away some of your stress and the smell that had accumulated on you after days of traveling and nonstop working. Your things had been brought to your room for you so you were able to put on a proper pair of scrubs before you donned your shoes once more and headed back to the med bay. 

Ghost was back in bed by now and Soap sat by his side. The two were chatting quietly about something - rather, Soap was telling a story animatedly while Ghost listened and occasionally reacted or made a comment. When Soap saw you again he smiled.

“There she is! How ya feelin' doc?” he asked, offering you a wide grin and sitting back in his chair. 

“Refreshed,” you said, smiling back before making your way over and fiddling with Ghost’s bed. It beeped quietly - you had set the bed alarm on. 

“You’re quite lovely looking when you’re not yelling and covered in some poor man’s blood,” Soap said with a laugh. You chuckled. 

“I’ve spent most of my career yelling and covered in blood, actually. I’ve been fallen on before too.” you said with a laugh.

“Sounds like there’s a story there.” Soap prodded. You pulled up your stool on the other side of Ghost’s bed. 

“When I was a brand new resident, some of the nurses at the clinic I worked at got sick with the flu and I had to stand in to administer vaccines to recruits at boot camp. One of these poor fuckers was super scared of needles - couldn’t even stand in formation because he was so jumpy. After like ten minutes I got him to breathe enough to give him the shot and as soon as I pulled the needle out, he fainted on me.” you said with a laugh. 

“Steamin’ Jesus, he knocked you over?” Soap cried, his eyes wide. 

“Oh yeah, landed right on top of me and sent me falling over. The poor guy was terrified. Got the rest of the shots in him while he was out though, and I only walked away with a bruise.” you said with a laugh. Soap shook his head. 

A deep laugh from Ghost’s bed startled you and you looked up. He winced and stopped laughing before clutching his side but you could see the outlines of a smile under his balaclava. 

“Fucking recruits,” he grumbled, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the pillows. 

“I like your ink, Ghost,” you said, studying his forearms as he closed his eyes. He grunted lightly in response and nodded his head slightly. 

–

Soap left not long later and you got up to keep organizing the clinic’s supplies, humming softly. About an hour later, Ghost’s bed alarm started blaring and you jumped, whirling around to find him sitting on the edge of his bed trying to get up. 

“The fuck’s that noise?” he grumbled as you approached, swatting at your hands as you tried to push him back onto the bed. 

“A bed alarm, lay back down you idiot,” you mumbled, leaning down to silence it. 

“I’m getting tea.” he protested, trying to stand again. 

“Fucking Brits. I’ll get it for you, just lay back down.” you snapped, waving him away as you turned. 

“Oh, I get room service?” Ghost asked with a huff. Thankfully, though, he slid back onto the bed and laid down against the pillows. You pulled a mug from one of the cabinets you had organized earlier and filled it with hot water from the cooler before marching back over to Ghost with the mug and a tea bag in hand. 

“Here. Now stay still,” you grumbled. Ghost took the tea and his rough fingers brushed against yours. After a moment, he rolled up his mask to his nose and pressed the mug to his lips. Your heart skipped a beat as you caught sight of soft lips and a scar that crossed his chin. The lower half of his face was…startlingly attractive under the mask.

You set about working at your computer to distract yourself, and finding what you needed, set about printing out a large .jpeg. A moment later you procured tape from a nearby drawer and marched over to Ghost’s bedside, taping the picture above the head of his bed where all could see. He turned and watched you, his brows furrowing under his balaclava. 

“Oi, what’re you putting that above my bed for?” he grumbled, finishing his tea and setting the mug on the side table before rolling his mask back down. You sighed softly internally, slightly disappointed that his face was hidden again.

“Hospitals sometimes have signs to indicate warnings near certain types of patients. In this case, the peace sign I’ve put up indicates to other healthcare professionals that you’re a difficult or particularly combative patient,” you said. 

“You’re the only healthcare professional in the building, love.” Ghost rasped, his voice dropping an octave. Despite yourself, your stomach fluttered and your face went hot. Your eyes met his and his intense gaze burned into your soul.

“And if you’re looking for a challenge, I can give you that.”

-----

taglist: @iamaliceinwonderland

[paperbackribs]

The Gift (2) (Witch Steve AU)

previous: Chapter 1 The Sacrifice next: Chapter 3a Witches Are Boys Too Ao3 Link - Chapters will be updated ahead of Tumblr Content: steddie fic, 1.5K words I'm not sure if the tagging was right on the last post, so if you didn't see it make sure to click on Chapter 1 which is a far more expanded post than the original hc drabble.

Chapter 2 The Aftermath

Steve lets his body drop heavily into the uncomfortable plastic chair across from the hospital bed. The smell of bleach stings his nostrils, but at least it’s no longer the coppery smell of blood, he reflects looking on at Eddie’s sleeping but mostly clean form. The rise of his chest reassuringly rhythmic.

Steve refuses to move his nose closer to his own sweat-stained and injured body sure that his skin and hair must be completely infused with the stale stink of Lover’s Lake and the distinct scent of rotten eggs particular to the Upside Down.

However, Steve also doesn’t want to take the time to move away from the vulnerable Eddie while he lies handcuffed to the bed rails in Hawkins Hospital. Full of, at best, indifferent and, at worse, malicious hospital staff and police officers.

Max is getting her broken arm checked in another room with Nancy, Lucas and Erica, but the group had all made it clear to Chief Powell and the doctors that at least two of them would be present in the room with Eddie until he had a lawyer to represent him.

He needs protection, Steve thinks worriedly, his gaze drawn to the crimson hue of the blood bag hanging on the IV stand beside Eddie. Wondering how they are going to convince the police of the impossible; maybe his mother can help.

Sitting in the seat opposite is Dustin, still dressed in his dirty camo clothes and holding an almost death grip on one of the older boy’s pale hands. Once the kid had his leg examined in the Emergency Department—a simple ankle fracture now wrapped in compression wraps—he had settled beside Eddie and hadn’t looked up since. Steve keeps a concerned eye on him, he’s never seen Dustin this subdued.

He’ll perk up, Steve thinks. Once Dustin can see for certain that Eddie is going to survive past the night.

And Eddie will survive, Steve Knows. He had saved Eddie’s life, had feely given his sacrifice with the grim determination to rescue Eddie for himself as well as for the people who love him. For Dustin’s future, and maybe for the rest of the rugrats too; Steve hadn’t looked too deeply past the tapestry once he had understood what he needed to do.

It was an old ritual, one amongst many other lessons he had learnt at his Nana's knee. At turns excited or sombre as he learned about his people and customs; their unfolding story revealing discreet resilience and an abundance of gifts they guardedly conceal. Abilities where even some of them can endure past death to bring back life. Although, his mother had warned him with a wagging finger, that he’d never even think about attempting The Sacrifice if he didn’t want to feel the back of her wooden spoon.

But every piece of knowledge must be passed on, lest any of it be forgotten.

Now though he can feel a hum of connection between him and Eddie. Steve supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, he had tapped into a deep reservoir of power and bound the other boy to life through an essential part of his own body, perhaps even his soul. Steve thinks he could turn that humming into a song though if he just reached out to touch the ringless hands limp against cream sheets.

Even asleep, Eddie still looks drawn and tired. But tired means alive, Steve reminds himself, tracing the dark bags on Eddie's face with his eye. The lines bracketing his mouth seem sunken deeper and, without those charming dimples popping out, Eddie looks older than his twenty years.

The soft beeping of the heart monitor fills the room, creating a rhythmic backdrop to Steve's thoughts. The steady sound like a metronome that lulls him to close his eyes, wisps of sleep taking over his exhausted body and mind.

He hears a song faintly in the background, a sweet melody as he steps left to right, right foot back, left foot back; he’s dancing, Steve realises, looking up into his dear Nana’s face.

She’s much taller than him, despite her short stature, and silhouetted by a soft pearlescent glow. The familiar plumpness of her body guides him into the simple dance steps and a powdery scent envelops him as they move. The lines of her round face crinkle, “That is it, Stevie. See, not so hard, yes?”

He remembers this day, warm sunlight streaming through the solarium and the scent of fresh herbs in the air. The crispness in the air pure as it was familiar. That day, she had taught him the concept of pushing energy through a conduit by having him memorise the story of an elder’s legacy to their student and the value of persistence.

But she hadn’t allowed him to practise directing power through his young body yet; instead, to make it up to him, she had turned up her music and taught him to properly dance for the first time.

“It’s okay,” he pouts, “but it’s boring just walking in a square.”

“All right,” she challenges with a sly grin before letting go of one hand to spin him in place.

“Again!” Steve cries and Nana spins him three times in a row. The verdant pots of plants and flowers blend seamlessly with the warm wood of the countertops, creating a captivating kaleidoscope. To maintain his focus, Steve centers his gaze on Nana's pristine white dress. Breathlessly and a bit dizzy he directs a gap-toothed grin up her, she always knows how to have the best fun.

“See Stevie, you can make your own steps. You do not have to wait for someone to take the lead.”

She turns to the wireless, turning the knob to quieten the strings of the violin and a woman’s soft, romantic voice. Her face is more serious as he looks down at her now, her body bowed slightly in the hunch that would define her later years while the ethereal light around her becomes dim.

However, he gaze is direct, “Listen and learn, Steve.”

“What?” He asks, confused.

She repeats herself silently, the strains of the melody the only sound to pierce the thickening atmosphere.

Steve steps forward, reaching a hand out to her; she’s so far away that it’s no wonder he can’t hear her.

Nana says it again, mouth not moving in the dark except to curve into a mysterious smile.

It’s the sound of Robin slipping back into the room that jostles him out of his dozing state, the door clacking sharply shut behind her. Waking more fully he blearily turns his head, and she directs a half-smile at him, gesturing weakly to a bit of drool on his chin. He knows she’s tired when Robin doesn’t take the opportunity to mock him.

She slumps against the beige wall since the two seats in the small, secluded room are filled. He reaches out a hand at the same moment that she does, squeezing each other's palm in a silent gesture of support.

He drops it when Nancy's voice cuts through the peace of the room, the sharp sound preceding her upright figure as she strides into the room.

“What did you do?” Nancy demands, frowning with suspicion and concern. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a harsh, cold glow that freezes Steve in place as effectively as her glare.

Steve's mouth goes dry, his one hazel eye meeting her intense gaze. He knows that his intervention is beyond reason for someone as practical and grounded as Nancy. He had interfered in the unspeakable, rescuing Eddie from the grim hands of death like no normal human could. Something that only someone like Vecna might do.

A tendril of fear winds through his body as he warily responds, "What I could."

Robin leans around Steve, her hand curling protectively over his chair's backrest before calling out Nancy’s name reprovingly. “Now’s not the time.”

“When then,” Nancy purses her lips. There was a period of his life where Nancy’s impatience had been endearing to Steve. When it had helped fuel his desire to be a better man for her. But Steve is tired and thinks that he can only have this discussion once in his current state.

“When Eddie wakes up. I’ll tell you all then, okay?”

She sighs, clenched hands falling from her hips to her sides. “Okay, Steve, but…”

He waits, anticipating a familiar disapproval. So, he’s surprised when she adds, “You’re okay, right?”

A spreading warmth fills his chest and Steve smiles and nods to her. They’ll never be what they were. And God knows, she’ll never want the future that he does, that was made clear back in the RV. Nancy Wheeler is going places and a camper van full of kids is the last thing she wants. But they’ve all been through too much to throw away their friendship because of a mystical act here or there.

“But,” Dustin interrupts, voice small. “Is there something I should have done? Something more.”

His shoulders are hunched again, one hand on Eddie but the other wrapped around his stomach as if he can hold in his doubts and fears by sheer will. Steve’s heart sinks and he quickens to rise and rest a solid hand on Dustin's shoulder, offering a reassuring clasp. The boy keeps his head bowed down, expression hidden from the room.

Resolved, righteous, brilliant Dustin should never have to doubt his part in having saved their world or Eddie, even if he hadn’t had the power to make a miracle happen like Steve did.

"You did everything earthly possible," Steve replies, earnest in his conviction. "You fought right there with him, Dustin, and you never once gave up on him. I saw that, we all saw that. If you could have, you would have reached through worlds to bring him back too.”

He pauses, thinking of the inevitability he had Seen. “But this was a path that Eddie had to decide on. It’s not on you."

Robin, who had been quietly observing the exchange, steps over to Steve and Dustin. He hears her approach before she reaches out to add the weight of her hand next to Steve’s, offering her support to the silent boy as well.

"You did good, Dustin. Eddie knows how much you love him," her expression is a blend of heartbreak and concern, carrying through to her softly spoken words.

Something finally breaks for Dustin who turns and buries his head into Steve’s torso.

He can’t feel the wetness of Dustin’s tears through the combination of Eddie’s denim vest and Steve’s new combat jacket, but he knows that the shuddering of his young shoulders is the cry of catharsis, letting out the poison of the day, draining his body of the fears and uncertainties and grief of a time filled with terror.

Steve rubs his back in soothing circles, letting Dustin get it all out. Robin leans her head against Steve’s shoulder, taking comfort in his closeness too.

Despite the emotion swirling, the room is still but for the steady beat of Eddie’s heart. Each person gives in to their exhaustion and just takes that moment to breathe. To feel the closing of a chapter and the tentative hope for a brighter future.

That is, until a gaunt Chief Hopper limps into the room, escorted by a freshly shorn El. Then life gets loud again.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

Taglist

My taglist is always open so let me know if you want to be added. Likewise, if you want to be removed let me know too. :) If I've missed you, definitely let me know because it's an accident!

@a-gae-af-racoon

@a-lovely-craziness

@aly-reads-alot

@bookworm0690

@cinnamon-mushroomabomination

@everyrandomthing

@finntheehumaneater

@goodolefashionedloverboi

@hallucinatedjosten

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@spectrum-spectre

@tartarusknight

@whackyrach

[heartfullofleeches]

Now give us shark alien yandere vs mono...... Royalty vs Royalty les GOOOOO (idk the gender neutral term for a king or queen, sorry if I misgendered mono 😭)

Mono enters the cockpit to the sound of beeping overhead. Looking up, they see the montor belonging to the formally decommissioned ship ai starting back at them; its expression slightly more - guilty than usual.

"Ohhh hey, buddy! You're still alive. That's... great."

[You're supposed to be inactive, but more importantly - why wouldn't I be?]

"Ahh, can't a guy get some fresh air? Definitely wasn't woken up by some friendly shark fella from that one shark species that evovled to eat metal and hates your guts, letting him on board so they could do so and I'd be stuck with the co-pilot, but just now realizing that he might kill any thing that moves."

[You did what?]

Before Mono has time to rip it apart with their bare hands. - a shrill scream echoes through the halls of the ship.

-

"You're so damn cute!"

You grimace as rough skin collides with your own; your ears still ringing from the excited shriek that came from the beast currently locking you in its grip. You had not a clue where it came from. Feeling homesick, you were spending the day on a nice beach in the holo-theater. It replicated everything from the scent of the seawater to the sand betwixt your fingers. There was some splashing by the shore and the next thing you knew a humanoid shark-like creature jumped out at you; grabbing your ankles with its wedded fingers and pulling you into the water.

"Where'd that rust bucket find a cute thing like you?" He coos, flashing his jagged fangs; gums visible by his lower jaw from a tear in the flesh. "Must be lonely, yea? Considering you're out here all by yourself. If you were mine, I'd never let you outta my sight. Sounds like a dream now that I say it out loud."

The wind beats against your cheek as the door to the room opens. The shark man shields you from the force as Mono steps into the room. There's no other visual signs of their rage than the beet red glow of their singular eye. A hearty laugh comes from your captor.

"Yo! Long time no see. I came here to kill ya, but I'll let you live this time if you let me take this one off your hands. Wouldn't want a prize like them to end up dead."

[Who even are you?! Pull them down immediately and leave while I give you the choice]

"You don't remember me?" The shark's jovial persona crumbles. He points to the scar by his lips; smile a quiver away from a scowl. "Gave me this little number about twenty years back. When my folks found out I wasn't responsible for what happened to you, they booted me home and off any missions till I'm king. A whole army under my control - gone. Because of you.

[That's fascinating, but I wasn't serious when I asked. Don't touch my partner.]

"Wouldn't be yours by the time I'm done with them."

Mono raises their arm, but before they get far; the shark's body tenses . He slumps against you, sending you both into the sand. Multiple darts stick out of his back; a monitor extending from the ceiling.

"Hey, owner. Look who came to save the day and not cleaning up after their own mistakes. Good thing there was only a forty-six percent chance of me hitting the co-pilot, and judging by the pulse I used sleeping needles by accident. Thank heavens, you don't update my software."

Mono helps you up; allow the ai its freedom for a little while longer as they take you to the medical bay for a checkup. Your guest could be taken care of later - all that mattered current was your safety and Mono making it known that you were theirs and theirs alone.

[imaginedanvrs]

my demon gave me everything

part 8 l masterlist

summary: dark!natasha romanoff x reader. Natasha Romanoff saves the world. Morals, lifestyle and past aside, the fact is that she puts her life on the line for everyone else. And for this, she believes she’s owed something. She saves billions of lives on the regular, so why not take the occasional one for herself?

word count: 2.6k

warnings: established kidnapping, physical and psychological abuse, power dynamics, manipulation, isolation, neglect, depression, developing stockholm syndrone, a bunch more emotional whiplash

You didn’t see Natasha for a couple days. You didn’t hear her either, or even the beep and click from the door upstairs. You knew she had been back down at some point because the record player was gone, leaving an unsettling silence in its absence just as cold as the bed was without the redhead. The room and the bed were too big for you to fill on your own, a vast space you had to endure alone. 

  Due to the redhead’s absence, you hadn’t been able to eat or take any medication. The kitchen was too far for you to be able to get to on your own and even if you did make it, you didn’t even know if there was anything there you could snack on and you had no idea where the Russian kept your medication, causing your neglected ankle to flare up once more. You never checked to see what its condition was like, you wouldn’t know how to treat it even if you knew for certain that it had gone bad again. The pain was growing worse, not yet as bad as it had been but uncomfortable enough that hobbling, and sometimes crawling, to the toilet drained your energy. You were only able to get water from the sink and hoped it was okay to drink. 

  One night, the bedroom door was opened abruptly enough to wake you from your needed sleep, causing you to sit yourself up to see what was happening but wasn’t able to do so even with the aid of adrenaline. You gazed questioningly at the doorway as the light flooding in from the space outside highlighted the figure before you. It took you a few moments to register that Natasha was standing there, watching you intently. You became aware of how dry your mouth was when you went to speak. 

  “Kill me,” you managed to rasp out. “I’m done.” The redhead didn’t respond, she just continued to watch. “I can’t do this anymore. Your games, the pain, the…” You closed your eyes, feeling yourself grow breathless already. “I thought things were changing, Nat.” You hadn’t called her that before, the redhead noted. “I thought you would make me loveable,” you said barely above a whisper and then gave into your exhaustion and let it wash over you once more. 

  Natasha stared at your sleeping body, considering your words and the weight of them. She had come down to kill you. There was a handgun lodged in the back of her waistband and hearing you ask for it should have been the push Natasha needed to know she had to put an end to things. But it only made her reconsider more. You had given up and that always meant that the redhead had to terminate that stay so she could start over, except it just didn’t seem right for her to kill you. 

  She thought I would make her loveable. She wants to be loved by me. Natasha had never heard that before. Woman had asked the redhead to let them go, to kill them, to stop, to don’t. But none had ever wanted Natasha’s love. Natasha hadn’t wanted theirs either, and she didn’t want mine. At least…she didn’t think she did. She had never given it a moment thought up until that moment, because, like you, Natasha never thought she was loveable either. The idea that she might be, by one in dozens of women, was enough to make her reconsider ending things. Though it wasn't something the Russian was comfortable with in the slightest either, so she turned on her heels and shut the door behind her. 

  Natasha trudged back upstairs with that taking over in her mind while she worked on autopilot to turn off all of her monitors and devices and tidied away her work space. She then went on through to her bedroom and into the ensuite where she got herself ready for bed robotically and turned back into the bedroom that was only dimly illuminated by the lamp on her bed table. She had left a book out there that she had recently and placed it back on her bookshelf where it sat amongst the countless other novels and ornaments, catching her eye on a shotgun bullet she had acquired on a mission a month ago. Someone had shot straight through the Russian and she had had to remove it herself due to the solo nature of the mission that had her trapped for several weeks in the ruthless conditions of Alaska. Natasha had decided to keep it as a souvenir and reminder that she was fucking invincible. She had gathered a collection of items from missions of the years, but that was one of her favourites. 

  In the corner was the wardrobe that held all Natasha’s preferred items of clothing though there weren't many amongst them, just as there wasn’t much more to the smaller room. There was no framed art or photos across the walls or furniture, the closest being the photobooth slip of her and Yelena as children that she kept within an old book on the top shelf. Natasha wasn’t a material person and a lifetime of spontaneously having to go on the run had meant everything the redhead truly needed could be stuffed in the already mostly packed backpacks in the bottom of her wardrobe, boot of her car and within the Avengers HQ. She was a woman of practicality if anything else. 

  To Natasha, you were the furthest thing from practical for her to keep around. You clearly got sick easily for one thing, but you were also something she was still unable to completely decipher or predict, always turning around to do or say something she hadn’t encountered before. Of course, the redhead wasn’t worried about it, but she was uncertain of you and part of her wanted to put an end to things purely based on that while the rest of her wanted to keep you around for that reason. 

  Then there was the other impact you were having on the Russian: the unfamiliar feelings of doubt you created. Doubt over decisions and feelings the redhead was used to being certain about. Natasha didn’t love you, but she wondered if perhaps she was beginning to care about you. She had been relieved when you were recovering from the infection and she knew it wasn’t just because she wanted to get back to playing with you. Then there was the question of if she wanted you to love her. It was all too much unfamiliar territory being introduced at once and the Russian wasn’t sure where to start with it all. It would have to wait another day though, because Natasha had missions to attend.

*

  Maybe it was because you had less of a will to live that time around, but it felt as though your condition was growing worse sooner than the first time. You spent the majority of the days and nights sleeping so there was no way for you to tell how much time had passed. In the back of your mind, you knew it was too long for you to have gone without cleaning, eating and barely drinking, but there was nothing you could do about it. As the days went on you became less able until it was taking you an hour just to get to the toilet and back. 

  The entirety of your lower leg was in constant agony that you were never able to sleep for long periods of time, making you delirious with the sleep deprivation. You endured fever dreams in your little moments of sleep and hallucinated when you were awake. Sometimes the sky outside was a red blaze and meteors came hurtling down and destroying the city you weren't sure if you considered home. Other times Natasha came to see you but it was for the sole purpose of digging her talons into the flesh of your torso to rip your heart from your chest, more often than not you had a hard time questioning the reality of those scenes and forgot about them before you could make up your mind. 

  You yearned for Natasha. You wanted so badly for her to lay with you one last time before she gave you the mercy of a bullet to the head. You wanted to feel her again, to feel someone again. You didn’t want to die like that. You were alone and scared and in so much pain, the exact way you had always prayed you wouldn’t be forced to go. Whatever higher being there was had no care for you, making the only person you had left to rely on to be the Avenger. You didn’t care what she brought you there for, you didn’t care what she had done to you or had intended to keep doing if you had lasted longer. All you cared about was the chance to feel her skin on yours again. You wanted to hear her heartbeat as yours gave up. 

  In a way that couldn’t have been further from similar, Natasha yearned for you too. You were just as addictive and obsessive as she was, those feelings just stemmed from two very different intentions that the redhead struggled to understand but decided it didn’t matter. You needed her, you would always need her and you believed that without her you were nothing. You were unlovable, broken, empty. Natasha could change all that for you in whatever way she pleased and you would be forced to accept it because all you wanted was to be cared for, even if it wasn’t at face value. Natasha didn’t love you, but she missed you. That was enough for you both. 

  Once downstairs, Natasha ran some hot water in the bathroom tap before checking on you. She hadn’t looked at the camera’s either, but they had alerted the Avenger to your rising temperature so she was able to gather the things she would need to tend to you with. The security system would also alert her if you were to go into shock or any kind of organ failure, including that of your heart stopping entirely. The Russian didn’t want to receive that alert. 

  Gathering everything she needed, Natasha made her way into the bedroom and was immediately met with the sound of your distressed whimpers. The sheets had been kicked off onto the floor leaving you curled up in a shivering ball, void of any energy or sense to be able to retrieve the covers. Though it was no doubt partly due to the intense fever you were undergoing, Natasha immediately noticed another cause of your shivering. 

  The wet bed sheets were the first thing the spy dealt with, pulling at each corner to grab the sheets and mattress protector together and carefully manoeuvring your limp body as little as possible to pull them out from under you. Natasha wasn’t bothered by it. There had been all matter of bodily fluid on that bed, hence why she had several mattress protectors that were fail safe to ensure the redhead didn’t have to buy a new mattress every few months. 

  You woke up at the contact and blinked in the direction of Natasha’s outline, not sure if you could trust your mind enough to present the real deal to me. “Nat?” You tried, so quiet that the redhead would have missed it if she wasn’t watching you intently. 

  “Hey, lastovichka,” she replied so gently that the words washed over you. You tried to bring her frame into better focus but you were too tired to make out all her finer details you always searched for, instead opting to close your eyes again. You might have fallen back asleep if Natasha didn’t move you once more to slip your clothes off of you and add them to the pile behind her. 

  “M’sorry,” you slurred. Natasha wasn’t sure what in particular you were referring to and simply shushed you with that lasting gentle tone as she sat beside you and began working the damp, soapy cloth over your body, tending to every area after so long of both of you neglecting any of your cleaning routine, especially your ankle that was looking worse than ever. You cried every time Natasha touched anywhere near the area, always trying to reach out to the Russian but void of any strength to do so.

  Once you were dried off, Natasha brought over some fresh clothes for you to wear and eased them along your unused muscles until you were dressed and made quick work to put a fresh sheet and protector under you to lay on while she grabbed some more sheets and blankets to go over you. You had stopped shivering once Natasha had washed you but the redhead knew you would start again shortly if she didn’t cover you up. She fetched the blankets you liked from the sofa and draped them over you along with a new duvet cover to keep you warm. 

  “I’ll be right back,” Natasha whispered with a kiss to your forehead as your eyes wearily followed her around the room. You managed a nod and Natasha left to make her way to the kitchen to prepare some chicken soup. Soon enough the kitchen filled with the hearty smell of the homemade goodness that the redhead carried back through to you with a warm glass of blackcurrant squash. She had bought several drinks and foods you mentioned you liked several weeks before when the redhead was playing for your affection. They wouldn’t be distributed with the same intention after that. 

  “I have to sit you up, detka, okay?” Natasha advised as she placed the soup and drink down on the bedside table and lifted you up under your arms up the bed. You winced as your foot was dragged across the surface but the redhead was quick enough that the extra pain soon faded back to its hot pulsing. It didn’t hurt much unless it was provoked, sometimes you couldn’t feel it at all. If you had more awareness you might’ve known that wasn’t a good sign. 

  You were propped up against the headboard with a pillow behind your back and a couple next to you to keep you as upright as possible as Natasha sat down next to you with the warm bowl in her lap. She took a spoonful of the meal and blew on it gently to ensure you didn’t burn the roof of your mouth as you watched her through hooded eyes. You opened your mouth for her as she pushed the spoon towards you and let the fresh soup light up your tastebuds. You hadn’t eaten in a while and yet you still weren't hungry, even for a meal you would usually devour. After a few spoonfuls Natasha had to become stern as she encouraged you to have more. You were getting tired, but the Russian persevered after a copious amount of time until you finished the bowl, even taking the meds that Natasha had snuck into a couple spoonfuls when you had closed your eyes. 

  Finishing the meal made you feel as though you had just had a feast and there was no room for anything else, but Natasha was insistent that you finish the glass of squash too, which you did with great struggle. Feeling entirely full, the Russian guided you down the bed slightly so that you could rest your neck while still making sure you could digest the meal. 

  “Thank you,” you whispered as Natasha collected the crockery. She placed her hand on your cheek as you looked up at her blankly. The redhead returned the gaze with a nod, neither of you providing a smile. You didn’t allow yourself a moment to wonder if anything had changed. Granted, you questioned why the Russian was helping you at all and what it meant, but you disregarded any notion that it might be because she genuinely cared. So you decided for the time being that you would enjoy it, even if you didn't trust her.

[zzzallnite]

A night to remember. Or better be forgotten... (An AI generated story)

ACT 1: THE KIDNAP

The neon glow of the streetlamps outside casts a soft, pulsing light into the cluttered office of private investigator, Craig Sanders. The room is a sanctuary of dusty bookshelves and worn furniture that speaks of countless late nights and the weight of untold secrets. The scent of old paper and stale coffee hangs in the air, a silent testament to the tireless hours he puts into his cases. Above the clutter, the digital clock ticks away, its red digits stark against the darkened room: 2:47 AM. On the faux leather couch, Daniel, the young witness under his protection, lies uncomfortably, lost in the fitful sleep of the anxious. His black polo shirt is rumpled, and the creases in his tan chinos suggest he's been in them for longer than anyone would care to admit. His suede loafers are haphazardly discarded on the floor, the only sign of his presence amidst the chaos.

 In the dim light, Daniel's left ankle glints with the unmistakable shine of a state-of-the-art tracking device—an ankle monitor, a silent sentinel ensuring his safety and compliance. The stark contrast of the black sock and gleaming metal draws the eye, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation they find themselves in. The soft beep of the monitor, a metronome to the rhythm of his breathing, punctuates the otherwise quiet room. Meanwhile, Craig is hunched over his desk, the remnants of a Chinese takeout meal pushed to the side as he pores over the documents scattered before him. The case, a twisted web of deceit and corruption, is laid bare before his eyes, but the key pieces are elusive, taunting him like a puzzle with missing parts.

In PI Craig Sanders's office, the atmosphere is tense and cluttered, reflecting his tireless work ethic. Daniel, the anxious young witness, is sleeping on the couch, tracked by a state-of-the-art ankle monitor. The stark contrast of his black sock and the gleaming metal device highlights the gravity of their situation. As Daniel slumbers, Craig works diligently at his desk, surrounded by a mess of case files and discarded food, piecing together the complex puzzle of a high-stakes case involving deceit and corruption.

  The sudden shattering of the office's single-pane window sends shards of glass flying across the room. Two figures clad in black, faces obscured by balaclavas, tumble inwards, the cold night air following them like a silent scream. They move with a practiced precision that speaks of military training or at least extensive experience in such nocturnal raids. One of them lands in a crouch, sweeping the room with a cold, emotionless gaze, while the other rolls to the side, quickly getting to his feet and producing a handgun from his waistband. The first assailant points to Daniel, and without a word, the second moves towards him, the barrel of his weapon a dark threat in the neon glow. Daniel's eyes shoot open, a scream lodged in his throat, as he scrambles backward on the couch, knocking over a lamp in his panic. The first assailant remains focused on Craig, his hand reaching into his own pocket, likely for a similar tool of intimidation.

  In a heart-stopping moment, Daniel realizes that his ankle monitor is a beacon, a silent shout to the assailants of his location. With a burst of adrenaline, he bolts from the couch, the fabric ripping as he pulls free from the cushions. His suede loafers slip on the shards of glass, but he doesn't feel the pain. The only thing he feels is the burning need to escape, to live. He stumbles toward the back door, his breath coming in ragged gasps, each one echoing through the office like a gunshot. The floor seems to tilt and swivel under him, the room spinning in a dizzying dance of shadows and light. His hand reaches out, grasping for the doorknob, when his foot catches on a jagged piece of the overturned lamp. He yelps, his body pitching forward. Time seems to slow as he sees the floor rushing up to meet him, the cold, unforgiving tile promising a painful embrace. His forehead connects with the corner of a filing cabinet with a sickening crunch. The world goes dark, his body crumpling to the ground in a heap of unconsciousness. The thud echoes through the room, a stark counterpoint to the ringing silence. The smell of blood mingles with the dust and old coffee, a new chapter in the grim narrative of the night.

   The chaos in the room is a symphony of breaking glass, panic-stricken breaths, and the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Craig's eyes widen as he sees Daniel's desperate escape attempt cut short, his own heart racing in his chest. The urge to rush to the kid's aid is almost overwhelming, but he knows it would only make him an easier target. Instead, he reaches for the drawer under his desk, his hand sliding smoothly over the cold metal handle. The drawer opens with a whisper, revealing the comforting weight of his own sidearm—a snub-nosed revolver, a relic from his own tumultuous past. The grip fits his hand like a well-worn glove, the cool steel a grim comfort. His eyes flick back to the assailants, who seem to have paused at Daniel's fall, their focus momentarily split. With a deep breath, he makes his move, rolling to the side and bringing the gun to bear on the nearest threat.

  The first assailant's hand emerges from his pocket, a sleek black pistol in his grip. He takes a step closer to Craig, his voice a low growl. "Drop the gun, or the kid gets it." His words slice through the tension like a knife through warm butter. The second assailant approaches Daniel's prone form, his boot nudging the young man's side. With a cruel twist, he grabs a fistful of Daniel's hair and yanks his head back, exposing his pale, blood-speckled face to the cold light. Daniel's eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. "You're not going anywhere, Sanders," the assailant sneers, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic delight. "Not unless you want to watch him take his last breath."

 Craig's grip on the revolver tightens, his knuckles whitening. The weight of the moment presses down on him, the gravity of Daniel's safety weighing heavy in his hand. With a reluctant sigh, he opens his fingers, letting the weapon clatter to the floor. The sound seems to resonate through the room, a stark surrender to the inevitable. The first assailant advances, the barrel of his gun never wavering. He grabs a fistful of Craig's shirt, slamming him against the wall with a force that sends a spray of dust motes into the air. The plaster digs into Craig's back, but he remains stoic, his eyes never leaving the man's concealed face. The second assailant, now free of his immediate threat, moves to Daniel. He pulls a length of rope from his utility belt, his movements swift and sure as he binds the unconscious boy's wrists and ankles. The rope bites into Daniel's skin, a silent protest to the indignity of his situation. With a nod to his partner, the first assailant releases Craig, who slumps slightly, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. "Why are you doing this?" Craig asks, his voice even, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

  The first assailant's response is a harsh laugh, muffled by his balaclava. "You ask too many questions," he says, and without another word, swings the butt of his pistol in a brutal arc. The metal connects with the side of Craig's head, sending a spray of stars across his vision. His knees buckle, and he drops to the floor with a grunt, his eyes rolling back in his head. The second assailant, now finished with Daniel, strides over and delivers a swift kick to Craig's ribs. "Save your breath," he snarls. "You're not going to like where we're taking you." With that, they both move into action, heaving the unconscious forms of Craig and Daniel through the shattered window. The cold night air rushes in, carrying with it the distant wail of a siren, a mournful lament to the shattered sanctuary. They hoist their captives out into the alley, the sounds of their labored breaths and the rustle of their clothing punctuating the quiet night.

  The assailants' boots crunch on the gravel of the alley as they lay their captives beside a nondescript van. The engine rumbles to life, the headlights throwing long shadows across the wall. The first kidnapper reaches down to Daniel, his gloved hands rough as he lifts the unconscious young man's shirt to expose his torso. His eyes scan the pale skin, looking for the telltale signs of a wire or device. Satisfied, he nods to his partner, who then turns his attention to the prone form of Craig. They rip open his unbuttoned shirt, the fabric tearing like paper. The moon casts a silver light on his bare chest, the sprinkling of gray hair standing out against the taut muscles of his abdomen. They pat him down, their movements efficient and professional, searching for any hidden devices or weapons.

 The second assailant pulls out a small medical case from the van, the sound of metal instruments clinking together a grim counterpoint to the quiet night. He opens it to reveal a pair of syringes filled with a clear liquid. The first assailant takes one and approaches Daniel, his eyes cold and calculating. With a swiftness that belies his bulk, he jabs the needle into Daniel's side, depressing the plunger. Daniel's body jolts once, a silent scream of protest, before his muscles relax and he goes still. The drug takes hold, a chemical embrace that whispers sweet nothings of oblivion.

 The first assailant turns to Craig, his expression unreadable behind the balaclava. He watches the detective's labored breathing, the rise and fall of his chest. He raises the second syringe, the clear liquid within it glinting in the moonlight. "You're a tough nut to crack, Sanders," he says, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "But we've got all night." With a swift motion, he plunges the needle into the side of Craig's neck. The cold liquid floods into his bloodstream, a silent predator seeking to paralyze his body and still his mind.

  The second assailant watches as the drug takes hold of Craig, his body going slack, his eyes glazing over. He gives a nod of approval to his partner, who then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small device that resembles a penlight. He flicks it on, the beam illuminating the room in a soft, blue light. He scans both Daniel and Craig, ensuring no twitches or signs of consciousness remain. The light dances across their faces, a silent judge of their unconscious state.

  Satisfied with the drug's effectiveness, the first assailant pockets the device and nods to his partner. They hoist the unconscious forms of Daniel and Craig into the back of the van with practiced ease, their movements a silent ballet of brutality. The van's doors slam shut, the sound echoing through the alley like the final toll of a doomed bell. Inside, the two captives lie side by side, bound and drugged, a silent testament to the kidnappers' expertise.

 The van's engine growls to life, the gears shifting smoothly as it pulls away from the curb, swallowed by the shadows of the night. The first assailant takes the wheel, his eyes scanning the rearview mirror for any sign of pursuit. The second kidnapper remains in the back, his eyes gleaming with a cold curiosity as he looks down at the prone figures. He starts with Daniel, his gloved hands deftly searching the unconscious teenager's pockets. His touch is almost tender, a strange contrast to the brutality that had come before. He finds nothing of interest, but the sight of the ankle monitor seems to pique his curiosity. With a grunt, he leans over to grab a small bag from the floor and opens it, revealing a set of bolt cutters. He snips through the metal band with a sound like a gunshot in the confined space, freeing Daniel from his electronic leash. The device clatters to the floor, forgotten in the face of the greater unknown that lies ahead.

The van's tires squeal as it takes a sharp turn, the sudden movement jolting Daniel's limp form against the cold metal floor. The second assailant's eyes never leave the unconscious detective, his thoughts racing as he considers his next move. He knows they need to be thorough; any slip-up could cost them their leverage. With a grunt, he pulls Craig into a sitting position, his body flopping bonelessly against the side of the van. The kidnapper's gaze lingers on the detective's face, the lines of age and experience etched deep. He wonders what secrets lie behind those closed eyes.

  The van's journey through the city streets is a blur of red lights and shadowy alleys, the kidnappers' destination as mysterious as the motives behind the abduction. The first assailant, now in the passenger seat, glances back at his partner, the second kidnapper, who remains focused on the unconscious figures. With a nod, he reaches for a roll of duct tape and begins to secure Daniel's wrists more tightly, the sticky embrace of the tape a stark contrast to the cool steel of the handcuffs. Daniel's head lolls to the side, a trickle of blood from his temple staining the fabric of the couch cushion they'd used to pad the floor. Satisfied with his work, he turns to Craig, his eyes narrowing as he notices the detective's pocket bulging slightly. He yanks out a small notebook, its pages filled with scribbled notes and phone numbers. "Looks like our boy was busy," he murmurs to himself, flipping through the pages before tucking it into his own pocket.

  The second kidnapper, feeling the urgency of their mission, decides to ensure that their most valuable captive is still in the land of the living. He crouches beside Craig, his eyes peeling back the layers of darkness to check the detective's pupils. They're wide, unresponsive to the erratic shadows dancing from the passing streetlights. He then places two fingers on the pulse point of his neck, feeling the throb of life beneath the toughened skin. It's slow, steady, and reassuring. The kidnapper nods to himself, a silent affirmation that their intimidation tactics haven't gone too far. Yet. He leans closer, the smell of antiseptic from the first aid kit mixing with the acrid scent of fear and sweat that permeates the van. "You're going to wake up, Sanders," he murmurs, his voice a sinister lullaby. "And when you do, we'll have a nice little chat." The van hits a pothole, sending a jolt of pain through the detective's body, a cruel reminder of his predicament.

  With a sneer, the second kidnapper runs a gloved hand over Craig's chest, his eyes lingering on the detective's sternum. He can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his heart beneath the fabric of the shirt, a reassuring beat that speaks of the strength that got him into this situation. "You're in for a real surprise," he whispers, his breath hot against the detective's ear. The words hang in the air, a promise of pain and terror to come. He leans back, taking a moment to admire the lines of determination etched into the man's face. It's a face that's seen too much, that's been sculpted by the harsh realities of the world they inhabit. It's a face that makes him wonder if maybe, just maybe, this job isn't going to be as easy as they thought.

  The second kidnapper can't help but be impressed by the sheer resilience of their captive. Despite the beating and the drugs, there's something about the way Craig's body refuses to fully succumb that whispers of the iron will within. His eyes trace the contours of the detective's jaw, the muscles that refuse to relax even in unconsciousness. He's seen men break under less pressure, seen them crumble like dry leaves in the wind. But not this one. Not Sanders. He shakes his head, tucking the thought away for later contemplation. They've got a schedule to keep, and admiration won't pay their bills.

  The second kidnapper shifts his focus to Daniel, his unconscious form a stark contrast to the stubborn vitality of the detective beside him. The kid's head is a mess, a canvas of blood and bruises. He's not a doctor, but he knows enough to clean the wound. He opens the first aid kit with a snap, the sound echoing through the van like a gunshot. He selects a bottle of antiseptic and a gauze pad with the care of a surgeon, his movements precise and deliberate. He leans over the boy, his touch surprisingly gentle as he dabs at the wound, the alcohol hissing as it meets the open skin. Daniel flinches, a ghost of pain passing over his features, but does not wake. The kidnapper's eyes narrow as he considers the boy's youth, the innocence that's been dragged into this world of shadows and lies. But there's no room for pity here, not when the prize is so close.

   The van's journey through the city's veins is a blur of neon signs and the occasional siren wail, a symphony of the night's secrets. The first assailant, in the driver's seat, checks the rearview mirror with the regularity of a metronome, his eyes searching for any sign of pursuit. His grip on the steering wheel is tight, his knuckles white with tension. The second kidnapper watches over their captives, his eyes flicking between the two unconscious forms like a predator contemplating his next move. The cityscape outside unfolds like a silent film, the only sounds the murmur of the engine and the occasional clink of the handcuffs against the metal floor. The tension in the air is palpable, a living, breathing entity that seems to coil around the van like a serpent waiting to strike.

 The van's engine sighs as it pulls into an abandoned warehouse, the headlights casting long, eerie shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The kidnappers drag the unconscious forms of Craig and Daniel from the vehicle, their movements a silent dance of brutality and efficiency. The warehouse's cavernous interior swallows them whole, the distant echoes of their booted footsteps a taunting reminder of the emptiness that awaits. They haul Craig into a chair, his body slumping like a ragdoll's, and bind him with ropes that bite into his wrists. The chair creaks under his weight, a mournful protest to the scene unfolding. Meanwhile, Daniel is unceremoniously laid out on a cold, metal table, his limbs stretched wide in a macabre display of vulnerability. The table's surface is stained with the whispers of past struggles, a silent testament to the horrors that have unfolded within these walls. The smell of rust and decay fills the air, a chilling reminder of the fate that may await them. The second assailant steps back, admiring their handiwork with a twisted sense of pride, the shadows playing across his masked features like a grotesque masquerade.

   The world swims into focus for Craig, the pain in his head a dull throb that feels like it's trying to break free of his skull. His eyes flutter open, the gag in his mouth tasting like a mouthful of old rubber and gagging him with every shallow breath. The warehouse looms around him, a monstrous beast of shadow and steel, its very structure seeming to breathe malevolence. He tries to move, but the ropes bite into his wrists, a cruel reminder of his captivity. The sound of his own heartbeat echoes in his ears, a drumbeat of dread that matches the tempo of the blood rushing through his veins. He glances around, searching for any sign of Daniel or their captors, his vision swimming with the aftermath of the drugs. The silence is deafening, a tomb that holds only the promise of the horrors to come.

   The gloom of the warehouse is pierced by the flicker of a distant light, casting erratic patterns across the floor. Through the haze of pain and confusion, Craig's eyes fall upon Daniel. The young witness lies unconscious on the metal table, his body a canvas of bruises and fear. The sight of the boy's still form sends a jolt of adrenaline through the detective, pushing aside the fog in his mind. Despite his own pain, he can't help but feel a surge of protectiveness, a fierce need to shield Daniel from whatever awaits them. He tugs against his bonds, the ropes biting deeper into his skin, and attempts to muffle a grunt of pain behind the gag. His gaze flicks back to the kidnappers, his eyes narrowed in a silent vow of retribution.

  The second kidnapper notices the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and approaches Daniel's prone form, a hint of curiosity in his stride. He shines a small flashlight into the boy's eyes, the pupils dilating and contracting sluggishly. A grunt of satisfaction rumbles from his chest as he confirms Daniel's vitals. He turns to face Craig, the light playing across the balaclava, creating a chilling visage of shadow and light. "Looks like the kid's still with us," he says, his voice a gravelly rasp. He walks over to the detective, the sound of his boots echoing through the vast space, and rips the gag from his mouth. "Now, Sanders," he says, leaning in close, "Let's chat." The cold metal of a knife presses against the soft flesh of Daniel's throat, a silent threat that sends a shiver of terror through the air. "If you want to keep him that way…"

ACT 2: THE RESCUE ATTEMPT

   Meanwhile, Lieutenant Paul Langdon's instincts are honed sharp as a razor's edge as he tracks the ankle monitor's signal through the labyrinthine streets. His heart beats a staccato rhythm in his chest, the weight of his revolver a comforting presence at his side. The world outside his car window is a blur of neon lights and shadows, each one whispering a tale of the city's secrets. The GPS on his dashboard blinks with the urgency of a strobe light, guiding him closer to the source of the signal. His mind races, piecing together the puzzle of the case, trying to anticipate the kidnappers' next move. The sirens in the distance are a taunting melody, a reminder that time is slipping through his fingers like sand.

   Paul parks his car a block away from the warehouse, the ankle monitor's signal pulsing with a sickening consistency. The silence of the night is a stark contrast to the chaos he expects to find within. He pulls his collar up, the cold metal of his badge pressing against his neck, a symbol of his duty. He exits the car, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of the van. The shadows dance around him as he approaches the warehouse, his footsteps silent on the broken pavement. The structure looms before him, a silent sentinel of the city's underbelly, the very place he suspects the corruption of the force may lead.

   Paul's hand lingers on the handle of his car door, the decision to go it alone weighing heavily. He takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of the city's night air. The warehouse's looming silhouette seems to whisper of the perils that lie ahead. He reaches for his gun, the cool metal a stark contrast to his sweating palm. With a firm nod to himself, he steps away from the car, the decision made. The corrupt elements within the force have forced his hand; he can't risk tipping them off. The sirens wail in the distance, a mournful choir to his solitary quest for justice. His eyes narrow, and his jaw sets in determination. He's a lone wolf now, stalking through the shadows of doubt and suspicion, driven by the need to save Daniel and expose the truth. The echoes of his footsteps are the only company he allows as he moves closer to the warehouse, the signal's pulse growing stronger with every step.

   As Paul approaches the warehouse, his mind is a whirlwind of tactical planning and anticipation. Yet, amidst the chaos, a soft whisper of memory tugs at his heartstrings. Daniel's laughter, the feel of the boy's hand in his, the way his son's eyes lit up when he spoke of the cases he worked on. A sudden, gut-wrenching realization hits him like a sledgehammer: Daniel isn't just a witness. He's his flesh and blood. The stakes have just become infinitely personal. His pulse quickens, the cold metal of his gun suddenly feeling like an extension of his own hand. He's not just fighting for a case; he's fighting for his family. The ankle monitor's signal is now a beacon, guiding him to the one person in this world he'd lay down his life for.

   Paul's eyes adjust to the darkness, his gaze drawn to the flickering light within the warehouse. He moves closer, his steps silent as a cat's, the years of experience guiding him through the shadows. His heart skips a beat as he catches a glimpse of Daniel, sprawled on the cold metal table, his body a map of pain. The sight fills him with a rage so pure, it burns like a star. Through a crack in the grimy window, he watches as the two assailants hover over Daniel, their voices a murmur of threats and instructions. The larger one, with a knife to Daniel's throat, speaks with the confidence of a man who's done this before. The smaller assailant is more deliberate, his eyes scanning the room as if he expects someone to burst in at any moment. The private eye, Craig Sanders, is bound to a chair, his eyes on Daniel. The conversation is muffled, but the tension is as palpable as the thick, stale air.

The kidnappers' whispers are faint, but the urgency in their tones is unmistakable. The taller one, the leader, is speaking into a phone, the glow of the screen casting an eerie light on his masked face. "We have him," he says, his voice a serrated knife cutting through the silence. "The detective too. No, no complications... yet." The smaller one, the one who seems more nervous, keeps glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting the walls to crumble around them. His eyes flit to Daniel.

  The first assailant, the leader, snaps his fingers in the air, and the second one jumps to attention, a silent order given and obeyed without hesitation. They hoist Daniel's limp form off the table, the boy's head lolling back like a ragdoll's. The leader grips a handful of Daniel's hair, yanking his head upward, and presses the cold steel of a knife against the tender skin of his throat. "Wake up, Sanders," he snarls, his voice a mix of annoyance and excitement. "We've got some questions for you, and your little friend here is going to make sure you answer them truthfully."

 Daniel's body hangs like a marionette in the grip of the larger kidnapper, the knife's pressure a constant, terrifying reminder of their control. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, his eyes still closed to the horrors of the world. The cold steel against his throat sends a shiver of fear through his unconscious mind, a silent scream echoing in the abyss of his thoughts. The detective's eyes flicker open, a spark of consciousness struggling against the sedative's hold. He tries to focus on the scene before him, the blur of figures and shadows slowly coalescing into the two assailants and the bound form of the sedated youth. Despite the pain and fear etched into every line of his body, a silent resolve strengthens within P.I.Lieu Sanders. His eyes never leave Daniel's prone form as the leader's hand tightens in the boy's hair, the knife a stark exclamation point to the unspoken threat. He knows they need both of them for now, so he remains stoic, a silent sentinel refusing to give in to their demands for information. His gaze flicks to the second kidnapper, the one who had shown a flicker of something other than cold efficiency. Maybe, just maybe, he's the weak link in this macabre chain of events.

The leader's eyes bore into Craig's, searching for any hint of a crack in the detective's stoic facade. The pressure of the knife at Daniel's throat increases, a silent scream of metal on skin. "You're going to tell us everything," he hisses, his voice a promise of pain. "Or he won't make it through the night." But the detective's silence is a fortress, impenetrable as the shadows that shroud the room. His eyes flicker to the second kidnapper, a silent plea for mercy that is met with a shrug of indifference. The leader's grip tightens, his patience wearing thinner than the ropes that bind them.

 Paul's breath is a silent storm in his chest as he watches the scene unfold, his hand trembling slightly on the butt of his gun. He knows he can't wait any longer; every second is a gamble with Daniel's life. He takes a step forward, the crunch of gravel underfoot a declaration of war. The leader's head snaps up, the knife at Daniel's throat a stark warning. Before Paul can react, a third figure emerges from the shadows, a ghostly apparition in black. The Lieutenant's eyes widen in shock as the newcomer slams into him from behind, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. The world spins as the wind is knocked from his lungs, the gun skittering from his grasp.

The third assailant, unseen and unheard until now, looms over Paul, his eyes glinting with malicious intent. Paul's mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle of this new threat. He throws his elbow back with all the strength he can muster, connecting with something solid. The assailant grunts, but his grip remains firm. The struggle is a dance of desperation and brutality, the two men locked in a deadly embrace. The world outside the warehouse seems to fade away as they grapple, each fighting for the lives of those inside.

   The third man grunts in surprise as Paul's elbow finds its mark, but his grip remains unyielding. In a swift move born from instinct and training, the police detective twists, his hand diving for his lost weapon. His fingers close around the cold steel of his gun, a lifeline in the sea of darkness. He rolls, bringing the weight of his body to bear, and slams the butt of the gun into the third man's gut. The assailant doubles over with a gasp, and Paul seizes the opportunity, pushing him against the rough brick wall of the warehouse. The Lieutenant's chest heaves with exertion as he points the gun at the masked face, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and fear. "Who the hell are you?" he demands, his voice a low growl. The third man, now cornered, raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, his eyes darting from the gun to the cop's face and back again. The air is thick with tension, a silent promise of the storm to come.

  The sudden commotion outside snaps the first two kidnappers' heads up, their eyes widening at the sight of the third assailant pinned against the wall. The smaller one, the one who had shown curiosity about the ankle monitor, reaches for his own gun, his hand shaking. "What the-?" he starts to say, but the larger one is already moving, the knife still at Daniel's throat. The leader's eyes narrow, his grip on Daniel's hair tightening. "Take care of him," he snarls, jerking his head towards the window. The smaller kidnapper doesn't need another prompt; he rushes towards the sound of the struggle, his gun drawn and ready to protect their operation.

  The smaller kidnapper's boots pound against the dusty floor as he sprints towards the warehouse door, adrenaline a roaring beast in his chest. His eyes lock onto the struggling forms outside the window. The sight of the police detective's gun, now pointed at his partner, sends a bolt of terror through him. Without a second thought, he raises his own weapon, aiming it at Paul's head. "Freeze!" he shouts, the words a crack of thunder in the night. The Lieutenant's eyes widen, his body stiffening, but the third assailant is already moving. With a swiftness that belies his bulk, he grabs for the gun, the two men's hands locked in a deadly tug-of-war. Langdon's arm is forced back, the gun's barrel pointing skyward, but not before the smaller kidnapper sees his chance. He fires a warning shot, the sound echoing through the night. The impact of the bullet ricocheting off the brick wall sends a spray of debris into the air. The third man's eyes go wide with shock, and in that split second of distraction, the smaller kidnapper takes his chance. He rushes forward, smashing the butt of his gun into the side of Paul's head. The man's eyes roll back, and his body goes limp, the gun clattering to the ground.

   The world goes dark for Paul Langdon as the kidnapper's gun connects with his skull, a burst of stars exploding behind his eyes. The last thing he sees is the cold steel of the gun barrel pointing down at him, the third assailant's eyes wide with victory. Then, everything fades to black, and he's lost to the world of shadows and pain. His body slumps to the ground, the weight of his unconscious form a stark contrast to the tension that had been coiled within him moments before. The cold, unforgiving concrete meets his cheek with a thud, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The battle outside the warehouse, the struggle for control, the desperate need to save his son—it's all swallowed by the void of oblivion. The ankle monitor on Daniel's leg pulses a silent SOS into the night, a grim reminder of the battle lost and the war still to be won. The two assailants drag him back into the warehouse, the third man's eyes never leaving the unconscious man, his mind racing with the implications of what he's just done. The sound of the warehouse door slamming shut echoes like a tomb being sealed, leaving the police detective to the mercy of the cold, uncaring world of darkness.

   The kidnappers drag the unconscious man into the warehouse, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the vast, empty space. The smaller one, his hand still shaking from the adrenaline, quickly searches through the Lieutenant's pockets. The larger one keeps a watchful eye on Daniel and the bound Sanders, the knife still at the ready, his gaze flicking between the two of them like a predator deciding which prey to devour first. The third assailant, the one who had knocked out Paul, takes his time, patting him down with a methodical thoroughness that speaks of experience. He finds a wallet, a set of keys, and a crumpled photo of Daniel, which he studies for a moment before tucking it into his pocket. "Jackpot," he murmurs, flipping through the pages of the notebook with a sense of gleeful triumph.

   The smaller kidnapper, his nerves still frayed, quickly produces a syringe filled with sedative. The larger one nods curtly, and together they approach the prone form of Paul Langdon. The cold, metallic taste of fear is a knot in their stomachs as they realize the gravity of their situation. If he's who they think he is, then their plans have just gotten infinitely easier. They exchange a look, a silent acknowledgment of the risk they're taking, before the smaller one plunges the needle into Paul's neck. The man's body jerks once before going still. With trembling hands, they begin to strip him, their movements efficient and practiced. They remove his shoes and suit, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and socks. The sound of fabric tearing fills the air as they rip away the last vestiges of Paul's dignity. The cold cement floor is unforgiving against his bare skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the navy suit that had shielded him from the world moments ago. The room is silent except for the sound of their own ragged breaths, the only music in this twisted symphony of control and power. The syringe is emptied, and they step back, their eyes on the unmoving form of the heavy set man. The air in the room is thick with anticipation, the silence a mournful aria that foretells the horrors to come.

ACT 3: BREAKING FREE

The horror unfolds before Craig's eyes, a macabre dance of depravity. The two original assailants, now joined by the third, begin to take turns with the unconscious Lieutenant. Their eyes are cold, their actions methodical. The sound of their zippers, the rustle of fabric, the grunts of effort, they all meld into a cacophony of despair. Each of them uses Paul's body as a canvas to paint their twisted narrative of power and control. The room seems to close in, the air thick with the stench of fear and violation. Daniel, still groggy from the sedative, starts to stir, his eyes fluttering open to witness the nightmare. His heart hammers in his chest, the cold metal of the table beneath him a stark reminder of his own vulnerability. The sight of the police detective, a man who's supposed to protect, being so cruelly used sends a bolt of terror through him.

  Daniel's eyes widen in horror as he watches the scene before him, his throat tight with fear. A strangled cry of despair escapes his lips, a desperate plea to a father who can't hear. "D-Dad!" he whispers, his voice a broken echo in the cavernous warehouse. The sound is like a gunshot in the silence, jolting the kidnappers to a stop. The larger one glances over, a sneer twisting his masked features. "Your little boy's awake," he says, his voice a sadistic purr. Daniel's voice cracks as he calls out again, louder this time, "Dad! No!" His words hang in the air, a desperate cry that pierces the oppressive silence. The third turns towards the table, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. He saunters over, the leather of his boots squeaking against the floor, and leans down to whisper in Daniel's ear, "Now you've just made things interesting."

 As Daniel's cry of despair echoes through the warehouse, the private detective's survival instincts roar to life like a caged beast. His eyes flicker to the ropes that hold him, and he begins to twist and pull, the fibers stretching and straining against his will. The chair beneath him squeaks a protest with every movement, but the sound is lost in the thunder of his pulse in his ears. With a sudden snap,  one rope gives way, and the detective feels the first stirrings of freedom. His heart hammers in his chest like a drum, urging him on as he wiggles his arms, the ropes loosening like a python's embrace. The kidnappers, distracted by Daniel's plea, haven't noticed the change in the atmosphere, the shift from absolute power to a precarious balance. Another rope breaks, and another, until finally, with a roar that's part triumph and part rage, Sanders rips himself free, the chair toppling backward in a clatter of wood and metal. The sudden noise shatters the silence, and the kidnappers whirl around, their eyes wide with shock.

   The moment of surprise is fleeting as the detective springs into action. Years of training and experience coalesce into a whirlwind of fury, his body a weapon honed by the streets. The first assailant, the one who had whispered to him earlier, is caught off guard, and Sanders doesn't waste a second. He lunges, catching the man in the throat with the edge of his hand. The smaller kidnapper gasps, clutching at his crushed windpipe as he crumples to the floor. The detective's eyes never leave the larger kidnapper, the one with the knife still in his hand. The room seems to shrink around them, the air charged with the electricity of an approaching storm.

   With a snarl that's more animal than human, the detective grabs the chair he was bound to, the legs snapping like twigs as he rips it free. The larger kidnapper's eyes widen in shock, his knife arm faltering. It's all the opening Sanders needs. He swings the chair with all his might, the wooden frame connecting with the man's masked face. The impact sends the kidnapper stumbling back, the chair splintering into a hundred pieces. The smaller one, gasping for air, tries to crawl away, but the detective is a relentless force of nature. He advances, his eyes alight with a fiery determination. The chair leg in his hand is a makeshift club, and he uses it without mercy, smashing it down onto the second assailant's back. The man's body goes limp beneath the onslaught, a sadistic symphony of cracking bones and muffled cries. The warehouse seems to hold its breath as the detective stands over the two defeated kidnappers, his chest heaving, his eyes ablaze.

  The third kidnapper, the one who had whispered sweet nothings of fear and hope into Daniel's ear, watches the chaos unfold with a cold, calculating gaze. His hand slides to the knife at his side, a silent promise of his intent. But the detective is a blur of motion, a force of nature that doesn't stop to consider his next move. Before the third man can react, Sanders has closed the distance between them, his hand shooting out to grab the knife from the larger kidnapper's slack grip. The blade glitters in the dim light, a beacon of vengeance. The third assailant's eyes go wide with realization, but it's too late. With a strength born of desperation, the detective twists the knife free and turns on him. The knife arcs through the air, a silent scream of defiance, and embeds itself in the man's chest with a wet thunk. The kidnapper's eyes roll back, and he collapses to the ground, his body convulsing once before going still. The knife remains lodged, a grim trophy of the P.I's victory.

   The first assailant, the one whose throat Sanders had crushed, sees his chance as Sanders turns his attention to the third man. He stumbles to his feet, his eyes bulging with terror as he makes a break for the door. But Sanders is a predator, and he's not about to let his prey escape. The chair leg is discarded as the detective's body coils like a spring, his bare feet pounding the ground in pursuit. The first kidnapper is almost to the door when Sanders's arm snakes out, grabbing the back of his collar. The man's eyes go wide, his legs kicking out as he's dragged back into the fray. Craig's grip is iron, his eyes burning with the fire of justice denied. He slams the man's face into the concrete floor, the impact resounding like a gunshot. The kidnapper's body goes limp, the fight drained from him. The P.I. stands, panting, the knife still in his hand. The room is silent except for the distant wail of sirens, growing louder with every second. The battle has been won, but the war for Daniel's life is far from over.

  The remaining kidnapper, the one who had shown a flicker of hesitation earlier, watches in horror as his partners fall. His eyes dart between them and the knife in Sanders's hand, the gravity of the situation settling in. He tries to stand, but his legs betray him, trembling with fear. He knows he's outmatched, outgunned, and out of time. He opens his mouth to speak, to plead, but the words catch in his throat like shards of glass. The private eye advances on him, his eyes unyielding, the knife a silent promise of retribution. The kidnapper stammers, his voice a reed in the wind, "P-please... I-I didn't mean for it to go this far." But Sanders's mind is a tempest of rage and fear for his son. He raises the knife, the blade glinting in the flickering warehouse lights. The kidnapper throws his hands up in a desperate attempt to protect himself, his voice a high-pitched whine. With a swift, decisive motion, the P.I, swings the knife in an arc, the blade slicing through the air and burying itself into the man's thigh. The kidnapper screams, the sound piercing the silence like a shattered glass. His leg gives out, and he crashes to the ground, writhing in agony. Sanders steps over the prone bodies of the other two and moves to Daniel, his eyes softening for the briefest of moments as he cuts the ropes that bind him. The young man's eyes are wide with shock, but as soon as he's free, they fill with relief and gratitude. "You're okay," Sanders murmurs, his voice a hoarse whisper. "We're going to get out of here."

 As the dust settles, Daniel, now free from his bonds, stumbles over to the unconscious form of Paul Langdon. His eyes are wet with tears of relief and fear as he drops to his knees beside his father. The cold concrete beneath him feels like a lifeline, a reminder that he's alive. He touches the detective's face gently, feeling for a pulse. It's there, faint but steady, like the rhythm of a heart that refuses to quit. Daniel's chest tightens with anxiety as he sees the bruises and cuts that mar his father's body, a map of the battle he's just endured.

 With trembling hands, Daniel reaches for the torn remains of the detective's suit. The fabric is stained with blood and sweat, a grim testament to the struggle that's occurred. He carefully maneuvers Paul's limbs, his mind racing with the need to cover his father's nakedness, to restore some semblance of dignity amidst the chaos. As he does so, he whispers comforting words, a litany of hope and love that he hopes will penetrate the veil of unconsciousness.

  Sanders's eyes dart around the warehouse, searching for a phone, any way to call for help.  He spots a phone in the pocket of the smaller kidnapper, the one whose life he had so easily crushed. The irony is not lost on him as he pulls it free, his hands sticky with the kidnapper's blood. The phone's screen flickers to life, the homepage a jarring burst of color in the monochrome hell of the warehouse. His thumbs fly over the screen, dialing 911, the number etched into his brain from countless stakeouts and emergencies.

   The sound of sirens grows louder, the cacophony of flashing lights painting the warehouse's grimy windows with a pulsing dance of red and blue. Daniel's eyes are glued to his father, his own hands shaking as he clutches at the tattered fabric of the P.I.'s shirt. "You're okay," Sanders murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble in the aftermath of the storm. He wraps his free arm around the trembling young man, pulling him into a tight embrace. "It's over, boy," he says, the words a warm whisper in Daniel's ear.

   The man's words hang in the air, a promise that resonates through the warehouse. Daniel nods, his eyes never leaving his father's face, searching for the truth behind the mask of calm. "Why did they take us?" The question echoes in the vast, empty space, a tiny ripple in the pool of silence that threatens to drown them both.

 The sirens crescendo outside, their wail a mournful chorus to the chaos within the warehouse walls. The private detective's gaze flickers to the shadows, the unspoken question in his eyes as piercing as the blade he still clutches. He doesn't know the answer, but he's lived a life of questions and shadows, a tapestry of doubt and deceit. His jaw clenches as he makes a silent vow to unravel this particular thread, to uncover the truth...

EPILOGUE

   The world swims back into focus for Paul, the stark whiteness of the emergency room blinding after the dark abyss of unconsciousness. The antiseptic smell is a welcome assault on his senses, a stark reminder of sanity and safety. He feels the soft pressure of a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes drift open to find Daniel's worried gaze. The young man's face is a mask of relief, the shadows of fear and terror replaced by the stark lights of the hospital. "Dad," Daniel whispers, his voice a lifeline through the fog. The word resonates in Paul's chest, a bass note that grounds him. He tries to sit up, wincing at the pain that shoots through his body, but Daniel's grip holds him firmly in place. "Take it easy," the son says, his voice trembling. The detective's eyes sweep the room, the cacophony of beeping machines and hushed conversations a symphony of salvation. His thoughts are a jumble, a puzzle of moments and memories that slowly piece themselves together. The warehouse, the fight, the cold concrete beneath him. It all comes rushing back like a tide of icy water. "What happened?" he croaks, his voice raw from the fight and the sedative.

   Daniel's hand tightens on Paul's shoulder, his eyes darting away from the detective's gaze. "It's... it's okay," he says, his voice tight with emotion. "You're safe now." There's something in the way he says it, a hesitation that speaks of a thousand unspoken words. The detective's mind races, trying to fill in the blanks, but Daniel's silence is a wall, an impenetrable fortress built from the stones of pain and humiliation. The detective's eyes narrow, reading the unspoken story etched on Daniel's face. He knows there's more, much more, but he doesn't push. Instead, he nods, swallows the bile of anger that rises in his throat, and turns his gaze to the door. Through the small window, he sees the silhouette of a man, a specter of the night's events, watching them from the other side. It's Sanders, his shoulders squared and his eyes filled with a mix of relief and determination.

  P.I. Sanders steps into the hallway, the harsh hospital lights casting stark shadows across his weary face. He leans against the wall, the weight of the world on his shoulders, his eyes never leaving the detective and Daniel. The scene unfolds like a silent movie, the emotions raw and palpable, even through the glass. As Sanders takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts, the stillness is shattered by a low, menacing voice that whispers from the shadows. "You've made a mistake, detective," the voice says, each syllable a warning. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he spins around to face the new threat.

   Before Sanders can react, a figure in black emerges from the shadows, a taser glinting in his hand. The detective's eyes widen in surprise, and he tries to dodge, but he's too slow. The taser arcs through the air, a silent specter of pain, and connects with the wet fabric of his shirt, which clings to his chest from the struggle. The electric current courses through his body, and he convulses, his muscles locking up in a spasm of agony. The world goes dark around the edges as the electricity overwhelms him. Craig's cry of despair pierces the haze of pain, but it's too late. The figure in black pulls a fresh syringe from a pocket, the liquid within shimmering in the harsh light. With a quick jab, he injects the sedative into Sanders's neck, and the detective's body goes limp. The figure in black steps over the threshold of the hospital room, his movements a silent ballet of efficiency and malice. He grabs the unconscious P.I. under the arms, lifting him with surprising ease despite the detective's bulk. The kidnapper's gaze lingers on the father and son for a moment, a cruel smile playing on his lips, then he vanishes into the hallway, pulling the sedated Craig with him.

 The world swirls into darkness for the detective as he's dragged away, the antiseptic smell of the hospital giving way to the cold, damp embrace of the night outside. The figure in black is a shadow moving through the alleyways, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness like the beat of a sinister drum. The kidnapper's grip is like a vice around Sanders's arms, his breathing ragged with exertion as he pulls the detective through the shadowy streets. The air is thick with the scent of rain and decay, the city's underbelly revealing itself in stark contrast to the sterile hospital corridors they've just left behind.

 The kidnapper's van emerges from the shadows, a monolith of malevolence in the desolate alley. The side door slides open, and the detective is unceremoniously dumped inside. The interior is cold and unforgiving, a metal cage with no windows, only the stark light from a single bulb above to pierce the darkness. The engine rumbles to life, and the van jolts into motion, the detective's head lolling against the wall with each sharp turn. What will await Craig Sanders next?

[bolton-buried]

I had the strangest dream while I was in the Strid. It’s probably nothing, but I can’t get it out of my head.

I don’t believe in prophetic dreams, but I’m writing it down anyway. Maybe this will help me fall asleep.

I’m in an empty space, a plane of plain white that goes on forever, so I pick a direction and begin to walk. Then jog. Then run through the emptiness, looking for its edge. Then I fall forward through it, tumbling head over heels into the ground that should have been there until

I land in darkness. A single bulb above my head flickering out, and suddenly I don’t know if my eyes are opened or closed. I reach forward across the cold stones of the floor, crawling with the fear of something being in the dark with me. Then I feel it

An insect—or something with skittering legs crawling on my skin. Then another. And another. The lights come back on just in time for me to see hundreds of centipedes and cockroaches crawling over me. I try brushing them off, but they keep coming. So I dig into the wall with my fingernails, pulling myself through the dirt so tightly that the bugs cannot follow. I dig upwards

And emerge in a trench, ankle-deep in blood and surrounded by men, shaking and shouting and firing across the field. A grenade falls in front of me, and I stumble backwards into a pool of blood before hearing it go off. When I stand

The walls are metal and sterile other than the blood filling the room to my waist. Cuts of meat in shapes I still can’t recognize hang from hooks—but there’s a staircase leading downwards. I follow it down, and open the door into

A hospital hallway. I hear the telltale sound of heart monitors beeping and slowing down, then stopping. The nurses all look at me like I am being mourned already. I try to shout that I’m not dead, but they silently hand me a clipboard. I won’t read it. I bolt to the door

And emerge in an empty street. It is London—I can feel it, but without the crowds. Without anybody. My feet echo on the ground as I start to run again. Desperate to find someone, anyone but the mannequins in every window, I run to

The Magnus Institute. But it’s wrong. The two windows in the front are round—the panes tinted green and the building itself looking at me with the same eyes as Elias Bouchard. Once one of them winks, I turn and run

But the mannequins from the windows are now in the street, all frozen in place as if they are real people and not plastic and rubber. Then their heads start to turn to me along a seam in the neck. They begin a jittery, stuttering walk towards me from all directions, so I pull up a manhole cover and drop to

A bunker. There’s a television, boxy like they were in the 60s. Numbers flash in the static between images of a world in ruins. There’s enough food in the bunker to last me for years, I know, but the TV won’t turn off, won’t stop showing me that nothing remains of the world I know. I open a hatch that should lead deeper into the bunker, but instead step into

A sewer, full of brightly-colored iridescent fluid, and in every direction the tunnels split and split and split in an infinite pattern. I begin to run down them, and think I could be running forever, lost in the glowing colors and endless patterns, when the tunnels let out

In front of my childhood home. I’d know it anywhere, all my memories, packed away in neat little boxes ready to come with me through the rest of my life. But then the building is ablaze. Photos of my youth, everything I’ve ever loved gone in an instant. I want to save it, but someone stands in the doorway

My father, holding a rifle. He starts charging at me and I run, stumbling over branches and roots in the small wood. A shot rings in my ears louder than his accusatory screams, then I stumble

Into white string, laid out between the trees. In my scramble to move forward, all I do is twist myself into the threads, helplessly trapped in a way I’m only just now seeing. Then a hand reaches from below with a pair of scissors. It cuts the thread and I fall

Into a river, flowing swiftly. I close my eyes, no longer afraid; no longer in need of fear. The current pulling me along is a guiding hand, the water a frigid embrace that says it will hold me as tight as it needs to keep the other horrors at bay. I do the closest thing I can to embracing it back, and take a deep breath in.

[hannigramtropefest]

Hannigram Tropefest 2022 Masterlist

Thanks to everyone who took part in this year’s Hannigram Tropefest. For our first round, we had an amazing selection of fanfics and artistic creations. You can find all of our fics in our Hannigram Tropefest 2022 collection on AO3, but for all fic and art links, please see below.

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‘I shouldn’t feel lonely when you’re gone'

Author: Angelic_Disaster

Artist: Vampyrzky

Rating: Explicit

Length: 28,859 words

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter (Mentions of Past Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter)

Warnings: Choose to not use archive warnings

Tropes: Amnesia, Will’s Aftershave, Chicken Soup

The heart monitor connected to Hannibal makes a sudden, unrhythmical beep the moment Will enters through the door.

“You must forgive me for my bluntness, but are we in a romantic relationship?” Hannibal asks and Will isn’t exactly sure how to answer that. He can’t technically say no, but honestly, bloody courtship may be a more proper name for it.

While Hannibal suffers from a case of amnesia, Will puts a stop to the honey-trap plan to take care of him.    

Link to fic

Link to art

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Trope: Wrong Number (Hannigram)

Author: TigerPrawn

Artist: Ani Louhetar

Rating: Explicit

Length: 5,680 words

Ships: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham

Warnings: No Archive Warnings

Tropes: Wrong number, A/B/O, different first meeting

Summary:

Omegas only go into heat if they meet a compatible alpha, but with both alphas and omegas being so rare it is an infrequent occurrence. One that Will Graham had certainly never anticipated happening to him.

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Dinner Is Best Served By Tour Bus

Author: TheSilverQueen

Artist: hit_the_books

Rating: T

Length: 6,146

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Warnings: Nonconsensual Vampire Turning

Tropes: Alternate Universe - Vampires, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper

Summary:

When Alana cajoles Will into taking an actual, real vacation, he decides to go to Florence and do touristy things, like eat good food and go on tours and be spontaneous. All good things, except for the fact that his spontaneous decision to go on a tour in the catacombs brings him face to face with very hungry vampires who think he is dinner.

“I believe you all were promised an experience of a lifetime,” says the definitely-not-a-statue man on the throne. “And we do plan to deliver. For the feast of a Council is, I’m told, quite the sight to behold. Sadly, none of us are vegetarians.”

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You Were Made for Me

Author: hisvoicebrokemyheart

Artist: pensulliwen

Rating: General

Length: 3,272 words

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, (past Will Graham/Original Characters), (past Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter mentioned), (past Hannibal Lecter/Bedelia duMaurier mentioned)

Warnings: brief mention of canon typical gore

Tropes: soulmates/soul bond, bathing, Hannibal is the Devil

Summary:

Will never thought he would be cut out for a soul bond — people were averse to his touch, he was too cold. Then he met Hannibal Lecter, and Will learned what warmth was for the first time. Their relationship was one that flayed themselves open to one another, but it seems that Hannibal has one last secret to reveal.

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Forgive Me Father, For I Wish To Sin

Author: ImpalaAngel

Artist: hughmikkelsen

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Cannibalism, Religious Trauma, Canon-compliant levels of violence

Tropes used: Priest!Hannibal, Priest!Will, Cannibalism, First Time, Gone Fishing, Hannibal is The Devil, How much whiskey can Will have before his ankles are in the air, Murder Family, Post-Fall Europe, Shattered Teacup, Voyeurism.

Ships: Hannibal/Will

Word Count: 105,635 words

Summary:

Think “Seven,” but sexy. Will and Hannibal find themselves on a yacht and sail to Italy to become priests of a local small town church with a history of corruption. They meet an enigmatic young woman and all three set out on a journey of self discovery: she by using her power for good, and they by realising the depths with which love can go. Of course, Italy is not without its own mysteries as Hannibal and Will kill and fuck their way from pride to sloth, their past catches up to them. Just how did they end up with Dr. DuMaurier’s leg on a table? And of course, they tie up a few red loose ends.

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it takes one to know one

Author: Biv_w

Artist: ScarletMothlet

Rating: Explicit

Length: 3,085 words

Ships: Hannibal/Will

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence.

Tropes: Drawing Will Graham, Hannibal is The Chesapeake Reaper, Hannibal’s Mind Palace, Skin Hunger, Sailing the Atlantic, Murder Husbands, Hannibal and his Uncanny Strength of Smell, Fluff.

Summary:

Hannibal sees a new face in prison and feels far more than intrigued.

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The Blood of the Son

Author: bittercigs_ (twitter)

Artist: i-call-me-clarence (tumblr)

Rating: Teen

Length: 4,911 words

Ships: Gen

Warnings: Religious Imagery & Symbolism; Mild Depictions of Violence

Tropes: New Orleans Police Detective!Will Graham, Priest!Hannibal, Casefic

Summary:

One of the best in the NOPD, Detective Will Graham struggles to solve a string of recent murders, leading him to temporarily turn back to the religion he’d previously abandoned.

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The Lamb of God

Author: LAfterDark30

Artist: i-call-me-clarence

Rating: Explicit

Length: 12,632

Ships: Hannibal/Will

Warnings: some pretty blasphemous uses of the Bible and Catholic history, Chilton has a BAD time, character death (none of the mains), graphic artsy violence, manipulative Hannibal, alcoholism in appearance only, betrayal, choking, of the non-sexy kind, dead dove, for the choking, anal sex, Bottom Will, Top Hannibal

Tropes: Soulmates, Priest Will, Demon Hannibal

Summary:

In a world where meeting your soul mate makes their name appear on your skin, Hannibal lived free of that nonsense. As a demon without a soul, he spent his time torturing exorcists and taunting the Church until he heard of the Church’s prized exorcist Father Will Graham, the “lamb of God,” and the idea for his ultimate masterpiece of terror took shape.

Step 1: Get close to Father Graham. Step 2: Cultivate his darkness. Step 3: Turn him against his beloved Church.

He just had to ignore Father Graham’s name appearing as a soul mark on his skin.

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The Dispersal Method

Author: victorine

Artist: hit_the_books

Rating: Explicit

Length: 16,906

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Warnings: no archive warnings apply, sex pollen, dubious consent (mutual as both are exposed to pollen), consensual choking (brief), unrecommended lube alternatives

Tropes:

sex pollen, honeypot Will, crime-scene sex, sex in the Bentley, “Is Hannibal in love with me?”, secret surprise trope (no spoilers)

Summary:

It’s a normal fall day in the forest for Will Graham. Dead body in front of him, cannibal psychiatrist behind him, the usual. Then Will brushes against the wrong flower, and suddenly neither he nor Hannibal can keep their hands off each other. Now Will must navigate his way out of the crime scene and Jack’s scrutiny while also trying not to jump Hannibal’s bones at every opportunity.

Well, one out of three ain’t bad.

Set nebulously in s2, post-Will’s release from the BSHCI. Will’s a conflicted honeypot, Hannibal’s a (not-so) secretly-besotted asshole, and nobody has brought enough lube.

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Mozzie’s Mass in C Minor

Author: @sihaya74 (AO3 MadhouseMuse)

Artist: @MissLunaKitty (AO3 MargotBloom)

Rating: Explicit

Length: 7,395 words

Ships: Hannigram

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Tropes: Post-Fall Cuba, Murder Husbands, Cannibalism, Will the Boat Mechanic, Night at the Symphony.

Summary:

After a few years laying low in Cuba, Hannibal and Will attend the national symphony in Havana. There, they have a fateful meeting with an American politician on vacation. You know what happens. :) THIS PROJECT IS DEDICATED TO OUR HERO AND OUR FANDOM KING - BRYAN FULLER, WITH MUCH LOVE FROM LUNA AND SIHAYA.

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the price of anything

Author name: neila777

Artist name: G0UGER

Rating: Gen

Length: 9,101

Ships: Hannibal/Will

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tropes used: Magic AU, Hannibal cooks for Will, Chicken Soup

Summary:

There’s magic here. Not just magic, but powerful magic. Dangerous magic. It’s woven through the walls and lights and air, shifting and settling as Hannibal moves through the space.

A door at the back of the store opens suddenly and in walks a man carrying a pile of books that he sets on the glass counter. His face is framed by dark brown curls as he leans over the volumes, peering over his glasses. To Hannibal, the image of it feels like something one would see in a painting — a carefully sculpted subject posed to catch the light just right as he’s absorbed his work.

Or: Hannibal stumbles into Will’s magic shop and the two are instantly drawn to each other, but they’ll have to face their secrets as they grow closer together.

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Contempt of Courtly Love

Author: Sergeant_Sawyer

Artist: scarletmothlet

Rating: Teen

Word count: 3,100

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Warnings: Major character death, spoilers

Tropes: Murder husbands, ficlet collection

Summary:

8 ways in which Will and Hannibal’s relationship does (or doesn’t) correlate with principles of Courtly Love.

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The Boogeyman

Author:  Call_Me_Clarence

Artist: hit_the_books

Rating: Mature

Length: 20,636

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Blood and gore, Implied bottom Will, Implied top Hannibal, Brainwashing of a minor, No underage sex, Kidnapping of an underage victim, Capture bonding (Not between Will and Hannibal), Domestic violence (Not between Will and Hannibal), Alcohol use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol abuse/Alcoholism, Murder, Sexual content, Frottage, Frottage for a case, First Kiss, Hannibal is still a serial killer but blink and you’ll miss the hints

Tropes: Bestfriend Bev, There was only one bed, Snuggling for warmth, Encephalitis Will, Case fic

Summary:

Will and Hannibal head to Minnesota to solve the case of The Boogeyman, a serial killer who hides under victims’ beds and waits for them to fall asleep before attacking.  There’s only one hotel room available, and even worse, only the one bed. As they get closer to the killer they find themselves getting closer to each other.

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a siphon; to pass through

Author: chaparral_crown

Artist: merrythoughts

Rating: Mature

Length: 71,226

Ships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Medical Trauma, Chronic Illness, Blood and Gore

Tropes: Sick Fic, Vampires, Meet Cute

Summary:

For approximately ten minutes, Will entertains the possibility that the whole evening before had been a very vivid dream, not because he is particularly doubtful of his memory, but because Doctor Lecter - Hannibal - doesn’t leave any evidence of his visit, no matter where Will’s keen eyes look for it. And he does look for it. — Will Graham’s encephalitis comes from an unexpected source - late onset type 1 diabetes. Between the betrayal of his body, and the strange doctor that he meets on an arrest, he’s not so sure he’s not experiencing a relapse, or if the dead have actually risen to clear out his cabinet of liquor and blood sugar.

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Fever

Author: Hannibalsimago

Artist: Sarah the Artiste

Rating: Mature

Length: 15,972

Ships: Hannibal/Will, Hannigram

Warnings: sickfic; Comfort/Angst, no other major warnings from AO3

Tropes: Domestic AU, Chicken Soup, Sickfic

Summary:

After the Fall, Will and Hannibal have settled into an asexual, monogomous, altogether ordinary domestic life together. For Hannibal it’s easy. He’s vowed to accept any restrictions that Will sets in place, just so he can share a lifetime with him.

And as for Will, he is resolutely determined not to change anything about what their lives are like now. Their past was full of unsaid feelings and buried emotions. So much deception and pain inflicted upon each other. Will has no desire to go back to that hurtful chaos. This way is better, he tells himself. After all, why mess up something that’s working? He doesn’t have to unpack any painful memories, deal with past sorrows. Life is good.  

That is, until Hannibal becomes gravely ill and Will is faced with hard truths.

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I need my golden crown of sorrow, my bloody sword to swing

Author: obfuscatedheart

Artist: Ani Louhetar

Rating: Explicit

Length: ~20,000

Ships: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham

Warnings: Graphic description of violence, A/B/O typical sexism, Alpha!Hannibal, Omega!Will

Tropes: Royalty AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega society

Summary:

Will is set to inherit his father’s throne that is until he presents as an omega. He knows that he will be married off to someone who will take over the throne. A potential match is Mason Verger, who is violently anti omegas. Rather than be bonded to Mason Verger he instigates a war. To help his father to win the war he goes to a neighboring kingdom to ask for help. Along the way he meets the mysterious alpha Hannibal in the woods. Is he worth risking everything for?

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Open Your Wild Eye

Author: ChibiTabatha

Artist: Tulip

Rating: Explicit

Length: 34,988

Ships: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham, Will Graham & Beverly Katz

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Bottom Will, Violence, Murder, Minor Character Death, Animal Illness, Minor Frederick Chilton/Will Graham

Summary:

Will is a struggling college student, his job cuts his hours again and Bev suggests that he becomes a sugar baby. After the first date was a flop, he gives Hannibal Lecter a chance. The man isn’t put off by his abrasive personality and they grow closer together.

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And that’s it!

If you’d like to see the AO3 Collection head on over to the Hannigram Tropefest 2022 Collection.

~ hit_the_books

[save-slot-a]

What scares you the most? And if it really happened... how would you deal with it?

For Mack

It's not often expected that villains feel fear. That they have nothing to fear, being the visage of fear itself. For if a villain felt fear, then they would be considered weak to the rest of the pack of starved wolves, clawing gnashing their teeth for an opportunity to sit upon the top... But Mack has yet to find a little dog, biting at his ankles of success that hasn't felt a cold sweat while looking him in the eye.

That wasn't because he, himself was fearless. No, no, he knows exactly what dread feels like, he knows the touch of her palms against his own in the dance they conduct across the land. But they are not friends, they are performers in each other's arms.

As he stood on his back stoop, his toned forearms folded over each other as he sets his mahogany gaze out across the rolling fields where his cattle and crops grow over the bones of those he's laid to rest, he answers honestly, "Th' thing that frightens me th' most is losin' it all. Afta everythin' Iah strived fer, th' amount of time n' effort it took t' build this empire up from the grou-" He cuts himself off and sighs.

"... Not even th' empire mattas that much. Iah'm 'fraid o' losin' what's mine. This home Iah grew up in. Th' people who made it carry that sentimentality..."

It was here that he was raised by his mothers. Where he had his first dog. Where he buried her. A place so synonymous with the word "home" that it was impossible to think of going anywhere else in his life. And the folk who keep it feeling this way. He'd had it taken away once when he was a boy, watching his mommas struggle to make ends meet under brutal demands of someone who thought themselves as bigger than them. Who pushed them around because of their rough pasts. He fought tooth and nail to get his home back and make sure the people who raised him never wanted for anything ever again.

But he'd also think about how close he'd been once to losing one of the greatest boons he'd kept around the farm. He won't forget the way she was carried into his facility, wrapped in their hero's winter cape, blood pouring from wounds that couldn't flash heal, staining the concrete floors. He didn't know she could bleed like a normal human being.

He was confronted with the question of what he would do without his right hand, the same hand he'd gladly hold through thick and thin. The hours he'd spent at her bedside with the beeping of monitors in the sick bay, wondering if she'd ever be able to open her eyes again. If she'd ever be able to annoy him with her back talk and attempted thievery in his kitchen. Mack's never been a man to show much emotion, let alone cry, but over the course of those days of waiting, he found himself being a bit of a weaker man in the face of what he truly feared.

There's many things he is afraid of losing. But most of all, he was afraid of losing his home in every sense of the word again.

"... If Iah were to lose errythin' though... Iah'd have no choice but t' pull mahself back up t' mah feet n' start all o'er again. There's no sense wallowin'. Only makin' those who took yew down pay fer what theys did," Mack's gaze, hardened by his overall resolve and mindset softened ever so slightly as he let it fall across his back yard, "But it'd be a real shame t' haveta do that at this point."

[parkert01]

Hospital - Jim Hopper

You and Jim had been living next to each other for the last five years. He always fixed any problems you had with your house and in return you cooked him meals every night, you are able to return the favour for all the help and know he has had at least one meal a day. 

You had come to him saying you wanted to put shelving up, he said that he would do it as soon as he got chance and warned you not to try to do it on your own and wait for him; you being you didn't listen to that warning and procced to climb up a ladder which you promptly fell off and sprained your ankle. 

It was pure luck that you fell near the phone, you managed to ring the police station where you got through to Flo.

"Hawkins Police Station, Flo speaking" 

"Hi Flo, its Y/N. Can you put me through to Jim please"

"Oh darling, he's in a meeting at the moment. Do you want me to let him know you called"

"Yes please. Can you tell him I think he needs to take me to a hospital. I think I sprained my ankle"

"You what!?" Flo screeched as you pulled the phone away from your ear. Then the phone call was cut off, about 10 minutes later, you heard a car pull up on your driveway, the car door getting slammed shut and someone running on the gravel. The door slammed open, hitting the wall, creating a dent into the wall, Jim stood above you, looking worried. 

The last thing you saw before you fainted from the pain was Jim kneeling down and picking you up. It must have looked strange to other people, the chief of police having a unconscious woman in the passenger seat and rushing into the hospital begging for help. You eventually came back round, not knowing how long you had been out. You looked around, Jim was propped up on the chair next to your hospital bed, holding your hand, as you squeezed his hand, he slowly woke up, looked at you and shouted for a nurse.

As he did that you looked around the room, and noticed, the monitors you are hooked up to, the get well soon cards and the flowers. Jim came back with a nurse and instantly back to your side, holding your hands. He waited quietly holding your hand, while the nurse checked to see if everything was still working.

"I thought I would lose you. I couldn't lose you without admitting that I am completely in love with you"

You smiled up at Jim, letting him ramble until you put your hand on his face. "I love you too Jim. I have for a while, I just never thought you would give me a chance"

"I am going to kiss you now. Is that okay?"

You nodded and whispered "please"

He leant down and put his lips on yours, your lips moved in sync perfectly. You broke apart as you heard the machine connected to you rapidly beeping, a nurse rushed in frantic, asking if you are okay. You nodded and said "sorry, he kissed me and my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest"

The nurse chuckled, nodded and left the room, slowly closing the door as they left. Jim chuckled and kissed you again, you didn't hear the door open and people shuffle in, too engrossed in kissing Jim. 

"Well, well, well I wasn't expecting this but I am happy you finally admitted your feelings chief" Flo said, holding flowers as the kids chuckled behind her. Jim kissed you again and whispered quietly "I love you"

[goldenavenger02]

i'm getting tired (even for a phoenix)

“I’m still standing because of you,” Jay insisted, getting off of the edge of the bed to seemingly prove his point, “I made it because of you.”

Nya nodded, the guilt still building in her chest as she wiped the tears off of her cheeks, “I want to kill him.”

Prequel to "i'll hold my breath a little bit longer"

Nya traced over the white and red, jagged marks with her thumb as the monitors beeped in her ear telling her “he’s alive”.

Being a ninja was dangerous, all of them knew that. She had taken part in the lessons about field medicine when Master Wu was giving them to the other four ninja, even though it was on her insistence after telling him that she was Samurai X.

And it wasn’t like none of them had ever been in the hospital because of it; she had been in a similar situation with Lloyd less than six months ago, after unlocking her true potential.

But this was different. When Lloyd had been in the hospital, she felt safe and she felt relieved. Morro couldn’t hurt her little brother ever again, Ninjago was safe, and she had found out what was holding her back from unlocking her powers.

The clinic attached to the police precinct was for less extensive injuries then this, but Ninjago City General was apart of Nadakhan’s twisted copy of Dijinjago, so when they arrived on the shore and Jay started coughing up blood before passing out in her arms, this was their only option.

She hadn’t escaped unscathed, but the bruising on her arms from the pirates holding her back from the others and the cut on her forehead from hitting it on the deck as a result of Cole’s wish was nothing compared to everything they had found on Jay’s unconscious body.

There were the injuries Nya could see, like the cut on his left eyelid that had forced the eye to swell shut, the lichtenberg figures on his hands from the powers being too strong within the confines of Vengestone, the bright red circle that encased his ankle thanks to the ball and chain and the split lips from the altitude although she suspected that the swelling had come from the same place as his injured eye.

But she also knew that his ribs were broken to the point that one of them had punctured his left lung, that he had a concussion, that he was so weak that he could hardly walk when Cole had found him and that there was very few spots on his pale skin that were not adorned in some sort of gash or bruise.

It made her wonder just how much enjoyment the crew of Misfortune’s Keep had gotten out of watching someone so light-hearted get beat down over and over again in an attempt to make him break.

Thinking about it nearly made her vomit.

“I know you can’t hear me, but I promise you,” she stopped to bring her hand to his freckled cheek, “we are going to get out of this alive.”

…

They had been at sea for hours.

All they had to their name was a duffle bag of necessities that Jay had grabbed, a duffle bag of medical supplies that the exhausted registered nurse had handed her, the row boat they were traveling in and Jay’s mix of both chivalry and stubbornness as he continue to pull them toward where they would be staying until they could figure out how Jay was meant to word his last wish.

And Nya was sick of it.

She was sick of losing, she was sick of being “the girl ninja”, she was sick of not being able to make her own choices and above all, she was sick of Jay.

It wasn’t that she hated him, the opposite was the truth; their shared love for bad TV dramas, the fact that he was the only one who could make her laugh, how they were so different that their personalities gelled well and worked off of each other. 

And how with each passing day, she couldn’t stop herself from falling more and more in love with him.

But she couldn’t tell him all of that. 

Not when they had a lovestruck diijn chasing them, not when they were in the middle of the endless sea and especially not while Jay still had the idea in his head that they were meant to be together all because of a reflection he had seen in the tomb of The First Spinjitzu Master.

As much as she wanted what he had seen to be true, as much as she loved so much about Jay, she wanted to have a say in it as well; she hadn’t been given a choice with her destiny as the water ninja but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a say in her relationship.

“Please let me take a turn.” She begged after Jay brought his arms around again and his breathing grew heavy while he pulled in a shrill gasp of air, “if this our way of traveling with a low profile, the least I could do is help row.”

It was bad enough he was being stubborn but just an hour before the bombs had dropped, he had still been receiving care for his various injuries he had obtained aboard Misfortune’s Keep at the small clinic.

Most of the gashes had scabbed over, his concussion was mild, the coloring of the bruising had faded from purple to yellowish-green, he had pushed his auburn curls back down, covered up his freckles again and he was able to open his left eye now, but he could go downhill if he continued to push himself like he was doing at this very moment.

“No, no. I won’t hear it. You saved me last time, this time let me take care of you,” he insisted, pulling in gasping breaths that made her heart twist in worry that one too many rows and his broken ribs would puncture his lung again, “besides, a gentleman would never let a lady row.”

‘There’s that damn chivalry again.’

“Oh, look!” He shouted with a shaky breath, “we’re almost there!”

Sure enough, the gap between their small boat and the very large and very tall lighthouse where Zane’s father had been held captive by the skeletons was closing in on them.

But if she was being completely honest with herself, she was more so excited to get inside and get settled in so she could finally get Jay to rest and keep him from injuring himself more.

‘I would never forgive myself if he hurt himself trying to uphold his bizarre standards about me.’

She was so lost in thought that she only zoned in on the second half of what Jay was saying about how Nadakhan could search all of Ninjago but never find them before reaching her hand towards the water and propelling them forward at a much faster speed then even an uninjured person could row.

In fact, the movement caught Jay so off guard that he fell onto her legs and she waited for a sound of pain, but when he looked up at her with a sheepish grin, she couldn’t help but smile as she spoke, “you said I couldn’t row. I’m not rowing.”

The time between the boat washing up on the shore and the two of them ascending the stairs of the abandoned lighthouse was quick, but not quick enough for her to notice that Jay had offered his hand to help her out of the boat for a brief second before pulling it away and for her to hear his labored breathing as the two of them made their way inside.

Sure enough, everything was empty; they had brought all of the food that had been stored by Julien with them on their way to The Dark Island along with most of the personal belongings but at least they had the reassurance that they weren’t in Ninjago as well as working utilities.

“Actually, it’s a nice little resort,” Jay joked with a chuckle as he set his duffle bag on the table, “vacant for years, yet not a sign of dust.”

It was the same chuckle that came about when he didn’t really find what he was saying funny, more so that he was using his joking demeanor to hide his anxiety about the current situation, a chuckle Nya knew all too well.

Just dumping the contents of the duffle bag out set off an alarm only for the little robot who had served them tea the last time they were there to roll out with a few beeps, jump up onto the table and start putting everything back in the bag.

She couldn’t stop herself from chuckling, feeling the adrenaline that had quickly built up inside of her chest dissipate. “Oh,” she let out a sigh of relief, watching as the robot zipped up the bag, “I forgot Zane’s father liked his toys,” she stopped to turn to Jay, “what did you bring?”

“Oh, uh…” Jay stuttered, unzipping the bag and starting to go through the list, pulling each item out only for the robot to put them back. It would have been amusing if Nya hadn’t noticed how much he was blinking with squinted eyes.

“Enough food for a week, change of clothes, the vial of poison Nadakhan doesn’t know we have and finally, one teapot of Traveler’s Tea, but only just in case all else fails.”

“Great,” Nya nodded, putting her much heavier duffle bag on the table, making sure to keep it neat so the robot wouldn’t mess with it, “do you wanna go over the plan again?”

“Nya, what’s in there?” Jay answered her question with a question, forcing her to avoid his prying eyes to hopefully get him to drop it, but he was persistent, “and why is it in a Ninjago City EMS bag?”

She sighed, and unzipped the zipper before reading out the post-it note that the nurse who had patched Nya up and saved Jay’s life had inventoried everything in the bag.

“Antibiotic ointment, bandages, band-aids, gauze strips, rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizer, nitrile gloves, oral pain killers, ointment for joint pain, a penlight, a thermometer, a spare eyepatch and an oxygen concentrator.”

Jay was silent for a moment, pressing his teeth into his chapped bottom lip; she didn’t know if he would deny the help, or act innocent in pretending that he had no idea what they were for, but he just stood up a bit straighter, cleared his throat and started to go over the plan again.

“Okay, if Nadakhan shows up, we shoot him with the poison. Then when he can’t use his magic, I say my last wish and save Ninjago,” his nervous chuckle returned as he finished speaking, “a wish Lloyd told me is said from my heart, a heart that has no clue what it could be but if said incorrectly could likely make everything ten times worse!”

“You’ll think of it,” Nya insisted, trying to make her voice sound soothing to quell Jay’s anxiety, “you always do. Now, let’s get settled in,” she insisted, taking the two duffle bags with her towards the twin bed in the corner in order to keep the robot from continuing to mess with them, “we could use the peace and quiet to think.”

The air was silent for the next twenty minutes as Nya took off her gloves and started cooking some soup on the small stove; using so little ingredients to try and ration out food as well as fill two stomachs for more than an hour was all too reminiscent of Four Weapons, of her childhood and of Kai.

‘Oh, Kai,’ she realized as she continued to chop the carrots and onions. 

There had been so much going on between the disappearances, Jay getting captured and Nadakhan’s twisted plan for her that she hadn’t been able to take time to fully process that her big brother had been the first of the ninja to be taken.

Kai, who had protected her since day one. Kai, who only became a ninja to save her from Garmadon. Kai, who had stepped back when she became Samurai X because he knew she could protect herself, but also let her know that he would be the first one to take down anyone who hurt her if she needed him too.

She knew she could protect herself, she had done it so many times before…but the assurance that he would be the first to come after her had instilled the same cockiness that he threw around until he found himself in too deep.

Her tears ran down her cheeks and onto the flames of the stovetop which hissed in retaliation to the point where Jay asked if she was okay from the other side of the room.

“Y-yeah,” she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her gi and continued cutting the vegetables, “just cutting onions!”

‘I will save you, Kai,’ she thought to herself, wondering briefly if her thoughts could penetrate the sword he was currently trapped in, ‘Jay and I will save all of you.’

But after tossing in the carrots, onion and celery, the soup had to simmer and she had to busy herself with her next task on her mental checklist she was keeping, which just so happened to be checking over Jay’s injuries.

“Dinner smells good.” He told her from where he sat on the floor as she walked over, seemingly testing the robot’s functions and patience with the reaction time of setting something on the floor and how fast it would put it away, “I’m calling him Gizmo, by the way. “Robot” seems offensive.”

“Gizmo it is,” she agreed, crossing her arms across her chest as she leaned against the wall and found the courage to ask, “how are you doing?”

“Oh, just fine,” his anxiety made itself known through his sentences instantly, “sure, all of our friends are trapped inside of a magic sword and Nadakhan is probably hunting us down at this very moment but at least we’re all alone in this lighthouse in the middle of nowhere,” his laugh sounded hollow as he put a bag of chips on the ground to watch Gizmo pick it up, “right?”

“Jay, I really think you should let me check you over,” she cut straight to the chase, watching as his shoulder muscles tensed in response, “to make sure nothing is getting worse.”

“Nya, I’m fine-” 

“Just let me help you, please.” She cut him off which instantly caused his mouth to shut in stunned silence.

She tried not to cut him off unless she had to these days, wanting to make sure everyone else got words in even if she wasn’t able to find her own, but after having zero control over anything for days, she couldn’t do it any more.

But to her surprise, Jay sighed in surrender and sat down on the bed so that he was facing her, his right brown eye shimmering in the light of the setting sun before speaking again with a much softer voice, “be careful.”

Nya nodded before opening the duffle bag; she rubbed the hand sanitizer over her palms and the back of her hands, wincing when the alcohol seeped into one of the many small cuts on her hands. 

‘At least I know my hands are clean.’ She tried to look on the bright side as she put on two of the bright purple gloves before turning to Jay and asking, “where do you want me to start?”

Nya knew the logical answer was his chest or his left eye, but she could see just how tense Jay was, how scared he was of her touch.

She had no idea what those pirates had done to him regarding the care of his wounds, or if they had done anything at all, but just seeing Jay so worried about what she was gonna do…

‘If I ever see Nadakhan again, I’m going to kill him.’ 

She knew that being a ninja, she was honor-bound to protect, to only hurt when necessary and that Master Wu would be disappointed with her thoughts of brutal violence.

But she was Samurai X first, and the Samurai had no master. Just a code of conduct based on her own set of morals. 

‘And no one gets away with hurting my friends. Not like this.’

“My hands,” he said at last, peeling off his dirty, black gloves, revealing the white bandages that covered up jagged scars of lightning.

So Nya did what she was asked to do. 

She removed the old bandages, checked for signs of infection, wiped down the wound and reapplied new bandages, moving from Jay’s hands, to his battered ankle, to a particularly bad gash that covered the length of his collarbone and to his broken ribs.

His breathing had evened out quite a bit since the ascent up the steps, which was a big relief to her and she knew that he would still have to rest for awhile even after they got the others back, but it meant that for now, he was safe.

“Jay?” She asked softly, gently putting a palm on his forehead while grabbing the penlight, “this is gonna be bright.”

He nodded silently and she flicked it on, watching as his right pupil slowly grew smaller, but not nearly as slow as the video of a patient’s eye the nurse had shown her after learning she’d be handling most of his care, which filled her with relief about the severity of his concussion.

But, as she looked over at his left eye, his light blue eye, and watched he squinted yet again, she found herself asking a question before she could even think it through while putting the penlight back in the bag.

“Jay? Can you see me?”

Nya wasn’t being specific and if she was being completely honest with herself, as soon as the words left her mouth, she expected Jay to crack a joke or even just be outright confused.

But the words made his face grow slightly dark as he balled his left hand into a tight fist while stuttering, “I-I can see shapes, I can see light but I can’t-” she could have sworn she heard his breath hitch on tears that made her own eyes water, “I can’t see your face.”

Nya didn’t expect those five words to affect her as much as they did when they hit her directly in the chest and made tears spring out of her eyes, tears just as hard as the ones that had fallen as she had mourned Kai.

“B-but it’s okay,” Jay’s voice insisted as he put his bandage-covered hands around hers, making her look up, “I mean, I couldn’t see anything out of it two days ago, so I’m sure it’s just temporary.”

And she wanted to believe him, she wanted to believe him so damn badly, but his voice was tinged with his laughter of anxiety which only made it clear to her that he didn’t even believe himself.

“This is my fault. I sent you after the venom all because I was mad at you for-”

“You were in the right, Nya,” Jay cut her off, gently rubbing his thumb over her worn knuckles, “I should have never lied to you guys about Nadakhan. I never should have made those stupid wishes in the first place.”

“But you can’t see, Jay!” Nya couldn’t stop herself from shouting as she stood up and ran her glove-covered hand through her hair, “so you lied. That doesn’t mean that you deserve to lose your sight! That you deserved any of what those pirates did to you!”

“I’m still standing because of you,” Jay insisted, getting off of the edge of the bed to seemingly prove his point, “I made it because of you.”

Nya nodded, the guilt still building in her chest as she wiped the tears off of her cheeks, “I want to kill him.”

“That makes two of us,” Jay’s voice was just above a whisper as he sat back down on the bed, “do you want to sleep first?”

“No, you take it,” she insisted as she pulled her gloves off so she could go back toward the soup that she could hear starting to boil, before remembering the oxygen concentrator that had been pushed into the EMS bag, “do you want me to set up the oxygen machine first?”

“No, I’m okay. But, you’ll wake me up, right?”

‘Right. Jay’s prone to nightmares.’

“Of course,” she nodded, watching as his eyes fluttered shut and left her alone with Gizmo as company, who was turning off the stove so the soup didn’t scorch.

She found the dishes, which had zero signs of dust or dirt on them and ladled a serving into her bowl before finding a reusable container in another cabinet and putting the leftovers in the fridge; she didn’t want to wake Jay up if she didn’t have to.

As she ate, Nya couldn’t stop herself from watching his chest rise and fall under the two blankets that were already on the bed when they had arrived. 

‘Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.’ 

Every full breath reassured her that he was alive, every breath that sounded like a struggle made her wonder if she needed to turn on the oxygen concentrator and hold the mask to his face to get his breathing back into its normal rhythm.

On top of it all, she was tired. 

Exhaustion was a better way to put it, with the way she nearly face-planted into her soup and her bones felt too heavy for her to continue holding herself upright.

Even when Gizmo rolled over with a spare blanket clutched in his tiny palm, she shook her head; she had told Jay that he would wake him up if he needed her to and she refused to be useless by falling asleep.

It didn’t help that thoughts of Nadakhan coming in and killing Jay before kidnapping her if she didn’t stay alert swirled in her mind. 

That thought alone was enough to keep her eyes from fluttering shut.

…

‘Come on, Nya,’ slow, bandaged hands wrapped around her arms and pulled her to her feet before gently urging her to walk across the wooden floor, ‘it’s your turn to sleep.’

…

She woke up to the smell of burning food and her teeth chattering.

The wound on her head stung horribly, the bruising made her arms feel like they weighed more than Cole’s weights but at least she was laying down.

‘When did I lay down?’ 

She started to sit up, only for a rust-tinted hand to lay on her chest; the last thing she had been expecting was to come face to face with…Zane? 

But this wasn’t Zane, even if he looked like him. He was not the shiny titanium she had grown used to, and his exposed chest revealed moving gears and what looked like an alarm clock rather than Zane’s closed-off power source.

“Who are you?” She couldn’t hide the shake in her words or the rush of her heart rate as the nindroid took his hand off of her chest to put it against his in an introductory manner.

“I am Zane, built to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

‘What the hell is happening?’

But before she could ask, or even fully process, that this was some version of one of her best friends, he turned away from her toward the other side of the room and said, “she’s awake, and unless my sensor fell out again, she’s still running a fever.”

“I don’t see your sensor anywhere in here, but I think there’s a thermometer in that EMS bag so we can be sure,” Jay’s voice cut in and when “Zane” moved away, he replaced his spot, “I met him last night, he was living in Julien’s old lab.”

“Okay..” she trailed off, feeling her fear ebb away and renewing the stinging of her forehead, which she started to reach a hand up to only for Jay to hold it instead, “what happened?”

“When I woke up, you were asleep at the table and running a fever. I think the wound on your forehead is infected,” Jay said while scratching the back of his neck nervously, but the fact that her brain felt sluggish at least made sense now, “so I figured that you should be laying down, but after I got you in bed, I heard something downstairs and I thought that someone had found us, but turns out, Zane’s dad had a lab in the basement.”

“And you found a replica of Zane down there?” Nya questioned

“I think “Echo” sounds cooler, but yeah,” Jay’s smile made her feel at least a little better, “and he kept me from burning down the lighthouse with breakfast this morning! And there’s another thing..”

“Oh?” She could tell by his tonal shift that it was not a good thing at all.

“While I was downstairs, there was a mirror where Nadakhan’s face had appeared,” her heart sunk and nausea hit her like a brick as Echo handed Jay the thermometer before walking over toward a small chess table, Gizmo on the other side, “Echo broke it, but I think Clancee wished for him to know where we are, probably not of his own choice, but that doesn’t change the fact that Nadakhan is on his way.”

Nya’s stomach turned painfully as she remembered her anxieties from the night before, of Nadakhan forcing Jay to wish it all away or even just straight up killing him to save himself the trouble of him trying to protect her. 

Of taking her away, of forcing her into a marriage that she could never agree to, of gaining infinite wishes and destroying Ninjago in the process.

“Anyway, I was waiting on you to wake up, but you should use it,” he stopped to show her the teapot, “you should use it and get out of here. I can fight him off with Echo while you hide. Disguise yourself, change your name, anything.”

“You want me to run?” Nya swallowed harshly, “you want me to leave you here? You still have that wish, Jay. You can still stop him.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” He asked, his hand letting go of hers and going to his hair, “what if I say it wrong, or what if I don’t say it in time?” He pulled in a deep, wheezing breath and ran his hand across his face, “you have to get out of here, Nya. All of this was my fault, all because I saw a glimpse of my future and wanted it to be real.”

She sat up, wincing at the pain radiating in her skull before laying her hand on his bandaged one only to look up and see both of his eyes filled with the shine of tears.

“I ruined your life, Nya.”

For a second, she couldn’t help but wonder if she agreed with his statement. Nadakhan was coming for them, her brother and their friends were trapped in a sword, they were running out of time; but, something about Echo and Gizmo playing chess, the seagulls outside and the sound of waves crashing onto the shore filled her with a sense of hope.

A sense that maybe, just maybe, they would make it out alive.

“But you saw us old together,” Nya insisted, trying to instill any hopefulness that she could muster into him, “so that must mean something. That must mean that we make it out of this together.”

“That’s why you should take the tea, and get as far away from me as possible!” Jay shouted, “I can hold him off, I can keep him focused on the fact he still has to get one wish out of me! He’ll be around me constantly, trying to get me to, um…say the thing,” Nya knew he was avoiding saying the phrase as if it would bring the dijin to them faster, “so that gives you enough time to change how you look enough that he won’t care anymore! He only wants you because you look like Delara-”

“Jay, I am not running away,” Nya cut him off while squeezing his hand to stop his tangent, “I am not letting you get captured, again. I am not letting you become their slave, again. I will never forgive myself for even letting it happen the first time.”

“But I can’t lose you too.”

‘He said there’s a lab. A lab we can build our defenses. A lab that’ll let us hold our own until he makes his wish.’

“And you won’t, because I have a plan,” Nya insisted as she stood on shaking legs and biting back a particularly painful throb in her head, “after all, ninja never quit and Samurai X, well…”she stopped to put her hand to the back of her head, nerves filling her up based on how Jay would respond, “Samurai X is ready to kick some ass. Because between you and me, I’m sick of running.”

But this was Jay, and even if they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, he at least tried to understand her side, so she wasn’t all that surprised when he stood up while saying, “that makes two of us.”

“Now, let’s see this lab,” she told him, taking his hand so her legs would stop shaking, “I want to know exactly how we’ll show Nadakhan that he never should have messed with us.”