#by the end of that ~5 minute session he was no longer lunging/snapping

[eqan]

.

[missyart123]

Soulbound - Chapter 1

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | AO3

Techno stirred, slowly registering a presence beside him. His mind felt like it was made of sludge and it took him far longer than it should have to make Phil’s face out amongst the dim surroundings.

His eyes focused on Phil’s lips as they stopped moving, tilting his head to gesture for him to repeat himself.

Phil sighed. “You alright, mate?” Techno didn’t deign that with a response, merely flicking his eyes up to meet Phil’s with the most judgemental face he could muster. “Yeah, okay, stupid question.” The older man huffed a laugh, leaning back.

Silence engulfed them and Techno didn’t bother to break it. Instead, his eyes traced the patterns on the ceiling, trying to ignore the aching pain that was a constant in his chest. He didn’t try changing position, knowing it would do nothing. The pain wasn’t physical, but rather metaphysical: his soul crying out as it was ripped in two. And that wasn’t even a metaphor; he could feel the tethers slowly snapping one by one as the other half of his being moved further and further away from this plane.

Phil shifted beside him, leaning across to place a grounding hand on Techno’s shoulder. “Just hang in there mate, we’ll get him back. We have to.”

Techno huffed, shrugging off Phil’s hand with an eye roll. “Yeah, sure.”

Sarcasm dripped from his tone, and he could tell that Phil wanted to retort, but knew it was pointless. They’d had this argument too many times before. Phil was being stupidly optimistic.

He was gone. Nothing would change that now.

Phil ran a hand through his hair, frustration lining every movement, and Techno couldn’t help but feel guilty. Phil didn’t deserve to have to deal with this; he was better off just leaving. Techno would be fine.

But the one time Techno had tried explaining this to him, Phil had responded so negatively that Techno hadn’t bothered to try again. It was frustrating, though. Why wouldn’t Phil just leave him alone?

“Dream’s coming by soon.” Techno groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Why did the green bastard have to be so persistent? He wasn’t in the mood to spar today and he knew Dream would pick up on that instantly.

Regardless, he heaved himself into a sitting position. He wasn’t about to show an ounce of weakness to that demented Teletubby.

A couple of hours later and he and Dream were heading out once again. It had become a routine of sorts; every week Dream would come by, buzzing with pent up energy, and they’d spar for hours, weapons clashing until one of them yielded. What with their matching egos, this didn’t happen very often, and more often than not they’d reach a stalemate, both too exhausted to throw another punch.

He eyed the energized man next to him warily. The weight of the sword he had struggled to heave onto his shoulder felt heavier now more than ever and he knew today wasn’t going to end well. Dream wouldn’t be happy.

They reached a clearing and the masked man immediately began constructing the rough ring they used to fight in. Usually Techno would help out, but today he hung back instead, Dream shooting him annoyed glances every few seconds. It was probably only going to fuel Dream in their upcoming session, but he couldn’t care less. A small, vindictive part of him was enjoying watching Dream get steadily wound up. Maybe Dream would feel a fraction of what he had put his brothers through.

The thought normally would have sparked rage in him, but lately he just felt tired. He knew it was probably a side effect of having his soul pried apart, but he couldn’t pull together enough strength to really give a shit about anything. God, today was a bad idea.

“Come on then, Blood God. What have you got?” Techno smirked at the irritation in the other’s voice. He could feel the man’s gaze boring into to him as he slowly pushed off of the tree he was leaning against, slowly making his way towards the ring in a way that was absolutely because he was trying to piss off Dream and definitely not because he couldn’t move any faster.

“More than you, Teletubby.” The joke fell flat, his voice not carrying enough inflection to hold the usual bite. Dream paused, eyes roaming over Techno as if looking for something wrong with him.

Techno scoffed. Enough with the bullshit.

Techno lunged without warning, sword swinging down in arc that Dream was barely quick enough to block. He watched as what he could see of Dream’s mouth curved into a grin and braced.

Dream dropped the block quickly and pushed forward instead, slamming his shoulder into Techno’s chest. Techno purposefully stumbled back with it, twisting his body to shove the weight past him, but Dream was anticipating it. He quickly dropped his stance, grounding his centre of weight, before flinging his axe up in a wide swing that Techno just barely dodged out of the way of.

Techno cursed to himself. Had he been thinking clearly, he would have dodged that easily. Dream clearly realised it too.

The other man breathed in frustration, immediately returning to the attack with renewed vigour.

Techno quickly spun out of the way as the axe materialised where he had been standing moments before and relaxed into the movement, using the momentum to swing a hard strike towards Dream’s head. The man ducked, curving his strike back towards Techno. Techno hissed as the axe connected with his chest plate, the attack winding his already aching chest.

Dream became even more frenzied after that, swings becoming harder and faster, attacks sloppier and less controlled as his aggression bled into his movements. Despite this, Techno was just barely keeping up, blocks last minute and barely thought out. He knew he was missing blatant openings, Dream purposefully leaving them open for him to push back, but Techno was constantly on the defensive.

A particularly brutal swing just barely missed Techno’s head and Dream growled in frustration. “What is wrong with you?” The man pushed forward violently, cutting through Techno’s weak defence like it was nothing and swinging sharply down towards Techno’s ankles. The hit connected, and he grunted as pain whitened his vision. “Fucking fight back!” Each word was punctuated with a ruthless swing, blade sliding between the cracks in Techno’s armour and leaving him collapsing to the ground.

Techno stared up, eyes wide, as Dream raised his axe above his head. He grit his teeth, unwilling to show weakness in his final moments as the blade arced down, speeding towards his head.

He stared up in shock as Dream stopped, just barely, blade inches from his face. In the midst of the fighting Dream’s mask had come loose, swinging lightly by the side of his face, and Techno could see Dream’s luminous green eyes glaring down at him with absolute fury.

He watched, frozen, as Dream closed his eyes, taking a few calming breaths, and looked back down again with clearer eyes, flickering across his body. “What is it?” The words were a demand, not a question, and Techno bristled, indignant despite the weapon still poised above his head.

“What’s it to you,” he grunted, shoving the axe to the side and slumping backwards, bleeding joints no longer able to hold up his weight. Dream allowed the movement, stepping back up into a rest position and sheathing his weapon on his back.

Dream continued to stare blankly down at him and Techno huffed. It wouldn’t make a difference if he told him or not, but it was a matter of pride. Dream would see him as weak and he wouldn’t allow it.

Snap.

Techno cried out as his vision whited out with agony. Oh fuck – not now, not now. Heat burned through his chest and he screamed, another of the tethers of his soul ripping violently as it was stretched beyond its limits.

The sound cut off as he choked, struggling to flip over as blood began to fill his airways. He coughed into the grass, globs of red spraying across the ground as he hacked them out of his lungs. Oh God, this was worse than last time. There hadn’t been nearly as much blood.

He heaved as the fit finally passed, straining to push his body up. He was not going to collapse into his blood again. Not in front of Dream.

He leaned back as he finally got into a sitting position, allowing himself a brief moment of respite. Blood smeared across his chin as he half-assedly wiped it with his palm, arms shaking.

As he flicked his gaze up, he found Dream stood motionless, eyes dark and blank. Techno assumed he had initially startled back as his hand was still wrapped around the hilt of the axe behind him, seeming not to have realised he had even reached for it. Techno sighed. Might as well deal with this now.

He breathed out slowly and locked eyes with the other man.

“I’m dying, Dream.”

Dream’s eyebrows furrowed, green eyes narrowing as he finally let go of his weapon. The man took a step forward, towering over Techno’s hunched form. “So? You have two more lives. Just eat a God apple or something. I know you have one.”

Techno laughed bitterly. Trust the practically immortal man not to understand what he was saying. “I’m talking something that can bypass that.” Dream paused at that and if he didn’t know any better he’d say the other man almost looked panicked. As it was, a strange expression crossed his face.

“That’s not good.”

Techno shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled on his wounds. A hand appeared in front of his face and Techno allowed the freckled man to pull him to his feet, groaning as his muscles protested the movement.

Dream began to pack up in silence, shooting him glances every so often, and Techno could have laughed at the parallels between now and when they arrived if he wasn’t so worried about what Dream was thinking. While they were allies of sorts, in no way did Techno trust the other man and his odd reaction filled him with trepidation.

The other man slung him his bag, which he caught just barely, before stalking into the forest, not waiting to see if Techno was following. Techno glared weakly at the man’s back, reluctantly trailing him.

They walked in silence for a while, the now masked man slashing at any vegetation that got in their way and pausing every so often for Techno to catch up. Techno followed behind, gait slower than he would like, but pushing himself to remain rigid. He couldn’t allow Dream any more leeway.

“Why?” The break in silence startled Techno and a jolt of pain ran up his shoulder. He grit his teeth, annoyed as Dream just continued to walk on, not turning to look back once.

“You’re aware that I’m a piglin hybrid, right?” Dream tilted his head, and he took that as a motion to continue. “And that Wilbur’s my twin?”

Dream didn’t respond for a few moments, as if measuring his words. “I… had an idea.”

“Then you’re aware of soul bonds, right?”

That stopped him in his tracks. Dream finally looked back, the eyes of his mask meeting Techno’s blood red irises.

“You and Wilbur were soul bonded.” Dream spoke the words as if he were testing them on his tongue, tone strange. Techno nodded.

“Piglin twins are bonded from birth; it wasn’t a ritual or anything. I probably haven’t got long left.” Dream tensed and Techno got the feeling he didn’t like the sound of that, though the reason why was beyond him.

“Why has it taken so long to start breaking down?” As he spoke, Dream turned to continue walking. His pace was relaxed, but Techno could see the way his fists clenched periodically, giving him away. Techno wondered what his rival was thinking.

“It was after Wilbur disappeared – for good. Before it was just a dull ache when Wil was a ghost, but now the bond is pulling apart. It’s likely because he isn’t on this plane anymore.” Techno shrugged humorously, keeping his tone light. “I’ll be gone soon, so if you have any declarations of love for me, now’s the time.”

Dream laughed dryly, head tilted as if he was thinking something over. Dream finally turned and Techno had a bad feeling that he was smirking behind that mask.

“What if I said I have a proposition for you?”

Techno breathed out heavily, scrutinising the other man. Well, this wasn’t anything good. Soul bonds were, well, binding. There wasn’t much you could do once that bond started breaking down and Techno refused to let Dream take it away, if that was even a possibility. He’d rather die than lose his last link to Wilbur.

Techno inclined his head, waiting.

“What if I said I could bring back Wilbur?”

Techno froze, eyes wide. He could… there was no way. They’d tried everything. Surely he couldn’t – could he?

“Really?” He breathed.

Techno got the distinct feeling he was walking into a trap, but he didn’t care if it meant he could get Wilbur back. He’d do anything to get Wilbur back.

“Do you take me to be a liar, Technoblade? Of course I can.”

Techno almost laughed aloud, soul pulsing with euphoria, before logic kicked in, stopping him dead in his tracks. Techno swallowed, dread settling in his stomach. “What do you want?”

Dream paused and Techno knew that if he could see his face, it would be stretched into a grin. “Oh, Techno, you know me so well.”

Dream carried on walking and the hybrid followed warily, eyes trained uneasily on the back of his head.

It wasn’t until they reached the edge of the forest that Dream finally stopped, turning to face him with a stance suspiciously relaxed. Techno subtly held his breath, clenching his fists to hide the tremors running through them.

Dream positively glowed.

“All you’d have to do is owe me a favour.”

Shit. Shit. Techno felt as if his ears were ringing, sound muffled like he’d been dunked under water.

“After all, I would have saved your life again, would I not?”

Techno could hear the triumph in the other man’s voice and struggled not to grimace. He couldn’t imagine anything worse. Being indebted to Dream twice by life bind. He’d have no choice but to follow what Dream wanted, no matter how he felt about it, and there was no guarantee that Dream wouldn’t bring back Wilbur only to have Techno do something to him later down the line. Was it really worth it?

He jolted as Dream clapped a hand down onto his shoulder, body language smug. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to answer me now,” Dream laughed, the sound more mocking than anything else. “Just… think on it.”

He watched as Dream disappeared into the treeline, stomach twisting with anxiety.

Would it be worth it?

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

For the love of vocab cards.

Soo... another story written for @analogicalweek :D This is for day 5, prompt: Vocab cards. This again is a bit longer than my previous ones, but hopefully it’s worth it!

This is another College AU, Logan helps Virgil revise for an exam and leaves him a surpise to get through it on the day :) Hope you like it!

Taglist: @psychedelicships @edupunkn00b @jwillowwolf @look-ma-im-on-tv @kacklingisanart :) If anyone would like to be added, let me know! :D

For the love of vocab cards.

Word count: 1765

No warnings that I’m aware of :)

Virgil sat in an abandoned corner of the college library, just reading a textbook and finishing his third book of notes. He was desperately trying to revise for this exam tomorrow, but after four hours; his brain had reached its capacity of trying to retain information. It didn’t help that it was for a science exam and he hated that subject with a passion. There were too many long words with complicated meanings that he could never remember. He also just about understood equations when it came to math, but he had no idea how to apply them to science. Virgil belonged within the Performing Arts side of college, he loved music technology in particular and he loved creating all kinds of new music with the different pieces of equipment littered throughout the department. However, if he wanted to get onto next year’s course in Music Tech, he still had to pass the core subjects of math, english and science. Despite his unbridled hatred for the subject, he couldn’t help but smile whenever he remembered that he met Logan, his boyfriend of nearly two years, in the science labs.

It was the first day of class. They were assigned seats next to each other, and despite Virgil’s anxiety telling him otherwise, they seemed to get on extremely well. Logan was wearing a button up shirt, tailored trousers and large framed glasses, and Virgil had to admit that the ensemble looked amazing on him. Whereas Virgil was in his classic purple shirt, purple patchwork jacket and ripped jeans. They could not have looked like total opposites if they tried. Eventually the teacher started the class and was monotonously trying to explain the more complex concepts of the Periodic Table. Logan must have noticed just how confused Virgil was because he began to write something down on some blank vocabulary cards, all while Virgil stared at the whiteboard helplessly. After a while, Logan tapped Virgil lightly on the shoulder and he jumped. When he looked down at Logan’s hands, he was surprised at what he saw. It was a set of about ten vocabulary cards, and as Virgil took them and looked through them all, he could see that Logan had written out everything the teacher was explaining. However, Logan’s explanation was actually comprehensible, and Virgil genuinely started to understand the work they had been given. He looked at Logan who had a small but sincere smile on his face, and Virgil almost lost his words as he stared into Logan’s eyes. He managed to shyly utter a thank you to Logan while blushing an extremely bright shade of pink. Logan smiled back before turning his attention to the work before the teacher could inevitably come over and have a go at them. That’s where everything started.

Virgil was snapped out of this trip down memory lane by two hands covering his eyes. The familiar scent of aftershave and coffee reassured him about who was standing behind him. Their identity was confirmed with the light kiss on Virgil’s neck and a soft voice saying “Guess who? My Storm Cloud.” Virgil smiled and removed the hands gently from over his eyes.

“I couldn’t hazard a guess, Pocket Protector.” He turned and stood up to give Logan a much-needed hug for them both. He forgot that he said they’d meet after Logan had finished his extra revision session for the same exam. That was the only reassuring thing… they wouldn’t be able to talk or anything, but at least they’d be in the same room tomorrow.

Logan chuckled as he hid his face in Virgil’s neck. “How’s the revision going? Have you taken a break at all?”

“Horribly… I’ve been here for four hours and I still don’t understand a single word that I’m writing down. My brain is not absorbing any of this.” He sighed and was on the verge of crying. “What’s the point of me trying, Lo? I just need to accept that I won’t pass tomorrow.” He couldn’t stop a tear running down his cheek as he thought about how important tomorrow was. Logan closed the space between them, and softly wiped the tear off Virgil’s face. He lifted his chin up, making sure Virgil was looking into his eyes.

“Now you listen to me, Starlight. You are much smarter than you think, and you are stronger than you know. The main reason you’re struggling to remember things right now is because you’re stressed. You’ve cooped yourself into a small corner of this extremely large space and haven’t taken a break for a significant period of time. Let’s sit here and watch something while you drink this coffee I got you. I’ve finished my revision for this exam, so I’ll help you sort out some vocabulary cards for you to take in tomorrow before we go home. Sound good?” Logan looked at the smile starting to form on Virgil’s face and knew that he was okay. Virgil nodded as they sat down, and he snuggled up against a nearby wall with his coffee and took a sip while waiting for Logan.

“Ahh, you know my coffee order?” Virgil asked in a flirty voice as Logan set up his laptop and put on an episode of Parks and Rec. “Of course I do.” In a voice that made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.

As they watched the episode, Logan ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair and kissed his forehead at random intervals because he loved how Virgil smiled every single time. When the coffee was finished, Logan got up and pulled over a chair to the table so they could finish the last bit of Virgil’s revision. They worked for an hour and Virgil felt more confident when he could answer the questions Logan asked him, that made him feel so much better.

“Alright, do you want to go now? I think we’ve covered everything. No more revising for you today, you’ve done more than enough!” Logan started to pack up Virgil’s things and Virgil looked relieved to be leaving.

“Yes please! I don’t think I could do anymore if I tried anyway. I really owe you for this, love. Let me go put these extra books away, I’ll be back in a minute.” He smiled and quickly kissed Logan before taking the books back to the shelves.

“Tell you what, write a song for me on your crazy music gadgets and we’ll call it even, okay?” Logan called out after Virgil as he walked away.

“You have a deal!” Virgil called back. He smiled and waited until Virgil was completely out of sight before grabbing some blank vocabulary cards and wrote on them furiously. He attached them to Virgil’s exam ones and put them into his bag just before he came back around the corner. Virgil stared at his boyfriend with a playful glare, knowing something suspicious had just happened, but then laughed before leaving the library hand in hand with his boyfriend going to Logan’s car.

They pulled up outside Virgil’s house, he grabbed his bag and Logan walked with him to the door. “Alright, so keep everything in your bag so it’s all in there for tomorrow. Get some food and watch something funny okay? I’ll pick you up in the morning.” He kissed Virgil gently, “I love you.” He turned to walk to the car, but Virgil pulled him back to kiss him again.

“I love you too! Thank you for today. I promise the song I’ll write for you will be the best one yet.” They both smiled and Logan reluctantly pulled away to head home. He still had some revision to do after all.

Morning came all too quickly. Virgil was feeling incredibly nervous as predicted, but he managed to have some breakfast and waited at the front door for Logan to arrive. He saw the car pull up and Logan beeped the horn twice as he normally did. He got out of the car and waited for Virgil to run up for their morning hug. He spun him around a couple of times which made Virgil laugh and kissed him.

“Are you ready to go? Everything is going to be okay. I promise.” Logan said with the most reassuring smile that made Virgil feel safe and secure.

“Yup. Might as well get this over and done with!” He smiled and got into the car. They turned the music up and sang along at the top of their lungs. Virgil would never admit that singing along to cheesy pop songs was his ultimate way to calm down.

They got to college and signed in before sorting their things and heading towards the exam room. Logan gave him a quick hug and they walked into the room together before finding their seats. They both looked amused when they realized that they were sitting next to each other, one row apart. Virgil took the opportunity to look the vocabulary cards over before they were allowed to start. He looked puzzled when he came across some that definitely weren’t there yesterday. His heart swelled when he read them one after the other.

‘You are amazing.’ ‘You are the smartest, most talented person I’ve ever met.’ ‘You can do absolutely anything the world throws at you. I know you can.’ ‘I’m so proud of you.’ ‘I love you to the ends of the unknown universe and back.’

 Virgil couldn’t hide his smile as he held the cards as close to his heart as possible. He turned to Logan who had clearly been watching him the entire time. He mouthed thank you at Logan, who winked in response. Just like that, they announced the start of the exam and Virgil immediately felt like he could do this. They both sneaked loving glances at each other throughout, a silent and unnoticeable gesture of encouragement. Then it was all over, and the relief was almost overwhelming.

When the results came through a few weeks later… Virgil was ecstatic to know that he passed, and unsurprised that Logan got full marks. He knew that without those vocabulary cards Logan made, he would never have believed in himself enough to do everything he could to pass the crucial test. Despite being complete opposites when they met, Virgil knew that now they were two halves of the same coin, they completed each other perfectly. There was only one thing left to do now…

He had one hell of a song to write for the one and only love of his life.

[slasherholic]

(psst... did someone say Mikey whump? guys I think someone said Mikey whump…) 

Frisky February Prompt: Electricity~ (yes it’s 15 days too early shush)  @slashthedice

synopsis: Michael gets served up some nasty, nasty revenge by someone who really, really has it out for him.

warnings: torture in a medical setting, sexual assault, mikey has a bad time ok

foreword: the opinions expressed here by the POV character about certain sensitive topics in no way reflect my own beliefs <3

No Faith in Medicine | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The hospital corridor is long and grey and stretches onward toward a single bolted door, labeled by the rectangular sign hanging above it as Therapy Theater No. 5.

This deep within the bowels of the sanitarium, below the patient wards and the enrichment centers and the checkered courtyard, there is hardly any of the familiar clamour; so as you stride closer to the door the clack of your bootheels over the beige linoleum carries like thunder.

Smith’s Grove was never the sort of place you had pictured yourself ending up during all those sleepless nights studying for your Ph.D, and truthfully, you can’t stand it here. The deliberate blandness of the hospital, with its color palettes limited to inoffensive whites and blues and greys—meticulously designed so as not to provoke its residents—wears on you more than anything else.

You feel like you’re suffocating here; but it doesn’t matter.

This job was never about you to begin with. It was never about some commendable interest in the healing of troubled minds, either; oh-no. There are two-hundred-and-forty-nine permanent patients living inside these sound-proof walls, and while it may not be a very doctorly thing to admit, you don’t give a rat’s ass about two-hundred-and-forty-eight of them.

...and as for that last “troubled mind,” well…

The breezy summer afternoon that Michael Myers was sentenced to life imprisonment exists in your head as vividly as a snapshot picture.

Almost as vivid is your memory of the Halloween that a policeman had come knocking at your front door to inform you in a strictly-business-voice that your sister was found dead in her kitchen, her throat slit open from ear to ear.

You remember watching from your couch as the gavel came down and the judge ruled the man who had taken your sister’s life away as criminally insane—and not responsible for his actions on that fateful October night—and therefor not legally a candidate for the death penalty.

You remember the burning, frustrated tears streaming down your face, the shatter of glass as you hurled the remote at the television screen, and then sinking down in a heap on the floor and screaming until your lungs were raw and your voice was in tatters, because it wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair, wasn’t fair.

So when the news came out that Myers was to be transferred back to Smith’s Grove—hardly a forty minute commute from your own house—you had been out the door that very same day, speeding in your car down the highway, ready to accept any available position the Sanitarium would offer you for your credentials.

It had been your one shot at revenge on the sick, evil fucker who had ruined your happiness; and you were prepared to move heaven and earth just to bring Myers hell.

It had taken eight months before you even laid eyes on the man for the first time.

You’d landed yourself a patient therapy position, but only had the clearance to treat patients who fell under the “medium” and “high-risk” categories. In the entire hospital there were only two patients who fell under the third and final category: a spitting lunatic of a man, who couldn’t be safely approached without first being drugged half-asleep with antipsychotics...

...and Myers.

You had possessed the patience of a saint, climbing through promotion after promotion.

And the very minute that you were handed back a fresh copy of your I.D, now with a little red stamp at the bottom, the stamp that meant you were cleared to work with Myers, you had raced down to the front desk to file your recommendation for treatment.

Three days later, after hours of debriefing by Dr. Ashton, Myers’ new court-assigned psychiatrist, you came face to face with the worst criminal the sanitarium had ever known.

You had seen Myers’ face pictured in black and white on newspaper articles and in fuzzy low-definition on T.V. 

And absolutely none of that could have prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh.

The thing that had startled you most when you were led by Dr. Ashton into Michael’s barren, cramped room—the thing that practically had you reeling when your eyes fell on the motionless figure sitting on the cot in the corner, chained at the wrists and ankles by a metal link fastened to the floor—the thing you still despise yourself for thinking—

—is that Myers was jaw-droppingly, stunningly handsome.

His were the kind of ethereal good looks that you might expect to find in some renaissance painting, or a Grecian statue, or a fantasy book.

You had stood staring across the room at the motionless young man, drinking in all the features of his vacant, pretty face; overcome by complete and total disbelief that this was actually the person responsible for all your grief.

And the very next second, that disbelief was shattered like a dropped vase; when you looked into Myers’ stare.

It brought down the temperature in the room like a cold-snap. It was not directed at you, only at the floor, yet it had you shuddering anyway, had all the hairs on your arms standing straight up. It was not a lights-on-but-nobody-home sort of gaze, the kind you were expecting from how Myers had been described by his former psychiatrist. His face was blank, yes; that was accurate enough.

But his eyes, they were the furthest thing from it. 

Michael Myers had the eyes of a ruthless, calculating, viciously deliberate predator.

The longer you had stood there, gawking at Myers as if he were a tiger in a cage, hardly listening to Dr. Ashton’s rambling about his admiration of your interest in his patient’s treatment, the more you became aware of the charge crackling in the air; like the moment in a thunderstorm just before lightning rips through the sky. It was as if every fiber in your body could sense the danger radiating from this man; you could all but see and smell the invisible blood staining his hands.

It had turned your vision into a seething cloud of red. 

Here was a murderer—the worst kind of murderer, who was perfectly, undoubtedly aware of his crimes, a fact you could tell from just his eyes—who carried in his heart not a single shred of remorse for the lives he’d ripped away. Who, when he was unable to kill, had resigned himself to sitting and anticipating the day when he might once again have his hands around a warm throat, the day when he would pick right back up where he left off and take another life as carelessly and thoughtlessly as one snuffing out a candle.

And this man had been allowed to keep breathing.

You think of all these things as you reach the end of the corridor and swipe your I.D card on the door to Therapy Theater No.5. Hidden locking mechanisms whirr and click open.

You place your hand around the cool metal handle. For a moment, you just stand there. Feeling your pounding heart in your chest.

It pounds not because you are fearful; you don’t care if you get caught because of what you are about to do. You don’t care if you get fired, or if you get your license taken away, or even if you go to jail. Those are the most trivial, unimportant things in the world. No. Your heart does not pound for those reasons.

It pounds because, finally, there will be justice.

Finally, the evil son-of-a-bitch who slaughtered your sister is getting what he deserved all along.

And you get to be the one to flip the switch.

You turn the door handle and step into the room.

Therapy Theater No.5 is bathed in bright fluorescent light and smells strongly of antiseptic and sterilization. Three people are already in the room: two armed guards, who nod in acknowledgment at you when you enter.

And laid out at the center across a white padded table, dressed in a pale blue hospital gown, strapped tightly down at the wrists and ankles by hospital-grade cuffs, looking up at the ceiling as if utterly uncaring, motionless save for the rise and fall of his ribs—Myers.

A nurse had come in before you to prepare the room for treatment. The therapy you’re meant to be administering is simple and painless: electrodes are fixed to the patient’s body and a weak electrical current is passed through, stimulating choice muscle groups—and in more recent cases, even parts of the brain.

You had emphasized that part specifically in your pitch of the therapy to Dr. Ashton, referencing a study which showed how violent tendencies could be soothed in patients who underwent the treatment.

And no, you’d reassured him, it was nothing like electroconvulsive therapy.

The electrical current used in E.S.T is never strong enough to induce seizures. The only thing the subject feels is a mild, if not pleasant, buzz...

·…or at least that’s how it’s meant to be administered.

Tampering with the wattage of the machine had turned out to be laughably easy. A few snipped wires here, a few crunched numbers there, and now the bulky device sitting atop the roll-around table beside your “patient” can deliver a shock nastier than a taser with every throw of the switch.

It’s not strong enough to stop a human heart (god, you wish.) But it is enough to make Myers hurt.

Enough to make him writhe on that table.

Maybe even enough to make the heartless bastard feel something for a change.

You thank the guards before dismissing them. They leave the room but you know they won’t go far; no further than right outside in the hall, waiting through the entire session with their hands on their batons in case Myers gets out of hand.

Their security would be a welcome thing, if you were actually about to /treat/ Myers instead of torturing the living daylights out of him. But now, the guards are just another problem in need of a solution.

Though you are almost confident that Myers will retain his silence throughout the ordeal—that he’ll uphold his veil of distance and aloofness and total lack of care with the stubbornness of an ass—you’re not about to bet your shot at justice on it.

That’s what the ball gag in your coat pocket is for.

Reaching down to check that it is still there, excitement swells in your belly as your fingers graze the black silicone.

On the table, Myers is still motionless. He doesn’t tilt his head to regard you. He pays you no attention at all, in fact, as if you aren’t even there to begin with. Never do his steely eyes move from their fixed place on the ceiling light hanging above him.

As you walk up to the roll-around table, plucking a pair of latex gloves from a box stashed on the shelf beneath before snapping them curtly on, for a reason that you can’t put into words, you find yourself hesitating to look Myers in the face.

It doesn’t matter that he’s restrained; it doesn’t matter that there are two armed and capable guards standing watch right outside. Despite both these things, that vitriolic, charged aura you had felt in his cell still surrounds him now, polluting the room, hanging like a storm cloud over your head. 

It’s as if some submissive animal instinct has gripped your brain and now screams warnings at you: Predator. Danger. Don’t look it in the eye. Don’t provoke it.

You do your damndest to dismiss the feeling as nerves.

In a little white tray next to the E.S.T machine sits a filled syringe; a sedative. Dr. Ashton has insisted on it to better ensure your safety, as well as Myers’ cooperation. In the psychiatrist’s exact words:

“These days Michael is, ah, fussier about this kind of treatment—you know, the kind they gotta bring in the guards for, the needles, the cuffs, the whole nine-yards. 

It’s a theory of mine that, after living with the sort of power Michael did, the loss of his own control doesn’t sit as nicely anymore. He doesn’t like it. And he’s not afraid to let us know just how much he doesn’t like it.”

Fussy. That was the word Ashton had used to describe Myers. 

It had taken every shred of self-control you possessed not to scoff in the Doctor’s face at that; as if the man laid out before you now were some sort of stubborn, overgrown toddler, and not a remorseless, murderous psychopath.

You don’t spare the sedative a second glance as you unravel the bundle of wires and nodes connected to the E.S.T machine; Myers is going to be awake to feel every goddamned second of what you do to him.

Only after you’re finished with him will you finally send him under.

You can picture the conversation with Ashton now: Yes sir, the sedative worked like a charm, he was out like a light the entire time; no sir, no complications at all.

You take your time setting up the machine because you’re still hesitant to even look at Myers, let alone touch him. But when the wires are all connected, the red power button flashing idly in standby, there is nothing left to do except attach the electrodes.

You force yourself to look him in the face as you approach. You should not be afraid of this man; you should resent him, should despise him, but should not fear him. He doesn’t deserve to hold that sort of power over you, or anyone else, ever again.

So you look.

Michael is still watching the ceiling. According to his eyes, he does not acknowledge you.

But just from how the hair on your nape stands on end you know you’re being watched.

Myers is regarding you coolly in his periphery with the curiosity of a feline, feigning detachment and disinterest; but the weight and pressure of that penetrating gaze could not be more obvious if it were a ton of bricks coming right down on your head.

With a deep breath to rein in your resolve, you reach down, your fingers working to undo the first knot on Myers’ hospital gown.

Quickly, you discover that it is one thing to look at Myers; to feel for yourself his ruthless awareness, the raw intensity of his presence.

But to touch him is another thing altogether.

He draws a breath of his own as you fidget with his gown, his strong rib cage expanding beneath your fingers. You shudder at the sudden pressure of his body; whether out of disgust, or anger, or some fucked up fascination, you aren’t sure.

After undoing the ties on both sides, you lift the front of his gown up and off—

—and find that Myers is totally naked underneath.

Standard hospital procedure for a therapy like this one. Nothing new.

But it’s different when the patient looks like this.

You hate yourself for ogling him. You detest the way your eyes rove across Myers’ body, lingering on all the features that your lizard-brain decides it likes; from the stark tendons in his neck to his sharp and angular collarbones, from his broad, rounded shoulders to the beautiful definition in his abdomen, and down even further than that before you can stop yourself.

To the V of his obliques—to the trail of curly brown pubic hair on his pelvis—and all the way down to his flaccid penis.

You snatch a towel from the roll-around and drape it hurriedly over his hips. Not for the sake of his modesty; just so you don’t have to worry about your eyes straying down to the cock of the man who murdered your sister.

As far as the placement of the electrodes on his body, you honestly haven’t given it much thought. It seemed like the sort of thing that would come to you like an epiphany, as if suddenly, in the moment, you would know exactly where to hit Myers to really make him suffer.

But no such epiphany comes. Oh well; you have an hour to experiment.

Grabbing the two nodes off their holders, you run the wires across his chest and press the little round circles down flat against his pectorals.

When your gloved fingers graze Myers’ skin you nearly jerk back your hand, startled. The man is hot like a stove.

Your medical fascination is instantly piqued—Myers must have the hottest resting body temperature you’ve ever encountered. You have to force away intrusive thoughts of sticking a thermometer in his mouth to see that number for yourself.

Focus.

Tugging up on the wires, you test the integrity of the node’s suction. They don’t budge from his chest, lifting his skin with them as you pull. Perfect; It’s nearly time. 

Now for the gag.

You just have to cross your fingers and pray that you can actually get it in his mouth.

Looking Myers in the face a third time proves to be no less jarring than it had been the second or the first. You’re just relieved that even after all your poking and prodding he is still pretending not to be interested in you, or in the things you’re doing to his body.

You clear your throat before speaking to him because you don’t trust it enough not to crack.

“Open up,” you command him, mustering every authoritative bone in your body and sounding very official even to your own ears.

Removing the gag from your pocket, you hold it up as if to show him, taking care to conceal the black silicone ball with your hand.

“Mouthguard.”

You doubt that Myers has seen this sort of gag before. Or that he even knows what a gag is. Still, you’re not taking that risk. If this doesn’t work then you’re going to have to drug him just to get the damn thing in place, then wait for him to sober up again—a colossal waste of time.

For a tense second, Myers does not respond to your command. He just lays there on the table, inhaling and exhaling, looking incredibly bored with you, with his nakedness, with the electrodes strapped to his chest.

Your jaw goes tense. You nearly repeat yourself.

But then, he opens up his mouth.

Beneath the harsh overhead lighting his teeth gleam wetly. You suspect immediately that he’s going to try and bite your fingers off the second you get too close.

Game on, fucker. 

From the shelf below the roll-around you snatch up a small blotting rag. Walking around to stand at the head of the table, you gaze down at Myers again.

“The strap goes underneath.” You inform him. “I need you to lift your head up.”

He does.

And you strike. Faster than you had thought yourself capable.

You drape the rag over his eyes so that he can’t see what’s coming. Thrusting the gag hard into his open mouth, you wedge it firmly between his teeth. In the corner of the room, Myers’ heart monitor spikes suddenly, the electronic beeping speeding up momentarily—a sound that has you beaming with pride.

You’ve actually managed to startle him.

As you clip the strap into place around the back of his head, a strange sense of accomplishment floods your body—you’ve done it. You’ve actually done it. Everything is ready. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made in these past eight months, every hour spent in this godforsaken hellhole, it was all worth it just to bring about this single moment.

The moment is made only sweeter when you rip the rag away from Myers’ face.

Oh. Now you have his attention.

Those pale eyes are looking straight up at you. Considering you with the cutting gaze of a hawk. Working out the situation. 

You glare right back down at him. You stare deep into his eyes, the triumphant fire now raging in your chest burning hotter than the ice in his stare, more furiously than all the danger—and you find that you are not afraid of him anymore. Like this, Myers is nothing. He’s not a boogeyman. Not a phantom. He’s just a man—stripped of all his mysticism. Strapped to a table. Naked. Gagged.

Powerless.

Just as powerless to stop what you’re about to do to him as each and every one of the people whose lives he took away.

“Hello, Michael.” You hold his fierce eye-contact as you speak. “Ten months ago you broke into my sister’s house and murdered her.”

Myers doesn’t blink. But neither do you.

“When they tried you, you were supposed to leave that courtroom a dead man walking; you were supposed to die. That's how our justice system works—when you do the things you did, you don’t get to keep on living.”

Nothing changes on Myers’ face as you speak. Nothing changes in his eyes. Not one molecule in his body has an atom of care to give about the words you’re saying. He breathes around the gag, his heart monitor beeping slow and steady.

“I don’t give a single fuck about what that judge said,” You continue. “And I don’t care how sick in the head you really are. You knew exactly what you were doing that night. I can see it in your eyes, Myers—you loved every fucking second of it. And that’s the only thing that matters.”

You draw a long breath. One that you hold in your lungs before letting slowly out again.

“You’re the evilest son-of-a-bitch on this entire fucking planet; and you deserve to die.”

Walking over to the E.S.T machine, fighting back with tooth and claw against furious tears now threatening your eyes, you place your finger over the power switch.

Myers watches you; and you notice something flicker to life in his glacial eyes. Not an emotion. Just a realization.

Good. He understands now. He understands what you’re about to do to him.

“Someone has to make you pay. Someone has to.”

Michael just stares. Watching you. Watching your finger on the switch. His pulse on the monitor ticks as leisurely as if he were about to fall asleep.

“And guess what, you sick fuck?”

Still staring—not blinking—breaths coming slowly.

“I’m so fucking happy that it’s me.”

You throw the switch—

—the wires crackle with live electricity—

—and all of Myers’ deliberate, calculated control is shattered like a dropped glass.

His body seizes. His eyes snap shut. His fingers curl into fists that turn his knuckles whiter than the table beneath him. The tendons in his neck and forearms jump out, straining beneath his skin. His heart monitor beats erratically, the little green line on the screen spiking sharply, racing out of control.

Your eyes are glued to the grisly scene. You devour each and every involuntary reaction, relishing in the complete and utter breakdown of his control.

Fifteen gorgeous seconds pass before you remember that you were supposed to be counting to ten. Whoops. You might be frying his brain into an unfeeling stupor at this point. You flip the switch off in an instant because you need him awake, aware.

Myers’ back falls flat against the table, the current cutting off as abruptly as it began. The muscles in his chest continue to contract and seize beneath his skin long after the electricity is gone; you count the spasms as they tear through his pectorals like sets of waves.

When the spasming stops, his chest heaves up and down, winded. His breaths around the gag come heavily. His eyes are still shut; but no longer are they /squeezed/ shut.

For a moment, you really think that he’s passed out.

Then his eyes twitch beneath their lids and flutter open again. Blinking. Focusing—

—flitting right back on your face. Right back to the spot where he had left them before the current forced them shut.

Myers’ eyes are devoid of care. He is entirely unperturbed by what has just happened to him; entirely unthreatened. But now, that murderous intent—the charge which until now you’d only felt in the air around him—is written in his stare as plain as day.

I am going to kill you, says Michael’s gaze, as nonchalant as if he were stating some trivial fact about the universe, like water is wet, or the sky is blue.

It makes your blood boil.

Adding insult to injury, the speed at which Myers regains control of his body is nothing short of infuriating. You fume as you watch the way his breaths level out again, the beeping from his heart monitor falling back into the former slow, rhythmic pace.

You feel as though you should say something to him; like you should retaliate to this defiance in some way that isn’t staring, because you’ve already lost that battle; you cannot possibly hope to match the severity of Myers’ gaze.

But you don’t.

In your heart of hearts you know that your words will go right through his skull, unheard. There is only one language that Myers understands; only one language that he can comprehend down to his marrow. So you’ll speak it to him.

Without wasting another breath, your fingers find the power switch again. And those defiant eyes of his snap shut a second time.

When you shut the current off the results are the same as before; Myers is heaving on the table. But he takes back his control just as quickly, his stoicism prevailing.

By the third time however, his breaths have begun to linger in their heaviness—

—by the fourth he draws them as shallow as a winded sprinter running a race—

—by the fifth, the intervals between the violent seizing-up of his body are too brief for him to catch his breath—

—and the way he now gasps around the obstructing gag, fighting and failing to suck in air past its silicone, his nostrils flaring rapidly to compensate, is the most beautiful display of desperation that you have ever witnessed.

The sixth time you throw the switch, Myers actually does pass out.

When the current stops his body loses its tension with the abruptness of a cut wire. You wait impatiently for him to open his eyes again with your finger lingering over the switch, preparing to meet that steely gaze with another brutal jolt of electricity.

You wait; and Myers’ heart monitor chugs away like a freight train going up a hill.

Still waiting… waiting...

...and nothing happens. Myers is out cold.

The contentment now pulsing through your veins is what you imagine a shot of heroin feels like. Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, you walk up to the side of the table to admire your work.

The first thing you notice is the sweat. Myers’ body is drenched in it. It beads up on his chest and clavicle, on his biceps and shoulders, on his brow and cheeks, the skin there flushing a shade of stark, exhausted pink. Gorgeous.

Your eyes travel down his body to continue the examination; you stop at his hands.

Myers’ hands are bloody.

Crescent-shaped cuts litter the skin of his palms, marking the place where his own blunt fingernails had dug in uncontrollably, over and over and over again. The fresh blood streaks in little rivulets down his hands and pools on the white padding of the table beneath. 

You chew the inside of your lip as you stare at the mess; these cuts might be tricky to explain away. You’ll have to gauze them and tell Dr. Ashton that his patient did it to himself; maybe recommend that he be switched to a higher Thorazine dosage to really sell the lie.

Luckily, that’s a problem for the future. As for right now, you’re rather enjoying the irony of Myers’ own blood staining his hands for a change.

The inspection continues. Further down his body, you finally notice it; the bulge beneath the towel strewn across his pelvis. 

Oh my god, he isn’t. You think, lifting the side of the towel for a peek.

And oh my god, he is.

Rather frustratingly, just like the rest of him, Myers is pretty down here, too. Pretty and big. Which is not a compliment, you reassure yourself. Just a medical observation. You let yourself stare this time, because you’re not ashamed anymore. You’re not threatened by the notion of admiring Myers’ physiology anymore.

Not when he’s so completely at your mercy.

Somehow, Myers doesn’t seem to be the masochistic type, so you highly doubt that actual arousal is responsible for this. Sheer adrenaline coupled with his frantically pumping heart are probably to blame, his brain mixing and misinterpreting the signals, resulting in this little accident.

The longer you stare down at the “accident,” the more you find yourself wondering what Myers would look like fully-erect.

You cannot rip the electrodes off his chest fast enough. Plucking the towel from waist and discarding it on the floor, you stick the two nodes down flat against his obliques, then hurry to rig up a third. That one you plant just above his penis; as close to its base as the curly dark hair will allow.

You stand with your finger ready on the go-button again, opting to let Myers’ still-racing pulse dip out of the red before you pull the trigger and plunge him back into hell. Bloodied hands you can explain away, but cardiac arrest? Not so much.

The beeping slows. The green lines on the monitor settle. You throw the switch.

Myers’ pelvis bucks uncontrollably up from the table—

—and he grunts.

The sound makes your heart sing. It is muffled by the gag, low and reverberating, not very loud to begin with. Most definitely not on purpose; just a reaction that’s managed to slip through while his barriers are down.

Myers’ groin is still quivering when you cut the current off. His cock stands upright, stiff and swollen, totally erect. A line of saliva now dribbles down the side of his mouth, trickling between the gag, collecting in a shimmering mess on his shoulder. He blinks sluggishly up at the ceiling light as if transfixed; still dazed, you would guess.

Something twisted occurs to you as you drink in the scene. Something that you can’t deny.

Seeing Myers like this—fighting for his very consciousness, struggling to retain some sliver of control—is the single most arousing thing you have ever witnessed. You want nothing more in the entire world than to climb onto this dangerous, wounded man’s hips and claim him. 

You want nothing more than to give him a taste of what true powerlessness feels like.

It’s a lovely fantasy, a beautiful temptation, and a real shame that it can’t happen. You don’t feel like getting knocked up with the child of your sister’s murderer today; or ever, for that matter. Instead, you think you’ll make a game out of guessing how many more shocks will have Myers coming on his own thighs.

Striding up to the head of the table again, you plant your arms on either side of his shoulders, leaning over him, hardly ten inches from his face.

“Looks painful Myers.” You jest. “How about I make you a deal?”

Michael looks up at you. Unfocused. Blinking slowly.

“I flip the switch,” you continue,

“—and I keep it flipped until you’re covered in your own semen, and after that I jam a needle in your arm, pump you full of drugs, and you get to live out your next eight hours as an unfeeling fucking vegetable. Fair?”

You wait for Myers to do something. For your words to register in his brain. For some flicker of a response to let you know that he’s even still in there.

To your immense disappointment, Myers does nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just...

...well, you can’t even call it staring anymore.

He doesn’t seem able to manage that sort of focus, you realize, inspecting his face closer. His eyes are alarmingly barren; there really isn’t much of anything there, now. None of the ruthlessness, none of that predatory awareness, none of the murder.

You’ve actually shocked the bastard totally, one-hundred-percent out of it.

Whoops.

Back at the roll-around, you snatch up a hand light. Returning to the table, you shine it in his eyes, assessing the damage. His functioning pupil is slow to dilate. Worryingly slow. You click the light off with a contemplative frown.

Half of your mind begs whatever force might be listening that this isn’t a passing affliction, that whatever damage that’s done is done. If the courts insist on keeping Myers alive, then maybe reducing his brains to soup is what it takes to keep him docile. To keep him from hurting another living thing ever again. You can only hope.

As much as you’d love to do so, electrocuting the living daylights out of him some more isn’t likely to bring Myers back to awareness; and the session is supposed to be over soon.

You glance at the clock on the wall—

—Shit. Very soon.

You need to find out right the fuck now if you’ve just rendered Dr. Ashton’s patient catatonic.

Walking around the side of the table, you take Myers’ swollen cock in your gloved hand—trying not to think about the fact that you’re jacking off a condemned murderer—and pump hard, stroking him all the way from the shaft to the swollen tip, squeezing the head, massaging your thumb over it, rubbing all the way back down again.

“Come on, asshole,” you spit. “That can’t be all the fight you’ve got.”

Myers’ hips jerk slightly up from the table as you touch him. Probably just an involuntary reaction. You’ll need him to do better than that. Stroking him faster, squeezing even harder, you pray that the friction of your latex glove against his cock feels just about as pleasant as a rug burn.

As you watch his vacant face like a hawk you see him begin to blink harder, his eyes squeezing shut, twitching beneath their lids, staying closed for a beat before opening up again, like he’s struggling to wake from a deep sleep. A much more deliberate motion; he’s coming back to it.

“Can you feel that? Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?”

He breathes hard around the gag. His knees lurch up from the table, the cuffs around his ankles straining, holding him in place.

You give his cock another hard squeeze.

“Forget where you are Myers?”

His jaw goes absolutely rigid with tension.

Ah. He heard you that time. He’s back.

How unfortunate that his brain isn’t fried after all.

You can see it all coming back now as his eyes flit down, locking on your face, rebooting within him like a program on a script; the chilling intensity, the sharpness, all the things that had made your skin crawl in the days past. Despite the torture, nothing at all about Myers’ demeanor has changed.

“Welcome back.” You state dryly. “We aren’t done yet.”

As if to make your blood boil on purpose—as if the battered state of his body means less to him than dirt, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of the hour being brutally, mercilessly tortured by you—

—Myers just watches you. Damning you with his eyes alone to the same grisly demise as before.

An odd sense of something, not quite admiration, sparks in your gut. Looking into Myers’ eyes, there is one single thing that you are willing to give this monster credit for:

What sits before you is a creature that cannot be broken. One that will never be dissuaded from its primal, violent nature. To try it is an impossible task. You suspect that you could stand in this room for days, flipping the same switch, delivering the same current, knocking him to and from consciousness, and into all the states in-between.

And the result would never change. Not ever.

He’d still be looking at you with that same deadly stare. A stare as cold and sharp as the blade of a carving knife.

And it would only get more piercing.

And what a relief it is that your goal in the first place was never to break Myers,

just to bring the gates of hell down on his pretty, curly head.

And you have. You can hear it in every breath he takes; he’s struggling. Although he draws his inhales slowly, with mechanical control, the ragged wheezing in his chest is no longer possible for him to hide. Myers is hurting—he’s hurting bad.

As much as you would love to stay and twist the knife in even deeper, it's time to wrap things up. You’re all out of time.

Pulling the electrodes from his groin and thighs with one hand, you let two of the nodes dangle freely off the side of the table.

The third you stick against his cock.

“Count your lucky fucking stars that not everyone in the world is as heartless as you are.” You tell him, walking back around to the E.S.T machine.

Myers follows you with eyes the entire way, stone-faced, impassive. Like the fact that you’ve just fastened a live wire to his dick is about as boring to him as watching paint dry.

Flick goes the switch.

His back arches off the table like a bent bow. He scrunches his eyes shut, breathing hard around the gag, tugging furiously at the cuffs, the muscles in his calves and biceps straining dangerously, pulling upwards with a brutish force that has table whining beneath him.

You’re transfixed as Michael comes. His mess shoots out in thick ropes, reaching further than you thought possible, coating the table, getting on his legs. The sheer power of his body is a stunning thing to witness. You keep the current running to milk him down to the very last drop.

When he stops coming, you power off the machine.

The node comes away from Michael’s skin in a “pop” that is all-too satisfying. Bundling all the wires and electrodes back into place on the machine you listen to the only measurable signs of the man’s distress; the tortured intake of his breaths, the elevated beeping of his heart monitor.

Then, picking up the needle from the little white tray, you cross back to Myers’ side.

The vein in his forearm is thick and pronounced and the needle slips in beautifully. You press slowly down on the plunger, grateful when he doesn’t try to yank his arm away, relieved when he accepts the drug without a struggle. He must be exhausted.

The sedative works its magic quickly. You pull up a stool and sit down beside him to watch.

The vitriol in his eyes begins to melt and soften. One by one his strained muscles are allowed to relax again, the tension ebbing away; from his jaw, his shoulders, his abdomen, his legs. The electronic beeping on the monitor slows and slows until its powerful rhythm beats steadily again.

Evidently, Michael has decided he isn’t ready to go under just yet. Though sleep pools in his eyelids he blinks it away, clinging in a death grip to his consciousness.

Just to leer at you. Just to picture in his mind the day he will have his hands around your throat; as if it is already set in stone. As if it is just a matter of when.

Then, Michael’s eyelids flutter—

—fighting to stay open, still staring—

—closing, for just a beat too long—

—lingering shut—

—staying shut.

You move to clean him up quickly. The gag comes out first. Lifting his head to unbuckle the strap, you tug out the black ball, letting his strained jaw fall shut again for the first time in an hour; then carelessly drop his head. It thunks satisfyingly as it comes down hard against the table. Glancing at the gag’s silicone, you notice the deep markings worn into it, perfect impressions of Myers’ top and bottom teeth. You almost shudder; a bite from him would have been nasty.

You blot away the drool dribbling down his chin and shoulder with a rag, and then move on.

The last thing you expect as you begin to clean Michael’s bloodied hands is the tears that spring to your eyes. Even with your fear of the man gone and buried, you wish that you didn’t have to touch these awful hands; let alone treat them, bandage them, heal them.

You wipe away the tears on your sleeve as you gather your supplies together on the roll-around.

Grabbing each of his wrists just above the restraint cuffs and turning them so that his palm is facing upward on the table, you hastily swab him down with alcohol pads, wiping up the clotting blood from his skin, squeezing out a blob of antiseptic from a tube to smear across his cuts. As you wrap Michael’s palms tightly in gauze you try your hardest to snuff out that invasive thought when it comes searing like a bullet through your skull—

—these are the hands that killed my sister.

You simply can’t afford to linger on those thoughts right now. Maybe when you’re at home tonight, alone in your bed, you will let yourself cry; but not now. Not while you still need to clean up after Myers’ unfortunate mishap.

Toweling him down from his forehead to his calves, you soak away the sweat. And the semen. Then, you fasten back up the front of his hospital gown, knotting each and every tie.

And just like that, the job is done.

You knock on the door. The guards come in and wheel Myers’ unconscious body out of the room.

The next day, you have a debriefing session with Dr. Ashton. You feed him your meticulously rehearsed lie: that the therapy went without a hiccup, that you firmly believe this treatment could be the key to alleviating Michael’s tendencies for violence.

The moron laps up your every word.

Ashton ends the session with a delightful little surprise; he’s pulled some strings to allow for Michael’s therapy to be carried out bi-weekly. He is so impressed by your drive to treat his patient that he’s offering you a position as Michael’s secondary caretaker. He only hopes that you’ll accept.

The smile you give him is bright and sincere, one that beams from ear to ear.

“Doctor, believe me when I say that nothing in the world would make me happier.”

[bangtan-madi]

Year of the Rabbit — Two: Frostbitten

Pairing — Jungkook x Reader, Hoseok x Yoongi

Tags — best friend!Jungkook, non-idol au, flower shop au, gym au, florist!MC, gym owner!Jungkook, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining

Genre — fluff

Word Count — 2.6k

Summary — Blame it on the storm or the secret feelings or the snow-in, but one thing is for sure: a lot can happen to two best friends when they're confined to their stores overnight.

Warnings — language

Part — 2 / 5(?)

Previous — Next

Seven minutes past seven, the lights over your head begin to flicker. One by one, the seconds tick by, and your heart palpitates with their rhythm. Laptop on the desk in the office of the small, upper room, the very last thing you need right now is for the power to cut out. You're nowhere near finishing your orders; your work night is far from over.

Par the course of your luck these days, the lights shut off thirty seconds after they begin to fail. Just before you can let out a string of frustrated curses, they return to their former glory.

A huge sigh of relief passes from your lungs, and you slump back in the uncomfortable office chair, wondering how the hell Yoongi does it for hours on end.

"I need coffee," you murmur, pushing the laptop away and placing your phone on the desk.

Trotting over to the machine on the other side of the upper floor, you find Hoseok's assortment of beverage selections perfectly organized in a tiny cupboard. The upper floor of the shop is split into two rooms: The first is the office, which is where Yoongi does a lot of the business-end tasks that keep the store operational.

The second, smaller room is a place Hoseok claimed as his own. It's hardly bigger than a closet, but the younger of your partners took it upon himself to create a sanctuary of peace and quiet. There's a coffee machine and a tiny cabinet on one side of the room. The other has a sofa-bed, decorated with a plush throw-pillow and a battery-powered heated blanket. You've had plenty a study-session, cat-nap, and girl-chat (with Hoseok, of course) in this room.

You pop the switch on the kettle and start boiling the water, plucking a Hazelnut dark roast from the vast array of flavors. On the wall facing away from the door, there's a tiny window that reveals the expanse of Seoul. On a normal day, it allows just enough light to get by. This evening, however, there is no such blessing. The sun went down over an hour and a half ago, and the weather has worsened. Snow and wind blast against the side of the building, the remnants of winter releasing their fury on the Lunar New Year.

As the water boils, your thoughts turn to Jungkook, this time out of concern. He hasn't texted or called since he left for your apartment, which makes you assume that the service is down due to the weather. When he exited the shop, there was a dusting of white powder on the ground. Now, you were one inch away from a proper blizzard. Peering out the tiny window, you can hardly see the sidewalk or streets. There must be at least a foot of snow on the ground. From the angry black sky and thunderous display overhead, it is only going to get worse.

"If you're smart, you stayed at my place," you murmur, hoping that your stubborn excuse of a best friend headed his inner warning system.

But then again, who are you kidding? Jungkook doesn't listen to anyone, especially the little voice in his head that advises against danger.

After your coffee is brewed and you begin to stir in the sugar, a loud crash sounds outside the shop. Thinking it the wind picking up, you ignore it and continue to add sugar to your desired amount.

It happens again, this time with added vocals. "[Y/n]! Open up!"

You drop the spoon and rush from the room. Definitely not the storm; the wind doesn't howl your name.

When you reach the top of the stairs, you see a familiar figure huddled against the glass door. A bicycle tightly grasped in one hand, the other presses against the glass in an attempt to peer inside. Jungkook is hardly dressed for the weather, wearing the same black jeans and oversized black sweater as before.

Without thinking much longer, you take the stairs two at a time and unlock the front door in a hurry. Thrusting it open, you grab ahold of Jungkook's snow-dusted sweater and drag both him and his bike into the shop. It takes all your strength to fight the wind enough to shut and lock it once more.

"You biked here in the snow?" You turn on your heel, shooting the shivering man a sharp look. "Jeon Jungkook, what the hell were you thinking!"

Jungkook tosses his bicycle onto the floor, frozen metal hurting his chilled fingers. As he blows heat into his clasped hands, he mirrors your tone with, "That you were gonna be here all by yourself, i—idiot! You're the one not answering your damn phone. I c—called you four times and texted you at least a dozen! Every time it went straight to v—voicemail."

"Yeah, that's probably because the cell service is shit right now!" you snap. "Storms always blow it out, and it's not like we have wifi."

"That makes it so m—much better!"

As if the situation couldn't get worse, the lights flicker once again, this time shutting off with a loud pop. You give it a few seconds, waiting for it to return like last time, but no such event comes.

You thrust your hands into the air with frustration. "Oh, this is great. Now, we're gonna freeze together."

The Busan native chuckles softly. "Already ha—half-way there."

Your gaze shifts from the darkened lights overhead to your best friend. For the first time since he blew in a few moments ago, you see how cold he really is. In the dim light given by the near-constant sheet lightning, his features are unnaturally pale. His fingertips are scarlet, and his entire body shakes violently. If the storm wasn't so loud, you would be able to hear his chattering teeth.

"Shit, Jungkook," you murmur, reaching for his hands with concern. Your warm touch causes him to hiss, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he lets you pull him closer. "How long were you out there in that?"

"Well, I left your apartment when I couldn't get a—ahold of you," he chatters quietly, letting his eyes slip closed as you attempt to encase his larger, tattoed hands in your own. "Elizabeth the 3rd is fine, by the way. Fat and happy and com—completely oblivious."

"When was that?"

"A little after six-thirty?"

Your eyes widen, shifting from the attention on his frostbitten hands to his slightly opened eyes. "Kook, that's almost an hour in temperatures below zero! Forty-five minutes, at least! That's so dangerous. You could've died!"

"What's the alternative? L—Leaving you here at the shop by yourself?" He shakes his head, droplets of melted snow flying off the ends of his damp hair. "Not gon—na happen."

Your heart aches a little at his kind and selfless nature. He didn't even think twice before hopping on a bike and facing the storm to get to you, just to make sure you were safe. Now he was paying the price for it.

You pull him closer, taking his hands and shoving them into the pockets of your university sweatshirt. You'd been wearing it all night, so it was plenty warm. Jungkook is surprised by your actions, and you roll your eyes at his wide-eyed expression.

"Don't get any ideas," you tease. "You don't want to lose your fingers, do you?"

Jungkook snickers and allows his hands to greedily absorb the warmth you and your sweatshirt provide. "I'm more worried about what you might do."

You turn your head to glance over your shoulder, towards the exit. "Do you think we can get out of here? Hail a cab or get an Uber?"

"I don't know, [Y/n], it's really coming down out th—there. And on Lunar New Year? I doubt we'll see anyone for a while. They're all at festivals freezing their asses off or at home with family."

"I hate it when you're right," you sigh, turning back to face him and rubbing your hands up and down his arms. "We've gotta get you warmed up, though. You're freezing."

The brunet attempts to brush off your concern. "I'm fine, really. I'm warming up al—already."

"Lies. You're riding the end of an adrenaline high. Once that wears off, you're going to crash and really regret coming back for me." You point towards the upper rooms. "We have a battery-powered heated blanket that gets pretty damn hot. Follow me."

Forcing Jungkook's hands to remain in your sweatshirt pockets, you tug him behind you, up the stairs and into the tiny retreat room. The darkness makes you have to take it slower, but you know the space like the back of your hand. Once inside, you shove him onto the tiny sofa bed and wrap him in the blanket, turning the heat up to high.

"Here," you say, taking the mug of coffee and pushing it into his hands. "Hold this. Drink it slowly so you don't burn yourself."

Jungkook takes a sniff at the coffee, but then pulls back and looks up at you. "But this was yours."

You shake your head. "Yours now. You need to warm up, Gym Bunny. Start drinking."

He scowls at you in defiance of being told what to do, but eventually gives up and takes his first sip of the warm beverage. Feeling how it warms him up from the inside, the second sip comes much more happily.

As you peer out the tiny window, Jungkook inquires, "How long do you think the st—storm will last?"

"I heard something about it lasting until the morning, so we might be here a while. It doesn't look good out there. Definitely not safe to leave the building. The service is out, and no one is going to drop by. I think we're stuck here until we can manage an exit ourselves."

"In that case..." Jungkook reaches out to grasp the edge of your sweatshirt, tugging you over to him. You hesitate in moving closer, both nervous and concerned about his still shivering figure. "It's only going to get colder in here, Flow—Flower Child. Might as well huddle for warmth while you can."

"Fine. But just so you know, I hate this rom-com bullshit...and if you cop a feel, I swear to god, I will kick you back out into the storm."

Jungkook chuckles as you relent. You slip onto the tiny sofa bed and under the heated blanket with him. His free arm wraps around your shoulders, bringing your head to rest against his shoulder, while his occupied hand holds the mug of coffee. He offers it to you with insistence.

"C'mon, one sip won't hurt. 'Sides, you're the one that dumped seven cups of sugar in it."

"Well, that's the last time I give you my coffee. Next time, you can freeze."

"Then who would you complain to about customers?"

You take a sip of the coffee, silently agreeing that you had gone a little heavy on the sweetener. "Hobi or Yoongi. We all have the same customers, you know."

"Yeah, except Yoongi will just stop selling to them rather than complain about it and Hoseok is sickeningly positive enough to see the good in everyone."

"Fair point."

He takes another sip of the coffee when you return the mug to his tattooed hand. "I honestly have no idea how those two work so well together. Business and personal, I mean. They're just so different."

"Opposites attract?" you offer. "They've known each other ever since high school."

"Yeah, I never got that full story."

"Yoongi moved to Seoul by himself after he moved out of his parent's house in Daegu. Not a great situation there, but that's not my story to tell. He met Hoseok at school. The ray of sunshine was class president and took a liking to Yoongi. He kinda took him under his wing, as they were in the same grade despite being a year younger. I'm honestly so glad he did; god only knows what Yoongi would've gotten into on his own in a big city. He's one of the few that got out of a bad situation, and he attributes a lot of that to Hobi."

"So who asked out who?" Jungkook asks, hoping to pass the time with casual conversation as the feeling slowly comes back to his extremities.

The question catches you off-guard and makes you laugh. "Believe it or not, Yoongi asked Hoseok. Twice. Hoseok turned him down the first time, thinking that they might ruin their friendship. He should've known that Yoongi doesn't give up when he wants something."

"So...they were friends first?"

You nod. "I mean, I've only known them since college, but they haven't changed a bit. I think being friends gave them a foundation for their relationship. From what Hobi's said about the pre-dating period, they were pretty much the same. Sure, there's a lot more kissing and, uh, stuff now that they're a couple, but they're still best friends."

A silence falls over you both as you enjoy the warmth under the heated blanket. Jungkook finishes the coffee, and you're relieved to see his shivering halt and color return over the next half hour.

The storm still rages outside, and Jungkook sighs as the wind blasts harder against the side of the building. "We can't stay here," he murmurs.

"Where can we go?" you reply, not eager to leave the confines of your warm cocoon. "You said it yourself: we're stuck until this passes."

He shakes his head and turns to look at you in the darkness. You can barely make out his features, even if they're only a foot away from yours. You hadn't realized you were this close until now.

"You're starting to shiver." His hands grasp yours, and it's only then that you see he's right. Your fingers have started to tremble, and your teeth are chattering slightly. "We can't stay here. No power, no heat, we'll never survive the night." He pauses, glances quickly to the door, then back to you. "I have an idea. Do you trust me?"

Your reply comes without hesitation. "More than anyone."

The words bring a smile onto Jungkook's face, and if it weren't so damn dark, you might've thought he was blushing. But that can't be right...

He grabs your hand, stands and drags you with him, and tightens the heated blanket around your shoulders. He's given up his portion of the warmth to keep you comfortable. When you attempt feeble protests, being too tired and cold to put much effort into fighting him, Jungkook places a warm hand over your mouth.

"Just do as I ask, just once, okay?"

"But you'll get cold again," you murmur, words muffled by his fingers.

The brunet moves his hand away from your mouth, dropping it to the blanket as he pulls the edges high enough to have the front draped over your head in a makeshift hood.

"Where we're going, we won't need the blanket." At your perplexed expression, he chuckles and reaches for your hand. "You'll see what I mean. Trust me, this idea is genius."

"Famous last words."

Taglist — @kookie-off-his-kookie​

[benbarnesescape]

Seriously in Denial

Saturday (so late)

Sirius Black x Reader

A/N: This is crazy late so I apologize. So the real reason I couldn’t post this was because it’s Part 2 of Strong Enough. That’s right I did a thing - I meant to get up sooner but life. Also spoiler, this may be the start of a series I start in the fall so if it's received well expect more in the future.

Before

Before Azkaban. Before the trial. Before the murder. Before the loss. Before the betrayal. Before your fight. Before the war. Before graduation.

Before any of this, there was only you. 

There was was a way about you when you walked into a room that caused everyone to stop what they were doing to admire you. You weren’t particularly special. While he thought you were the most exceptionally beautiful woman in the world, he knew that you were considered just pretty. You were intelligent but you weren’t the smartest. You were brave, but you weren’t the most courageous. You were funny, but you weren’t hilarious.

He knew that you were just as special as anyone else in the world yet to him you were a gem. That you were superior to all else because of the empty pit that fell in his stomach whenever you talked, or smiled, or laughed.

Realized that when you stayed up all night to study with him to ensure he passed his potions course, or would wait up late in the common room on nights where there held a full moon - Peter, James and him helping Remus back to his room - that you did so to make sure he was safe. Knew that you turned a blind eye whenever he dated a new girl because you knew that was how he filled his void of loneliness. Knew that you invited him to your home for the holidays because he no longer had one and you had considered him family.

Sirius Orion Black was in love and he had no idea what the hell to do about it.

When he realized it, you were sitting in Lily’s bed. Remus was sitting beside you, the shy and quiet brunette speaking lowly to you as you both discussed transfigures. Lily and James were on the floor at the foot of the bed making out as he sat impatiently over a book across from you all, trying desperately to focus on the words of the page. Not the way Remus had pulled small giggles from you all afternoon, causing you to softly nudge him before shaking your head. Tried to ignore the way Remus looked at you in desire, his brown eyes filled with admiration and that glint of something else. 

Then Remus had asked you to Hogsmeade and you had accepted and he was done. He snapped the book close loudly, breaking the attention of everyone in the room before he stormed out of the room, pushing past Peter who was walking in, confusion on his face.

He had no right to be jealous. And yet his body was in flames. Took him hours to calm down before he could creep back to his shared room with James and Peter close to midnight, desperately pushing your face out of his mind. 

That was Day 1.

The date at Hogsmeade with Remus went well because after that you both were inseparable. He was able to ignore the way it drove him mad the first couple of days. Remus was a gentleman and was slow to hold your hand, hug you, kiss you. It was easy for him to be around the both of you because it was just a group of friends appreciating their time together as friends.

But then, Remus decided to kiss you at the first quidditch match of the season. It was a cool fall day and you all had decided to go to the game to support James and of course your house. Sirius never cared much for quidditch matches. He went because that was what he was supposed to do but he hated the parade of it all. Went because he enjoyed the way you would beg him to get dressed up in the burgundy and gold colors, enjoyed watching you scream at the top of your lungs as players flew dangerously fast above you. You could always find the Snitch, could find it before the seekers of any team could, and you would predict always where it would go next. Could even predict who would end up finding it. James had urged you plenty a time that you should play but you always told him no.

“Quidditch is for the puppets of Hogwarts who want to belong.” You had told him once as he walked with you down to Hogsmeade, miles away from everyone else. “I prefer to lurk in the shadows and observe with you.” You had laced your arm in his that cold winter day, resting your head on his shoulders until you neared the small town. It was the first time, in a long time, that he had felt safe. 

This of course didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate the game. You reminded him of this often so he went, enduring the show to please you. Because he thought he was being a good friend. But as he watched Remus awkwardly bend down to you, his chapped lips pressed against your lips as he held you, he knew he only went because that meant he could spend more time with you. And that maybe, just maybe, you were more to him than just a friend. 

That was Day 5.

The holiday party that the Gryffindor house hosted that winter was a big deal. You had been dating Remus for three months now and he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the late night study sessions you held with him, only inviting him along because you didn’t want him to slip in his grades. Didn’t like that you no longer wanted to practice charms along the lake with him. That you cared less about the new girl he was charming. That you became attached to Remus and he was becoming a part of your past.

He sat, drinking butter beer slowly as he watched you giggling with Lily from across the room. You were tipsy and laughing, your hair flowing down your neck as you threw your head back at another joke, exposing your neck to the ceiling and he groaned. You were drunk, he could tell by the way you swayed as Remus came behind you, placing a sweet kiss on your shoulder. You giggled and turned, throwing your arms around him sloppily for a hug.

He turned, trying to bite back the feelings of jealousy crawling up his spine. Tried to kill the feelings of pain his heart was being encased in. Tried to ignore the feelings of loneliness washing over his body.

Not again.

He hadn’t seen James or Peter walking toward him, running straight into James athletic body and pushing the tall boy down.

“Watch it will you Potter.” The words are low and icy but everyone can hear it. It chips at the party - a shift in the air where everyone is on edge before James laughs it off, causing everyone to relax and return to their previous activities. Of course the people close to him know there’s something wrong. He hadn’t been broody in months and this was becoming more and more often. James flicks his eyes over to Remus but you’re already placing your hands on your boyfriends shoulder, setting your drink down to follow Sirius upstairs.

You know where to find him on the rough, his window propped open. Know he’s scurried to the top of a castle roof, his legs dangling dangerously over a ledge. You know because too many a time you had followed and sat with him in silence, watching the moon glisten on the lake below. On this cold night he’s sitting without a jacket and you grab an extra one, handing it to him as you join him.

“What’s wrong?” you finally ask and he’s silent, his dark eyes taking in black water. You sigh as you place your hand on his thigh, your small fingers warming the small space under the fabric of his pants. Be flinches but you don’t move it. You didn’t want him to be alone in his thoughts - that was dangerous for him. you both knew that. 

“Don’t ignore me. You can ignore anyone but not me Sirius. What’s going on?” you shift closer to him and his jaw clenches, his eyes quickly flicking to you before returning to their place on the lake. “Is it the party? I know this time of the year can be tough but...you know it's all an illusion - the holidays. It's the only time people want to be kind to each other because they're too fucking lazy to do it throughout the rest of the year. You know that the real people who love you will always be here for you. You know you’re not alone.”

You squeeze his thigh and he squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling deeply as a tear falls from his eyes. His dark hair flaps in the frigid winter air but both of your are immune to it. Too lost in the moment. When he opens his eyes, his hand seeks yours and squeezes it  tightly. Warming you both up before he turns to you, his voice cracked.

“I think I’m in love you.”

You’re watching him, your eyes looking at him in silence. You don’t move. You don’t respond. You just watch him.

“I think I’ve always been in love with you and I’ve been too damn scared to do anything about it until now. When I no longer can have you.”

His hand squeezes your, revitalizing you. A thin cloud of fear lines your irises as you realize the deep impact of his words, the way it wraps around your heart. You shake your head slowly biting your lip.

“I can’t Sirius.”

He knows this but it doesn’t hurt him any less. Tears are forming at the edge of your eyes and your squeezing his hand harder.

“I can’t love you back Sirius.”

“I know.” its a soft whisper as he wipes a lone tear from your face with his free hand. The movement causes you to shudder and his hand freezes on your cold cheek, slowly caressing against the soft skin.

“I know you can’t but tell me you don’t love me too. Because if you do, then I’ll pretend this never happened and will leave you and Remus be.”

You’re looking at him, lips parted as you place your other hand over his on your cheek. You stare at each other for what seems like hours but are mere minutes before you whisper,

“How have you not known that I’ve always loved you?”

His eyes furrow together for a second before he’s leaning into you. You hold your breath and he can feel the quick way your heart beats under your clothing. His forehead rolls on yours, before he leans in caressing his lips over yours, his eyes never leaving your own. You relish in the feeling before you croak out, 

“I can’t love you Sirius. Love you so much but cant love you because you made me choose him.”

You voice is fragile like glass as your breaths mingle against the cold winter night, fire on ice and he nods because he knows. He had pushed you into Remus’ arms. Had convinced Remus to take up the courage to ask you out so he could deny himself happiness he didn't think he deserved. Had dated all those girls to try to forget about you.

He was a damn fool.

“I’ll wait then.” he whispers and the sob that takes over your body  shocks him. He’s instantly wrapping himself around you as you cry into the crux of his neck, inhaling his scent of stale cigarette, chicory and basil as his hair tickles your cheek. Crying because all you’ve ever wanted was him and now, when you had found happiness in someone else, he had opened up his heart and you couldn’t do the same.

“I’ll wait forever for you. Wait until the end and beyond.”

He’s crying too, knowing that he blew it. Knowing that he couldn’t put his two dearest friends in a position for his own selfish cause. Crying because he would have to live in his sorrow again because he was a Black and thought he only deserved the worst.

Cried because he meant what he said.

You were his end and beyond.

[beau-rxvenscxr-blog]

We Are But Dust and Shadows || Self Para

The St. Petersburg Institute - December 5, 2013

It had snowed that morning. Seraphina had been so excited that she’d cut their morning tai chi session off early so she could play in it, much to the chagrin of the gathered crowd. Two seconds of being outside she’d thrown a snowball at his face. Beau had not been amused, but the solid sound of his return throw did a lot to perk up him up though. The fight hadn’t lasted long, the Russian winter was too bitter to stay outside in with snow in your coat; but it had left them laughing and ruddy cheeked all the same. 

“I’m the winner, admit it.”

“You hit me in the face. Once. That hardly counts as winning.”

“You’re just a sore loser, Beau.” Seraphina said, poking him in the chest as she grinned. 

“Fine. You’re the winner. Happy?”

“Hmm. Not yet. You owe me more now. For denying me.” Another tap on his chest and she turned away, her hair fanning out behind her, smacking Beau in the chest. He glared at her, although there wasn’t much more than mild agitation behind it.

“And that would be?”

“For me to know and for you to find out later.” She said, laughing and then disappeared around a corner. Beau didn’t bother to go after her. It’s not like she could go far, or that she would, but he knew he’d never get it out of her if he pushed. He’d learned that lesson many years ago. She’d get too antsy and end up telling him sooner rather than later anyways. 

So he promptly forgot about it. 

It was after dinner when she finally caved.

“Beau. Beau. Are you ready to pay me back yet?” She had burst into his room without knocking, a habit he had tried and failed to break her of over the years. He’d just learned to always be wearing pants. “Of course you are.” She flopped onto his bed, head cradled in her hands. “I want you to be my mission partner tomorrow.”

Beau just started at her, shirt half off. “You realize you’re talking to your parabatai...right? I’m like...always your partner.” She just smiled and Beau rolled his eyes, finally tugging his shirt all the way off.

“I know that, silly.” He rolled onto her back. “But it’s the principle of the matter. Besides, you don’t like it when I spring stuff on you without asking. I was trying to be nice.”

“What’s the mission?”

“Sokolov said there’s been reports of a rouge vampire out north of the city. Been causing havoc with the mundanes. They’ve tried to catch them earlier but they’re slippery. He seems to think we’re more capable.”

“That’s it? One vampire? I’d have more faith in Sokolov’s shadowhunters than that.” A flicker of dread settled in Beau’s stomach but he easily pushed it aside. “Any other intel?”

“Nope. According to daily reports from the local clan leader all vampires in St. Petersburg are accounted for right now. Taras says they run a tight ship over here.” 

Beau liked that idea and he nodded, turning away from Raphi and heading into his bathroom, leaving the door open so they could talk. “Consider me in. I’m always down for a fun game of hide-n-go-seek with a rouge downworlder.”

North of St. Petersburg - December 6, 2013

"By the Angel, Raphi. It’s cold as shit out here. Even a vampire would have to be crazy to be out in this weather.” Beau said, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders. Sure, they were bundled up and had applied warming runes to each other there was no avoiding the bitter bite of the Russian winter. He couldn’t see her face, too wrapped up in her own clothes to see more than her eyes, but Beau would have bet she’d been smiling.

“Vampires can’t feel the temperature as well as we can. I’ll bet we find this sucker in short sleeves and slacks...or maybe nothing at all if mundane police reports are anything to go off of.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively and Beau rolled his eyes, pulling ahead of her so he wouldn’t have to look at her ridiculous antics any longer. “Hey! Don’t leave me behind! What if I get lost?”

Beau laughed loudly at that and shook his head. “It is physically impossible for you to get lost. You’re like...a walking, talking, map. You’re the person people call when they’re lost. Seraphina scoffed. “Admit it. You know exactly what direction the Institute is and how far away we are.” Raphi kept silent and Beau looked over his shoulder to smirk at her. She stuck out her tongue.

“Shut up, Beaufort.” Raphi said, breezing past him an jogging ahead of him to stand on top of the hill they’d been climbing. “This looks to be the place the mundane police wrote about.” She started looking around all though Beau knew she wouldn’t find much. It had snowed a good deal since that last report. Any evidence left behind would have been buried under the snow long ago.

“Lots of those reports listed this area. I think we should look around. We’re not going to find much up here. Too much snow.”

“Agreed.” Raphi said, nodding her head and heading down the hill away from St. Petersburg. Beau followed. It hadn’t been long when Raphi stopped, Beau pulling to a stop with her without missing a beat. “Footprints.”

“Not many.”

“They sort of...fall off right there under that tree.” Seraphina pointed, her left hand already reaching for her stele. “I think there’s enough to try tracking it.” She didn’t wait for beau to agree, already drawing the tracking rune on her hand and grabbing Beau’s hands. He didn’t need any more push than that to wrap his hands around hers and together they concentrated. The picture came easily, albeit as if they were seeing it through the lens of a very, very old camera.

Beau released her hands and sucked in a breath, doing that always took his away. “We passed that tree ages ago. I recognize it because it’s got that stupid looking dead branch.”

Raphi didn’t wait a second longer, setting a hard sprint back the way they’d came. “Sneaky, fucks. I wonder what a regular shadowhunter would have been able to see if they’d tracked those footprints?” She didn’t wait for Beau to answer, already answering herself. “Probably fuck all. Sneaky.”

Beau let her talk it out, she did her best work when she spoke to herself. He followed her easily, the trip to the tree half a short than it had been coming from it. “Ready?” Beau said, grinning and snapping his bo staff to full length. Raphi answered by drawing her blade.

Neither of them saw it coming.

One minute they were alone and the next moment they were surrounded by the sounds of angry vampires. On instinct Beau stepped just in front of Seraphina, every fiber of his body screaming at him to protect her. Normally she argued, but this time she kept her mouth shut, leaning into him and drawing from him.

Ivan walking from the trees drew a gasp from her. “Ivan?! What are you doing here?”

“Oh. Dear. You seem to be more competent than...the others.” He licked his lips, the growling went up an octave. “I’ve been trying so very hard to keep things under wraps. But you let one fledgling get too excited and it’s all ruined. I’d almost though old Sokolov had given up the reports as rumors. Pity.”

Beau didn’t like where this was going. Every hair on his body was standing on end by now. He gripped his bo staff a little tighter. “What are you talking about Ivan?”

“I’m talking about how I’m going to have to kill you both. Shame. You are quite lovely, Seraphina.” Ivan’s voice was like liquid honey. Beau lifted his staff in front of them, a thin barrier between them and him.

“Killing us will violate the Accords.” Seraphina said.

“Do you honestly think we care about the Accords here, shadowhunter?” Ivan laughed. And then he was moving towards them. Beau managed to stop him...but not the two vampires who had leaped from the side. Raphi managed to stab one through the gut, the other...stabbed her.

Her death was instantaneous.

Beau’s world flashed a brilliant white and he fell to his knees with a gasp. The fight forgotten. The mission forgotten. 

All was forgotten. 

All Beau could process was pain.

The Denver Institute - December 9, 2013

Three days later Beau woke up.

And every day since then he’d wished he’d never opened his eyes. His first conscious breath in felt insufficient, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

He’d panicked.

His mother’s gentle hands rubbing him on the back brought him back down. It was there, in his mother’s embrace Beau learned the terrible truth. 

Seraphina was dead.

He couldn’t find it in him to cry.

They’d been found on the steps of the Institute. Seraphina lifeless and Beau utterly unresponsive. The Silent Brothers had not expected him to survive the ordeal. They tried, but by day two they told his parents to say their last words to him before he too passed.

He’d surprised them all.

His mother didn’t want him going to funeral. She’d hoped he would sleep through it. But he couldn’t stay away. She was his parabatai. Her family was owed that much out of him. Seraphina was owed that much out of him. So with his mother’s help he put on his white suit and went to stand at her side one last time. Her family was there too, composed as ever. The only sign of their distress the swollen look of their eyes. Nephilim were not immune to the pain of loss, try as hard as they might. Looking at them made the guilt in Beau’s chest tear at him so deeply he struggled to breathe more than he already was.

“Please speak the name of the fallen.”

Beau opened his mouth, it was his right as her parabatai, but all that came from him was a breathless gasp for air. The silence yawned before him and Beau felt as if he had fallen down a well, looking up at the faces of the gathered Nephilim from far below. Then her sister’s voice, clear as day and so achingly familiar and wrong at the same time, “Seraphina Rosewane.”

He couldn’t speak. 

He couldn’t move.

He felt the gentle hands of Seraphina’s father on his shoulder but his legs weren’t responding. All Beau could do was stand there, frozen.

Broken.

In a show of ignoring tradition they allowed him to stand next to her as the Silent Brothers completed the ritual, the skylight creaking open above them as the essence of his best friend, his soulmate, drifted into the stars. He fell to his knees, head dropping between them, mouth opened in a silent scream of loss and pain. 

Seraphina was gone.

Beau didn’t know how long her staid there. He couldn’t feel anything. Hadn’t been able too since he’d woken up only a few hours ago. Out of the blue someone’s hand fell onto his hunched shoulders. Beau didn’t look up at them.

“In time. You will learn how to be whole again.” It was the voice of a Silent Brother, Zachariah if Beau’s memory served.

“I don’t believe you.” Beau gasped, his voice hoarse and broken. Zachariah squeezed his shoulder once and then the hand was gone. 

“I lost my parabatai too. It has taken me many years to learn to breath without Will by my side.”

Beau didn’t know what to say and when he finally looked up at the empty hall Zachariah was gone. Staring out at the empty room Beau was struck by the first concrete feeling he’d felt since waking up.

Revenge.

North of St. Petersburg - December 9, 2013

Vampires didn’t bleed but as Beau stood in what remained of the St. Petersburg clan he couldn’t help but feel like he was drenched in their blood. And he felt alive and amazing. Ivan was on the floor beneath Beau’s feat, a beaten and bloody mess. He’d hidden, the coward, but Beau  had dragged him out so he could watch. So the last thing he saw was the death of what he loved most.

“Ravenscar. Please.”

Beau smiled.

And then he stabbed him through the heart.

The City of Bones - December 10, 2013

"You stand accused of the murder of the St. Petersburg clan.” The Silent Brother’s voice was monotone but Beau could detect a note of disappointment in his voice. “How to you plead?”

“My name is Beaufort Ravenscar.” It felt like knives in his lungs to not answer the question but he wanted to be clear. 

“How do you plead?”

“I would kill them all again, and again, and again if it meant I would be able to bring Seraphina back to my side.” Beau was gripping the soul sword so hard it dug into his palms. The blood dripped slowly down his hands. He couldn’t feel it.

“Beaufort Ravenscar you are hereby found guilty of your crimes.”

And Beau simply couldn’t find it in him to care.

[yesilovehorses-blog1]

Help Your Horse Beat the Heat

New Post has been published on http://lovehorses.net/help-your-horse-beat-the-heat/

Help Your Horse Beat the Heat

Help your horse cool out after exercise by hosing off the whole body, sweat-scraping him, and hosing him again.

Photo: Photos.com

As tough as steamy summers can be on humans, they can be even tougher on horses. That's because instead of choosing how they'll deal with the heat, horses often have to depend on us to make the right management choices for them.

For advice on making those choices, we've turned to two equine veterinarians practicing in Florida, where heat plus humidity can deliver a double whammy to horses. At the University of Florida, in Gainesville, Amanda House, DVM, Dipl. ACVIM, is a clinical associate professor in the veterinary school and a state extension specialist. And Heather Farmer, DVM, owner of Equine Performance Veterinary Practice, in Lake County, Florida, tends to equine competitors that must work and perform throughout the summer.

Turnout Tips

According to House, horses can live outdoors during summer months 24/7 if, in addition to adequate forages, they are provided with two must-have ingredients: fresh water and shade.

Water, in particular, must be plentiful and readily available. Position troughs in pastures so one horse can't block others from the water source; if using water buckets, provide one more bucket than you have horses turned out. Check water levels periodically, as even automatic waterers can clog. Clean buckets daily, and dump, clean, and refill troughs every two to three days, since stagnant water provides an ideal breeding ground for mosquitoes. Provide free-choice access to vitamin/mineral salt blocks in pastures if they're not available in each horse's stall.

As for shade, "being able to escape from the direct heat of the sun is really critical," says House, adding that "in this part of Florida we have large oak trees that provide excellent shade." Besides trees, she says, a shelter such as a run-in shed can help horses escape the elements.

In Farmer's experience most horses prefer to seek solace from sun under trees, where there's usually a little breeze, rather than in a windowless lean-to or run-in shed. And "as long as there isn't lightning or a real downpour, most are happy enough staying out in the rain," she says.

For times when horses aren't standing in the shade, Farmer says mesh fly sheets with ultraviolet (UV) protection work well to help shield a horse from the sun's rays as well as biting insects, without making making their wearers any hotter. She also recommends fly masks, "because flies are so annoying in the summertime that horses' eyes tear constantly; and because without masks, horses that like to roll and 'itch' in the sand can end up with corneal ulcers."

Masks also block light well enough to help prevent sunburn on sun-sensitive, nonpigmented areas such as those seen around some Paint horses' eyes, says Farmer, and "long-nose" masks provide at least some protection to easily burned noses.

Especially where shade is limited or absent, Farmer suggests limiting turnout to four hours or less each day. "(Turn out from) early morning until noonish, then again for a couple of hours after 5:00," she advises. Once or twice during turnout on particularly hot days in these shadeless pastures, check horses for dehydration: Does a fold of pinched skin snap back quickly or slowly when released (the latter indicating dehydration)? Are gums a healthy pink color and wet to the touch, or are they pale and tacky? Also observe respiration (a normal respiratory rate for an adult horse is eight to 12 breaths per minute), because "a horse that isn't dissipating heat adequately by sweating will breathe faster, trying to cool down by exhaling," Farmer says. If your horse shows any of these signs of dehydration, bring him in from the sun, hose him, and sweat-scrape off most of the moisture; when his breathing slows, he can be turned out again.

Barns: Go with the Flow

For heat relief in the barn, says Farmer, "the biggest thing is to keep air moving." Your prime ally? The fact that heat rises. Louvered roof vents or cupola vents let out hot air, and an exhaust fan can amplify the effect. Open doors and windows allow intake of fresh outside air, which warms, rises, and draws in yet more air. Installing window- or table-type fans–mounting them securely so fans and cords can't be reached by curious muzzles–promotes air circulation and, thus, equine comfort.

Airflow also plays an important role in insect control. "Flies aren't very good at flying in wind," Farmer says, "so fans in or above the stalls help," creating a current in which flies cannot fly (or alight on horses) well.

In stalls, just as in paddocks and pastures, horses need constant access to clean, fresh water. Some horses habitually dunk hay or dribble grain into their water, which can gunk up the bottom of a bucket or block a waterer's fill hole; combat this by dumping and cleaning buckets and checking waterers regularly. On waterers with a pedal horses must press with their noses for fresh water, make sure debris isn't jammed under the pedal. Checking these water sources also allows you to monitor your horse's water intake and discover if he's not drinking enough sooner than later (a 1,100-lb horse at rest should typically drink 4-9 gallons per day).

Workouts and Cool-Downs

University of Guelph researchers determined that horses succumb to heat stress three to 10 times faster during workouts than their two-legged counterparts. Horses are large and possess higher percentages of active muscle than humans do during exercise–muscle that produces a lot of heat during use. Also, less sweat evaporates from equine athletes' bodies as compared to human athletes simply because the horse produces much more sweat than can be evaporated.

To avoid heat stress, House says horse owners should "focus on exercising and training in the coolest hours: very early morning or later in the evening."

When such timing isn't possible, Farmer advises shortening workouts–instead of 45-minute sessions, maybe go for 20 or 25 minutes–and monitoring breathing. "If you feel the horse's sides heaving in and out, or you see his nostrils flare excessively, it's time to let him walk–not stand still, but walk quietly until his breathing is normal again," she says. If, after about 10 minutes of walking, "everybody else's horses are breathing normally but yours is still huffing and puffing, you may want to have his cardiovascular fitness evaluated–and have your vet check that there isn't some underlying physical problem."

After working, begin cool-down by walking, helping your horse's muscles stay supple while his respiratory rate recovers. Then remove his tack and hose his neck and chest areas first, Farmer says. "The jugular vein is right there (in the neck); cooling that off you cool the blood coming back to the heart, which cools the body internally," she says. "Then hose off the whole body, sweat-scrape him, and hose again. That pulls heat out faster than just hosing and letting water sit on the skin," which heats up quickly, counteracting the desired cooling.

An alcohol bath followed by drying in front of a fan can accelerate heat dissipation; alcohol dries the skin, however, so save this for when a horse has been worked particularly harder than usual.

A horse whose respiration hasn't slowed much despite hosing (if, for instance, the water from the hose is warm, as often is the case in summer) might require additional help. Wrap bags of ice in a couple of towels for five minutes, then spread the chilled towels across the horse's back, says Farmer. Or use towels that have been soaked in ice water to wash him off.

Effective cooling and recovery can be especially difficult, House says, for "horses with longer hair coats that don't shed out completely–for instance, older horses with (the metabolic condition) equine Cushing's disease. Clipping their coats for spring and summer helps ensure that they can be adequately cooled down."

Top Summer Concerns

Before summer heat hits its peak, have a veterinarian conduct a general wellness exam on your horse. "We vaccinate in spring and fall, at minimum; if your vet's already at the barn for that, have her or him take a couple of minutes to listen to the heart, listen to the lungs, maybe also evaluate weight and diet," Farmer says. "Checking twice a year, you'll catch most problems when they're really minor. And if a horse isn't sweating, you can take steps to improve things before the season gets really hot."

The most common heat-related problem Farmer sees in horses is fatigue caused by hard work plus insufficient fluid intake and/or insufficient replacement of electrolytes lost through sweating. The culprit is most likely a distracted human who didn't refill an empty water bucket or replace a salt block. Because, given the opportunity, most horses will correct this problem on their own. "If you provide a salt block with electrolytes, they'll eat what they need to replenish what they've lost," Farmer says. "Or if you hang one water bucket with electrolytes mixed in and another with just fresh water, they'll pick the bucket they need to drink from."

But horses, too, can get distracted, particularly at competitions, drinking less than they need to "because they're busy watching everything going on," says Farmer. Others can become picky about water that tastes different than their usual supply. For a reluctant drinker at a horse show, bring along a couple of barrels of water from home or accustom the horse to a flavoring agent (maybe electrolytes or a capful of honey) in water at home, then mix in the same flavoring at the show.

Another problem–more common in the Southeast, though not unheard-of elsewhere–is anhidrosis. This condition is characterized by an inability to sweat, usually accompanied by high body temperature and increased breathing rate. Because sweating is how the body cools itself, a horse that can't sweat might overheat enough to cause severe internal damage.

The first corrective step for anhidrosis is to adjust workload so the horse doesn't need sweat's cooling effect as often. Farmer also has had some degree of success in treating the condition with a feed supplement designed to increase sweat production; talk to your vet about such solutions. If that doesn't help, she suggests a course of electrolytes delivered via noninvasive dermal patch.

For many horses that cannot sweat, hot-weather riding is out of the question. The physical stress is "too much for their bodies to take," Farmer says. "The respiratory rate will get very high very quickly, and it's not worth the risk." Owners of anhidrotic horses should take a break from riding during the hottest months, especially August, she notes.

Take-Home Message

Keeping any horse healthy and safe in hot weather is a challenge, but one you can meet with knowledge, planning, careful observation, and prompt response to signs of discomfort or struggle. In other words, contrary to the popular slogan, do sweat the small stuff.

About the Author

D.J. Carey Lyons

D.J. Carey Lyons is a lifelong resident of Chester County, Pa. She also has written for USDF Connection, Practical Horseman, Equine Images, and Dressage & CT.

[bethanybusche]

MMA Shred review!

I am not going in order according to the Core De Force workout calendar because my legs and chest were too sore from lifting on my own.  Therefore, this is my MMA Shred review! 

Time: 37 minutes

Equipment: none

Cheese and rice.  I feel like there are quite a few people in this workout video this time.  I do not know where to look.  Joel is wearing a green shirt and Jericho a blue – that is the first thing I noticed. Is that strange?  Judgmental.  Why is he wearing a shirt?

This workout has 9 three minute rounds with a 30 second break at the end of each round.  They refer to it as a muay thai workout.  But first…

Warm-up:

This is 2 minutes of jogging, bouncing side to side and opening up the chest, rolling the shoulders forward and backward, alternating toe taps, hip rolls and torso rotations. Sometimes I forget that their jogging is feet towards my butt, not just raising my knees up.  Try not to be lazy - got it.

Can you tell who the modifier is? :)

These are my hip openers (in case you were wondering):

And my torso rotations:

Round 1/9:

F Side Elbow, R Side Elbow, Roll B, Roll F

This is a side elbow with your dominant arm, the other arm, roll back and a roll front.  Try to remember to rotate your body with the side elbows and get up on the ball of your foot.  ‘Elbows are meant to slice and dice’.  Ah yeah, making some pizza people.

High Knee Jump Rope

You should know how to do this one by now – get your knees up as high as you can.  You do these ‘strike’ sessions for 30 seconds.

For the record – my 5 year old daughter was playing with her toys around me when I did this workout. When I looked at her once, she was sitting in her Dora chair, eating a cheese and nuts snack, and telling me ‘get your legs up mom’ and  ‘every time I look at you you are doing something new’.  Ahhhhhh – little did I know I had a little trainer.  She is so much like her mother... scowl.

Do this combination and strike one more time and take a 30 second break.

Round 2/9:

Jab, F Up Elbow, Cross, R Up Elbow

The jab is easy, the front up elbow is described by Jericho as pretending that you are slicking your hair back and your elbow goes straight up, the cross is easy, do the hair thing with the other arm.  We eventually get to see Jasper in the back who is a pro at this elbow hair styling situation.  ‘Think about lifting your opponent up off the ground as you slice them’.

Alternating Clinch Knee

Oh great, of course Jericho loves this one.  She is Gumby. ‘Reach, pull, reach, pull’.  This is ‘clinching’ your arms up front and pulling into your hip as you raise you knee.  You are supposed to lean back and lean forward doing this.  I am pretty sure I looked like a crazy noodle tripping over herself.  Once my daughter even laughed at me.

Round 3/9:

R Snap Kick, Switch Snap Kick

Well this is fun. Kick your back leg, reset, switch feet, and kick the other leg.  Bam Bam.  This is not so bad.  Just do not fall over in the switch.  Try not to over extend your kick and pop your knee out of place.

Be sure to make this face:

L Reverse Lunge, Clinch Knee

Well, cheese and rice. My legs were so sore from lifting the morning before and I laughed at the thought of getting into a lunge.  BUT I DID IT.  Step your leg back, lunge, bring the knee up and clinch.  You use your hands for counter balance to the side and then, with the knee raise, bring them into your hips.

Then, you go into your non-dominant stance and do the snap kicks.  After that, you do the lunge on the other leg.  I BET THAT SURPRISED YOU.  I’m kidding.  It should not surprise you.

Round 4/9:

Jab, Cross, F Slashing Elbow, R Slashing Elbow

This one made my daughter say ‘ooooh’.  Jab, cross, draw an ‘x’ with your elbows.  This one is fun – remember to think about rotating on the balls of your feet and crunching your core as your knees bend.  Or, think about actually hitting someone with your elbows.  You are going to have to put some effort in. It is not like you are dusting the fans with your elbows.  Get a swiffer for that.

Switch Jumps

Come on now Jericho. Wide legs, bend your knees, use your arms to twist and jump your legs left and right.  Keep your shoulders facing forward and try not to face plant.

Eventually, they visit the guy in the middle back and he twists like his life depends on it.  ‘That’s why he puts the core in Cory’.  OH Joel you are so funny.

Repeat each one more time. Put more emphasis in everything.  ‘Earn your break’.

Round 5/9

F Up Elbow, R Knee, Switch Snap Kick

Use your dominant arm for an elbow, rear knee, switch your feet and snap kick.  Look at you go – putting things together!

Oh good, here’s Jasper with his shirt off again:

Triple Lunge W/ Ginga

Oh yay, more lunges!  It took me a few times to figure this out. Three lunges before jumping laterally and your legs.  Use your arms to jump laterally and cover as much distance as you can.

I do my workouts in the grass usually... 

Round 6/9

Cross, F Side Elbow, R Snap Kick

Cross punch to the face, elbow to the jaw, and snap kick to the body.  ‘Back, front, back’.  I like this one. Keep your hands up by your face.

Guarded Squat, Squat Jump

Sit down into a squat, squat again and use your arms to propel your jump in the air.  Fall back into a squat and keep repeating.

 Round 7/9

R Push Kick, F Push Kick, Shuffle Back

Okay.  Lean back in these kicks and ‘push’.  I still have not figured it out but I tried.  Think about kicking open a door in front of you but being cautious of possible spider webs.  The trainers like to call it a circular motion with the leg.

Alternating Clinch Knees

You have done this before. Lean back, arms clinch up top, bring the knee and arms down to the hips.  ‘Those knees are relentless’ – thanks Jericho.

Repeat the complex but in a non-dominant stance.  Do the strike for 30 seconds, take a break.

Round 8/9

F Slashing Elbow, R Slashing Elbow, Double Jab Cross

Muhaha.  Okay – things are getting more exciting.  Draw the x with your elbows, double jab with your dominant arm, cross.  I decided to add sound effects to each of my punches because it makes me hit harder and my daughter thought it was amusing.

This was the time I had to describe to her why it looked like I was fighting.  I made it clear that she should not fight unless someone else starts it.  Haha.  Maybe I am just funny to myself.

Triple Lunge W/ Ginga

Oh yay, great – the 3 lunges.  Get lower, jump further, it is only 30 seconds.

Repeat these things again and rest.

 Round 9/9

F Up Elbow, R Knee, F Push Kick

Hallelujah, it is the last round.  You should be excited.  This is not too bad – front up elbow, rear knee kick and then a front push kick.  If you put some effort into it – you get a great workout.  Look how excited Joel is:

Guarded Squat, Squat Jump

If this were not the last combination, I would have slacked off.  However, you can do these squats for 30 seconds (twice) without looking like a noodle.  Finish it up.

Use your arms to propel yourself up...

Cool Down:

This is 3 minutes of bring your heart rate down by stretching your hip flexors with a shoulder stretch, a quad stretch, a hamstring stretch, upper back stretch, and chest stretch.

They do their cute little high fives of course:

Final Thoughts:

I burned around 300 calories doing this workout - not too bad.  Most were probably spent avoiding kicking my daughter or tripping over her toys.

This workout is much like MMA Speed.  I did not think it was hard, I broke a sweat, and I look forward to the next workouts.

If the rounds were any longer - it would be a more difficult workout.  However, that may defeat the quick at home cardio, would it not?

Oh, and look at the mess my daughter made while I did this work out.  It was apparently every stuffed animal’s nap time which required a sleeping bag each.

See you in the next review!