#please read warnings

“Not on our watch,” Sam says, shutting the hatch. 

They rush off toward the large brick building in the middle of nowhere, hoping to find you still kicking. 

Inside, they find a body at the entrance. Dean has to shove the door open to push it aside. Both brothers note the stab wound to the chest, nod at each other, and draw their guns. As they check the building, cautiously clearing each corner together, Dean taking the lead and Sam protecting his brother's back, they find body after body, but no sign of you. Once they’ve cleared the building, Dean drops his arms at his sides irritatedly. 

“Well? Where would she be?” Dean asks. “She should’ve just stayed put, as I said. Then we wouldn’t be runnin’ around trying to play catch up. Who knows where the kid is now.” 

“Dean,” Sam says, watching him start to pace, “she’s an adult. And a trained one, at that. She can make her own choices.” 

“Yeah, well, not if they’re stupid. Come on.” Dean waves Sam forward as he heads back downstairs. “Maybe she’s in the back.” 

They make their way outside into the courtyard. It’s filled with old junk and scrap metal; nothing's been touched here for probably twenty years. Old street lights are standing at an angle or completely snapped off at the base, lying flat on the overgrown concrete below. You’re standing near the center of the large concrete pad between buildings, pulling the demon-blade out of a demon as it sizzles and falls to the ground. You catch movement from the corner of your eye and turn to see your two older brothers making their way to you with scowls on their faces you electively choose to ignore. 

“Hey, guys,” you say cheerfully. “The buildings clear.” 

“Yeah, we noticed,” Dean says. 

“And I’ve got the kid, too,” you say, nodding behind you.

A young blonde-haired boy walks out from behind a rusty car with weeds growing out of the windshield. 

“I just want to see my mom,” the boy cries. 

“Oh, hey,” Sam says gently, walking up to the kid and kneeling at his height. “We’ll get you to your mom, isn’t that right?” He looks up at you. 

“Absolutely,” you say, giving the young boy a smile. 

“What did they want with the kid?” Dean asks. 

Guiltily, you shuffle your feet and avert your eyes. 

“Are you kidding me?” Dean asks, his frustration flaring. “What, you just thought you’d come in here guns a blazin’ and be the hero but forget to get the most important question answered?” 

“Dean,” Sam says, standing slowly. 

“No,” Dean says, briefly acknowledging Sam before turning back to you. “You put this kid’s life in danger, and you could’ve gotten yourself killed.” 

“Well, I didn’t,” you say, putting a hand on your hip. “Besides, we knew this place was filled with Grade D demons–Grade C, at best. You guys were taking forever, and it’s nothing I can’t handle alone. And you literally just did this same move last week! You’re going to lecture me on ‘pulling a Dean’?” 

“She’s got a point there,” Sam notes, trying to hide a smile. He’s always found it amusing when the two of you get into it. Dean has always had this strong sense to protect his two younger siblings, but when it comes to you, he can’t help but turn it up a notch, and that always sets your attitude off. The two Divas is what he’s called you both in the past, and that always gains him a glare and an eyeroll from the two of you. Before he can get the taunt out, his ear perks up. There’s a faint rhythmic ticking sound. He furrows his brows. “Uh, hey guys?” Sam says, looking around the messy courtyard for a sign of the source. “Does anyone hear that noise?” 

The little boy tugs on the sleeve of Sam’s coat, and he kneels down, scooping him up in his arms. “Guys,” Sam tries again to break up you and Dean’s bickering, “I think we should get out of here.” He starts to walk backwards, keeping his eyes on the two of you while trying to make sure the young kid is out of danger. “Guys!” 

“What?!” You and Dean snap, whipping your heads towards Sam at the same time. 

“Let's go,” Sam says, nodding back toward the building. “There’s something off about this place, and I think we should–” 

Before Sam can finish his sentence, an explosion sets off just behind you and Dean. The blast is so strong, it sends the two of you into the air and pushes Sam back with incredible force. He shields the little boy with his body, and once he skids to a stop, his back thudding against the brick building they walked out of, he props himself up to check the kid. “Are you okay?” He asks quickly; the boy nods his head. Sam flicks his attention to the rubble in front of him, searching for you and Dean with frantic eyes. “Dean?! Lexy?!” Sam yells, getting to his feet. He gestures at the kid to stay put as he walks into the rubble. 

Chunks of concrete and sidewalk are crumbled and strewn around the courtyard. Pieces of brick, old bits of rubber tire, and rusty metal shrapnel mix in. Sam’s heart pumps adrenaline through his chest, worry sinking in as he doesn’t see either one of you. He shouts for you both again, stumbling over a pile of rubble. 

“Sammy!” Dean shouts back, groaning in pain. 

Sam turns to the right, following his brother’s voice, and finds him pushing off the ground to his feet. “Are you okay?” Sam asks quickly. 

“I’m fine. Where’s Lex?” Dean asks, shaking his head as he tries to gather himself. 

“I-I don’t know, you both went flying; I didn’t see where she went.” Sam stumbles out. “Lex!” Sam calls out. 

Dean curses under his breath, finally getting to his feet. “What the hell was that?” He asks, stumbling into the courtyard. “Lex!” He shouts for you, desperately searching around the explosion site. 

“Some sort of bomb,” Sam comments. 

“No, really?” Dean asks sarcastically, glancing back at him. 

Sam glances back to check on the young boy, and when he sees he’s fine and hasn’t moved from his spot, he continues searching for you. He and Dean shout your name again, walking around a large rusted-out semi-truck lying on its side. As they round the corner, they finally hear you. 

“I’m here, I-I’m here,” you wrestle out, your voice hardly loud enough to cross the yard. 

Sam freezes, and Dean runs into his back. 

“Geeze, what are you? A mountain?” Dean snaps, fixing his jacket as he walks around his tall brother. 

But all sense of humor saps from his body as his eyes meet the scene in front of him. You’re slumped against a brick wall, and your hands are clasped tightly around a snapped-off steel pole that’s impaled your abdomen. Blood slowly bubbles and seeps out around the object, soaking into your dark clothes. 

“H-Hey, guys,” you say, forcing a smile as the color drains away from your face. 

All at once, the boys lurch into motion, running to your side, eagerly trying to find a solution. 

“Don’t move,” Dean says sternly. 

“Don’t worry, we’re getting you out of this,” Sam says. 

“Is the kid okay?” You ask worriedly. 

“The kid’s fine, he’s fine,” Sam reassures. 

“Cas,” Dean calls out. 

“I-I tried that already,” you stutter out over the pain. 

You had. As you lay in the dirt, feeling the metallic heat of your own blood pooling beneath you, before your brothers found you, your frantic mind hadn't called for safety or a miracle–it had called for him. And in the terrifying clarity that only comes when death is staring you down, the fragile lie that you’ve been telling yourself crumbled to dust. You didn't just have a soft spot for the awkward angel. You didn't just flirt with him to keep things light. You were hopelessly, completely in love with Castiel, though you knew it would never go anywhere. If this was really the end, the cruelest part wasn't dying in a rusty old courtyard–it was dying with that truth still trapped in your throat, and never getting to hear what he might say to the truth. Now, you’re trying not to hyperventilate, but your damaged lungs seem to have a mind of their own. 

“No, no, no,” Sam says in rapid succession. “Just breathe, Lex, it’s gonna be just fine.” 

“Yeah, what Sam said,” Dean says, kneeling at your side. “You’re gettin’ out of this, there’s no two ways about it.” 

“Dean,” you say, tears forcing their way over your cheeks. “Sammy.” You tilt your head, looking at both of your brothers in turn. “I love you, guys.” 

“Stop that,” Dean snaps. “Don’t you say goodbye. You’re fine.” 

Your hand, wet with blood, slips off the pole in your side, and Sam reaches out, taking it in both of his with shaking hands. 

“We’re right here, Lex,” Sam says, his voice tight and hushed. 

“Stop that,” Dean says, looking at Sam briefly before turning his attention back to you. “You’re fine. Cas,” Dean tries again. “Cas, please, please, get here as fast as you can. It’s Lex. And she needs your help.” 

“W-When Cas gets here,” you stutter out, the pain sucking the air out of your lungs. “Can you tell him… tell him that I–” You wince, feeling hot and cold all at once. Sweat drips down your back, but your hands and feet are as cold as ice. Your teeth start to chatter, and you taste a pungent iron flavor in the back of your mouth. 

Sam rubs your cold hand in his, trying to warm your fingers and give you some sort of comfort. He knows what’s happening; he just can’t believe it. 

You take in the presence of both of your brothers. You know your death is going to wreck them, and you can’t help but feel guilty. “I’m sorry,” you cry, unable to stop the crack in your voice. 

Dean immediately softens, moving in closer to you and placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says, though his eyes flick from yours to the seeping wound. “I’m not letting you die here.” He leans down and slides his arms under your back and legs, but just that small movement makes you scream in pain. He freezes, rethinking the plan in his head. 

“Dean, stop!” Sam says, squeezing your hand. “She’ll bleed out if you move her!” 

“She’s going to bleed out if we don’t do something!” Dean shouts back. 

Your head rocks forward as your body threatens to shut down, and Dean shifts his hold to cradle you in his arms, letting your head fall on his shoulder. 

“This isn’t happening,” Dean says, more to himself than anyone else. His heart sinks as he gives you a nudge, but no sound leaves your lips. “Don’t shut your eyes! Sammy, are her eyes closed?” 

Sam lifts his hands to his hair, pulling at the strands as he sits back, watching your eyes flutter shut, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell his brother. His stomach twists, once again feeling helpless. 

Castiel rushes around the corner, the back of his coat snapping against his legs as he runs as fast as he can to you. He heard your frantic prayers–he felt the desperation in Dean’s, too–but without his wings, the distance from you felt like an agonizing eternity. He skids to a stop beside Dean, his chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. For millennia, angels had existed as unfeeling soldiers of Heaven, incapable of the soft, terrifying vulnerabilities of mortal existence, but his time living as a human has changed him. It’s carved open a soul inside him, leaving Cas stranded in a strange middle ground; an angel burdened with the terrifying capacity to feel. And right now, looking down at your limp form cradled in Dean’s arms, your blood staining the dirt, pure, unadulterated terror claws at him. If he had a beating heart, it would be racing, thumping loudly against his ears; he’s sure of it. 

“Let her go,” Cas demands, dropping to his knees beside you.

Dean lays you down on the dirt-covered ground and scoots back just enough to give Cas room. “Well, come on!” Dean yells. “Heal her!” 

“It’s not that simple, Dean,” Cas states. He reaches his hand out, touching your forehead; there’s a glow, but your eyes stay shut. “Her injuries are immense. She is barely holding on. We have to remove the object from her abdomen before I can assess the extent of her wounds.” 

“Well, stop talking and just do what needs to be done,” Dean sasses. 

Cas reaches out to grab the post stuck in your body, but Sam stops him. 

“I got it,” he says. Sam grasps the pole with both hands and looks at Cas. “Ready?” 

“Yes, ready,” Cas says with a nod of his head. 

Sam shuts his eyes, and with a firm pull, he dislodges the scrap-made spear, tossing it aside. Blood pours from your side, the pole having gone clean through, and Sam and Dean hold onto the sliver of hope that you’ll be alright. 

“Come on, kid,” Dean whispers, his heart rate through the roof as he watches Cas try to heal you a second time, but to no avail. This can’t be happening, he thinks. 

“Why isn’t it working?” Sam asks, his breath catching in the back of his throat. 

Castiel doesn’t respond. Instead, he lifts both of his hands to the sides of your head, and a light blue glow emits from his hands. A pained groan escapes him, his eyes shutting tight as he tries to piece you back together, atom by atom. He can’t let you die. Not you. 

The brothers watch as the hole in your waist gradually starts closing up, fresh skin covering over the wound. Color returns to your cheeks, and they lean in, holding their breath. 

The glow from Cas’s hands stops, and he lets out a stressed exhale, opening his eyes. When he isn’t met with yours, his face pinches together with worry. “I don’t understand,” Cas says, his voice deep and confused. “That should have worked. I… I…” In a flip, he turns to Dean. “Give me the angel blade.” 

“Why, what do you need it for?” Dean asks, eyeing Cas. 

“Dean, give it to me now, or your sister dies,” Castiel says firmly. 

Without another word, Dean pulls the angel blade out of his coat and hands it over. 

“You may want to consider giving us room,” Cas says, taking the blade. 

Instantly, Sam and Dean rush to their feet, backing away a few steps. 

Cas takes a breath, steeling his nerves. He has suppressed his feelings for months, knowing an angel had no place loving a human. But knowing you has cracked every rule he’s ever set for himself. Cas looks at your beautiful face, and for a moment, he simply presses his left hand to your cheek, faintly feeling your pulse grow weaker as he realizes exactly what he is about to do. He has no idea the repercussions, but he’d do anything to keep you here. 

A line of crimson drips from the side of your mouth, darkening your lips, and it’s all he needs to see to do what he has to. He sets the angel blade down to lift you into his lap. “This has to work,” he whispers. He can’t imagine this world without you, so if there is something he can do to save you, he will take that risk again, and again. Castiel takes the angel blade in his hand and brings the sharp edge to his neck. 

“Whoa, Cas, wait,” Sam stumbles out quickly. 

“Cas!” Dean shouts as he watches his best friend slit his throat. 

Bright white light seeps from the incision, blinding in its intensity as Cas pulls you tight against his chest. He can feel his grace–raw, ancient, and burning–tearing itself from his essence and pouring past your lips, filling your lungs with divine fire. It burns with the excruciating heat of falling into the Sun, threatening to rip him apart, but he grits his teeth and endures the agony. He would give you every last drop of his divinity if it guaranteed your breath. He only hopes you can forgive him for the mark it will leave, tethering a piece of his grace to your soul. 

He lets you back down slowly and drops the blade behind him. Cas lifts his hand to his neck and heals the wound there, feeling an intense exhaustion pull at his limbs. 

“Geeze, Cas,” Dean says, his voice hushed. 

“We’ve never seen you do that before,” Sam says, equally as quiet.

“Yeah, well,” Cas says, his tired eyes still fixated on you, “it’s not really something I’m supposed to do.” 

“Did it work?” Dean asks, taking a step closer. 

“She should wake up,” Cas says. But when he doesn’t see your chest rise, he clenches his jaw. The tiny light of hope in his chest flickers. 

“Why isn’t she moving?” Sam asks, moving in. 

“I don’t know. It should have worked. I gave her my grace–” 

You take an alarming breath in, and as if suddenly being reborn, your eyes open wide. They glow with Castiel’s grace for a moment so brief, your brothers don’t notice… but Cas does, and he feels his chest tighten. 

“Holy–” Dean lets out a relieved breath, spinning around to take a few wide steps before walking back to you and Cas. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” 

Sam smiles wide, wiping the budding tears from his eyes. “Cas, thank you,” he says earnestly. 

“Of course,” Cas says, glancing up at Sam, still holding you firmly in his arms. “I–” His words stop short at feeling your hand on his chest. He turns his attention back to you, his face scrunching in concern. 

You rest in Cas’s arms so comfortably, you’ve forgotten the pain of it all, and you’ve forgotten why you’re lying here in the first place. Something you can’t quite place rushes through your veins. Something warm and electric hums just beneath your skin, and for a fleeting second, as Castiel’s blue eyes lock onto yours, you swear you feel an emotion so strong, it steals the air from your lungs. You gasp again, though this time quieter, near shock as the sensation courses through every cell in your body. Your hand rests firmly on his chest, grasping at the fabric of his white button-up, trying to form words in the midst of the world spinning. You swear his eyes glow for a second, but maybe you’re just hallucinating… 

“Are you still in pain?” Castiel asks, his eyebrows creasing together. “I can give you my grace again if that was not enough.” 

“Your grace?” You ask, confused. “You gave me your grace?” 

“Yes,” he says, “some of it. You were dying.” 

“I…” You can’t find the words. Your mind is surging with a pure energy, and the sensation is almost too much to bear. 

When you don’t immediately respond, Cas lifts his hand to your forehead, pressing his palm there worriedly. He closes his eyes, focusing on your form, but when he confirms you’ve been completely healed and his grace is indeed running through your veins and tangling with the threads of your soul, he feels a wash of nervousness and relief all at the same time. He pulls his hand back and meets your eyes again. “How are you feeling?” 

“I feel… strange…” You say in awe, your eyes locked on his. 

“Strange?” Dean says. 

“Strange how?” Sam adds. 

You hardly hear their voices. They’re drowned out by the loud thrumming in your ears–a remnant of what you assume is Cas’s grace. “Castiel,” you whisper his full name, your eyes wide, taking in the sensation the best you can. 

“It will be alright,” Cas says. “It may be a little overwhelming at first, but my grace cannot hurt you. Can you sit up?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” you say, your eyebrows creasing. Normally, you’d have a witty comment perfectly locked and loaded, ready to shoot, but Cas was right; the sensation is overwhelming. 

“Good,” Cas says. He presses a firm hand to your back and helps you sit up. A moment later, he’s standing on his feet and offering you his hand. 

You take it, and he lifts you. Your veins thrum with his energy, and you swear that even his touch feels different, as if you can sense the grace running through his veins as it now does yours. You open your mouth to say thank you, but your two brothers leap into action, grasping both you and Castiel in their wide embrace. It was brief, but a warm squeeze, and they break away, thanking Cas and half-scolding you for staying true to your name. 

“I’m serious,” Dean says, “next time, I’m shutting you in the trunk.” 

“What?” You ask, confused. 

Sam laughs, grasping your shoulder with a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. Dean’s just joking.” 

“Am I?” Dean asks. “Cause I really don’t think I am.” 

As they continue their banter back and forth, you can’t help but watch Castiel. You’ve seen him heal your brothers more times than not, but he’s never used his grace before. You realize just how close to death you were, and when his eyes meet yours, the sound of your brothers’ chatter fades. Why is he looking at me like that? Is there something on my face? You touch the side of your face absentmindedly. But before you can ask the angel what’s wrong, he looks away. 

“I-I’ll be in the car,” he stutters out awkwardly. 

Your brothers don’t even notice his retreat; they’re too wrapped up in you to care, but you notice. And you wonder what’s changed between the two of you.

✨A/N: Since y'all seemed to really like the last one of these, I've put another little somethin' somethin' together for my fellow Castiel lovers. I already posted on my TMNT fanfic, so I do not feel guilty posting a different fanfic this time 🤣

In a puff of deep black smoke, Caine and his beloved appeared in a dark room, floating just above the ground. The smoke slowly faded from around them. It clung to his clothing for a few seconds as his feet gently touched the floor. He kept Y/N close to his chest, his eyes glued onto their silhouette as he carefully ran a hand through their hair. His touch was gentle but firm, as if he was trying to hold a wilting rose. He was silent, his own breathing shallow as he snapped his fingers.

Like a wave crashing through the room, the air twisted and turned, then suddenly, one after another, the soft flicker of candles came to life. The candlelight reflected off the dark tile floors and ceramic walls. The sound of running water filled the room. It's sound causing Y/N to open their tired eyes. Their eyelids were heavy as they took in the room around them, glancing around the surreal space as Caine slowly carried them to the side of the large tub. He sofly hummed a tune as he watched the warm water slowly fill up. When it was almost full, he used his magic to have a bottle of some soap pour into the tub, causing bubbles to form in thick clumps on top of the water's surface.

The calming scent of camomile and vanilla slowly filled the room as the candles continued to burn. Caine shut off the water before slowly lowering his beloved Y/N into the tub. The water splashed up onto his sleeves, but he seemed to care little as he watched his sweet groan, the warm water letting their body relax the more it enveloped them. He helped them lean back against the side of the tub as he grabbed a soft wash towel from a small stand that was just a mere foot away from them. He was gentle as he dunked it into the water before running the soft fabric over Y/N's skin.

Caine made slow and precise movements. His eyes were glued to Y/N as he started with their arms, shoulders, and neck. Giving them a light massage as he rubbed their neck and shoulders, his eyes trailed over the top of the water, the bubbles moving just enough to let him peer into what was hidden under them. He made his way down their body, washing around their breasts in gentle circular motions that made Y/N gasp softly.

"It's okay, my sweet, let me take care of you," Caine spoke softly as he continued to use the soft fabric to wash Y/N's skin. He slowly worked, washing their stomach and hips before slowly reaching between their legs. Cainse held back a chuckle as Y/N's exhausted body didn't fight his advances. "You're doing sooo good." Caine purred into Y/N's ear as his fingers barely touched their sensitive clit. He chuckled as he watched, causing them to tremble. A soft whimper of a moan escaped their lips.

Y/N closed their eyes, their body tensing at even the smallest touch. Every touch was like fire on their skin, a clear indication that they were still overstimulated from the night's earlier events. Their body trembled. Caine gently cleaned between their legs. "That's it. Just relax." Caine continued to whisper as Y/N's mind was racing, fighting between the warm over over-sensitive pleasure his gentle touch caused and the overwhelming desire to fall into a deep sleep.

Caine, seeing Y/N's struggle to stay awake, chuckled, moving away from their sensitive bud. He washed the rest of their body. Once he was happy with the cleanliness of his beloved, he used his magic to summon an overly large towel. With a snap of his fingers, the water started to drain, and he reached into the tub, pulling Y/N back into his arms. The towel quickly wrapped around them. It was soft, warm on their skin as Caine carried them out of the room into the room.

Y/N's eyes opened again, and the dark room around them was a blur in the dark as they felt Caine use the towel to lightly pat them dry before laying Y/N down on the bed. The silk sheets were unlike those in Y/N's room; they were unbelievably soft. But even on the soft sheets, their body were still a bit tense as they followed Caine's every little movement. Y/N shivered, a harsh chill running down their spine. The feeling of being trapped under a predator's gaze made them increasingly anxious.

Caine's eyes were glued to Y/N as he stood up. Taking a few steps back, he threw the damp towel over a chair in the room. He could feel Y/N's eyes follow him as he slowly started to undo his tie. "Don't look so nervous. Consider this your reward for taking your punishment so well." The words slipped from his lips as he began to undo the buttons on his shirt. His breathing was heavy just looking at them in his bed. He had been holding back his desire for so long, and now, they were in HIS bed, in HIS room. His digital heart beat against his chest as he took off his shirt, tossing it to the side before he started to undo his belt.

Y/N's eyes were glued on him. Those tired eyes never looked away from him as he pulled his belt free from the loops of his pants. Caine held back a chuckle when he heard Y/N's breathing hitch. He could feel his beloved eyes glued onto him as he took a few steps forward. His knees touched the end of the bed.  He leaned forward, slowly climbing on, crawling up from his beloved feet to position himself between their legs. Caine gently pushed their legs open, his hands on their knees holding them to each side. He could feel Y/N nervously try to close their legs, but he didn't allow it. His hands moved down their legs, rubbing along their thighs until finally settling on the delicate skin of their inner thighs.

"Now now, my dear…Getting nervous?" He paused only for a few seconds, a dark laugh escaping his throat. "It's far too late for that," Caine whispered, his voice almost challenging as he brought his head down to their stomach. His breath was hot on their skin as he placed his teeth against their skin. He gave soft kisses on their stomach, his tongue flicking out occasionally as if he was tasting their skin. His movements were precise, as if they were all planned, and of course they were; he had thought about this day since Y/N had first arrived at the Mafia. Since he had first laid eyes on them, he craved them, and now he was going to take them.

Caine slowly moved upwards, trails of soft kisses leading from their stomach to just between their breasts. He smirked, seeing the goosebumps that formed on Y/N's skin as his tongue made its way to Y/N's nipples. It lightly twirled around one before moving to the other, causing them to become firm to his touch.

With a free hand, Caine reached between Y/N's legs, his fingers quickly found their clit, just the slight touch made Y/N whimper and wiggle, which just lit the fire in Caine even more. Caine groaned, nipping softly on Y/N's nipple as he lightly began rubbing Y/N's sensitive bud, working in slow circular movements as he pressed himself into their soft skin. The contact only made his beloved move more, and he pressed down on his love, using his body weight to hold them down and reduce their squirming. Caine let out a soft groan as he listened to Y/N whimper and let out soft moans as he toyed with them. "Fuck… You're absolutely delicious."

Caine let his tongue swirl around Y/N's nipple a few times more, taking in their sweet sounds before he leaned forward more, crawling up their body some more, his tongue trailed up to their neck. He took a deep breath; their smell was intoxicating as he left a trail of kisses and licks all over the sensitive skin on their neck. His hand moves away from their clit, quickly undoing his pants as Caine's patience was quickly fading. In a fluid motion, he released his already hard and twitching cock from its restraints. It twitched with desire as he pressed the head of his manhood gently between Y/N's soft folds. He slowly moved it along the soft skin as he continued his assault on Y/N's neck.

Caine groaned at the sensation. His cock twitched excitedly as he listened to his love whimper and moan in his grasp. He leaned into their ear, one of his sharp canines lightly nipping their earlobe. His hand slowly reached up, putting light pressure on their neck, which caused Y/N to gasp in surprise.

"You'll remember this well… You. Are. Mine." Caine whispered darkly into Y/N's ear as he suddenly thrust into them; their body flinched from the sudden entry. Their voice was raspy as they let out a choked yelp of a moan as they felt Caine tighten his grip on their neck. letting their body adjust to his size for a few long seconds as he deprived them of oxygen. Caine groaned, feeling Y/N's womanhood shudder around them. Caine waited a few long moments before he released his hold on Y/N's neck. The release of the hold made Y/N's head spin. The oxygen returning to their lungs made the world feel almost warm and fuzzy for just a few seconds. Before the fuzziness completely faded, Caine started to thrust in and out of them in a slow rhythmic pace that made him hit just the right spot inside of Y/N.

Soft moans got louder as he slowly picked up pace, and his head pressed into the sides of Y/N's neck. He let soft kisses before he suddenly sank his teeth into Y/N's skin, leaving dark marks that would last weeks. At first, Y/N flinched and tried to push away from the rough bite, but Caine held them still. His hips thrusting up into their core kept them pinned as his body pressed down on them. Caine pulled away, kissing and licking the sore and bleeding skin, licking his teeth before running a finger over the bite mark. After a few moments, Caine leans back down, digging his teeth again into them, and again, and again, and again. Within just a few moments, both sides of Y/N's neck were covered in large bitemarks, their face a mixture of pain and pleasure as Caine continued to thrust into them.

"So good. Sooo delicious. Fuck… I should have done this on day one…" Caine groaned, a soft growl escaping him as he looked over his work. His tongue ran over his teeth before he roughly grabbed Y/N's face, his eyes locking onto theirs as he thrusted up into them roughly, watching as Y/N moaned even with the trickles of tears running down their cheeks. "Oh dear, don't cry now." Caine's tongue licked up the trail of tears before he gently tilted their head, his tongue forcing its way past their lips as he pushed them into a deep kiss. Caine moaned into the kiss as he moved Y/N's legs to press upwards onto his shoulder.

The new position made Y/N moan loudly through the kiss, Caine able to hit deeper into them than before. Caine held the potion for a long moment, feeling his cock twitch inside them. He thrusted in just a few more times before coming to his release. Hot seed spilling inside of Y/N as he kept them nearly bent in half over themselves.

After a few long seconds, Caine pulled away, sitting back as he took a deep breath. His eyes ran up and down Y/N's body. Examining every small detail on them as he let his hands fall to their hips. His fingers softly dug into their skin as he watched them trying to still catch their breath. His cock stayed inside them as he watched their chest rise and fall.

Y/N squeeked in surprise as Caine gripped their hips, yanking them towards him. "What's that look for? Surprised?" Caine smiled, amused. He brought a free hand to Y/N's sensitive clit once more as he started gently thrusting into them once again. "What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn't allow you to finish?". Caine kept up the gentle pace, only picking up speed as Y/N started to moan, their legs shaking as he rubbed their clit. "We don't stop till we both finish, my dear. Now, lie back and enjoy yourself."

"C-Caine," Y/N's voice shook as they tried to push Caine's hand away from their overstimulated clit. Caine chuckled as he snapped his fingers, causing Y/N's hands to suddenly be bound above their head by his magic.

"Ah ah ah, dear."  Caine continued his ruthless attack on their clit as his hips kept pressing into theirs, slowly picking up pace as their moans and soft cries grew louder. "Come on, my dear. Be good for me. Let me feel you finish around me." Caine purred as he felt Y/N's walls start to flutter around him. He groaned as he listened to their moans became incoherent and raspy. Y/N's head fell back against the pillows. Their legs shook. Their heart felt like it was beating a million miles a minute as the sudden wave of ecstasy rolled over them, causing them to nearly scream out.

Caine's thrusts slowed, his cock twitched as he felt Y/N come undone around him. "Such a good job," Caine purred, leaning forward once more. He pulled their head forward, pulling them into a deep and gentle kiss. "You did so well... So very well," Caine whispered as he released them from the kiss. He could see their eyes struggling to stay open. Their mind struggling to keep any focus.

"Go to sleep, my love," Caine whispered, releasing the spell on their hands, letting their body relax as he slowly, almost unwillingly, slipped his cock out of them. He moved to their side, pulling the blanket up over them as he watched them collapse from exhaustion. Their body and mind falling into a very sudden sleep.

Caine watched them, his hand gently running through their hair. He watched the hair twirl between his fingers. A single word slipped from him, and he repeated it like clockwork as he held them close.

"MINE."

Master List

As I often do with new people, I wondered if he's a reader. If so, what is his preferred genre? Does a vigilante even have time to read? Does he find places like the shop as peaceful as I do?

I was pulled from my thoughts by a customer, a child no older than ten. He looked dirty, unkempt. It broke my heart to see how scrawny he was, too.

"Hello, Miss?" he asked, a little sheepishly.

"Hey, can I help you with something?"

"Can I stay here awhile? I'll be good, I promise! Just until it stops raining?"

I fought the urge to not immediately adopt a random child right there on the spot. "Of course you can. Are you, uh, are you okay?"

He looked away from me now. "My dad is mad. Really mad. From the way he smells, I think he should fall asleep soon and I can go home."

My heart didn't break, it shattered. I wondered what I could do or who I could call. I don't trust the police to do much and it's not like I have the goddamn Batman on speed dial or anything.

I wish Red Hood could knock some sense into this kid's father.

"Of course you can stay! Wait here, though. I think I have some clothes in the back. You'll get sick staying in those wet ones."

"T-thank you," he stuttered.

Quickly, I went into the old storage room and found some leftover stock that I hadn't bother to put out yet. I found a shirt that said "The Book Was Better", which was about three sizes too big for the kid. Regardless, it would do in a pinch. Rummaging around, I also managed to find some shorts leftover when I pretended I'd go to the gym after work.

Stepping back to where the kid was standing in front of the register, I handed him the clothes and pointed out the restroom. "Okay, go into the bathroom and change into these. When you're done, bring them back to me so I can hang them up somewhere to dry."

"Yes ma'am," he said in a high voice, running do as told. A hard-learned habit, I would imagine.

With him occupied, I went to the fridge in the break room behind the counter. I had half a sandwich leftover from a rushed lunch. It's not exactly a great meal, but it's something to tide the kid over for awhile. After I'd heated it up, I grabbed a bag of chips from the employee stash and a bottle of water.

By the time I was finished and came back out, he was standing quietly in front of the store with his head held low. The clothes he came in wearing were held tightly in his arms. I could tell he was trying to not take up too much space and not make any noise, so I approached him calmly.

"Since you're staying here awhile, could you do something for me?"

He nodded his head in reply.

"Could you please finish this food for me? I'm really full, but I hate wasting food."

His eyes grew wide and he nodded more enthusiastically now.

"Perfect. Now, give me your wet clothes. I can put them in the back to dry."

The child did as asked and carefully handed handed over his wet clothes. Afterward, I handed him the meager plate of food. I pulled my a water bottle from my apron and handed that over as well."

"You can sit at the table and eat. When you're done, I have a fully stocked comic and manga section if you like."

"Thank you. I'll be really quiet," he pledged.

I smiled softly at him. "Sir, there's no one in here but you and I. It won't hurt a thing if you make noise."

He actually giggled a little. I think he enjoyed being called sir. It made me both angry and melancholy to think that was probably the extent of respect he's given - even children deserve a sliver of it.

Afterwards, he went over to the table and began eating like a starved animal. It was a sad sight and suddenly I hated this kid's parents like they'd personally wronged me. Only it was worse and they'd done that to their kid.

"That was good of you," a man's voice said suddenly behind me.

I turn quickly to see none other than Jason Todd behind me. "Jason? Hi."

"Hi."

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Nah, just came by to see how your head is healing."

"Oh? Yeah, it's only a few more days and they can remove my stitches."

"You sound relieved."

I huffed at that. "I am. Stitches itch, by the way! And washing my hair is a bitch."

"Itching means it's healing," he said with a slight shrug.

"So I've been told. Doesn't make it any less annoying, though."

He smirked, which I've learned often counts as a smile from him. "I bet."

"Did you enjoy your last book?"

"Not done with it yet. Been one hell of a week. What I have read is decent."

"Rave review, but I suppose I've heard worse about much better books."

He nodded thoughtfully and grew quiet for a moment. I was about to excuse myself to deal with the wet clothes in my hands when he decided to speak again. "I meant what I said before."

"About the book?"

Jason shook his head and gestured to the table where kid was finishing his meal. "I meant the kid. It was good of you to take care of him."

I sigh. "Maybe, but I wish I could do more."

"Don't fret about the kid too much," he said, "I know who to call to have a little talk with his dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"I'm oddly glad about that."

"Yeah. Leave the kids out of it and we won't have problems."

"Agreed."

Another moment of silence before he spoke again. "You know, the old owner of this place used to do for me like you did for him. Spent a lot of time here."

Jason Todd lore? That's new!

"My great-aunt. She's the one who left me this place. I used to tell her how much I loved it and she said in her will I'd be the only one who'd treat it with the same passion that she did."

"So you're as much of a book nerd as she was?"

"Hey! You say that like you don't come here every week for a new book!"

"I sort of have to. I haven't inherited a book store yet."

That caused me to laugh involuntarily. "Okay, that's fair."

"Hell, even if I did I'd probably just wind up back here anyway."

"Oh yeah," I ask, "and why is that?"

He rubbed his neck nervously and answered quickly, almost like he wanted to speak before losing the nerve. "The new owner is easy on the eyes."

A slight blush spread across my cheeks and I fiddled with the hem of the boy's clothes. Jason had never said anything remotely similar to that to me before. Our previous conversations had consisted of professional discussions about books or occasionally music.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered. He's a tall, handsome man. I especially love the the white streaks in the front of his hair. Somehow they only added to his jagged appeal.

"Thank you," I say in a small voice.

When he didn't answer, I excused myself to go hang the clothes in the break room dry. Before I turned away, I heard him call my name again.

"Yeah?"

"Don't worry about the kid. I'll talk to him, find out who his dad is. I know someone who will make sure he takes better care of him from now on."

The look on his face showed a determination that made me believe he would do as he said. It felt odd to take the word of this almost-stranger at face value, but I could see he truly took that vow seriously.

"Yeah, uh, thank you Jason. Please do what you can."

It is far easier for everyone if you pretend you have always lived here; that Lucas’s cabin, and the woods surrounding it, the chickens outside and the old dining table and the cosy decor are all you have ever known. 

When you had first come here, in those first few weeks, you had tried desperately to hold onto all of the vestiges of your old life. You had squeezed your eyes shut in the shower and tried to recall the scents of your own shower gels and shampoos and not the mixture of half-empty bottles that sat on shelves in Lucas’s bathroom. You had crawled beneath blankets and pillows and hugged yourself and tried to remember the feel of your own mattress and your own threadbare teddy bear. You had been terrified that they would slip away, and you would find yourself forgetting all of the things that made you yourself--

Now, you think it would be easier if they had. 

If you had been granted a blank slate, you wouldn’t have to worry about the things you’ve been given and the things that adorn the cabin and their provenance. When you pulled a blanket over yourself on the sofa, or laid the table with a new embroidered tablecloth, or looked through the shelf of curling old paperbacks, you wouldn’t need to think about how many other hands that they have passed through. 

So you pretend that you have it instead. 

Things are just things, after all; merely objects, not people, not memories themselves. Who is to say that when Lucas goes into town, he doesn’t take an hour or two to wander into thrift stores? That he doesn’t have a weakness for things that have already passed through many hands before his own? Out here, in such a solitary existence, perhaps he even enjoys the reminder that there are other people in the world--

Well. From what you’ve seen of Lucas, and heard him mutter beneath his breath on days where his eyes go dark and angry and his face sets into a scowl . . . from what you remember in flashes of the night that you and he crossed paths. . . You don’t think that’s it.

But it’s still a comforting lie to whisper to yourself when you find a pair of initials stitched into the napkin you delicately wipe your mouth with. 

Lucas himself is more than happy to help you lie to yourself, even if he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. He’s a man of few words already, but even fewer of those words ever seem to concern anyone aside from the two of you. To listen to him sometimes, you would think this cabin was the last place standing on earth - that you and he were the only two human beings who lived. 

He mentions, once or twice and only off-handed, a childhood. He says something about milking cows on the farm growing up; he mentions his mother’s apple pie when you make an attempt to bake one after finding a recipe in an old cookbook. 

(You do not mention the careful handwriting that occasionally interrupts the recipe; the crossed-out ‘half a tablespoon’ of cinnamon into ‘a tablespoon and a half’. The note to the writer, for future reference, that the oven is finicky and to give the pie crust an extra ten minutes. You convince yourself that those, too, are simply the echo of some secondhand store that Lucas picked the recipe book up in). 

So you know at least that he did not spring into being fully-formed, though the thought of this huge hulking man as anything other than scarred and gruff seems almost laughable, when you see him going out in the middle of the night with an axe swung over his shoulder.

(“Go t’bed, angel,” Lucas had said, without even turning around to see your form silhouetted in the doorway. “It’s late. I’m just checkin’ on things.” He had said it like a man who had said the exact same thing a hundred times before, though as far as you could remember this is the first time that it had happened to you.

Waking up in the bed and not feeling the solid, warm form of Lucas himself beside you had made you nervous; made you felt as if there was something missing. And, of course, there was a horrible kind of sickness in that feeling too; that you have become so comfortable with your kidnapper that you are more perturbed to find him not there. 

No. Easier to forget that. To whisper over and over to yourself that Lucas is not your kidnapper, he is simply your . . . Your lover? Your boyfriend? Your husband? You don’t let the thought get that far. He is simply Lucas.)

He does not seem to think much of nostalgia. A practical man through and through - though he smiles, a few months in, as one of the little plants outside of the windows sprouts into bloom. 

“Daffodils,” he says. “Your dress had them on, that first night.” 

You amend the mental note. He has nostalgia only for things that concern you--

You try not to think of it, but the thought floats to your mind unbidden anyway like a blight on a field of flowers. If Lucas has had others who he has professed his love to . . . has he remembered those things, too? One day, will you fade into the rest of them and Lucas will not be able to remember if you were daffodils on a dress, or larkspur behind an ear, or a daisy chain around a neck? 

You turn away from the flowers and force yourself to smile at him; to let him wrap his arm around your waist and pull you against him and press his mouth against yours in a motion that you convince yourself is fine. 

Time passes. Lucas trusts you more; lets you wander about the cabin at will. Lets you into the kitchen without him despite the sharp knives - and, in return, trusts you to give in to him whenever he wants you. You let him kiss you and hold you and murmur sweet nothings and take you to bed, as you continue to chant to yourself that this is right, this is fine, this is how it is supposed to be--

There are no ghosts hovering above your heads. 

As it turns out, the ghost is hovering in the spare room, inside the drawer of a desk with an old typewriter sitting on it. 

Lucas has gone into town for supplies; you’re running out of milk, and you had gone to him, flushed and awkward, and asked if maybe he could try and pick up some body wash in your favourite scent; you had said ‘please’ and looked at him hopefully and Lucas had barely even needed you to finish before he’d been smiling at you and kissing the top of your head and adoringly telling you that he’d get you anything you wanted, so take a think about it for ten minutes and bring him back a list.

(You hadn’t pushed your luck too far, but you’d made a modest little list anyway - a fantasy book, if he could, because so many of his books were crimes and thrillers. A bar of chocolate or two. The aforementioned shower gel. Lucas had even smiled at you and told you what a sweetheart you were, how he’d keep an eye out for a surprise--)

But you were allowed in here, now, so you hadn’t felt bad about looking for something to do. You can only bake so many pies and cakes; Lucas had mentioned that there was probably stuff in here for drawing, if you wanted, or even sewing or embroidery, a jigsaw puzzle or two . . . You’d picked up a few options and discarded them (neatly) before you’d even gone near the desk. If you hadn’t - if you’d decided, actually, you would sit and do this cross-stitch kit of ‘home sweet home’ instead - perhaps things would have turned out differently.

But you don’t. You open the first drawer and disregard safety pins and discarded post-it notes (one of them has ‘help’ scrawled over it in black ink, over and over and over - you definitely disregard that one). You rifle vaguely through stubs of pencils and a manual for a sewing machine before you open the second.

The second drawer contains only one medium sized sketchbook; the spiral-bound kind with a wooden kraft cover that people like to draw straight onto. This cover, though, is totally free of any stickers or drawings or even a name - so you assume that it’s empty and fish it out of the drawer, wondering if maybe taking up drawing to pass the time might help (you see plenty of wildlife and fauna through the windows, after all). You even sit down at the desk before you open it and get one of those stubby little pencils, just to draw some circles and exercise the wrist before you become unavoidably disillusioned by your inability to draw even the simplest blob of a bird or flower.

And then you open it, and you feel your heart plummet directly into your stomach. 

It is so much easier when the ghosts that haunt the cabin are faceless; when you can pretend. But whoever had this book before you and floated about this cabin before you and had your side of Lucas’s bed . . . they were using it like a scrapbook, and you’re faced with a Polaroid picture smiling directly up at you, the backdrop very obviously the sofa of the cabin. 

(Lucas holding the camera, then).

You shouldn’t look at her. You should close the book and forget this ever happened and go back to pretending - but some kind of roiling fear in your stomach means you cannot do that. You stare, instead, directly into her eyes - and you’re struck by how much she looks like you. How even her body language is similar to yours. She has the same shade hair, the same figure-with-a-little-too-much on it. 

(Lucas has a type, then). 

She has a name, written there plain as day. You read that too, and wish you hadn’t. 

Once you have opened the flood-gates, you can’t stop yourself. You flip to the next page - it’s some kind of scrapbook-come-diary, and the date (six years, three months earlier) is written neatly in the corner. A drawing of a robin, in a shaky but careful hand - a pressed flower that the note says Lucas picked for her, with a smiling face. You can’t breathe.

The next page details a day spent baking. The next one, excitement that Lucas had let her go with him to see if the chickens had laid. The days aren’t one after another, but they’re close together - and they’re sickeningly similar to the days you spend with him, trying to fill the stretches of time without going mad. There are even direct references to things that you’ve seen and touched and handled - the sewing machine was bought for her, it was her hand that embroidered the napkins, the half-empty bottle of the rose scent perfume that you hadn’t liked had once been hers. 

There’s a pause in days. A few empty pages, where she’s half-heartedly tried to draw a chicken pecking at her feed, a snowy landscape. 

The ninth of September. 

“It would have been my dad’s birthday today. I wonder if he’s thinking about me? I wonder if he’s looking for me. I tried to ask Lucas if I could at least send a card.”

She does not bother recording Lucas’s answer. 

The twenty first of September. 

“It’s like being a dog on a leash. I asked him if I could go for a walk into the woods; I promised him I’d come back, but he broke the glass he was holding and I didn’t ask again.” 

He’d have the same reaction to you asking, you know it. Your stomach writhes, bile rising in your throat. There are no more drawings on the pages now; weeks between entries, her handwriting getting looser and wider, like she’s writing in a rush afraid of being caught. 

There’s frustration and anger and sorrow bubbling in her words. She talks about being trapped. She mentions the blood on his clothes, the sharpness of his axe, that she knows exactly what it is she’s eating when he brings her meat from his freezer. 

The eighth of November. 

“I think he’s getting tired of me. I think I pushed him too far. I think I’ve been bad; I think I’m not what he wants. He still says he loves me but . . . maybe he loved the others too.”

She mentions the pyjamas in the drawers; the different sizes. She asks the notebook who else has lived in these walls and who else has wanted to run. It makes your heart ache. 

The twenty-seventh of November.

“i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home i want to go home’

Here, you recognise the handwriting and you know that it was her hand that had scrawled ‘help’ so many times, and you can no longer disregard it like you wanted to. 

The eighteenth of December. 

“He’s going into town. Before he gets back . . . I’m going to do it. It’s snowing. It will cover my tracks. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go home.”

There are no other entries. 

It gets harder to pretend. 

Snippets from that scrapbook float to the front of your mind unbidden, at the most inopportune of times. Lucas notices you’re shivering and insists he’ll make you a steaming hot cup of tea, and as you raise it to your lips you can’t help wondering if she drank from this cup. How many other mouths have lingered on this rim, how many other hands have cradled this porcelain? 

Lucas tells you that he loves you, his eyes tender and the smallest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and you wonder how many others have heard the same three words; the same inflections, stood in the same place? 

He brings a present out, the week after his trip into town, that he tells you he was saving for you - another book. Ordinarily, you’d be thrilled to have something to fill the time - but instead, as he passes it to you and smiles and waits for you to thank him, you can’t stop thinking about all of the other things that he’s bought as presents for people who are not you, that still sit here unused in this graveyard of a home. 

He never even mentions them.

Maybe if he did, that would be better. 

But Lucas treats you like the two have you always coexisted; like neither of you had too much of a life before this. Oh, he doesn’t mind hearing about your far-off childhood - but you have the distinct impression that if you mentioned your job (the one you have not returned to for months), the man you were having the briefest flirtation with, the wedding of your cousin that you missed because you were kidnapped by a murderer in the woods . . . that would not go down so well. 

The thoughts won’t stop coming; the reminder that Lucas is, for all of his gentle kisses and low voice when he speaks to you and his careful touches so he doesn’t hurt you, more monster than he is man. That you are eating people, when you take a bite from the end of a fork that has surely been in other hands. 

(How long does human meat last, you wonder. The ones who did not make him happy . . . do they end up in the freezer? Are you eating someone who once laid their head upon your pillows?)

And if he has done it before . . .

Who is to say that he won’t grow tired of you, too? That one day you will say the wrong thing, and the cycle will begin anew? You have never thought of yourself as ‘special’ before - you have always been secure in the knowledge and comfort of your own ordinary existence. So what is it that Lucas sees in you, that makes you any better than the rest of them? 

(The thought of other people wearing the things Lucas has picked out for you, of someone else rifling through your fantasy paperbacks or lathering their hair up in your shampoo haunts you at night). 

You think about asking Lucas. 

He never misses a chance to compliment you; he tells you how beautiful you are, how much he adores you, how he would kill for you and protect you with his last breath. So perhaps, if you worded it well enough, he would explain to you why you have not yet found yourself sizzling in a frying pan or bleeding out in the woods--

No. You can’t.

You are walking a fragile tightrope already. Your spine stiffens whenever you say something to Lucas, in case you say the wrong thing - you lie awake in bed next to him, his arms wrapped around you as tight as a vice. You stumble over yourself to please him, just in case--

You feel the way that you’re running yourself ragged. The ache in your bones, in your head - the dark circles beneath your eyes, the way your hair dulls as you begin to forget what any other setting other than ‘stressed’ feels like. You hope that Lucas doesn’t notice. 

Your hopes are dashed. 

It’s before bed, one night. Lucas has pulled you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses, has insisted that you let him brush your hair (the monogram on the brush shines in the light of the bedside lamp; it is not your initial). And he says to you, turning you to face him, his voice very soft and cajoling and just a little awkward;

“Darlin’? Y’mind if I ask you a question?”

Your heart races; hammers against your chest, tries to crawl into your throat.

“N-no,” you manage to squeak out. “Of course not.” 

“I ain’t trying to offend you,” he says to you, his voice still awkwardly gruff. “But . . . sweetheart, you ain’t been looking well recently.”

“I--”

You grasp wildly for a way to respond. 

“If you need anythin’ . . . You ain’t been sleepin very well, have you? You need a hot water bottle? Some . . . pillow mist, or somethin’? Onea those fancy drinks you have before bed to get you to sleep? You name it, sweetheart, I’ll get it from somewhere--” 

He sounds so concerned.

Had he sounded like that to all of the other people? Had he noticed that their nerves were fraying and tried to soothe them, like he actually cared? How much of the concern that leaks into that warm Southern grit is real; how much of it is an attempt to hide that he’s mad at you, that he’s getting sick of you, that he’s already wondering what you’d taste like? 

It tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it; a bitter little bite of a question. 

“How many others have there been?” 

You regret it before you’ve finished the last syllable.

The air changes between you; a charged fizz that tells you just how dangerous the ground you’re treading on is. Lucas’s eyes narrow; his mouth sets. 

“Others?” He asks you, and you know that you can’t get out of this now. Sometimes, when you’ve said something that has set his senses on high alert, you’ve managed to apologise and backtrack enough that he’s calmed. But now, his eyes are like keen green searchlights, and there is no way to avoid the question. 

You swallow. 

“How many other . . . people?” You say, lamely, not sure how to word it. “How many other people have lived here?”

His own voice is clipped, too. He doesn’t like this subject.

“Why does it matter, sweetheart?”

There’s a barb to the pet name that makes you feel sick, but now you’ve opened the floodgates of your own paranoia.

“How many others have you loved?”

There’s a barely perceptible twitch of his mouth. His words are infuriatingly even. Usually, his temper flares at the smallest things; you don’t understand how he isn’t hacking you into pieces. 

“None of ‘em who deserved it, except you.” 

Your breath begins to shorten; you can hear that you’re panting, when you next speak. Your chest is heaving. 

“A-and what if you decide I don’t deserve it any more? What are you going to do to me?”

“Angel--”

“I’m not - there’s nothing special about me! What if you decide that you’re sick of me and you . . . you killed them, didn’t you? What if one day you kill me? What if you--”

“Darlin’.”

This one is more forceful; it’s clearly intended to stop your panicking diatribe where it’s already going off the rails. But you are too far gone to be stopped now. Your voice just keeps going, the words like a flood, your entire vision blurring at the corners with the tears that you hadn’t even realised you were crying. 

“What if you kill me and eat me and you get someone else and they live here and wonder about me--”

If nothing else makes him kill you, it will be this; outright telling him that you know what the meat is, and what it is he’s doing when he goes out in the evenings with an axe glinting in both his hand and his eye. 

He reaches out for you and you try to slap his hand away, your movements erratic and awkward. You’re flailing and more nonsense is falling out of your mouth, the world around you a blur. Lucas is reaching out still, undeterred by the way you’re trying to push him away as you helplessly wriggle and struggle.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” he says, and there’s a note of panic in his voice. His brow pinches. “Poor baby, angel, you’re cryin’ - shit, you’re gonna make yourself ill carrying on like this--”

There’s that fake comfort. You are so far gone that you forget the thing that makes Lucas feel softest at all; you, helpless. You forget that he likes the crying and the sniffling, that he likes to protect and coddle and care - because all you can think about is what it would feel like for an axe to slam through your ribcage so your innards are strewn out on the floor. 

“Please, calm down-- breathe, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself--” He’s still talking to you all soft and sweet, and you’re still utterly lost in your own sleep-addled anxiety induced spiral as he tries to restrain you; he reaches for your arms, to pin you down so that your thrashing doesn’t impact you--

One of your flailing arms catches him, right across the face. 

There’s a sickening noise; the slap of flesh on flesh, the hard noise of a bone meeting another bone. You don’t think it’s hard enough to really hurt him, but it’s like a trigger has been pulled in Lucas’s mind and the air changes again. The fizz deadens where it was hovering; and instead, a heaviness settles over you.

You stop thrashing. You stop jabbering out nonsense. Lucas has you on the bed, pinned beneath him, and his face when he looks down at you is like thunder. You think it must be the same face that his victims see, before they die. 

You’re about to be added to their number, you think. You wish you’d left something as tangible as that scrapbook behind. A guide to survival, perhaps. Advice on how to try and break the cycle.

“Oh,” Lucas says, and that one syllable practically quakes. “Darlin’. You shouldn’t have done that.” 

Lucas tells you, afterwards, that you’re lucky he didn’t lose his temper.

He’d been infuriatingly calm, even though every movement blistered with unspoken anger, as he’d dragged you up and off the bed and you had trembled and quaked and waited for death. He’d been infuriatingly calm as his work-roughened, calloused palms had slid over your bare forearm, the soft inner flesh of your elbow, to grip your upper arm with both hands.

“You can scream,” he’d said, with that terrifying flat-and-angry-and-calm all at once tone again. “It’s goin’ to hurt. It’ll be clean. I know what I’m doin’. But it’s gonna hurt anyway.” 

And he’d twisted his wrists and he’d snapped.

Your humerus, he’d told you, afterwards. A break that won’t need surgery; that you’ll be able to recover from in the cabin. A sling and someone to take care of you is all that you’ll need, he’d said, and then he’d said;

“It’s for your own good, angel. It’s a warnin’.” 

He tells you that he’ll cut up your food for you, carry on brushing your hair, and help you in the shower. He lists off all of these things calmly - all of the things you’d once earned the ability to do for yourself, because you’d been so good and he’d loved you so much and wanted you to be happy.

You fucked that up, didn’t you? 

“It’ll hurt for the rest of your life,” he tells you. “It’ll remind you.” 

You wonder just how long ‘the rest of your life’ is. 

“Hey,” Lucas tells you, after you’ve stopped sobbing and whimpering and screaming. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” 

Your eyes are puffed up and swollen; your nose is dripping, your throat feels raw. But Lucas still looks at you like you’re unbelievably beautiful. Like he’d kill for you. There’s a steel in his eye that hasn’t been there for some time, but . . . He gives you a small smile.

“Ain’t you beautiful.” He wipes an errant tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Be a good girl for me now, okay? You’re lucky I didn’t lose my temper.” 

It’s almost bizarre enough to frighten a laugh out of you.

You wonder how many others were given this kind of warning; broken ankles? Broken wrists? Broken fingers? Is it possible that you’re an echo of them down to Lucas’s violence? 

If this is him not losing his temper . . .

“… authorities are searching for local Hawkins resident Eddie Munson in connection to the recent death of an unnamed Hawkins teen. Anyone with information about Munson’s whereabouts are encouraged to come forward…”

The tv hums with its news report, your breath is caught in your throat.

You shut off the tv abruptly and let a silence hang heavy over your living room. This can’t be happening. There’s no way this is real life.

And yet a tinny disruption to your tumbleweed of thoughts cuts in.

“I knew he would be nothing but trouble, didn’t I, Y/n?” Your mother chides without regard for the ache in your heart. “I knew that boy would be no good with his- his cult.” That final word has a bite to it. “I never should have let him in that front door the day you brought him home, parading him around. Friend. Pah. He’s no good and this proves it. Just wait, you’ll end up-“

Unable to withstand the barrage of insults spewing from your mother’s mouth, you exit the room, letting your feet carry you quickly to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you. You pace circles around your room, willing the emotions inside of you to stay in check long enough for a logical course of action to play itself out in your mind.

There’s no way Eddie killed someone. He would never. Sure, he had an excitable personality with a sometimes-explosive dramatic flair. But this was simply impossible.

Since the day you met Eddie Munson, you knew your life wouldn’t ever be the same, for better or worse. He was a riot right from the start but something about him was magnetic. You couldn’t stay away. So you got closer, until it was the two of you against the world.

From the schoolyard to the backyard, Eddie was your constant companion. For two years you stood by him and he by you, an undeniable connection growing stronger by the day.

And now, you and Eddie are inseparable. He knows the deepest depths of your soul and you are the one person he lets in where he shuts the rest of the world out.

And you both brush away the unmistakable ache of attraction for fear of ruining the one good thing life has to offer you in your small town. Better to lavish in what you have than push for more and make life more complicated.

Without an actual plan in mind, you pack a meager bag and race down the stairs and out the front door, your mother’s voice following behind you with unrelenting snide remarks over your failure and Eddie’s worthlessness. You tune it out to the steady patter of your feet along the pavement as you make your way to the sidewalk and down the street of your pathetic neighborhood.

The sun has risen to a respectable angle and the heat is already beginning to sink into your bones. You begin to formulate a course of action as you push yourself forward, completely unaware of where your legs are carrying you.

You stop in your tracks as reality hits you hard. Eddie is a wanted man.

The police are looking for him and soon enough, they will come looking for you, too. A student is dead - who it is they won’t say yet, but you fear for all the people you’ve called friends over the years. Names and faces flash by and you squash the desire to worry for them all.

You continue on your way, concern for Eddie spurring you on.

He obviously isn’t at home, that’s why he’s considered missing. But where else would he go?

For a moment, a spike of pain jolts you - why didn’t he come by you last night? If he had done something, or if he was involved in something terrible, you would normally be the first person he seeks out. Yet your window remained closed all night. He hadn’t shimmied up the trellis and snuck in like he had so many times before. So where was he?

A tendril of fear slips around you as every worst possibility pummels you at once. But you force those thoughts aside and decide on what to do first.

Taking stock of where you are, you go to the nearest home where answers may be found.

Eddie’s Hellfire Club met last night, so if anyone knew where he was, it could be the other members. You usually sat in on the D&D campaigns, but last night you had a miserable dinner with your mother - and she would have a meltdown if you missed it.

Your first destination is a block away, but it gives you time to prepare your questions. So when you knock on the door to find Dustin Henderson’s mother, Claudia, tissue in hand, as the one to open it, you let out a breath of disappointment followed by fear.

“Is Dustin home?” You ask hopefully.

She shakes her head and you see the worry dancing in her eyes. “No, he ran out of here before I could stop him. But I need him home. It’s not safe out there.” She worries too much, you know. But right now, you don’t have time to waste comforting her.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Henderson. If I find him, I’ll be sure to tell him you’d like him home.”

You turn on your heel and fast walk your way back to the street to avoid any other delay.

You stop by the Sinclairs’ place next, but Erica is less than helpful in finding Eddie or her brother Lucas. “He’s not here. Lucas never came home last night, so if you see him, tell him he’s been disowned.”

The smirk on her face tells you that isn’t quite true, but if Lucas never came home then that means three Hellfire members are missing.

After visiting three more homes of Hellfire members, you begin to piece things together.

They’re not all missing - just Dustin and Lucas - but no one knows where Eddie is.

Turning your back on the closed door of Gareth’s home after another disappointing interrogation, you let your thoughts swirl once more while you absentmindedly wander down the street and toward town. This day is not going the way you expected.

As you reach the main stretch of storefronts downtown, seeds of worry begin growing again, as you wonder where Eddie could be hiding.

Your feet carry you down the sidewalk until you find yourself gaping open-mouthed into the front window of the local Family Video store.

Without a second of hesitation, you shove your hands against the metal handle and push your way into the store. Four heads turn in your direction at the sudden burst of movement.

“Henderson?” Is all your brain can conjure as questions begin formulating in the back of your mind.

“Y/n?” Dustin’s puzzlement is expected, but he quickly recovers. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Eddie - and for you!” You approach the desk where Dustin and Max Mayfield are huddled over a notepad with Robin Buckley and Steve Harrington lingering in the background. “Robin?”

“Oh, hey Y/n!” Robin waves excitedly. Having shared plenty of classes together, you considered Robin a good friend, but didn’t realize how close she was with Dustin.

“Wait wait,” Dustin brings your attention back to him. “You’re looking for Eddie? So you don’t know where he is?”

Your heart rate begins to pick up.

“No, I haven’t seen him. But the news reports-“

“They’re not true! You can’t-“

“Of course I don’t believe them. This is Eddie we’re talking about.” You shift your weight and shake your head. “Does anyone know what happened?”

All eyes then settle on Max as if she holds all the answers. “It was Chrissy Cunningham. I saw them going into Eddie’s trailer last night. Then a while later he ran out looking…” she looks around as if searching for the right word, “…scared. Police found her body this morning. It wasn’t a pretty sight.”

You are stunned. Speechless. You cast about for any sort of logical response to what you just heard. “Chrissy- she’s… she’s dead?”

Max nods. A somber feeling settles over the room.

“And Eddie just ran out? No one’s seen him?” You look desperately from one person to the next but everyone shakes their heads.

“We’re calling around to see if anyone knows anything.” Dustin explains why they are all gathered. “I guess this explains why you weren’t at home when I called. Your mom gave me an earful, though.”

You roll your eyes. “Not surprising. Have you guys found anything yet?”

The dejection around the room is a clear sign of their lack of progress. “We were hoping he was with you somewhere.”

You wish he was with you too, because then your heart wouldn’t be racing with worry over him.

“Okay, well I’m here now, what can I do to help?”

It took a few more hours of digging for you to sort through all the possible leads. There are three places you guess to be possible hideouts for Eddie.

As much as you want to join the others in their search, Dustin was quite persuasive in his argument for why you should stay at home and wait for Eddie there. It’s true that of all places, it was completely likely that Eddie would head to your bedroom window in case of an emergency.

So you set off for home while the others took off for the other two destinations. In your heart of hearts you hope Eddie will be lounging on your bed with his muddy boots on your covers for you to yell at him and pretend like this was somewhat of a normal day. But you dread getting home and finding out that he isn’t there after all.

Many of the streets you pass are teeming with activity, people out looking for the wanted criminal you were so scared for them to find. The sky had darkened considerably and evening was ushered in. You hurry home - only slightly regretting your decision to walk instead of having the others drop you off - and keep your head down, focusing all of your energy on making it home and finding Eddie.

You think nothing of the rapidly approaching footsteps behind you, or the shadow cast on the sidewalk that screams “run away” to you, yet you don’t listen.

And then it’s too late by the time you feel the large hand clap over your mouth, the strong arm wrap around your middle, trapping your arms against your sides.

You’re tossed to the ground in a heap and can barely catch your breath before you catch sight of your attacker just as his foot connects with your temple, sending you spinning into a black oblivion.

*

You awake in a daze, even the dim and dirty lights shining on you are blinding compared to the deep ocean of black you were emerging from.

You blink in an attempt to clear your eyes and gain some understanding of what brought you to this moment. Stars are still swimming in your eyes, but slowly you stabilize and three forms coalesce out of the shadows.

“What- the hell- are you doing?” You pant through labored breathing, your body feeling utterly exhausted as if you had been fighting for your life for the past hour instead of completely passed out.

Self-proclaimed king of the jocks, Jason Carver steps into the light, his face cast in an eerie yellow glow. His eyes dance with mischief and threaten danger like you’ve never seen before. His hands slam down on the arms of the chair you’re seated in - you just now realize your hands are tied down with ropes - and he leans in close. His breath poisons your nose and you recoil. “Where is he?”

You have a feeling you know exactly who he means. But still, you spit back at him. “Where is who, you psycho?”

Jason laughs and looks back at Patrick and Andy looming behind him. Then he looks back at you. “Munson. Where is he?”

You decide to play coy. “Ohhh, I get it. Mr. Munson works nights, so he’s probably-“ you stretch your neck as if to check your watch “-getting ready for work.”

Jason leans closer, he’s inches from your face and the crazy look in his eyes is becoming quite alarming. “Eddie. The freak. Where. Is. He?”

“I don’t know.” Your voice is shakier than you had planned. You knew Jason had a mean streak, you had been on the receiving end of plenty of his jokes and insults. But this was something completely new.

“You’re lying, Y/n. You and Eddie are attached at the hip. And if you don’t tell me where he’s hiding of your own free will, I will force it from you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” You don’t hide the snark in your tone. You won’t make this easy. Even if you knew where Eddie was, you wouldn’t tell this idiot.

You flinch when Jason stands up abruptly. He looks to his friends. “Don’t untie those ropes, and don’t fall for her lies. Even if we can’t get his location, he’ll come looking for her eventually. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”

The anger radiating from him is palpable. Patrick looks slightly ill and Andy shrugs as if this is just another day in the life. But his narrowed eyes suggest he won’t make this easy on you either.

“Where the hell are we?” You ask them, hoping you’re anywhere near civilization.

“Benny’s.” Patrick answers, but Andy slaps his chest as if to ask why he would say that.

“And you two are just okay with this? You realize this is kidnapping. Abduction. And if any of you lays a hand on me, it’s abuse and torture.” You lean back in your chair, content with your warning. Patrick looks nervous but Andy continues to glare in your direction. “I hope your daddies have lawyers because this won’t end well for you.”

Sometime later - two hours according to your watch, although it feels like much longer - Jason returns and dismisses his cronies from the room. This can’t be good.

“Have you decided to cooperate yet?” He crosses his arms standing a few feet in front of you.

“Have you decided not to be an asshole yet?” You look around the room, taking in your current situation. “Guess not.”

Then he surges forward, once again his face is inches from yours. “He’s a killer. And you’re protecting him. Do you know what he did?”

“Trust me, Jason. I know what happened to Chrissy and there’s no possible way Eddie did that to her.”

“So what, some big scary monster broke into his trailer and killed her but not him? Is that what you want me to believe?” He doesn’t even wait for you to answer. “Because I think his little cult is behind this. He’s been raising an army to do his bidding. So I think he had help.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his stupidity. He looked at you with daggers. “The Hellfire Club is a Dungeons and Dragons nerdfest, not a cult.” You laugh again. “They sit around a table playing a glorified board game and you thought they were-“ another laugh “-worshipping the devil.”

“Shut up!” He stands tall. “I know they’re messing with something evil and now my Chrissy is gone.”

You sober up from your bout of laughter. You get serious. “Jason, I’m sorry about what happened to Chrissy. Really, I am. She was sweet and kind and didn’t deserve… that. But Eddie didn’t do it. I don’t know what did, but it wasn’t him.”

Jason paces the space. “Well isn’t it convenient that he ran and hid, then? If he didn’t do it, where is he?”

“Hiding from imbeciles like you, probably.”

At this, Jason lunges closer and slaps you across the cheek. The sting is immediate and the dull ache settles more slowly.

“Tell me where he is!”

“Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you!” He hits you again. “Do your worst, Carver. But remember who this falls back on. Regardless of Eddie’s innocence, all of this-“ your eyes circle the room “-is on you.”

Fuming, Jason storms from the room. You sink into the chair, your courage leaking away in the emptiness.

*

“Eddie, thank god we found you. We’ve been looking everywhere.” Dustin hugs his friend as he wilts onto the floor.

“Yeah, well. I’ve been here. Hiding. What’s going on out there?”

Max, Dustin, and Robin take turns filling Eddie in on the police search for him. Steve checks the windows for signs of anyone following them into the boathouse on Reefer Rick’s property. Of course it was the last place they looked.

When they’ve finished updating Eddie on the widespread search, he bites his cheek and asks them. “Anyone heard from Y/n?”

“Shit, yeah, we should call her.”

“I’ll go,” Robin volunteers and heads toward the main house to find a phone.

Dustin rushes to explain further. “We sent her home to wait for you there, thinking you might show up at her place. I’m sure she will probably come once she knows you’re here.”

“She should stay out of this. I don’t know what the hell is going on but I can’t have her getting hurt or- or-“

“Dude, she’s already involved. Keeping her in the dark now would just make things worse. Trust me.” Steve added his two cents into the mix.

A thundering of fast-paced footsteps sounds from outside. All eyes peel to the door to find Robin leaning in the doorway, out of breath. “Y/n’s mom said she never made it home.”

“They don’t live that far from the store, she should have been home like at least an hour ago.”

Steve pulls his keys from his pocket. “Let’s go.”

The whole crew piles into Steve’s car, Eddie hiding low in the backseat where Dustin and Max could cover over him if need be.

“Eddie are you sure you should be coming? Hiding here is still probably your best bet.” Robin double checks from the passenger seat.

“Just drive, Harrington. I’m not staying here if Y/n is missing. Not after what I saw last night.”

Steve puts the car in gear but immediately pulls off when a flashing light nears. Police cars with their sirens on launch past and nervous glances are exchanged before Steve follows from a safe distance.

Pulling up to the scene in the middle of the road, everyone but Eddie, hidden under a blanket in the backseat, emerges from the car to find Nancy Wheeler talking to an officer. Max leans into the car as if to grab something, but whispers to Eddie instead. “It’s not Y/n.”

Eddie lets out a sigh of relief and sinks into his hiding place more. He closes his eyes and thanks whatever forces that be. He can still find you in time.

When everyone piles back into the car, Dustin remains in the back while Max takes Robin’s seat up front. Steve offers a brief explanation. “Robin is going with Nancy. We’re going to find Y/n.”

He throws the car in reverse and peels away from the road block, heading a different way toward town.

*

After what feels like days but was merely 30 minutes of silence, you feel like screaming. Realizing that your feet aren’t tied to the chair leads to many failed attempts at moving and inching closer to the door. But your energy wanes over time and soon your attempts land you collapsed on the floor, hands still bound to the arms of the chair. Utterly helpless.

When no one rushes in to check on you, you assume they must have left. So you lay there alone on the cold hard floor awaiting their return.

When voices begin to echo from the main room, your ears perk up. The door swings open and Jason, Andy, and Patrick filter in. Followed by one more person. From your position on the ground facing to the side of the door, you struggle to identify them.

Rough hands pick you up and right the chair, Jason clicks his tongue. “Nice try. But you won’t get away that easy.”

Your eyes now search the group and widen at the discovery they make. “Lucas?” You ask incredulously as you finally see the newbie clearly.

Lucas looks nervously around, fear all too evident. He looks uneasy, as if he didn’t know you were here.

“Jason, man. What the hell are you doing? Why is she tied up?” Lucas moves toward you, his hands reaching toward the ropes around your wrists.

But Andy grabs Lucas and pulls him back. He looks around in bewilderment. Jason steps in front of you and speaks to Lucas. “Eddie killed Chrissy. And this one-“ he points to you “-is our ticket to finding him. He won’t get away with what he did.”

“How do you know he killed Chrissy? This is crazy, Y/n didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Eddie will come out of hiding for her. And that’s when we grab him.”

“This is insane. Like actually completely crazy. This is kidnapping, man!” Lucas is enraged by the turn of events, he peers past Jason’s shoulder to seek your gaze. You can see his involvement in all of this started and ended with this very conversation.

“I thought you wanted to be on the team, Sinclair. Well this is the team protecting each other. So are you in or are you out?”

Lucas weighs the options, maps out a plan in his mind. Jason adds another reminder, “and if you decide you’re out, you’ll be joining Y/n in here until all of this gets sorted. Can’t have you making waves for me, Sinclair.”

Resigned to going along with the plan until he can act, Lucas nods and exits the room. You can’t blame him. Jason has lost his mind and if he’s willing to turn on his own teammate like that, Lucas is better off on his side… for now.

Much to your dismay, Jason ushers the others out, leaving the two of you alone again. But he pulls something shiny out of his pocket that sends a shiver down your spine.

He approaches your chair. “Are you going to tell me where Munson is?”

You shake your head and scrunch your nose. “I don’t know where he is. And I would never tell you anyway.” You sneer at the very idea of giving Eddie up to this insanity that had become Jason Carver.

“Very well.” He shrugs and lifts the device in his hand. A c-shaped clamp swings from his finger before he brings it down toward you. He cuffs the clamp over your thigh at a suspiciously precise place, a deliciously sickening smirk spread across his face. He twists the screw on the cramp until a slight pressure squeezes against your muscle. At first, you are unsure of what to expect. But then, with one more long turn of the screw, a pain so radiant that your eyes lose focus and you feel yourself losing grip on consciousness overtakes your body. With the pressure point triggered, you scream and tears leak from your eyes without warning.

And just as fast as the pain began, it ends. You breathe deeply and let your head fall backward.

“You’ll tell me where he is. Chrissy deserves justice.”

Through labored breaths, you reply. “Keep telling yourself this is for Chrissy, but if you knew her at all you’d know she would roll over in her grave if she knew what you were doing.”

“Don’t you speak about her!” He spits at you, his wild fire of rage growing hotter and stronger.

He paces the room, hands threaded through his hair atop his head, letting the anger simmer.

Unexpectedly, the door flies open and Andy tells Jason, “Sinclair heard her scream and just took off, what do we do?”

“Go after him! Handle it, I’m busy here!” Then he returns to his place in front of you. His full attention on you.

*

Pushing the limit of speed in such a small town, Steve directs his car down every street, all eyes glued to the surroundings for anything that might point toward you. Neighbors and residents are milling about almost as if life carried on normally despite the ever-present threat of other-dimensional ruin.

“Where could she have gone if not home?” Max asks as her gaze shifts back and forth between houses and alleys.

“If she’s not at home and she’s not at my place, I don’t know. But we have to find her. What if that thing that killed Chrissy comes for her?”

An uneasy silence stretches.

“Has anyone heard from Lucas?” Dustin asks in an attempt to find any shred of helpful information, but he is met only by more silence. “I’ll try calling him.” He reaches into his backpack and retrieves the walkie-talkie, turning it on to background static and then immediate speaking.

“Attention losers, can anyone hear me?”

“Is that Erica?” Dustin asks as he extends the antenna and turns the volume up.

“Attention nerds, is anyone there, hello?” Her agitated voice rings clear in the car.

“Erica, it’s Dustin. I copy, over.”

“It’s about time. I’ve been trying to call you guys for the last 3 hours.”

“You have to say ‘over’ when you’re done talking. Over.”

“Whatever. Over.”

“Erica, focus. What did you need? Over.”

“What I need is for you to tell me why that loser Jason was looking for Lucas and Eddie earlier. He looked like he wanted to murder someone. Gave me the creeps. Over.”

Dustin almost dropped the radio. “Jason was looking for Eddie? That can’t be good. Did he say where he was going? Over.”

“No, but if you find Lucas, tell him he better be home by curfew tonight or mom and dad will disown him for real. Over and out.”

Steve looks in his rear view mirror at Dustin. “She’s a real peach.”

A few seconds tick by as everyone processes what Erica had shared. Then Max twists around in her seat. “You guys don’t think Jason has something to do with Y/n going missing, do you?”

It had crossed everyone’s minds, but no one wanted to say it aloud and make it a real possibility. No one wanted to believe he would do something to you on purpose.

Eddie, from his seat on the floor of the backseat, brushes away any concern he may have had about facing the jock before, knowing that the only thing that mattered now was finding you. “I think there’s only one way to find out. We need to find Jason.”

*

“Tell me where Eddie is and I’ll let you go.”

“Even if I knew - which I don’t - I wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“Why are you still protecting him? He clearly doesn’t love you the way you so clearly love him. It’s pathetic, Y/n. Really.” His voice softens to a dangerously low pitch. He levels with you and you see right through his tactic. “Why did he bring Chrissy back to his place so late at night, huh?” He lets the words sit in the otherwise empty room. “He obviously wanted to get with her and when she denied him, he fought back.”

Oh now his desperate grasping at straws was actually painful to hear.

You hold back the chuckle threatening to escape your lips. “Keep telling yourself that, Jason. But remember, if she willingly went home with him, that’s saying something about your relationship, too.”

His eyes bulge at your audacity to insult him and his infatuation with Chrissy. You continue anyway. “I bet she didn’t tell you she was looking to buy drugs from him earlier in the day. She came to me to set up the meeting.”

Jason shakes his head viciously, unable to comprehend such a claim. “No, she wouldn’t do that. She doesn’t do drugs. She wouldn’t.”

“But she did. You have no clue what she’s been going through these last few days, do you?” His empty gaze is all the answer you need. “When her own boyfriend wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t help her, of course she had to resort to other… solutions. So if she did want to hook up with Eddie, I couldn’t even blame her after suffering through all those days with you.”

You had gone too far. Jason backhands you across the mouth and you instantly taste the metallic drip of blood from the corner of your lip. With no control over his rage, Jason grips the edges of your chair and hurls it against the wall. Your head tosses to the side and cracks against the hard surface before the chair tips over and you crash to the floor once more. A lump forms on the side of your head and you can feel the wetness of the blood soaking into your hair from where the scalp was broken on impact. You cry out in pain realizing the weight of your body landed on top of your leg crushing it beneath the leg of the chair. Pain fills all of your senses, black begins to float into your vision and you lose your grip on consciousness as the cushion of oblivion welcomes you once again.

*

“Steve, slow down!” Max cries from the passenger seat as Steve’s foot presses deeply onto the gas pedal.

“Look!” He points ahead and Dustin and Max search for where he points. “Is that Lucas?”

Narrowed eyes focus on the form rapidly growing closer. It is Lucas, seemingly running for his life from a duo of boys who are not terribly far behind him.

Max rolls down the window, “Lucas?!” She calls as they near, slowing the car.

Lucas is panting heavily and can only speak between gasping breaths. “Y/n. They have her. At Benny’s. Go!” He points back the way he came, urging them to go.

Eddie, having emerged from his hiding place behind the passenger seat, throws open the door, “come on, Sinclair, get in here!”

Lucas wastes no time joining the group in the car and before the door is even latched, Steve is throwing the car into gear and heading off back down the road.

As Lucas gains his breath, he wheezes out more of the story. “They have her. Tied down.”

“What?” “Why?” “What the hell?” All rang out in chorus.

“To find you, Eddie. Jason thinks that you- you killed Chrissy. So he took Y/n. To get to you.”

Eddie’s brown eyes deepen and sharpen. New purpose fuels his rabid hunger for action. He hates himself for what happened to you, despite the logic that wars in his mind that there was nothing he could have done to control this scenario. “Hurry up, Harrington.” Eddie’s voice wavers with worry, and the car goes silent as they see the building nearing.

*

“Aghhh!” You awaken to a razor-sharp pain shooting up your leg. You fight to keep from crying out more, but stifle the cries when you see Jason leering over you, a sick satisfaction smeared over his features.

While you were out, Jason had righted your chair so you faced him upright once more. But the bone in your right knee is visibly protruding from the skin around it. You focus on your attacker and attempt to ignore the searing pain.

You feel the cold bite of metal on your other leg and realize the clamp is still attached to your left thigh. Jason’s hands reach down and his fingers deftly tighten the screws again, the impending wave of agony increasing your heartrate tenfold.

“Please, no,” your voice squeaks out in a raspy whisper.

With one more tiny adjustment, a paralyzing spasm knots your muscles and ricochets your vision in a flurry of pain. You scream at the impact, your voice reaching a volume even you weren’t aware of.

A voice vaguely cuts through the wall of misery.

“This can all stop when you tell me where that Munson freak is.”

At the sound of a thump, Jason turns around, and Eddie stands behind him with a broken piece of plywood from the windows out front. “I’m right here, asshole.” He swings the slat of wood and it cracks across Jason’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground in a heap. With a surprising recovery, he climbs back to his feet, a new death glare set into his eyes.

“Munson.” He growls, wiping at the blood smeared on his face. “Chrissy is dead because of you.”

Max, who was passing by to get to you, stops and wheels around on Jason to repeat what you had already told him. “Chrissy is dead because you’re a shitty boyfriend who didn’t realize she was hurting. Struggling so badly she went to Eddie to buy drugs. So maybe she’s dead because of you.”

Max turns back to you, pressing the sleeve of her jacket to the back of your head where you could feel a rhythmic beating of pain. Steve is knelt in front of you, fingers frantically loosening the clamp over your leg. You sag back into the chair at the sudden relief. But black and white still dances in your eyes.

“Hey, Y/n. Stay with us.” Steve gently pats your cheeks to keep you awake. He looks down at your right leg and swallows the lump in his throat. “Holy shit.”

Behind them, Eddie’s eyes dart from Y/N’s form in the chair back to Jason. “I didn’t kill Chrissy. But if you don’t let us help her, you’re about to kill Y/n. I’m sure Chrissy would be so fucking proud!” Eddie spits out that last line in an attempt to drill it into Jason’s mind.

Jason hesitates at this, his mind whirling with the implications of what he’s done. But regret never occurs to him. However, while Jason hesitates, Eddie doesn’t. He swings his wooden weapon and connects it with the side of Jason’s head. Jason crumples to the ground. Breathing, but unconscious. They’d deal with him later.

Eddie now turns his full attention on you. He kneels in front of you with Steve. Steve finishes untying one of the ropes holding your wrists down before backing away to give more space, and Eddie takes the other wrist. When your hands are freed, Eddie grips them tightly, the welcome pressure bringing you a sliver of awareness.

“Eddie?” A few tears build up and fall from your eyes.

“I’m here.” You fling yourself forward into his arms, but the movement jars your knee and you shriek in pain. “We need to get you out of here.”

Dustin calls from the doorway, “There's no phone here, but I radioed Erica, she called an ambulance to come out here. They’re on their way.”

“You hear that? Help is on the way.” Eddie cups your cheeks and wipes away the tears mixed with the blood that had dripped over your face in the last few hours.

You let a few silent sobs shake your body in relief. Eddie wraps his arms around you, careful to avoid your leg. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his jacket.

He pulls away to look at you, his hands finding yours again. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not coming to you as soon as-“ the words to describe what happens to Chrissy die in his throat, but you know what he means. “Then you wouldn’t have been out and none of this would have happened.”

You shake your head, “no you were right to hide. If Jason had found you, you’d be dead right now.”

“But I’m not. I’m right here.”

Eddie leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, which by this point is matted with sweat. But he doesn’t care. All he cares about is you being here and alive. When he pulls away, he brings his hands back up to cup your cheeks and you revel in the warmth they bring. Then Eddie tells you what he should have said long ago.

“I love you,” he breathes out, your eyes locked on his. “I always have. And after today, not a day will go by when I don’t remind you of that.”

You smile into the kiss he presses against your lips. It’s gentle, soft. And it’s too short for your liking. But it’s enough to distract you from the pain that radiates from almost every area of your body. Eddie’s touch, his presence, offers you a moment of peace.

“Eddie,” you whisper to him. “What about you? The police- they’re-“

“Shhh, don’t worry about me.”

“I have to. Eddie, you can’t be here when the ambulance arrives. They’ll arrest you and I can’t- you have to go. Please.”

“You’re sending me away?”

“I’m asking you to go make sure your hiding spot is fit for two. Because when I get out of the hospital I’m coming to be with you, wherever that is.”

You see the sadness in Eddie’s eyes at the thought of leaving you behind in this condition. But he knows you’re right. The best place for him to be is away from the public eye.

“Eddie,” you force him to look at you. “I love you. Wherever you are in a few days, I’ll find you.”

He nods his agreement as he stands up and heads toward the door. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

*****

don’t miss out next time, join my taglist!

All: @jellyfishbeansontoast @makebank @astrydis @gloryekaterina @outerbankslut @miraclesoflove @hufflepuffhaze @glitt3r-litt3r @simonsbluee