#where does the word 'whump' come from??

[ahdriking]

Get to know your fic writer!

Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

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Do you have your work beta'd? How important is this to your process?

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Do you prefer the beginning, middle, or end of a story?

Do you comment on stories you read?

Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up

Link your three favorite fics right now

how does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

how do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

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Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

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Share a snippet from a WIP

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Thoughts on cliffhangers?

Something you hate to see in smut.

Something you love to see in smut.

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You’ve posted a fic anonymously. How would someone be able to guess that you’d written it?

What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

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#ask game #writing ask game #writers ask game #fic writers asks #asks for fic writers

[svsss-fanon-exposed]

Examining SVSSS Canon: 1/∞

SHEN YUAN'S PIDW-READING TIMELINE

One question and argument that comes up frequently in SVSSS fandom is, how long did Shen Yuan read PIDW for? Was he following it from early serialization, or did he simply binge everything toward the end?

This question isn't exactly one that is easy to answer either-- considering that there are actually various direct quotes that could be read in contradiction to one another regarding it.

Based on the information in the novel, we are left with several potential theories as to Shen Yuan's reading timeline. In this post, I will be presenting these theories, along with supporting evidence from the novel.

Theory #1: Shen Yuan picked up PIDW and binge-read it from beginning to end for the first time in 20 days before dying

This theory is directly supported with a quote:

He’d spent twenty days binging the novel from start to finish, so he had clean forgotten that whump-filled arc of pointless abuse that covered Luo Binghe’s beginnings at the sect, okay?! (7 Seas, Ch. 1)

In the original text, this line is 他可是看了二十天才看完的. Broken down, this is literally "he indeed read it (他可是看了), it took him twenty days (二十天才）to read the whole [novel] (看完的)."

*note 可是 may also be equivalent to "however" or "but" in some circumstances, but is generally used to provide emphasis.

However, depending on where one puts the emphasis and pairs syllables in the last part, there could be different interpretations. If read as 看 完的 it implies "read the entire thing," but if read as 看完 的，it implies "finished reading." I read it the first way, but I don't know if that is the "most correct," so there is some ambiguity there.

It is also implied later that PIDW was already very long and full of plot holes when he began reading it:

So, if back when he’d just opened this baffling book, this Proud Immortal Demon Way, which was so full of landmines that it was practically high art, to the point that those landmines had become its very style... He would definitely have grabbed the brick that was the entire fifty-volume set and showed them what their brains looked like when splattered across the ground. (7 Seas, Ch. 21)

Though this could be related to the final length of the novel, and the "fifty-volume set" is likely exaggeration or metaphor. In one of his forum posts, he also says:

I understand what OP is feeling. I’ve been reading this novel lately, and it’s so damn long—long and pumped full of filler... ...All my fellow readers have already roasted the setting for the last three hundred thousand words, so I won’t say more on that. (7 Seas, Ch. 26)

This part where he says he has been reading the novel lately, implies that he began not too long ago, rather than following it for years. Of course, Airplane already at this point finds his username and comments familiar:

His eyes automatically highlighted that familiar ID “Peerless Cucumber.” (7 Seas, Ch. 26)

So it could also be said that he is downplaying his dedication with that statement. He does, however, state that the other readers have roasted the setting, but doesn't mention that he himself has done so. Additionally, the "three-hundred thousand words" mentioned may refer to the comment section, not the novel itself, so there is still some ambiguity to that point.

Theory #2: Shen Yuan has been reading PIDW long-term throughout serialization

There are multiple quotes directly supporting this theory:

He could guarantee it on all the youth and frustrations he’d wasted following this twenty-million-word-plus serialization for years. (7 Seas, Ch. 6)

and

Everything that had happened before was as unto smoke. From today forth, as he walked the jianghu, he would use this ID, which had been plastered all over the comments section for years. (7 Seas, Ch. 9)

The second quote may refer to comments sections on Zhongdian literature in general, but the first one is more directly referring to PIDW. There is a slim but unlikely possibility that he referrs to the years he has spent within the PIDW universe, rather than just reading the novel. That possibility is made even less likely by the following quote:

Next, let a veteran reader of this novel, Shen Yuan, omit the countless fanservice-y details and concisely summarize the million-word epic for everyone… (7 Seas, Ch. 1)

Where it refers to him as a veteran reader of PIDW specifically (and this TL is consistent with the original implications). It's unlikely for him to be referred to as a veteran reader if he had only been reading the novel for twenty days.

As one can see, if you go by either of the above theories, there are direct conflicts and contradictions, and arguments to be made either way. This could be written off as inconsistency. However, there are two additional options and theories which can resolve those conflicts.

Theory #3: Shen Yuan had been a casual reader of PIDW for years, but rushed to finish reading it through to the end in 20 days

One possibility is that Shen Yuan had been reading PIDW casually over several years, but wasn't caught up by the time his death drew near. Shen Yuan's cause of death is a matter for another post, so I won't discuss it here, but the following quote lends some support to this reading:

“Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel!” With his dying breath, Shen Yuan spat this final curse. Who could have imagined that an upstanding young man like him—who had properly purchased the website’s VIP currency and read the novel’s official version—would find himself persevering before his untimely death to finish a novel so stallion, so money-grubbing and overly padded, that it left him speechless with rage? How could he not curse? (7 Seas, Ch. 1)

Here, it seems that Shen Yuan may have been aware of his upcoming death, and so he may have wanted to hurry and finish reading the novel before he died. In the original text, the phrase is: 临终之前坚持看完的, which can be broken down as "before his untimely/sudden death (临终之前), he persisted to finish reading [the novel] (坚持看完的）, though this may also be read as "he persisted in reading the entire novel," depending on how one puts emphasis in the sentence (same issue as the first quote in theory 1). 临终 means literally "near the end," but is a term for death or one's deathbed. Another way to translate 临终之前 would be "before meeting his end."

So, because he was persisting/persevering in finishing the novel (either the whole thing or just to the end), it may be that he expected his incoming death, or that he simply wished to persist in reading the novel to its end and his death still occured unexpectedly.

坚持 implies some level of urgency or steadfastness, but it may not refer to reading the novel quickly, but simply dedication to slogging through all of the bad porn and reading it to the end, rendering this theory a bit shaky.

Theory #4: Shen Yuan had been reading PIDW since early serialization, but re-read the entire thing in the 20 days before his death

This theory would resolve all potential conflicts-- making it true that he both followed PIDW's serialization for years and read the whole novel in 20 days. As to why he re-read the full novel, perhaps it was because the final chapter had been posted or was coming up, and he wished to reread from the start in preparation for that-- this could also drive him into an even greater rage about the contents of the novel and how repetitive and filler-heavy it is, as this would become more and more obvious on a binge-reread from start to end.

One weakness in this theory, though (pointed out by @verycharismaticdragon) is that if he read it twice, it would be less likely for him to completely forget details as mentioned in the first quote. Not entirely impossible-- one can still forget details even after multiple read-throughs, but just less likely to completely forget.

Theory #5: When Shen Yuan began reading PIDW, he binged all available chapters in twenty days, before following it consistently afterwards.

(theory courtesy of @verycharismaticdragon)

While this would not be particularly likely if the quote from theory 1 and the quote from theory 3 were linked together, those two quotes don't necessarily have to be linked-- it's possible that Shen Yuan would have binged the entire novel as it was at the time he found it in twenty days, then decided to continue reading as it updated, persisting and persevering because he wanted to reach the end despite the novel's trashiness, and then ended up dying.

Particularly, this makes a lot of sense in the context of the following quote:

Even though this famous Lord Cucumber spewed criticism constantly and without end in “Great Master” Airplane’s comments sections, his subscription payments and demands for updates never waned. (7 Seas, Ch. 26)

If Shen Yuan hadn't been caught up with the novel (as theory 3 would state) then it wouldn't make quite so much sense for him to be demanding updates, and if he hadn't been reading it for even a full month, there was no reason for him to make consistent subscription payments.

*******

Ultimately, which theory you choose to believe depends somewhat on the way you view canon-- whether the seemingly contradicting statements were intentional, or whether they were merely a consistency error.

These are the only theories that I can think of, but feel free to add any additional theories + support quotes and analysis if you have them!

One final note, in regards to WHEN DID SHEN YUAN START READING?

If it's true that Shen Yuan began reading PIDW earlier in serialization, how early was that point? Was he reading it from the beginning, or did he start later?

I personally believe it was later. Though he says he was following the novel for years, that could mean anywhere from two to four years since the total serialization of PIDW took place over four years:

How could someone who’d cursed “dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel” remember ancient content from the beginning of a serialized novel that had been running for four years and covered an in-narrative span of two hundred years? (7 Seas, Ch. 1)

While it's hard to place exactly when he started reading, it seems that Shen Yuan began to read PIDW before the Immortal Alliance Conference arc, as he discusses the novel's online performance before that point:

Before this event, Proud Immortal Demon Way’s performance online had been steadfastly lukewarm. But once the Immortal Alliance Conference Arc debuted, the reviews, comments, subscriptions, and tips all soared into the heavens. It wasn’t only because from that point forward, “Great Master” Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky abandoned the last of his already minimal moral principles... there was another important “it” factor. It was, in fact, the main element that had first compelled Shen Qingqiu to follow the novel until the end. The demonic beasts! (7 Seas, Ch. 4)

It also seems that he wasn't entirely dedicated to reading the novel before then. However, he may have caught up with the serialization a bit later-- for example, if he started reading just before the conference, he would have known that it was a little-known novel before, and been able to watch the rise in popularity in real time even if he himself hadn't caught up to the conference just yet, before only deciding to dedicate to reading the full novel once he caught up to that part.

There are many possibilities and uncertainties in regards to Shen Yuan's reading timeline, but I do think there is enough information here to form decently solid theories-- so I will leave it to my readers to decide, now that the information has been presented, which ones they think are most likely and which they wish to use in their analysis.

#canon examined #svsss #shen yuan #pidw #super interested to see the debate on this post #i know i didn't include every single quote #but i did try to get the most relevant ones #i can't definitively say my chosen theory is the be all end all correct one since it depends so much on reader opinion re: consistency #but hopefully people can decide for themselves what fits best #anyway-- new post type debut! #updated

[emmettworld]

hello, my beloved whump community. this is Emmett. but you probably know me better as this blog:

or you may remember the blog before that:

you may have even been here since this blog:

...i'm not taking you farther than that. xD

my account was terminated without any warning today. March 25, 2024. all of my blogs are gone and i have lost everything i have on them. you won't even be able to see any comments or reblogs for me on any of your posts.

if you have commissioned me over Tumblr DMs and not Discord, please contact me here. i did not have a copy of my commission list saved. i do not know who hasn't paid and who already has. i do not remember who was on the list. i do not want anyone to be cheated out of their money.

i have no idea why this happened. i was not doing anything that could justify my account being terminated with no warning or explanation. i'm so paranoid about it that i won't even type the blog names; that's why they're images instead.

but at this point, most of you know the type of whump creator i am. one who creates whatever he wants, no matter how disturbing or explicit it may be. one who loves creating whump and content in general of the Not Safe For This Website kind.

getting one of my blogs flagged, and now losing everything, is not going to stop me. i'm not going anywhere. but i am going to be changing my approach to posting content.

this is my Language Key. i will be using a system of emojis for tagging instead of words, so please read this before you go on my blog and know which tags you need to block.

if you need to block my blog for any reason, go ahead. i don't want to disturb anyone by showing up in the tags.

all of my artwork that is Not Safe For This Website will be linked to an external storage website, MEGA. it is completely free to view and you do not need an account. there will be no cropped previews unless they are 100% Safe For This Website.

all of my writing that is Not Safe For This Website will be linked directly to where i post it on my AO3. it is completely free to view and you do not need an account. there will be no writing put under a read more unless it is 100% Safe For This Website.

trust me, i'll have a better pinned post up at some point explaining who i am and my multiverse of AUs, series, and OCs, and links to my commission page, and my Ko-Fi...and i'll do my best to finish the masterlists and, once again, build myself up from the ground up...

but i'm exhausted. i never saw this coming, and it's made me realize just how unsafe i am. i lost so much content that was only posted on Tumblr and not saved anywhere else.

believe me when i say that i am fucking devastated.

but i'm not going anywhere. i will die with this site when it eventually goes down, and not because it tried to kill me.

that being said, you can find me here on Cohost, which is where i'll migrate to when this place dies or where i'll communicate if i happen to get IP address banned (probably without warning) or something that prevents me from coming back.

if you don't want to refollow me here, i totally understand. i can't say how grateful i am to everyone who does, but like...i get it. it's tedious having to refollow me all the time, never knowing when a blog (or full ass account) is going to suddenly disappear. if you want to get off this crazy, unpredictable ride now, i don't blame you.

and if you decide to stick around, for however long, thank you. this day has been one of my worst nightmares and i don't think i would be handling this with nearly as much grace if it were not for my friends and everyone on my Discord server (which, by the way, is the only safe place where i share everything uncensored).

they were my first line of communication. they helped me get the word out. they rallied for me and kept me from having one massive breakdown over this, so my heartfelt thanks go out to them.

i'm using the whump community tags in hopes that more people will see this. i had hundreds of followers on my last blog, more than a thousand on the blog before that...i know this isn't going to reach everyone, but i hope it will reach some people.

thank you so much for reblogging this to help spread the word if you do. and thank you for reading. ❤️

#whump #whumplr #whump community #whump art #whump writing #whump creators #whump blogs #emmettworld

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Blast to the past

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 15

Prompt: Time travel

Rated: T

CW: Mild blood and gore; Mild horror; Monsters

Tags: Steve Harrington whump; Magic; Time travel (duh); Royal Eddie Munson; Steve Harrington needs a break

Notes: Some days, you get up, think of nothing bad, and you check your phone and your artist buddy @house-of-the-moving-image has sent you the most incredible mini comic in the world and the brainworms go crazy and you bash out 990 words in a weird fugue. We mayyy have been screaming about this to each other a bit too excessively. It may have grown a back story. I may wanna write 100k of this. Help.

“Oh, Steven, let's go to Europe, they said,” Steve grouses. “There’s culture and shit, they said. We can visit the castles. It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, they said.” 

Well, it damn well is turning out to be one hell of an experience! 

His side is on fire, his ankle stings with every step he hobbles, and he’s starting to bleed through his clothes. Just what he needs! Leave a warm, coppery trail to lead these things right to him. 

While he drags himself down the dark corridor, he wonders if he can sue. The guides did warn against leaving the travel group, on the one hand. 

On the other, they should probably have detailed the possible consequences. Like getting lost in the ruins and being chased by monsters with rotting grey skin and maws full of fangs, and fucking claws that slice through clothes and skin like a knife through butter.

This kind of shit never happens in Hawkins. He’s never going on holiday with his parents again.

Something behind him clatters. When he whips around, the shadows at the end of the corridor move. He hears snarls and sniffing, the tick of claws against stone. They’re coming closer. 

“Shit,” Steve swears, forces himself to go faster, using one hand against the wall for support. “Shit, shit, shit, c’mon!” 

He doesn’t even know where he’s going, just that he needs to get away if he doesn’t want to be monster fodder. 

His fingers catch on something. 

There’s … a narrow doorway in the wall, half hidden by a tangle of thick vines. A sliver of silver light is falling through it. 

“What the-” 

Something behind him shrieks triumphantly. 

Steve doesn’t think for another second, just ducks through the doorway. 

He finds himself in a cavernous room, moonlight trickling in through arched windows. Right in the middle, on a dais, is a throne carved from solid stone. On it is a tall, hooded figure. 

Except that isn’t true. As his eyes adjust to the light, he realizes that the throne is covered in what looks like an old shroud, tattered and torn with age and vaguely human-shaped. It’s overgrown by more vines, like it has been here for a very long time. 

And that is the moment the monsters slam into the doorway behind him. 

He yelps and stumbles further into the room, trips on the first steps of the dais and lands square on his ass. The monsters snarl and snap at him, and for a blissful second, he thinks they won’t fit through the doorway. 

But then the first distorts its body like a snake’s jaw and squeezes through. Steve watches in horror as they trickle inside, surrounding the dais like a pack of feral dogs. One of them swipes at him with its claw, and he instinctively shuffles up the stairs, backwards and on all fours. The monster lunges after him-

-and hesitates at the foot of the dais.

Like it’s afraid, like there’s some invisible barrier. 

It’s only now that he realizes the steps are inlaid with an intricate pattern of symbols, shining in the moonlight like liquid silver. The monsters try to get at him, but every time they touch the symbols, they recoil as if burned. 

“Ha!” Steve’s mouth tugs into a hysterical grin. “Can’t cross, huh? Well, too bad, you ugly-” 

The largest of the monsters steps over the barrier. A sizzle of silver sparks runs over its form as it does and it jowls like an injured cat, but it still advances. Steve swears and skitters further back, until his back hits something solid. The throne. 

The creatures are moving slowly, like something is physically holding them back, but they are gaining on him inch by inch. There’s no escape, except … 

Steve clambers onto the throne with clumsy limbs. The shroud is cold and brittle under his hands and the vines tear into his bleeding skin, but it’s the only place he can still go. If the monsters are afraid of the dais, maybe the throne will be enough to deter them. Maybe he’ll be safe here, maybe he can wait until help arrives, maybe- 

And then it happens. 

A sound booms through the silence, rattles his bones. A sound like the chime of a clock. 

Then another. 

And another. 

Steve yelps and covers his ears, screws his eyes shut. The light of the sigils on the ground seems blinding all of a sudden. 

The creatures howl. 

And then everything goes quiet. 

Steve waits with baited breath for the feeling of claws tearing at his legs, but nothing happens. The snarls and growls are gone. 

Instead, birdsong fills his ears. The faint sound of footsteps and voices, hooves on cobblestone and the clang of metal against metal. Instead of dust and decay, the room suddenly smells like wood and smoke and forest. The light shining through his eyelids isn’t silver anymore, but golden. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathes. “The hell was all that?” 

“Oh, those?” somebody chuckles. Somebody very close by. “Those were wraiths. Scary little fuckers, aren’t they?” 

Steve swears his heart misses a beat. Because upon closer inspection, the roughness of the vines and shroud against his skin is gone. Instead, there’s a body under his, a hand running idly down his side, all the way down to his ass. He’s sitting in someone’s lap. 

Steve snaps his eyes open. There’s a guy looking back at him, a guy with a shit-eating grin set in a handsome, dimpled face, framed by a spill of dark curls. There’s a crown on his head. 

“Now what I’d like to know,” says the guy, and gives Steve’s ass a hearty squeeze. “Is what I did to deserve getting a pretty little thing like you dropped in my lap. Not that I’m complaining.” 

Steve does what any sensible person would do in his situation. 

He faints. 

And that’s his first encounter with King Edward the Banished. 

Part 2

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #steddieholidaydrabbles #hype's holiday drabbles

[sprout-fics]

Extraction

König x 'Maus' F!Reader

(Read here on Ao3)

(Part 12 of 'Little Mouse')

Word Count: 6.6k Rating: Mature Tags: Rescue missions, Team bonding, Team Dynamics, TF141 & Reader, Price whump, Maus feral biting maiming stabbing killing, KorTac member cameos, Gaz hates helicopters Warnings: Gratuitous Violence A/N: Little Mouse will be taking a break after this so the author can clean her plate and not get burnt out! Thank you!

“Rookie, how copy?”

"On task." You huff back, pausing to hold a hand down over your radio to respond to the thick Manchester accent that prompts you. The walls of the vents around you are a little tight on your shoulders with the bulk of your gear, but you manage to inch your way forward, looking towards the drop that will lead vertically down to the basement. To Price. "I'm in the vents."

You hear a snort then from a different voice as Gaz switches his own communications on.

"Go figure." He snarks, but his voice betrays the nervous waver there, the anxiety that is present in you all. This mission is dangerous at best, suicidal at worst. It means infiltrating deep into an enemy base, unknowing of Price's whereabouts, vastly outnumbered and facing almost certain death.

Things the 141 does best.

"Focus." Ghost snaps, and you both fall silent, clamping down on any doubts in favor of the imminent task at hand. "All stations, report."

There's a pause, a low crackle of static before a different voice floats over the airways.

"I'm inna security suite." Soap reports with a hushed murmur. "Got eyes on you, Ghost.”

"Good man." Ghost responds immediately, and you huff at the pleased little intonation of his voice at Soap's work. "Did you clean your route?"

"Squeaky clean. If anyone saw me come in, they won live to tell the tale." Soap reports pridefully, no doubt preening about his handiwork.

You breathe a sigh of relief at that, shoulders drooping with the exhale that is perhaps a touch too loud for your current circumstances, hidden as you are.

"I'm standing by with Nikolai." Gaz chimes in, voice hushed to match your tones. "We've secured a chopper in the southeast quadrant."

There's a pause then, and Gaz adds "Why am I on chopper duty? I bloody hate these things."

You hear Soap snort.

"Stay focused gents." Ghost snips at all of you, hushing any idle chatter. "Let's make this clean and quick. Won't be long before we're discovered."

There's a chorus of copies all around before you chime in once more. “Soap, did you check the basement cameras? Price might be down there.”

There’s silence on the other end for a few moments before Soap supplies. “Aye, he is. Cell three. Good copy, Foxtrot-01.”

"I'm making my way to building three." Ghost tells you all, low and quiet as he navigates the dangerous exterior of the structure you're in under the cover of darkness.

"Aye, I've got you covered, Ghost." Soap declares from his sniper nest atop the building across the way. Then he pauses for a moment before adding "Watch your six."

Ghost huffs, amused by the sergeant's concern. "Watch your own six, Johnny." He replies, but there's no venom there, just a quiet reminder to you all. Stay safe, stay silent, stay hidden. Here, in the den of the enemy, there's no way you all will make it out alive if the alarm is raised.

"Rookie, what's your position?" Ghost prompts as you continue to crawl forward, trying to slither along your belly as quiet as you can to avoid any detection. Yet even as you move there's a distant noise that pricks your ears, and you freeze.

Footsteps.

You pause where you lay, flat on your stomach, the cold metal of the vents pressing through your gear. The slats of a vent under you allow light to seep through. It illuminates your face as you stifle a breath, hearing boots echo down the hallway below you. It takes a moment for you to click off your radio, making sure the team's voices won't betray your position.

In the silence, you can hear your heartbeat thrum loudly in your ears, and you wonder if perhaps the person below can hear the drum of it against the metal sheet. Somehow, they'll look up, see your wide eyes gazing down, reach for their side arm in a jerking motion too fast for you to follow, and you'll enter into the great beyond, blood dripping from the vents.

You slowly raise a hand to your face, trying to stifle even the barest hint of your breaths just as a figure comes into view below you. Red hair, under a cap, a coarse mustache above a mouth downturned into permanent scowl.

O'Conor, you realize with a swooping flutter of your heartbeat, blood freezing tightly in your veins as you recognize the commander of KorTac, the man who remains bent on the destruction of your team, the man who wanted Price alive.

You try not to shake as you watch him pace into view, hands trembling over your face and eyes impossibly wide at the sight of the commander.

"Declan."

It takes every ounce of strength inside you to not flinch at the sound of a familiar voice, heavily accented and rough as a tall, ominous figure catches the attention of the Irishman. There's another pair of footsteps, and you watch as König enters into view below you, his superior height leaning over O'Conor.

"We need to talk." König declares gravely, voice low in warning. Yet O'Conor, rather than being intimidated, merely squints his eyes up at the Austrian. You try not to tremble as he looks up, praying to any God that will listen that somehow he won't see you in the shadows

"Aye." O'Conor offers in response, his voice betraying his own threat. "That we do."

Yet then, to your surprise, he glances around as if to look and see if there is anyone nearby.

"Not here." He declares, a little lower, and promptly turns on his heel, leaving König to follow.

You think for a moment König will somehow lift his face to you, stare his eyes into yours in the dimness, lift a single gloved finger to his lips in warning. Yet instead he shifts where he merely shifts where he stands before following the commander.

You wait a long, heavy minute for the footsteps to fade before exhaling a heavy, trembling breath. Your hand shakes noticeably as you raise it to click your radio back on, greeted by the murmur of your comrades growing frantic in the absence of your voice.

"I'm clear." You tell them, voice wavering. "Ghost, be advised, two VIPs exiting to the south of the building."

You pause a moment, letting your heartbeat try to settle in your chest before adding: "It's O'Conor and König."

You hear Gaz curse.

"Solid copy." Ghost responds darkly, voice dipping to a low, sinister growl. "Soap, give me a sit-rep. Can I intercept?"

The radio crackles for a moment before Soap grunts in frustration. "Negative." He grits. "They're on the opposite side of the building, you'll be spotted. Cannae risk it."

"Sir." Gaz interrupts as you begin to move forward again, almost to the drop. "Do we have permission to shoot on sight?"

You do pause at that, realizing belatedly the thing you've done, revealing the position of your strange enemy turned ally to your comrades, to the same men who wait silently for the destined moment where a bullet pierces his skull.

The breath in your chest stutters to silence, and in its place is the cold, icy realization of the death sentence you've handed to the man who dances in the shadows of your dreams.

Then, Ghost's voice.

"Permission granted."

A shiver works its way through your limbs, raising up your throat in a protest you barely swallow before it can echo to your teammates.

No.

Yet it's too late. You hear Soap murmur an affirmative, once again reporting his findings to Ghost. It's a small bit of solace when he conveys the two men have exited the building, headed outside and into the midnight darkness. Yet the lurking shadow of fear doesn't abate, not even as you reach the vertical drop down towards the basement, maneuvering yourself at an angle so you can descend feet first.

The mission, you remind yourself. Price. He's your objective first and foremost, as you seek to undo the wreckage you've created, bring him home safe where he belongs.

"Got em on cams." Soap reports again, but his voice betrays something a little puzzled at the sight that must be playing before him. "Looks like they're havven themselves an argument."

You hear Gaz huff a mirthless sound as you slowly shimmy your way down the shaft and into the story below. "All not well in KorTac?" He asks smugly, only to be hushed by Ghost.

"Rookie, how copy?"

"Nearly there." You echo back a little breathlessly. "Just getting to the basement."

"Roger." Ghost responds quickly, pausing so you hear the sound of a silenced bullet meeting its target. "Hold when you get there, making my way to you now."

You mutter an affirmative just as you reach the bottom, kneeling before you begin to shimmy forward once more. There's silence over the comms, interrupted only once or twice by Soap relaying positions of some of the mercenaries to Ghost, sealing their fates as the phantom draws their final breaths on their behalf.

It's in the few minutes that follow that you manage to scoot forward, peering into each room you pass to see if the prisoner there is the man you've come to save.

At last, as you peer down into the dimness, you blink and try to squint before noticing a familiar set of gear, the British emblem etched into the shoulder of his uniform. Still. Silent.

"Ghost, I have a view of Price." You breathe, trying to quell the stammer of your heart the way Price's head lolls onto his chest, the ragged, cracked rise of his chest that speaks of something broken. A familiar pang of guilt roils low in your stomach, despondent, outraged at the fate you've led your captain to- locked in a damp, dark prison cell with nothing but brutality as his companion.

"How's he look?" Gaz presses before Ghost has a chance to respond, and you release a shuddering exhale, trying to stay composed despite the tremble of panic threatening inside you. Years of training force you to exhale long slow through your nose, eyes closing as you force yourself through the hammering despair inside you.

"Bad." You reply, quieter now, and the silence that echoes over the comms speaks of nothing less than dread.

You gather yourself despite it, prepare to try and find the will within you to press ever onwards, echoing Ghost's callsign over the comms in a bid for orders.

Yet the lieutenant doesn't offer another word, and even as you echo his name in concern there's only silence that greets you, cold and absent.

It doesn't take long for you to make up your mind then, because after only a second's hesitation, you begin to work the vent shaft open with your multi-tool, gently prying loose the screws. You hear Soap once more try to raise Ghost, and by the time the lieutenant responds you have the vent entrance swinging open on a hinge, opening far enough for you to begin to try and slip through legs first.

"Two KorTac operatives down." He reports, voice deadly quiet, hushed. "Rookie, stand by."

"Too late." You offer him in return, with a shake of your head as if he can see it. Whatever Ghost snaps next at you, a reminder to stay put is muffled by the low thud of you dropping to the floor.

Price doesn't even lift his head at the sound, and you try to erase the frantic murmur of your fluttering heartbeat as you quickly but quietly dart forward, kneel before him.

"Price." You whisper, urgent and afraid, hands grasping at his arms to try and shake him. You swallow the horror that draws across your face as you examine him. His clothes are the same as the ones he'd been captured in days prior. Yet they're disheveled, torn in places where scarlet stains the fabric. His face is a mangled mess of blood and swelling, his shoulder lodged at an angle that looks wrong. When the captain breathes there's a hitch in his chest that has you choke on a trembling noise of pain at his condition. It wavers your voice as once again you try to rouse him, words betraying your fear. "Price. Wake up. Please wake up."

Price doesn't respond, and in the silence you feel your world begin to fracture at the seams.

You stand abruptly, letting your hands gingerly tilt your captain's face so the red smear of his blood flakes against your gloves.

"John." You whisper then upon seeing the full violence etched across the flesh of his face. Your hands shake as you look over the crimson drowning one of his eyes, nose broken, bloodied. The air in your chest feels too heavy, too pressing as you try once more to echo his name. "John."

It's only then that Price's eyes flutter open. You see him blink against the haze for a moment, eyes clearing quickly. The years allowing him to narrow in on you just as you breathe a desperate, smiling shudder of relief, eyes warming with tears.

"Rookie." He mutters, and you wince despairingly at the drag of his voice in his chest. Wet. Fractured but not yet broken.

"Yeah. Yeah cap, it's me." You tell him breathlessly, the smile on your face soured by concern. Your heart feels a too rapid flutter in your chest, searing brightness of adrenaline fueling the pulsing thrum of blood in your veins.

"You made it out." He breathes with realization, and once more your mind flashes to the sight of him tossed into the yawning maw of a dark van, taken far away from you even as you scream in the confines of Soap's unbreakable hold.

Yet then he shakes his head, grunting with pain at the motion. "Rookie. You need to leave. They're looking for you. O'Conor said-"

"Damn O'Conor." You hiss instead, moving quickly now, behind him and pulling out your blade to begin sawing at his restraints. "We're getting you out of here, cap. Not leaving without you."

"We?" Price echoes, still a little dazed. "Don't tell me-"

"Yes. We." You interrupt, freeing his hands and now working on the wire that secures his torso to the back of the chair. "Never leave a man behind, Price."

As if reminded, you raise your hand to your radio and press down so your voice echoes out. "This is Foxtrot-01, package secured. Standby."

You hear a whooshed sigh of relief, a breath that has been held for far too long before it's Gaz's voice that answers back. Yet before he can speak it's Ghost's voice that interjects. "Good copy, Foxtrot-01. Stand by for RV."

"Copy, standing by." You clip back, knife working its way through the remainder of Price's bindings. Yet as you move around to his front to slice the zip ties securing his ankles to the chair, Soap's voice echoes forth with a crackle and a low, grave warning.

"I've got eyes on ye, Rookie. Those guards outside are getting mighty suspicious-"

A noise outside, just as you tear loose the last few restraints. It makes the both of you look up sharply, dread awash in your limbs as you realize too late you've been made.

The door clicks open just as you dart in front of Price, who wobbles to a stand behind you. Hands reaching for your automatic you watch the door to swing wide, hard enough to crack on the wall beside it.

"WEAPONS DOWN." A voice bellows from a dark figure in full gear, a helmet obscuring your enemy's face as he lifts his weapon towards you both, flanked by two more men behind him, a fourth and a fifth down the hallway. "NOW."

You feel your hands tremble despite your grip, glaring into the darkened visor of the soldier before you, eyes tracing the emblem of a wolf on his shoulder. It's the insignia of KorTac, an oath sworn to the company of men and women designed to kill you all, to reduce the 141 into a smoldering pile of ashes so smoke curls into the sky.

The same insignia he wears.

"WE WILL SHOOT." The guard barks, adjusting the grip on his rifle. "SURRENDER. NOW."

You could. You could lay down your weapon, fail both yourself and Price once more at the meek reward of your life- even if means submitting to O'Conor's hands, to the torture within as they try to break you, to hand the mangled pieces of you to Price in hopes it would rot and fester his soul. All while eyes watch from behind a bleach teared hood, unable to help lest he too be destroyed.

König. Your mind tries once more, summoning the hooded figure into your thoughts in a desperate plea that you shake away despite the dangerous temptation there. Yet even in the face of capture, his words beckon to you, prying open your thoughts with his voice.

"Some things are more beautiful when they are free, Maus."

"FINAL WARNING. WE WILL OPEN FIRE."

You don't comply, feeling the terror in your veins muted by the cold, trained instinct of survival and the reminder of the things he seeks in you. The pure beauty of something dangerous but wild, enchanting and deadly but untouchable. The moment he catches you in his grip is the moment he loses the magic inside of you, the spell that binds him to you.

You focus not on the tumult inside of you, of the dreams and the nightmares, the prophecies of future or damnation of the past. Instead, the world narrows down to the level of your scope before you, the feeling of your captain at your back, knowing that even in the darkest moments here in the face of certain defeat that he'll never give in. Price will fight until his dying breath, his grave one of glory from battles fought and victories gained. You feel his unwavering determination bleed into you as he places a hand on your shoulder, strengthening you with his touch alone.

You'll never surrender.

A clatter behind them. You blink just as they turn, and with a hiss milky white smoke begins to fill the hallway. There's a moment where the guards yelp, try and turn in the direction of the smoke, and too late you hear one of them reach for his radio, yelling a "Contact-!" before his voice is swallowed by a scream.

A massive shape moves in the mist, and you watch as his hands secure the man to his chest, reaching a blade around to the front of his throat. The wet gurgle his victim gives is the only thing he can manage before he slumps to the floor.

Ghost.

Before the remaining guards can raise their weapons, choking on the smoke, you launch forward into the fray. Blood boiling at a feral, raging simmer, you jump at the man who barked orders at you and Price, onto his back and wrapping your legs around his front to keep his arms restrained. It takes little effort for you to draw your own knife against his neck and pull. The sound he makes as he screams is muffled by the palm of your glove.

You tumble off him as his knees buckle, moving before you can fully catch your breath. No stopping. No hesitation. A single heartbeat means the difference between life and death, and you watch as the next guard tries to reach his comrade held up to the wall by Ghost's hand around his throat. He turns to you a moment too late, using the wall to brace and jump a few inches higher. You catch the whites of his eyes as you descend on him, unable to scream before you plant the blade in his shoulder. Your weight crashes down on him, sending you both falling to the ground.

He tries to grapple with you despite the blood oozing across the silver of your knife, hands fumbling as he tries to regain himself enough to dislodge you. Before he can, however, an arm reaches down, wraps across your throat as you're hauled back and up, against the uneven and rigid surface of a tactical vest. You kick out just enough for your feet to brace against the wall beside you, sending your opponent hurtling back until he hits the opposite side of the hallway. Yet he doesn't let go, his hold on your neck tightening and choking your air supply, a hand on your head at just the right angle to twist.

Before he can, there's movement beside him, and you feel your balance thrown off center as someone else manages to dislodge you from your captor's hold, sending you sinking to the ground. You raise your head to see Price grappling with the man, trying to use every ounce of his remaining strength to fend him off. That same, untamed glint in his eyes glimmers past the red rim of his gaze, teeth gritted as he tries to reach for the man's weapon.

It takes a moment for you to yank your knife out of the other man's shoulder, and he weakly tries to reach for it in your hands before you plant a boot on his visor so hard that the plastic cracks. Turning, you hurl it at Price's attacker, landing it between his shoulder blades. The man grunts, goes down to one knee, and you watch as Price secures a hand on his jaw, on his helmet and yanks his head abruptly. The resounding crack as a result has you tense, face grimacing as the guard's arms fall limp at his sides and he slumps. Dead.

You slump against the wall, chest heaving, blood splattered, hands roaming over your vest to make sure you still have your weapons and ammunition, searching for an injury you missed. Yet your gaze snaps to Ghost as he walks over to the soldier with the cracked visor. The man gives your lieutenant a wheezing, whimpered plea, only for Ghost to raise his weapon and fire once into his skull, putting the man out of his misery. Silence settles over the hallway, the last of the smoke dissipating in the carnage the three of you have left.

"Sloppy." Ghost tells you flatly as he helps you to a stand, your legs finding their strength once more. "We need to work on your close combat skills."

You resist the urge to snap at him, feeling adrenaline pump with poison through your blood. "Let's survive first, LT." You tell him instead, and Ghost nods before turning to Price. You look between them as the men meet eyes, a wordless recognition and meaning passed through their stare.

"Broken?" Ghost asks, and despite the flatness of his words he still manages to convey his relief and concern at the sight of his captain

"Ask me when I'm in Hell." Price huffs in return, and despite the bruising on his face you swear you can see him pull a smile.

"I'll see you there then." Ghost quips, raising his hand and offering Price his pistol. The captain takes it, holds it gently to check the number of shots left before he nods, turns to you.

"You escaped." He states, rather than questions. "How?"

"Answers later." You tell him, once again lifting your weapon to your hands, widening your stance in preparation of Ghost's orders. The lieutenant catches your eyes, gives you a terse nod before shifting to address you both.

"We need to move. Rookie, watch our six." With that he raises his own automatic, takes a stance ahead of you and Price, allowing you to flank the rear and watch for any signs of reinforcements coming up behind you.

"Soap will meet us up top." Ghost murmurs darkly as the three of you approach the stairwell up from the basement, hovering around the corner. "Nikolai and Gaz will provide ex-fil in the heli."

"You put Gaz in a chopper?" Price asks, the humor in his voice veiled by the gravity of your circumstances.

"Is now really the time?" You hiss, once more checking your gear to ensure all your ammo and weapons are in place. "Shit, left my knife."

"Leave it." Ghost orders, using a hand to brace Price on the wall as the captain grunts in pain.

"It's my favorite." You grumble with annoyance but make no effort to go back and retrieve it.

"Ghost, be advised." Soap relays over the comms, voice low and grave. "Enemies moving in on your position. Think they know we're here."

"Are the stairs clear?" Ghost asks in return, but before Soap can speak next there's a shout from the top of the stairs and something clatters down the steps.

"DOWN." Ghost bellows, reaching for the grenade and lobbing it back towards its sender before hunching down beside you and Price. The resulting explosion has the world shake and hum around you, the smoke filling your nostrils and your ears ringing in the aftershocks.

When you come to next, you can hear shots echoing down the stairs as the soldiers up top open fire on you all. Shielded by the wall, you watch the bullets pierce the plaster at the bottom of the stairs, creating holes where your flesh would be had you not been paying attention.

"Rookie!" Ghost barks, and you follow his hand gesture, scooting past Price long enough to unload your weapon at the men up top, relishing the cry of hurt at finding your target. Ghost takes the opportunity of the resulting gap, darting across the base of the stairs so both of you flank either side. You watch your shots, darting out long enough to shoot, find your target, and then make your mark. It takes little time, but even in the moments that follow you find yourself yelling into the radio towards the Scot on the other end.

"Now would be a really good time for that diversion, Soap!" You shout, and whatever Soap says next is swallowed by the resulting gunfire that rains down on you all.

Eventually there's the sound of a thud as the last of the guards slumps to the ground, and you force your way up the stairs behind Ghost and Price, weapon raised and breathing leveled. The deadly focus of a soldier engulfs you now, dreams and nightmares forgotten, not even pausing to look at the bodies you step over, their dying breaths coloring the bottom of your boots red.

"Gaz, get that helo ready." Ghost growls at the sergeant, to which Gaz clips an affirmative just as Ghost turns his attention to Soap. "Soap, how copy?"

Silence. Then, in the near distance, an explosion. It shudders the floor under your feet, makes dust fall down from the ceiling and coat a thin coating of gray over your gear. You can hear the distant crackle of something burning as smoke coils up into the midnight sky.

"That should keep them occupied." Soap chirps, perhaps a little too gleeful.

"The hell did you do?!" You shoot back, following quickly behind the two officers in front of you, sweeping behind to check your six.

"Set fire to their supply depot." Soap responds smugly before his voice turns serious once again. "I'm moving in on your position. RV in five."

"Check your shots." Price reminds you both, to which you and Ghost nod, continue to press forward. It isn't long before you encounter another squadron of soldiers in one of the hallways, this one more heavily armed than the ones before. When you lean out to shoot, you can see the hard exterior of a riot shield keep your shots at bay.

"Shit." You curse, leaning back to reload. The stairs to the roof aren't far beyond, but the hallway before you is choked with soldiers that manage to press closer towards you all, closing the distance. You pull a grenade from your vest, yanking the pin with your teeth and lobbing it down the hall, covering Price from the implosion that makes your teeth chatter with the impact. Yet it only slows the remainder of the force ahead of you all, doing nothing to eliminate the obstacle ahead of you.

"We're going to get flanked." You yell to Ghost above the gunfire, but the lieutenant doesn't respond, focused on his own task at hand, rapidly reloading and trying to shoot anyone who gets too close.

True to your warning, you hear a shout from the hallway behind you, spinning on your heel to shoot at the head that pops around the corner.

"We're being boxed in!" You bellow to Ghost and Price, only for the captain to flatten you to the wall, moving you behind him so he can empty a few rounds at the next figure to come around the corner.

"Keep your head, Rookie!" He yells over the chaos, voice garbled with the injury to his chest. You do, you try, but with enemies on both sides you feel the temptation of panic threaten to rise inside you, obscure your focus into a deadly distraction. You force it down, remind yourself the three of you have been in far worse scenarios than this.

"Soap!" You bark over comms instead, bending your head to your radio for just a moment before you lean out to shoot once more, draw back as a bullet flies inches from your head. "Soap, what's your status?"

The other end of the hallways explodes.

Ah. That would be him then.

"MOVE UP!" Ghost thunders, and you wait until Price is past you before firing several parting shots to the soldiers behind you, rounding the corner and crouching to avoid the lingering shots fired overhead. You can hear panicked shouts from the KorTac operatives now, as they realize they've been flanked, spinning in both directions to try and fend you all off. Yet it's useless, because as soon as they try to turn from Soap's line of fire they only manage to expose themselves to yours, their screams cut off as you find your mark.

Once the hallway is empty the three of you quickly make your way forward, finding a breathless Soap on the other side, offering you a grin smeared with grenade dust.

"Good to see you alive and well, Cap." He offers to Price. Price doesn't have time to respond, instead jerking his head to the soldiers coming up behind you. The Scot takes the order wordlessly, falling in beside you as Ghost and Price take point, pushing towards the stairs that lead up to the next floor.

The resulting minutes that follow are fueled only by the ring of gunshots, the ringing aftershocks of grenades, barked orders and clicking sounds of reloading weapons. You forget the past and future, allowing the battle worn focus of your training and experience to fall over you, eyes wide and focused, taking in the smallest miniscule movements and allowing your aim to ring true.

It isn't long before the four of you reach the ladder to the roof. Ghost signals for you to go first and clear the way, and as you ascend through the shaft you can hear the gunfire below mute into a distant ringing. It takes a moment to reach for your bolt cutters, balancing precariously on the rungs of the ladder as you snap the lock to the hatch in two. The entrance swings open with a groan, revealing the dark, roiling clouds hanging high above in the heavens.

Almost there. You remind yourself with a breath of cold air. Just a little longer.

You make sure to help Price up onto the flat surface of the roof, where you can hear the distant thump thump thump of a helicopter's blades beating distantly at the air. You allow yourself a single moment of relief before your ears attune to shouting below the building. Price catches your eye, and without even being asked you fall in, planting yourself to the edge of the building and adjusting your rifle so you gaze down onto the pathways connecting the buildings. You can see soldiers scurrying, hurrying to the building you're atop of, barking orders and racing to the burning supply depot that licks orange and bright against the black sky.

Flat on your stomach, you adjust your rifle and find your targets, watching as KorTac soldiers jerk, drop to the ground in a violent splash of crimson. You can hear chatter over the radio, but it dims to a mere hum as you fully immerse yourself into your specialized skill set, plucking enemies off the map one by one with unerring, precise calculation.

Yet then you see the glint of a scope, one that catches the light of the burning building nearby, a single warning before the other sniper finds you in their sights.

You roll out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding the bullet that chips the brick of the building next to you. It takes a moment to adjust, and as you roll back to focus, you can see the figure aiming up at you from another rooftop. Dark hair, lean build, kohl darkened eyes gazing at you from her own sniper nest.

Roze.

You feel a snarl tugging at your lips, aim once more at her, but your aim is off as you once more duck to avoid her own shot at you. Even so, there's a distant thrill of excitement that pulses through you, wild and shuddering with a bright, biting taste of adrenaline.

"Been a while since I had a sniper shootout." You mutter to nobody in particular, allowing yourself an untamed smile, eyes bright with fixation. You narrow yourself to the scope focused on the woman opposite of you, finger hovering over the trigger as the crosshairs fall onto her own mirrored expression.

You don't get the chance, because suddenly the distant whir of the chopper gets loud, and the roof Roze is on explodes into a trail of dust as the turret of the helo turns on the enemy there. You think you see Roze vanish into a puff of soot, but don't stay long enough to find you, shouldering your weapon and raising yourself up to get ready for exfil.

There's a shout from the ladder, and you watch as Soap tumbles back from the hatch with a cry mixed with pain and outrage, his back hitting the gravel with a crunch. He curses, quickly tries to right himself, and as he stands he curses again, balancing awkwardly on one leg. You watch as blood oozes from the hole in his pants and he snarls at the enemies who left it there.

"Bloody fuckin' bastards." He seethes, but somehow manages to shut the hatch once Ghost follows, preventing any pursuers from following. You can barely hear him as the chopper angles down, lowering onto the rooftop and beating the air around you into a gale.

"Everyone on the chopper. NOW." Price bellows despite the choke in his chest, and despite his injuries he tries to be the last one on, covering your retreat as you tumble onto the helicopter floor. Ghost none too gently forces him to follow, knocking Price into your arms as you scramble to catch him, holding him fast just as the chopper raises itself off the roof.

"Get us out of here, Nik!" Gaz shouts over the noise, his hands still secured to the turret that leans out the side of the chopper. You flinch, duck, doing your best to cover Price as a few stray bullets ping the side of the chopper as you all lift off. The noise of the turret beside you only continues to deafen your senses, Ghost kneeling beside it and offering his own parting regards to the soldiers far below that try to bring you down.

"RPG!!" Gaz hollers, and the chopper angles severely to avoid the rocket that narrowly misses one of the blades. You feel yourself begin to slide backwards with Price in your arms, and manage to catch hold of one of the ropes, gripping tight with a yell, trying to prevent yourself from falling backwards further. You can hear Nikolai curse vividly in Russian, securing the controls before the bird goes into a tailspin. Even so, you can't help but glance over your shoulder, staring with a horrified gaze at the tilting earth that spins dizzily on the other exit of the heli.

When the chopper finally does even out, you hear the final, dull remaining bullet pings graze off the exterior of the heli, until they too fade to silence, and the only thing left is the urgent beat of the blades above you all.

It's only then that you manage to catch the gazes of the men around you, chests heaving, wild eyed, disbelieving as the adrenaline continues to thrum high in their veins.

"Steamin' Jesus." Soap offers in the silence that follows, grazes a hand over his face and stares first at you, then at Ghost, Gaz, until his eyes finally land on Price. Yet his smile cracks at the wild shock there, eyes dancing and bright, almost bewildered in the chaos of his thoughts before he asks you all: "Tha bloody hell was that?!"

As if those are the words needed, you watch as Gaz slumps into the seat beside him, head tilting down to his chest as he loudly declares "I am never, ever, ever getting on a fucking chopper again."

It startles an almost manic laugh from you, your hands still tucked under Price's arms, blinking and trying to quell the like-minded disbelief from your own mind.

"Who's hurt?" Ghost asks, and you all list an observed catalog of injuries. Bruises, scrapes, bullet holes, but all of you alive, whole, narrowly escaping the jaws of certain defeat intact. There's a pulsing, almost deranged relief between you all, one that sings loudly between gasping pants and heaved breaths.

"We did it." You breathe at last to Price, who has yet to straighten from your lap. His eyes are scrunched, forcing himself to breathe through the hurt radiating from his chest. You can see his chest rising with stuttering inhales, but even so your captain manages to raise his hand, patting it against the back of your palm in a wordless acknowledgement.

Well done.

It takes more than a few minutes for you to collect yourselves, thrumming with leftover, frenetic energy and bloodlust that bites down on the pain of your injuries. You hear Nikolai rumble something in Russian to Price, to which Price huffs, offers a groaning. "Da." in reply.

Finally, when he feels fit to move, you help Price stand, gently getting him strapped into a chair with Gaz's help. You seat yourself across from him, and when you finally let your shoulders fully uncoil with relief, Price catches your gaze. He taps on his headset, and you switch on your own just in time to hear him ask: "How did you know where I was?"

You blink, memories rewinding to the broad, dark figure of a hooded soldier illuminated in the dim darkness, eyes staring down at you past trails of bleached tears. His words once again echo endlessly into your thoughts, pulling at something dark and twisted and all too familiar. Yet there's warmth there, and it colors your smile as you offer:

"A little lark told me."

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#König #könig x oc #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #reader insert #x reader #fic: little mouse #cod #cod mw22 #cod konig

[sundrop-writes]

Your First Kiss With Jason Todd

Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary:

Jason always thought he hated you. He did hate you.

Until he didn't.

Until his love for you ruined him in ways he couldn't even imagine.

Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Reader. Frenemies to Lovers. Pure Angst (Hurt, No Comfort). Set during Season 3.

Word Count: 8,200

DC Titans Masterlist | AO3 Link

Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: This fic is almost entirely angst - hurt, no comfort. This fic does not have a happy ending!!! So be warned of that before you enter here. Jason and the reader are described as ‘hating’ each other, but they are more like frenemies/annoyances - they have a playful banter (at the time, even they don’t know that they like arguing because it’s sexual tension and passion for each other); the reader is completely gender neutral - the only pronouns used for the reader are you/yours; this is mostly written from Jason’s POV (which is where most of the angst comes from); Jason describes himself as a ‘zombie’ or ‘half-alive’ - but he is fully alive and has all of his mental faculties, he is just freaked out about the fact that he was resurrected; the reader does not have any meta powers, but is described as being very good at combat (this does not denote the reader’s body type); mentions of sex and some sexual themes - but there is no outright smut and no detailed descriptions of sex; mentions of negative stereotypes surrounding frat boys/frat houses - including STDs and group sex (mentioned in a negative light); mentions of Jason masturbating (and thinking about the reader while doing it); mentions of Jason’s canon trauma (being kidnapped and tortured by Deathstroke, dropped off the building); mentions of Jason being killed by the Joker (and being ressurected by Crane); mentions of the reader mourning Jason’s death; mentions of drugs and drug addiction (based around the canon storyline of the anti-fear gas); mentions of Jason’s trauma surround his mother’s drug addiction; mentions of Jason killing Hank (as in the canon); the reader is kidnapped (by Crane or someone who works for Crane) and held hostage, and later rescued by Jason; somewhat graphic descriptions of violence (Jason beating up Crane, other background instances), gory descriptions of a death toward the end (mentions of acid burns and choking on non-breathable air); major character death - the reader character does die. Like I said - no happy ending. Sorry not sorry.

A/N: This is set during Season 3 - and this does feature spoilers for Season 3 if you haven't seen Titans before. So if you wanna watch the show spoiler free, definitely avoid this fic. I was imagining this to be set around episode 6 or episode 7, before Crane's plan to use the ice cream factory is taken down by the Titans, but obviously Jason breaking away from Crane's control so early goes against the canon - so there's that. Also, if you wanna pair some music with this for something truly heartbreaking, I would highly recommend the classic Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush, or the highly underrated Colorado Sunrise by 3OH!3 (the lyrics are way more depressing than people realize, and I love it as a whump song. oomf). I also feel like the song Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny would go so well with this fic, but in like - the most devastating way. I haven't written something this cruel since I wrote Ghosting and I had so much fun doing it. You can't leave me alone with whump for too long, I turn into a monster. I need to go back to smut again quickly lmao.

...

Jason Todd was in love with you. 

It was something that he hated himself for. Actually, it was one of the most infuriating, devastating facts in the world. But it was true. You were someone who was so entirely amazing. You were beautiful - literally the hottest person Jason had ever met who wasn’t photoshopped or catered to be some unrealistic daydream. You were clever and smart and strong. You could kick anybody’s ass on any day of the week and still have enough energy left to tell them how much of an idiot they were and list all of the reasons why. 

And you would definitely never love Jason back. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he could ever have someone like you. 

So he kept all of that stupid, idiotic love to himself. It was a secret that he had sworn to die with - and technically, he already had. 

Jason tried not to linger on the very fucked up, seemingly impossible fact that he had come back from the dead. And now he was existing as some weird, fucked up zombie thing - resurrected from having his skull caved in by the Joker to do Jonathan Crane’s bidding. This definitely wasn’t what Jason would have wanted out of a renewed life - but hey: when an Arkham prisoner gives you rotten lemons. 

When Jason wasn’t beating down drug dealers, stealing money, or strapping bombs to people - when he was trying his hardest not to focus on the fact that he had died and he was now living some strange half-life, reliant on Crane’s drugs, he was thinking about you. He thought about you a lot. 

He hadn’t come into contact with you since his strange foray back into the land of the living. That was probably for the best. He knew that you had freshly come back to Gotham, upon Dick’s request. Nightwing had called for backup from all the ex-Titans to help end Red Hood’s reign of terror. Jason wanted to stay as far away from you as possible. 

Genuinely, he didn’t want you getting caught in the crossfire of whatever Crane was planning. He wished you had stayed out of Gotham, but he knew that you were too loyal, too good not to come to the aid of the Titans when they needed you. He couldn’t reveal himself to you just for a taste of nostalgia - one last argument before you sold him down the river for good. But fuck - he thought about you a lot. 

When the two of you had first met, you were the last person he ever thought that he would surrender that stupid, soft label of love to. Even months into first knowing you - he would have said that he hated you. He would have told anybody that he found you to be the most annoying person on earth. 

Your relationship used to be the worst kind of dance. 

Every single time that Jason opened his mouth, you said something to contradict him. To a point, he believed that you didn’t even fully stand behind the things you said - you just enjoyed arguing against him. That you did it for sport. You used every single last bit of your time and energy to get under his skin. From mocking him to calling him a fuckboy to prodding at his grammar, poking holes in his points by smugly correcting him. He always found you to be the most infuriating person in any room. But it seemed that the more frustrated he got with you, the more cool headed you remained. 

He tried to mock you back, and you shrugged it off. Every time he became visibly annoyed in your presence - you giggled. He wanted to strangle you. 

And it was one fated day that he realized the line between heat fueled by frustration and heat fueled by lust truly weren’t that different. 

… 

“Jason! I thought I smelled you coming down the hall!” 

Jason groaned when he heard you make this comment. 

He thought that for once, he could have some peace to train alone - but it appeared that he would have no such luck. You were already in the training room, holding a long bo-staff as you ran some drills. Apparently, you were eager to exercise your mouth too - already whipping off clever insults the minute that Jason entered the room. 

When all he could muster was a glare in your direction, you let out a giggle. His blood boiled. 

“Between that god awful Axe body wash and that alcohol based aftershave that you like to drown yourself in, you smell like a walking frat house.” You continued, blabbering on even though Jason had made no efforts to engage you. At least not yet. “Just throw in some Busch Light and weed, and I might be able to catch gonorrhea just from the stench.” 

That was the nerve that hooked Jason into the conversation. First of all - he smelled fucking delightful. He always made hygiene one of his personal priorities. He was absolutely not one of those guys with crusty, sweaty balls. And second of all - he was not one of those STD spreading manwhores. He was clean in all senses. He always used a condom. 

“Sounds like you’ve got experience with that.” Jason quipped back. 

He looked to you for some kind of reaction, some inkling that he had gotten under your skin even a fraction of the way that you did his. His movements were rough with annoyance as he began wrapping his knuckles with tape so he could have a few rounds with the heavy bag - mostly out of a need to pound out his frustration on something. He was getting too angered with your presence in the room and not wanting to snap and take it out on you. (He already had enough on his record with Bruce, and despite popular opinion - he was trying to improve.) 

When you weren’t quick to respond, Jason continued. 

“You used to letting frat boys all over you? You seem like the type of person who would enjoy a good, sloppy frat house train. Twenty guys, one after the other, none of them knowing your name, just because you’re so needy for a good fuck.” 

Jason grinned, feeling like he had won this conversation with the essence of shock alone. 

But no. As always, you remained cool. You grinned right back at him, stepping toward him, crowding into his personal space as you said your next words in a low, smooth voice. 

“Sounds like you spend an awful lot of time picturing me running a train.” You smirked. “Is that why you’re always so late getting up in the morning? You wake up and the first thing you do is get a hand on your dick, imagining me getting fucked by a lineup of guys? Probably just wishing that one of them was you.” 

Jason’s face fell flat. 

You were so strikingly confident in your words that it made his stomach twist. Facing him down, speaking such filthy words without flinching - embarrassment and heat collided inside of him. Even more so with what you did next. 

You put a hand out in front of your crotch, mimicking the motions of jacking off while you mocked him in a broken voice. 

“Oh, oh fuck Y/N! Come on! Take my sloppy, frat house cock!” 

You then mocked a whiny series of moans that must have been Jason’s fake orgasm - and while Jason’s insides bubbled with a confusing heat, you quickly dissolved off into laughter. 

“Shut up.” Jason snapped, forcing his eyes down to focus on the process of taping himself up - praying that you wouldn’t see the heat that had spread across his cheeks. “You’re the fucking worst.” 

“Only when I’m with you.” You replied, blowing him a kiss - to which he stuck his middle finger up at you. 

He was eternally thankful when you went back to your own training in silence, only taking occasional glances up in his direction. 

… 

After that point, Jason had to admit to himself that he was attracted to you, at the very least. He could no longer deny that you were insanely attractive; you were a very, very hot person. And somehow, even past your annoying habits, he was being drawn into the orbit of your gorgeous looks and your wonderfully cocky, filthy mouth. 

But he still hated you. He definitely still hated you. 

He hated it even more when you became right - and you did become the object of some of his more heated fantasies. He became downright annoyed at the times he had his hand around his cock and imagined himself hate fucking you - imagined forcing every cocky retort out of your mouth, imagining you breathless and needy beneath him, begging for more with every hard push of his hips. 

He hated how everything changed after Doctor Light. 

Jason wasn’t thinking about your stupid beautiful cocky mouth after that. His mind was full of glass and he was being shredded from the inside out. He came home broken. After everything that happened with Deathstroke and Doctor Light - he was some fragile bird; some chewed up, used, pitiful thing. He didn’t have the energy to fight you anymore, not even for sport. 

So after he was rescued, still floating in numbness, he didn’t know what to do when you burst into his room unannounced. You practically shoved the door off its hinges, and stormed across the room toward him - tears hot in your eyes. You pounded curled fists against his chest, screaming at the top of your lungs. Half of your words were static in his ears, but the tone of your voice pierced through his heart like an arrow. You called him stupid, asking where in his empty head he had gotten the idea to go off by himself. 

Jason didn’t have it in him to fight you. So he broke down. 

He felt like the world’s biggest idiot for crying in front of you. But his throat was tight and he choked on the tears - he was too tired. He just couldn’t hold them back. He screamed back, and asked you to lay off. To get off his fucking back. 

You looked shocked. Like you had swallowed a piece of glass. 

You surprised him when you uncurled your fists and wrapped the most tender, gentle hands around his back, and for the first time since he had known you - you embraced him in a hug. He was weak and he needed it more than he was willing to admit, so he let you. He sobbed against your neck, his own cries too loud that he missed the timid sound of your apology. 

That wasn’t the only time you surprised him that week. 

He knew it was because he was some broken little bird, but you started taking care of him. You brought him plates of food without being asked, and when he attempted to shove them away - you refused. You told him to eat before you had to ‘shove it down his fucking throat’. 

You didn’t mock him. You didn’t correct him. And you surprised him even more when you turned the sharpness of your tongue on the others when they tried attacking Jason. They accused him of planting booze in Hank’s room or drawing crosses on Rachel’s mirror to fuck with her, among other things. And you popped veins in your neck going on a winding rant about how stupid and baseless their accusations were. 

Jason wasn’t sure if you knew it, but you jumping to his defense wrapped him in a blanket of protection that he had never before felt. It was so entirely strange, but welcomed coming from you. Especially because he knew that it was genuine. He knew that you didn’t have any ulterior motives for doing this - for some reason, you just wanted to help him. 

When you extended an invitation toward him to come with you as the group dispersed, torn apart by Dick’s nasty, festering secret - Jason felt welcomed by you. He knew that the dynamic between the two of you was changing at a breakneck speed, and he had to embrace it. He found himself eager to follow the weird, newly developing kinship that he had with you rather than wanting to stay in the empty coldness of the Tower with a brooding Dick. 

From there, it was really difficult for Jason to pin down the exact moment that his feelings transitioned toward you from casual lust to something more. He couldn’t tell exactly when it turned into that panic-inducing, ‘oh my god, I’m fucked’ feeling of being in love. After leaving San Francisco, during the entirety of the time that the two of you were in Gotham together, your relationship remained completely platonic. 

It was a few short weeks spent kicking ass as the best vigilante duo the city had ever seen, but there wasn’t a single moment Jason could point to where the two of you lit up with that romantic spark. It wasn’t some romcom bullshit come to life. It was just the two of you being friendly for once. The two of you helping each other survive. 

Back then - Jason wanted you, badly. Even if he didn’t know just how badly, he wasn’t going to fuck up the whole dynamic just to get laid. He felt safe with you. He kicked ass with you. He was good with you. And during that short time - he was happy. So he wasn’t going to do anything to risk that happiness. Happiness was too rare for him. So why the hell would he try putting the moves on you, scare you away, and fuck it all up? 

… 

A little slice of that happiness came in the form of Hal’s Diner. It was a place in downtown Gotham, open twenty four hours, and you and Jason had gotten into the habit of stopping there after your patrols. 

The two of you would kick some ass - break the legs of some drug dealers, make sure that women got home safe if they were walking late at night, keep the streets a little safer. And then you would change out of your patrol outfits and head to the diner, just as the sun was rising over the scummy streets of Gotham. You would get breakfast and Jason would get dinner. He would steal one of your eggs and you would take half his burger, and you would always comment about him putting way too much ketchup on his plate. 

It was harmony. 

“You know, every time I see you make a grown man cry, it brings me such intense joy.” Jason grinned as he said this, reminiscing about a beautiful moment from earlier in the night. 

He spoke about it in the same manner that someone might reminisce about seeing a relative or a cute puppy. But this was natural for the two of you - since you had taken up vigilantism as a duo, violence was a sweet art for the two of you. 

“Well, if he would have left that girl alone the first time I asked, I wouldn’t have broken his arm.” You shrugged, speaking very casually about it yourself. 

You then picked a piece of bacon up off your plate and took a bite, grinning at Jason fondly. You did appreciate it when he complimented your skills. 

Jason chuckled. 

“You know, it is nice to see you using your powers for good instead of evil.” He commented. 

“My powers?” You parroted back, your mouth half busy with chewing, your words slightly muffled. 

You didn’t have any metahuman powers, so this comment did leave you slightly confused. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, entirely confident in the statement he had to follow. “Your endless amount of energy to harass people and be endlessly annoying. The powers you used to spend all your time using on me.” 

“You used to deserve it.” You were quick with your tongue as usual, not missing a beat with this statement. 

Jason’s only rebuttal was to pick up a french fry - one not doused in ketchup - and throw it at your head. You flinched slightly when it bounced off your forehead - but when it landed in your lap, you easily picked it up and put it in your mouth, not thinking twice about doing so as you tossed Jason a wicked grin. 

That. That must have been the moment. 

That was the moment he realized that he was truly in love with you. You grinning at him from across the table, your smile lighting up your whole face, playing around with him like he actually made you happy. Like he could spend the rest of his life making you happy. 

That’s why it hurt so much more when your phone buzzed on the table a few minutes later. When you told him that it was the Titans - Gar in trouble. That’s why it hurt so fucking much when you left. 

Jason knew, in hindsight, that he should have gone with you. But he flailed like a rabbit caught in a snare, and rather than just agreeing with you, he felt the trap tightening around him, and he opted to chew off his own foot rather than simply letting you help him free. 

He stupidly argued that it was some test from Dick. That the Titans could deal with their own problems. Jason knew that deep down, he was still tender from everything that had happened - Dick dropping him, even by accident. The accusations, the secrets. The rejection. He felt like he was laying down a line - he was letting you make a choice. 

Him or the Titans. 

But it shouldn’t have been a choice. It was Gar. Jason should have stood by his friend. He should have gone with you. 

Deep down, Jason feared that if he did go with you - the Titans wouldn’t want him back. He feared another cutting rejection. They would simply bench him again, they wouldn’t even need him to help save Gar. They wouldn’t want him to help. He was useless, after all. He was careless and stupid. That was why he needed you to choose him. To stay. 

That was what his mind was screaming out as you looked at him, disappointment flooding your eyes as you questioned him about Gar, about going back to the Titans. 

Stay. He silently begged. Pick me. 

And watching you snatch up your jacket in a huff and get up from the table, your food barely touched - his eyes boring into your back as you retreated - it was like having his heart carved out of his chest. And because he was so fucked up, he just sat there. He couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. He didn’t chase you. 

He let you go. 

Having you suddenly disappear from his life was like missing a limb. Jason was constantly aching around your non-presence, constantly missing you. He felt torn up from the inside out, wondering if his frayed nerve endings would ever heal themselves. When he went to Donna’s funeral, he stared at you from across the tarmac - telling himself that if you even so much as glanced in his direction, he would cross that sickly one hundred foot black sea and talk to you. He would make the leap and apologize. 

But you were fettered and stubborn and you kept your head straight. You knew it was the ultimate punishment not to acknowledge him. So the moment that the plane took off, Jason shoved on his helmet and sped off on his bike.

He easily became numb after that. 

He went back to Bruce - to lay low and lick his wounds, or because it was the only place he knew, he wasn’t sure. He tried to be a Robin that wasn’t with you. It didn’t work. He felt more broken than ever. It was cheesy, pathetic bullshit - but he talked about you in therapy. Leslie encouraged him to reach out to you, but every time Jason’s fingers hovered over your contact in his phone, his hands shook, and all he remembered was the look of pure scorn you had given him before you snatched up your things and left the diner that day. 

He thought of you as he suited up to go after the Joker. He considered how easy it would be for the two of you to take down the stupid clown together - how flawlessly the two of you worked as a team. 

Jason thought of you as he drew his last breath, soaked in blood and struggling past the world-ending pain. He wondered, in a haze, if you were warm in your bed in The Tower while he was pressed into the cold ground, taunted by the laughter that rung in his ears. 

… 

Jason didn’t know how hard you cried for him when you heard the news of his death. 

You wouldn’t have dared to say that the hole in the middle of your chest was caused by love - caused by the heartbreak of a lover being stolen. But you certainly felt robbed when you heard that the Joker had killed him. You seethed and you heavily considered marching toward Gotham to seek revenge. 

You knew that Dick was angry with Bruce for finally giving in to what the Joker wanted and killing him. For finally ending their sick, twisted game. But when you found out - you were glad that the clown was dead. You wrapped one of Jason’s stolen shirts around your pillow, and you slept a bit easier at night. 

…

Jason knew that he should have left town. 

Crane claimed that Red Hood was going to be the next Batman - that he was going to be something the Bat never could. That he was going to actually keep the streets safe. But so far, all Jason had done was steal, kill, terrorize, torture. Crane spoke of omelets and breaking eggs - pigs and bacon, and ‘marketing’ himself to the public. But truly, it never made any real sense to Jason. 

Jason knew that now, he was the type of man lurking in the night whose arm you would have broken if he was lingering too closely to the vulnerable. And you would have been right for doing so. 

Jason was tired. He felt lost - directionless. He was getting tired of Crane’s bullshit. He missed you. But he knew that he couldn’t just go running back to you. You likely wouldn’t have accepted him back into your life if he did. 

When Crane called him in that night, wanting to discuss ‘the game plan’ - Jason was worn. His patience for all of it was already wearing thin, and what happened next - it truly caused him to snap. 

Jason showed up in full gear, wearing the costume of an alias he no longer believed in; foolishly dressed up as someone he had truly begun to resent. He was holding his helmet in hand, his heavy boots clunking on the floor as he dodged around Crane’s egghead lackeys - a random group of people who were working to convert the anti-fear gas into a larger batch. He knew that they were aiming to get more and more people in the city hooked; if Jason hadn’t abandoned his morals in this new life, he might have cared more about the consequences. 

Instead, he made a B-line for Crane, who was typing away at something on the computer. 

“Jason, my boy!” Crane grinned at him, giving a false, performative grin over his shoulder. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?” 

“What do you want?” Jason asked, his tone flat. 

He was far too tired of Crane to engage in more word play or stupid riddles. 

“Never one for pleasantries, are you?” Crane chuckled. 

Jason didn’t offer him a reply - seemingly confirming his theory with this simple act. 

Truthfully, he wasn’t. He wasn’t feeling very pleasant today. He hadn’t felt very pleasant any day since he had been so rudely pulled from the morgue and zombified to do someone else’s bidding against his will. Being an undead puppet didn’t really make a person all that pleasant. 

Crane reached into the pocket of his oddly quaint grandpa sweater and pulled something out - a small glass vial, containing some clear liquid. It looked harmless - like water. But Jason knew Crane, and he knew that whatever it was must have been entirely dangerous if Crane was carrying around such a small dose of it. 

“Do you know what this is?” He asked, giving the vial a small shake, jostling the liquid inside to emphasize his point. 

Jason hesitated before he shook his head in the negative. He hated to appear clueless and stupid around such an intelligent man, but he didn’t want to guess and be wrong. He knew that being misinformed around Crane was dangerous. But being cocky and pretending to know more than Crane was even more dangerous. 

“This is a very highly concentrated form of liquid Methadone.” Crane explained. “It’s a highly addictive substance. And I think it’s going to give the mass market version of your formula that little extra kick that it needs, ya know? Keep the people coming back for more!” 

He let out a bright chuckle, as though he was talking about a cleaning product that was marketed on an infomercial or some kind of great recipe for soup. That was one of the things that scared Jason the most about Crane - his ability to talk about life changing, deadly things with such jarring enthusiasm. He truly thought of bringing people their worst nightmares and their most painful deaths as ‘beautiful work’. 

“What about it?” Jason prodded quietly. 

He knew that Crane hadn’t called him here just to brag about a new idea to add something to the formula. He needed Jason for something. 

Jason just hoped that he wasn’t looking to use him as a guinea pig again. He would likely rather die again than go down the path of heavy drugs. One thing he had vowed - he wouldn’t end up like his mother. 

“Well, you see, my boy, that’s where you come in.” Crane grinned at him. “Due to its highly addictive qualities, Methadone is also a highly regulated substance. But because I am the wonderfully well-connected man that I am, I happen to know that there is a very large stash of it just sitting there, ripe for the taking, in this quaint little building uptown.” 

Jason’s gut stirred with suspicion. 

“Where uptown?” He asked. 

“Well, it’s just-” Crane stuttered, and then sighed, deciding to get it out and over with. “The Wayne Memorial Cancer Research Facility.” 

Jason glared at him. 

“But see, it’s fine! Because I happen to know someone who knows their way around the Wayne Tech security systems very well. So Red Hood breaks in there, gets me my-” 

“No.” Jason said flatly, before he turned and started to walk away. “Find somebody else. We’re done.” 

Crane had threatened to replace him before. Crane had no-so-subtly threatened to kill him alongside being replaced. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Jason would be better off dead. Maybe Crane would find out that Jason was irreplaceable after all. Maybe Jason was a dirty, seedy criminal shaped by life for only one thing: ruining the lives of others. If Jason couldn’t do that, he wasn’t sure what he would do. 

But he wasn’t going to fucking do this. 

Killing was one thing. Stealing from drug dealers and mobsters was another. What he had done to Hank had crossed too many lines - but it didn’t even begin to approach the lines that this crossed. 

Stealing from a facility that Thomas and Martha had set up when Bruce was just a child, shitting all over their legacy, using skills that Bruce had taught him in order to do it? That was too far. Jason couldn’t say that he had morals anymore, but he still had that voice of common decency in the back of his head yelling at him to stop it. Maybe it was your voice, correcting him at every turn the way you used to. 

He should listen to that voice. 

He should leave town. 

“Hold on, hold on there, Jaybird!” Crane called after him. 

The pure annoyance that the nickname caused was the only thing that stopped Jason. He considered turning around and shooting Crane just to shut him up. 

“See, I think you forget how this works.” The man went off again - talking in that humming tone he always used that made Jason’s ears numb, made his brain switch off. “Every loyal dog gets a treat. A little motivation to get that Pavlovian mind barking in the right direction.” 

Jason turned back around then. 

“Nothing you say ever makes any fucking sense.” He barked out, ready to leave Crane with these as his last remarks before he left Gotham forever. 

But then Crane tapped at a few things on his keyboard and pulled something up on the monitor - a dark, grainy video feed that had Jason squinting his eyes and walking closer to get a better look. 

When Jason was able to truly take in the scene - his stomach dropped. 

It was you. 

You were sitting alone in some anonymous, concrete warehouse - probably in the industrial district of Gotham, if Jason had to guess. Crane didn’t like to keep his insurance policies too far away, he liked to play it close to the vest. You were tied to a chair, duct tape tight over your mouth, very much there against your will. You were looking straight ahead, with the camera angled down from the top corner of the room. Even through the grainy, black and white footage, Jason could see the wetness of tears streaking down your face. 

You were terrified. 

Jason’s helmet clattered to the floor, slipping from his grip as the shock overtook his system. 

For the first time in weeks, fighting through the numbness of the drugs and the hazy shock of his new half-life - he was terrified too. Then he was angry. Rage bubbled up inside of him like a sharp, acidic bile. 

“What the fuck have you done?” Jason growled out, the anger setting his jaw so tight that the words could barely escape between his teeth. 

“I told you - every loyal dog gets a treat.” Crane said, a barely contained glee filtering through his voice as he peered over Jason’s shoulder at your weeping face on the screen. 

He clapped a large hand on Jason’s shoulder, and Jason felt himself nearly choke on his own tongue - so swollen with anger that it barely fit in his mouth. 

“So, go fetch, doggie.” Crane continued. “Go get me what I need. Otherwise, that sweet little treat of yours is gonna play dead.” 

Crane leaned over and whispered those last words into Jason’s ear - and that was what truly caused him to snap. 

In a flash, Jason grabbed the hand that was on his shoulder, whipped Crane around - there was a loud crack as Jason broke Crane’s arm. The egghead types who were working on the formula all paused; some of them gasped or hid behind things, but none of them were brave enough to intervene. Jason shoved Crane’s face into the monitor, cracking it out like a spider’s web but never fully obscuring the image of that dark, cold warehouse - the place where you were alone and terrified. 

He twisted Crane’s broken arm, making a sound like glass grinding in on itself, and the man let out a howl. 

“I think you forget how this works.” Jason barked at him, his voice so dark with rage that it almost sounded like he was wearing Red Hood’s voice modulator even though his helmet was on the floor at Crane’s feet. “When dogs get pissed off - they bite.” 

He twisted the injury again, and Crane let out another bitter howl. 

Jason demanded to know where you were, and Crane squeaked out an address. It was in the industrial district, so it checked out in Jason’s mind. It didn’t seem like a trap or a false answer to waste his time. 

Jason shoved the pathetic, useless man to the ground, kicked him in the gut for good measure, and then leaned down to grab his helmet before shoving it on. He would need it in case Crane had anybody stationed there, guarding you. 

Crane shouted something at him as he walked away, but Jason was barely paying attention - now very singular minded on his mission toward you. 

“You have to learn to play by the rules, Red!” Crane choked out. “You won’t like how this ends! I made you! I fucking made you!” 

… 

Jason was surprised to find the building empty. No guards, seemingly no bombs, no gas canisters. At first, he thought it really was a trick, a misdirect to waste his time. But when he had just about given up hope of finding you, searching one of the back most rooms that used to serve as overflow storage for Ace Chemicals - he found you. Concrete and anonymous, some of the beams having eroded away in places from improper chemical storage. 

When you saw him stalking toward you - his gun drawn, heavy boots thudding against the floor, modulator puffing out heavy, mechanical breaths - you let out a terrified whimper past the duct tape and more tears flowed freely down your face. 

Jason felt a twinge of guilt. Of course. You had no clue it was him. 

Perhaps he could get away with the mercy of never revealing himself to you. He could keep his mask on, release you, drop you back off with the Titans and then leave town. But eventually, Dick would tell you who he was. 

At the very least, he could give you the comfort of seeing a familiar face after the hell you had been through. You were wearing a sweatshirt and simple cotton pants, and running shoes - it looked like you had been plucked off the street during a jogging session. He could only imagine how much Crane’s lackeys had scared you. 

Once he was confident that the area was secure, he holstered his gun and then reached up, removing the face mask from his helmet and tossing it aside. 

“Hey, hey, it’s me.” He told you - attempting to be gentle and soothing in his voice. 

He approached you slowly, not wanting you to be scared as he reached to his belt for a knife - only with the intention to cut the ropes around your torso, wrists, and ankles. 

He watched your expression as you flashed through a range of emotions - deep confusion, a bit of relief, sadness, and then strangely - burning anger. You glared at him with the most intense rage he had ever seen from you - more intense even than the day you had stormed into his room and called him stupid and suicidal for going after Doctor Light without backup. 

Jason was slightly afraid of the lecture that would come next, but nonetheless, he knelt beside you and began cutting you free. 

The minute that one of your hands was free, you reached up and ripped the duct tape off your mouth. You took only a fraction of a second to wince in pain from the tender skin of your lips being disturbed before you began verbally tearing into him. 

“Jason Todd!” You screamed at the top of your lungs, so loudly that Jason was sure some of the edges of the corroded concrete pebbled off and fell down just from this. “Jason fucking Todd! I should have known you had something to do with this!” 

“Wh-?” 

Before Jason could question your odd choice of words or even recognize it as an accusation, you raised your other freshly free hand and slapped him squarely across the cheek - it was a hard, skull-shaking clatter. It had Jason dizzy, falling back onto his ass and dropping the knife before he could finish cutting the ropes around your legs. 

“Fucking ow!” Jason griped, reaching up to grab his now very red cheek. 

“You are such an asshole! Of all the completely idiotic, stupid things you have ever done-” 

“I didn’t fucking kidnap you! Okay? I didn’t do shit!” Jason quickly argued back, finally now realizing that you thought he had put you here in the first place. “I’m here to rescue you!” He said each of these words slowly, looking you in the eyes, hoping that his point would get across more firmly this way. 

There was a tense moment as you stared back at him with your jaw locked. It was likely that if your feet hadn’t still been tied, you would have run away - or kicked him. Jason was thankful that you couldn’t do either at the moment.  

“Why?” You asked, finally breaking the tension. 

“What?” Jason gaped. 

This was the last thing he had been expecting. 

He was saving you - why were you questioning him? 

“Why are you ‘rescuing’ me?” You asked, taunting his phrasing of it with a mocking tone and large air quotes. He now regretted freeing your hands. “So you can bargain me off to Dick for ransom money? So you can put a bomb in my chest?” 

You said the last part with intense disdain, tears dancing in your eyes.

So you did know what a monster he was.  

He was surprised that you hadn’t hit him harder. 

Jason heaved a sigh. He reached over and picked up the knife, very slowly, very tentatively resuming cutting the ropes on your legs to free you. 

“I’m just freeing you so that you can be free. That’s it.” He said quietly, defeat lacing through every inch of his voice. “You don’t deserve this.” 

He cut the last rope and folded the knife, sticking it back in his belt. He stood up then and caught a glimpse of your face - you were wearing the most complex expression he had ever seen. Perhaps confusion, perhaps anger. Maybe somewhere deep in your eyes - hurt. 

He turned and moved to leave, hoping you would simply follow him out of the confusing maze of the building and he wouldn’t have to drag you out kicking and screaming. 

“That’s not an answer.” You told him, your tone sharp and certain - the same tone you always used to correct him. 

Jason whipped back around then, heaving a sigh as he looked at you - standing in the middle of the room now, arms folded over your chest, glaring at him on the spot. Cocky and so sure about yourself. Too damn certain and immobile in your points. Infuriating. 

“Why the fuck do you have to make everything so damn complicated?” Jason shot back, annoyance and dread tight in every inch of him. “Why do you have to interrogate me about every damn thing that I do?” 

“Because you make stupid ass decisions when I don’t.” You easily fired back. “Now tell me: why are you doing this?” 

“Because I wanted to.” Jason huffed. 

“Why?” You prodded again. 

He let out another hot huff, and you didn’t let it go. 

“Come on Jason!” You shouted, increasing in volume as you became more frustrated with his lack of an answer. “You didn’t just develop a conscience all of a sudden! Why did you feel the need to suddenly drop everything and come to my rescue? What makes me different than Hank? What makes me different than-?” 

It was the annoyance grinding on him. It was a combination of your nagging voice, the lack of drugs in his system for the first time in weeks. The rawness of the world ragging on his last good nerve. The sound of your voice putting him in line - exactly where he was supposed to be. The way you reminded him of the truth now more than ever. 

“Because I’m in love with you!” Jason shouted. 

It was almost… angry. It was a declaration that hit you like a whip - more like an insult than something warm and kind. It wasn’t made of sweetness, like some moment from a film with a gentle piano riff wrapped around it. It was real - made of the haunting kind of passion that kept Jason awake at night. 

Your eyes widened. Jason’s breathing stilled as he waited for you to react - to say something. 

“Oh.” Your voice cracked around this syllable, and your eyes danced with more tears. 

Jason felt his own heart crack apart inside of his chest, more terror flooding him. 

He had died with the secret because he had never wanted to live up to the embarrassing vulnerability of confessing it. In the deepest part of his mind, he had lived this horror a thousand times. Him finally creeping out onto the edge of oblivion - speaking those words. Confessing. And then you stabbing him in the heart, rejecting him. 

The reality of it ripped through him so much harder than it ever had in his nightmares. 

Any last tiny piece of his soul that had survived being murdered by the Joker had just been shattered by you. 

“Yeah. Fucking oh.” Jason echoed back, his own tears clutching at his throat. 

Seeing him with that naked vulnerability dancing behind his eyes - it reminded you of the same person who came back from being kidnapped by Doctor Light. It reminded you of the real Jason you had gotten to know. 

In that moment, it all came crashing toward you. You gasped harshly as you could barely breathe around it. 

That hole in your chest had been shaped like a lover - it had been shaped like him. Filled with the pain of letting him get hurt, leaving him alone in Gotham to be murdered by the Joker. Filled with the doubt and confusion of never knowing what could have been between the two of you if you had chased those flirtations a little bit farther. 

And now, he was standing right here in front of you, somehow perfectly alive and well - and there was only one possible thing you could do. 

“Jason.” You gasped out his name, unable to fathom more words. 

Before he could move, you reached out and grabbed both sides of his face, one of them still singed with a burning ache where you had slapped him so hard - and you pulled him into a kiss, hard. 

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dainty or smooth like some Hollywood love confession - it was hungry. Bordering on feral as you both fought to consume more of the other person, bleeding out little moans and fighting for breath past each other’s lips. Jason’s hands rushed to embrace you, wrapping around your back and grabbing a needy, possessive handful of your ass while you kept your grip tight on his face, keeping his face forcefully close to your own as you devoured his mouth. 

You felt some of his tears escape - such a rush of emotions making him raw and unable to hold them back, and you moaned pitifully into his mouth as he wetness slipped underneath your palms. Whatever it was - his pain, his pleasure; you would take it. He was all yours now. 

… 

Far off, on the other side of Gotham, Crane chuckled quietly to himself as he watched the scene unfold. He had pulled up the camera feed on a separate tablet, seeing as Jason had used his head to crack the monitor. With his broken arm bound in a temporary sling, he used his one good hand to pull something out of a drawer - a remote with a single button. 

“For these violent delights have violent ends,” He recited to himself, still grinning widely as he looked at the two lovers in the grainy, black and white footage. “And in their triumph, die like fire and powder. Which as they kiss, consume. Even the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness, if the taste confounds the appetite.” Crane poised his finger on the button. “Therefore, love moderately.” 

He pressed down, and dissolved into more epic laughter as he watched what came next. 

… 

You were only human, and you could only kiss Jason for a few minutes before your brain demanded oxygen. As much as you hated to pull away from the sweet, bruising sting of his lips, you forced yourself back and immediately took in a sharp breath that turned into a rolling pant - Jason let out a needy whine in protest. 

With his arms holding you so securely and the dizzying heat now flowing through you - you almost didn’t catch it. But it was there, in the background, something steadily present that wasn’t there before. 

Beeping. A small, electronic beeping. 

“Do you hear that?” You asked Jason, squinting your eyes with confusion and looking around, trying to find the source of the noise. 

He did hear it. 

“Fuck.” Jason mumbled. 

Panic flooded him. The whole thing had been a trap. 

He pulled away from you hesitantly and grabbed his mask up off the ground, snapping it back on. 

“We have to go. Now.” He told you, his voice now sharp and robotic through the voice filter as he grabbed your wrist and began dragging you away - you became limp to his direction for once and simply followed, fear tight in your gut once again. 

Jason didn’t want to consider the possibilities, but he knew it could be anything from a large bomb, meant to tear you to shreds, to a large dose of fear gas waiting to be deployed. And he didn’t have an antidote at the moment. He needed to get you out of the building and transport you to safety. 

When the two of you came to a door - one of the many that Jason had passed through on his way in - it snapped shut in Jason’s face. It was on some kind of mechanical locking system, that much was apparent. Jason rushed forward, trying to pry it open - but it was welded steel, and it wouldn’t budge. 

Jason heard more slamming - more metal forcing itself shut on the same locking system. 

“Jason?” You croaked, that unsure terror back in your voice again. Something so rare for you. You were looking to him for answers. You were looking to him to rescue you. 

Overhead, the last bits of light were shut out - glimpses of the street lights outside - as thick metal shudders collapsed down over the windows. The room was sealing itself shut, becoming air tight. 

“Stand back.” Jason told you, not waiting to see if you followed the instruction before he pulled out one of his guns and began shooting at the door’s heavy metal hinges. He knew it was futile and he feared that one of the bullets might ricochet off and hit you, but he didn’t have many options left. 

Then he heard it. The gentle hissing of gas being released into the air. 

Jason was naive to have hoped that it was Crane’s classic Fear Gas - that would have been a merciful walk in the park compared to what he had planned for you. Betraying Jonathan Crane meant that Jason had to be truly punished. 

Jason turned to you, wrapping his arms around you, as if trying to shield you from the air itself - but it was too late. You began coughing and struggling to breathe, and Jason looked on with confusion as his chest twisted with guilt. 

With his helmet on, he felt nothing. For the first few moments, he didn’t even understand what was going on as you gasped for air, struggling to form a word as you choked on each breath. Jason had no clue what the substance was or how he could fix it, looking on in horror as thick fog clouded around your ankles - your eyes bulging out of your head as you struggled for oxygen. 

“Y/N?” Jason gasped, holding you by both shoulders as you became weaker and leaned on him. “Y/N?” 

You couldn’t answer him. 

You continued to wheeze, your breath hitching against your throat harshly. As the fog reached up to touch your face, it left angry, blistering marks in your skin. Unlike Jason, you had no armor to protect yourself - and somehow, Crane had turned the air itself acidic. Your eyes became wrecked with bloody red streaks and your face swelled as you continued to choke. 

Jason’s insides screamed, but he felt too still. 

As more of the fog touched you, some of the marks on your neck and your cheek blistered more and opened up, bleeding out pinkish bubbling puss as Jason continued to hold you - he didn’t know what else to do. 

All he could do was hold you. 

A harsh foam seeped out of your mouth as you choked on your last half-breath, and Jason felt a stinging pain consuming him - he wasn’t sure if it was the acidic fog finally breaching through his clothing, or the biting pain of having you limp in his arms - dead, as he huddled there on the floor. 

“Come on.” Jason wept, steaming up the inside of his helmet as he recycled back his own breath now. He reached up to your cheek, accidentally skimming off a layer of your marred skin with his gloved thumb as he tried to wipe away some of the teary blood that had leaked from your eyes. “Come on, Y/N. Wake up.” 

Jason simply wept. And he held you. 

As he looked at the camera feed, Crane smiled. 

“This is what happens when you don’t play by the rules, Red.”

...

A/N: SOOOO obviously this ending leaves us with a lot of questions - did Jason survive? I think this can be interpreted one of two ways: one, Jason did live. He managed to escape somehow, and he had scars all over his body from the acidic fog, and he enacted a very vicious, bloody, torturous revenge on Crane before going into hiding forever (or before using Red Hood to give actual justice to innocent people who needed it, his scars always a reminder of who he lost). Or - he sat there in shock and eventually choked to death as well. Or he pulled the whole 'my life is not worth living anymore' thing and just took off his helmet on purpose. So you can imagine that either of those things happened next.

Also, if you didn't catch it (or, if you're not a Saw person) - this situation was heavily inspired by the final plot twist trap in Saw X. I love the acidic fog, and I feel like Crane could be a trap guy. The Titans version of Crane could be good friends with John, imo.

Also, if you enjoyed this fic, check out my DC Titans Masterlist for more of my other fics!! And please consider reblogging and commenting on this fic to tell me what you liked about it.

#sundrop writes #jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd x gender neutral reader #jason todd x gn!reader #titans fanfiction #dc titans #titans x reader #dc titans fanfiction

[beekeeperspicnic]

The Case of the Rose Tattoo

If you fancy a oozing-with-love-for-the-stories Sherlock Holmes point and click adventure and you don't want to wait a year or more for me to complete the Beekeeper's Picnic, might I suggest 30 year old obscure classic The Rose Tattoo?

I spent this evening playing around in this game and I'm in love, I think it's instantly become my favourite Sherlock Holmes game.

I've always thought that if I was writing a proper Sherlock Holmes mystery game, I would find some way for Holmes to be indisposed so that the player could play Watson acting in his stead, at least for part of the game. I feel like playing as Watson is so much more satisfying - he's able to be fallible, and we can join him in wanting to impress Holmes.

This game comes up with the BEST reason for Holmes to be out of action because it also sets the stakes very high - the Diogenes Club has gone up in flames and Mycroft is on death's door. Holmes immediately locks himself up in his bedroom in terrible grief, and it's up to Watson (and the player!) to pull him out of it by beginning to piece together what has actually happened.

The game uses actual actors in front of green screens for all the characters, which looks a little odd sometimes but it does mean they are expressive and grounded.

The voice acting generally seems good, although sometimes I think the quality of the dialogue surpases it. There is lovely a moment where Holmes laments that freak accidents seem awfully unreal until one happens to someone you know. His distress is palpable in his words, but not quite carried through to his voice.

The dialogue and expository text is aboslutely steller, though, so having voice acting to match is a tall order. It often has a very very dry sense of humour, and nails the 1890s parlance.

Also honestly I think I just love the Mycroft whump and Holmes being all 3 Garridebs about it. It's so personal!

The caveat is that this is a game from the era when you were expected to sit down with a notebook, with no objectives or tutorials or prompts. It also seems to rely on you spotting very tiny details and doing a bit of pixel-hunting. I have a feeling that completing it would take a long time, and a lot of brain-power!

You can download it from Archive.org, and I recommend playing it with the ScummVM emulator.

#sherlock holmes #the rose tattoo #point and click #point and click games #sherlock holmes games #retro gaming #90s gaming

[bokettochild]

Febuwhump Day 18

@nancyheart11 you asked me for a Twilight Whump for this one, so I did my best! He wasn't talking, but it's a little tastier with the spice of another perspective >:)

I hope you enjoy!

Rating: Gen

Wordcount:

Summary: They talked about wandering off alone, but that doesn't exactly stop certain people (AKA Twilight) from not doing it again. Maybe Warriors is taking it too personally, but Mask's pup is giving him a headache. He just wants all his little brothers safe in one place, is that too much to ask?

(Note: I have not proof written this. My apologies, but half my keys aren't working, so typos are probably there.)

-

  They do not run off alone, they just don’t! It’s not so much a rule as something that everyone understands, so why in Hylia’s name is it still so hard for the others to actually do? Warriors resists the urge to hiss at himself; he is not Mask or Wild, he is not a feral little creature that can’t use his words, but by Hylia’s Wings does he wish he could get away with it sometimes! 

They’d talked about this! Not at length, and yes, his opinions had been very quickly dismissed in favor of discussing the ability of their enemy to shapeshift, but he’d expressed his disapproval with running off alone in the middle of a battle! 

But who really listens to him anyway? 

No, the captain stops in his tracks for a moment to shake off that thought, that’s not fair. Most of the other heroes listen. For Wind it’s second nature, and Time too, most days, listens without thinking about it. Even as an adult, the other respects his experience in leadership and knowledge of fighting and working with others. Four, even for his faults when it comes to actually working with and not simply around other people, still hears him out when he speaks. Sky and Hyrule both respect him for his title of knight and the work he’d put in to earn it, and even Legend, who despises soldiers, will respect his decisions and follow the plans he’s set. Yes, there's some disconnect, which is to be expected when working with a new team of people that aren’t accustomed to each other just yet, but they’re trying. Most of them are trying. 

Twilight and Wild are their own story. 

The captain’s teeth saw against each other as he ducks through the underbrush, following the faint trail left by big paws and the even bigger tracks of a moblin. How can a person be so determined to keep others in line and behaving, to keep others in the group safe and obeying the rules, and yet they themselves trod all over them? 

Granted, he is also currently separate from the group, wandering off alone, but he’s not the only one and everyone else knows what he’s doing. He’s tracking Twilight while the rest collect themselves and make camp. Wild had offered to do it, but after the last time, he just can’t trust the kid to actually come back; Wild’s proved where his loyalties lie, and it’s with the rancher, not their group. When asked to make the choice, they all know what it would be. 

He told the champion to stay. 

He doesn't know if he’ll be listened to, since that’s also the other point of struggle here, but he’s done all he can. He’s a good tracker, used to picking up the slightest sign of enemy activity, and his reasoning of being their current medic and thus the best choice in the case Twilight had gotten injured in some way, seems to be reason enough for most of the rest. There’s offers of course, to have someone go with him as backup, but looking over the tired men and boys in camp, he turns them all down. They need the rest, and time to recover from their own injuries and exhaustion. As a soldier, he’s been trained to push his limits, his exhaustion, his pain, his physical abilities, and ignore all barriers until his assignment is completed. The others may be heroes, ones who’ve faced odds that soldiers could never imagine, but they’re not likely to have experienced that sort of pressure and he wouldn’t want them to. 

They need their rest. He can get his once his duty is done. 

Now if only Twilight wouldn’t make it so hard by having wandered off to Nayru knows where! 

A hand drags through his hair, disrupting it, but it doesn’t matter. Yes, there’s a small voice that hisses to fix it, one that sounds a bit like Proxi, but these heroes care even less for how he looks on any given day than for what he says.  

Still being unfair, Link. They aren’t all bad. They’re good kids. 

Sure, they’d probably all take offence at being called kids but that’s what they are! The youngest are very young and even Time, their eldest, still looks to him through force of habit for guidance and aid. At most, he’d say the oldest most of them could be is twenty, early twenties for the rancher and skyloftian, but that’s still young enough to still be tripping over themselves in an effort to understand adulthood. They are, in his mind, still kids, and they’re mostly good ones, so he really can’t go lumping them all together as not giving a darn when they very much do. Not about his looks, thank Hylia, but about what he has to say? Most definitely. 

Again, it’s just Time’s pups who don’t. 

Goddesses, they take after their old man to an extreme level! It feels like just yesterday he was chasing down the little scamp, explaining the importance of comradery, of trust, of teamwork. Just yesterday, he was tilting brilliant blue eyes up to meet tired ones and asking, nearly begging, for the kid to please just give his way a chance. 

He sort of doubts such methods will work on his kid’s much older pup though.  

Twilight and Wild are similar in that they are stubborn, but they’re also much older than Mask had been, and neither is desperate for the stability the young boy had sought. They have Tie and each otehr, their own little bubble, separate from the rest of the heroes, and while both have an obvious respect for his skill, that’s about where their respect for him ends. They don’t look up to him, don’t admire him, don’t see him as anything more than another hero in their group, which is nice as far as not needing to babysit them goes. He’s glad that they don’t need him to keep an eye on them, that they’re stable enough mentally and in their perception of themselves that they don’t need someone else to support them, and if they do, they’ve already found that in each other. Still, having even the smallest of ways to get through to either of them would be nice. 

He’d thought that experience with the army would help connect him with the champion, that maybe a bond with Time could be something he could connect with the rancher about, but so far, no dice. 

His feet skid slightly on some leaves, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. Right, he needs to find Twilight. He can worry about driving home the idea of not running off alone when he’s sure the other is still alive. Granted, they didn’t see the black lizalfoes, or anything they think might have been another form of the beast, in this last battle, but it doesn’t take the most powerful of monsters to lay a hero low, especially if they don’t have anyone to watch their backs. 

The paw prints change to boot prints with the same seamlessness as they’d become paws at the beginning of the trail, and blood, crimson not black, spatters on the ground in an arc that indicates a swinging blade right where the moblin’s feet shift into a spin to face its pursuer. The trail of blood falls to the left of the trail, which means it could be delt by the left-handed hero or by the opposing monster, but considering the sudden turn, his money is on the rancher being the injured party here. 

By habit, his hand falls to his bag, assuring himself he’s got his med kit close at hand. 

By the three, these boys could save themselves so much pain if they just covered each others’ asses! Next time they get to the ranch or any place where they can stop for a little, he’s asking Time to help him arrange a training session for these kids. Maybe with their unofficial leader’s support, he can even get the two pups in on the session. As is, he’s sure Wind and four will be willing, and Sky will most definitely be his most valuable asset in teaching them. Good grief, whatever the Knights Academy on Skyloft is teaching, they're doing a great job, because that boy melds seamlessly in with whomever is closest to him!  

That may or may not be why he keeps close to the skyloftian, but who can blame him for wanting the assurance of having someone to watch his back when he’s so busy trying to keep an eye on all the others all the time? 

Twilight could have used the same, and blood specks along the trail as he goes. The steps become distorted, shuffling over each other in what’s clearly a break from the chase to fight. Here though, seven or eight paces from the initial blood spatter, more footprints join the mix. A bokoblin- no, two of them. The rancher’s steps disappear for a short moment, but with some looking around he finds them again. A flip or a throw landed him behind his foe, but he’s pushed back, heels dragging as they shuffle backwards into the woods as the enemy presses forwards against him. 

More tracks join the mix; an ambush. 

He grits his teeth, pushing forwards, ignoring, for the most part, the trail of the monsters in favor of following boot prints that press heavily to the dirt at the heel and toe, running, now pursued rather than the pursuer. The rancher will have known to try and limit the area of approach from his foes by darting into the trees. At best, he’d have circled around to pick them off from behind, but the prints don’t indicate as much. The speed of the different monster types will change have changed the tides of the fight though, with the bokoblins moving faster, prints fading out entirely as they likely fell and faded to miasma, leaving behind a moblin trail that continues, joined by more of its kind. He’d estimate at least three, maybe five of the creatures.  

Not great odds for one already injured rancher. 

He picks up his own pace. There’s no sounds of battle ahead or anywhere close by, not that he can hear. Granted, cannon fire in the war has definitely damaged his hearing enough that he could just be missing it, but he chooses to believe that there’s nothing, if only in the hope that Twilight will somehow be headed back along the trail towards him already, instead of being even further out, still in the middle of a fight. 

He doesn’t stumble across the rancher walking along the path though. No, he follows the fight, the footprints, trailing through the trees until there’s nowhere else to go. A wall of earth, steep enough to be a struggle to climb for anyone currently being chased, rises up and the footprints spin about to face those following after. He doesn’t keep track after that though, because the moment he sees fur and brass armor that catches the fading light, he knows his search is done. 

“There you are, rancher.” 

The urge to steal Time’s thunder and call the other man a pup- not with the affection of the now older man but with all the ire of its original connotation among his own people, is strong, but he resists. That would be considered out of line without context, and he doubts Twilight even knows the source of the nickname he so values from his mentor. 

Knowing it means a young person who’s annoying but not yet unbearable, yet, would probably kill some of that magic. 

So, he bites his tongue, keeps his impulses to himself, and moves to the side of the younger man, who’s currently slumped against a tree, breath strained but still there as dark eyes, a shade or so darker than Time’s own, flutter slightly with an effort to stay open. 

“Cap’n?” 

Darker or not, there’s definitely a lot of Time- of Mask, in the rancher’s face, and it makes staying mad with him a bit of a challenge when he’s looking so pathetic. “Got yourself in quite the situation, haven’t you,” he hums, kneeling at the younger’s side and taking his time with a once over. The rancher’s tunic has taken damage, but his concern is where crimson leaks from the tears, not where blades have slashed through only to be halted by chain mail. Yes, the bruising won’t be fun, but his concern is something he can fix, anything that Twilight will actually need help with. 

There’s a wince from the other. “Not my intent.” 

“Never is,” he unclips the bag from his belt, eyes falling on a nasty looking gash just below the cut off of the chainmail’s sleeves. There are some light scratches over browned features and an injury to the leg that leaks slowly into the earth below, but the rancher’s armor looks to have done its job well.  

“The others?” 

“Fine.” He keeps his attention on slipping the bracer from his brother’s arm, on unbuckling and sliding away the leather, the underlying glove, and then rolling up the sleeve to get at the injury he needs to treat. Wound care fills his mind, not answers, not talking. That can come once he’s assured that the other is alright. Much as the man drives him mad, he’s still Time’s kid, and still a fellow hero, still a brother, still someone who doesn’t deserve to suffer just because he’s particularly good at being stupid and reckless. 

“Wild?” 

“Fine.” He repeats, sucking in his cheeks as he sees the damage done without fabric blocking the way. Claws do so much more damage than blades, and the chances of infection are higher too. Not as much as with bites, but it’s still not preferrable. 

“The kids?” 

He huffs, turning to grab for his kit, looking for anything he might have to quickly clean the wound. “You’d know if you didn’t run away mid battle.” 

Hurt crosses sloping features briefly, not for the prodding at the wound site, but from his sharp tongue. Regret stirs briefly at his heart, but like his ire, he pushes it down to keep his head clear and his mind focused on his work as their team’s current medic. 

“Yer upset.” 

The urge to tell the kid ‘no shit’ is very strong, but he bottles up that too. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the wound, on wiping it down and looking for anything that might have gotten into the cut.  

Twilight’s ears flick back, not appreciating having his words ignored. If there’s one thing the rancher is accustomed to, it’s answers when he speaks. Wild always answers, Time too even if it’s not verbal, and the younger ones always respond to. Being met with silence, both verbally and in body language, must be new to him. “Did somethin’ happen?” And when he still doesn't answer, “Wars, what’s goin’ on?” 

“They’re fine, now hush.” It’s a deep cut. Not as bad as the axe wound, but not light by any means either, and it will need stitches. He keeps his needles in a bottle, clean and ready for use, for this reason. Mask used to fuss that it was a waste of a good bottle, and the thought lightens his heart just slightly as he pulls it out and grabs the needed supplies to close the wound in the rancher’s arm.  

“No, Wars-” there’s a straining from the body beneath his hands, but Twilight doesn’t successfully pull himself up, and his face flashes white for a moment before he slumps again. It seems the mighty rancher has spent all his strength in fighting alone, nothing left to use to so much as sit up by himself. 

“Stay still,” he sighs, pushing down, entirely unnecessarily, against a shoulder. It’s for the sake of the man’s pride, he tells himself, to pretend to play along that twilight can get up on his own right now. “Let me work.” 

Work and bottle up his frustrations enough that he can talk afterwards. 

Twilight, however, has no such intentions of likewise staying silent. “Captain, what’s goin’ on?” 

“I said stay still.” 

“Are they hurt?” Blue eyes bleed worry, the same desperation his mentor used to let slip, sometimes still does when it’s his pup in trouble or hurt. “What happened?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Why are you actin’ like this then?” 

The urge to growl again rises, and again he shoves it down with pursed lips and clenched teeth, focusing his energy on starting the stitches and hoping the pain of them will be enough to distract the younger man from his line of questioning. It doesn’t work though. 

“Wars?” 

“Twilight,” his voice snaps without his allowing it, eyes flicking up to meet midnight blue, “I’m trying to focus. Stitches aren’t easy, believe it or not.” 

They’re familiar and he’s done more stitches in his life through human flesh and zora scales than his baby sisters have in their needlework projects that Maither gives them. He won’t admit that though, not if it gives him an out from having to talk. Honestly, some days, he really misses having Proxi around to speak for him when he’s stressed. She was always much better at that sort of thing than he was. 

Twilight falls quiet at his words though, but he still feels those eyes fixed on him, searching his face even as their gaze is broken with a flinch or a huff of pain as the needle pressed through flesh and pulls the two edges of the cut together. He has to stop a few times to dab away blood and clear the area for the next stitch, but he’s quick about his work. In and out, twisting the thread together to close the wound, moving on to the next stitch and watching as the flesh pulls together again over where blood leaks out. 

He's done before he’s ready to talk again, but bandaging is something they’ve all done, and he can’t say that actually takes so much focus as to stop him talking, and Twilight knows it, already pressing again with the questions. “Wars-” 

A scoff escapes, puffing hair out of his eyes to clear them, even though having it to hide behind would be much more preferable. “You really are Time’s pup, aren’tcha?” 

A tick. “What does that mean?” 

He ties off the ends of the linen wrap, tight enough to hold but not so much as to cut off circulation. “You’re a worrier and a fuss pot.” 

Heavy brows crease in answer, but Twilight doesn’t actually have a foot to stand on when it comes to opposing his words. Instead, the rancher just stares at him, waiting until Warriors turns his attention to the injured leg, arm finished. 

It’s only once he’s gotten a start on treating the cut there (this time from a blade) that the rancher’s voice rises again, guarded and wary. “You’re mad at me,” 

He doesn’t answer. 

Rather than guess why, Twilight pushes ahead. “I couldn’t let that moblin escape. We don’t know what’s out here, and letting it terrorize a village jist wouldn’t do. You know that, Wars.” When there’s no answer though, the country accent keeps rolling, pitching slightly, straining. “There was a whole ‘nother camp out here, one that might have attacked us in the night!” And then, when still no answer sounds from his lips, “You would have done the same.” 

“I would not.” He clips, snipping his thread and briefly glancing over at wide eyes. “I would have attended to my men and then pursued the enemy when we, as a team, were capable of doing so Wandering off on my own is what nearly lost us the war. So, as a rule, I won’t be doing that again unless I absolutely must.”  

That shuts the rancher up, recognition dawning in midnight eyes that falter and fall as he turns his attention back to tending wounds.  

There’s no more pushing done by either party, and it’s quiet as he works save the hisses and hitches of the younger man’s breath in pain as stitches are laid and bandages wrapped. That done though, the quite is almost overwhelming, even to him, and he finds himself sighing at it, crouching before his pup’s pup and resisting, with a lot of effort, the urge to hook a finger under the other's chin and lift that gaze to meet his own, like he’d done with his own kid what feels like only yesterday. Instead, he keeps his hands to himself, but gentles his gaze all the same. It’s not that hard, not when faced with familiar features drawn up in a soft scowl that, were it Mask, he’d teasingly call a pout. “I’m not mad,” a disbelieving look meets his own at the words, but he pushes his tone a bit firmer with the next ones. “I’m frustrated, but we can work over that later, preferably after we’ve all had dinner and some rest. For now, we should head back to the others, before your cub starts thinking we’ve dropped off the face of the world or something.” 

A furrow forms between dark brows, too sharp teeth, wolf teeth he muses to himself, gnawing at the other's cheek lining. It’s a bad habit, and he’s sure the man knows it, but he doesn’t correct it. That’s not his place. 

He can guess what’s troubling Twilight though. “Can you stand?” 

A huff, a little smile that’s flustered enough he can guess the answer. “Not really.” 

He knew it. He doesn’t hold it against the other though, instead, shifting to kneeling at the man’s side, shuffling about as he must before giving a waring of his intent. “I’ll carry you then.” 

Alarm flashes clear as day over the rancher’s face. “Cap, I don’t-” 

“I’m stronger than I look,” he assures, although it doesn’t seem to do any good. No doubt, twilight’s staring at his slighter frame and remembering his own bulk, but honestly, he’d served for years in the army. If he couldn’t haul an injured soldier any distance, he wouldn’t be worth the rupees he earns. 

Getting Twilight up on his back with no help from the weakened rancher or anyone else is a bit of a mess, and there’s some slipping and struggle which the rancher no doubt sees as proof that this is no good, but despite protests, he keeps at it until the other is slung over his back. Twilight is heavy, much more so than the other boys would be, but it’s not his first time hauling an Ordonian to safety, and the bulk of his brother just means he moves a bit slower than he would otherwise. 

Twilight’s grip around his neck is weaker than is ideal, but in the long run, it’s probably better that way, because it means his breath doesn't get cut off as he heads back to camp. 

Like he said, once they’re there, when they’ve had something to eat, and probably after the rancher downs a potion from his cub’s bag, they’ll need to talk. This time, he will not accept having them change the subject or redirect. This time they will discuss going off alone. 

After though. After they’ve had time to catch their breath. And he supposes, shaking his head, after Twilight wakes up again from the doze he’s apparently fallen into. 

Good grief, the man even snores as loud as his mentor! 

#asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu warriors #lu twilight #febuwhump2024 #febuwhump #ketto writes #dad warriors #he is not ready to be a grandpa guys #but is very weak to the puppy children in this group #he will not admit it #but he is #yes i am referencing the update like a madwoman #it's free warriors and twi angst though! #can you blame me?

[jamiesfootball]

29 for the whump dialogue prompt perhaps?

"Tell me where it hurts, and be specific."

He doesn't know how it went wrong so fast. He never fucking knows.

"Get him out! Get him out of here right the fuck now!"

He never knew how it was that his dad could ruin everything as quick as upending a box, shaking out the bits of Jamie - smacking the box for good measure to knock out all the stubbornly clinging fists - until he was nothing better than something his dad went and spilled on the floor. A fucking pile of Legos for people to dodge around less the sharp pieces of him prick the the soft padding beneath their feet.

"Everybody, shut up! Jamie, Jamie, bruv, breathe. Breathe. In and out like. Can you do that? Does it hurt?"

It felt like being underwater, it did; or like they were in an indoor pool. Sweat all dried until it was cold and clammy. Everything echoed, a public's worth of voices shouting to be heard over each other ("What did you hold me back for?!" "Me?! You were right there!") while the walls bounced everything back, and over the din came Colin's voice, both muffled and clear- "I heard something snap."

Dr. Sharon was going to be so disappointed with Jamie. Jamie was going to walk back into her office with the crumpled up portions of himself bundled in his arms, and she was going to frown, polite and quiet and judging while Jamie lined up all the pieces in front of her, trying to explain to her what he'd done wrong and begging her to show him how to make it better.

"Beard's got it from here. Him and the boys in security 'll figure it out. Now, how's our- is that blood?"

Because he was a coward, he'd serve the best parts of himself first. The chunk of him that hadn't meant to let any of it happen. The lump that understood how his presence on the pitch led to the team losing. The slice of him that had honestly, stupidly thought his Dad would be so caught up in his own team winning that Jamie's own garbage performance would go unnoticed (amateur thinking to go with amateur playing). The ration of him that hadn't been rational at all - had opened his mouth to argue when he knew better, didn't he, lad? Should know better by now. He hadn't been given the signal. Couldn't be trusted with his own words - had to wait for someone to tell him it was alright, otherwise look what he'd get?

"Tartt? Are you listening?"

He'd show Dr. Sharon the slab of him that wanted to do right by the team, and she'd tilt her head to the side and remark that the slab looked a bit spoiled now, didn't it?

Something brushes his shoulder, a touch so lacking in violence it doesn't register as real.

"Come on. Jamie. You need to let us get a look at you. We need to know where you're hurt."

He never fucking knows.

Something strong grips the back of his neck. There's nothing left of Jamie now; just bundles of raw nerve endings telling him run and hide and the dislocated parts of his body reporting back that they're not capable of either right now. His lungs aren't working right, and there's no running or hiding anymore - there's just smaller. Tugging close the pieces of himself - the broken tiles of himself - and sweeping them close in his arms where they're less likely to get shattered any further. There's retreating, dropping deep into the recess of his head, anything to spare himself from witnessing the ugly spectacle he's made.

The grip on his neck disregards what he wants. Cups the delicate space below his jaw between two hands. Examines him while Jamie flutters in his grasp like a moth avoiding the light.

"Jamie, this is serious. Tell me where it hurts, and be specific. We need to know if we need to get you to hospital."

Point to any piece of him, where his dad's gone and left him on the ground.

"Fuck it, he’s not answering. Somebody get the medics."

#whump prompt #ask box is always open #jamie tartt #fuck jamie's dad #injury #abuse cw #my fic

[flowercrowngods]

dio. 🤍

ao3 • writing tag • time travel au tag (stories & snippets) steddie drabbles & microfics ☕️ ko-fi vibes only. mostly steddie, sometimes clarkson.

🌷 WIPs & multi-chaptered stories

➤ i’ll try. i’ll try. (but i couldn’t be better) WIP M | 74k | 12/? | time travel au, angst, steve whump Sent back to 1983, Steve tries to save his friends from everything that's coming and takes on the battle against the Upside Down alone with El by his side.

➤ nice to meet you, where you been? T | 12k | 3/3 | tattoo shop au, pure fluff, trans eddie Chrissy sends Eddie to check out a tattoo shop. Little does he know it belongs to Steve Harrington, or that they’ll both be falling for each other at lightning

➤ untitled knight!Steve / bard!Eddie WIP T | 10k | 2/? | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | ... regency au (freeform), enemies to lovers Eddie is a bard of great renown who returns to Hawkins ready and willing to spite the people who cast him out all his life. He is in search of his muse: the knight Dustin has been writing to him about who has inspired his greatest ballads and poems. Dustin’s Sir Steve is nowhere to be found, but Lord Harrington seems to hold a grudge against Eddie and he wants to find out why.

➤ see the stars shining through the cracks of my broken heart | steddie week fic T | 14.7k | 3/3 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 in which Eddie and Chrissy get engaged and Steve is heartbroken. yearning ensues. a story about love requited and unrequited, breaking and healing, and hope (steddie & buckingham)

➤ shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides WIP M | 5.8k | 2/7 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | ... A steddie ghost story. Steve Harrington, disgraced and disowned by his father for moral insanity, has been haunted by eerie dreams of a mysterious lighthouse ever since he was a little boy. His lighthouse quickly turns from recurring night terror to gruesome reality when his superior delegates him to fix the broken light and be the new keeper. But he soon finds out that it is he who is being kept.

➤ tales of blue | who did this to you? WIP M | 13k | 3/4 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | Eddie POV, pre-s4, injured Steve, hurt/comfort One summer's day in 1985, Eddie finds a very injured Steve in the boathouse, and even though he doesn't want the kind of trouble that this might bring, he can't just leave him there. So, scared though he is, he takes Steve to the one person he trusts to always make everything better.

➤ untitled kas!eddie / steve WIP M | 5.3k | 1/? | tumblr: part 1 | post-canon, hurt/comfort, enemies steddie The extent of his brain injuries and the intensity of his migraines is something Steve has been keeping secret from everyone. When he goes to Kas to let him feed, however, the sudden blood loss gives him a migraine. Kas decides to take care of him.

one shots & ficlets under the cut (ao3) -> ao3 link in the tumblr fic post

🌷 fluff & floaty

floor time fic (ao3) Eddie POV, falling in love, fluff, neurodivergent steddie

eddie likes Good Words (ao3) Steve POV, stablished relationship, neurodivergent steddie, echolalia

rambly Steve in love Eddie POV, established relationship, love confession

soft insomniacs (ao3) Eddie POV, short trans Eddie, soft Steve, bickering, established relationship

3 am phone call (ao3) Steve POV, soft, pre-relationship

car ride in love Eddie POV, floaty, boys in love, Andante, Andante

stargazing Steve POV, floaty & soft, boys in love

sick fic Eddie POV, domestic fluff & silliness, steve is sick, eddie is in love

first kiss Eddie POV, floaty, boys in love

loving eddie munson (is a full body experience) (ao3) Steve POV, floaty, boys in love, introspection, love confessions

floaty steddie date hours Eddie POV, established relationship, date night, marriage proposals, softness, dancing in the rain

sick fic 2 (woollen bat hat) Eddie POV, sick!Steve, soft boyfriends in love, cuddling, Eddie reads Momo to Steve

🌷 yearning

✨yearning hours (a-side) (ao3) Eddie POV, heart-wrenching yearning, light imagery, (mis)communication, vulnerability, first kiss

✨yearning hours (b-side) (ao3) Steve POV, insecurity, trauma, darkness imagery, vulnerability, first kiss

✨yearning hours (bonus track) (ao3) Eddie POV, light imagery, vulnerability, getting together

summer nights were made for steve (ao3) Eddie POV, yearning, getting together, the stars are pretty but steve is prettier

✨yearning hours (hidden track) (ao3) Steve POV, floaty music, getting together, sudden love confession, pining, A Flock of Seagulls

✨ high yearning make-out fic (smutty) (ao3) Eddie POV, recreational drug use, dry humping, coming in pants, so much yearning, so much kissing, spicy six as friends

🌷 hurt/comfort

insomniac eddie & human weighted blanket steve Eddie POV, developing relationship, comfort

Eddie being inexperienced at relationships Eddie POV, established relationship, dramatic eddie, boys in love, cuddles

spiralling writer eddie Eddie POV, established relationship, comfort, emotionally intelligent steve

‘You’d be a great dad’ Eddie POV, established relationship, insecure Eddie, comfort

steve has seizures (ao3) Steve POV, angst, self-isolation, seizures, post-s3, found family, background steddie

nonverbal steve gets a hug (ao3) Steve POV, established steddie, nonverbal steve, caring eddie, touch starved steve

sensory overload steddie Steve POV, soft boys, building relationship, nonverbal steve, touch-averse eddie, floor time as the cure

🌷 angst & hurt/no comfort

spiralling steve Steve POV, traumatised steve, nonverbal steve, established steddie, eventual comfort

breakup Steve POV, steve is not okay, breaking up

My Boy Steve POV, major character death, post-s4, inspired by My Girl funeral scene

memory wipe musings Steve POV, post-canon, established relationship, breakup-ish

post-breakup steddie Steve POV, a follow-up for @steddieas-shegoes prompt-fill | years after breaking up with steve eddie writes him a letter and they talk, mentions of drug abuse and rehab, starting over, 2nd chances (it's hopeful but it's kinda really sad)

knightmærs Eddie POV, prince!steve, traitor!eddie, lovers to enemies who are still lovers but it's intrigue, brainwashing, torture, eddie whump, manipulation, open ending, violence & threats of death

🌷 smut(ish)

steve wants to hear eddie Eddie POV, established relationship, anal sex

sexytimes in a tent Steve POV, trying not to get caught, established relationship, hand jobs

sub!kas eddie (drabble) (tag for more) Steve POV, good boy kas, soft dom steve

school reunion sex Eddie POV, chubby!steve, dom-ish top steve, belly kink, light degradation kink, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, reunion sex, good boy eddie

misc. & gen

steve and nancy finally have A Talk Steve POV, apologies, communicating like adults, making up, platonic stancy

steve and mike coming out to each other (ao3) Steve POV, bisexual lighting, established background steddie, mike & steve sibling relationship

why'd you jump? (ao3) conversation at the quarry, coming out (kinda), working through trauma together, steve & mike sibling relationship, big brother Steve | cw: could read as suicidal tendencies or intrusive thoughts

a study in grief: steve and mike talking about barb (ao3) Steve POV, Barb's death anniversary, Barb was Mike's friend, grief, mourning, big brother Steve, Mike character study

stobin arsonist tendencies (drabble) Steve POV, robin wants to burn down steve's car and house, fucked up platonic besties, neurodivergent swag

🌷 i'll try-verse (time travel au) oneshots

steve takes el to see her first meteor shower

el calls steve magic

eddie finds nonverbal steve

tina's party steddie hug

steve meets wayne

clarkson fics

meet-sweet | kids duty (ao3) clarkson origin post with @unclewaynemunson. Wayne POV, first meeting, slow burn, pre-relationship, soft

coursework, caffeine and cuddles (ao3) teacher student!steve, domestic fluff, established clarkson & steddie, found family

if i fell in love with you (ao3) Scott POV, soft, established relationship, domestic fluff, If I Fell

home. (ao3) Scott POV, comfort, floaty, established relationship, after-school car ride, domesticity

quiet. (ao3) Scott POV, hurt/comfort, domesticity, established relationship, wayne doesn’t like how quiet scott’s house gets

don’t let go (i won’t) (ao3) Scott POV, hurt/comfort, found family, post-s4, shared trauma, steddie, established relationship, wayne gets a bad flashback and scott calls steddie for help

ronance fics

snow angels for @thefreakandthehair's spicy six winter fic challenge, Nancy POV, pining, first kiss, getting together

yearning hours (ao3) Nancy POV, pining, yearning, realisations, pre-relationship, semi-floaty

#steddie #clarkson #flowercrowngods masterlist #masterlist #all my fics are just vibes tbh #there are some misc ficlets in the writing tag still but eh these are the ones i think are okay

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🦷 for…literally anyone. Go crazy with this

CW: BBU, some mouth whumpiness although the whump is emotional, medical whump

"Okay, here we go. Now, I'm going to insert this into your mouth, and you're going to bite down, as evenly as you can, and hold it until I say. Got it?"

Oskar looks at the little plastic tray in Arvid's hand as though the spongy, grayish thing inside of it is something alive that might bite him at any second. "Why?"

"I want to make a mold of your teeth."

Oskar shifts rapidly backwards in the exam chair in Arvid's 'medical room', also known as the half of his basement space he doesn't sleep in. One wrist brushes against the open leather buckles that can be used to restrain patients and he flinches violently away from it, face going suddenly white except for two red spots in his cheeks. "But-"

Arvid closes his eyes, taking a breath. "Oskar. Just do it."

Oskar shakes his head, curling his knees up to his chest and sliding his arms around his legs. His mouth opens and closes a few times on a word that never seems to quite make its way out. "I-... I don't want to," He whispers, hiding the bottom half of his face behind his knees, only his dark eyes showing, staring, hurt, at Arvid. "I don't want to do that. Please, Arvid, I-I don't, I don't want to-"

"Oskar," Arvid says, keeping his voice calm only with difficulty. This is irritating. "

Oskar's eyes drop and he stares down at the stirrups that hang off the end on long metal poles, where patients can slide their feet and hold their legs open. If possible, he blanches even further, and Arvid fights down his annoyance at the delay. "I have Samael coming in in like half an hour for bloodwork, we need to get this done before she gets here."

Oskar curls himself up even more tightly, closing his eyes and giving his head one more weak shake. "Please," He whispers. "I don't want to."

"Oskar. It is just to get a teeth mold! This is completely normal!" He thinks. Actually, Arvid doesn't have much of a comparison for normal, but it's normal for the work he does, anyway. He has molds of the mouths of all of the archangels and most of the other employees of the organization, too. He has molds of his own teeth, damn it. "I'm tired of you wasting my time with this, so just... fucking do as I say. You're my pet, aren't you?"

Oskar's breaths are coming shallowly, and he doesn't open his eyes. "Yes," He whispers. "I am." One of his hands moves to touch the collar around his neck, as if reminding himself. "I, I am yours."

"Right. So just. So just do the thing, so we can get it done and I can go back to doing my actual job before Samael shows up and wonders why nothing's ready for her..." He trails off as he hears a strange noise, like a clicking, and tilts his head. His eyes trail downward, until he realizes... it's the chair rattling in place.

Oskar is shaking so hard the exam chair is shaking, too.

"... hey." Arvid looks down at the molding clay in the dental tray - it'll dry out and be more or less useless if this takes much longer - and then, with a sigh, he sets it back down on the little metal rolling table and reaches out, putting one hand on either side of Oskar's face. "Talk to me. What's wrong with this? The tray, the... the chair? Is that it?"

Oskar hesitates, then opens his eyes again, looking up at Arvid without raising his chin. "... both."

"Okay... uh. What the fuck is wrong with them?" The chair is... just a chair. Arvid had gotten it at an insanely low price some years back during a private estate sale he decided not to look too closely into - but Oskar is clearly terrified of the damn thing. He's not even restrained - Arvid only uses those when one of the archangels is violent or hallucinating.

"Clinic c-chair." Oskar's teeth click together from his trembling. His eyes are glimmering in the lights with tears that haven't fallen yet. "The, the mold for a-... a gag, I don't... I don't want to have a gag here, Arvid. I don't-... I don't want to-"

"What? It's-... it's not for a gag."

Oskar swallows hard, licking at his lips. "It's... not?"

"No... no. Jesus Christ, Oskar, it's for if you get hurt and lose a tooth or something, so we can get you a good screw-in tooth and shit. I was thinking the other day about how you've ended up going out on fieldwork with me twice, plus you've been climbing the tree in the yard, and just in case, we should have shit ready to go for your records. That's all."

Oskar glances sidelong at the little plastic tray, then back at him. His lips press into a thin line, the skin paling at the pressure, before he tries to talk again. "I don't... want anything in m-my mouth, Arvid. Please-... I, I can't. Please, please don't make me. Please."

Arvid inhales. He knows if he checks his phone that time is running out, Samael's going to walk in any fucking second. "Oskar. We are going to do this and we are going to do this now. Open your fucking mouth. I am ordering you, as your owner, to open your mouth."

The look of open, honest pain and fear on Oskar's face sends a twist of some strange unpleasant chill through Arvid's chest, but he at least slowly nods and - jaw trembling - opens his mouth wide for Arvid to slide in the tray, then bites gently down. Sounds come, unbidden, from his throat - muffled whines that he doesn't even seem fully conscious of. Arvid can all but see his pulse racing in the spot just under his jaw. His eyes lock on Arvid's face and stay there.

"Good boy," Arvid soothes. Usually praise is a one-way ticket to fixing Oskar's bad moods, but this time it just seems to bounce right off him. The tears finally fall, running in clear trails over his cheekbones. Arvid wipes them away with his thumb and Oskar flinches, minutely, never quite pulling away. "It's all right. It's all right. Just a few more seconds..."

He takes the little handle on the tray, murmurs for Oskar to open carefully and slowly, and pulls it out to set it aside and get the next one ready for the bottom teeth. Oskar's trembling never stops, the chair rattling lightly, the pet's fingers dug into the padding until his knuckles are pure white.

Arvid finishes the second tray, and as soon as he removes it and says a soft all done, you were very good, Oskar uncurls, bolts off the chair, and races past the curtain that separates the two halves of Arvid's life. His feet slap on the concrete floor and Arvid watches him go, sighing.

He hears Oskar climb into the bed, the gentle squeak of the springs in the mattress as he buries himself under blankets and probably curls right back up into the little ball likes that. Muffled sobs are just barely audible, and Arvid's teeth itch to go ask him to stop that shit, it's annoying and he has shit to do today, he can't waste his time comforting Oskar's every fear.

But... he caused the fear.

Arvid hesitates, feeling that strange unpleasant twist again.

It's guilt.

He inhales, looking over at the curtain. "Oskar..." He trails off. He should just... go over there and apologize, hold him for a while, let him talk about it or something. It'd be the kind thing to do, and Oskar is the best thing he has in his life these days.

There's a harsh, loud sniff. "Yes?" Oskar's voice is thick and heavy with his tears.

"Listen, I just-" The door to the basement opens and Samael, a woman who seems created entirely in shades of black and slightly less black, steps inside. Arvid swallows the rest of his sentence.

The sounds of Oskar's fear stop - muffled even more thoroughly as he must hear Samael enter, too.

"Am I early?" Sam asks, eyebrows raising. The piercing in one glints in the flat white light of the exam side of the room. "Where's your little creature, isn't he around you all the time these days?"

"He's... busy," Arvid says. "Just give me a second to get the vials ready for you."

"Busy? Doing what?" Sam hops up onto the exam table, even swinging her legs a little. She's maybe five foot three on a good day, but Arvid knows damn well she can snap necks with her thighs alone and is one of the best in the business. "What do pets even do?"

Arvid ignores her. He walks over to peek around the curtain, faintly smiling as he sees the very Oskar-shaped lump on the bed, a hint of his hair showing on the pillow.

"We'll talk about it later," He says, pitching his voice low. "Okay?"

There's a rustle as Oskar shifts around under the blankets he's hidden himself in. He peeks out, just a bit of hair and pale forehead and huge eyes. "Yes, sir," He says, voice weak.

Arvid sighs. Oh, good. He's sir again. Great.

Sometimes, this shit is harder than he thought it would be.

#whump #arvid olsen hates the sun #oskar #bbu #box boy universe #box boy #medical whump #mouth whump #not really but #emotional whump #based around the mouth and bad memories so #arvid is sometimes an asshole

[helenvader]

Get to know your fic writer!

I have emerged from my writing hiatus, but I'm horribly stuck, so this game might be refreshing. :) I am not the author, I stumbled across it and told myself why not.

Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

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Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

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Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up

Link your three favorite fics right now

how does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

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What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

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#ask games #get to know your writer

[fairy-writes]

im not sure if its still open but please can i get an order of large black coffee with spice for Louis James Moriarty? thank you so, so much!!!

NEEDLEPOINT STITCHES

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Prompt: Whump Victorian era imagine with Louis from MTP

Word Count: 0.6k

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Louis James Moriarty x Reader

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader

Notes: This is a female reader as opposed to my typical gn one :)

I’M SOFT FOR LOVERS HELPING EACH OTHER WITH THEIR INJURIES

TW for stitches and mild blood :)

__________________________________________________________________________

“What do you think you’re doing?” You say quietly as you spot Louis in one of the spare bedrooms.

He sits on the bed with his back to you, the half-melted candle burning low to hide the blood. He turns slightly, and you can hear him hiss in pain as he does so, nearly knocking over a bottle as he does so. 

“It’s nothing dearest, go back to bed. I’ll be in in a moment.” He says tightly, but you shake your head and approach, setting your own candle down to take stock of his injuries.

There’s a large gash across his side that’s oozing blood and pus beneath haphazard bandages. His fists are wrapped, but you can see where they’re starting to turn pink at his knuckles. Louis is holding a bent needle in his bloody fingers, but you can tell it isn’t going well. The cut along his side is at an awkward angle, preventing him from sewing it up properly.

You reach forward with tender fingers and brush your fingertips along his jawline, moving his hair away from his face and exposing a nasty bruise that covered his scar. He leans into your touch as you sit in front of him and gather the supplies from his hands.

“My love—” You press a finger to his lips and lean up to kiss his forehead.

“Let me help.” You plead softly, and he sighs, giving you a nod and the go-ahead.

You realize very quickly that you are out of your depth. Louis notices because, of course, he does.

“I can do it, my dear. Really, it’s fine.” He says gently, and you shake your head, smiling a slightly queasy smile.

“How different can it be than my embroidery?” You quip and gather your skirts about you and readjust the fabric before getting to work.

Louis, thankfully, walks you through what to do. You bend the already bent needle so it’s in an arc and hold the two sides of the wound closed with your nondominant hand. Then, using your dominant one, you begin to sew. 

Come to find out, the bottle Louis had almost knocked over was, in fact, whiskey from the kitchens. Your fiancé picked it up and took a long swig as you hunched over to get a better look at the long cut. 

“Might I ask how you got these injuries? It’s not like you to get hurt so easily.” You ask and can feel the muscles in his side stiffen as he sits up straight. 

“There was a fight.” He said quickly. You rolled your eyes and looked up at him with an eyebrow raised. 

Louis notices your look and lets out a long breath. He sets the whiskey down and puts a hand over yours to keep you from continuing. 

“Some men at the bar said some awful things about you.” He says in a soft voice, and you frown. You worked at a bar in the center of London in order to gather intel for William. It was arduous work, but you didn’t mind it. 

“Louis, darling, people say things all the time. You know this.” You say gently, and he shakes his head, reaching for the whiskey again. 

“This was the first time I had to hear it.” He grumbles, and you hum.

You work in silence until you tie the stitches off and snip the end of the thread. You hold out a hand, and Louis wordlessly hands the alcohol to you, where you then set it aside. You reach to cradle his face once again and bring his lips to yours in a soft kiss. 

“I love you, Louis. And thank you for defending me. But all I care about is you coming home safely.” You whisper against his mouth and feel the corners of his lips twitch up into a smile. 

“And I promise I’ll make it home every time.”

#louis james moriarty x reader #mtp louis x reader #ynm louis x reader #louis moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #moriarty the patriot #louis james moriarty #fairy writes #fairy1300followers

[adrift-in-thyme]

I’ve never requested anything before so I hope this is right!

I’m going with some Malink angst, I absolutely LOVEEE reading your whump fics for them so I guess… more pain please? 🥲 if that’s okay?

Tysm for the prompt @endlessartpumpkin <333 I had a lot of fun with this one. It’s very angsty hehe

I hope you enjoy it!

CW for blood and injury

——————————

Malon has always been aware of the possibility that Link would die before her. He is a hero, after all, her knight in shining armor through and through. If someone needs help — whether to reunite with a loved one or save an entire kingdom — he will never refuse them.

Sometimes, she has the selfish yearning that just once…he would.

And now, as she gazes at the heroes standing on her doorstep, as she gazes at her husband lying limp in Twilight’s arms, she wants it more than ever. Because Link, who is full of life and laughter and love, Link who has faced the moon itself and lived to tell the tale, her Link who proposed with the biggest, gaudiest ring in Hyrule because he wanted to show her how much he cared…Link the love of her life should never look like he does right now.

She steps forward, one hand held to her lips, the other reaching out to touch him.

He is so pale. His chest hardly rises, breathing so shallow it is hardly there at all. If she allowed it, she could be convinced that he is already gone.

Malon forces herself to take a deep breath. She won’t do that. She won’t imagine that her fairy boy is dead.

“What happened?” She asks, tone sharp with panic.

It is Twilight who answers, in a broken voice she has never heard him use before.

“He…he took a hit that was meant for me.”

His breath hitches. It is only slight, but Malon hears it anyway. She lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. When he looks at her, there is such pain in those gray eyes, such sorrow, that it breaks her heart.

There is hardly time to comfort him, however. They both know it.

“Bring him inside,” she orders, shoving aside the emotions churning about inside her. “Set him on the bed. I’ll get some supplies.”

Twilight moves without a word. The others follow him into the house, expressions tight and pained.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll get the supplies,” Warriors says. His face is a mask rapidly shattering. But he smiles, strong for her, strong for the man he calls his little brother.

“You go to him.”

Malon nods, sighing. “Thank you, dear. The medical stuff is in the bathroom. You remember where that is, don’t you?”

“Of course.” In a swirl of royal blue fabric, Warriors is gone.

Taking a moment to steel herself, Malon heads into the bedroom.

They have already laid him on the bed when she steps through the doorway. From this angle, if she didn’t know better, she would think he was merely asleep. But unfortunately, she does know better. And the ashen color of his face, the sheen of sweat upon his brow, the feverish trembling of his body tells her a different story.

Then, of course, there is the blood.

The heroes are in the process of bandaging him. (They work quickly, she thinks with a spark of pride.) But even the thick swaths of fabric that they wind around his abdomen can only do so much to halt the onslaught of crimson liquid.

It soaks them through within minutes.

Malon makes her limbs move, bringing her forward. There is no time to sit here and gaze in horror at what has become of her husband. With firm hands, she grabs a new roll of gauze and sets to work.

Between the ten of them, Link’s wound is cleaned and wrapped in little time. And through it all, Hyrule stands beside her, magic glowing at his palms, trying in vain to heal the injury. But it fights back of its own accord.

“What on earth hurt him like this?” Malon asks, voice tight. The other heroes have backed up now, giving her room to stand by her husband’s bedside. She leans over him, fingers brushing aside his limp bangs. He gives a shuddering breath and turns slightly into her touch.

“We don’t know what manner of monster it is yet,” Warriors says. “But it’s stronger than its companions, and smarter too. And…when someone gets struck by it the wound struggles to heal.”

Malon swallows. “But it does heal eventually, right?” She looks up at all of them, at their sorrowful expressions, at the way they struggle to meet her eyes. “Right?”

“It can.” It’s Twilight now, his voice gravelly from the tears he struggles to restrain. “He’s just gotta keep fighting.”

She turns back to her fairy boy. A ray of sun illuminates the side of his face, making his markings stand out starkly against his pale skin. The crimson stripes look especially fierce in the early morning light.

“He will,” she says, and it is both a demand and a plea, a promise and a prayer. “Don’t y’all worry. He will.”

….

It isn’t until that night that he awakens. The other heroes have drifted away by then, reluctant to leave, but all too aware of the suffocating nature of everyone packed into one room. Only Hyrule and Twilight remain. But both have finally caved to her urgings for them to get some much-needed rest and are slumped over the arm chairs in the corners.

So, when Link drags open his eye, she is the only one who sees it.

His gaze is bright with fever and pain, its usual sharpness dulled. But it only takes him a moment to find her.

“Malon.”

It is breathed more than spoken, hardly a hoarse whisper. He lifts a trembling hand, clumsily cupping her cheek. Gently, she threads her fingers between his.

“I’m here, hon.”

“Mal I…” His breath hitches into a wet cough. It wracks his body, violently, and sends tears sliding down his cheeks. The sound of it tears her heart in two.

“Take it easy, fairy boy.” She fetches a cloth from the side table and wipes away the blood that dribbles from his lips. “That monster did a number on you.”

Link hums. “Would’ve hurt Twilight if-if I hadn’t…”

“I know.” A small, sad smile lifts her lips. “I know.”

He sags against the pillows, breathing shallow, eye half-lidded. He is already fading again, Malon can tell. So soon, too soon.

“The boys,” he whispers, “they’re…”

“Fine. Worried sick about you though. You scared ‘em half to death.”

She shakes her head. The pain within her feels like it will cleave her chest in half.

“Why’d you use your own body to block the blow, Link? You’ve got shields and items – so many of them I can’t even keep track of ‘em all. Aren’t those there to try and make sure this-this…doesn’t happen?”

Link’s expression dulls further. He looks all of his true years now, weighed down by the duties he has long born, exhausted from a lifetime of pain.

“Knocked my shield out of my hand.” He looks up at her and something in his gaze pleads that she understand. “There wasn’t time for-for anything else.”

Malon gazes at him for a long moment.

“You’re insufferable, fairy boy,” she says, at last, a choked chuckle erupting out of her. “Why’d I have to fall in love with such a hero?”

He smiles back, though it is a weak effort.

“Because…of my unbelievably good looks.”

She laughs again and it sounds more like a sob.

“Well, I can’t pretend that that wasn’t a part of it.”

He chuckles, but it quickly dissolves into another coughing fit. She holds his hand through it, battling against the tears that beg to pour forth. And when it is over, she wipes away the blood again, and the tears. He closes his eye and leans into her touch.

“You gotta promise me somethin, fairy boy,” she murmurs, as she sets the cloth aside and rubs her thumb against his cheek instead.

Link looks up at her, something terribly vulnerable in his expression. She has only ever seen him gaze at her with such a look. It is an overwhelmingly precious thing.

“Anything,” he says and she believes him.

“You keep fighting, no matter what.” She encases his hand in two of her own, grip as desperate and firm as her words. “Don’t you give up, you hear me? Don’t you dare even think of giving up.”

Her voice cracks, but she plows on anyway. “I can’t lose you, Link.”

His lips quirk up in the slightest of smiles. When he squeezes her hand, it is a feeble movement, but it is there nonetheless, a confirmation that he has heard her.

“I won’t,” he breathes. “Promise.”

The tears come now, cascading down her cheeks in traitorous rivulets. She brushes them away. Then, leaning down, she plants a gentle kiss on Link’s brow.

“Good.”

His eye flutters closed. “Love you, Mal,” he murmurs, voice so soft and quiet she has to strain to catch the words.

But she does. She catches them like the flitting butterflies she used to capture between two careful hands when she was a girl. And she holds them close to her heart.

“I love you too, fairy boy.”

#I kinda based this off a fic I wrote for febuwhump #where time creates a time loop to save twilight from getting smacked by the shadow #and in the end only manages it by putting himself between the sword and twi #so this could be a follow up to that #trin writes #lu time #lu malon #lu chain #lu malink #whump #angst #hurt/comfort #linked universe #linked universe fic #follower celebration #endlessartpumpkin my beloved

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Whump Prompts: Whumpees

Content: Physical violence, whumpee-turned-whumper, caretaker-turned-whumpee, silent whumpee, famous whumpee, PTSD/trauma.

Violent whumpees who physically lash out at anyone who upsets them.

Socially awkward whumpees. Whumpees who struggle to make conversation, ones who’ve been deprived of social interaction for so long that they can’t help but get overexcited and annoying when someone does try to talk to them.

Whumpee-turned-whumpers who take out their frustration and misplaced anger on their caretaker. Bullying them, shoving them around - doing all the things they wish they could be doing to Whumper.

Whumpees who hardly even breathe without their whumper/caretaker’s permission. Everything they do has to be permitted, to the point where it even pisses Whumper off.

Whumpees with unpredictable and intense emotions. Caretaker cannot for the life of them tell where Whumpee’s headspace is because it changes every fifteen minutes and every feeling requires different ways of being handled.

Silent whumpees who hardly ever utter a word, if at all. Their voice has been mocked for years upon years/they’ve been forced to be silent throughout their entire captivity, leaving them with such emotional scarring that they just can’t bring themselves to talk anymore.

Conditioned whumpees that truly believe their purpose in life is to please others.

Whumpees who have unhealthy coping mechanisms. Those that chew their nails/skin, self harm, abuse drugs/alcohol.

Whumpees who engage in disordered eating. Refusing to eat anything, eating too much, vomiting it all back up afterwards.

Loud whumpees. Ones who scream and cry, refusing to be quiet even when they’re gagged. Those that have naturally loud voices that people have always attempted to silence.

Famous whumpees that cannot hide from what happened to them, no matter how hard they try. Whumpees that are famous because of what happened. Ones that are forced to move to a more remote area just to escape.

Older whumpees. Ones with bones that are easier to break, ones that have been in captivity for so long that their entire life has passed them by. Whumpees that have been tossed aside because they’re of an age where they are no longer useful to Whumper.

Sheltered whumpees who don’t even know what a shower is. When they’re rescued, Caretaker spends hours of every day introducing Whumpee to things they’ve never experienced before. New foods, furniture, electronics, proper housing.

-Disabled whumpees. Ones who need extra care. Ones who sleep for more hours than they’re awake some days because they’re so worn out.

Defiant whumpees who push boundaries. Whumpees who refuse to do anything they’re told to do, ones that make things so much worse for themselves and the people around them because they just can’t follow the rules.

Whumpees with separation anxiety. Ones that are constantly clinging to someone because they don’t want them to leave. Ones that will literally sit by the door until whumper/caretaker comes home.

Fat whumpees. Whumpees with self esteem issues because of it. Whumpees who have to learn to love themselves while in captivity. Those that eat their way through captivity because it’s all they’re allowed to do.

Whump prompts: Caretakers

#whump #whump stuff #whump things #whump thoughts #whump tropes #whump prompts #whumpee #whump scenarios

[liz-allyn]

sugar and vice, pt 2 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!reader]

summary: Peter makes a daring rescue to save Honey. Or is this a rescue at all? more shameless trope pining.

words: 5.5k

warnings: mob-typical violence. whump. hurt/comfort. bandaging wounds. ouchy hurt boo boo. lots of crying. references to assault. someone gets tortured. shameless forced proximity trope. imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions.

you're responsible for your own content consumption. but that being said, if you're too young to remember the ipod nano, this aint for you, chief.

Back to Part 1

Part 2

How many state capitals can you name?

Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock.

She was running out of questions to distract herself. She’d already gone through listing all of Stephen King’s novels. All of the Presidents. All of the elements of the Periodic Table. She was running out of distractions.

Sacramento. Denver. Hartford. Dover.

She’d been to Delaware once for a funeral. The whole state was a graveyard. She was going to be killed and who would be at her funeral? Would her dark-eyed friend be the one to murder her?

Tampa. Atlanta. Honolulu. Fuck! Tallahassee, not Tampa… Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock. Sacramento—

Would he make it quick? Would it be him or would it be one of the people from the car? Did he know the two men that took her from the train? Did he order them to take her? Then what was that gunfire? Why did it seem like they were running?

She didn’t know how much time had passed since she had been brought to a room, sat down, and left alone under the dark of the hood obscuring her vision. Heated but hushed voices echoed from the other side of a wall. They were too muffled to comprehend, but the frantic frustration was unmistakable.

She could barely make out the words.

“She’s a liability now, Parker! Where’s she gonna go?”

Her heart felt like it would burst from her chest. The conversation got quieter.

Montgomery. Juneau. Phoenix. Little Rock. Sacramento. Denver. 

The sound of a door lock startled her. Her body went rigid as a door opened wide. She swallowed hard, unable to get the image of the gun in Peter’s grip out of her mind. Heavy footsteps approached her. Her lip quivered beneath the hood. If the shot was coming, maybe it was better for it to come now. Maybe it was better if she didn’t see it coming.

The hood came off of her head, revealing a dark room only illuminated by a window. The night lights of the city skyline sparkled in the distance. She was on a sofa—a loveseat facing a desk. As far as she could tell, she was in some sort of office or study. And crouched down in front of her, was her dangerous friend.

Peter held his hands up in a placating manner, letting the hood drop to the floor. “Don’t cry, Honey. It’s just me.”

The sweetness of his voice made her heart beat faster. She cursed the treacherous bitch for allowing that to happen, after everything.

Just him. As if that was supposed to mean anything. Is he Peter, or is he Ben? Does it matter which one he’d tell her? And what other option did she have to respond, other than crying? Her mouth was still taped shut.

He studied her features in a way that made her squirm. His face was solemn as he considered her. He huffed a sigh. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me,” he declared in an apologetic tone. His cocoa eyes glistened with regret. “You’re probably feelin’ angry with me right now. I get that. You’ve been nothin’ but sweet to me and I... I—” 

He stopped short of finishing the sentence as if his jaw locked up. A wrinkle creased his brow. He glanced down at the floor, then looked back up at her. “I’m gonna ask you to do somethin’ for me,” he began. “You don’t have any reason to owe me anything, I see that, I do. I don’t have the right to ask. But I’m still gonna ask.”

A hand came up to rub the back of his neck. The gesture made him seem more anxious, more boyish. Not the same man that marched into the garage holding a gun. Not the same man that ordered his man to blindfold her.

“You’ve always been patient with me,” he continued, dancing around a topic he didn’t want to address. “Even when I’m not my best. I need you to be patient with me now. Take a chance on me, Honey.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She really wished it wouldn’t do that.

He gazed at her, lowering his voice to an even more soothing tone. He emanated calm and control. “I’m gonna help you off the sofa, then we’re gonna leave this room,” he said. “We’re goin’ to the last door at the end of the hallway, okay? Nod if you understand.”

She stared at him like a deer in the crosshairs. After a moment, she nodded.

“Okay, good,” he replied. He reached for her. “Easy now.”

He put his hands around her upper arms and attempted to lift her weight from beneath her shoulders. A flash of pain erupted like her deltoids were on fire, and she winced and whimpered behind the tape.

Immediately, he pulled back his hands with a sour look. An edge of irritation returned to his eyes, in a way she’d remembered from the coffee shop when those goons showed up, except now they were alone and that look was rendered at her. Or so she thought.

Tears welling up again, she avoided his gaze. She sank further into the couch, as if that was even possible, and shook like a leaf. He stood before her wordlessly. She could only hear a heavy exhale through flared nostrils.

Seconds passed, then Peter bent at the waist, placing his hands on her hips. She shuddered at the pressure, the warmth and width of his hands on the crest of her hips. He held her in a steady grip, bringing her to her feet, this time with less pain. 

Upon standing, she looked up and locked eyes with him. It stilled his motion, and he stood with her pressed up against his chest, looking down at her with darkening eyes. His body was solid mass through his white dress shirt. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him without a coat before. Her heart was fluttering, and she wondered if he could feel it. She felt suddenly pliant, legs turning into rubber. 

Dizzy, she wavered a bit, blinking her eyes rapidly. It could’ve been the adrenaline spiking again, building pressure rising up beneath her skin. Perhaps it was her lack of real food since her distant lunch. Perhaps it was heat stroke, the way his gaze burned into hers.

He gripped her tighter. Swallowed hard.

Reluctantly, he released his hold, moving a hand to her lower back. “C’mon.”

She gulped. Hesitantly, she let him lead her to the door. Once they went through the doorway, he escorted her down the hall just as he had said. It was dark, but she could see light from beneath the closed door at the end of the hall.

Her boots felt heavy again. Her mind was screaming at her to run, but where would she go? 

“S’okay,” he stated softly, reading the slowing of her steps for what it was. “Almost there.”

He brought her to the solid door, twisting the handle and opening it. The only thing her brain could register was a massive king-sized bed in the middle of the room. She pushed back on his palm, attempting to wrench away from him. He grabbed her from behind, his arms holding her in place.

“Easy, easy, s’okay,” he tutted. 

But she was short-circuiting. Her mind was filled with violent images, clouding her sense of reason. A shriek crawled up her throat, desperately clawing at the adhesive of the duct tape over her mouth. 

“Hey, s’okay, it’s okay!”  He was holding her against the brick wall of his chest again. She shook her head desperately, struggling to break free to no avail. She could feel his heartbeat against her back. 

He pressed his cheek against her temple, his arms pulling her in with crushing strength that lifted her feet from the floor. “Enough!” he snapped, with a shockingly harsh tone. 

The simple admonishment made her go limp. She sobbed desperately.

His head fell backward and he let out a long sigh, frustration evident within him. He softened his grip, and instead of pinning her, it felt much more like an embrace. He bent his neck and his lips went to her temple again, his breath hot on her skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he breathed into her hair. She felt the slow rise and fall from his chest. The kindness had returned to his voice. He took another deep breath, and she felt it reverberate in her. “No one is gonna hurt you,” he declared, more authoritative this time. She matched her next breath to his. 

They stood in silence for another few seconds. Her gaze traveled from the bed to the expanse of the room. The dark colors and modern accents. The yellow source of tungsten light spilled from an open doorway. 

“Now we’re gonna walk forward. Into the bathroom.”

He began to walk forward, and her feet moved in accordance. After the first few concordant steps, he loosened his grip on her. She felt the absence of his body heat as they stepped onto a tiled floor, turning a corner to a grand bathroom bigger than her meager apartment bedroom.

It was stunning; a mix of classic beauty and masculinity. Adorned with black marble, gold fixtures, and subway tile. Her eyes soaked up the details with an unintentional gasp. Inappropriately, she wished for her phone to save the image to the Pinterest board of her bathroom dreams.

“It’s okay,” he gently reminded her. Hearing his voice pulled her back to her reality. Her eyes snapped over her shoulder, up to him, then back forward as they approached a freestanding clawfoot tub filled with steaming water.

Her feet got heavy again and he turned her to face him. She looked up at him with a face full of confusion and betrayal. It only seemed to sour him further.

“I need you to trust me, remember?” Peter said to her. “I’m gonna take off the tape, but I need you to get in the water first.”

She felt her head shaking. Tears streaming.

“It’s the tape,” he explained. “Your skin is already reacting to it. If I try to pull it off now, it’ll take your skin with it.” She quirked a brow up at him. “We’re gonna use the soapy water to soak the tape on your wrists. The stuff on your mouth, I have a solvent for.”

She blinked, looked at the water, and back up to him.

“You don’t have to undress or anything,” he answered, again reading her mind with stunning accuracy. “We can take off your boots and you can step right in if you don’t mind getting your clothes wet.” She watched the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “I’m not gonna try anything,” he whispered quietly, “I swear.”

She lost herself in his eyes again. She studied the honey of his irises, a golden glow enhanced by the vanity lamps. She thought of caramel and chocolate and bourbon. And the tang of oranges, the smokey smell and flavor of an Old Fashioned she had three years ago at The Flatiron Room on an otherwise disappointing date—

“You with me?” he spoke so softly it could be a croon. Brought his hands up and she felt the rough pads of his thumbs brushing away her tears.

Her eyelashes fluttered closed at the sensation. That dizzy feeling hit her again, and she tried to swallow it down. When her eyes opened, she saw her friend staring back at her, the shadow of a smile adorning his face.

She spent too long gazing up at him like he was some sort of Prince Charming. Composing herself, she straightened and gave him a nod.

Having gathered her meaning, he responded with a subtle smirk, before putting it away. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees in front of her, never breaking eye contact. The action made her stomach weak. Made her avert her eyes. He deftly began untying the laces of her boots and braced her lower back to pull off her shoes. 

Though he didn’t request it, she peeled her wool socks off next. She could have wet jeans and a wet shirt, but wet socks made her skin crawl. Once her bare feet were on the tiled floor, he came to a stand. He placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her as she stepped into the deep tub. 

The warm water felt instantly soothing as she lowered herself into it. Her hands prickled with the sensation of the hot water reheating her abused limbs. He was right about her skin—she hissed at an immediate sting where the tape was. The thought of ripping off the duct tape over her mouth as fast as possible seemed more unpleasant.

She sat down with arms bound behind her, looking up at him as he sat beside the tub.

“The soap’s gonna help dissolve the adhesive,” he explained, pulling up a tray within his reach. A mass of dry cotton balls, cotton swabs, and gauze was neatly organized on it, next to several bottles of solution. It was bizarrely efficient. It made her wonder how many times he’d done this before.

He went to work, rolling up the arms of his sleeves up to his elbows. She pulled her eyes away from the sight of his toned forearms. 

His fingers went to her face and she couldn’t help but flinch. He made note of it, lips pursed into a straight line, but said nothing. Slower, he reached for her hairline and a razor-sharp sting of her flesh reminded her that she had taken at least one good hit to the face. 

His burnt-auburn eyes were now focused, a line forming in his brow as he studied a blood-crusted cut she couldn’t see. 

“This one’s deep,” he said with a frown. “It’ll need liquid stitches. I’mma take care of this first before it gets worse.” His hands left her sensitive flesh as he came to a stand, moving across the bathroom into a medicine cabinet where more first-aid supplies were located. 

While his back was turned, she rolled her eyes in frustration. The tape on her mouth was clearly the more pressing issue. 

“Can you bear with me a couple of minutes before I take the tape off?” he asked perceptively. It was starting to get creepy. He sat down beside her again. “Just relax. It’ll be easier to do it now.” He dabbed a cotton ball with alcohol. “And it’ll be harder for you to bite me.”

Her eyes darted to his face, her body tensing. She had bitten one of her captors hard enough to draw blood. He busied himself with cleaning and dressing the wound while she pondered the possibility that Peter had been behind her kidnapping earlier in the evening.

That neck-less, ginger bastard – Katz? – dragged her off the train without any regard for whether or not she felt safe. Particularly right before he knocked her out. Did he work for Peter? She hadn’t seen his face since.

“Your heart’s racing,” he informed her, breaking her chain of thought. He swallowed hard, a solemn look plastered firmly on his face. “I wasn’t lying when I said no one was going to hurt you.” His eyes rested on the wound as he delicately pinched her flesh together. “Not again,” he sighed, disappointed.

A few seconds passed as he carefully coated the cut in the liquid stitch solution. He looked pained, increasingly irritated. “I’m sorry about all this,” he blurted out. “I-I never shoulda come back to see you. I... I-I’m sorry about everything. Never meant for any of this to happen.” His sad eyes found hers. “‘Sorry’ doesn’t mean much, I know. But I hope you believe me.”

She stared. Considering. Decided that she did. She had to. Tied up, sitting waist-deep in this strange man’s bathtub, she had nothing else but her hope.

He took a cotton swab and dipped it in a jar of pristine petroleum jelly. One hand delicately lifted her chin, angling her face upward toward him, as he took a corner of the tape at her mouth and began to work the petroleum beneath the strip. He meticulously followed that action with a warm, wet compress, and then a cotton ball of isopropyl alcohol. The tape hurt as it slowly gave way, but less than it could’ve. 

The peaceful silence gave her time for her brain to slow down. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to question those plans. Question her judgment.

“Alright, almost done,” he said, then gave a small tug on the tape. The moment her lips were unsealed she took a deep breath. She hadn’t realized how much her breathing had been restricted. 

Peter reached back for her with a square of medical-grade adhesive remover. 

“Don’t touch me,” she spat, jerking her head out of his reach. He froze immediately, lifting his hands away where she could see them. Behind her, she pulled and tugged on the duct tape, the glue now having partially dissolved. She winced as she pulled her wrists apart.

“I was gonna get to that—”

She bit down on a yelp at the burn of the tape ripping off, taking bits of hair and drops of blood with it. She pulled her arms in front of her, revealing angry red welts on her wrists. Her shoulders felt like a stretched-out rubber band, tender to each movement. 

“Okay,” he nodded bitterly, frustration poking through. “Tape’s off. You’re bleeding. Well done—”

“Stay away from me!” she barked. She scooted back as far as she could away from him in the bathtub. Her eyes were wide and wild, like she really could bite him at any moment. He sat back on his ankles, staring at her. Displeased. 

“Take it easy,” he softly ordered, cool as ever.

“I-I don’t know who you are or-or what you’re into,” she babbled frantically. “But you—you better lemme go!” She panted heavily, words flowing out of her mouth, “My-my boyfriend is a cop! He tracks my phone. He’ll know I didn’t come home and-and when he turns on the tracker, he’ll see that I’m here... and he’ll bring fifty cops with him!”

Peter stared at her flatly, raising a brow. It was clear by his reaction that he wasn’t impressed. “Fifty?” he repeated, deadpan. “That’s a lot. Where’re they gonna park?”

“I’m serious!” she growled.

“Oh, yea-yeah, I know,” Peter nodded, pulling himself into a crouch at the tub. “This boyfriend of yours,” he added, swallowing grit as he said it, “he got a name?”

She blinked. “Jefferson.”

“Jefferson?”

“Scott.”

“Is it Scott or is it Jefferson? Is it Jefferson Scott?”

His mocking tone filled her with a flash of anger. She seethed, swearing at herself not to cry again. “Let me go!” she demanded with a glare. “And I promise, he won’t kill you when he finds me!”

The humor evaporated from his eyes like a droplet of water in a frying pan. “A promise?” Peter repeated, his cocky smile fading. He went motionless. Eyes dark. A chill shot down her spine. “Where was ‘Jefferson’ when Fisk’s men grabbed you tonight?” She swallowed hard. Refused to blink. “Really coulda used his help,” he bit off.

Her heart was beating faster than before. Pounding like a kickdrum beneath her ribs. His blackened eyes narrowed on her. “Do you have any idea,” he questioned bitterly, “what they would’ve done t’ya? If I hadn’t gotten there first?” 

The calm tone of his overt implications made her queasy again. He cocked his head to the side, waiting for a reply. 

She gulped. Steadied her voice. “Who's to say they don’t work for you?” 

“They don’t work for me,” Peter declared, ice in his eyes. 

“You expect me to believe—”

“They don’t work for me,” he repeated, as serious as a heart attack, “because I don’t employ assholes who beat on women.” He leaned forward, his chest puffing up, his words coming out in a low hiss. “Because if I want something done, I do it myself. Especially when it comes to protecting what’s mine.” His eyes narrowed, “And we both know you don’t have a boyfriend.” 

She blinked at him, dumbstruck. Peter declared through gritted teeth, “You could send fifty cops or fifty-thousand. If someone took my girl, I’d get there first. And there’s not a damn thing you could say to keep me from rippin’ him apart.”

She shifted backward, arms wrapped tightly around her body, stunned by the switch in demeanor. He sat across from her, quietly glaring, chest heaving with pent-up rage. Her throat felt tight. Her pulse pounded in her neck.

Seconds passed as they gazed at each other in a stalemate. He was the first to look away, his breathing conscientiously slowing down. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, keeping his head turned away from her sight.

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter said, finally. “Ever.” He looked up at her, eyes a bit softer. “It’s very important that you never lie to me. When people lie to me, it puts me at a disadvantage. Makes it harder for me to protect the people I care about.” He sniffed, stowing his emotional baggage from earlier. “So please,” he gently requested, “don’t lie.”

He kept his eyes downward as if he was more interested in the state of the grout. She had witnessed him rear up like a cobra and now he was slinking away, sheepishly hiding from her gaze. 

There was that word again — protection. His focus is protecting the people he cares about. Protecting what’s his. She eyed him carefully, her muscles relaxing a bit. This was happening because she was a threat to him. Did that mean in some way, she had power over him? 

He wiped his nose with his forearm, still avoiding her eyes. “You hurt anywhere else?” She blinked up at him, confused. Her silence made him meet her gaze again, and this time the sympathy and remorse had returned. “Anywhere I can’t see?”

She stiffened once she caught his meaning. Breaking eye contact, she gazed down at the tiny bubbles coating the surface of the water. “Um... no.” She answered as honestly as she could. “I don’t... I don’t think so.” The statement felt like a lump in her throat. She felt her eyes burn again, and she angrily dared her body to defy her again. She couldn’t handle it.

“Okay,” he nodded. After a moment, he came to a quick stand. His orders flowed more formally. “There are towels over here. There’s a robe on the door. Cat’s gettin’ you some clothes. Should be here soon. Leave the wet stuff on the edge of the tub. When you’re done in here, come outside of the bedroom. I’ve got one more thing I need from you tonight, Honey.”

He turned on the leather sole of his heel and disappeared from her sight, as fast as ever. She sat in the rapidly cooling water of the tub, tenderly rubbing the swollen flesh of her wrists. She listened to his footsteps diminish. The door slammed, a bit too forcefully.

Alone, finally, she allowed herself to cry again.

About fifteen minutes after being left alone, she emerged from the main bedroom with a thick white terry robe blanketing her. With nothing but her thoughts and growing exhaustion, she decided not to keep Peter waiting too long. She’d completed each task on his list, as a good houseguest should. Or whatever she was.

She found him leaning back against the wall in the darkened hallway, hands in his pockets, musing quietly.  He turned to look at her with a much calmer mood. Both of them cooled off from their earlier spat, but an awkwardness remained. An elephant in the room neither of them wanted to address.

“C’mere,” Peter beckoned, jerking his head down the hall. “I wanna show you something.” He turned and approached a flight of stairs, descending it. She had no other option but to follow. 

They reached the main level of the residence where she took in the sight of an open-floor living room and kitchen surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. Though it was night, this was the most well-lit area she had seen. It was spotless, and carried the same modern, refined-industrial aesthetic that she saw in the bathroom. 

She recognized the lanky teenager on the couch, sitting with arms crossed, head bobbing to music blaring out of over-the-ear headphones. Miles sat quietly in his own world, brow furrowed, as he focused on the beat of the music. 

Tapping away at her smartphone, the silver-haired woman from the car ride paced idly. She was even more gorgeous in person. Peter approached her, hands in his pockets, and nodded in Miles’ direction.

“What, is it time for a siesta?” Peter muttered disapprovingly.

The woman gave him a go-to-hell look. “Lay off, will ya? You know how he gets.”

“We need to keep our eyes open,” Peter responded grimly. “That means on alert, Felicia.”

“Jesus Christ, Parker,” she groaned with a petulant sigh. “Seriously?” The woman, Felicia, looked up incredulously at their houseguest, then back to her boss. “What happened to discretion? You wanna give her my social security number, too?”

“Where’s O’Hara?” Peter replied.

She rolled her eyes, dropping her arms. “Fuck it, then. In the basement with Brock. That’s Eddie Brock, if anyone here is taking notes for the FBI.” She turned, minding her phone again. “If you need me, I’ll be keepin’ my eyes open, with your credit card, waiting for the Postmates guy to deliver your lady friend a new wardrobe.” 

Peter rolled his eyes with a light scoff.

“And just for that, I’m buying myself my Christmas present from Fendi,” she called back, a deadpan tone. “Thanks, Boss. You really shouldn’t have.” 

Peter glanced over at his Honey, who was curiously watching the familial interaction in silence. He jerked his chin again, approaching a metal door frame near the foyer. “This way.”

He tapped a button on the wall, calling up an elevator. She shuffled uncomfortably on her bare feet, but then followed him into the tiny space. They stood together in silence as the elevator descended. 

Once it opened, they were in a dark, dingy, brick-laid fortress, a stark contrast from the exquisite rooms above. He stepped out of the elevator, and hesitantly, she followed, wishing she’d put on her boots. 

The space felt claustrophobic, littered with dust-covered junk. Mostly paper boxes. There was a table with an old computer that looked at least 30 years old, surrounded by glass beakers and antiquated lab equipment. She spotted a retro green chalkboard on castors, half-shrouded in a tarp. 

As much distance as she wanted to put between herself and Peter, she also crowded at his back. She felt cobwebs brushing her ankles, and the sensation made her want to fold herself up like origami.

They turned a corner and she froze. Mouth agape with horror. 

Bound and gagged in the middle of the basement was Katz. The man looked rough. Barely conscious. His face was bruised, bloodied, and jagged, the bones having been broken and rearranged. On either side, Miguel and another thick mass of man—Eddie Brock for anyone taking notes for the FBI—stood by. She watched Eddie anxiously as he wiped his hands with a blood-stained shop rag.

The sight of tortured man made her gag. Tears sprang to her eyes as she glanced away in terror.

“S’Okay,” Peter tutted, taking her by the shoulders and keeping her back to their tortured captive. She was grateful for that kindness, as it spared her the sight of the half-dead man.

“Remember I told you that you could trust me?” Peter asked, tilting his head towards her. She was gasping. Sucked in air, like a fish out of water. “Honey, look at me.” 

Her stomach quaked and she worried that she’d vomit. Despite this, she looked up at him. Once he had her attention, he went on. 

“This man works for somebody very dangerous,” he explained slowly. “He had direct orders to kidnap you and take you to one of his places. A mechanic’s shop near the docks on the Lower East Side that he uses for business. Once they had you there, he and a bunch of his friends were supposed to hurt you.”

Her chest heaved violently, tears flooding her vision. She shook her head and tried looking away. Felt faint. Like she was going to pass out. Gently, Peter hooked his fingertips beneath her chin, bringing her gaze to his.

“They were ordered to take pictures,” he softly added, more gentle with his choice of words, “and send them to me.” A heartbroken sob escaped her lips and he winced, as if the sound alone caused him physical pain. “Listen, listen, listen,” he cooed, shushing her. 

He dipped his head, leaning his forehead against hers. It was intimate. Too close for the relationship that they had, but at the same time, she was starving for it. The sensation of his warm skin against hers, the heat of his lungs ghosting on her face—they worked to ground her. She focused on what was happening and not what could have happened.

“I never got any pictures,” Peter explained tenderly. “He says they never got that far.” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her chin quivering. She leaned into the touch of his thumb gently stroking her jaw. When she could open her eyes again, she found his. His cocoa orbs gazing down at her compassionately. 

“Remember what I said about lies?” he asked with a kind voice. “Remember I asked you never to lie to me?”

Another quiet sob whimpered out. She nodded her head.

“Tell me the truth now, Honey,” he said. He lifted his forehead, gazing into her soul. “Is that the man that hit you?”

She shuddered at the memory. Terror gripping her. Heart pounding.

“Words, Honey,” he tutted gently. “I need you to say it. Tell me the truth.”

“Yes,” she whimpered in reply. She brought her hands up to cover her face, but he wouldn’t allow it. 

“Good girl,” he answered. “You don’t need to hide.”

The tears kept coming. “I can’t.... I can’t—”

“S’okay, we’re almost done,” he cooed, bringing a hand up to stroke her hair. “Now this part’s really important. I want you to think. I don’t want you to be afraid. Just think.” 

She cried even harder. Her body swayed. She felt like a lone tree being pummeled by a hurricane. As much as she wanted to collapse, he held her upright. “Please,” she begged, but she wasn’t sure what for. “I don’t want... I can’t...”

He wrapped his hands around her cheeks, his fingers reaching around her head. “Just look at me, Honey,” he replied. 

Sniffing hard, she complied. He looked at her with an expression she couldn’t decode. It was a blend of anger, sadness, and pain all at once. He swallowed hard, as if he was trying to steady himself.

“Tell me the truth,” he said with a voice void of its own breath. “Did this man, or any of the other men, hurt you?” She shook her head rapidly. “Did they touch you?”

“No,” she sobbed.

“Don’t lie—”

“No!” she shouted desperately. 

He exhaled slowly, letting out a breath he’d been holding. “Good,” he nodded, seeming to relax. His hands rubbed her arms, taking extra care around her shoulders. “That’s good.”

“Boss,” a voice called from behind them. She looked beyond Peter to see Miles standing anxiously near the elevator entrance. He wore a hollow expression. Breathed through his mouth only. “You think she could use some sleep?”

Peter gazed at the younger man, a mixture of grief and gratitude. “Yeah,” he nodded, blinking away tears that had begun to form at his lashes. “That’s a good idea. Take her upstairs, wouldya?”

Miles nodded once, and stepped forward. Hesitantly, Peter let go. Honey shot out of his arms like a spooked cat, clinging to Miles’ chest and burying her face there. Vicious sobs racked through her body. Miles placed a hand on her back and led her back out of the basement.

Peter watched her go sadly. Didn’t turn away until he heard the elevator doors close.

“So,” Eddie’s deep voice chimed in, fixing his grim blue-green eyes on Peter. “What now?”

Both Miguel and Eddie watched the tense curve of Peter’s shoulders. The balling of his fists. 

“Hammer,” he replied, voice as dark as night. Peter turned and stalked toward the captive. He snatched a bloodied hammer off a workbench nearby. Eyes widening with fear, Katz began to jerk in his seat, pulling desperately on his restraints. 

“You should be grateful, Nicky,” Peter sneered, acid in his voice. “This coulda gone another way.” He loomed over the captive, eyes blacker than oil, nostrils flaring. He gripped the handle so hard, it’s a wonder it didn’t snap in his hand.

“If I found out you were lyin’ to me,” Peter said, vengeance coating his voice, “I woulda gone for the pruning shears.”

Continue to Part 3

Back to Part 1.

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