#second impact syndrome

[concussionspot]

The Risks of Continuing to Play After Suffering Concussion

By recognizing the signs of a concussion, prioritizing safety, and working to change the culture surrounding head injuries in sports, we can help protect the health and well-being of athletes at all levels.

[lukarion-ven]

your local magician's love confession went wrong..

thinking about lunette finding out lyney's connections with the fatui without him knowing, and the betrayal she felt since her family was ambushed by the fatui during her childhood (and her long lost twin brother is now a member of it)

hopefully i can draw the whole scene next time o<-<

[combeauferre]

the problem with everyone else getting meds before me means that they've sold me this basically miracle drug that works wonders right away and clears ur head and makes u feel like u can do things and wow do neurotypicals feel like this all the time? and i start and it's just another pill that does fuck all and touches nothing

[attila-werther]

the ongoing show has healed my heart enough that I'm looking at the show that has been burning a hole in my skull for a decade like 🥰

hi I've missed you, can't wait to remember why I hate this show in about (checks watch) two minutes

[ragnars-tooth]

On fire world rn and I'm losing my shit over Eliza going "david, he killed a man fucking around with time rifts and abandoned us bc he felt kind of bad about it 🤨"

(^eliza, pictured)

[toxicanonymity]

The Stitch

PAIR: THOMAS HEWITT X READER

WORD COUNT: 3.6k | THE SPREAD UNIVERSE one shot

SUMMARY: A stranger tries to get into the shed. You help Tommy when he's hurt and... hungry, then sit in his lap.

WARNINGS: 18+ Smut*, stockholm syndrome, violence off screen, blood, giving stitches, hand kink, light angst & dark fluff. *oral, squirting, captivity dubcon, unsafe cockwarming-adjacent piv, creampie. Feral/soft Tommy, leather muzzle.

SIZE KINK: Tommy is a strong, hefty 6'5", reader much smaller.

Ty for your enthusiasm for this fic! Ty @dark-scape for title help and @gasolinerainbowpuddles for the ⛓️ divider. 🖤

It was dusk when you spotted a man prowling around, then you ducked away from the shed’s clouded window and pretended not to see. Time crawled by–-you didn’t know how much–-as you sat frozen, afraid of making any noise at all. The wind howled, and twigs snapped in the woods behind the shed. You would’ve felt safer with Tommy nearby, but he must have been dead asleep after his family worked him hard all day.

You finally let yourself relax enough to fall asleep, only for chains to rattle on the outside of the shed. 

“C’mon,” the stranger pleaded to himself, then whisper-shouted into the distance, “hurry up, Ronnie!” followed by a startled “oh shit.”

You recognized Tommy's footsteps as he lumbered across the yard.

Huddled in the corner of the shed, you held your breath and listened to the ruckus just outside. You were pulling for your captor. He had committed violent acts, but he didn't seem like a violent man at heart. You felt sure he wouldn’t hurt you… even though he already had. 

Arms wrapped around your knees, you pulled your hands into your oversized sleeves and gripped the fabric with your fists.

“Get outta here, freak!” the man yelled. 

Tommy grunted. 

“Ronnie!” the man pleaded to his friend who was nowhere in sight. Then he warned Tommy, “Don’t do it man. My buddy’s got a gun.” 

Tommy’s grunt sounded almost like a laugh. 

“There’s more of us too,” the trespasser claimed, then muttered, “shit.” 

Shoes scraped against dirt. The shed door shook with an impact, and chains rattled. The man coughed and tried to vocalize. His shoes thumped and slid against the wood, with his feet unable to reach the ground. Tommy held him by the neck with just one hand. The struggle continued. 

The man went quiet, and Tommy grumbled indistinctly. 

Dead weight hit the ground. 

There was shuffling, dragging, and a few seconds later, the wet thwack of sharp metal through bone.  

-

Tommy caught his breath, then came around toward your window. His massive shadow was just visible enough in the dark to make his presence known. He tapped the glass with one knuckle, then you approached and lifted the curtain. 

He had an ax slung over his shoulder.

He braced his other hand on the shed, to the side of the window. Then, he stopped down to rest his forehead gently against the glass. Below his half-muzzle, his breath fogged the window and his chest heaved. The glass was cloudy, but you still felt his eye contact. You looked at each other, then he pulled back, leaving a smear high on the glass where his forehead had been. He gave you a nod that felt like a promise—he’d come back.

When you peeked out the window again, Tommy was walking toward the main house with the man’s body slung over his shoulder. The head and arms hung limply over Tommy’s back. The guy’s head was dripping into the dirt. In Tommy’s other hand, he held his ax, letting it hang by his side in a loose grip. He was unbothered by the prospect of another man to fight. 

You sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to calm yourself enough to get to sleep. Eventually, you heard Tommy on his way back. 

After unlocking the shed and ducking inside, he lit a lantern. The warm light flickered on, just bright enough to see dark splatter on his shirt and neck. His hair was matted dark. A thick path of blood oozed down the side of his face. He looked you over and took a seat against the adjacent wall.

For a minute, he simply breathed and watched you. 

You watched him, too. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. The trickle down his face hadn’t stopped. It must have been his own blood. 

“You’re bleeding,” you observed.

You started to move toward him, but he lunged forward before you could get up. Even on his knees, he was a looming presence.

“Can I see?” You asked, and brought a hand out of the blanket, squinting to find the source of the blood. 

Before you could touch him, he scooped you up in his arms for a swift exit, shaking the shed with each step. After ducking through the door, you expected him to put you in the wheelbarrow. Instead, he stood up and adjusted your weight so you were held flush against him, hugging his apron. He made sure you were covered by the blanket. You couldn't wrap your legs around him–he was too big, but you trusted him not to drop you. The soft padding of his torso was warm and comforting as he took long strides toward the house.

Tommy’s footsteps clopped under you in the garage. He slowed down, then stopped in front of a piece of furniture and leaned forward. He took a hand off your back. You tightened your limbs around him as best you could while he pushed some things out of the way, clearing a space for you. Then he sat you down on a smooth wood surface and uncovered your head. He reached up toward the ceiling and pulled a chain. A dim light buzzed on. You were seated on a desk, with all sorts of scraps and junk scattered around. 

Tommy took off his apron and he sat down in a chair, facing you. He reached across the desk and slid a tin box toward himself.  When he opened the tin, it looked like sewing supplies. His fingers were so enormous, you couldn't imagine how he sewed anything, but he handled the box with care and familiarity. 

It was his. This was his place. His craft. 

He turned the tin toward you so you could get what you needed. Meanwhile, he reached for an old glass bottle with an inch of clear liquid in it, and he used every drop to wet a rag. He held the cloth to his head. 

Okay, not his first time. 

You held up a needle. “It’s dirty.”

Tommy shook his head no. Okay, it didn’t look dirty, but it sure wasn’t sterile, and for some reason, you wanted him to be okay. 

“It could get infected.” 

His eyes shifted around in thought, then he looked back to you for the answer. 

“Do you have any matches? Fire?”

He placed his thick, wide hands on your thighs as he stood up. He squeezed them lightly and checked your face for whether you might run. Then he went over to a workbench that was against the wall. 

As he rummaged around, your eyes wandered. The space was cluttered and stuck in another era. There were doll parts strewn around. A softball-sized, hollow head with no hair and  a painted-on face chipping off.  There were tools. So many tools. Cleavers and saws hanging from the ceiling by chains. Too high for anyone but Tommy to reach them. 

He returned with a rusted zippo lighter and flicked it open as he sat down. You held the needle to the flame and he held the lighter steady for you, with the casual intimacy of a stranger lighting your cigarette. In the glow of the flame, he watched your face. 

When the needle was ready, you looked at the thread. You unwound the spool long enough to reach some unexposed thread.

Tommy watched patiently, never making you feel rushed or scrutinized. 

With the needle threaded, you announced, “okay. It’ll hurt, but not too bad.” 

He gave a short nod with a squint that bore the hint of a smile. 

-

"Little closer," you whispered, never speaking at full volume with him. 

He spread your knees, making your heart skip a beat. He settled in between them, leaned forward, and his elbows bracketed your thighs.

His face was close. His eyes were blue with lines of gray darting out from the pupils. His eyelashes were dark and thick.  Your heart skipped a beat as his face moved closer, thinking for a split second that he might kiss you, but he dipped his head to offer you his injury. 

"Good," you encouraged him.   

His sweat wafted into your nostrils, and just as you felt heat rising to your face, his hands curved around your bottom. Arousal buzzed in your gut, so loud you had to pause and compose yourself. “Ready?”

He nodded his head forward. 

You needed to adjust the angle of his head so you could comfortably work on it, and when your fingers grazed the side of his muzzle he flinched. 

Your hand pulled back, but then he held it. As he placed your hand back on his cheek, the sight of his giant paw holding yours made a butterfly float through your chest. 

You wet your lips, then bit your lip and saw him glance toward your mouth.  

Bracing one palm to the side of the wound, you held the skin shut. You rested the needle point against his skin, then pushed and dragged the thread through it. He didn’t react. He watched your face in silence as you patched him up, thread by thread. Not a single puncture made him move his head.

You could feel his appreciation in the way his hands gently cradled you. He looked at you with a soft fascination.

Was this the first time someone helped him like this? It was easy to imagine why, but somewhere in this monster, there was a little boy. Did anyone ever take care of that boy? Tuck him in? Walk him to the bus stop for school? No, surely not. He hadn’t ever said a word to you, but he told you so much. His eyes told you. The way he moved. The way he never spoke, and hung his head as the others barked orders at him.

—

When you were about halfway done stitching him up, he began to sniff the air, and it made you realize how turned on you were. With your legs spread and no panties under the shirt-dress, you had to be leaking onto the desk. 

Tommy sniffed and growled, and maybe his primal sounds shouldn't have hit the way they always did, but your core tingled. You felt exposed with your legs spread around him. He sniffed again, and your face was hot with why. 

–

You tied off the threas and whispered, “Good, Tommy." You blotted the area with the wet rag.

Tommy reached for his face to touch the stitches, and your hand stopped his: “no."

Your hand lingered, with your fingers wrapped around the heel of his palm. You wanted to hug him, have your body against his again, which made your mind jump back to the way he carried you there. In that moment, something clicked, and your throat tightened. No one but him had ever handled you in that particular way—big arms wrapped around you like you were too precious to lose. He did his best to make you comfortable. So what if you were his possession? It felt like you were his world. Maybe no one ever cared as much as Tommy Hewitt cared about keeping you. 

Your vision got cloudy, and Tommy’s eyes narrowed. Once you blinked, a fat tear pushed through your lashes. Before it could run down your cheek, his thumb was there to collect it. Then he put your tear just below his eye. It slid down to his muzzle in a tiny trickle that left a clean path through the grime. 

You smiled and whispered, “It’s okay.” 

His gaze fell down your body, and his eyes darkened. The corners of his mouth glistened in the shadow of his muzzle. He took your chin in his hand and took a deep breath. 

-

Tommy reached behind you and urgently cleared the whole desk. Then he put his hand on your chest and pushed you down flat on your back.  Your feet dangled off the edge, but not for long. He bent forward, lifted your knees, and soon had your legs over his shoulders with your ass in the air, held up by his massive hands. With your sex exposed so close to his face, Tommy growled. Your upper back remained flat on the surface. 

With his elbows braced on the desk, he held you with your cunt at his mouth. His breath was warm. With his mouth ever closer, he began to drool. His breath was heavy and full of desire.  

You let out a little moan, and with that, he attacked you like his first meal in ages. Holding you like a juicy burger, he fed himself your cunt. There was no ceremony in the first touch, he simply dug in, licking right up the center, then sucking at the apex. He ate you with a hunger that was felt in every push of his lips and heard in every breath through his nose. He used his face to spread your lower lips apart, wedging his mouth into your heat like it belonged there. 

He ate with abandon, licking and planting his lips and sucking. Collecting every drop he could from each secret little ruffle of your body, scavenging each surface for more to consume. The firmness of his lips, the rhythmic suction, and the strong lap of his tongue had pleasure building in your gut.  His hands continued to hold up your hips, thumbs digging into your asscheeks. His grip kept you firmly at his mouth with your thighs hugging his cheeks. With his mouth latched fully onto you, it was a vision you could never forget. God, it felt good. 

He couldn’t have known it, but he’d found the perfect angle, bridging your hips for you, with his elbows planted on the desk. He feasted selfishly, and his ravenous work had your body churning out more and more arousal for him to slurp up. 

He refused to come up for air, his nose instead taking ragged breaths. He paused only to adjust the muzzle, nudging it against you thigh. Then, the smooth leather nudged your slick clit as his tongue plunged into you. His eyes closed as he licked upward, massaging your front wall with his hunger. Your eyes fluttered closed. His tongue was so strong and thick, he really fucked you with it, filled your wet little hole with it.

Each slide of his tongue against your spongy spot made you lose a little more control. Soon, it felt like you were going to pee. 

“Tommy,” you warned him. 

He only fucked you harder with his tongue. 

“Tommy,” you whined, “I’m gonna—please—I—Ohhh” 

Tommy’s response was to growl and pull you closer, harder against his mouth.

At least there were no bedsheets, no decorum, and no expectations from him. He nudged that spot again, you let go. Your release began, pulsing through you, and he moaned as it filled his mouth. His mouth was so large, and he was so thirsty, there was barely any overflow. You rode that high and he drank every drop. You sighed when you were finished. His pace slowed, and his eyelids drooped. 

-

Satisfied with his meal, he let your ass back down on the table and ducked out from under your legs. He turned his head to fix his muzzle in case his feeding frenzy had exposed the center of his face. When he turned toward you again, you sat up on your elbows. 

Tommy's eyes panned over you as he palmed himself under the desk. His muzzle was shiny with you, and so were his lips. His pupils were dilated. He caught you watching the motion of his arm, and his face blotched pinker.

"It's normal," you reassured him. "It's normal to get hard from doing that." 

What were you saying?

What were you asking for?

A swell of shame washed through your chest, but it didn’t change what you wanted. 

Tommy looked at you, unsure. 

You nodded. “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed.”

–

He grabbed you by your (his) shirt and pulled you upright. Then he ripped the shirt open, sending two buttons flying. 

When you looked down, your chest expanded with desire at the sight of the massive log straining his pants. He squeezed the outline and you nodded reassuringly. A wet spot was growing.

Your mouth hung slightly open as you looked at the gift in his pants. Your thighs were still spread wide. Tommy looked between your legs, then down at himself. Then in a flurry he unbuttoned and shoved his pants down, reaching into his underwear at the same time to help free his massive cock. Your knees twitched with the urge to sit on it. 

And sure enough, he grabbed your ass, pulling you off the edge of the desk and into his lap in one swift motion, which made his stiff cock slap heavily against your pussy. He quickly jostled it into place at your entrance and moaned when your wet heat covered the tip of his cock. Between his precum, your slick, and his slobber all over your cunt, the stiff log prodding at your hole was well-lubed. 

Tommy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down, making his girth divide your soft, warm walls. His cock claimed every inch of your cunt and then more, as your body relaxed and opened with arousal. He was impossibly stiff. It must have been painfully hard in his pants. Slowed by his girth and stopped by his length, you came to a rest as far down his shaft as you could, far enough to meet the cushion of his bush.  His swollen shaft throbbed, and he let out a contented sigh.

He held your waist, and you were prepared to be used as a fucksleeve, but he hesitated. Instead of jerking himself off with you, his hands loosened and slid under your open dress shirt. His two palms rested warmly on your back, together covering a significant portion of your skin. You closed your eyes and bent forward, curving your torso snugly against the swell of his midsection. As you laid your head on his chest, your hips shifted and his throat rumbled with a twitch of his dick.  His heart thumped against your cheek. 

You moved your hips again, and his chest expanded with a deep breath. Another twitch of his cock made your walls spasm, and you let out a little moan. He pulled you closer and inhaled the scent of your hair, then lifted you ever so slightly against him before  sinking fully into your tight, wet cunt again. 

He shifted you in small motions, letting out lazy grunts and shuddering when you squeezed him in just the right way. This was perfect for how tired he was. 

You rolled your hips cautiously, curious how long he could wait before ravishing you.  He seemed to enjoy this new way of experiencing you. And God did you love it, too — stuffed full of his cock, with your tits and tummy pressed against him. 

“This is nice,” you whispered.

His lap lifted, and you sighed, “God, Tommy.” 

His breathing stuttered. His fingers twitched, pressing against your back. His dick throbbed and seemed to occupy even more of you.

His breathing sped up. You just barely rocked yourself, and observed his quiet loss of control until he groaned and throbbed so powerfully it made your whole body tighten. He held his breath as his balls spasmed, then he sighed with his hot load throbbing into you. With his seed pumping into you, he used a hand on your ass to pull you even tighter against him.

The pressure of his heft against your front sent you to the stars. You turned your head with your mouth against his chest and whined into his shirt as you came on his cock, making him shudder. While you came, he held your head to his chest. His stomach heaved under you, as you both finished your release.  

–-

You stayed impaled on him, and after a minute, you felt him tense. You lifted your head to look at him, and could see he was self-conscious. 

With his hands on your waist, he lifted you off his dick. Your pussy tried to hang on, but the last of his dick slid out, leaving you empty as he put you down on the desk, leaking his cum onto the wood. 

He stood up and turned away for a moment to put his dick back in his pants. 

He looked you over, and held both sides of your unbuttoned shirt-dress. He ran a thumb over the threads where he had ripped the buttons, and he grumbled quietly in dissatisfaction. He retrieved the sewing tin, scooting it closer again, then he pushed the shirt off your shoulders. He wrapped you in the blanket, then sat back down. 

He pulled you into his lap, having you sit on his thigh to make space on the desk. You sat in his lap while he went to work. He got out a needle and thread, and began to select a button, then paused. He looked at you, then back at the buttons, and slid the tin toward you with a nod. You picked out two different shades of blue. 

He reached his arms around you to work on the shirt, and you watched his hands as he sewed them on. It was amazing to see how nimble his fat fingers could be. How studious he was with his work, and how well he sewed them on. 

When he was finished, he scooted the chair back and you stood up off his lap. He gently took the blanket off you and dressed you in the shirt again. He admired the way you looked in his shirt, then picked you up to carry you back to the shed. Before he covered you with the blanket, you looked at his wound. 

“You have to keep that clean, okay?” 

He nodded once. 

“Do you have a shower? Bath?” you asked.

He grunted with a nod. You thought you’d smelled soap on him before and wondered what he'd look like fresh and clean.

-

Back in the shed, he tucked you in and sat next to you as you grew sleepier. It was easier to fall asleep with him by your side. 

-

-

-

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

Thank you for reading, and I really appreciate all your comments and reblogs on the first two. 🖤 Your enthusiasm goes a long way.

You can follow @toxicfics and turn on notifications to see when I've posted new fics.

[tojicide]

chapter three ── pepper spray.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader.

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, credit to @/haven__ly on x for the middle pic, mdni

chapter summary. ┆ caleb tries to adapt to his newfound role as the web-slinging hero of linkon city, and you receive the opportunity of a lifetime.

chapter warnings. ┆ slightly sexually suggestive content and a little bit of bodily harm…… but nothing too crazy i swear!

prev: too easy, this game. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

“Aw, come on. Again?”

Caleb feels like he’s been at this for hours. Realistically, it’s been four minutes—maybe five—but time stretches a bit slower when all you do is fail.

He straightens up, tugging at the red ski mask that clings to his face. Despite the crisp morning air, the layers he’s wearing are doing him no favors. The mask in particular is itchy, tight, and, if he’s being honest, suffocating. Maybe you were right—maybe he did have big head syndrome.

But he pushes that thought aside, rolling his shoulders back and planting his feet firmly against the rooftop. With careful precision, he flicks his wrist toward the corner of Mama Louisa’s Pastry Shop—a well-loved business by both himself and every other Linkon University student running on caffeine and sugar. Hopefully she won’t mind him using her bakery as a makeshift training ground.

He tenses his wrist again, and finally—finally—a strand of silk shoots from his pulse point… only for a gentle breeze to carry it away like it’s nothing more than stray thread from a sweater.

Caleb exhales sharply through his nose. Okay. That’s fine. Progress is progress.

He tries again. Fails again, too.

But then, on his next attempt, something changes. He can feel it. A flick of his wrist, the perfect angle with just the right amount of tension.

Thwip!

The web sticks, thick and sturdy like the ones he’d shot in his dorm room, right against the bakery’s awning.

Caleb grins so wide it could rival the Empire State Building. He doesn’t fully understand why this is happening—these heightened senses, the silk-slinging, the unnatural strength—but if his research means anything, it all traces back to the spider bite in the university lab. Probably. If he were to be honest, it’s more of an educated guess for the moment.

Without thinking twice, he sprints forward and leaps from the rooftop. In hindsight, thinking twice might’ve been a good idea, because when he goes to shoot another web at the next building, his aim is—how should he put this?—gods awful.

The silk completely misses its mark, latching onto a birch tree instead. And before Caleb can course-correct, he goes slamming into it face-first.

BAM!

Leaves rustle. Branches snap. Somewhere, a pigeon squawks in alarm, and it might be simultaneously scolding Caleb in a language he can’t understand.

He groans, peeling himself away from the tree trunk, only to find himself tangled in a mess of twigs and leaves.

“Mister!”

He blinks, his brain still rattled from the impact.

“Mister! Down here!”

It takes a second for his senses to recalibrate, but once they do, he follows the tiny voice downward until his gaze lands on a little girl standing at the tree’s base. She looks no older than five, her curly hair swallowing her small face as the wind ruffles through it. Despite her tiny stature, she stands with her hands on her hips, staring up at him with a look of determination.

She points upward. “Can you get Mr. Pickles? He’s scared of heights.”

Caleb blinks again, squinting in the direction of her tiny finger.

And there, perched precariously on a flimsy branch, is a scrawny grey cat.

“Mr. Pickles?” he mutters, already moving before he can think twice. (And this time, that was a good thing.)

His fingers stick effortlessly to the tree bark as he climbs, his static cling allowing him to crawl along the surface like he was made for this. He scales the trunk with ease, reaching the trembling feline in a matter of seconds.

“Here, kitty kitty,” he coos, slowly wrapping an arm around the cat and tucking him securely against his chest. “You’re alright. No need to be scared now.”

Once he makes his way back down, he lands gracefully on his feet, adjusting the cat in his arms before handing him off.

The little girl grins, cradling Mr. Pickles like he’s the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you, mister!”

Caleb smiles. “No problem, sweetheart.”

She beams up at him before dashing back toward a nearby apartment building. “I’ll give Mr. Pickles a hug for you!”

“Make it extra warm for me, yeah?”

“Okay!”

And just like that, she’s gone, disappearing behind the lobby doors with her newly rescued companion.

The air is cold, the streets quiet. No sirens, which was a luxury these days. The perfect time for a peaceful stroll.

Or, in Caleb’s case, the perfect time to fail at web-slinging.

That was fine, though. No one saw.

Except for a small child who owned a runaway cat.

Caleb walks down the sidewalk in an attempt to forget about the embarrassment of the moment, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, the ski mask still clinging uncomfortably to his face. The whole city feels half-asleep, barely stirring under the early sun, and for once, Caleb lets himself enjoy it. Well, as much as he possibly can enjoy something after a morning of throwing himself at trees and towards buildings.

“Excuse me, young man?”

Caleb halts, turning to find an elderly woman peering up at him through thick-framed glasses, her wrinkled face pulled into a look of concern. She clutches a tote bag to her side, a plaid scarf wrapped neatly around her hair.

“I just saw you help that young girl, and I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the nearest dry cleaners,” she asks, adjusting her grip on the bag. “I swear, my memory is getting worse by the day. It’s around here somewhere, I just can’t seem to—”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just a few blocks down,” he gently interrupts, gesturing toward the street corner. “Take a left at the bakery right over there and then it’s right past the old bookstore. Can’t miss it, I promise.”

The woman sighs in relief. “Oh, you’re an angel, thank you! I was walking in the wrong direction for who knows how long.”

Caleb chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Happens to the best of us.”

“I hope you have a wonderful day, sweetheart,” she says, already turning to go in the direction he’d gestured to.

He offers a charming smile that reaches his eyes. “You too, ma’am.”

And with that, he continues down the sidewalk, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s funny, really. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but he actually enjoys this aspect of his new predicament more than he originally anticipated. Helping people, even if it’s just with the small stuff. Before, it seemed like those opportunities were fleeting, and now, they laid around him in abundance. 

Then, just as he’s about to take a right onto the next block…

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

His head snaps toward the alleyway up ahead. A car alarm wails through the narrow space between buildings, the sharp noise sending a jolt of electricity straight down his spine.

And before he can think—before he can even process what was going on—his legs are already moving. Maybe that was a new impulse that the spider bite had brought upon him, too.

He sprints into the alley, heart hammering wildly in his chest, and that’s when he sees him.

A man hunched over the driver’s side door of an old blue sedan, hands fumbling with a crowbar against the handle. He’s working fast—too fast and too irresponsibly—not even sparing a glance over his shoulder as the alarm screeches on.

Caleb doesn’t hesitate. His wrist flicks.

Thwip!

The web shoots out before he even registers it happening, sticking clean onto the man’s hand… and the door handle he was prying open.

“What the—”

The guy jerks back instinctively, only to realize that his hand isn’t going anywhere.

Caleb halts to a stop a few feet away, breathing hard, adrenaline singing through his veins.

Sirens wail in the distance, he then realizes. 

The thief panics, tugging at his hand with increasing desperation. “What the hell? Get this off me, man! What is this—glue?”

Caleb tilts his head, taking a slow step forward. “Tch. What glue do you know that looks like that? You’ve got the mind of a real scholar, you know. Ever thought about givin’ up grand theft auto for Harvard?”

The sirens grow louder.

The man flails now, yanking at his wrist, his feet slipping against the pavement. “C’mon, man, you gotta— you gotta help me out here.”

“Yeah, see, I don’t think I do,” Caleb muses, his heartbeat finally slowing to something steady, something that was almost calm. 

“What are you? A cop?”

Caleb tilts his head. Even through the mask, his deadpan is palpable. “Really, man?” he drawls. “You think I’m a cop?”

The thief scoffs, loud and hard, shaking his head like Caleb is the idiot here. “Tch. Whatever.”

Then, his free hand vanishes into his coat. When it returns to his line of sight, a blade flashes before he even has time to blink. “Don’t make me use this, kid.”

A knife. A whole kitchen knife. Serrated edges, too. Probably stolen. Probably dirty. Probably the worst attempt at a threat that he has ever seen in his entire life.

Caleb gasps. Theatrically. He drops straight to his knees, too, his arms flying up over his head in a show of fake panic. “A kitchen knife? No! No, please spare me!”

The guy nods. “Yeah, that’s right. Just let me go, and—”

Thwip!

The thief jerks, eyes so wide they nearly bulge out of his skull.

And just like that, his mouth is gone.

Well. Not gone, gone. Just… thoroughly webbed shut.

“Mmph! Mm— mmph!”

Caleb straightens up, resting his hands on his hips as he tilts his head, a layer of faux sympathy dripping from his voice. “Sorry, what was that? Couldn’t quite catch it.”

The guy flails once more.

Useless. Helpless. Pathetic.

So pathetic that it almost makes Caleb feel bad. Almost. 

Then the sirens return. They’re more persistent now. Louder. Closer. 

Flashing red and blue swallow the alley, bouncing off the walls like stage lights for the thief’s almost-perfect crime.

The man whips his head toward them. Caleb follows his gaze, then hums, turning back with a single gloved finger pressed over his own masked mouth. 

“Sh.”

He disappears before the first cop even steps out of the car, and as he whisks into the city, slipping between alleyways, a single thought loops through his mind. 

He can do something with this.

Like—really do something. 

Not just helping lost grandmas and rescuing stranded cats.

But this…

This was something that went far beyond what the Linkon PD was capable of: stopping the bad guys before they got away.

And now, he swings with a newfound ease, a confidence that wasn’t there before, flipping between buildings, twisting through the bright glow of billboards. Caleb finally gets it. The mechanics, the rhythm, the thrill of it. The way the city unfolds before him like a playground of concrete and steel.

Beneath him, people point. People cheer. People wonder.

But one man does not wonder.

One man knows.

That man stands just outside a quiet café, his untouched tea steaming in his hands, his sharp gaze never leaving the sky. He was on his way toward the Oscorp building in the distance, his badge reading Dr. Curtis Connors — Head Biologist. 

Unlike the others, he does not gape. He does not cheer.

He only watches.

His glasses slip down his nose as he tilts his head, following the figure’s trajectory with a stare so focused and precise it could slice through bone. His mind moves faster than his pulse. Not a suit. Not a rig. Not a device. No, no—it’s organic. The silk isn’t shot from him. It belongs to him.

His fingers twitch.

Click.

The photo is grainy due to the shakiness of his grip, but the silhouette is unmistakable.

Curtis Connors exhales slowly through his nose, fingers already moving, already typing, already sending. His recipients were none other than the student team who wrote for the medical journalism column in the Linkon University Chronicle. 

Curtis Connors: [image attachment] Find out as much info as you can on this figure.

He watches the message send. Then, he watches as this figure, as blissfully unaware as can be, swings off into the sky—free and untouchable.

For now.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, but you don’t have half the mind to reach for it—not when a sea of sorority girls is already waving you down with welcoming smiles and outstretched arms.

“Tara!” you greet, barely getting the word out before she yanks you into a bear hug that nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“You came!” she squeals. “I totally thought you were gonna back out at the last minute.”

“How could I?” you reply, returning the hug before reaching for Cleo, who wraps her arms around you like she hasn’t seen you in years. “I made a commitment. I had to follow through, even if midterms are coming for my throat and I haven’t touched my biology flashcards in, like… two weeks.”

Tara laughs, shaking her head. “You worry too much. Just relax, have some fun. You deserve it.” Then, she leans in conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Plus… he who shall not be named isn’t even here. I think he bailed. You might actually be Caleb-free today.”

Your eyes widen with a gleam that could outshine a kid in a candy store. A sunny afternoon with your friends? Caleb-free? Total score.

“I love your suit!” Cleo chirps, dragging your attention back to Earth. Her fingers lightly trace the hem of your bikini top. “It suits your skin tone so well. Where’d you get it?”

You glance toward the sky like the clouds might give you your memory back. “Uh… probably Target? Like, two years ago?”

“Well, I’m definitely raiding the swimwear section before Spring Break,” she laughs, handing you a half-full bucket of water. She pauses for a moment, then adds with a grin, “I mean seriously—that top is really working for you.”

You laugh, awkwardly tucking the large bucket against your torso. “Thanks. I thought it might’ve been… too much,” you say, gesturing a hand over your chest.

“No, no!” Tara interjects immediately, hands flying into the air like she’s warding off some curse. “It’s the perfect amount of boobage.”

You eyebrows raise. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she says with full confidence.

Before you can say much at all, Cleo’s voice cuts in like a bullet. “Looks like someone else thinks so too.”

“Someone else? Who…?”

But you don’t finish. Your voice trails off the second your eyes follow her pointed gaze.

Across the lot. Lambda Chi Alpha’s side. Shirtless guys joking and slinging sudsy water at each other like they're in a beer commercial. But your gaze settles on one in particular.

Caleb.

Shirt off. Abs fully present and accounted for—all eight of them, you made sure to count. Somehow looking even better than he did a few days ago, which is rude. Biceps glistening from the sun and suds. Hair a mess in the best possible way. And those arms—Gods, those arms should be studied in a lab.

“Yoohoo?” Tara sings, tapping your forehead like she’s knocking on a front door.

You blink, snapping out of your trance. “What?”

Tara and Cleo exchange an all-knowing look.

“I thought you didn’t want to see Caleb today,” Tara says with a lopsided smile.

“I don’t.”

“And yet…” Cleo gestures broadly, “there you were. Gawking.”

You scoff. “I can dislike someone and still objectively—totally objectively—acknowledge that they might not be the most hideous person to walk the Earth.”

Cleo hums. “Uh-huh. Totally objective.”

“It is an objective observation!”

“Sure, sure,” Tara teases. “Just science. A visual data analysis of muscle definition.”

You sigh, pointing at her. “Exactly.”

. . .

Caleb isn’t faring much better.

In fact, he’s doing worse. A lot worse.

He tries to apply logic to the situation. To rationalize the incredibly logicless mess he has found himself in.

It must be his new senses—yeah, that has to be it. His body adjusting, his nervous system overcompensating, deciding that now, of all godforsaken times, would be a great moment to send every ounce of blood in his body to a very unhelpful location.

His eyes widen, panic rising in his chest.

No. No, no, no. This is not happening.

Almost instinctively, he wrenches himself away from your general direction, physically turning his body like that alone will make his predicament less of a predicament.

It’s not his fault.

Seriously. It’s not.

No amount of superability could ever counteract the very human reality that, at the end of the day, Caleb Xia is just a man.

A man with… an appreciation for certain assets.

And today, his attention seems to have locked onto yours in particular.

Now isn’t the time for this. There would never be a time for this. He feels horrible, like a pathetic schoolboy with zero control over his own body.

Somewhere in his haze of absolute distress, his dog tag ends up wedged between his teeth, because apparently, his body has decided that biting metal is his last line of defense against catastrophic embarrassment.

Gran naked. Gran naked. Gran naked.

He squeezes his eyes shut, practically chanting the words in his head to paint a better picture like a desperate exorcism.

Gran naked. Gran naked. Gran na—

“You’re going to ruin those if you bite on them any harder.”

Caleb’s entire brain short-circuits.

His eyes snap open, locking onto yours. You’re standing there, bucket in your arms, tilting your head at him like he’s some kind of science experiment gone wrong.

He is barely keeping himself together.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

But then, you pout.

“Go on, boy,” you tease, voice dangerously sweet, mockingly condescending, like you’re talking to a dog. “Drop ‘em.”

His entire soul leaves his body. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and with a dramatic roll of his eyes, he finally drops the dog tag from his teeth.

You beam at him, reaching out to ruffle his hair like he actually is a well-trained mutt. “Good boy!”

Caleb scoffs, swatting your hand away. “Shut up.”

You laugh, and he hates how much he likes the sound of it.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” you grin, reaching into the bucket. “Here’s your treat.”

Before he can react, a water-soaked sponge lands smack against his chest with a loud slap.

“You’re the worst,” he grumbles, peeling the sponge off as you shut off the hose and hoist your bucket back into your arms.

“Sure I am,” you chirp. “Good luck, waterboy.”

Caleb huffs, his head snapping up as you begin to walk past him. “The newbie is callin’ me a waterboy? Who brought in the most customers last year again?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” you say through a sigh, waving him off. “Who cares about last year?”

He’s about to counter—because he cares, and his title as reigning champ of the car wash must be defended at all costs—but then, you stop right beside him.

And for the love of all things holy, the air thickens.

You turn slightly, tilting your chin, that same smug glint in your eyes. “I, for one, certainly don’t care about last year. You’ll have to work harder this time around, anyway.”

Caleb narrows his eyes. “Why’s that?”

You don’t answer verbally. With a small sway of your fingers toward the parking lot, you point his attention elsewhere. Delta Gamma’s station currently had a long, ever-growing line of cars. A parade of eager customers at your fingertips.

Caleb exhales slowly. “Ah.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum knowingly.

And then—you look him over.

Like blatantly look him over. Up. Down. Unrushed. Deliberate. Unfair.

And then, just like that, you pivot on your heel. “Gotta go.”

Before you can fully escape, his hand catches your wrist.

“Hey, hey, hey— not so fast,” he murmurs, voice dropping just slightly. Just enough. “If you’re so confident… maybe we should bet on it.”

You stop and turn back toward him. There’s a competitive glint in your eye. It’s exciting. 

And unfortunately, it’s doing nothing to help with the currently unsolved issue in his shorts.

“Alright.” It takes zero hesitation. The opportunity to publicly defeat Caleb Xia is simply too good to pass up. “You’re on.”

His lips curl into an almost-there smile. “Terms?”

Your smile should be legally registered as a deadly weapon. “Loser has to wash the winner’s car… and purposely take a B- on the next lab report.”

Caleb lifts a brow. “You don’t have much to lose.”

You shrug, all casual, all effortless charm, and it’s killing him.

“Nope,” you reply smoothly. “I have everything to gain.”

Caleb should be fighting for his life against whatever spell you’ve just cast over him.

Instead, he falls for it.

(Hook. Line. Sinker.)

“Fine,” he says, sliding his hold from your wrist to your palm, giving your hand a firm shake—his fingers lingering just a little too long against yours.

“You’re on.”

. . .

Caleb should have really thought this through.

But instead, he let you get under his skin, let your smug little grin trick him into underestimating you.

Big mistake, because not even five minutes in, the Delta Gamma girls are practically drowning in customers, and Caleb has barely started scrubbing down his first car.

Caleb squints in your direction. This is not fair.

It feels like only ten minutes pass by before he looks in your direction again, and this time, he finds himself sweating.

Partially from the sun, partially from watching you rinse off a car with zero mercy—your movements way too efficient for someone who supposedly hasn’t done this sort of thing before.

And still, he refuses to lose. He has to switch tactics.

If charm is your secret weapon, then it can be his too. It was his before it was yours, anyway.

He yawns, stretching his arms just enough to get the attention of a group of girls suspiciously and slowly passing by in a yellow slugbug.

"Hey," he greets, sending a smile their way as he leans against the car, muscles flexing just right. "Need a wash?"

And to no one’s surprise but your own, it works.

Unfortunately, by the time the car wash ends, the results are as clear as day—you won.

And now, here Caleb stood—arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line, trying to accept his defeat.

“So,” he exhales, dragging a hand down his face, "when am I washing your car?"

Your grin turns dangerously smug. "Oh, I don’t have a car."

Caleb stares at you like his brain needs a full reboot to comprehend what you just said.

"Sneaky."

You shrug. "I prefer genius."

"Not cool." Caleb shakes his head, his hands going to his hips. "I don’t like havin’ unpaid debts."

"Well…" You rock back on your heels, tilting your head at him. "Maybe you can get creative. Find a new way to pay up."

Caleb arches a brow. "Like?"

You hum, tapping your chin like you’re actually putting serious thought into it. "Hm… bring me coffee from the café every time we have a lecture."

Caleb scoffs. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

He lets out a long, drawn out sigh. "Fine."

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb knew as well as anyone that crime woke up when the city went to sleep.

So tonight, he stayed up to witness it. Maybe he’d do something good for the city. Maybe he wouldn’t. But he had to try. He had to.

It felt like something was calling to him, something so instinctive and certain that he couldn’t help but listen.

That was how he found himself here, sprawled across the roof of a liquor store, killing time with a game that had no winner. He flicked a pebble toward the ledge, watching as it bounced back near his hand. Again. Again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he listened for any sounds of trouble.

The bell of the liquor store’s entrance rang, and the sudden noise jolted through him, causing his grip to slip. Instead of hitting the ledge, the pebble sailed clean over the rooftop.

“Ouch!”

Caleb froze, and then scrambled to the edge of the roof, yanking his ski mask into place. He peered over the ledge, pulse spiking.

And when he saw who he’d just pelted in the head with a rock, he really should have expected it.

You.

Of course it was you, because why wouldn’t it be?

He watched as you winced, rubbing at the spot where the pebble had struck. You glanced around but, not seeing anyone, just sighed and continued down the sidewalk, bag of groceries clenched in your hand.

And as you walked, Caleb noticed a few things.

The way your pace sped up near the alleys. The way you slowed when you passed under a streetlamp, lingering just a second longer in the light. The way your fingers curled a little tighter around the grocery bag.

You were afraid, and he could understand why.

This wasn’t the best part of the city. It was dark and lonesome, a breeding ground for all things dangerous.

So, without much thinking—without even giving himself the chance to talk himself out of it—he decided to make sure you got home safe.

For purely vigilante reasons, of course.

. . .

You swear you’re not crazy, but someone is definitely following you.

The almost silent breathing. The faint but deliberate footsteps against pavement.

You pick up your pace, but curiosity is a terrible thing, and despite your better judgment, you glance over your shoulder.

And there he is.

A shadow perched on the edge of a rooftop. Watching.

Your heart stutters.

What the hell? Was he… doing parkour? You huff, shaking your head. Not important.

Your pulse spikes, and your body reacts before your mind does. You do the only logical thing you can think of: you bolt.

Your bag slips from your grip, but you don’t have time to care. Every survival instinct you’ve ever had is screaming at you to run.

Like clockwork, the footsteps behind you quicken.

A voice speaks up. “Hey, you dropped your—“

Shrieking, you whip around mid-sprint, finger already slamming down on the trigger of your pepper spray.

The man barely has time to react. He coughs and chokes, stumbling backward like he just got decked in the face. Your groceries fly through the air as he flails, practically throwing them back at you in the process.

“What—” he wheezes, hands clutching his eyes as he coughs again. “What was that for?”

“You…” your breath is coming out in sharp gasps as you clutch the pepper spray tighter. “You were following me!”

He tries to open his eyes, then immediately winces. “I was making sure you got back to campus okay!”

You take a step back, grip still firm around the bottle. “Well… well why the hell did you start running after me when I ran, huh?”

“You dropped your groceries!”

You hesitate because he sounds genuinely frustrated. “Well… don’t do that again, you freak! Don’t you know you shouldn’t follow people home?”

“I wasn’t— I mean, I was, but not for any reason you might be thinking of,” he stammers.

There’s an awkward beat as he forces himself to stand upright again, shoulders tense. Then, as if realizing how bad this looks, he raises his hands in surrender.

“I mean no harm,” he says. And despite everything, he sounds sincere. “This is just… kinda what I do now. I’m looking out for the people of the city.”

You exhale sharply. Then, after a beat, your free hand dips into your grocery bag.

You pull out a bottle of water and toss it to him.

“You should really work on your methods, Spider-Man,” you mutter, shaking your head as your gaze falls down to the spider design on his sweatshirt. As you turn away, you add, "Rinse your eyes. It’ll help."

Your heart is still hammering in your chest as you begin to walk away, but you manage to steady your breathing as you near the dorms. Your mind, however, is still racing.

Because the moment you calm down enough to think, a realization hits you.

The image. The blurry, low-resolution shot that Dr. Curtis Connors sent your group just days ago. The figure looked identical to the man you just encountered. The one he wanted to know more about.

Your stomach drops, and you whirl around, phone in hand with your camera ready. Much to your dismay, the figure is already gone. He has vanished into thin air without leaving so much as a single trace.

You curse under your breath, fingers flying over your phone screen as you open up the message thread.

You: I have a lead. I just ran into him. I think he’s a student at Linkon University.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n hi guys :P…. sorry i didn’t update for awhile buuuut here’s chapter 3!!! i wrote and edited some of this chapter with a 103 F fever so… if it’s illegible at any point that might be why. i’d love to know your thoughts so please share them !!! <3

also i just wanted to say that i love all of the comments and messages you guys send into my asks :,) this made me laugh so i really hurried to get this chapter out

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[bloodblanks]

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — prologue.

You think playing dead will save you. It does. The killer dumps your—still alive—body in an abandoned apartment complex. You’re fortunate to survive, but that’s the extent of your luck, seeing how you’re now trapped in another world. A world inhabited by monsters whose language you don’t speak and a myriad of secrets waiting to be unravelled as your humanity crumbles away.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

Just where is the line between human and monster drawn?

One look at the ashen skin on your hand was enough to show that you weren’t human. A quick glance at your left forearm would dispel any lingering doubts. The crooked bone and mangled flesh—resembling the pulp of a crushed fruit—where the crowbar had struck you mere moments ago was already beginning to repair itself.

The wielder of the crowbar stood just over a metre away from you, her weapon raised, a glistening crimson hue smeared across its metal surface. You wondered just how much of her was human. Her hands appeared to possess a muted tint of plum, but with the blood caked over the vast majority of her fingers, you couldn’t be certain. While the raincoat’s hood obscured her face, you were still able to make out her features, which appeared humanlike. Her irises, however, were a bright, glaring scarlet, just wide enough to contain the darkness seeping from her dilated pupils.

People often said eyes were the window to the soul. If that was true, then what stood before you was nothing short of a monster; her eyes glazed over with madness.

You supposed you couldn’t judge, not with your arm having entirely regenerated within the brief timeframe of your musings, a feat only possible for otherworldly beings. You flexed your wrist—it was good as new.

You raised both hands, holding them in front of your face. You never had much knowledge of physical combat; not in either of your lives. The chances of you being able to incapacitate her with your sorely lacking combat skills would already be low, even had this just been a fistfight, which it wasn’t.

An explosive pain shot through your freshly repaired arm as you used it to block her attack, though it lasted barely over a second before fading into an aching numbness. The grotesque cracking sound of your radius shattering echoed through the desolate chamber. Unlike the first time, she swung at you again, her movements precise with a practiced ease. Your right hand imploded next, though you couldn’t be sure which specific bones had broken in it. Not that it mattered—her next strike was aimed at your head.

Your skull’s ability to mend after being smashed into fragments was unclear to you. While you were enough of a monster to potentially survive such an injury, even inhuman bodies had their limits.

But as you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the oncoming impact, you found yourself unable to stop the man clad in red from flashing in the forefront of your mind, a brilliant sanguine blossoming over your vision like a myriad of equinox flowers.

Dying for the person you love is a rather human thing to do. 

next chapter ->

[livefastdriveyoung]

Every team has a first and second driver. It is just that not every driver fulfills the role in the same way.

At Aston Martin we know Fernando is driver one. He is the more experienced driver, and right from the mouth of Lawrence Stroll himself, was brought in to make Lance a better driver so he could one day be the first driver. He does media, he's funny, and he also clearly has a mentor/mentee relationship with Lance.

I call this the mentor/mentee set up

At Mercedes, we know that Lewis is Driver one. Based on titles certainly, age almost definitely, and also because he is Lewis Hamilton. Until February, and even after, when you think Mercedes, you think Lewis. He is their better driver. He won six championships with them. He's stayed longer than most drivers stay on the whole grid. It is his through blood, sweat, and tears. George is the prince, he's set to inherit, potentially (BTW TORGER, I would like a word), and has a lot to live up to. Comparisons are hard, especially when the first driver is Lewis. I think that it's a forced proximity set-up, but they are friendly. Mostly off the track because on track they do not have their greatest moments.

I call this the King/Heir Apparent set up

At Red Bull, we know that Max is Driver one. Aside from the championships, he is just too fast. Every time one of the other drivers who drove alongside him was brought up to Horner or Helmut (YIKES to both), they would compare where they raced to Max. It is unattainable, and isolating. Until Checo. Checo didn't think he was going to be able to drive after BWT. He didn't have a contract, he was a middle of the pack driver, Mexico's son, and his story was supposed to end there. The Red Bull contract was a dream, but for all of the weird behavior some of y'all have with him (again, he's had his problems but the racism and idiot syndrome some apply to him is also NOT OK) he's not an idiot. He knows he's on a limited contract, he knows he's no spring chicken. Hearing him talk about next year, he knows he's very likely out of a contract. But he doesn't let any of this impact his relationship with Max. They are teammates, Checo will do what is best for the team. Max's whole world is predominantly driving. Checo has more of a balance, and in some ways, allows Max to be young.

I call this the Sibling set up.

At Ferrari, Charles LeClerc is Driver one. He is il Predestinato, the second coming, Monaco's prince. He can do no wrong. Carlos Sainz is the second driver. In spite of the fact that he got dropped from the team, in spite of the fact that he has won them two races, he is the one that is being pushed out. But he and Charles are friends, and teammates. They've driven together for several years now. Ultimately, while Carlos has done most of the heavy lifting on his side of the garage in terms of strategy and driving, he is also the one who knows when to walk away from the fight, when to stop letting yourself get hurt by the team that should be defending you. For Charles, Ferrari is a promise to Jules, to his father, to himself. He cannot walk away. In some way, Carlos can. That's why he makes the good second driver. The second in command is the one that sees the whole picture, including the first in command, because they never look at themselves.

I call this the friends/us against the world set up.

At Mclaren, driver one is Lando Norris. An indefinite contract, the sponsors, the adoration, Lando is the golden child. But Oscar is too, sort of. They're both young, both incredibly talented. But they're young. They're doing this together. McLaren went from disaster to top of the pack last season, and they're both on this ride together. I think McLaren is going to do whatever it takes to get Lando his win, but then I think they'll split 50/50. What will happen then, I don't know.

I call this the to soon to tell set up

At Williams, Alex Albon is so clearly driver one. Last year, he scored the majority of the points, they signed him for an extended contract, and they're desperate to keep him for 2026, when the car is supposedly going to be insane. Logan is the second driver. Alex wants to be the mentor, and to some degree he is. But Logan's narrative from last season to this season has shifted dramatically. Less and less people want to see him gone, they like the American. Williams renewed him. Whether because of sponsorship or genuine interest in his improvement, I don't know. But, in the last two races, they have managed to tank Alex's reputation, and boost Logan's. You don't publicly destroy your second driver's confidence, and career potential so publicly and walk away clean. We've seen it with Red Bull and Pierre, and Alex. Both times, those two drivers walked away with insane support. Logan is now receiving the same, but I wonder if it is going to make a difference. I think that Logan talking about what is best for the team is what is keeping him going, but if you watched the newest Team Torque, you can see fatigue and some tension between him and Alex. I don't know if it is jet lag, or work, or stress, or damage to the relationship. But this is a driver relationship on a razor wire.

I call this the Icarus set up

At Alpine, it is Pierre. He gets away with murder, at least by the team. Esteban has certainly mellowed a little, but he calls Pierre out still. However, they are both miserable with the car this year, so I think they are probably commiserating. The fact they can work together after years of rivalry and blatant hurt between the two is interesting. I think that both of these men have racing above all on their heart, and they will do whatever it takes to stay there. So for now, they suffer in the car, and they are colleagues.

I call this the "there's no other choice" set up (aka forced proximity)l

At Visa CashApp, there's currently a power struggle. Daniel is Daniel. He's been second driver for a few years, he's been third driver. He's got the popularity, though it is waning, and more importantly, he's got Christian Horner's support. That, plus the fact that the team talks about Daniel's presence being about helping them improve, makes him sound like first driver. Except, Yuki has been First driver for years. He's the one who stayed through the revolving door of drivers. This is his team. Honda pays the majority of his salary. So when you bring someone in, someone who doesn't even want the seat as much as he wants the Red Bull seat, the seat that should be yours, you're not going to go down without a fight. It creates this weird tension, but then Daniel is like "I know how lucky I am to be here, I'm focused on driving here," and is already being threatened with losing the seat like Nyck was, and Yuki realizes he might never get the Red Bull seat. So you have these two guys who are fighting for the same thing, that doesn't want them.

I call this the Alone Together set up

At Sauber, it is Valtteri. He has won gps, he's former Mercedes, who used to come second usually only to Lewis. He's funny, older, a weirdo that people love and feel they know. Zhou is younger, he's dealing with the pressure of being China's only son, and the higher expectations of him. Valtteri helps keep him young and focused. He's been through the wringer, and he's teaching Zhou that it is not going to be what breaks you.

Also Mentor/Mentee except the mentors are nuts in a different way

I don't know what the hell is going on at Haas.

[concussionspot]

The Risks of Continuing to Play After Suffering Concussion

Continuing to play after a concussion significantly increases the risk of long-term symptoms and further brain injury. This blog highlights the importance of immediate medical evaluation and proper recovery protocols. Prioritizing safety ensures better health outcomes for athletes.

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony was disabled and suffered from chronic pain

Tony may not have looked like a disabled person, but not all disabled people need wheelchairs, canes, or hearing aids. Some simply live in constant pain, cannot breathe properly, cannot sleep due to nightmares, or may die without medication or a medical device. All this applies to him.

Tony has suffered from many conditions, many physical and mental traumas. I will describe the most important here (in chronological order), but some things like broken bones, cuts, bruises, etc. happened to him regularly and their impact on his health is unknown.

Blast injuries

You can find details here.

This type of injury has happened to Tony many times, as explosions are not uncommon for superheroes. In his case (he's not an enhanced Homo sapiens, we remember that, right?) they were more harmful than for many others, like Thor, Hulk or Steve.

We can't say exactly how these injuries affected his health, but they couldn't disappear without a trace. What he could have been left with: damaged hearing, vision, brain damage, respiratory system and blood vessels and heart damage, damage to muscles, liver, spleen and intestines.

Shrapnel

And here comes chronic pain, and our first case of overt disability - shrapnel in Tony's chest and most likely right in the heart. Some shrapnel may have remained in other parts of his body, such as his arms and legs, but this was not mentioned in the movies.

Shrapnel can cause harm in two ways:

mechanical (cuts tissue - leads to scarring, puts pressure on nerves and blood vessels, causing pain and ischemia - reduces blood and oxygen flow to parts of the body);

chemical (metal ions can be released from the fragments and travel through the bloodstream, affecting other parts of the body). Many forms of shrapnel contain uranium, which is highly toxic and can lead to health problems, including kidney damage, liver cancer, and bone cancer. It may also cause high blood pressure, autoimmune disorders, and loss of reproductive function.

Other complications may include infections and chronic inflammation around the fragments.

In Tony's case, he received at least three unpleasant gifts from the shrapnel: chronic pain, heart damage, and the constant possibility of death if the medical device that literally keeps him alive stops working or is taken away from him.

So yes, guys, shrapnel is already enough to consider him disabled. But this is just the beginning of the list.

Arrhythmia

Here is a post entirely dedicated to Tony and his arrhythmia.

To summarize: Tony had a severe arrhythmia (most likely Sick Sinus Syndrome) that required a pacemaker and an ICD (implantable cardioverter defibrillator) powered by an arc reactor. Possible causes of this condition include the blast injury, electric damage from water torture with an electromagnet in chest, and heart damage.

This is the second case of disability and constant mortal danger for Tony - just like with the shrapnel, without the pacemaker he would have died, and even sooner than without the electromagnet that stops the shrapnel. And let's not forget the risk of sudden death associated with arrhythmias.

What Tony could experience on a daily basis due to his arrhythmia: exercise intolerance (he stopped running and surfing after Afghanistan), exhaustion, shortness of breath, chest pain, fainting (among all the Avengers, Tony lost consciousness most often), lightheadedness or dizziness, heart palpitations. Arrhythmia is a thing that usually gets worse over years.

Reactor

Hard stuff. Here you can see why.

The damage done to Tony's body in order to implant the reactor was enormous. With all things considered, it is not necessarily a deadly trauma, but certainly a debilitating one.

This case is the third obvious disability and the main source of chronic pain that Tony suffered from 2008 to 2014.

What he definitely experienced every minute of those years: pain, exhaustion and depression due to this, discomfort and pressure in the chest, difficulty breathing (for which his suits contained supplemental oxygen), limited upper body mobility and decreased muscle strength, sensitivity to ambient temperature (the metal would conduct the temperature of the environment and could become too hot or too cold. That's why he would prefer to stay in California until his surgery at the end of IM3 and not move to New York yet - because of the cold winters).

Potential complications that required Tony to constantly monitor his health included: collapsed lung, asthma, chest infections, chest trauma, thoracic lymphedema, blood clots.

He would also be prone to respiratory infections, which could easily lead to complications. For example, a common cold would most likely develop into bronchitis and/or pneumonia. That is why it is very dangerous for him to be around sick people.

The device could also pose a real danger if it encounters another strong magnet (no MRI for Tony!).

Tony always had to be on medications to help him breath (oxygen, asthma inhalers when he picks up a virus or his airway gets irritated, nebulizer treatment), antibiotics due to weakened immune system, painkillers as needed, regular beta blockers to reduce risk of arrhythmias and sudden death.

PTSD

In IM3, we were shown Tony suffering from this mental disorder. In CA:CW we also saw him using B.A.R.F. to ease his trauma over the death of his parents. This is one of the factors that makes me think he had complex PTSD since childhood, not just acute PTSD caused by the alien invasion.

The acute PTSD affected his quality of life, depriving him of sleep, causing nightmares, anxiety and panic attacks from 2012 to 2014. Although it couldn't go away just because Tony became a little more confident in himself by the end of the movie. It takes years of treatment to get rid of this condition, and the VA considers it a permanent disability.

Other things that could have long-term effects on his health:

Radiation (cancer, liver failure, infertility, and thickening and scarring of lung, liver, and kidney tissue)

Heavy metal poisoning (palladium is carcinogenic, may damage bone marrow, kidneys and liver)

Repeated concussions (one possible consequence is chronic traumatic encephalopathy, which often begins years or even decades after the last brain injury)

Use of B.A.R.F. (could be the cause of the migraine he experienced at the beginning of CA:CW)

Left arm/shoulder injury

Penetrating trauma (it is unknown whether Carol actually brought Tony the Xorrian elixir to cure him as she promised)

Conclusion: before the attack that changed his life forever, Tony was a healthy, strong man who ran canyons and surfed. Thanks to his health and high exercise tolerance, he was able to survive many serious and even critical injuries. However, he was not an enhanced super soldier, and the injuries that did not kill him left him physically weaker and with disabilities that could not help but affect his well-being. He became immunocompromised, could no longer endure strenuous exercise without his high-tech prosthesis, take a proper deep breath. He also became smaller due to loss of muscle mass (compare IM1 and IM3).

Tony also suffered from chronic pain due to the damage to his chest and the presence of shrapnel.

PTSD gives him another type of disability that affects his mental functions. Unlike the damage from the reactor and shrapnel, this damage was not fully healed in 2014 and remained with him until the end, although the symptoms subsided.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hiii so I was reading your posts about how confusing the dreams are and I was trying to come up with an explanation of my own. What if both Malleus and the dreamers are subsconiously influencing the dreams and that's why no one really understands what's happening? Because we're not always aware of what's going on in that part of our minds.

[Referencing this post!]

That might be the case?? I really wish this was the lore we received from the beginning; it would have saved us a lot of trouble in the long run if the devs had chosen to go with a looser, more vague explanation of the dream worlds.

@/twistedminutia suggested in this post that the dreams may operate like an AI algorithm, which I thought was an interesting concept + is similar to what anon is pitching too. The idea is that Malleus isn't directly influencing the dreams or determining explicit details within them, but rather he has set a definition for what makes a person "happy" and his autonomous magic (ie the AI) is running off of that definition to determine what would be the most efficient path to "happiness". However, the end result tends to be shallow because of this. The commentor then proposes that Malleus might associate "happiness" with being in control, and because of that, it accidentally "colors" or influences the dreams of those touched by his magic. Thinking back on what we've witnessed so far... Malleus associating control with happiness might not be that far-fetched. Several of the dreams we've witnessed so far involve granting the dreamer a sense of control or outright places the dreamers in positions of power. Lilia is restored to his days as a war general, Leona is the unquestioned king of the savanna, Cater is Heartslabyul's dorm leader, Azul leads a Coral Rush team, Vil is Neige's boss, Jamil is student council president, etc. Malleus himself expresses being insecure when he lacks control over a given situation. In 7-29, he confides in Silver:

"There's something my Grandmother has often talked to me about. It's the reason why our family, with our draconic lineage, is so exceptionally powerful even among the nocturnal fae. She said it's to ensure that nothing ever diminishes the happiness of our people in Briar Valley. Yet here I am, incapable of dispelling the sorrows of father and son alike. What good does all this magic do me? ...I'm completely powerless."

Malleus has also previously acted in ways which suggest that he interacts with the world by projecting his own experiences onto others and relating to them that way. For example, he helps out the late ghosts in Endless Halloween Night because he feels a kinship with them as someone who also misses out on celebrations. In his own dorm uniform vignettes, Malleus thinks of what would be most convenient for him to attend dorm meetings and disregards how his classmates would feel at being summoned like objects. This makes sense, as he has a limited understanding of the world beyond his castle walls and of non-fae societies in general. Malleus only has his own experiences to go off of.

Thinking of it like that, it does make some semblance of sense. Malleus's subconscious desire for control might be trickling into the dreams and either influencing or overriding what the dreamers truly desire in their hearts. And while we're on this topic, maybe it also depends on the dreamer...? Like maybe the more emotionally vulnerable the dreamer is, the more of Malleus's subconscious impacts them? For example, Cater has demonstrated confusion over his identity and what he wishes to do for his internships. This lack of self could mean that Malleus's influence projected more strongly on Cater's dream in order to fill in all those cracks, thus resulting in a dream that is very far away from, even the opposite of, what Cater wants. Azul and Vil have had histories where they were judged and rejected by their peers. Leona and Jamil have their "second place syndromes". And Lilia has to deal with the inevitability of aging and leaving behind his loved ones for a foreign land...

But hey, that's just a theory ^^ A gaaaaaame theory--

[detectivestucks]

His To Keep pt. 1

18+ content, Minors do NOT interact

Pairing: Tobi x Hyuga F!Reader

Summary: While patrolling through the hidden rain, Tobi spots a pretty girl with a byakugan and becomes obsessed. He watches your relationship fall apart till the day your boyfriend hits you. That's the day everything gets turned upside down.

Warnings: NSFW, Yandere Tobi, mentions of abuse, kidnapping, Stockholm syndrome, sexual touching, some violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: This got too long so I decided to make it two parts. Come back next week to see it get spicy.

Anon Ask I Part 2

Tobi visited many villages while undercover for the Akatsuki and while he enjoyed visiting home more than others, there is a most peculiar girl right here in the Hidden Rain village that has caught his eye.

One day while strolling through the village verifying that the locals are conforming to the new village power, he spots a beauty sporting byakugan eyes. He had to do a double-take to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Someone with the byakugan here in the Rain village? That can’t be right. Yet here you are, pale eyes blending with the bleak background of constant downpour. 

Needing to know how a Hyuga found their way so far from home, he follows you home. You're living with a man the same age as you but it isn't all roses. He is your boyfriend for sure, but he doesn't act like it. He treats you more like his maid than his maiden. He doesn't cherish you or hold you. He doesn't help you or ask about your day, he ignores you until he needs something from you. Tobi can't understand why you are with him. You’re so far from home and for what? To be treated like this? An angry twisting started to upset Tobi’s gut.

The rogue ninja has half a mind to go in there and kill the man so he can claim what he wants but he restrains, opting for a more subtle approach. Murder has become a common event in his life but he realizes it’s probably not common in yours. He can tell you’re not a shinobi, never have been, based on your lack of scars. So how on earth did you meet this scum?

At first, Tobi ignored your knack for intruding on his thoughts. He has goals he needs to focus on. An important mission from Madara. He doesn’t have time for fanciful dreams about the beautiful Hyuga girl ripe for the taking. Yet, eventually, the thoughts of you consume him. He finds himself making excuses to patrol the city always on the lookout for you. 

He catches you fighting with your boyfriend a few times. The shouting can be heard through the windows. You look drained. You asked him for help and he laid into you about your responsibilities as a woman. With each subsequent visit you look more and more exhausted. Why won’t you leave? Do you have nowhere to go?

As he watches the saga unfold, his investment increases. Before he even realizes it, he’s outside your home every day. He’s become obsessed with your unhappiness, wanting to fix it, watching it play out in real time. Then one day, an argument is finished by him striking your face three times. 

Blind rage has him bolting for the inside of your home. He passes through the front door without ever opening it. Lunging in, he pounds his fist into the side of your boyfriend’s face. You scream in terror having never seen a jutsu that allows a person to pass through walls like a ghost.

“What the hell man!” your boyfriend shouts as he rubs the point of impact.

Your surprise intruder, covered in a black clouded cloak and orange swirling mask, silently responds with a second punch followed by a swift kick to the face. Normally Tobi would taunt his prey with his childish voice but the anger consumes him whole. This sorry excuse for a man already has been walking the line in Tobi’s book but now it’s time to deal with him. 

“I’m gonna kill you!” Your boyfriend yells at this mystery man whose face is concealed. Completely unphased, your champion punches your boyfriend one final time. He presses his hand to his face as blood pours out his nose. Then the man in the red and black cloak twists his arm around your boyfriend’s neck, choking him till he’s lifeless. 

“Oh my gods did you kill him?!” You whisper in terror. 

“No. I want to but, no.” are the first words that you hear out of his mouth. “Come on.”

Tobi extends his hand. You step back, shaking your head. You don’t care what his motivations are, you don’t know this man and he just came through the wall to knock out your piece of shit boyfriend. Clearly he’s dangerous. 

“I’m not taking no for an answer. Sweetheart. You’re coming willingly or by force.”

You step back further, holding your hands close to your chest. 

“By force it is.” Tobi crouches down and slumps you over his shoulder, one hand securing your kicking legs, the other steadying your weight by conveniently resting on your rear. You punch at his back only for your hand to pass through his body and hit yourself in the stomach. You cough on impact and hear a short exhale from underneath the mystery man’s mask. 

“Something funny to you?” you scold.

“Very. Now if you’re done hitting yourself, I’d like to be on our way.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! Let me down!”

Mystery man only laughs harder before you hear a whirring sound and notice a portal open up. You curse in surprise.

 What is this?! He can pass through walls but he’s holding me. My fists can’t touch him but his fists knocked out my boyfriend. Now he’s opened up a new world out of thin air. 

Tobi could feel your heart racing and it excited him. He wants to make your heart pound more. He stepped into his void and then stepped out into the Akatsuki hideout within the walls of the Hidden Rain. He enters his room and lets you down. You huff as you straighten your shirt, your eyes darting around the room as you do so. 

It is a plain and dark space. Only a small bed on the floor and a tiny dresser with a small lamp because it seems the sconces on the wall supply most of the dim lighting in the room. Is this to be your new living space? 

Oh gods, he’s abducted me. Oh shit. What’s going to happen to me? Is he after my eyes?!

“If you want money, I’ll give it to you. Just let me go home,” you beg. “I’ll give you everything I have.”

“Why would I want your money?”

“Then it’s my eyes you're after?!” you’re panicked and your breathing starts to falter. He’s going to steal your eyes and leave you blind. How will you work, defend yourself, escape if you can’t see? You stumble back, tripping over the mattress and falling down.

“I’m not after your eyes.” 

You stop hyperventilating but the fear lingers on your face. “T-Then, what do you want?”

“I want you.”

You shrink under his stare. You can’t see his face but guessing what it looks like makes you queasy. Back flush with the wall behind you, there was nowhere to run. He squats down to your level and extends his hand. You flinch as he tucks your hair behind your ear before caressing your cheek with his thumb. Only moments prior, your boyfriend struck that very spot and now a masked stranger is touching it. 

You whimper, afraid of his hands. “Relax Sweetie, I’ll never hurt you.” he coos like you’re a little girl afraid of a spider. Your eyes snap up to stare into the dark hole of his mask.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Keep you.”

“For how long?”

“Till we die.”

You swallow even though your mouth is dry. You’re never going home. You know it isn’t the happiest of homes but it’s okay. You have a house and a job and a boyfriend. It's better than the constant scrutiny of being a non-shinobi in the Hyuga clan. Only now you wished you were a shinobi. You could’ve fought your way out of this. Now you’re stuck. Stuck with a madman who believes he has ownership over you.

“Sweetheart?”

“Please don’t call me that.” He marches forward, ignoring your response.

“I don’t understand. Why did you stay with him?”

“What?”

“Why did you support him when all he did was take from you? You should’ve left him. Why didn’t you?”

You blink, taken off guard by his question. “Where was I going to go?! I’m not from here. I don’t have a family to go back to and Rain villagers aren’t exactly welcoming to outsiders”

“So you didn’t love him.”

“What? I never said that!”

“When I asked why you didn’t leave, you didn't say it was because you loved him, you said it's cause you have nowhere to go.”

Your mouth silently opens and shuts. He was right. Without realizing it, you were more focused on survival than your actual feelings and now you’re suddenly confronted with the truth. You don’t love your boyfriend, and you haven’t for some time. 

“I take it you realize I’m right.”

“No, I just, nevermind.” You hear a chuckle from behind the orange swirl. “You laugh at me too much.” you complain with a cross of your arms over your chest. 

“Stop bein’ cute and I’ll stop laughin’. “ 

Your scowl only grows along with his laughter. “It’s not funny.” 

“I disagree.” His hand lifts your chin as he scans over you, his eyes checking to make sure you’re okay. “Let me get you something to eat.”

“I’d rather have something to wear. Does this whole captivity for life thing come with a new wardrobe or do I get to go grab my stuff at some point?”

Your captor pauses as he stands up. “I’ll grab a  few things. Anything in particular you want?”

“I’d like all of it but since that’s not possible, I’ll write a list.”

“Thank you. I’ll still go get you some food while I'm out.”

You nod at him as you pass him a scribbled list before he turns to leave. After he exits, you realize that you never learned his name. Crap. 

When your captor finally returns, hours later, there is nothing but a plate of food in his right hand and a glass of water in his left. You assumed based on the length of his absence that he’d gone to get your stuff but maybe he had other business to attend to. 

“Hey Sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to call me that.” You murmur as you accept the food. Once again he ignores your request and carries on as if he didn’t hear you. After a few bites you realize the food is actually quite good and you start to shovel larger bites in your mouth.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have made you wait so long to eat.”

You stop and look up at him. “No, it’s not that, it’s just, it's really good. I mean, I am hungry but did you make this?”

The masked ninja leans against the wall, crossing his arms. “I once had a friend who was a good cook. I learned from him.”

“Do you always cook for your victims?”

A snort is muffled by his swirling mask but that did little to hide his amusement. 

“I’m glad you find this all so funny.”

“I dealt with your ex.” he deadpans, changing the subject.

“He’s my ex now? Funny, I don’t recall breaking up with him.”

“Oh you broke up with him, Sweetheart. The second you came here with me.”

“I also don’t recall voluntarily coming here with you.”

“Well I’m not sharing a bed with someone else’s girlfriend so, you’re single. End of discussion”

Your chopsticks clatter to the ground. Your mouth falls open and you have to remember to shut it. “We’re sharing a bed?”

“Do you see a second bed in here?”

Stammering you struggle to voice your objections to the situation. He cuts off your senseless sounds to inform you that while at your place to pick up your things he informed your boyfriend that you left him and would not be coming back. 

“You WHAT?!”

“I simply spared you the trouble of telling him you don’t love him anymore and that since he didn’t appreciate all the things you did for him, you decided to break up with him and move out. Furthermore, I promised to spare his life in exchange for his good behavior.”

“And that worked?!”

“Sweetie, he just woke up from the nice little sleep I put him in. You really think he was going to test my patience?”

You nod remembering the violence from earlier, feeling the fear crawl up your gut. And he expects you to share a bed. That’s not gonna happen. And what are you to do all day? Does he just expect you to stay in this tiny room all the time, waiting for him to come home like his pet cat? Oh gods, your job…

“Hey, uh... actually, um” you chew your lip afraid to ask the question, “I-you, well, you never told me your name.” Your chest deflated and you look down, worried he’ll get mad at you which is ridiculous but also you’re not dealing with a normal person. You’re dealing with a kidnapping criminal, so you have a right to tread lightly. 

He brings his hand up to the bottom of his mask, cupping his chin in thought. Is he not going to tell me his name?

“I guess for now, call me Tobi.”

“For now?”

“It’s an alias.”

“An alias, a mask, a bunker for a bedroom, and you cover every inch of your skin except your toes. You sure like your privacy.” Another snort comes from his direction. “Would you stop laughing at me?”

“I will when you stop being funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just saying you want me to sleep in your bed when you hide every part of yourself from me.”

“Precisely.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how it’s going to work.”

You huff and clean your plate, handing it back to him without a single grain of rice to spare. 

“Well Tobi, do I at least get to go to work in the mornings?”

“Why do you want to go to work?”

“I don’t know, to earn money, to see my friends, to not sit in a windowless bunker. Take your pick.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?!”

“No. I won’t risk you running away.”

“Not that I’d get very far.” you quip with a sideways glance.

“So you understand then. I’m not giving you up.”

“Yeah, I understand. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not giving up my job.”

“You don’t need it.”

“Yes I do. You took my home and my relationship. Plus all my stuff was left behind so I literally have nothing.”

“You don’t have nothing. You have me.”

“How do i have you?! I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU NAME!”

“You don’t need to.”

You feel exasperated. There’s no rationalizing with him. You rub your temples trying to ease the oncoming headache.

Noting your exhaustion, Tobi’s arm disappears and then reappears with a duffle in hand. He drops it on the floor at your feet, next to the bed. “Now you don’t have nothing,” he says as he walks off.

You feel bad. He’s crazy but he came to your rescue when your boyfriend hurt you. He cares about you, he wants to be your world and you dismissed him. Geez, what does it say about you when you feel guilty for hurting your abductor’s feelings. You’re just as insane as him. It’s madness, the entire situation.

Tobi’s gone the rest of the day and you actually miss him. You want him to come back but you’re not even sure what you’d do together if you were in the same room. You guess you’re just bored with nothing to do. How are you going to live like this? While you wait on your captor you go through your duffle. You see some of your favorite clothes, which gives you the creeps, clearly, he’s been watching you awhile if he knows this level of detail. You see a vibrator which you suppose is a little ‘f*** you’ gift, and at the bottom, you see your blanket. 

Looking around the room you see a space catty corner to Tobi’s bed. You lay out your blanket and then pull your pajamas from the duffle before fluffing it to create a makeshift pillow. After donning your pj’s you lay down and fold the blanket over your body, tucking yourself into bed. 

Just as you close your eyes Tobi’s back. “The hell you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to sleep?”

“Not over there, you’re not.”

“Why? Why can’t I sleep where I’d like?”

He’s silent and you just know his jaw is flexing beneath the mask. “Cause I say so.”

“Not good enough.” you say as you turn away from him. “Goodnight.”

You pretend to fall asleep but your ears perk, trying to envision what he’s doing based on the sounds of him shuffling around. He wants to force you into his bed but he doesn’t want to end up like your ex so he doesn’t push it. Eventually he sighs and you know you’ve won. He leaves the room to presumably wash up for bed before returning. Through your closed eyes, you see the darkness thicken and know he’s turned out the lights. The both of you fall asleep without a word until you wake up in the middle of the night shivering. 

Your blanket isn’t thick enough to shield you from the cold of the stone floor. You curl into a ball trying to conserve heat but it’s not enough. Your teeth chatter as you will yourself back to sleep but it’s not working. Your body won't listen to what you want. Then you pick up the sound of shuffling and feel warm arms wrap around you.

“Come to bed, Sweetie.”

You don’t even respond when he lifts you, taking care to grab your blanket and carry you over to the bed. His body heat feels good. His embrace is comforting, which you find bizarre but, at this point you’re not going to question it. You nestle into his chest, fusing yourself with his skin as he adjusts your blanket over your body and pulls the covers on top of you. 

Once he’s done his arm wraps around you and his chin rests just above your head. No mask? I guess it’d be crazy to sleep with it on. Maybe in the morning, you’ll get to meet your captor's face. For now, you’ll share his body heat, cause that’s all this is. At least that’s what you tell yourself. 

Come dawn you struggle to pull yourself out of your sleep. Normally you're a morning person, always springing out of bed and enjoying a little alone time before your boyfriend ex boyfriend woke up. However, today you just want to keep your eyes closed. It takes a moment to realize that Tobi never let you go the entire night. If anything he’s gripping you tighter. Why does he care about me so much? You’re just a stranger to him. So what is this need he has for you? Whatever it is, it’s starting to become addicting. You were skeptical yesterday but now that he’s holding you in his arms, you never want to leave.

What is happening to me?!

With the limited room you have, you twist in his arms and face outward, pushing your back into his chest and moulding your rear into the seat of his pants. You can’t bring your eyes to open but you can feel his physique. He’s toned, and strong, very strong. He also has a large chest, his pecs push against your shoulders with each slumbering breath. All around he’s much more fit than your ex. Thinking back to yesterday, the guy never stood a chance against Tobi. 

It occurs to you that now would be your best chance to see his face but your eyes refuse to peel open. Instead, you enjoy the moment. The dark room hides you and your humanoid space heater as you cuddle the morning away. Sleep causes you to drift in and out. Eventually, you feel his grip on you tighten and then loosen up. He lifts his arm, almost as if he’s checking you to see if this is real before he pulls you against him more. Until now you hadn’t noticed the stiffness between your cheeks but now, your mind zeros in on what you assume to be his manhood. It's big. Bigger than what you're used to and it makes you nervous.

Tobi can feel your heart race in your chest and he kisses your head, knowing you’re awake. 

“Good mornin’ Sweetie.” he mumbles, not even able to open his own eyes.

“Please stop calling me that.” you say with a yawn, “and good morning.”

“You sleep okay?”

“Once I warmed up, yeah.”

He responds with a hug, his pelvis absentmindedly pushing up into you. “Good” he whispers. 

A rush of butterflies erupts just below your rib cage and your breath comes in short. He hums behind you and by gods if it doesn’t make you drool. Seriously, what’s wrong with me?

His hand slips between your legs and begins to play with your bud. You pull in a sharp gasp and twist in his arms. “Hmmm, she likes that, doesn’t she.”

You want to say no, you want to push him off but you just can’t, all you can do is moan and you hate yourself for it. “That’s what I thought. You’re starting to understand what I already know. You’re mine, Sweetie, plain and simple.”

Your shirt feels scratchy against your nipples, the peaks treacherously stiffen and drag against the fabric, making you even more sensitive and in need of release. 

“Too bad we don’t have an audience for your first time becoming my little whore. Don’t worry though. Next time we’ll fix that.”

You’re too dazed and groggy to really register what he’s saying. All you can do is squirm and press into his hand, breathy moans spilling past your lips in a failed attempt to hide what you feel. 

He lifts his head, his lips ghosting over your ear and kissing your cheek. You feel yourself getting hooked on him. His touch, his warmth, his mouth, you still haven’t seen his face but you want him, all of him.

Wiggling under his fingers and lips, you’re so well behaved for your captor. His hand slips under your shirt and you feel his long fingers close around your breast. The digits knead the fat till they find purchase of your nipple and bear down on it, squeezing till you brokenly inhale, the sound high pitched and beautiful. “...so beautiful” he mutters to himself. The hand cupping your core slips under your waistband and gently runs its middle finger along your center, tickling the bud he’d been teasing for several minutes. The butterflies keep swelling and you can't get them to stop. His pointer joins the middle and they trace the outline on your opening but they never slip inside. Why won’t he slip inside? You grind into his hand, dragging your folds over his knuckles trying to get him to enter but he won’t. He just continues to tease you. 

“Tobiii” you whine. 

“No, not yet.”

You weren’t sure what he meant but it made you mad all the same. He’s the one who started this and now he’s holding back? You try to pull away but he grips you tighter. “I’m not done touching you.” he scolds before dragging a large breath through his nose nested in your hair. 

You’re addicting. Your scent makes him go dizzy with lust. A few more deep breaths and he releases you. Panting and adjusting your clothes, you shift over slightly. 

Once your shirt and pants are straight again you look up to see the most handsome scar-torn face you’ve ever laid eyes on. He sees your eyes grow wide and reaches for his mask to cover up his horrifying mug. 

“No!” you grab his wrist in your small hands. “Don’t, I want to see your face.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

“What? No, I , you’re-”

“Hideous, I know,” he says trying to overpower you.

“Not at all! You’re stunning. I didn’t know what to expect but I wasn’t expecting you to be so…handsome.” You blush at your own ludicrous statement. Why are you complimenting your kidnapper? Why were you begging him to finger fuck you just now? 

I’ve gone insane. Truly, I have.

“I’m still wearing it in public.”

“S-sure?” As if you ever had a say in the matter.

“Also, I’ve been thinking about it and... I’m okay with you keeping your job.”

You nod, “That was never up for debate. I was always going to keep my job.

He smiles as your adorable sass and buries his face in your neck. “But we’re gonna to play hookie today and spend the day together. Got it?”

“That also wasn’t up for debate.” You whisper, feeling the pit of your stomach tip over an invisible edge and fall hopelessly in love with the man. Great. Just Great.

To be continued…

Masterlist I Part 2

[toxicanonymity]

Hi fren.

I looooove your writing. It’s like the perfect blend of horny, horror, and hilarity. It really speaks to my debauched soul.

I had a thot. How do you think RaiderJoel would react if Sweet Pea mustered up the courage to nibble (ok, bite) him? You know how in the first ep of TLOU when Joel gets the call from Tommy that he’s in jail? And Joel leans back on the couch and rubs his eyes in frustration? There’s a shot of his tricep that looks so tender and I just wanna chomp it.

Let’s say he’s got Sweet Pea caged in and she just turns and grazes her teeth on his arm. Would he be mad? Or would he just completely lose his shit and immediately cum like a volcano?

Anyway. Thank you for your brain!

xoxo

biting raider joel's arm.

700 words, raider!joel x f!reader | raider master A/N: Thank you for your kind words anon. xoxo WARNINGS: I8+ Biting, non-penetrative somnophilia, dubcon (long term stockholm syndrome) p in v, manual restraint,  a little rough, premature ejaculation, f masturbation using Joel’s big meaty thigh, unedited. 

In your sleep, you turn over to face him. He reflexively cages you in with an arm and leg over you. In the early morning, you wake up first and lie there enjoying the closeness. His arm twitches, then he adjusts his position. His scent wafts from his exposed armpit and it stirs something in your belly.  Your hips press forward on their own and his arousal twitches against you, leaving a drop of wetness that makes you salivate. You've got to do something with your mouth.

His breath stutters and both arms tense for a split-second.  They're so strong and thick. The bicep over your cheek flexes. You open your mouth, turn your head toward his arm, and let your teeth graze his skin. You lightly press your lips into his skin, mouth still open. Then you can't help but gently bite down. You’ve barely pressed your teeth into him when his arm jerks up and away.  For a moment, his bicep comes down heavily on your throat, making you cough.  You try to turn your head back toward him and whisper, "sorry."

He abruptly rotates toward you, his body pushing yours onto your back. He pins you to the bed with his weight. His arousal is pressing right between your legs. He grabs one wrist, then the other, and pins your hands above your head, held with one hand.  He brings his mouth to your bicep, opens wide, and bites down. He bites harder than you did, but not hard enough to be unpleasant. The ache feels passionate, like he needs you. His tongue grazes your skin then he seals his lips and sucks before releasing your arm. The air cools his spit on your skin. His cock throbs against your thighs and mound. You whimper under his heaving chest.  

"Hmm?" He asks rhetorically before moving his mouth to your neck and repeating the action. The hand above your head grips your wrists harder as he sucks. While he's latched onto your neck, his hips beginning to move, grinding himself against you.  His cock nudges its way between your thighs and slides wetly against your folds.

You tilt your hips for him and catch the head of his cock. He pushes the tip inside, then sheathes himself entirely, like he can’t hold back. He whispers, “fuck,” as he bottoms out. The sudden stretch faintly burns despite your arousal, then your body is quick to catch up. While he's all the way in you, his cock throbs like a warning. He withdraws some, then slams into you again, holding you in place with his hand pinning your wrists.  He grunts under his breath as he pounds you. Your breasts bounce with the impact of each thrust.

It feels like less than a minute before he grunts and mutters, "oh god, fu--ohh," and his cock erupts violently. He sighs and releases burst after burst, truly filling you up, with some of it seeping down his cock as it slowly moves. He stays inside for only a minute and your walls twitch around him, but you don't quite get there. He lets his length slide out before releasing your wrists and settling in stomach-down, half on top of you. His dick rests against your hip, wet with your combined mess.  He drapes his arm over you and nestles a leg between yours. He falls back asleep just as quickly as he came.

You experimentally lift your hips for friction against the heavy thigh between your legs, and he keeps snoring. You squeeze your thighs together and subtly grind yourself on him, then your body jerks and you stifle a moan. You manage to keep mostly still through your waves of pleasure, then fall asleep.

Once the sun has risen, Joel stirs and it wakes you up.  When he rolls off you he sees your arm and finds his body sticking to yours.  He looks confused for a moment. He studies your arm and brushes the bruise with his thumb. It feels like an apology.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him. “Sorry I woke you up.”

His brow furrows and his eyes search your face for something. "Hm," he ponders. "'s'okay, sweet pea."  He leaves it at that. 

-------

Thank you for reading <3 I saved some more meaningful arm love for the real story.

[verybadatwriting]

Lightning

Summary: Reader is only trying to survive with a shattered mind. 

Warnings: Violence, abusive relationship (massive power imbalance), murder, killing (family members, prisoners, strangers, and children), Hydra (and thus Nazis), cursing, brainwashing, torture, electrocution, Stockholm syndrome, pet name (my miracle), and cursing.

Notes: I’d suggest listening to Hayloft 2, Shadow by Livingston, and Little Wolf while reading this.

Gn!reader, teen!reader

Word count: 11,238

Throw yourself into it again and again. Blood ran down your face. Knuckles dirty and bruised. Chunks of hair ripped out by the root. A tooth, rotted from the inside out, swirled in a pool of blood, spreading the infection. Tomorrow will be painful too, so best to embrace it today. 

“Don’t think twice.”

“Ignore pain, focus on the mission.”

“Victory brings order.”

“You’ll be dead in a second.”

“Turn your fear to a weapon.”

The sooner you win, the sooner it stops. They’re almost down. A crowbar sat almost in reach. You rolled to the side while they were occupied with each other, grasping the cool metal in slick, grimy hands. It sparked with power. The lights overhead flickered as the men grappling on the ground realized they left you alone a moment too long, a moment too late.

You were already above them, scaling the wall of the pit, ready to deliver the killing blow. One was killed by a crowbar to the face from a great height, and the other’s body convulsed with electricity. Roars erupted from the stands above as the referee raised your fist in the air, signifying victory. 

Far above, your handler collected wads of bills from scowling men.

Other prisoners dragged away the dead men, to be stripped of anything salvageable, valuable, or vaguely reusable, and then burned. You were escorted back to your cell. You kept your eyes trained on the floor, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Someone had to die, better them than you.

 “Eat,” your handler ordered, sliding a tray across the cell floor. There’s more than normal, even a piece of dull fruit. “You’ve been profitable tonight,” he explained. “Sleep well, there’s training to be done in the morning.” 

As he left, the overhead fluorescents turned off row by row. A shiver ran down your spine; you pulled the coarse blanket around you, perching on your cot to eat. Next thing you know, the lights flicked back on and a new day dawned. You spent it training. 

The ring was round and thinly padded. Armed guards stood outside the metal bars. They were not there for you. Their eyes warrily tracked the man you sparred with.

“Left foot back,” he instructed you. His voice was quieter than anyone else's, almost like he never learned to give orders. “Again.”

You breathed in, adjusting your stance in accordance with the soldier's guidance, and managed to parry his next jab before planting a blow of your own. Your knuckles stung from the impact, which he didn't even seem to notice. Supported by your left leg, you brought your knee up to meet his chest. It threw off his balance enough for you to dodge his next attack.

You wove behind him, and you could see your handler shaking his head in disappointment, compiling a list of your mistakes so far. Shame rose up within your chest, and newfound power urged you on. Despite the weariness from your recent match, you launch an attack. Kicking the back of the soldier’s knee, you further unbalanced him. A few more moments of scuffling and you had him lying on the mat. 

Still, your handler didn’t seem proud. He simply gave an order.

“Stop going easy on them, Soldat.”

The soldier, immediately complying, leapt to his feet and had you held against the floor before you could process a single movement. For a moment, you thought he would kill you. The rush of fear combined with your inability to move forced you to resort to another skill set.

An electric pulse climbed up the arm pinning you down and rendered the soldier limp. He crumpled to the mat, curled in the fetal position, right hand gripping his head, left hand forming a claw, and a silent scream in his distant eyes. You remembered that expression, knew exactly what this soldier felt. 

“That's enough!” Your handler yelled almost immediately, but you couldn't hear him. The roar of electricity drowned him out. One of the guards–now they had their weapons leveled at the soldier and you–approached. He set a single hand on your shoulder, and dropped to the floor, convulsing for a moment before going deathly still.

“No!” Someone screamed. It was a desperate, ragged cry. What’s it called when you’re too overwhelmed to notice the tears streaming down your own cheeks? To hear or recognize your own voice? To heed the screams of your body?

Then there were three people crumpled on the mat. One dead guard. Two scared humans-turned-weapons.

“Enough for today,” your handler sighed, and someone finally sedated you. Mercy at last. Your handler carried your limp form to your cell, set you down on the cot, and pulled the blanket over you, tucking it in against the cold air.

“Left arm. Double hook. Right leg, round house. Up higher! Higher!”

The corpses jerked and warped to your command. Their muscles grew rigid as electricity flowed through them, only to fall as the currents subsided. The recently dead retained the ability to conduct electricity and respond appropriately for a couple of hours, sometimes days after death. Perfect for practicing on.

They collapsed all at once, marionettes with their strings cut. The effort of conducting the dead made your bones hurt, made bile rise up in your throat. It’s all too much, and you lowered yourself gracelessly to the floor.

“Up! Bring them up!” Your handler shouted. “Did I say you could stop?”

“Please,” you gasped. “I just need a break.”

He walked over, standing before you. For a moment, it appeared he may grant you mercy. His hand flexed at his side as you brought your eyes to meet his. There was no anger in his eyes. Only disappointment; he knew you could do better. He knew you could have kept going. You should have. He slapped your face, snapping your neck to the left. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, trying not to cry as you knelt there, leaning on the palms of your hands pressed to the cracked concrete.

Your handler squatted in front of you, an inch or two above at eye level. He gently cupped your face in his hands.

“Don’t apologize, my little miracle,” he said, voice dripping with something close to sorrow. “You've brought me so much. Do not start disobeying me now.” His thumbs brushed tears from your cheeks. His mouth twisted strangely, not many people would recognize this new shape as a smile, but you somehow saw one. His eyes lingered a moment, full of sorrow, then he planted a soft kiss to your forehead. 

In another abrupt tonal shift, he grasped your arm and yanked you to your feet.

“Again” he barked, stepping back a distance.

Hesitation grabbed you for a breath. The whiplash was hard to process. One moment he spoke as though you were his whole world, the next like you're nothing but a stray dog.

“If you can't listen it's back to the Chair.”

“I'm sorry!” you quickly solidified your stance and felt for the electric currents surrounding you.

“I told you not to apologize,” he sighed, like an exasperated parent.

“No!” You yelled in horror. “Please!”

But it was no use. It never was. Once again you were dragged off to the Chair.

“Today is a very important day,” someone you’d seen before, someone important from the look of his suit, said. His hair was not yet white, but his skin was wrinkled. Your handler stood behind you, hands on your shoulders, maybe reassuring you, maybe containing you. He radiated pride. Beside you the Soldat was seated in the Chair, freshly primed. You had your turn a few minutes ago, hence your fractured recognition of this important man.

“We need someone to help set the world on the right track,” the important man turned to the soldier. “You've been doing this a while, Soldat, think you can help out this new agent of change?” 

The Soldat was silent, but nodded obediently. 

“Good.” The old man patted his arm–still strapped into the Chair–and smiled as he admired the metal grooves so intricately woven together into a functional arm.

“And you, can I count on you to help us, too?” He asked.

Your handler's grip tightened at the question.

“Yes, sir,” you quietly said, nodding in case he didn't hear.

“Perfect.”

The river was cold, and far away. They loaded you into a plane to get there, then a truck. Your mask and goggles served the same purpose as a dog’s muzzle and a horse’s blinders: restrict you to the objective. You had to get in, send as much electricity as possible through the control box on the third floor, and get out before the whole thing explodes. No eyes wandering, no questions asked. 

The target sat on an island, smack dab in the middle of a river. What did they do here? Why did it need to be destroyed? It wasn't your job to know.

The cold engulfed you as you waded into the river. The current tugged at your legs, dragging you to the right. The Soldat had to keep checking to see if you had been swept away. That’s why he was there, make sure you got in without issue. Periodically, floodlights washed over the river. You had to dive for a few seconds to avoid being seen, each time becoming more dissoriented than the last. Eventually your feet brushed rock, and you started to crawl out of the water. 

You stood for a moment on a thin ledge against a retaining wall. Your clothes, designed to wick away water, dried within a minute. It was necessary. Water would weigh you down, leave a trail, and interfere with electrical conduction. To avoid body-wracking shivers, you clenched your jaw and disconnected from sensations. Ignore the cold, focus on the mission.

The Soldat led the way, physically shielding you against any guards you came across. None lived long enough to sound the alarms, but some managed to get a couple shots off. A bullet buried itself in his shoulder, but he didn’t even flinch, instead he charged the guard and crushed his windpipe. 

You reached a stairwell and sprinted up. 

Left foot back, you reminded yourself, your stance is more stable. A single, slow breath fogged your goggles before you began. The metal box groaned and shuddered with the energy gathered around it. Releasing another breath, you pushed through the pain, it was just beginning, better to ignore it. Focus on the mission.

“What the–!?” The guard was dead before he finished his question. He was unlucky enough to turn down the wrong hallway, at the wrong time. The Soldat’s gun, even with the silencer, made you jump. You watched as he went over to dig the bullet from the man’s skull. He slid it into a pocket, safely stored away. Your partner looked up. He nodded his head towards the box, message clear. Get on with it.

Electricity does not like being told what to do. It fights back when directed in unnatural ways. It came as no surprise when your bones started to scream, muscles started to give out. Ignore it. Ignore it. You had a mission, you had to complete the mission. You didn’t know why, and for a moment you let yourself wonder what would happen if you didn’t. If you stopped, went back in failure, avoided all this pain.

The Chair. You’d have to go back to the Chair. Every fiber of your being repulsed from the idea of that Chair, opting to push even harder against the nature of electricity, pushing beyond the point of injury, beyond any pain you felt in the moment to complete the mission. 

And finally something gave. Energy flooded the system, starting a chain reaction of overload. You fell forward, maybe because of the release, maybe because the floor heaved below you. Whatever the reason, the Soldat scooped you up under one arm and started towards the end of the hall. There was a small window, with the river far below. Without regard for his own safety or pain, the Soldat crashed through it. 

This time the sudden cold water helped you, snapped you back to reality. You didn’t let go of the Soldat’s shoulder. He seemed to understand that you were too exhausted to swim, so he dragged you along with him. 

It was up to you to keep your head above water, however. You didn’t always succeed, and had to take a moment on your hands and knees, coughing up water in the muck at the river’s edge.The icy water seemed to cling to your nose and mouth, crawling down your throat. The mask definitely didn’t help.

From the shadows, you watched a crowd gather on a boardwalk, covering their mouths in horror. Across the river, you could see helicopters swarming through the smoke. The floodlights continued on with their pattern, illuminating the carnage. Emergency lights flashed on boats rushing towards the island, but not many people from the base would survive. 

The island was too heavily guarded, the workers too ingrained in their ways to ever dare scale the walls. And so they burned, standing in line, badges in hand. They burned, waiting for the system to get up to speed with the sudden influx of demand. They burned, sitting in security boxes, checking IDs and passes.

After that mission, you didn’t see the Soldat again. They’d decided your training was over, with him at least. Until they needed you again, you would go back to the fighting pit. 

“This is a good development!” Your handler eagerly told you. “Fighting alongside the Winter Soldier boosted your popularity massively–you have no idea how important this mission was.” 

It was true. You were in much higher demand for fights. Your opponents got harder and harder to beat. Your handler’s clothes and watches became more showy. Signs of the wealth you generated slowly started to trickle down to your cell. He invested more into your care, food and housing both improved.

His stress, however, never dissipated. In fact, it only grew. A twisted ankle, previously shrugged off, was now a matter of urgency and blame, which fell on you.

“How could you?” He screeched, standing in the doorway of your cell. He’d caught you bandaging your ankle, bruised with an injury you hid from him. Originally there to deliver your food and a congratulatory speech, he gestured wildly with the tray in one hand, bowl in the other. Flecks of the gray mush sailed around your cell, landing on the bed and table.

“Look at all I gave you!” He yelled. “Do you know how many prisoners would kill to be treated like you? I managed to get you a bed–a bed! You’re fed twice a day, and you still want more!”

“I-I don’t know what you’re–”

“Do not play dumb with me,” his tone dipped menacingly low. “I know your tricks. I know your games. Always trying to manipulate me into thinking I’m not doing enough. You planned for the guards to see you limping, you wanted to embarrass me.”

“No, that’s not what I want,” you said. Your eyes darted back and forth between his hands, so you could dodge if he threw anything at you. He misinterpreted that.

“You want this food so bad?” He held the tray above his head. “You want this food? Eat up. Eat it!” With that he chucked the food across the floor, watching as it ran between the cracks in the concrete. You ate, as you were commanded, scrambling to get down as much as you could before it dripped away.

“You disgust me,” he said after a moment. “Sit up and eat like a human. I’ll have someone come by to clean up your mess.” He walked away.

Paralyzed between two seemingly contradicting orders, you sat for a moment before finally scooping up a handful of mush from the floor, and plopped it onto your desk to eat. 

“Oh, little miracle you don’t have to eat that slop!” He appeared a few minutes later, bearing a fresh tray. He flicked the mush off the desk, and replaced it with the tray. “I had the kitchen prepare your favorite,” he smiled in his unique manner.

“Thank you,” you said, mimicking his smile. He sat on your bed while you ate. The two of you talked and laughed together, even as someone came by to clean up the mess from earlier. 

“Perfect timing!” Your handler said when they arrived, “There was a bit of a spill.”

Once that person left, the conversation dwindled. Regret filled his eyes, he lowered his shoulders, slouching.

“I'm good to you, am I not?” He asked, eyes not moving from a spot on the floor the cleaner had missed.

“Of course,” you reassured him. You believed it. You had to. Yet, your stomach churned at the words, you suddenly wished he’d never brought dinner as you thought of the myriad of identical conversations you’d had.

“I promise I’ll do better,” he said, “If you promise, too.”

“I promise.”

“… And?” He prompted.

“And…” you hesitated, trying to figure out what he was looking for. “I’m sorry for twisting my ankle in the last fight.”

“I forgive you.” With that, he tucked you into bed, and bade you good night.

Not long later, something big happened. Handlers flooded the cells, rushing to their fighters. All around you, cells swung open, and fighters were led up through the stairway. Finally, your handler arrived. You were the last one left in your cell block.

“What’s going on?” You asked as he fumbled with the keys.

“The higher-ups have prepared a special challenge,” he said, voice shaking as he tried to add cheeriness, maybe a hint of humor. “Only, they didn’t tell me until the last moment. You, my miracle, will be an eleventh hour addition. Our last line of defence. Off you go!”

By now you had suited up in your battle gear. He patted you on the back, pushing you towards the stairwell. 

“Aren’t we going to the pit?”

“Oh no, this fight is in a much more expansive arena. Your job is to keep these invaders from getting into the heart of our base.” He quickly flashed you photographs of your targets.

“But, how will anyone watch? Where will the referee be?”

“Cameras, of course,” he scoffed and dismissed your concerns. “Just go!” 

And so you strode up the halls, towards the sounds of fighting above, as everyone but the prisoners fled. They’d really pulled out all the stops for this fight. The whole armory was unlocked. Swords, axes, and knives lined the walls, all open for your use. You opted for something more familiar, a slightly rusted crowbar leaning against the shelf in the corner, and grabbed a knife as a back up. A wall camera tracked your movement, so you stood tall, shoulders rolled back as you secured your mask.

The first invader tried to talk to you.

“Woah,” he said, one hand out in front of him, the other holding his shield in a defensive position. Behind him lay his last victim, a strong fighter you’d seen before but never had the displeasure of facing. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not gonna hurt you. My name’s Steve, who are you?” 

You gave him no reply.

“That’s ok, you don’t have to talk,” he said soothingly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You tilted your head to the side, briefly confused. Did he not know you were opponents? Maybe he was trying to lull you into a false sense of security. Either way, you could play this to your advantage. You approached, careful to emphasize your ankle injury with each step. The crowbar dragged along in one hand, as though it were too heavy for you to properly wield and you’d only grabbed it out of fear and desperation.

“Go to the left and keep going,” Steve instructed you. “There’s an exit up the stairs and some people outside who can help you.” He paused, eyes narrowing in concern. “Are you al–”

The crowbar rammed into his chin with enough force to shatter bone. You went for his knees and stomach next, but he managed to withstand some blows and block the others. He wasn’t giving up easily. Of course not. They never can.

You flicked the knife out of its holder, careful that he didn’t see. You swung the crowbar back, as though making another attack at his head. This diverted his shield upwards, leaving his core unguarded. Your blade sunk in with ease. His armor was little more than thickly padded clothing in some spots. 

Most people, when stabbed, do not continue fighting. This Steve character did. He shoved you against the wall face first, and twisted your arm till you dropped the crowbar. You kicked and clawed, but he seemed unstoppable. You’d only felt this strength once before, when the Winter Soldier trained and fought with you. If you were scared then, with your handler and his guards there, there was no way of quantifying the fear you felt alone in the tunnel, unable to break free.

“I caught one,” Steve said into a comm, then paused. “Yeah I know, but this is a kid… Who’s closest?… Okay, get down here soon.”

A single breath caught in your throat. Either you could cry or…

“Turn your fear to a weapon,” one of your handler’s many lessons came back to you, as though he was right there, whispering to you. You had wanted to avoid doing this, but that no longer seemed like an option. You flicked your wrists back and forth, gathering energy from the wires and tubes running through the walls. 

“Stay still,” he ordered you. A metal cuff encircled your wrist, but before he could secure the second one, a bolt of electricity zapped him. Instinctually, he stepped back, pulling his shield in front of himself. You flipped, pressing your back into the wall, and directed an even stronger current at him. Some dispersed on the shield, but most climbed up his arm and through his body.

Much to your horror, he resisted the pain for a few moments, even managing to take a step forward. Nobody can stand electricity coursing through their veins forever, however, and he eventually toppled over. He still was not dead. Even from across the hallway you could feel the electrical rhythm in his chest, a little slow, but not entirely abnormal.

You walked closer and extended your hand over him, palm down. You caught the  heart’s rhythm and matched it, replacing the natural electrical activity with your own. Gradually, you slowed it. You could have done it fast, but you were tired, and had five more opponents to beat. Perhaps you should have moved faster.

A man flew around the corner, heading straight for you. His hair flowed impractically over his shoulders, and a giant red cape billowed out behind him.

“Halt!” He commanded as he aimed his weapon at you. It appeared to be a comically disproportionate hammer. The handle was barely as long as the head! How could this group of idiots cause the whole base to evacuate?

You turned to the newcomer, letting Steve’s heartbeat trail away completely.

“Step away from my friend!” His voice was royal, like an old king’s.

This time, you anticipated a little resistance, and decided to pull out all the stops right away. Electricity arced through the air, leaving an imprint of light on your eyes. Only, something must have gone wrong. Did you not hit him? Was your aim that awful, or had you not gathered enough energy? He simply stood there and… and laughed. 

The laugh was not cruel or mean spirited, more like an adult entertaining a small child’s illcrafted joke, like he’d finish and tell you to “run along now,” because the grownups were talking.

His eyes glowed, sparks flew around him as he channeled lightning through the concrete above and directed it at you. Tired from fighting, and not expecting such a quick, electrical counter attack, you had no time to get your guard up.

It felt the same as the Chair. The same pain frying your muscles, the same pressure in your head, the same sense of unending infinity, only missing the rubbery taste of the mouthguard. Nothing stopped your teeth from grinding together, perilously close to your tongue. You curled in on yourself, retreating inside your head–where the pain was worst, but you stood the best chance of escaping it.

The  room was exposed, leaving you raw, vulnerable, and yet… somehow okay. They could have killed you. Could have done any number of things, Lord knows the guards or your fellow prisoners would have. You would have, too, given the chance. Anything to lessen the number or strength of your opponents.  

Instead, they'd put you in a room. It was bright, warm, and soft. Your skin felt clean for the first time in… how long had it been? Months at least. The timeline gets a bit muddy when the Chair is involved. 

The quiet seemed to reverberate around the room. Just your breath in and out. No distant screams or thundering applause drifted through the halls. No prisoners snarled like mad dogs at the guards’ heels clacking by. No sickeningly familiar voice called you pet names. 

You ran your hand along the mattress. It didn’t have any blankets or a pillow, but it was comfortable enough to make up for that. Your fingers found a rumple in the mattress protector as you started to relax. Maybe if you stayed still enough they wouldn't even notice you were awake. Maybe you’d get a few more moments in this peace.

A great sigh escaped your lungs, and you softened your muscles. Every vertebrae of your spine eased into their natural places, same as your arms, legs, neck, even the small muscles of your face. You unfocused your eyes, making the lights above you go fuzzy.

Despite being confined, you couldn’t remember feeling more free.

It didn’t last. Someone knocked at the door, even though the camera perched in the corner could have told them all they needed to know. It took you a moment to remember what you were supposed to say. Your handler never knocked.

“Come in,” you eventually said. As the door swung slowly open, you pulled yourself into the corner, one leg tucked under you, the other pulled up to your chin. You laced your fingers together, and created a perch for your head atop this knee. 

Without appearing to, you watched carefully as a woman entered, carrying a stool and a plastic bottle. She set herself up across from you, not close to the bed, but close enough to talk quietly. Someone on the outside reached in to close the door. All you saw of them was a gloved hand. 

The moment the latch clicked, you remembered fear, the awful things that would happen behind closed doors, with faceless guards standing outside. They’d pretend not to hear, but you knew it was impossible not to. The tension you’d tried so hard to rid yourself of mere moments ago returned. You tried not to let it show. 

“Hello,” she said. Your eyes flicked up at her in response. 

“Brought this for you.” She stretched her arm towards the bed, depositing the bottle a safe distance away. A moment passed.

“It’s just water,” she said.

You knew this strategy. Your handler had used it often enough. Step one was to make them as vulnerable as possible, then offer the solution to a small problem. Hunger, cold, or thirst were the easiest to manufacture and solve. This was supposed to establish trust, and it used to. At least until you’d learned better. 

Nevertheless, you took the bottle gratefully and fumbled with the cap before setting it in your lap. 

“Need help?” The woman asked.

Your shoulders dropped, and you passed it back to her. She opened it easily, and handed it back. This time you met her eyes.

“Thank you.” If you make them feel useful, they’re more likely to favor you.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled softly. “Anything you need, you can ask me for. I didn’t only come in here to give you that,” she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees to be eye level with you. Her hands clasped each other. “I need to ask you some things, get a lay of the land. Can you help me with that?”

At that last sentence, you could have sworn you felt your handler’s phantom grip on your shoulders and tasted the residue from the mouthguard, but you managed to shove the memory down and nod instead of screaming.

“Great,” she smiled again. Why was she alway smiling? Smiles could mask many things. What was she hiding? 

“Let’s start with names. I’m Agent Hill. You are…?”

“I’m… I’m a miracle.”

“But what’s your name?”

“I know I have one. It’s just…” You trailed off, looking at the spot where the wall and ceiling met. “I think they took it from me.”

“Does Y/n ring any bells?”

Immediately you sat straighter, visibly brightening before you managed to reign in your reaction. 

“Yes,” you replied evenly. “That’s me.”

She asked a lot about the places you were kept. Together you reconstructed some of your story. Hill had information on who you were before the Chair, which was especially difficult to remember. You mostly had useless memories from that time, flashes of a classroom, a dinner table, reading, some faces here and there, but nothing of any importance. 

A few hours passed before Agent Hill stood up. 

“I’m gonna grab some food,” she said, stretching. “Do you want anything?”

“Uh,” you hesitated. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

“I’ll grab you something.” 

While she was gone, you flopped back onto the bed, and allowed your senses to wander. That special sixth sense you had, the one for electricity, was going haywire since this place was absolutely massive. At first, all you’d done was follow the power supply for the camera, but that led to a hub of computers and circuitry. You sent small, nearly imperceptible pulses out. They zipped down the wires, mapping out the building for you. Deep down, in the belly of the building, was the generator system. It was magnificent. Turbines spun, magnets scraped back and forth, countless valves and gauges interwoven in a glorious system. They could make enough power here to support a small city for months on end.

It seemed as though every room had some sort of electrical gadget. Most of the rooms had people, too. Or at least some sort of living organism. They were always kinda fuzzy, and hard to make out. Chock full of electricity, but much harder to manipulate than metal or wires. 

Hill came back a moment or two after you’d mapped out the entire building, holding some pretzels, paper, and pencils. 

“Thought we could do some drawing, too.” She sat on the bed next to you, the bag of pretzels in between, and set the art supplies on the stool in front of you as though it was a little table.

You drew the fighting pit and your room in great detail, the rest of it was barebones. You drew any identifiable or unique marks on the fighters, guards, and handlers, since Agent Hill asked you to. Finally, she revealed what she wanted. You had no qualms about ratting out the people there. Most of them. Some, you held secret.  

It was fun. Restful, sitting there eating pretzels and sketching. 

Nothing good lasts forever, especially not when you’re involved. Something small set you off, you can’t remember what, but it was something small. You kicked the stool against the door, aiming to jam it. The things arranged on it flew everywhere. You snatched a pencil from midair, wheeled around and stabbed it into Hill’s leg before shoving her off the bed. She caught herself, turned towards you and blocked a flurry of punches. Still, you advanced and held her against the wall, as Steve had done to you.

“Why?” You demanded. “Why did you do that to them? They did nothing wrong and you slaughtered them!”

“Who?” Agent Hill said into the wall. Her voice was infuriatingly calm and genuine, like she cared about them as much as you. What a good actor.

“My family,” you said, “You killed them. Right in front of me. Don’t play dumb.”

“Y/n,” she twisted her neck to look you in the eye. “I do not know anything about your family. Could you tell me what you’re remembering right now? What do you see, where do you think you are?”

“I…” your grip on her slowly slackened as you fought to separate memory from reality. “I wasn’t here,” you said, finally. “Sorry,” and slid to the floor, back to the door. Hill followed, easing herself down the wall.

“Why’s my brain so fucked up?”

“That’s part of what I’m trying to figure out. You were telling me about your family?”

Her leg was bleeding. The red seeped onto her pant leg, looking extra dark against the yellow of the pencil. 

A single tear fell from your eye.

“They killed them,” you said softly, almost too soft for Hill to hear, but then louder, “They butchered my whole family.”

At this, your face caved in on itself, cracking in two as tears blurred your vision. You leaned forward, resting your head on Hill’s shoulder. She lifted one hand and held your shoulder, the other was pressed to her leg, staunching the bleeding.

This was the closest thing to a hug you remembered how to do. Ugly sobs wracked your chest, and Hill simply held you. She kept holding you, even as armed guards rushed in. 

“Put those away,” she ordered. The shuffling of weapons sliding into holsters followed. “Two things– what the hell was that response time? If I'd been in real danger, I’d be dead.”

“Apologies, Agent Hill.”

“Don’t let it happen again.” Her voice was a low, warning whisper. All the while, she kept her arm wrapped steadily around you. 

The guards lingered until Hill raised an eyebrow.

“The second thing?” A guard asked.

“Oh, right. I’m gonna need some gauze and bandages.”

Once you’d stabilized, and Hill had wrapped up her leg, you were ready to talk. You were settled side by side on your bed, exactly as you were before the Pencil-in-the-Leg Incident.

“The first couple of times they only hurt me,” you said. “Nothing permanent, though. When they didn’t get the answers they wanted, they moved on to my family.

“Through a one-way window, they made me watch as they cut off bits and pieces here and there. They told me I could make it stop at any time, that they’d stop hurting my family if I answered one question…”

“What was the question?” Hill asked. She’d been careful not to interrupt; this was the most you'd spoken to her or anyone since Shield rescued you.

“A stupid one. I would have told them in a heartbeat, no kidnapping or torture necessary. How did you get your powers? That’s what they kept on asking again and again. I wailed ‘I don’t know’ until it devolved into sobs.

“I think they started to believe my screams after they’d shot one of my family members. Is it wrong that I can’t even remember which one they killed first?–” Hill shook her head in response– “You know the worst part? I was hopeful, right then. I thought now that they knew for sure I didn’t have a single shred of information, that they’d let my family go.” A small laugh, more like an exhale, escaped your mouth.

“It was a stupid thought, for a stupid answer to a damn stupid question,” you said, shaking your head. “They shot them anyway, made me watch as they sponged the brains off the wall afterwards.”

Somehow, you managed to not break down. All your tears and energy had been used up. Instead, you stared into the middle distance, your hands fidgeting slowly in your lap. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, “Again. For stabbing you.”

“Psh,” Agent Hill brushed you off. “I’ve been through way worse.”

Lost in memories, both of you, the room filled with silence.

“I’m really, and I mean really tired,” you finally said into the silent room, almost devolving into laughter, of all things.

“You’ve had a long day,” Hill said. “You should probably get some rest. Would you like me to come back once you wake up?”

And so a few weeks passed, with Hill visiting once or twice a day, always limping a little less than the day before. She introduced other people, not many though. One such person was a ghost. Or, that’s what you supposed at first.

“Y/n, this is Steve,” Hill said. “I hear you’ve met before?”

“Hmm,” you paused. “Didn’t I kill you?”

“Yes,” the ghost admitted, “But only for a little bit. That’s all in the past, now.” Some small part of you wanted to believe that, but the reasonable part knew that murder attempts, no matter how unsuccessful, were never truly forgotten. Despite this, you grew almost as close with Steve as with Agent Hill.

Once, when she was unavailable, Steve stepped in to help you through a flashback.

Half hidden behind the tipped-over bed in the corner of your room, you looked past Steve as if he were made of glass. He sat himself on the floor next to you.

Your eyes remained transfixed on the door, limbs shaking from fear and adrenaline mixed together.

“Y/n,” he started, softly. “It’s over.”

“What?” you asked, like you simply hadn’t heard.

“It’s over,” he repeated. “You’re not there anymore. You’re safe.”

“But…” you trailed off. Eyes flitting left and right, up and down with no real pattern, it was clear to Steve that you weren’t seeing what was really before you. Slowly, steadily, Steve placed his hands on your shoulders and turned you to face him.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “You got out. You are safe now, here, we won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“You can’t beat them,” you argued weakly. “They’re too strong.”

“I did it before, I can do it again. None of them can hurt you here.”

“Promise?” you said after a moment. Your eyes finally saw the face in front of you, determined, strong, and more than a little sad.

“Promise.”

This was a much needed hug. Steve was quite good at hugs. Must have been one of his superpowers.

Shield agents had explained what happened before, that the fighting ring was run by a group of twisted people who set out to copy an old Nazi faction, called Hydra. They told you that their power had shattered after the raid on your base. It didn’t sit right with you. How could one raid take down the whole ring, especially when nobody besides prisoners were caught, and they’d only raided one base?

However, both Agent Hill and Steve assured you that your tormentors were gone, and you wanted so dearly to believe, you relegated these doubts to the back of your mind. You were safe. You had to be.

Over the weeks, you mellowed out. Telling apart memories, dreams, and reality became a bit easier. Eventually, you had progressed enough to take walks, so long as you were with someone who could calm you down.

It was on your final walk that you beat a man nearly to death.

Steve was taking you on a loop up, through the lobby with its giant windows and constant crowd, and back down the second staircase. That was his plan, at least. You made it up the stairs and through most of the lobby, but stopped dead in your tracks mere feet from the second staircase.

Halfway across the room, by the sign-in desk, was a man engrossed in conversation. Even from afar you recognized him. You didn’t know his name, nor did you want to. In your mind, however, you called him one thing and one thing only:

Murderer.

Steve waited, holding the stairwell door open for you. He’d learned to be patient, and that prying wasn’t always the best course of action when a memory gripped you. Slowly, gently, he touched your arm to get your attention, ground you.

“You’re safe,” he reminded you. “They can’t get you here.”

His words, once reassuring, no longer rang true. How could that be, with the murderer standing there, free and breathing? The words twisted in your head, writhing like a tangle of snakes. Liar.

Your charge was unstoppable. Pure rage replaced the blood in your veins as you wordlessly pulled the murderer to the floor by his throat and began pummeling him. His shirt, a pristine perfectly ironed white mere moments before, now had messy red polka dots splattering it.

Simply killing him would be most efficient and would free you up to deal with any other resistance you might face as you made an escape, but that felt too good for him. No, you wanted him to suffer, to feel every moment of it, so you stuck to fists over electricity for the murderer.

Others, however, did not take kindly to your assault. Some tried to pull you off the murderer, only to recoil as an electrical spark bit them. Half the lobby had guns pulled from leg, hip, and secret holsters, trained on you. They were shouting something, but whatever it was could wait until you were done.

The murderer tried to fight back, at first reaching for his pistol, only to find it had been kicked across the floor out of his reach. He’d never been good at hand-to-hand combat, and became reliant on guns. Everything he’d done to your family was done with the cold, impersonal distance of a bullet.

Finally, someone dragged you off of him. A flock descended, tending to his many wounds as another circle formed around you, cutting off your view. These bastards had lied to you, straight to your face and in your most vulnerable moments. Out of pure desperation you’d fallen for it. 

The hand around your wrist was familiar. Firm, but not tight, Steve held you back from the murderer. The eyes all around you seemed to at once burn and fill you with pride. You’d finally stood up and fought back against those who’d taken your family’s lives and made yours a living hell. And you were just getting started.

“You will pay,” you said without turning to look at Steve. It was not a threat, nor a desperate hope, but rather a simple observation. 

“You liar.” Your voice stayed steady, even as you finally turned to look Steve in the eyes. “You liar!” You said, this time with force as you lunged towards him. Go for the throat.

“Y/n!” he held you at arm’s length, clearly allarmed. “What are you talking about!?”

“That man,” you said, voice back to ice, “Killed my entire family.”

“That’s absurd,” Steve said. He seemed genuinely confused, as though puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together. “He’s a decorated, trusted Shield operative.”

“Maybe be more careful who you trust.”

He looked over the heads in the crowd, to the man now propped against a wall being doted on. Steve seemed to be considering something, weighing his options.

“Are you sure it was him?” Steve asked. It wasn’t exactly distrust in his voice, more like disbelief.

“I wish I could forget,” you said, “but that moment keeps replaying every time I close my eyes.”

“Alright. Come with me.” Steve turned to another agent, “Once he’s stable, I’d like to talk to him. Put him in room 23. Don’t let anyone in or out.”

The agent nodded, a little confused, but not too confused to follow orders, and turned to leave.

“And,” Steve added, “keep this quiet.”

He led you to a room you’d never seen before, which wasn’t saying much since your walks were short and usually the same route. It was empty, save a table bolted to the floor, overhead light, and two metal chairs. A mirror reflected the back of Steve's head as he settled into the chair across from you. You suspected it was a one-way mirror, a window on the other side.

“So,” he said. “Where do we begin?”

On the table before him, he clasped and clasped his hands, trapped in a cycle of unrest. His brow was severely creased, showing an expression you rarely saw. Something in this concerned face made you think that he truly didn’t know what was going on.

“That agent killed my family,” you said simply. “I attacked him.”

“Do you remember any other faces? Could you identify anyone else involved with your kidnapping or the base?”

“Psh,” you exhaled. “I can only point out a few dozen. They kept me pretty scrambled wit the Chair and fights and all that moving around.”

“Moving where?” Steve sat forward. 

“Oh, sometimes they had me in what felt like a sauna, where sand crept through every door or window, those bases had windows so we wouldn’t boil alive, but they mostly had me in icy places. The few transfers I can remember were all to icy places through planes. They moved me in the cargo hold.”

“There…” Steve said, chills ran down his spine. “There were multiple bases?”

“Yeah,” you nearly laughed at the absurdity. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. You said you’d stamped out those Hydra-wannabees. How could you not know about more than one base?”

“How many?” he asked, ignoring your question. “A dozen, two?”

“Hundreds at least,” you shrugged. “Maybe more, but I doubt any one person knows about them all.”

His face went ghastly white as he lowered his head. His hands wracked through his hair. 

“Shit,” he said. This was the first time you’d heard him curse, and to be honest it felt wholly unnatural. He stood abruptly, only to sit back down and pull out his phone.

“Are any of these people Hydra?” He showed you pictures of a few people and of Agent Hill.

“I can’t give a definitive ‘no’ but I don’t recognize any of them. Besides Hill, of course.”

“She’s Fury’s right hand man” –Steve shook his head– “If she was Hydra, then all of Shield might be doomed.”

Hill barged in.

“Speak of the devil,” you said, though neither of the adults heard you.

“Rogers, you’d better have a damn fine reason why one of my best agents is locked up in Interrogation Room 23, beaten into a bloody pulp and I’m ‘not allowed’ in.”

“Maria, please close the door,” Steve said. “We’ve made an unsettling discovery.” 

As he explained the situation, you could see the gears spinning and connections being made in Agent Hill’s mind. She was already strategizing.

“We have to keep the circle tight,” she said once Steve finished. “No use tipping off other Hydra operatives burrowed in here.”

“Is there anyone we can trust?” You asked. They looked over in surprise, as though they’d forgotten you were there.

“We?” Steve clarified. “Does that mean you trust us?”

“It may be a mistake,” you admitted, “but I do. You two, and nobody else. How do you know you can trust me?” 

Silence reigned.

“You’re a kid,” Agent Hill said plainly. “Not many kids willingly join Hydra, nor can many fake a flashbak or retain control over what they say in a mental breakdown. We’ve seen inside your head.”

“Fair.”

After sending someone they trusted–as much as they could under the circumstances– to watch over the man in room 23, Agent Hill and Seteve began crafting a plan while you skimmed personnel files for Hydra agents. Occasionally you chimed in, adding another name to an ever growing list, or fine tuning a part of the plan.

Hill left first. A few minutes later, you and Steve left, going straight to room 23, where Steve thanked the agent for his vigilance and dismissed him. 

“Sir,” he said, casting a sideways glance at you. “Are you sure you don't want me to stay?”

“I appreciate the concern.” Steve smiled at the young agent. “And if you’d like to stay, you may, but I can handle myself.”

“Yes, sir!” He almost barked before turning to leave. Waves of relief wafted off of him, mixed with a tinge of fear at turning his back to you. He’d seen what you could do.

“In you go.” Steve held the door open and waved you in.

The room was the same as the other one, same table, chairs, and mirror, except one seat was occupied. His hands chained to the table, barely supporting himself, was the weak little man you’d tried so dearly to gift suffering to.

“I’m sorry,” was the first thing out of your mouth. You didn’t see his reaction, if he had one; your eyes were cast down in what you hoped was a convincing show of guilt and embarrassment. One hand fidgeted with your elbow. 

“Hmm?” the man grunted. This was not what he was expecting when the guard outside was dismissed and America’s golden boy walked in with a kid whose parents he’d killed.

Steve reached over and freed his wrists from their shackles.

“Very sorry,” he said. “The kid has had some… disturbing experiences. We thought these issues were behind us, but… guess not.”

“I thought you were a demon,” you said. “You were in the wrong place, wrong time.”

You wanted to scream that he was, he was a demon, a monster, worse than any before imagined, wanted to carve the names of everyone he’d killed and hurt into his flesh until he could bleed no more. 

Wait. You’ll get all of them soon.

Steve leaned in, and said in a voice barely audible, “We’re moving them to a facility that’s more suited to handle their needs.” He added extra meaning to his words, transforming the phrase into “we’re locking this loony up.”

After the apology, you kept up the repentant crazy kid act until you were out. Steve signed you out, and magically there was an authorized notice of transfer for you. All you had to do was walk right out the door into the city. Agent Hill waited outside in a nondescript car. 

She lifted her fingers of one hand from the steering wheel in greeting. She drove like a mix between a drag racer and a grandmother, zooming through the streets, but careful to never break a single traffic law.

“Don’t wanna get pulled over,” she explained, “but we do need to get where we're going fast.”

She drove you deeper into the city. Something loomed ahead, slowly drawing closer, a shining building towering above the rest, bearing a shiny letter A on its highest balcony.

Hill pulled up into a parking spot across the street.

“You’re confident they can help us?”

“I know they will,” Steve unbuckled and opened his door. “All we have to do is ask.”

You watched him half-jog across the street, nodding at the car that stopped for him, and enter the building. For a while, all you could do was stare at the door. Hill kept her guard up, constantly glancing through the rearview mirror, as she had on the way here, and discretely studying the people walking by. Nothing raised concern, which should have soothed her, but instead only served to heighten her vigilance.

“All good,” Steve said as he climbed back into the passenger’s seat. 

Soon, you perched in a rolly office chair in Avengers Tower, trying to tune out the raised voices bouncing back and forth across the table from you. Steve and Tony, although they agreed on many things, struggled to settle on a course of action, which of course meant nothing was getting done. 

The others at the table seemed as annoyed as you, but more used to it. They passed messages with small movements and meaningful glances. You were pretty sure some of them were playing bingo.

Someone was missing. The Black Widow, Hawkeye, Hulk (in human form), Captain America, and Iron Man were all there, with Hill thrown in for fun, but the medieval one, the one who could take you down, was missing. This gave you an idea.

“Excuse me,” you interrupted Tony. “But if you two don't find a reasonable course of action within the next,” you checked the clock, “let’s say, fifteen minutes, I will march out of here and start eliminating Hydra agents. It will not be pretty, it will not be restrained. Their bodies will pile up in the streets–it would be awfully inconvenient to explain to the president why a teen went on a targeted killing spree while the Avengers threw a hissyfit in their tower.”

You went into the hallway and continued looking through personnel files, not just from Shield. You’d gotten your hands on files from Stark Industries, the police, and government officials. There weren’t many you could remember, but they were spread out. It looked as though the Avengers was the only group not infiltrated. 

With seconds to spare, the Avengers finalized their strategy, and came streaming out of the conference room. They’d elected to leave you out of any action, keep you here at the Tower with Avengers taking turns watching you. Initially, it was all you could do not to overload every electrified device in a hundred foot radius. How dare they keep you from the action? They didn’t trust you? Didn’t they see you deserved to make Hydra hurt? Without you, who knows how long Hydra could have festered under the surface!

Despite your best efforts, fingernails digging into your palms, a row of lights popped and sparked out. Hill took a step forward, then said over her shoulder, “I’ll take the first watch. Go.”

She was so authoritative that the Avengers obeyed immediately.

“See if you can contact Thor,” Bruce added before following the others into the elevator. 

“Let’s go,” Agent Hill led you to the kitchen. “Thank you for kicking their asses into gear. Those two could argue forever, doesn’t matter the topic.”

“Mhm,” you sat on a high stool in front of a counter, slumped forward, envy still raging.

“What do you remember about the Chair?” Hill asked.

For a moment you couldn’t speak–mind short circuiting. Nobody had straight-up asked, always danced around the subject, unless you brought it up.

“It hurts,” you said. “A lot.”

“And after?” She prodded.

“My head’s all mixed up.”

“So you don’t remember,” she said, more to herself than you. “Ever wonder why you complied with their orders?”

“They could hurt me, isn’t that reason enough?”

“When the Avengers raided the compound, when they found you, they also found a file detailing ‘training and compliance methods’ which had everything from carrot-and-sticks to advanced manipulation.”

“Wow,” you butted in dryly. “The evil scientists took evil notes. How shocking.” “Let me finish,” Hill shot back . “One portion was on a method where the subject is conditioned to obey commands after a string of random words.”

A banana sitting on the counter caught your attention. To avoid thinking about what Agent Hill was telling you, you focused on the fruit. Its yellow skin had countless brown dots freckling it, with larger splotches towards either end. On the inner part of the curve, the sticker had peeled halfway off, barely clinging on.

“So it’s for my own good,” you said, still staring at the banana, breathing eerily steady. “And for the safety of the team. If I were to come across someone who knew my trigger words, I could be turned to fight for Hydra. And we all know how that would end without Thor around.” 

Hill nodded. Knowing the practical reasons helped, but it was still maddening that the adults treated you as though you would shatter at any moment. Besides for that, staying at the Tower was pretty cushy.

The kitchens (plural!) were always open, as were the balconies. For the first time since Hydra got you, the outdoors was accessible whenever you pleased. There were tons of rooms on every floor, although you weren’t allowed on a few floors, the others provided more than enough to explore. 

The Avengers were okay company, but after being isolated for so long, ‘normal’ interaction came with some difficulty. Quite a bit of your time you spent in the gym. The sting and sweat acted as a release valve for pent-up emotions. Boxing was especially good for frustration, with each punch you pictured the bag as some extra-cruel guard, or spiteful opponent, or the murderer. 

You couldn’t avoid people forever, nor did you want to, and most evenings you ate dinner and hung out with at least one Avenger. Tonight it was Clint. 

He had kids, and felt obligated to ensure your welfare, so he was a fairly common companion of yours. He introduced you to drawing. Of course, you’d drawn before, as a child and to help Hill that first day, but after Hydra it hadn’t felt right. Sitting on the floor, after dinner, the coffee table strewn with colorful crayons, markers, and pencils, you and Clint drew. He’d brought the supplies from home, hence the chaotic mix and the occasional peeled crayon.

“Hey, look at this,” you said softly and held up the abstract pattern you’d created across a page. He didn’t look up, so you thumped the table to alert him.

“Whoa-ho!” He said, sounding like a dad admiring his small kid’s drawing. “I like this purple-ish section here.” He waved a pencil at the area in question.

“That pen ran out of ink, so I had to mix the plan up a little bit,” you explained.

“It worked out for the best,” he replied.

Despite the stress of weeding Hydra out, and getting Shield back on its feet, Agent Hill ensured that she spent one evening with you every week. She’d been keeping track of your progress from these scant hours and second-hand information from the Avengers, mainly Steve. This week, she came bearing gifts. 

“I heard you’re getting into sketching,” she said as she set down a notebook in front of you. 

“Thank you,” you said, then flipped through its pages. The book easily fit into a pocket and the weight felt right in your hands. It had some heft to it, but it wasn’t heavy or bulky. A small loop hung off one end to carry a pencil. 

This notebook quickly became your steadfast companion, where you scribbled small studies of any interesting shapes you came across. The Tower was chock full of shapes. If you were near your colored pencils–another gift–and something colorful caught your eye, you could spend hours lost copying the shades and hues.

It also served as a dumping ground for memories. The slippery things were hard to pin down. Which is why in the middle of a sparring session with Steve, you scampered off to the bench and started scribbling. 

You knew that trying to remember only led to the whole thing slipping away, so you turned your mind off and simply tried to copy down what you saw. A body, room, and finally face took shape. 

The view was from the floor of a sparring ring, not unlike the one you were in moments before, only the man above you was not Steve. His hair was darker, longer, and his arm glinted metallic against the ceiling's lights.

When your pencil stopped moving, Steve came over.

“I can’t get this part quite right,” you showed him your drawing. “Is it the light or should the ear be lower?”

For a moment, Steve didn’t reply. 

“It should be lower,” he said and sat on the bench next to you. “What can you tell me about this man?”

“Not much,” you said. “He trained me for a bit, and was highly regarded by Hydra. They were scared of him, and for good reason. Why do you ask? Did you see him before?”

“I think so.”

You passed the drawing to him, intrigued, and he studied it more. His eyes scoured the man’s face, then flitted to the metal arm.

“Oh Bucky,” he whispered. “What did they do to you?”

After he got over the initial shock, Steve put out notice to the revamped Shield, and the Avengers. Everyone was instructed to report any sightings of James “Bucky” Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, to Captain Rogers.

Steve redoubled his efforts to find Hydra bases, and approached interrogation with renewed vigor. He spent more time with you, asking for anything even tangentially related to his old friend.

“I’ve already told you all the facts–twice!”

“I know,” he said. “I just keep hoping you’ll remember something more.”

“Well…” you thought for a moment, fishing for the right word. “He looked unhealthy. His eyes weren’t used to the sunlight, so he had to wear these goggles, and his skin was so pale. It had a cold, greenish tint to it. Honestly, it was unsettling, thinking that one day I’d look like that, too.”

Steve took your assessment surprisingly well. He didn’t react,still looking at the floor for a moment after you’d trailed off.

“Go on,” he prompted.

“Being around him was simultaneously super sad and terrifying. At any moment he could kill everyone around him, but also there was something trapped. Deep in his eyes there was a distance, like he was watching himself from elsewhere.” You paused. “Maybe I looked like that, too. They put us through the same Chair, you know? Adjusted to different heights and such, but the same volts. Maybe we were each a reflection of the other.”

A smile returned to Steve’s face, determination rising once more.

“I hope so. We saved you, Maybe we can save Bucky, too.”

Months later, with Steve’s search still unsuccessful, you finally convinced the Avengers to let you join them raiding Hydra bases.

“They’ll be dead before they get the second trigger word out.” You called a sparkle of electricity in your palm, to punctuate your point. “Almost nothing moves faster than electricity, certainly not humans.”

Through the mission briefing, you paid careful attention. You knew if you messed this up, you might never get another chance, not in the foreseeable future anyway. The night before, you carefully cleaned your equipment and got into bed early, opting to sleep in your surprisingly comfortable tactical suit, so you could roll out of bed ready to rumble. Excited, you were the first one in the launch bay.

“Wow, you’re here already?” Clint asked when he showed up a few minutes later.

“I am so ready for this,” you replied. 

What felt like an eternity later, your boots crunched against the icy ground as you sprinted towards the Hydra base’s entrance. What luck! You’d been here before. It was one of your shorter stays, only a few days, but you remembered the main halls well.

You and Steve were paired up–the buddy system helped to prevent casualties and let them keep an eye on you. Not that you were worried. So long as you were physically doing something, flashbacks rarely happened.

You led him though the halls, consulting maps only confirmed your instincts. Just up ahead was a room you never wanted to see again, one with screams reverberating from it. Something told you this is what Steve was waiting for, but you didn’t want to get his hopes up, so you didn’t mention that you recognized those muffled screams.

Behind these heavy doors lay the Chair room, and it sounded like someone was using it. Luckily, you didn’t make it that far.

The doors burst open, revealing the Winter Soldier, freshly primed and ready to complete his mission. Most likey, kill the Avengers. 

You ducked to the right while Steve rolled left, barely avoiding the spray of bullets that sparked against the concrete floor. The Soldier adjusted his aim to follow Steve–had he not seen you, or were you not part of his mission? Maybe he’d simply deemed you a non-threat.

Two minutes passed while you watched Steve, scared shitless but stubborn as ever, and the Winter Soldier fight. The Soldier had discarded his gun in favor of a knife for the close-range combat. If you squinted, you could almost see it as a dance.

“Do you–” you asked again, only to be cut off. 

“No,” Steve dodged under a swing of the Winter Soldier’s knife, then kicked him back a foot. “I’m fine.”

“Alrighty,” you shrugged. “If you say so.”

Steve went back to telling the Soldier things like “I know you’re in there somewhere,” “I don’t want to hurt you,” “This isn’t you, Buck,” and “Snap out of it!” None of which had any positive effect, rather serving to distract Steve.

“That’s it,” you huffed as the Soldier slammed Steve to the ground. “Hey, Steve? This gonna hurt like hell, but you two will be fine.” Then you added under your breath, “Fine-ish.”

The grimy walls reflected bolts of electricity arcing through the air as Steve managed to wriggle out from beneath the Soldier. Those empty eyes looked over at you, betrayed but not surprised. The stab of pain from that look was worse than the electrocution soon to infect your bones.

Conducting such vast amounts of electricity almost felt…good after all this time. The intensity of the energy was cleansing, refreshing–for a moment. Then the nerve endings in your arms sprung to life and a familiar wave of nausea rolled over you. 

The moment the Winter Soldier lost consciousness, which didn’t take long,  you stopped, rubbing your arms and grimacing. The pain echoed with every heartbeat. It felt like you couldn’t keep standing. Focus on the mission. You knew you could, and you would. Either the pain subsided, or you suppressed it, doesn’t matter what really happened, so long as you were operational again.

By now, the rest of the base was secured, except for the Chair room. Steve sensed your dread, and called for an extract.

“I can do it!” you protested.

“I know,” he assured you. “But somebody has to escort him–” he jutted his chin towards the electrocuted man “–to the plane.”

You nodded. You weren’t leaving because of fear for what was behind that door, but because you were the only one who could re-incapacitate the Winter Soldier. Yeah, that’s it! If you escorting the Soldier to the plane also meant you didn’t go back into that horrific room again, oh well!

With the help of a stretcher and some Shield agents, you brought him to the plane. Onboard, there was a specially-designed cage for him. Steve insisted on bringing it when there was even the slimmest chance they’d encounter him. It consisted of top-grade materials and failsafes. The core restraints were built into a chair, bolted into the ground. Wrists, ankles, and chest were all secured with thick, metal straps. The seat was nestled inside a clear cube, able to withstand jackhammers, saws, fire, electrical surges, and (hopefully) the strength of a human jacked up on superserum.

You stood before the box, thankful the man inside was unconscious, but also wracked with guilt for putting him through a pain you knew all too well.

Thank you for reading!!!

Taglist

@arctrooper69

@a--clock

[thehollowwriter]

Meet Sonata Clearcove, the star of the show!

(Tw for mentions of self-harm later on)

Sonata is a second year at a coed magic school in the Queendom of Roses. She's competitive and a performer at heart and loves the stage, which makes sense considering she's viewed as sweet until people find the sour taste. She's also Finn's cousin, and neither of them like each other.

Some Basic Info:

☆Homeland: The Coral Sea

☆Species: Half cookie cutter shark mer, half rainbow parrotfish mer

☆Height: 155cm

☆Birthday: 28 July

☆Dominant hand: Right

☆Hobbies: Racing, singing, photography, nail art

☆Likes: Fashion, competition, illusion tricks

☆Dislikes: Losing, being bored, being ignored, herself

☆Favourite food: Angel food cake (but she also likes spicy stuff if she can handle it)

☆Least favourite food: Unseasoned fish

Personality:

Sonata is sour-sweet with that fake kind of kidness to her until her mean streak shows. She's competitive and quite manipulative when she feels the need. She closes herself off from others and has a tendency to be quite vain and is often cruel to those she thinks are below her. If there's any evidence, though, no one can pin it on her. Despite all this, she harbours a deep self-hatred and a feeling of imposter syndrome while she's at her school, where she was suddenly at the very bottom of the food chain and struggling to clamber up.

Underneath her layers of hate and cruelty is the tiniest bit of remorse... but it's never big enough to get to her to stop. Sonata is overall a very troubled and lonely teen who only adds to her own plight by distancing herself from others and generally being a backstabber whenever she is grouped up with someone. At the end of the day, her goal is to be the best, and she refuses to be tied with anyone. (Doesn't that sound familiar-)

Appearance:

Sonata looks like a cookie cutter shark, though her tail is wider and her fins are smaller. Her mom may be a human appearing rainbow parrotfish mer, but she takes after her mother, a cookie cutter shark mer, the most of all.

Her skin, scales, and tail are white and pastel blue, her fins and the swirly stripes up her arms, face and tail are pastel pink, and the very edges of her fins are dark blue. Her teeth are sharp like the tweels, though her top front teeth are merged to form a beak like irl parrotfish. Her hair is long and wavy, and pastel pink with pastel blue streaks running through it like this:

Important Things To Know:

☆As stated in her backstory, Sonata hates herself a lot and tries to disguise undesirable traits (her teeth, her claws and webbing, etc) with illusions

☆Sonata has an intense desire to be the best, not unlike her late uncle, and is extremely competitive

☆Sonata competes for her school at the VDC

☆She wants to become a famous and adored singer (and she definitely does have the pipes for it)

☆Admires and simultaneously hates Morrigan bc of how he's impacted her life even in death

☆Unfortunately buys into the idea that Silas is responsible for Morrigan's death and is angry at him for it

☆Really hates Finn partially cause her attempts at hurting him never seemed to work, partially because she was jealous of his magic being stronger than hers, and how he seemed so content in his own skin despite having a UM that could arguably solve any problems with his appearance

Sonata's Family:

Sonata has two parents, several aunts and uncles (including Morrigan and also Silas by technicality), and several cousins (including Finn)

Backstory:

Sonata's mother is Morrigan's sister, and her other mother is a very human appearing rainbow pattotfish mer. Her parents did not cut contact with her grandparents, and she saw them often, so she was heavily influenced by their views. Although she was never given intense training regimens, her skill for magic was noted (but it, as she is very often told, is nowhere near Morrigan's level) and the pressure put on her to get into top of the line magic schools and excel was immense (mainly from her grandparents, and unfortunately her own parents were not very good at standing up to them).

She constantly feels lesser because her magic just isn't strong enough for huge magic schools, she hates her appearance, and she's also constantly compared to Morrigan aka this uncle she's never met but has set an unattainable standard for her. She dislikes her appearance due to not being human enough and instead being more animalistic and so often uses illusion magic to try look "better", especially since she was bullied and taking after her less humanoid mother was described as "unfortunate genetics". This feeling of self-hatred got so bad that she was caught trying to cut out the webbing between her fingers as a child.

Throughout the years Sonata has compensated for her low self-esteem and general dissatisfaction of herself by targeting and hurting others and making herself feel better than them. (This includes Finn) and made herself the "leader" of whatever clique she'd found himself in. Coming to a her magic school however sent her to the bottom of the ladder and she was once again the target of stronger, meaner students. However she's working her way up. Slowly.

Some Fun Facts/Extra Info:

☆Sonata is very fast in the water and enjoys racing a lot

☆Sonata really likes doing her nails and is actually a pretty good nail artist (it's a process that calms her down tbh especially when she's going for something more funky)

☆Sonata has met my Po expy Yizé and though she found him annoying at first, his bright and friendly personality actually won her over lol

☆Sonata has also met a girl named Nancy on Sage Island, and tbh kinda has a thing for her XD she's denying it like crazy though

...........................................

A/N: I hope everyone likes my girl! I will be developing her more as she's still a work in progress so some stuff here may be subject to change. She's gonna get her redemption arc eventually dw XD

Tagging: @distant-velleity @br3adtoasty @rainesol @theleechyskrunkly @harryinramshackle

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