#ransom ware

[gaybuckybarnesss]

GARRETT WAREING Ransom Canyon 1.06 "We Need To Talk About Reid"

[hclygifs]

Lizzy Greene and Garrett Wareing in Ransom Canyon

[rosethorn108]

fell hard for them

he always laid his cards on the table

[charlesleclerrc]

1.06 - We Need to Talk About Reid RANSOM CANYON (2025-)

[coolcatkerr]

Lauren + Lucas || I'd Run To You [Ransom Canyon]

ucas really was the moral light of the show, his innate goodness and wishing to do good was so lovely to see. Yes he willingly was Lauren's bit on the side deceiving her father, situation-ship with Reid, accepting a relationship of secrets but he really wanted to be there for her as he knew how lonely things get.

Also I really hope Lucas can be that backbone Reid needs, I loved them both leaning on each other and doing good for each other despite them loving the same girl.

I genuinely think Lucas would never recover from Lauren.

[thekylemeredith]

What do a Nickelodeon alum, a frozen cowboy camp, and a Massive Attack cover have in common?

#LizzyGreene tells Kyle Meredith about breaking her knee on a cheer stunt, bonding with co-stars over cow poop, and geeking out on José González’s “Teardrop” in Netflix’s #RansomCanyon.

Plus: her secret emo side, her next project Sweating the Small Stuff with #GarrettWareing, and why she's still wearing her cowboy boots.

[mariocki]

New Scotland Yard: Papa Charlie (2.7, LWT, 1972)

"You realise, of course, that anybody, no matter what their rank or position, anybody who was at that meeting - who had sight of this - is now under suspicion of passing information to that gang, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Someone's working on the inside. Could be anybody. Could even be Sergeant Ward - or perhaps you?"

"No."

"Well, we'll see. I intend to find out who it is. And I'm going to give myself one hour in which to do it."

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[firetfly]

˙   ៹    ♡   𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 gif pack ,

𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧! in the source link you’ll find 300 medium gifs ( 268 x 151 ) of garrett wareing in ransom canyon. every single one of these gifs was made from scratch by me and for roleplaying purposes. do not: repost the gifs, include in your gif hunts, claim as your own or edit in anyway. like or reblog would be greatly appreciated if you found this useful.

content warning: kissing, flashing lights, eating, drinking/alcohol, body image.

important note: please do not use my gifs if you were blocked by me, for sm*t situations, celebrity rp as themselves or ‘t*boo’ rps.

if you enjoy my work, consider buying me a☕ or take a look at my commissions information.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Three for One 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, cheating, customer service abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As a customer service associate, you're used to work with a wide variety of characters. Your efforts to go above and beyond draw the attention of a certain set of customers who want more than what's on the shelf.

Character: Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

Note: Right, this was supposed to be a drabble series but it morphed and not I'm fucked.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

It's the most special time of year! Mistletoe, jingle bells, and holiday cheer! Oh, and hot chocolate. Lots of that.

You hide your thermos under the desk and grab the crystal bottle again, giving a test spritz to the air. Your job isn't very complicated. All you do is say hi and chat about the perfume. Your manager says the job is selling but you don't like to see it that way.

You smile at a family of five as they veer towards the toy section. You don't think the six year old would be into an eau de parfum. It's understandable.

While you spend your hours wandering around expensive makeups and scents, you're filled with a certain hint of longing. For what you're paid to push the merchandise, you can't afford any of it yourself. Well, you've never been very materialistic.

You spin around and see a gentlemen approaching, though he doesn't seem to see you. He looks past you, almost through you. You stop in place and put on your best smile, fixing the red band around your head.

"Hello, sir, would you like to try some Gucci?" You offer and spray the nozzle at him.

He skids to a stop and recoils as if he's been slapped. He holds out his arm as he looks down at his coat, little droplets seeping into the fabric. He takes a whiff, his short mustache wiggling under his nose, and he scoffs as he tries to shake off the cologne.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He snips.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You just go around spray people with that horseshit?"

"Well, sir, with respect, I don't like that sort of language.

"And I don't like being drenched in dog piss," he blusters, "point me to the goddamn trimmers."

"Um, what kind? Nail trimmers? Pet trimmers? Garden trimmers?"

"What the fuck do you think?" He points to his own face.

You hold your smile. There's always that one customer who's having a bad day. Whatever's got him so upset must be worse than dealing with him.

"Personal care," you point to the far corner, "right over there, sir."

"Ugh," he stomps and storms off.

"I hope your day gets better," you call after him, "oh, did you want a store coupon--"

He ignores you as he waves you off over his shoulder. You watch him turn towards men's grooming and you shrug, rocking slightly. You try not to let them get to you. As jolly as you find this time of year, a lot of people don't feel the same.

You shrug off the encounter. You still have a few hours ahead of you and it's starting to bustle with customers. You help a couple find the home wares while keeping the boundary of cosmetics firm. Lucille, the manager, doesn't like you leaving your zone.

You approach a woman looking at the Prada selection and get her checked out with a new fragrance, specially gift-wrapped by yours truly. She leaves happy, a small victory for the day. You celebrate but not too much.

You come around the counter just as you see that man strutting back up. He has an item in his hand and ignores you as he passes. Still you smile at him.

"Annoying," he mutters under his breath.

"Need help finding anything else, sir?" You ask his heels.

He stops and you see the way his spine stiffens. Oh no, you shouldn't have said anything. He slowly turns to face you.

"You can shut up," he marches up to you and grabs the bottle from your hands, "shut." He sprays you in the face, "up." He squirts you several more times before shoving the vial against your chest, "stupid little girl."

You take the bottle, blinking as you use your cuff to wipe the perfume away from your eyes. He continues on his path as you stand dumbfounded, drenched in Gucci cologne. It's hard to breathe through the heavy scent and you can't help but cough.

What a jerk. Just because he's having a bad day, doesn't mean everyone needs to.

Slowly you grow accustomed to the smell of yourself. It’s not too unusual. You go nose blind about halfway through your shift once you spray a few too many samples. You keep your distance from customers, offering them a spritz but trying not to crowd them with the vapors of cologne rippling off of you.

You yawn as the afterwork rush floods in and you make another round, smiling at Sofia as she peeks over at you. She’s with another customer at the counter, ringing them up as she gabs. You spin at the display at the center of the crossway that runs through the beauty department and stagger back before another can run you over.

You apologise to the tall man as he skids to a stop on his soles. You can tell he’s in a hurry by the way he grips his briefcase and squares his jaw. He wears a long dark wool coat as flecks of snow melt into his thick beard.

“Oh, sorry, I er, wasn’t–” He clears his throat, collecting himself, “I… didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay, sir,” you assure him, “would you like to try the new scent?”

You hold up the onyx bottle but don’t spray him. You don’t need another dousing. He looks at the silver letters on the side then at you. The furrow in his brow lightens as his blue eyes swim.

“No thanks, but er, you think you could help me find something?”

“Of course,” you chime and lower the bottle, “are you looking for a gift for someone special?”

He nods, “my mother-in-law is on her way into town, I need a present. Maybe perfume?”

His tone is tinted with frustration as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. He lets out a long sigh. He’s one of those shoppers; the last minute scrambler. You grasp the vial in one hand and tug at the front of your thick red sweater, you’re starting to get a bit toasty in the crowded store.

“How old is she?” You ask.

“Um,” he clamps his lips together and thinks, “hmmm, probably seventy-something? I’m sorry, I guess I should know that.”

“That’s okay, I… I would suggest some Liz Taylor,” you turn on your heel and wave him after you as you head off, “it’s a classic. Not so much a me scent but the older crowd likes it. Oh, and it’s on special so your wallet won’t hate it, either.”

You stop by the Diamonds display as you face him again. He follows at a pace and stops before the shelf, perusing the gold caps and crystal caps. He considers the rack in deep thought.

“Here,” you set down your bottle on a nearby table of seasonal decorations and take one from the display. You slip out a strip of cardstock and spray it with the sampler, “this one is gardenia. That was her favourite scent. It’s probably the least pungent.”

You offer him the sample and he eyes it. He slowly bends and sniffs the end of the paper. He wiggles his nose. It makes you sneeze too. As much as you’re a fan of the classic actress, her scents are dated.

“Smells like her,” he grumbles under his breath, “sure, I’ll take that.”

“Great,” you declare and trade the sampler for a boxed bottle, then retrieve your disposed Gucci vial, “would you like me to check you out, sir?”

“Is it faster?” 

“I can be fast,” you promise him, “this way.”

You go around the sparkling counters and he meets you across the till. You type in your log in, taking several tries to get your passcode right. The man places his briefcase on the counter,a hand resting on the edge.

“You know a lot about this stuff?” He prompts.

“Yeah, I guess,” you smile as you scan the perfume and tap the special offer on the screen, “kinda part of the job.”

“Hmm” he hums again, in that thoughtful manner. You look at him but he’s not looking at your face, “that’s a nice sweater.”

You look down at the red wool speckled with pearls. It’s new and one of your favourites already. You can’t help a little wiggle of your shoulders, “thanks!”

“Very… cheerful,” he muses as he takes out his wallet, “wish I could say the same of what awaits me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir, it’s that time of year, I guess,” you push the debit machine towards him and he taps his credit card, “I’m sure your mother-in-law will love the perfume.” The transaction approves and the receipt prompts, “would you like an email?”

“Nah, that’s fine,” he tucks his credit card away.

“Would you like it gift-wrapped?” You offer, “it’s free?”

He hovers his hand over his briefcase as he considers it. His eyes meet yours and his cheek dimples, “alright, yeah, that’s… that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“No problem,” you beam back at him, “let me just get some tissue paper…”

You murmur to yourself as you grab some gold tissue paper and a white gift bag with a Christmas tree embossed into the side. You carefully line up the small box on the paper and begin your intensive work. You're a master wrapper, you used to work at the wrapping station in the mall.

“What about you?” He asks before the silence can stretch too far, “you seeing family for the holidays? When you’re not working?”

“Um,” you smile as you look up, “I’m just hanging out with my dog. I bought him a bone.”

“A dog,” he nods, “your family live out of town?”

Usually, you ask the questions. It’s easier that way. It deflects the attention from you. It’s why you like the job; you can hear all about others and not have to think about yourself.

“Yeah, something like that,” you slip the wrapped box into the bag and fluff the tissue paper.

“Eh!” The loud exclamation makes you jump as the man merely turns his head, a tic in his jaw. His eyes narrow as another customer approaches, strutting with hands in his jacket pocket as he calls out, “Barber, what the hell?”

Your customer shifts towards the man, heels squeaking on the floor, “Hugh.”

“Don’t Hugh me, asshole,” the other man retorts, “you said you were busy? What’s the matter, you lose too much money last time?”

“Suzette is in town. Family dinner,” the man, Barber, drones dully.

“Ah, ditched for the old crone, I get it.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, wouldn’t you know it, poker night was canceled, something about not enough seats,” the man counters sharply.

“Next week,” the first man growls.

“Hey, you,” the man in the russet coat snaps his fingers in your direction, “you got some of that Acqua di Gio. That dumb girl over there said you’re sold out.”

Your brows pop up and you swallow tightly. He’s another type. The arrogant demander. He doesn’t hear no. He’ll ask everyone the same question in hope of getting a different answer.

“We are out of stock, sir, but I could order it in for you,” you suggest.

“Order in? I can just go on Amazon, thanks for nothing,” he chops his hand at you dismissively.

“Hey,” the other man nudges his chest, “be nice. She’s working.”

“What? I’m here to spend money and they got shit all–”

“It’s December,” the other man reproaches before he turns back to you, “sorry, my friend is a jerk.” He accepts the gift bag as you hold it out, “thank you. You saved me.”

“No problem, but er, I was gonna say,” you turn to the other man, “sir, I have some samples of the Armani. I could give you those while you wait for the order.”

“Samples?” He echoes, “how many?”

“Let me have a look,” you back up and go to the drawer at the back of the checkout.

“I gotta get going, miss,” the first man waves his hand as you peek over your shoulder, “have a happy holiday.”

“You too,” you chirp back and find the last few tubes of Armani. You claim them and prance back to meet the new customer at the counter, “I have five.” You lay out your wares, “if I order in a bottle it’ll be in just before Christmas.”

“Two weeks?” He puffs.

“I’m sorry, sir, that’s the earliest I can do. It’s the last day I can guarantee delivery before Christmas.”

“Talk, talk, talk, order it,” he snaps.

“Right, let me just…” you open the shop and search up the scent. You add it to the cart and proceed. “Alright, got that, did you want it shipped for pick up here or to your address.”

“Here, they can never fucking find my house,” he sniffs.

“Great, so when it arrives, we’ll give you a call. You’ll also get an email to confirm.”

“What’s going on here?” He points at you suddenly. You look down again at your sweater but don’t see anything amiss. You flinch as he reaches to pinch one of the pearls, “what is this?”

“Oh, I… my sweater,” you raise your head, swallowing down the insult. It’s cute!

“Huh, Walmart clearance, huh,” he scoffs, “alright, how much are you robbing me for?”

He reaches into his coat as you hit total. You read out the final amount but he doesn’t pull out a card; he hands you cash. You count the bills, twice over, then give him his change. He looms with impatient huffs.

“Here’s your receipt,” you hand him the strip of paper. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Mmm,” he pokes his tongue into his cheek as he shoves the receipt into his pocket, “actually, while I’m here, I’d like a new sweater. You can help me and I’ll show you what real quality is.”

You almost laugh. Not spitefully, it’s just a bit silly. He’s competing with you, a perfume pusher.

“Well, sir, I can point you towards men’s fashion but I’m not able to leave this department, I’m sorry,” you give a sheepish smile.

“Oh no, good girl wouldn’t want to break the rules,” he rolls his eyes, “goody goody and her precious little smile.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets, “my shit better be in by Christmas.”

He twists and strides away. You watch him go but not for long as you’re quickly distracted by a customer looking at the Britney Spears collection. Those are easy sellers.

[thewhumpyprintingpress]

ABCs of Whump Cover Reveal and Preorders Open!

Hello everyone! It is my pleasure to unveil the fabulous cover of ABCs of Whump, designed by @demondamage.

ABCs of Whump is now available to preorder on our Ko-Fi shop! The physical zine is priced at $13.99 and the digital version is $1.99. Preorders will be open from today, January 8, to March 10, 2024. Physical zines should ship out by early April, and digital zines will hit your inbox on April 2!

50% of profits from this zine will be donated to the Trevor Project, which provides crisis support to LGBTQ+ youth.

Now without further ado, I present to you the table of contents.

A is for Anaesthesia @callaeidae3

B is for Bad Dog @clickerflight

C is for Chains @burntcoffeeart

D is for Defiance @whumpingisfun

E is for Electrocution @onlywhump

F is for Faceless @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

G is for Gun @lightnavalgun

H is for Hiding @darkforestwarriors

I is for Incision @coyotehusk

J is for Javelin @whump-queen

K is for Knife @painsandconfusion

L is for Living Weapon @laffy-taffy-creations

M is for Migraine @the-slythering-raven

N is for Nails @whump-captain

O is if Oubliette @wildfaewhump

P is for Pain @soheavyaburden

Q is for Quiet @bloodytalonswhump

R is for Ransom @pigeonwhumps

S is for Sensory Deprivation @clickerflight

T is for Torture @whump-side

U is for Underwater @emcscared-whumps

V is for Vivisection @miseribusiness

W is for Whip @rizzamacka-whump

X is for X-Ray @demondamage

Y is for You @laffy-taffy-creations

Z is for Zip Ties @whumpsical

Make sure to go show some love to our partner in crime on this project, @befuddled-calico-whump. This has truly been an awesome project to work on, and every single one of these artists has done a fantastic job. I can't wait to share this zine with y'all!

Here are the links to preorder!

Physical zine

Digital zine

We're now also offering bundles of WPP books so you can stock up on your whumpy reading material

Physical bundle

Digital bundle

And if you want to peruse our whumpy wares, here's the general link to our shop.

Whumpy Printing Press Ko-Fi Bookstore

[aalinaaaaaa]

WIP Folder Tag

Jumping on the open tag from @i-can-even-burn-salad :D

It has been a while since the last WIP folder tag, like 2023-ish I think??? Wow, time flies too fast, lol

Rules: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it!

These file titles all derive from my re-write of Obsidian Sapphires:

Precipice of a New Era

Temple of Verelise (Part One/Two)

Calm Before the Storm

Landfall of the Storm

The Next Stage of Pilgrimage

Anticipation

The Chase for the Chalice

The Ritual

A Wish in Exchange

Wash the Wounds Away

One Drop to End the Spell

What Could've Been

First Dance With the Enemy

How Does it Feel to Hold History in Your Hands?

Old Wounds Re-Opened

—

Alycja Cartovierta

Cheyoria Faison

Jabari Ivolognie

Damien Rosewood

Eshani Faison

Baakszour Ersk

Aster Karska

Emila, Najshra, Karim, Nirdan Cartovierta (Alycja's immediate family members)

Merik Varkaikh

Jersk Rhesjan

Other Meshaika

Cerigo Verasse

Claudia Emar

The Bloodcarver

Jerdina Varkaikh

Sharigan Eschredaine

—

Notes and Amendments

Alternate path: if Alycja's plot got cut

Alternate path II: if Eshani's plot got cut

The Crows' Wrath

—

Arsuldioune

Cheyorilune

Solphist

Sprites

Difference between the two groups of crows

Potion system – the basics

Helindian laws surrounding magic

Principles of judicial punishment (Helinda vs. Morilaste)

Helinda's Fate followers

Shop of magical wares

Plants and Compounds

How the country is split

Outside knowledge and perceptions of Morilaste

Government structure

Categories of gods

Funeral rites

—

The Lead-Up

Illicit Diplomacies | 225. I Can't Tell

A Wisp in the Shadows

The Stone Arbiter | 223. By Candlelight

Confirmation of the Inevitable

Divine Ransom | 280. Seek for Insight

Rough notes

Memes

Main plot

Second Plot — The Chase for the Chalice (plus a revision!)

Consequences of the Ceremony

Note

More notes!

—

Sending tags to @mister-writes @seastarblue @ieppiq @gioiaalbanoart @avrablake @thatndginger @seastarblue @angelfevr @starbuds-and-rosedust and open tag for anyone else with files to share :D

[thekylemeredith]

#LizzyGreene joins me on the latest episode of Kyle Meredith With… to talk about Netflix’s new series #RansomCanyon, reconnecting with her Texas roots, and embracing her inner goth punk—because cowboy boots and black eyeliner aren’t mutually exclusive.

[vilevexedvixen]

"I won't do that" Hitoshi Shinso x Reader

Summary: The long road to heroism turned out to be pathed in far more blood than Shinso could've ever expected. So much so that he questions his own integrity as a hero. As far as you know, he's only second-guessing himself playing the villain in your roleplays. It wouldn't be long before you both learn just how different Shinso is from a real villain...

CW: Needles, corruption, sexual themes, drug-play, body horror and dollification (kinda?)

Reader's quirk: "Babel" - They can read, speak and write all known languages. That includes living and dead languages, but not fictional ones. Initially dismissed as simply being hyper-verbal until their miraculous proficiency of all sorts of languages was discovered. (Based on the phenomenon of people waking up from a coma or suffering brain injuries and suddenly being fluent in languages they've never heard/learnt. This phenomenon isn't fully understood, but for the quirk I'm guessing all human language shares some common genetic lineage that can be passed on and reactivated.)

Their mother's quirk ("Polyglot") allowed her to speak any language but not read / write it, while their father's quirk ("Scribe") allowed him to read / write any language but not speak it. They ended up teaching each other their favourite languages. Their mother dubbed a lot of shows and their father translated many books, but after meeting they started mutually translating and dubbing audio books, which kick-started their mum's career as a voice actress and their father's career as a writer! Both of which come through in the reader's own choice of hobbies.

Dividers by @rowanswritin and @strangergraphics

"But it's been ages since you last used your quirk on me!", you playfully pouted, arms crossed in faux-frustration.

"And I'd like to keep it that way!", Hitoshi retorted, quite plainly. Though it was clear by his heavy sigh that your pestering was beginning to ware his nerves.

You try to avoid pestering him to brainwash you, knowing how much of a sore spot using his quirk for anything but diplomacy and heroics tends to be. Though the odd occasion he finds himself willing to explore its other uses are times you long for, you can't force them to come any sooner. Patience is a virtue after all! One Hitoshi has helped you cultivate, largely through his frequent deployment overseas. An invaluable asset for de-escalation, keeping an otherwise boiling pot of a world at a mild simmer.

It was fun for the first few years, seeing the world, feeling important... he needed to learn the local languages and study the voices he needed to mimic where he'd be deployed. Each mission a fun adventure you got to tag along with him on as a translator of sorts! Should've figured the good times wouldn't last... One too many villains, a religious cult if you remember rightly, took you for ransom. By that point he'd become quite the polyglot thanks to you, and any further consultation needed from you could be done over the phone - a safe distance away from any danger. It wasn't worth the risk to have you with him on the field, not anymore.

Now you sat alone, as you so often did these days, passing the time with whatever company needed a good translator. Though these days most companies used AI to do that, so outside of part-time language tutoring and helping Hitoshi perfect his international diplomacy, your quirk functions as nothing more than a party trick. What's really kept you going while Hitoshi's away for weeks at a time for the past couple years has been making up new languages of your own and writing stories around them! Perhaps you went a little bit overboard with some of them, at least the publishers seemed to think so, but at least Hitoshi appreciated your little passion projects! Like clockwork, you'd have another ready for him to bring along on his next mission to make the long flights and long nights that little bit shorter. After all, it wasn't like this longing is one-sided. His isolating work visibly taking a toll on his psyche, even if your presence does wonders to mend it whenever he finally catches a break.

A question that dances in your mind whenever you think of him, and had done even back when you were just colleagues, has always been...

"How could I have gotten so lucky?"

Working with someone so cool, so kind, so smart... with such a powerful quirk, one that just so happens to suit your kinks like a velvet glove. The first time he used it on you, even though you knew it was coming, felt like an electrifying rapture shocking your system. Were you able to move in that moment, you have no doubt you would've sunk to your knees, hands hiding your face in embarrassment. None of which would've been necessary to convey how his quirk was affecting you, given the deep blush that radiated across your face regardless. Since then, a little exercise you two did between missions was mimicking the voice of whomever you were talking to in-person or on the phone, like a game of werewolf. Lately it's barely been worth playing, because his masterful mimicry has become almost impossible for you to discern.

Perhaps, to answer the question, it was your own voice that had entranced him, much like his own did you. A native tongue like no other. Once he'd grasped the basics of a handful of languages, you had the habit of speaking to each other in random languages. Originally to practice for his work, then to keep your heart-to-hearts and in-jokes private, then... Well, by that point you reckon he just liked hearing you speak. Even if it was just to hear your voice, you appreciated how deeply he seemed to listen. Letting you run your mouth for hours on end about anything and everything on your mind. Softly, smoothly, like a siren song only he can understand. Now that you were closer, he often asks you to whisper sweet nothings in the languages he thought sounded the most beautiful to hear you speak.

Oh, the brief moments you cherish together are bliss...

But that only makes his absence more painfully palpable. Day by day wading through the thickening silence. Calls growing more infrequent as the risk of them being traced back to you and endangering you becomes greater. And even when you are together, he's been less willing to use his quirk on you lately. Did something happen?

"I'm sorry...", you said, perhaps a little preemptively.

"For What?", Hitoshi raised an eyebrow at your apologetic shift in demeanor. Even if he wasn't in the mood right now, simply asking isn't a crime. "Look, I enjoy our little role-plays for the most part, but I'm starting to feel like you don't want me to be the one controlling you."

That took you aback, 'don't want him'?

"Obviously it's just a role, and it is fun for me, but...", he trailed off, caught up in his own conflicted thoughts, not finding quite the right way to word his frustrations just yet. The pause his rumination brought made the air hang heavy with dread, had you gone too far? You always try to re-assure him during aftercare that nothing he does to you is real, that it doesn't make him any less of a good person. Or less of a hero for playing the villain for you!

"I-I can play the villain next time, and you can capture me! I don't mind switching things up so you get to be a hero when we play.", you sheepishly proposed, hoping the solution would be as simple as that. The suggestion wasn't a bad shout and he did seem to like it by the way his eyes lit up as he heard it. Even still, there lingered a weight on his chest that has sat heavy on his chest for a long while and he was desperate to finally shed it.

"Sounds fun, but what I was going to say-", he took a deep breath, the sight of which compelled you to hold yours; "-is that you always seem to want me to play the villain. I don't feel like myself in those moments, yet I feel... like I'm actually hurting you. No matter how much I try, it's getting harder to feel like it's just a role I'm playing. Is this how you see me? Or do you want someone else entirely? Who's so much crueler than I could ever pretend to be..."

Those last few words echoed in your mind, never managing to fade even as you began to try and think of what to say next. As much as it pained you, it wasn't far from the truth. Heck! Part of what got you abducted by that religious cult, the same one that drove Hitoshi to convince you to stop tagging along with him on missions, was their penchant for using quirks similar to Brainwashing. What can you say? You have a soft spot for it, to your own detriment, and he knew it! Still... it didn't stop you from feeling guilty for projecting that onto him and overstepping his boundaries, if unintentionally.

"Shall we, um...", you reached a hand to paw at your hair, as if doing so might coax the perfect words you needed to say out from between the strands. For all your ways with words, Hitoshi deserved more than fanciful deflection. Imagining him using you to meet his basest, most sadistic desires... That's your groin talking, not a reflection of him! You project your kinks onto people you find attractive, rather than those kinks reflecting them as people. You know he knows that, this isn't the first time you two have discussed this. He must need to hear it, from you, however many times it takes to reassure him he's still a hero and that none of what you do together means he's a villain deep down. Right, you know exactly what to say now!

Just as you were about to break the silence - Hitoshi's work phone rang suddenly, startling you and making Histoshi grimace at how your relationship will once again be put on hold by work. With a pained sigh and a quick exchange of glances as if to say, "We'll finish this later", Hitoshi answered the phone.

"Yes, Sir?", silence hang heavy as a no-doubt hefty assignment was relayed to him. Each second felt agonisingly long with how much you strained to retain the perfect words you'd only just managed to conjure! Sod's law dictates you'll have forgotten them all by the time his call is up. Wouldn't be the first time...

"Yes I can be there by tomorrow," He flitted his eyes briefly back to you with an apologetic expression, one which you should be used to by now but with how brief his visit has been already the sting of it never seems to lessen. Resigned, you nod, to which Hitoshi signs a 'thank you' your way and says, with much apprehension, "No, that won't be a problem." before hanging up.

"Goddammit", he sighs.

"It's fine.", you lie. He knows it's a lie. Honestly you aren't sure why you bother saying it every time something like this happens. Perhaps because if either of you admitted how much it hurt then he might end up quitting, and then the guilt of abandoning his hero duties and all the effort it took to attain them would set in. Then... back to square one again, you guess. As you'd feared, some of those perfect words have already slipped your mind. Desperately, you blurt out the rest, "None of my kinks are a reflection of you. Frankly, I'm not sure where they came from or why I enjoy them so much, but I'm grateful that you've humoured them for me. I just find villains... hot, at least in theory. And since you're, well... I guess my brain put two and two together and just imagined you as a sexy villain. You don't have to play that role anymore, that's never been who I see you as even when you played it well!"

He gives a half-hearted chuckle, staring vacantly at the floor. That's the problem, he did play it well. Too well. Why couldn't he shake this feeling of guilt? Of shame? Truthfully he wasn't sure quite what it was, but it was clear that time would do more than words to clear his mind of it. Or make it worse. Words failing you both, you let silence settle over you like a weighted blanket. Slowly easing the tension between you dissipate enough to pull each other into a loving embrace, warm and comforting.

You both wished this moment would last forever...

But, as needs must, you reluctantly parted and mournfully watched Hitoshi make his way to the bedroom to grab his work bag. Barely having had a chance to unpack before needing to leave again.

"Target is in sight!", Hitoshi relayed over his receiver. Strange to think he's only there to "talk" to someone, albeit from a distance. Almost felt like he was taking aim to fire, and in a way... he was. The way his quirk made them effectively brain-dead until instructed otherwise was the perfect solution after widespread protest forced the International Intervention Alliance (essentially the UN's Safety Commission) to adopt less lethal methods of eliminating villains. At first he was more than happy to be that solution, stopping military coups dead in their tracks, domestic terrorists attempting to organise the massacre of whole neighbourhoods, sex traffickers who felt untouchable... but it seemed like the good done in the early days was an induction of sorts, to ease him into not questioning more dubious acts of "peace keeping".

Peace keeping missions like the one he was about to complete, brainwashing a democratically elected presidential candidate about to win by a landslide if the briefing he got was correct. The "problem" with them, at least according to the IIA, is that they were proposing some very 'radical' changes that risked bodies like the IIA and other hero organisations being de-funded in favour of bolstering infrastructure like free housing, reformed education, and environmental protections. Frankly he had to hold back his laughter when he heard them describe his target. Really? THIS is who they feel threatened by enough to send him, their "secret weapon"? Looking at his target, their smile, one so filled with such endearing, sincere hope for the future he was about to reluctantly rip away.

"Something wrong?", his boss questioned, interrupting his thoughts, seemingly irked by his pause of contemplation - of hesitation. Hitoshi took a long, deep breath and began carefully tuning his vocal modulator to sound like one of the journalists interviewing them in their imminent victory lap. Here we go again...

"What do you think will happen once you de-fund the IIA?"

Instantly their target's movements cease, bar a slight tremble and their expression falling to a dull, blank stare. A far cry from the promising, joyful figure who held themselves so high just moments before. The choice of circumstance for their brainwashing was quite deliberate, though rarely would it be so public. While they may be on the younger side for a politician, they were still in the right age and weight range to plausibly have a stroke. Wouldn't you know it, a stroke looks strikingly similar to his brainwashing! From the outside at least...

'Fall', he commanded, to really sell the act.

Everyone near enough to try rushed to catch them. Most missions only required him to be deployed, but he had to be sure no one realised he's even here for this one. Instead, his boss sent undercover backup to drag their target away this time, under the guise of rushing them to hospital. It wasn't until about an our later, when their target was finally "eliminated" that he was given the all-clear with the words, "Great work, Nighthide!". The same words that once filled him with such pride and joy, now just left him with a hollow pit of shame deep in his gut. His "Hero" name never seemed so fitting, in the worst way possible. God he felt so... dirty. He shouldn't have agreed, not to this mission. Never mustered the courage to defy orders or turn down a mission, given how hard he worked to earn his place in the organisation. Frankly, never felt the need to until this past year of psy-op after psy-op.

If only _________ knew what went on in these missions, in his "Hero" work. Bless her heart, thinking it was only their role plays that had him second-guessing his own morals. Still, it wasn't as if he could tell her about any of this, she only saw the good days when they were still working together in the field. Every mission was always kept under wraps, not even family could know what went on - the IIA would know if anything leaked. Even she couldn't possibly reassure him what he was doing now was anything but blatant corruption. Was this how Lady Nagant felt? How Hawks felt? God it was so long ago since he thought about his old mentors. Aizawa... What would he think? He only ever knew him after he began work as a teacher, it was easy to forget Aizawa spent most of his career operating completely independently. And he's beginning to understand why...

With heavy feet and an even heavier heart, he dragged himself forward. Anywhere but here. A performative act, given another agent teleported heroes like him to and from missions to avoid being traced, but it was the only thing he could think to do amidst the dissociative storm circling his mind. Unfortunately, a far more dire mission awaited him upon his return to an empty home...

"The next station is...", chimed the announcer over the train's intercom. Just five more stops to go... and you bet reaching each one would feel like an age. Not that you minded too much, given it granted you more time to keep reading your book. Well, fanfiction... smut, it was smut. Most Heroes pay no mind to what their fans (heck, even some of their enemies) write about them, but you admit it still felt like a guilty pleasure of yours to read. Occasionally peeking at what other people have written for "Nighthide". You giggle at the name, far too edgy and brooding for the sweetheart he's turned out to be. Relishing with amusement at people's guesses over how he might act in a relationship or during intimacy, when you know full well the answers to both. It was sweet, and somewhat intriguing when someone would hit close to the money. Though none of them could've guessed how much of a cunning linguist you've helped him become!

For all the stories you wrote in your spare time you rarely contributed to the mountains of hero fanfiction out there. Villain fanfiction, however, was a semi-regular indulgence of yours. Unlike heroes, villains tend to pay more attention to what fans write about them, since some see it as a way to gauge what buttons to press to recruit naive fans into their antics. A risk you were fully aware of, but one you felt fairly ambivalent about - given how well versed you are in the art of psychological warfare and stealth after your time working for the IIA. The stark contrast those days have with your current, mundane domesticity felt like a joke. Barely anyone even knows your old job as Hitoshi's translator even existed since your contract with the IIA included an NDA.

Oh well, at least you're getting some recognition as a small-time fantasy author. It's not much, but it makes commuting to your day job as a language teacher a little easier. You'd never really payed much mind to the fact you can't drive until now. What with how extensive public transport has been where you live, you've never felt the need to drive. Even when working in the most remote locations in your old job with Hitoshi, you both were either flown or teleported to where you needed to be! Right about now, squashed uncomfortably tightly between sweaty strangers and their bulky backpacks, you were seriously considering learning to drive. But for now, distracting yourself with smut would have to suffice!

Even today, most teachers who still read smut or who are discovered to be kinky are shunned to the point of it risking their job. Yet it came in handy in your career, strangely enough. You discovered one of your favourite fanfic authors was one of the students in your class. Initially it was merely a strong suspicion, since the oddly specific phrases they asked for help translating ended up in a fanfic of a notorious villain from China, who later attempted to recruit that student. Admitting how you knew who kidnapped them was a bit embarrassing, but it proved invaluable to the police to bring them home so you're glad you did! Even still, you had to quit because the school didn't want word of one of their teachers being an avid smut reader to tarnish their reputation, so you've moved to gig-work. Essentially as a personal tutor, rather than a full-time teacher. Often leading to your commuting distance and hours to be unpredictable, but work is work you guess - and you need the money. You'd think for all the good work Hitoshi is doing for the world that they'd pay him more, but no. "Hero work is its own reward!", only goes so far - the cheap bastards!

You sigh, having unintentionally killed the mood enough to make you stop reading. Tucking your phone back into your pocket, you idly stare around the train at nothing in particular. And yet... Something particular you see, there amidst the tightly packed cluster of bored commuters you spot an unnerving figure staring straight at you!Instinctively you look away, as if acknowledging his presence might provoke him to approach. The urge to keep flitting your eyes back to him, just for a second, only to snap them back to the ground was overpowering. Compelled, maybe by fear or by curiosity, to keep checking he was there - that he hadn't inched any closer. Whatever you'd hoped to accomplish from your dance of nerves, you didn't expect him to be smiling the next time you checked. Seemingly taking great pleasure in seeing you fumble at his mere presence.

Just as you felt panic begin to overtake you, relief washed over you as the intercom announced "This stop is Central Station, alight here for-"

Finally, you're here! Desperate to leave, you pushed your way through the crowd to get off. Feeling elated as the fresh air fills your lungs after such a claustrophobic journey, you forget your footing for a moment. In your hurried escape, you stumble. Only for someone to fortunately catch you! Stunned by the fall, time slows. Each second feeling like viscous droplets dripping through your mind, which grew foggier with each drop. Other passengers flow past you like a parted sea, only acknowledging your presence insofar as it inconvenienced their exit. As you regain focus and steady your footing, you clumsily turn to thank whomever caught you. Only for your heart to sink like an anchor upon seeing the unnerving man from the train staring back at you, now mere inches from your face!

Even this close, it was hard to see clearly. A cloth mask covers his mouth and nose and further still long, dark strands of hair fell over his face like a hood, obscuring the rest of his features. Despite barely being able to see his eyes, you could feel his stare burning into you - along with what felt like a set of claws digging into your back. Not thick enough to be like a heteromorph's animalistic claws made of keratin, these felt thinner, sharper... like syringe needles. As the thought crossed your mind, you felt them pierce through the cloth of your jacket and into your back. Slowly digging in, the pain caused you to wince.

Flailing to get away, you accidentally push your back deeper into his piercing grip. "P-Please...", you tremble, "Let me go!" To your horror, a voice you recognise responds, one you haven't heard in nearly a decade. Vlatko Uros, The "Doll-Maker". One of Hitoshi's early targets that was done for sex trafficking, among myriad other charges. He chuckles, "Ah, so you remember me? How sweet!", you hadn't noticed his other hand was free, which stroked up your body and snaked its way under your chin. "Because I certainly remember you...", he purred, his purr twisting into a growl as he dug the needles deeper into your back, causing you to wail in pain. Or it could have, had he not pressed his palm over your mouth. You weren't sure if it was the fear, pain or something else causing your head to spin, but soon you could feel your knees begin to buckle as your limbs grew weak.

"That's it... let everything fade away...", you heard his voice echo, growing more distant with each passing second. Before long, you were limp in his arms...

Dinner was getting cold.

Hitoshi figured _________'s absence was simply a case of her being at work, running errands or fun with friends, the perfect opportunity to surprise her with dinner upon his return from his last mission. A comfortable setting to bring up his decision to quit, and hopefully reassure her about their talk from before he left. Not wanting to be rude, he waited an hour before tucking into his own portion - slowly picking at it, the meat tough and dry from how many times he's had to re-heat it while he waited. By now it's been sat on the table for over two hours. None of the messages he sent have been read. Their neighbour hadn't seen _________ all day, not since they greeted her as she left for work yesterday. He didn't want to panic, but the worst explanation loomed over him like a growing shadow.

As he got up to leave for the police station or nearest hero agency, his phone rang. Fumbling to fish it out from his pocket, his eyes lit up with hope as he saw the caller ID - it was _________! Without any hesitation he answered, "Hello! _________! Where are you?". There was an extended silence that seemed to go on forever, before he finally heard a voice, but not the one he'd expected. A muffled, sinister voice replied, "Nighthide..."

He grit his teeth as he realised who had answered. Uros...

"Where is ________? What have you done with her!", Hitoshi tried desperately to keep his composure, wishing he didn't feel so helpless. Whoever had ________ now knows it's him, so he can't easily dupe them into being brainwashed. Luckily, tracking the phone signal is easy enough, that's at least a start.

"Oh, nothing much... I just gave her a little injection."

The moment Hitoshi heard that last word, he nearly dropped the phone in his rush to reach her in time. Before Uros' quirk, his venom, has enough time to fully re-wire her brain into his puppet. When they initially caught him, they couldn't save a lot of the victims they set free. By then their whole body and mind had been re-wired, effectively making them stringless marionettes when he isn't near enough to control them. Even after years of physiotherapy and medical intervention, very few regained any semblence of independence and remain in full-time care to this day. He can't let that happen to __________!

In a panic, he frantically spewed question after question, partly to gage more information while he traced the call and partly in a vain attempt to catch them out. Even if brainwashing them wouldn't do much to help _________, it could at least keep any further harm to a minimum, he hoped. Soon though, the tracking was complete. He couldn't afford to waste anymore time! Not even stopping to lock the door on his way out, he belted it to the roof and put all his training to work. Using his scarf to throw himself from building to building, gaining speed, eyes scouring for exactly where the call was traced back to.

Uros hung up the phone, quite pleased with himself for baiting Nighthide so easily. He's always been a hard one to track down, but you were not Nighthide. Ever since he got paranoid about your safety and insisted you stay "out of harms way", it ironically made you even easier to track down by the likes of him once he got out. You'd think practically lobotomising dozens of victims to then exploit for sex slavery would net oneself a life sentence, but no! Released on "good behaviour", and a pretty bribe or two... Either way, he knew the simplest way to finally get Nighthide out of the way for good would be to lure him into a trap. All he had to do was find his precious little lovebird. Oh, what a delightful little paper trail she left! All those naughty little villain fantasies may not have been about him, but it provided an amusing read thinking how compliant you would be as one of his slaves. From there, tracking your IP was a walk in the park and shockingly careless for someone with your credentials.

Looking you up and down, he honestly was quite impressed with the restraint he was exercising. Having not even laid a finger on you after the initial injection, other than tying you up until the venom takes full effect, he reckoned there was enough time for him to play with his new toy before Nighthide arrived...

With a devious smile, he said, "While we wait for your little hero to arrive, I think I deserve a little... entertainment.~"

+++ NSFW SCENE - skip to next purple dot banner if needed! +++

Your hearing had began to noticeably muffle over the past few hours, but his sinister tone came through clear as day regardless. Adrenaline overran your body, but with barely any control of your muscles remaining, it had nowhere to go but your heart - which beat so fast your chest grew tight from the pain.

Suddenly, you felt your body move. A brief flash of strength, one you thought was voluntary at first. A show of resilient rebellion against his venomous control. But as you tensed with all your might, garnering not even a twitch in response, horror and dread seeped in. Tainting what meager resolve you had into pitiful paralysis. You wished you weren't so shockingly easy to subdue, but for all your time on the field, you were only really there to teach Hitoshi and the other agents languages and were so separate from any combat so much of the time that you were only taught the basics. All of which became redundant the moment he injected that damn venom straight up your spine!

That first movement wasn't a fluke though. From your last encounter, it was hard to tell exactly how his quirk worked, but with a second, then a third jolt, it started to paint a grotesque picture... The movements felt abrupt yet loose, as if he was puppeteering your flesh with strings pulled too taut. Head kept foggy so no remaining thoughts could translate to anything but the mildest action unless directly controlled by him. You felt all tension in your jaw slowly loosen as it hung slightly open and eyelids drooping to a perfect sleepy doe-eye. To your disgust, you felt drool begin to slowly drip from your lip.

Quite pleased with how things were 'progressing', he felt certain you were no longer able to run away and so knelt down to untie you from the chair. After all, you couldn't put on a show for him bound up like that! Even if your futile thrashing earlier was quite amusing. Since your body had long grown numb, you could barely feel the change in pressure as he loosened your bindings despite the deep marks they left. Without warning, you felt your body jolt to attention as if re-animated.

"Oh how I've missed this...", he grinned.

Pulling up the chair he'd tied you to, he settled into it much like a king would a throne; calm yet imposing. Wordlessly he nodded, and your hands seemed to understand the cue before your brain could register it. Still a little stilted, your fingers fumbled over your shirt buttons, managing with much effort to undo them and slide your shirt to the floor. Sluggishly you felt your body sway as your hands glided down the curves of your body until you reached the hem of your trousers. Even as you struggled to pull them down, your body was forced to keep your rear front and center. A striptease of all things? You couldn't imagine anything about your movements being sexy in this moment, as unnatural as they were. Yet the very robotic nature of it all seemed not to bother him. In fact, if his vulgar expression was anything to go by, that might've been the point!

Even if your face couldn't move to reflect the turmoil that besieged you in your humiliation, tears were still able to well, turning your glazed eyes glassy like polished opal. "Beautiful...", he purred. The beauty of your pain stung like a searing dagger, twisted deeper with every bit of praise your captor had the gall to bestow as they tortured you! Worse still, much of it resembled things Hitoshi told you. When he'd concede to brainwash and "torture" you at your discretion. You thought it felt so tantilisingly real in those blissful moments you shared, but now... Now it was clear just how tame it was compared to the real thing. God, you just want it to stop!

Sensing resistance in wake of your distress, he attempted to quell your mind in other ways - control disguised as comfort; "You know, my venom isn't permanent" Tracing his needle-like fingers across your shoulders, circling her as he spoke, "At least, depending on how many times I inject you. Each dose conditions your nervous system to respond to my control, rather than your own. I'm not exactly sure how many doses it takes for one's body to grow fully dependent on my control to function, and I'm willing to bet Nighthide doesn't either. You still might have a fighting chance! How about that?"

"иди дођавола", you manage. Good, at least you have enough of your faculties left to insult him in his own tongue. You aren't sure if he was ever aware of your quirk or what you were doing with Nighthide other than being his confidant, but anything that could throw him or potentially make him more willing to divulge his plans under the assumption that anyone watching wouldn't understand them was invaluable. Surprised, you truly caught him of guard!

"Паметна девојка… али не задуго! Не након износа који сам вам дао.", his smug grin widened at your growing look of abject horror.

In truth, the dose he injected, especially so directly to the nervous system, should have been enough to render you practically brain-dead by now. Perhaps he was getting rusty, it has been a while since he'd last used his quirk, and he usually targeted people already weakened by the world. It was true it did ware off with time, but we wasn't taking any chances. Only a fool would consider Nighthide an easy fight, even without a quirk suited for combat, his skill and compensated for that tenfold. Good thing he's gotten him all riled up - hard to be stealthy with a clouded mind, like a bull in a china shop...

Time was running out!

From the looks of things, he was hiding out in one of the condemned buildings at the city's outskirts. As he got closer, he could make out the decrepit sign outside. An old Love Hotel? Feeling sick to his stomach, he feared the worst. In his haste he hadn't stopped to consider how he would land. If his trajectory was anything to go by, he was flying feet first through one of the second story windows!

With both arms raised to protect his face, he braced himself and smashed straight through. Skidding to a stop with shards scattering around him. Once the dust had settled, he listened for any sounds that might give away their location. Besides the eerie creaks of the old structure and the light rustle of leaves in the breeze outside, it was more hushed than snowfall. Nothing. Then...

A creak - above him!

Not wanting to announce his approach, he cautiously climbed back out of the window he'd just smashed through and scaled up to the one above. Feeling for the edge of a window panel, he nudged it open and subtly placed a two-way radio inside the room. Listening in, he could hear their (very one-way) conversation. From the sounds of it, you were already struggling to speak. 'Hang in there...', he pleaded.

"By the sounds of things, your little hero has come to save you, though I remember him being stealthier than that... Didn't even see him coming when he destroyed my business and ruined my life! And now...", he leaned in close, stroking your cheek, and whispered, "I'll ruin his!"

Your nerves felt like frayed threads. The whole length of your spine burned with a sharp, twisting pain, working its way up your neck to the base of your skull which hung heavy and tilted to the side. You could barely muster the strength to flinch away, so channeled it to the only part of your body his venom hasn't quite taken over yet.

"Y-you... You won't get away with this...", you manage to croak.

Unimpressed but very much amused, he laughs, "How cliche... Is that really all you can think to say? God, my venom must have reached your brain already!" As if to confirm his observation, he traces the tips of his needle-like fingers across the bare skin of your arms, tearing through it like a seam ripper! No reaction. Not even a flinch.

'No!', Hitoshi felt his patience snap, his composure slip, and his restraint leave every fibre of his body. That bastard is dead! In a flash his lashed forward, constricting her captor's neck like a snake, tighter and tighter... Too possessed with a primal, protective instinct to bother preserving what little element of surprise he had, he clawed his way through the window and growled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Knowing better than to answer once his bindings were loosened enough for him to even attempt to speak, he just sneered in viscious contempt for an old enemy. Silence settled over the room as Hitoshi waited for him to cave. Needless to say, his patience had grown scarce the moment he touched __________.

Blinded by sheer elation you furiously fight against your invisible restraints to throw your arms around him, managing only a weak twitch. Why hasn't he moved either? Has he already been injected?You can't risk your captor digging his claws into him. As merciless as he's been in making you his puppet, you had a feeling what awaited Hitoshi would be even worse... That was, until you noticed the glass lodged where he must have broken his fall, not track marks as you had feared. Everything happened so fast you hadn't realised Hitoshi had already captured him! So why was he so still? His focus locked not on you, but your detestable captor. That look in his eyes... You've never seen that look before, not even on the field. Venomous and vengeful.

"If you don't speak up now-", he re-fastened his choke-hold sharply and angling upwards slightly, were he any less restrained then it'd barely differ from a noose, "Then forever hold your peace" As long as Uros remained in control, he stood a chance at snuffing him out once and for all! Nighthide would have to let go eventually, but no sense in waiting for that... wait, where is his gun? He could barely move his neck to look for it, clumsily feeling for it in his coat while his legs flailed like an overturned beetle's. Nighthide won't actually kill him... right? He's a "hero"! He hated how quickly he was losing leverage, but at least he still had a hold on _________. Time to put that to the test...

You strained to speak, even moreso than before as if pulling apart ethereal threads that had sewn your lips shut. You had to snap him out of it! Maybe if you let Hitoshi take control of you it could loosen Uros' control? No way of communicating your plan, but you had to try it! Any way out of this except murder! He'd never forgive himself! Just... Have to... Speak!

Barely a squeak whimpered out before some invisible force compelled you forward, abruptly stopping once your foot knocked into something cold and metallic - a gun? Even without Uros' control, you picked it up in a heartbeat, something to maybe shoot a hole through Hitoshi's scarf, or startle him into letting go, something, anything! Though the moment you did you wished you hadn't. As you cocked the pistol with a click, realising Uros was still in control. Desperately fighting to keep your aim away from them as you felt to nozzle inching towards Hitoshi. No... no! You attempt to backtrack and drop the gun, only to find your grip locked tight around the trigger. You feel your finger twitch-

*BANG*

Violently snapped out of his wrathful trance with a bullet to the shoulder, the pain forcing Hitoshi to flinch. Only for a second. Long enough to grant Uros a window of opportunity to grab at his bindings and pull them loose but not quite free - entangled and gasping for air.

"Шта дођавола није у реду са тобом?", Uros sputtered, face slightly purple.

No words. Nothing came but shallow, quickened breaths as Hitoshi attempted to process exactly what just happened - what he was about to do... Letting his scarf fall to the floor, he stared down at his trembling hands. Eyes fixated yet unseeing. Though the blood on his hands was his own, in his guilt-ridden delirium it could've been anyone's. Uros', one of his targets, ________'s... Was he really so quick to abandon his morals? No... It would've been to protect _________. If he hadn't hurt her then, then... Oh god, _________!

While he was distracted, Uros clawed his way to his feet with a hand clasped around _________'s neck! He'd taken the gun back for himself, which was now aimed squarely at Nighthide. Had Uros aimed it at _________'s head, he might have panicked, but he finally started feeling like himself again. With a clear mind, he stared down the barrel. Now he knew exactly what to say, "Do it. Or do you need ________ to pull the trigger for you... again?".

"УМРИ ВЕЋ!" And there it is!

The stupid bastard could barely move his finger with how swiftly brainwashing took effect. As his limbs fell loose and limp, Hitoshi had to lunge to catch you as you were finally freed from Uros' grip, at least physically. Anxious to make sure you're ok, he lays you down relieved to see the steady rise and fall of your chest. Something was still wrong though, you still hadn't said a word in minutes and your pupils weren't responding to light. Uros' venom had done too much damage, he was too late...

That bastard still has control. Wait... he does still have control. If Hitoshi could make Uros somehow relinquish that control from the inside, then maybe there's still a chance. He wasn't sure if it was possible, or what he even had to say to do it but... he had to try!

After a deep breath, he focused everything on drilling deep into Uros' mind. If there was a way he could nullify his quirk, even with the venom still flowing through her veins, he had to do it. Despite the uncertainty of it all, he commanded with as much authority as he could muster, "Let. Her. Go."

There was an ominous pause as Hitoshi waited with baited breath to see if it worked. Suddenly, Uros dug his needles deep into _________'s neck. He grabbed to pull them out to no avail, until he noticed the colour of their contents had changed. Watching them inject a strange, clear liquid instead of the usual purple venom. An antivenom?

Once seemingly all of the antivenom had been exhausted, Uros withdrew his hand and resumed the stance of a dead-eyed thrall. A much more fitting punishment than stooping to murder, giving him a taste of his own medicine!

With that, he waited. And waited. And waited... Soon enough the sun sank below the horizon, blanketing the three of them in a serene amber glow. After putting _________'s clothes back on, he couldn't bring himself to move from where he was kneeling. __________'s head laid upon his lap as he stroked her hair. Partly to comfort her in case she was conscious all the while, and partly for his own sake. A therapeutic distraction.

As the cold of night set in, Hitoshi realised the state of his wounds. Finally moving, if only to tend to them. Thank goodness for his utility belt! While the glass shards in his arms and legs were easy enough to pick out with tweezers, his shoulder definitely needed stitches... She really did a number on him! Hopefully she won't feel too guilty about that once this is all over. It wasn't her fault after all.

Before he'd even finished bandaging up, ________ bolted up, gasping!

"Fuck! Fuck...", she cried, sinking into herself. Having regained lucidity, Hitoshi rushed to embrace you. The deep, heavy pressure quelled your shaking to a mild shiver. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was joy to finally be able to hug you again - maybe he'd finally lost it! Either way, he had to laugh. Hugged him tighter, letting him cry into your shoulder. Happy to be yourself again, to feel your body as your own, to feel him right there with you...

"Let's go home", you whispered into his chest, hearing his heartbeat slowly grow steadier. "Yeah...", he sniffed, helping you to your feet. You both take a final glance at Uros.

"We should stop by the police station first.", you suggest, exhausted with the slight damper it put on things. An extra duty before you could both truly rest.

"Yeah...", he sighed, "He's their problem now. I... Can I confess something?"

"Anything!", what could he possibly have to confess after practically laying his soul bare to you with actions today alone? Regardless, just hearing his voice made anything he had to say worthwhile.

"Um... I think I'm gonna quit. The IIA, I mean. I'll still be a hero, but on my terms. I know you've been wanting to visit Japan for a while... maybe I could introduce you to my old mentor while we're there?"

Words failed to capture just how ecstatic you were to hear his "confession", you couldn't help but throw your arms around him once more. And it was clear by the way he hugged you back that he understood.

(So this ended way fluffier than intended! Originally the reader was going to be permanently debilitated by the venom and Shinso would become her full-time carer. Occasionally using his quirk (at her request) to help her with things like dancing together! Happy to write that alternate bittersweet ending if y'all would like it :3)

[dilandau7]

The Long Walk will star Garrett Wareing (Ransom Canyon), Tut Nyout (The Witcher: Blood Origin), Charlie Plummer (Spontaneous), Ben Wang (American Born Chinese), Jordan Gonzalez (Pretty Little Liars: Summer School), Joshua Odjick (Welcome to Derry), and Roman Griffin Davis (Jojo Rabbit). The seven actors join previously announced stars Cooper Hoffman and David Jonsson

Filming started 3 days ago!

[officermorozov]

Ransom had received an anonymous call that shots were fired at the castle and he was needed urgently. It was why he came lights and sirens to the place and into the party only to find nothing of the chaos he assumed would be happening when he arrived and was invited in despite not having the required attire when explained why he was there. Not the details other than a call was placed and he was asked to come. His mood was bad, though it was usually bad, made worse his time was wasted and that he was at his least favorite place. Still he entered the castle to see if there was some issue that he missed. He wanted to find Kaden to make sure the kresnik wasn't in any danger. Something didn't feel right.

He found his way to the ballroom. He easily spotted the problems that usually stirred trouble in and out of town before he saw Kaden. The kresnik looked no worse for ware and somehow that was reassuring. He couldn't remember the last time he saw his counterpart out of uniform as he strode up to his subordinate at the bar looking him over. "Forgot you actually clean up, Valentine." He teased.

@kresnikxkaden