#Please someone save me from my meat flesh prison

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Void of Extinction by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Chapter 4/9

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Chapter 4: It’s Always You

The loud sound of a lock clicking across the room, before a screech of the heavy steel door opening, woke James from his sleep. Mary Margaret entered his room, a smile on her face.

“Good morning, are you hungry?”

He stared at her with apprehension. “Bloody starving. Do you feed your prisoners here or just taunt them with talk of food?”

“Killi…James, you are not a prisoner here.” She said with a smile.

“The lock on the door says otherwise.”

“I apologize for that. The others were feeling anxious that you might leave before we had a chance to help you.”

“I don’t feel much like I’m being helped right now.”

“I’m sorry about that. Please, let’s get you some food and maybe we can talk about how I can help you.”

He followed her through the busy halls, people moving all around them as if they had business to tend to. “This is quite the operation you’re running.”

“Everyone who is here believes in our cause.”

“Which is?”

“Removing the threat that the Collective brings to the people of Storybrooke, helping those afflicted with this terrible disease, keeping the Hive from poaching the little resources we have, and finding a cure that can be shared across the realms.”

“That’s a lot to manage, but do you really think you can find a cure?”

“I do, but we can’t block ourselves off from the world, the wall and exile have removed our best options for finding the one thing that could save us all.”

James watched the woman’s face, the sincerity of her words, had he not been a cook, had he been more of a courageous man, he would have been inclined to volunteer and support their cause.

They entered a large room and judging by the contents he assumed this was their cafeteria. “Please, make sure you get something to eat. We can talk more once you get settled. I just need to check on a few things.”

She excused herself and James walked to the line, scoping out what kind of food they would have so far from the town’s resources. What he found surprised him, fruits and vegetables seemed to be bountiful, the array of meats astounded him even more. Where were they getting all this food from?

He put a few items on his plate and found a spot in the corner of the room to watch his surroundings. He had expected the army of the Resistance to be made up of angry men and women, soldiers in a battle that was trying to destroy the quiet town of Storybrooke. Instead, he found mothers, children, uncles, unassuming men, and women who no more looked like soldiers than he did.

He barely had time to finish his food before his attention was drawn to the crying sounds of a child coming from the entrance of the cafeteria. The sound was followed by the entrance of Ruby, who he had met earlier, and the man who had continued to seek him out at the diner. He stood from his spot on his bench as soon as the man recognized him, his eyes wide with either shock or relief, he couldn’t tell.

Behind him a woman stepped forward carrying a child, her blonde hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail but there was no denying this was the woman who had been haunting his dreams every night. Their eyes met, and she handed her child to the man beside her, rushing toward him.

“Killian, oh my God, you’re alive!”

He flinched as she reached for him. “I’m sorry, lass, do I know you?”

She paused. “It’s me, Emma.”

“I must apologize if I have met you, but I can’t quite remember where. My name is James Rogers.” He held out his hand and she simply stared at him.

“I can’t believe he did this to you; Neal is going to pay for this.” She growled before reaching out, her hand touching his cheek.

The moment her palm touched flesh he felt like he had been struck by lightning. White light blinding him as he fell to his knees, images coming in quick succession.

“My name is Emma Swan and I need your help.”

“How can I help you, love?”

“I have information on the Collective, I need to get information to Merlin.”

“I work for the Storybrooke PD, I can take you in, get you in touch with my boss.”

“No, the information I have has to go directly to Merlin. I need to get into the mainframe.”

“The only terminal that goes directly to the mainframe is in the Mayor’s office, I could talk to her for you.”

“You can’t do that. Please. You can’t trust the Mayor.”

Killian’s heart was racing when his eyes finally opened, staring up into a sea of concerned green eyes.

“Killian, are you alright?”

He pushed away from her, backing up against the wall. “Stay back.” He warned, trying to understand what had just happened to him, the migraine starting to build at the back of his skull. He grabbed his head, tears forced out of the corners of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, what’s wrong.” The woman responded, leaning toward him. He pushed away from the wall, backing up toward the entrance.

“Just stay over there. Don’t come close to me.” He yelled, backing away from the group staring at him before running down the closest hall, pushing his way past anyone standing in his way. He could hear voices behind him, but he couldn’t stop, he needed air, he needed to get out of there.

He found himself at the end of the hallway, turning in all directions as he started to feel cornered. To his right he saw a steel door, pushing against it, it opened outward, leading to a stairwell. He climbed quickly, racing up the stairs two at a time until he found another door. He pushed and felt it budge, but the door didn’t open. Taking a few steps back, he kicked at the large door, as it flew open, fog enveloping him from the outside.

Stepping outdoors, he took a deep breath, choking on the smog as he shut the metal door behind him. He spun in place looking at the area around him, steel planks extending in all directions.

He picked a direction, sprinting to the end of the plank, he could hear voices behind him, calling toward him. He did the only thing he could think of, he dove. The ice-cold water hit him like a ton of bricks, he had to force his limbs to move, breaking the still waters with his strokes. Looking around he tried to get his bearings, unable to see anything but the fog, he pressed forward, swimming as fast as he could as he pushed through the murky waters.

When his foot hit ground, he drug himself onto the shore, crawling up the sandy beach and flipping onto his back as he tried to slow his breathing. He was able to stumble through, finding his way out of the foglands, a crack in the wall large enough for him to fit through so he could venture back to his apartment.

He crept through the dark hallways as he approached his door, surprised to find it sitting on its hinges as if someone had forced their way inside. He paused, peering into the darkened apartment, the door creaked loudly as he pushed through the archway, his apartment sitting still and ominously quiet.

“Lights.” He spoke into the void as one of the lamps turned on in the farthest room. The lights in the living room stayed dark. “Lights.” He said more forcefully.

A light clicked on beside him, a dark figure sitting in the chair by the window. “Hello James.” The voice caused the hair on his neck to stand on end.

“Who are you?” He asked, stepping backwards toward the door.

“I suppose it’s a good sign that you don’t remember me.” He chuckled. “Where’s Emma?”

James sucked in a breath at the mention of the woman’s name he had just escaped. What was it with this damned woman?

“I don’t know anyone named Emma.” He said honestly and the man stood from his spot in the room, walking slowly toward him.

“I wish I could say I believed you, but your reaction makes me think otherwise.”

“I don’t know who you are talking about.” He pleaded as the man raised a gun in his direction, James glanced around the room for anything he could use as a weapon.

“Maybe.” He paused. “You still taking your medicine, James?”

Who the hell was this man?

“Get out of my apartment, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Oh, trust me, I know exactly who you are, and I know exactly what you’ve done.” He lunged forward, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward him, the gun protruding into his side. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to Emma.” He grunted, turning suddenly, and hitting him in the head with the butt of the gun. James felt blinded for a moment as his full weight crashed into the wall.

James stood and charged the man, using his shoulder to tackle him to the ground, the gun clattering off into the corner of the room, he hit the man with the ball of his fist, connecting with his jaw with a loud crack before the man returned the punch, knocking him backward and onto the coffee table behind him.

Suddenly there was noise at the other end of the apartment, a gun shot rang out and the assailant crashed through the window onto the stairwell. Will ran past him, rushing to the broken window and peering into the darkness.

“Dammit!” He cursed as he pulled himself back into the apartment. “Neal’s gone.” He turned toward Ruby and then looked down at James. “You could have gotten yourself bloody killed running like that.”

“Who the hell was that and why was he in my apartment?” James asked angrily as he stood, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans.

“That’s Neal Cassidy, but you already know him, you just don’t know that you know him…” His brow furrowed. “Bloody hell, how much longer until void man becomes himself again?” He asked the woman who frowned.

“No one knows, we’ve never taken anyone off the injections for this long before. It’s dangerous. I’m surprised his head hasn’t exploded yet.” She said with a shrug that made his skin crawl.

“My head might explode?” He shouted incredulously.

“Probably not. I mean…I hope not.” She said, trying to sound reassuring but only giving him more reason for concern.

“Look, I get it, you’re confused, but you need to trust us.” Will argued. “If you don’t, Neal and his family are going to kill you and if that happens, they’re going to get to Emma.”

“Why is he so angry with me? What does he think I did to this Emma woman?”

“Ah bloody hell, it’s not my place to fill in those gaps for you. Let’s just say he doesn’t like to share his toys and you took his favorite one.” Will laughed.

“Toys, what the blazes does that mean?”

“Look, if you come back with us, maybe you’ll let Emma explain.”

James looked at Will and Ruby, neither who appeared menacing or out to get him, he turned toward his living room window that this Neal Cassidy has thrown himself through. That man definitely was not out to help him. He didn’t see any other choice at the moment, he could stay here, and this man would continue to come after him and most likely kill him for causing some sort of harm to someone, or he could find out why this woman he didn’t even know was real, was suddenly haunting his dreams.

“Fine, let’s see what this Emma woman has to say.”

~*~

Emma paced the small room that Ruby and Will had left her behind in, Henry sleeping soundly in the corner of the room. She had waited so long to see Killian, to touch him, to tell him how much she loved him. They had looked everywhere for him, at one point, Emma had reconciled that Gold had killed him, but then Will found him, hope had not been lost, but he rejected them. It had broken Emma’s heart, she thought she would never have a chance to get back what she lost and then she walks into the damn Resistance and there he was, eating a sandwich in the middle of a goddamn cafeteria as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

When he recoiled from her touch, ran to get away from her, it was like losing him all over again. She had to remind herself that he didn’t know her. Gold, and Neal, she cursed to herself, had taken everything he held dear away from him, his memories, his life, her. She hadn’t been certain that Neal had found out about Killian, that he was on to what she was doing until he she found out that he was living a new life, with no recollection of who he was. She knew if Neal determined that he was a threat and removed him from the playing field, then he must know what Killian meant to her, to the entire operation designed to destroy his family.

“Did you get anything to eat?” Emma turned toward the door as the dark-haired woman approached.

“I did, thank you. Have they come back yet?”

The woman shook her head. “Not yet, but don’t worry, Ruby is my best tracker. If anyone can find him, she will.”

Emma sighed. “He didn’t know me.”

It was the woman’s turn to sigh as she entered the room. “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

Emma offered a soft smile. “He means everything. I thought I could be strong enough as long as I had him by my side, but now…”

“You don’t seem to me the type that needs a man at her side in order to be strong.” She chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong, we will do everything we can to try and return his memories to him, but don’t think that just because he doesn’t fight by your side right now that you can’t be strong.”

“I wish I had your optimism.” She laughed.

“It’s less optimism and more of an understanding.” She replied, sitting down next to her. “My husband, he’s a good man, but he doesn’t understand this fight, he’s so determined that following the law, doing things legally is the only way to solve the problem.”

“I’m guessing he doesn’t support your cause.”

“He thinks I get up every day, clean the house, do the shopping, and prepare him dinner before he gets home, that I turn my back to what is happening outside these walls. He has no idea that one day I just woke up and knew I had to take a stand.” She exhaled. “David tries to walk the line between his duty as an officer to our town, his loyalty to the Mayor, and doing what is right. One day there will be a reckoning and he will have to choose a side. I hope that he chooses mine, but if he doesn’t, I know I’m strong enough to finish this fight.”

“Wait, your husband is David Nolan? He’s Killian’s partner.”

She laughed. “Yes, the elusive Killian Jones. The Mayor is very interested in finding him, as is my husband. My husband says he’s been missing for weeks; I’m guessing that has to do with you?”

“He was helping me with something, protecting me, I uh…” She frowned unsure whether to share any more information with the woman. “My ex is Neal Cassidy.” She added, turning away from the woman.

“Neal Cassidy, as in the son of the man who runs the Gold Collective.”

“That same asshole.” She joked.

“Very interesting.” She said, staring off in the distance. “I know you are still trying to decide if you trust me or not, I can see that much. But I think we are on the same side here. I just want what’s right for our people. I want to ensure we have a future to protect.”

Emma eyed the woman, sizing her up as she examined her. “Look, I just need you to find a way to get Killian to remember, after that, we’ll talk.”

“Fair enough, Emma.” She said with a nod just as Will rushed into the room.

“We found him.”

Emma jumped up from her spot. “Is he ok?”

“Neal was waiting for him at his apartment.” She started to panic. “He’s fine. Neal got away though.”

“Where is he?”

“Med bay,” He grabbed her as she started to rush out the door. “He’s fine, just some cuts and bruises. He wants to know why Neal’s so pissed at him.” He laughed. “I told him there was no way I was explaining that crap to him.”

Emma smiled. “Thanks for not trying.” Emma looked back at Mary Margaret.

“Go, I’ll be there in a minute, I want to talk to the doctors about his condition.”

Emma walked quickly through the halls, trying not to rush and push anxiously through the people around her. She turned the corner just as Will was opening the door to the med bay and she could see Killian sitting on a bench, his face bruised, dried blood gashed on his forehead. Emma felt her heart stop the moment he looked up, his eyes meeting hers with trepidation and a nervous hesitancy.

She slowed her steps, not wanting to appear too eager to approach him, hoping he didn’t notice the way she wrung her hands at her side, her fists balling in anger the closer she got to him, as she took in the damage that Neal had done to him.

She sat down a few feet from him, not wanting to encroach on his personal space this time, she had watched in terror at the last meeting as he ran from her, fear in his eyes after she touched him. Whatever Gold had done to him, had removed the trust and love they had once shared. She would not give up; she knew that what she and Killian shared went deeper than a few shallow memories. They couldn’t take away his soul, Killian was in there somewhere.

“I’m gonna go check on Henry.” Will announced uncomfortably from the door. “Message if you need me.” He said quietly to her before shutting the door.

She turned nervously toward Killian. “Are you alright?”

“What, this?” He pointed to his forehead. “Just trying out a new look, I assure you I’m perfectly alright.” He laughed and Emma felt her entire body crave to touch him. The man she loved was still in there, his way of putting her at ease, showing her that everything was going to be fine.

“I know this must be confusing for you. I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“I would assume as much; it all seems a slight excessive compared to what I’m used to.”

“You have no idea.” She laughed, the feeling of dread easing a bit in her mind.

“So I’ve been told.” He answered softly, his eyes suddenly glancing down at his feet. “This Neal…” He let his name hang in the air between them for a few moments. “He implied that I had done something to you. I wasn’t sure what he meant. I didn’t…” He exhaled, touching his finger to the top of his earlobe, a gesture that Emma had seen him make a thousand times before and it made the tears spring to her eyes. “I didn’t hurt you did I?”

She slid closer to him, tentatively reaching out and touching his hand. He flinched but he didn’t pull away this time. “You could never hurt me Killi…James.” His shoulders sagged and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Will said that I took something from him, some toy.”

Emma laughed, that sounded like something Will would tell him. “Neal is my…” She frowned. “ex.”

His eyes went wide for a moment, his lips pursing and his jaw suddenly tense. “You dated that fellow? He’s very…charming.”

She laughed, “You can be honest, he’s a real ass.”

“I didn’t want to offend.”

“That’s new.” She said with a wink. “Sorry, I’m just use to your usual sarcastic commentary.”

He smiled and then cleared his throat. “So, this thing that I took from Neal, it’s not a thing at all is it? It’s more personal…”

She nodded, “Verypersonal.” She responded, her tongue swiping out to wet her lips.

“Am I to believe that this person you think I am, this Killian, that you and he were…close?”

She bit her lip, her fingers languidly rubbing a circle against the skin at the top of his hand. “Extremely.”

“I see.” He said with a gulp. “I’m starting to wish I were this man you think I am, sadly, I have my doubts.”

~*~

“I promise you; we’ll figure this out.” She turned his hand in hers, taking his palm against hers and squeezing. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but I’m asking you to trust me.”

“Try something new darling, it’s called trust.”

The memory hit him sharply and he closed his eyes as the pain spread.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?” She dropped his hand, moving slightly away from him, clearly not wanting to cause him pain.

“Aye.” He said, opening his eyes as he squinted into the room. “Sometimes I see things…”

“See things?”

“Flashes, like a movie in my brain. Things I can’t explain, or conversations I’m certain I’ve never had. But one thing…” He inhaled deeply. “One thing is always the same.”

She leaned forward, touching his arm lightly and he turned toward her, his blue eyes shining with fear. “What?”

“You, love. It’s always you.”

#void of extinction #stacy's fics #emma swan #killian jones #captain swan fics #captain swan au #captain swan modern au #captain swan

[pleasancies]

Interrogation

wordcount : 2k+

content / warning : interrogation, lady whump, defiant whumpee, fighting, gore, no-holds barred beatdown, choking, finger injury, death tw, self harm tw

Need to write something that connects the event between tragedy at brineward and first shot. It ends up quite long so I had to reworked some things and split it into two. Anyway, special feature of this story : a whumpee so defiant she tried to rip whumper's apart with words. Tagging @summer-of-whump

***

Previous Chapter

Avis ran to the open field. There was no one. Most of the guard are somewhere inside, making sure the experiments and researchers are safe or far outside the gate, chasing off Mary's group. They all left, letting The Thing to do whatever it please to them. Avis head towards the second building near her. Couldn't make it obvious she was bait.

A loud crack surprised her. A piece of rubble falling. The Thing was on to her. She did her job. She hoped her friends would run the opposite way instead of following. They have to. For the data they went through all this trouble to steal and especially Sherman and Emmet.

They argued for too long. She should have been alarmed at how silent Sherman was. Nausea pooled into her gut as she remember the way he crumpled into James hands. Their leader hasn't even took off his cover. From bad to worse. Emmet watched it all unfold. They shouldn't have bring him here. Her heart sank to her ankles, leaving a heavy trail of cold that knotted her insides.

Distract. Her objective now is occupy The Thing's attention until her friends are away. The outer wall's greenery was still crawling on top of her cover. As Avis entered the second building, she dumped it on the door. Not like she's going to climb out of here anyway. The second building was built different. It wasn't a hallway, more like a vast room people usually held conferences in. Weaponry research department. Faint smell of blood floating in the air. Avis run with her left hand holding on to the wall. She hunkered down a little. It was getting harder to gather the strength to put her foot forward.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor. It was walled off to several sections. A giant box of vacuum metal fill in the space on the far end. Cables everywhere. Rows of tables filled with typewriters and office supplies. Avis made a mental list of her inventory. A single gun, two bullets left. And a dozen of pens she just picked up. There's also the bayonet and her one remaining grenade. She overheard a sob.

Someone have been hiding under one of the desk. She approached it. The choked sobs turned to begging.

"No, no, please don't kill me!"

It was a girl. Her face was wet with tears. Her dress crumpled and ripped at the edges. She was relatively young, and the color of her clothes suggest she was still a student.

"Are you alone in here?"

The student didn't even look at her. She hid her face when Avis tap her shoulder.

"Look, someone's going to tore through this room and I'm not sure he could distinguish friend from foe. You have two choices. Leave, or stay so I could use you as a meatshield."

The girl dashed to the doorway. There was a scream. It was a good few minutes before The Thing burst through the door. He was still red, but his arms were already healed from burns. The last explosion had burned his upper lip, showing teeth. His right leg, Avis noticed, were completely skinless, save for the green worms eating at his flesh.

The Thing was chewing something. Bits of meat fell from his mouth. He spat. A wet slop of hair, bones and shredded fabric. Avis took a step back, a horrifying realization dawned in on her.

He lunged at her. She swung a chair to his face. She dashed to the other end of the room, bringing another chair with her. He caught up to her by a single jump. Avis crouched holding the legs of the chair above her head. It hit him square in the middle. While he curled up on the floor from pain, she run away leaving her last grenade. The impact threw her down the stairs. Heat rippled on her back. The sound deafened her. Avis failed to stand, still reeling from the explosion. She turned around, looking at the hubris. The Thing emerged from the fire.

He grabbed her by arms, slamming her across the room. Avis could feel the tendons of her shoulder ripping. Her head hits concrete. Suddenly the world was upside down. Her stomach lurched. Pain exploded throughout her side, making her breath shallow as she gasped for air.

Her hands scrambled to her pockets. Pens, bayonet, guns. Her fingers trembled too much to firmly hold anything. The Thing loomed above Avis. She clenched her teeth, bringing out her last remaining strength to draw her bayonet.

What followed was a desperate scuffle of two dying soldiers. Avis dig her finger in skinless flesh as The Thing swing her by the hair. He ate three of fingers. She spit on his eyes and screamed to his ears. When her bayonet was stuck on his shoulders, she pulled out the pens and pierced it to his neck until he couldn't heal anymore. The Thing fell on her, and his blood wash over her face like a gush of hot water.

Avis grunted as she pushed away his corpse. She glanced up. Sharp eyes boring in on her. Guns aiming for her head.

***

"Your friends have failed," The middle-aged man pulled away from his chair. "We found them in the woods. They couldn't run very far because one of them is dying. Mold poisoning is it?"

Avis clenched her fist. It fucking hurt. Three hours in the car and they didn't even put a bandage on her mutilated fingers. Just some very tight binds to stop the bleeding. The handcuffs clinked on the desk, grazing the scuffles on her wrists even when she flinched. The blinding pain subsumed her senses. She's going to regret it for the long term, enforcing bad habits during stress. But it was good for now, a way to recenter herself from the whirlwind of emotions.

"You're lying, Inspector Barnes. Your statements doesn't add up."

"Care to explain it to the man we found vomiting blood outside of the gate?"

Inspector Barnes crossed his arms. He's standing over her like an inescapable presence. Intimidation tactics, Avis remind herself. She can't trust whatever this man said. No matter how much it makes sense.

It's good her friends made it past the gate but-

No! She shouldn't. Not until Avis saw her team in prison slacks herself. Her handcuffs clatters against the desk. Blood dripping out through her knuckles.

Avis scoffed, "I'm not talking. Maybe I would if I see them captured, but it's only a maybe."

"Are you deaf? One of them is dying. The mold was eating them from the inside out. The doctors are keeping them alive as we speak, but they're not authorized to give them any cure until you give me what I need."

What does he mean by 'them'? Did he not know Sherman's the one hurt? Or is everyone infected?

Stop. No speculating. Assume everything's a lie until there's definite proof. Avis straightened her back. All of the injuries she sustained are screaming now. Her face hard, she doesn't want to let it show.

"That's illegal. You're forbidden to withhold treatment for bioweapons. Heh, you haven't even read my rights yet."

"Young lady, nothing can protect you the moment you decided to join Heretics. Letters of the law be damned, you're enemies of the State. You're. Not. Getting. Out. Of. Here."

Inspector Barnes slammed his hands on the desk, the same time he get his last words. Avis jumped, despite herself.

He's trying to rattle me.

"Forced disappearance? I knew a few of my friends who died that way. It's expected. I still think you're bluffing. Give me a picture of my friends sitting in a cell then I'd believe you."

Inspector Barnes sit back again. He run his fingers through his hair. "You're stubborn, no, cruel is more like it. Your goal for chaos is all that you had in mind. Even that intern girl..."

Avis felt bile rising to the throat. She gulped down the bitter spit saliva that's pooling in her mouth. Barnes tilt his head, his expression slightly amused.

"What's this? A sign of conscience?"

"No. I let her run so she doesn't end up as collateral damage. Guess she's unlucky. That Thing fucking ate her."

"The Dog, Fenrir, you mean. You told her to run so she could be a distraction for Fenrir when you wait."

"You're twisting my words."

"I saw the camera footage. He ate her alive. You threatened her, lead a teenage girl to her death who couldn't think straight because terrorists are raiding her workplace!"

Barnes spoke, his voice thick with emotion. It was almost a whisper at first, but rapidly rising and rising until he was practically screaming. The Inspector kicked the desk, slamming it at Avis midsection. Avis crumpled to the side. Her ribs explode with pain. It took everything not to heave on her prison garb.

"What's this? A sign of conscience?" She laughed, and the resulting pain led to a coughing fit that only serves to aggravate the pain she felt in a vicious cycle.

But more importantly, she was subsumed with spite. Barnes was part of the police force. How many people have he obliterated without remorse? Hypocrisy, to demand her begging and crying for forgiveness.

He kicked her to the head. Another blow struck her face. Avis tried to fight him off but her hands were tied. Barnes grabbed a clump of her hair. He dragged her so she'd meet his eyes. Wrath contorted his face.

"You're letting your friends die."

A spit land right between his eyes. Avis grinned, revealing two elongated fangs. She smelled blood and it's everywhere in the room. Not hers nor from Barnes. She glowered at him.

"I don't believe you. Not one bit. But I do wonder why this intern bitch is so important for you."

"My job is protect people like her from you."

"And you failed. I heard the girl screaming for her dear life. I even heard her bones cracking and her flesh ripping from the seams, I could have took my chance and killed that dog, but I can't pass the opportunity to see her be taken apart piece by piece. Isn't that what you do here everyday? What makes her different?"

Avis looked for a spark of recognition between his eyes.

"Ah, she's family?"

He throw her, head first into the floor. Her vision blurred and for a second she can't figure out which way is up or down. Suddenly one of his knee are on her chest, and his hands wrapped around her throat.

She couldn't breathe. Her field of sight rapidly shrinking. Her strength quickly fading. Her body struggled on reflex, torn shoulder squirming with her torn up hands. She have to do something. She could die. Her friends, what about them?

Barnes released her. He stood over her. His breathing hard.

"I don't care if you're dead, Avis. I wish I could get away for caving your head on this table. You're selfish. People die because you want to be exempt from the rules. But the scientist behind that glass over there want you alive. My only consolation is he could do much worse that I can ever hope to inflict in a lifetime."

Avis couldn't bring herself to fake a grin. Instead her hands shakily rises up to point him with her half-eaten middle finger. "Doesn't matter. That intern bitch is still dog's slop and you can never bury her into the ground."

She closed her eyes, barely registering that the chain on her cuffs were split. She think of her friends, perhaps dying in agony over the mold. Barnes might have lied, she told herself. Cops always lie. And even with her friends dead, she still have to do this. Keeping her mouth shut. Holding out until someone save her. Be it Death or another Heretic. They might not be related but she's not going to die betraying her family. She has to be fierce, she has to be cruel, she has to—

Avis fell unconcious on the interrogation room floor. Beyond the glass across her stood an balding man. He spoke to his two interns, "Our project's not over yet."

Next Chapter

#summerofwhump20 #summer of whump #defiant whumpee #lady whump #interrogation #fighting #injury whump #death cw #self harm tw #no holds barred beat down #beating #choking #gore warning

[wienerbarnes]

Stressor

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,622

Warnings: murder lol, mentions of gore/blood, mentions of rape (its described in like two sentences and theres a short non-graphic flashback, but pls pls pls message me if you dont wanna read and ill give u a sparknotes version), so theres angst but also some nice parts like bucky meditating okay

A/N: wrote this while procrastinating my art commissions but i bought my first laptop BY MYSELF after saving for months and im v excited :) lmk what yall think of this, i promise next part will be goofier/happier lol

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

“Shit… Fuck… Fuck! He’s gonna fucking kill me… fuck…”

The mumbles spill from your lips as you take in the scene in front of you. Puddles and puddles of blood covered the floor of your apartment, dirtying your beige tile and all the other surfaces with splatters. David lays in the middle, with about thirty-six stab wounds in his body.

When you and Bucky started the arrangement regarding your list, there were two rules you two agreed to follow - no matter what. First rule: Kills are never completed alone. You two are to complete the list together and help each other with everything that involves the person. Second rule: Bucky is to know everything about the person they’re killing. What they did to you, their name, their remaining family, where they live, what they eat for breakfast; everything. 

And here you were breaking both of those rules.

It was too good of an opportunity, you try and convince yourself. Bucky will understand, he’s always so understanding, he never yells, he’s always so nice to you; a choked sob escaped your body as your dirty hands fly to cover your face, tears flowing down your cheeks mixing with the blood now smeared across your skin.

…

TWO HOURS EARLIER

Bucky always told you to be extremely cautious when leaving the apartment. Even though it had been well over a year, almost two, since your prison escape, you never knew who could be watching. Every few weeks or so, your name pops up in the news, Whatever happened to one of the worst killers in modern history, How did she pull off such an escape from such a high security facility, Is she even still alive, etc.

But as soon as your name appears, it vanishes once more, replaced by some other injustice happening in the world.

Your feet take you inside a small bar, the musky scent intrigues you along with the copious amounts of peanut shells littering the floor. You take a seat on the stool and try not to pay attention to the fact that every single person in the room is staring at you right now. But you can’t blame them; you’ve dyed your hair a pastel pink now, body covered in baggy jeans and baby blue long-sleeved milkmaid top, a gift from Bucky. “You can’t wear that one t-shirt, that’s mine, by the way, forever.” He’d told you. Your rainbow painted toes and fingernails stand out under the dimmed lights of the place.

An older man behind the bar approaches you and places a napkin in front of you, “What can I get ya’?” You order some beer plastered on the wall because as far as you know, you’ve never even tried alcohol before, let alone know enough about it to have any kind of preference.

You take sips of the beer for a while, aimlessly watching the sports game playing on the TV, every once in a while glancing at the pool table where a group of older men play a game together. Suddenly, the stool beside you becomes occupied. You know it’s not Bucky, he doesn’t know you’re here and it’s not his cologne, but for a second you were hoping it was. A parallel to when you sat with him in that cafe all that time ago. When he bought you that apple pie and hot chocolate. I miss him…

You refuse to look over at the man sitting next to you, but you can feel his eyes blatantly staring at you. 

“So… what’s your name?” He breaks the silence and asks you. You don’t respond, simply just continue sipping away at your beer.

“My name is David.” He offers. A chill runs up your spine at the name and you look over at him. He looks so familiar… Where do I know him from? Have I seen him at the food market before? Is he Hydra? Did we go to school together? Were we in the Marines-

“Hey officer,” A deep voice curls into your ear, causing a chill to run up your spine.

“Fuck off, David. I’m trying to do my hair.” You don’t bother glancing at him in the mirror as you scoop more gel into your hands and smooth it onto the top of your head. You’ve let your hair grow to long and the strands keep sticking out of the bun, but the thought of asking any of the other women, or worse - the men, for help cutting it terrifies you. You’re still too new.

“Now, is that any way to talk to your higher up?” A large hand wraps around your middle and gropes your breast.

“I said fuck off.” A pointy elbow slams back into his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

“I’ll get you for that, just you wait. Fresh meat.”

Your body runs cold as you make the connection and you feel as though your entire body has shut down. You can feel the cold sweat gathering in your palms and your lower back. A lump forms in your throat and you want to cry; you want to scream. But something takes over, and although you feel terrified, you keep yourself composed; hide your anxiety.

“Do you want to get out of here? My place is only a few blocks away.” You ask, false sultriness dripping from your voice. David smirks at you, clearly not recognizing you from nearly a decade ago. 

He takes out some cash and places it on the bar, grabbing your beer from your hands and placing it on top, grabbing your hands after and leading you out of the bar.

…

Bucky sits on the floor of his living room, practicing his twenty minutes of meditation before bed. Alpine rubs her cheek against the bare top of his foot that’s crossed under his knee, but eventually gets bored before trotting around behind him to start climbing her way up his back. Bucky tries his best to ignore her tiny nails digging through his shirt, but can’t help but chuckle as she makes herself comfortable in the curve of his neck. “Guess meditation time is over, huh baby?” He whispers before gathering her in his hands and plopping her on his bed. He reaches down to roll up his yoga mat when he hears a silent buzzing from his kitchen.

Confused on who would be calling him this late, knowing that Sharon’s visiting a college friend over in SoHo and Sam’s on a date, he sees a number he doesn’t recognize flash on the screen. Bucky hesitates answering, but he knows telemarketers rarely call this late.

“Hello?” Bucky answers.

“B-Bucky?” Your shaky voice sounds on the other end. The sound is watery and raspy, like you've been sobbing your eyes out and screaming for hours.

“Bucky, I-I-I need y-your help… I fucked up,” Your voice is cut off by a hiccup as Bucky goes to grab his closest pair of pants to go over his boxers and he pulls on sneakers before grabbing the keys to his bike.

“Hey, sweetheart? Do me a favor and relax, okay? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Bucky rushes out as he locks his door behind him before making his way to the staircase.

“I’m so so so sorry, Bucky… please don’t be mad at me-e… I broke t-the rules,” Choked sobs escape you and Bucky has never heard you cry like that before.

“Listen, I’m already on my way, okay? I’ll be at yours in twenty minutes, okay?” You don’t respond as Bucky listens to your crying and you eventually hang up.

Broke the rules? What does she mean by… oh. She couldn’t have… we had our next hit planned for a few days from now. Did she do someone else on the list? Bucky tries not to think too much about it until he can get to yours and figure out what’s going on, his motorcycle screaming through the quiet night.

…

You’ve been sitting in David’s blood for about an hour now. The liquid is cold, his body is cold, the phone in your hand is cold. Nice going, you’ve really done it now. Not only have you probably just cost yourself your freedom, but you’ve ruined your jeans and the top Bucky bought you. He’s going to be so mad at you; he’s going to be so mad that he’s going to have no choice but to bring you in. He’ll be laughing as the cops drag you away-

Your thoughts are interrupted by a frantic knock on your door, Bucky’s voice calling your name on the other side.

“If you don’t open the door, I’m breaking it down!” He calls. 

You slowly stand, trying not to slip in the puddle, before walking over to the door and opening it about halfway. Bucky’s eyes widen and his brows furrowed together as he looks your body up and down.

The blood on your clothes is starting to brown and you’re covered up to your forearms in blood. Splatters decorate your face, neck and hair, and your eyes are puffy from crying.

“I-I-” You begin to stutter. Bucky silently pushes his way inside to see the bloodbath waiting for him. He pushes the door closed behind him and stares at the body laying in the middle of the floor. Your knife still sits standing out of his face.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Bu-Bucky- I can,”

“What, you-you can explain?!” Bucky snaps, turning to face you, and you’ve never seen him look at you like this. You flinch and take a half-step backwards, bumping into the door behind you.

Bucky turns back around, a flesh and silver hand running through his hair and roughly over his face.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” He begins, voice eerily even, still staring at the body. “You're going to go shower and wash all of the blood off your body. Then you’re going to make sure this apartment is spotless. I’ll take care of… him. And then we’ll talk when I get back. Are we understood?”

You can’t seem to make any words come out so you quickly make your way to your bathroom and close the door behind you softly.

You shower until the water runs cold and your skin is tinted red. Either from the blood or how hard you were scrubbing, you’re not sure, you just didn’t want Bucky to still be in your apartment when you stepped out.

It’s not that you were scared of him, because you weren’t. You knew that Bucky would never intentionally harm you, both physically or mentally. You were more angry at yourself. Bucky's done nothing but protect you; he’s kept you a secret, helped you indirectly work through your trauma, stitched you up, made you smile and laugh when you didn’t even think that was ever going to be possible for you anymore. You broke the only rules he asked of you. You disappointed him. You’ve put him in an even worse position than he’s already in by protecting your existence.

You turn the knob of the water to the right before stepping out and wrapping your fluffy yellow robe around your body, tying it at the waist. Your apartment is empty when you step out of the bathroom, Bucky nor David occupying the space. Your walk over to your sink and open the cabinet on the bottom to take out your cleaning supplies before getting to work.

…

Bucky’s calmed down significantly by the time he gets back to your apartment. He checks his phone to see that it’s almost five in the morning before reaching in his other pocket for your keys that he took off the table, slipping the key into the lock and jiggling it until pushing the door open. 

He’s not mad at you. Perhaps he was for a bit, but he realized that anger was just fear. Had anyone seen you? Did this guy do something to you? Did he recognize you and that’s why you needed to kill him? Did you kill him because you actually wanted to experience that again? He really hoped it wasn’t the last one.

You're sitting on your bed in the corner of the apartment, splatters still visible on the sheets but the floors are clean. The room doesn’t have an overpowering smell of bleach or cleaner, but there is no trace of a body here, besides the small splatters, but those can be passed off as splashes of wine. You did good.

Your feet are stretched out in front of your as your hands are planted behind your back, propping you up. Your yellow robe is tied around your waist but the edges sit high up on your thighs.

He sets your keys on your table, kicks off his shoes, and walks over to take a seat next to you.

“Did you know I was a Marine before all of this? When I was, like, eighteen?” You break the silence, still staring at the wall in front of you.

“Yes.” 

“The guy was my unit chief. He raped me twice during my first week there.” 

Bucky remains quiet as you explain, watching your face and it’s calm expression. You hesitate, opening and closing your mouth before opening it once more to continue.

“I went to some bar tonight and he hit on me. He didn’t recognize me, and… I don’t know. I thought I’d scare him or something, remind him what he’d done. But then he was here and he kept trying to feel me up even though I’d push him away. I didn’t have a plan yet. And then he snapped at me and then I snapped back…” You trailed off. 

“After I realized what happened, I panicked and I used his phone to call you.”

“I’m really sorry, Bucky.” You say, softer now. You bring your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins.

“Okay. I forgive you.” Bucky responds after a moment.

The two of you sit in silence next to each other on the thin sheets. You’re staring at the passing cars out the window. He’s staring at your plant that’s sitting on the small night stand next to your mattress. You’ve changed out the silver tin it was sitting in to a light blue one covered in green polka dots. 

You tilt your head to meet his eyes and look away briefly before meeting them again.

“Can… Can I have a hug, Bucky?” You ask, with the smallest voice in the world, your sentence ending in a small crack.

Bucky doesn’t answer and instead scoots closer to you, wrapping his arms around your body and pulling you onto his lap, your thighs on either side of him, chests touching. His left arm wraps around your back and drags slowly up and down while his right hand rests on the back of your head, softly scratching through your still damp hair. Your hands are tucked close between both your chests and your breath fans softly against his neck where your head is tucked into. He silently breathes in your scent, the children’s strawberry soap you use mixed with a homey, warm small that’s just you. He watches out the window as the sky turns from a dark blue to a deep orange; it should be about five-thirty right about now and the morning traffic is about to start.

“There’s a ton of white cat hair on your shoulder, Buck.” He hears you whisper against him, voice slurring a bit with drowsiness, the last bits of adrenaline wearing off.

He smiles to himself and holds you until you're fast asleep, and then stays for a while after that, too.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanficiton #bucky x criminal!reader #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes series

[entamewitchlulu]

Homura’s Flash Reviews [December 2018]

Fall season is finally over!  Since Ace Attorney is the only one I watched this season that is still ongoing, the rest are finished, so I can finally talk about them!  I haven’t decided on my winter anime line up yet, but if you have any suggestions, hit me up!  What did everyone watch this season and what did you like?

Skull-face Bookseller Honda-san [12 episodes]

A comedy anime about a skeleton named Honda-san who works at a bookstore, and all of the shenanigans that come with it.

I was pretty psyched for this one, and the first episode gave me high hopes.  As a librarian, I was hoping to go into this and find something to relate to, in terms of working customer service and books and all of the wacky shit that people looking for books can get you looking for.

Unfortunately, it turned out not to be as much fun as I’d hoped.  The art was pretty cute and I liked how the characters were portrayed with masks and such, but it turned out to be a lot more technical aspects about how bookstores in Japn work -- sort of interesting, I guess, but I was hoping to find it more funny.  As it was, I barely laughed, like, ever, and even the ten-minute-long episodes felt like a slog to get through.  I only finished it because the episodes were short enough to justify.

overall: 5/10

Zombieland Saga [12 episodes]

Sakura Minamoto plans on becoming an idol, but her dreams are cut short when she’s hit by a truck on her way to her first audition. Revived as a zombie ten years later with an all-star team of reanimated legends and no memory of her past, Sakura and her new idol group Franchouchou are on a quest to save the Saga prefecture!

Holy fucking shit this show!!! This show!!! -points excitedly and vigorously- I almost didn’t watch this show!! I didn’t have it on my list of things to watch this season at all and I jumped in halfway through, and it turned out to be the best damn show of the whole damn season!

The characters are bright, expressive, distinct, and super, super lovable, each getting a really decent amount of screentime considering the shortness of this show.  There isn’t a single character I don’t love to pieces, especially the wild and wacky Kotaro and his off the wall voice acting!  The visuals in both design and animation are incredible and the absolute wacky take on zombies with the hilarious morbidity that comes along with it is truly amazing.

This show was literally everything I could have wanted and more: I laughed, I cried, I sang and danced along.  Please tell me we’re getting a season 2!!!

overall: 10/10

Jingai-san no Yome [12 episodes]

Hinowa is living an ordinary school life until the day his teacher informs him that he’s been chosen to get married to the yokai Kanenogi-san.  Thus begins their happily married life.

This show was...well, it was something lol.  I don’t think I would have finished it if not for the fact that every episode was only 3 minutes long.  But also, if it had been longer and more fleshed out, I might have enjoyed it more.  As it is, it was just a bunch of very short, fluffy episodes with little substance.  The characters outside of the yokai spouses were pretty much unmemorable, and while I found the premise both cute and hilarious, there just wasn’t enough meat to it.

overall: 6/10

Bloom Into You  [13 episodes]

Yuu feels like the odd one out because she’s never been able to fall in love. When she sees her cool older senpai politely turn down a love confession, she asks her to help her learn to be that mature -- however, things become more complicated when her senpai, Touko, confesses her love for Yuu.

This was a very, very sweet little shoujo ai/coming of age anime.  I was looking forward to this one the most when I put together my list of fall anime, and though it was among the last I finished, it was worth the wait.  The animation is beautiful and only gets better as the series continues.  The characters are sweet and lovable, if a bit complicated and sometimes frustrating just like real people.  And I do wish there was a more...well, a more conclusive ending, but I understand that the manga is still ongoing, so perhaps we’ll get a season two.

I think the most important thing about this show is that, though it is a shoujo ai show, it’s not really a romance.  It’s, as I saw someone else say, a story about self-realization that happens to involve wlw.  Overall, a bittersweet story that I still found a lot to relate to, and I hope that there will be more.  Until then, I may look into picking up the manga.

overall: 8/10

Golden Kamuy [season 2] [12 episodes]

Continuing their adventures from season 1, former soldier Sugimoto and young Ainu hunter Asirpa are joined by a wacky cast of characters as they search for the truth behind a stolen trove of Ainu gold, the secrets of which lie with a mysterious prisoner who may or may not be...Asirpa’s father??

Golden Kamuy continues to hit the most ridiculous mood swings in anime and still manage to feel like a consistent show.  This show has everything: political thriller, historical adventure, gorefest, Ainu cooking show/cultural documentary, dark comedy, dick jokes, and hot naked men (in which every possible opportunity to show off their pecs, butts, and then some is absolutely taken advantage of).  Thanks to the lack of bears in this season, the animation problems from the first season are pretty much entirely dealt with.

And man does this second season decide to take things up a notch in EVERY possible way.  The shenanigans are wackier, the heartfelt moments are deeper, and the power of Sugimoto and Asirpa’s relationship is even stronger than ever. This is the one media in the world where the tropes “anyone and everyone can die” and “you can’t trust literally anyone” actually work -- because even with everyone killing and betraying each other, even the most wildly sociopathic murderers are somehow endearing in the most morbid way??  It’s so over the top that you can’t help but laugh, but when the hard moments hit, you still feel them.  It straddles the perfect line between dark comedy and gritty historical fiction.

It looks like season three has already been confirmed for this year, and you bet I’ll be watching it!!

overall: 8/10

#skull face bookseller honda-san #zombieland saga #jingai-san no yome #bloom into you #golden kamuy #homura reviews #homura's flash reviews #long post #gifs

[themaddeningscience]

Originally published in “When the Villain Comes Home” (Dragon Moon Press, 2012) and “Hero is a Four Letter Word” (Short Fuse, 2013)

Warning: This story contains profanity and sexual situations

Bullets fired into a crowd. Children screaming. Women crying. Men crying, too, not that any of them would admit it. The scent of gun powder, rotting garbage, stale motor oil, vomit, and misery. Police sirens in the distance, coming closer, making me cringe against old memories. Making me skulk into the shadows, hunch down in my hoodie, a beaten puppy.

This guy isn’t a supervillian. He isn’t even a villain, really. He is just an idiot. A child with a gun. And a grudge. Or maybe a god complex. Or a revenge scheme. Who the hell cares what he thought he had?

In the end, it amounts to the same.

The last place I want to be is in the centre of the police’s attention, again, so I sink back into the fabric, shying from the broad helicopter searchlights that sweep in through the narrow windows of the parking garage.

If this had been before, I might have leapt into action with one of my trusty gizmos. Or, failing that, at least with a witty verbal assault that would have left the moron boy too brain-befuddled to resist when I punched him in the oesophagus.

But this isn’t before.

I keep my eyes on the sky, instead of on the gun. If the Brilliant Bitch arrives, I want to see.

No one else is looking up. It has been a long, long time since one of…us…has donned sparkling spandex and crusaded out into the night to roust the criminal element from their lairs, or to enact a plot against the establishment, to bite a glove-covered thumb at ‘the man.’ A long time since one of us has done much more than pretend to not be one of us.

The age of the superhero petered out surprisingly quickly. The villains learnt our lessons; the heroes became obsolete.

A whizzing pop beside my left ear. I duck behind the back wheel of a sleek penis-replacement-on-wheels. The owner will be very upset when he sees the bullet gouges littering the bright red altar to his own virility.

I’ve never been shot before. I’ve been electrocuted, eye-lasered, punched by someone with the proportional strength of a spotted gecko and, memorably, tossed into the air by a breath-tornado created by a hero whose Italian lunch my schemes had clearly just interrupted.

Being shot seems fearfully mundane after all that.

A normal, boring death scares me more than any other kind—especially if it’s due to a random, pointless, unpredictable accident of time and place intersecting with a stupid poser with the combination to daddy’s gun drawer and the key to mommy’s liquor cabinet. I had been on the way to the bargain grocery store for soymilk. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any now.

Because only the extraordinary die in extraordinary ways. And I am extraordinary no longer.

I look skyward. Still no Crimson Cunt.

Someone screams. Someone else cries. I sit back against the wheel and refrain from whistling to pass the time. If I was on the other side of the parking garage, I could access the secret tunnel I built into the lower levels back when the concrete was poured thirty years ago. But the boy and his bullets are between us. I’ve nothing to do but wait.

The boy is using a 9mm Barretta, military issue, so probably from daddy’s day job in security at the air force base. He has used up seven bullets. The standard Barretta caries a magazine of fifteen. Eight remain, unless one had already been prepared in the chamber, which I highly doubt as no military man would be unintelligent or undisciplined enough to carry about a loaded gun aimed at his own foot. The boy is firing them at an average rate of one every ninety-three seconds—punctuated by unintelligible screaming—and so by my estimation I will be pinned by his unfriendly fire for another seven hundred and forty-four seconds, or twelve point four minutes.

However, the constabulary generally arrive on the scene between six and twenty-three minutes after an emergency call. As this garage is five and a half blocks from the 2nd Precinct, I estimate the stupid boy has another eight point seven minutes left to live before a SWAT team puts cold lead between his ribs.

Better him than me.

Except, probability states that he will kill another three bystanders before that time. I scrunch down further, determined not to be a statistic today. This brings me directly into eye-line with a corpse.

There is blood all around her left shoulder. If she didn’t die of shock upon impact, then surely she died of blood loss. Her green eyes are wide and wet.

I wonder who she used to be.

I wonder if she is leaving behind anyone who will weep and rail and attend the police inquest and accuse the system of being too slow, too corrupt, too over-burdened. I wonder if they will blame the boy’s parents or his teachers. Will they only blame themselves? Or her?

And then, miraculously, she blinks.

Well, that certainly is a surprise. Perhaps the trauma is not as extensive as I estimated. To be fair, I cannot see most of her. She has fallen awkwardly, the momentum of her tumble half-concealing her under the chassis of the ludicrously large Hummer beside my penis-car.

I am so fascinated by the staggering of her torso as she tries to suck in a breath, the staccato rhythm of her blinks, the bloody slick of teeth behind her lips, that it’s all over before I am aware of it.

This must be what people mean by time flying.

I’m not certain I’ve ever felt that strange loss of seconds ever before. I am so very used to being able to track everything. It’s disconcerting. I don’t like it.

And yet the boy is downed, the police are here, paramedics crawling over the dead and dying like swarming ants. I wait for them to find my prize, to pull her free of the SUV’s shadow and whisk her away to die under ghastly fluorescent lights, too pumped full of morphine to know she is slipping away.

I wait in the shadow of the wheel and hope that they miss me.

They do.

Only, in missing me, they miss her, as well. She is blinking, gritty and desperate, and now the police are leaving, and the paramedics are shunting their human meat into the sterile white cubes, and they have not found her, my fascinating, panting young lady.

Oh dear. This is a dilemma.

I am reformed. I am no longer a villain. But I am also no hero and I like my freedom far too much to want to risk it by bringing her to the attention of the officials. What to do? Save her and risk my freedom, or let her die, and walk free but burdened with the knowledge of yet another life that I might have been able to save, and didn’t?

I dither too long. They are gone. Only the media are left, and I certainly don’t want them to catch me in their unblinking grey lenses.  The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me—reaching.

A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.

I steal her away to save her life.

It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.

And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.

And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.

I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress—jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess—the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.

Fool. Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad…

I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes—”

I don’t let her finish. “Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”

Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.

“Olly,” I say.

Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”

“Oliver.”

The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver?”

I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”

“Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“The Prof would have.”

“I’m Olly.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.

She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.

“So,” she says. “Thank you.”

I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.

“Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.

“I’m laughing because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”

She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.

“Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying—her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.

“Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”

She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.

“That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”

“You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.

I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”

“Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the…you know, how you were born?”

“No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”

“Do you regret it?”

I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”

“No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”

“Um! Oh, you know, social science—recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”

“A law student, then.”

“Yes.”

“How urbane.”

“Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”

“I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’t think that would apply to you.”

“Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”

“Cape Bunn—actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”

“Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”

“You nearly were,” I say.

“And thank you, again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”

“Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillians. You know what my answer to that has to be.”

She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once.”

“But…but,” she stutters.

“I can’t.”

She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life. This…this isn’t a bad thing!”

I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair. You’ve done your time. You saved me. Isn’t that enough for them?”

“Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”

“Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.

“I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there—take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”

“Fine,” she snarls.

I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.

She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds—fifteen point eleven minutes—after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.

“It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”

“Aren’t they?”

She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.

I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.

“This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”

She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”

“Nearly finished. I read fast.”

“You didn’t flip to the end?”

“Should I?”

“No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just…I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”

I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”

“I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”

“You won’t have to.”

She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration.  “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”

She goes still. “Do you want to?”

I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”

“Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done remains. Is that acceptable? But in return, you must not try to escape. You could hurt yourself worse, and frankly I don’t want to employ the kind of force that would be required to keep you. That is my deal.”

“You promise?”

I sneer. “I don’t break promises.”

“I know,” she says. “I read about that, too. Okay. It’s a deal.”

I spend the night working on schematics for a memory machine. I’ve never tampered with the mind of another before—I respect intellect far too much to go mucking about in someone’s grey matter like a child in a tide pool—but I have no other choice. Rachel cannot remember our time together.

Rachel sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms. She enjoyed watching old movies all afternoon, and I confess I enjoyed sitting beside her on the sofa. We had frozen pizza for dinner, and her gaze had spent almost as much time on the screen as on my face.

In the morning, my blueprints are ready and my chemicals begin to simmer on Bunsen burners. I leave the lab and find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and flipping through my scrapbook. It’s filled with newspaper articles and photos, wanted posters and DVDs of news broadcasts. I’ve never thought to keep it in a safe or to put it away somewhere because, besides Miss Rachel, no one has ever been to this bolthole but me.

“You found the soymilk, I see,” I say. She nods and doesn’t look up from her intense perusal of a favourite article of mine, the only one where the reporter got it. “And my book.”

“It’s like a shrine,” she says. “I thought you’d hate all these superheroes, but there’s just as much in here about them as you.”

“I’ve great respect for anyone who wants to better the world.” I touch the side of the coffeepot —still warm. I pour myself a cup and sit across from her.

“See… that’s what’s freaking me out, a bit,” she says. “You’re such a…”

“What?”

“You seem like such a sweet guy.”

I laugh again.

“What?”

“Don’t mistake my youth for sweetness.”

“I’m not, but…I don’t know, you’re not a supervillain.”

“I’m not a superhero, either.”

“You can be something in the middle. You can just be a nice guy.”

“I’ve never been just a ‘nice guy,’ Rachel. Not even before.”

“I think you’re being one now.”  She leans across the table and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, or move my mouth. This is a surprise too, but an acceptable one.

When she sits back, I ask, “Is this why you were studying my face so intently last night while you pretended to watch movies?”

She blushes again, and it’s fascinating. “Shut up,” she mumbles.

I smile. “Are you a Cape Bunny after all, Miss Rachel?”

“A Labcoat Bunny, maybe,” she says. “I’ve always gone for brain over brawn.”

“Who are you lashing out against,” I ask calmly, my tone probably just this side of too cool, “that you think kissing the man who has kidnapped you is a good idea?”

Rachel drops back down into her seat. “Way to ruin the moment, Romeo.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No one!”

“And, that, dear Rachel, is a lie.”

She throws up her hands. “I don’t know, okay! My mother! The school! The courts! The whole stupid system! A big stupid world that says the man who saved my life has to go to jail for it!”

“I am part of the revenge scheme, then,” I say. “If you come out of your captivity loving your captor, then they cannot possibly think I am evil. You have it all planned out, my personal redemption. Or perhaps this is a way to earn a seat in that big-ticket law school?”

She stares at me, slack jawed, a storm brewing behind those beautiful green eyes. “You’re a bit of a dick, you know that?”

“That is what the Crimson Cunt used to—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? The Super Slut won’t hear me say it. Not under all this concrete.”

“Shut up!”

“Why?” I sneer. “Protecting a heroine you’ve never met?”

“She deserves better, even from you!”

“Oh, have I ruined your image of me, Rachel? Am I not sweet and misunderstood anymore?”

“You still shouldn’t—”

“What, hate her? She put me in jail!” I copy her and slam my fists on the tabletop. My mug topples, hot liquid splashing out between us. “I think I’ve a right to be bitter about that.”

“But it was for the good! It made you better.”

“No, it made me cowed. I’ve lost all my ambition, dear Rachel. And that is why I am just a normal citizen. I am too tired.”

“But Divine—”

“Don’t say her name, either!”

Rachel stands and pounds her fists on the table again, shaking my fallen mug, and I stand as well, too furious to want to be shorter than her.

“Asshole!” she snarls.

“And she was a ball-breaker on a power trip. She was no better for the city than I! The only difference was that she didn’t have the gumption, the ambition, the foresight to do what had to be done! I was the only one who saw! Me.  She towed the line. She kept the status quo. I was trying to change the world! She was just a stupid blonde bimbo with huge tits and a small brain—”

“Don’t talk about my mother that way!”

Oh.

I drop back down into my seat, knees giving way without my say-so. “Well, this is a turn,” I admit.

“Everyone knows!” she spits. “It’s hard to miss. Same eyes, same cheekbones.”

“I’ve never seen your mother’s eyes and cheekbones.”

“What, were you living under a rock when she unmasked?”

I smile, and it’s thin and bitter. “I was in solitary confinement for five years. By the time I got out, it must have been old news. And I had no stomach to look up my old nemesis.”

Rachel looks away, and her eyes are bright with tears that don’t skitter down her cheeks. I wonder if they are for her mother, or for herself, or because I’ve said such terrible things and her opinion of me has diminished. They are certainly not because she pities me.

Nobody pities me. I got, as I am quite often reminded, exactly what I deserved.

“What does your mother do now?” I ask, after the silence has become unbearable. There is nothing to count or calculate in the silence, besides the precise, quiet click of the second hand ticking ever onward, ever onward, while I am left behind.

“Socialite,” Rachel says. “Cars. Money. Married a real estate developer.”

“Is he your father?”

She swings her gaze back to me, sharp. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why does the notion that he might not be offend you?”

Her lips pucker, and with that scowl, I can see it: the pissy frown, the stubborn thrust of her chin. There is the Fantastic Floozy, hating me through her daughter.

“It doesn’t,” she lies. She twists her hands in front of her again. “Fine, it does. I don’t know, okay? I don’t think she knows. She wants it to be him.”

“So do you,” I press. “Because that would make you normal.”

She looks up brusquely.

“Please, Rachel,” I say. “I am quite clever. Don’t insult us both by forgetting. The way you do your hair, your clothes, the law school ambitions, it all screams ‘I don’t want to be like my mother.’ Which, if your mother is a superheroine, probably means that you are also desperate to not be one of…us.”

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“I dare say that if you have no desire to, then you won’t be,” I agree. I lean forward to impart my great secret. She’s the first I’ve told and I don’t know why I’m sharing it. Only, perhaps, that it will make her less miserable. “Here is something they never tell anyone: if you don’t use your powers, if you don’t flex that extra little muscle in your grey, squishy brain, it will not develop. It will atrophy and die. Why do you think there are so few of us now? Nobody wants to be a hero.”

“Really?” she whispers, awed, hatred draining from her face.

“Really,” I say. “Especially after the sort of example your mother set.”

Rachel rocks back again, the furious line between her eyebrows returning, and yes, I recognize that, too, have seen that above a red domino mask before.

“Why do you say things like that?” she asks, hands thrown skyward in exasperation. She winces.

“Don’t rip your stitches, my dear,” I admonish.

“Don’t change the subject! You wouldn’t talk about the Kamelion Kid that way, or Wild West, or…any of them! You’d have respect! What about The Tesla? You respect him. I’ve seen the pictures on your wall and you—why are you laughing?”

And I am laughing. I am guffawing like the bawdy, brawling youth I resemble. “Because I am The Tesla!”

She rocks back on her heels, eyes comically wide and then suspiciously narrow. “But you…Prof killed The Tesla.”

“In a sense, he did.”

Her eyes jump between me and the door to my lab—the only door locked to Rachel—and back to me. “You were a hero first.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t work, did it?”

“…no.”

“Because people…people don’t want to change. Don’t want to think.”

“Yes. My plans would have been good for society. Would have forced changes for the better. But people just want a hero to keep things the way they already are.”

She looks at her law textbook, which rests exactly where I had left it the night before, propped on the toaster oven.

“So you made it look like The Tesla was dead.”

“Heroes can save the world. But villains can change it, Rachel.”

She looks up. “I think I want to hate you, Olly, but I can’t figure out if I should.”

“It’s okay if you hate me,” I say. “I won’t mind.”

“Yes, I think you would,” she says. She flattens her right palm over her left shoulder.

We sit like that for a long moment. I forget to count the seconds. Time flies when I am around Rachel, and I find that I am beginning to enjoy it.

Rachel sulks in her room for the afternoon, which bothers me not at all, as I’ve experiments to attend. When I come back out, she is sullenly reading her textbook on the sofa, and she has found the beer. One open bottle is beside her elbow and three empty ones are on the floor.

“It’s not wise to drink when you’re on antibiotics,” I say, wiping my hands on my labcoat. They leave iridescent green smears on the fabric, but it’s completely non-toxic or I would not be exposing her to it.

“I’m not on antibiotics,” she mutters mulishly.

“Yes, you are,” I counter. “There is a slow-release tablet under your skin near the wound.”

She makes a face and pushes away her textbook. It slaps onto the carpet.“That’s just gross.”

“But efficient.”

She looks up, gaze suddenly tight. “What else did you put in me?”

I walk over and take away her beer. And then, because it would be a waste of booze to dump it down the sink, and I have been on a limited income since I ceased robbing banks, and because I enjoy the perverseness of having my lips on the same bottlemouth as hers after having so recently admonished her for kissing me, I take a drink.

“Not that, if that’s what you’re implying, my dear Rachel,” I say. She blinks hard, my innuendo sinking home.

“What? What, no! I didn’t mean…”

“I’m more of gentleman than that.”

“I get that!” she splutters. “I just mean…where did you get the replacement blood? What kind of stitches? Am I bionic now?”

“No more than you were before,” I say. “Nanobots are actively knitting the torn flesh back together, but they will die in a week and your liver will flush them from your system. The stitches and sutures are biodegradable and will dissolve by then. The rest of the antibiotic tablet will be gone in two or three days, and the very small infusion of my vitality serum only gave your immune system a boost and your regenerative drive a bit of extra gas. You are in all ways, my dear Rachel, utterly and completely in-extraordinary. Your greatest fear is unrealized.” I finish off the beer with a swig, liking the way her green eyes follow the line of my throat as I swallow, and then go to the kitchen and retrieve two more.

I hand one to her and flop down onto the sofa beside her. She curls into a corner to give me enough room and then, after eyeing the mess on my coat, thrusts impertinent—and freezing!—toes under my thigh. “Dear me, Rachel, stepping up your campaign?”

“You started it,” she says. “Re-started it. With the…bottle thingy.”

I arch a teasing eyebrow. “Bottle thingy?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

“I think you are,” I agree.

“Enabler,” she says, and we clink beers. She drinks and this time I watch her. Her throat is, in every way, normal. Boring. I cannot stop looking at it. Her toes wiggle. “How can you read me so well?” she asks. “I mean, I didn’t even have to say, ‘I’m scared of turning into my mom,’ but you knew.”

I shrug. “I’m a great student of the human creature. We all say so much without saying a thing.”

“Do you ever say more than you want to?”

I smile secretively, a flash of teeth that I know will infuriate her with its vagueness. “Rarely, any more. I’ve had a long time to learn to control my, as poker players would call them, ‘tells.’”

“Hmph,” she mutters and takes another drink. I swallow some of my beer to distract myself.  She wriggles her toes again, and pushes them further. Soon they will brush right against my…but I assume that is the point.

“Careful, Rachel,” I warn. “Are you certain this is something you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“You are drunk and you want revenge on your mother.”

“Maybe. Maybe I want to thank you for saving my life. Maybe I want to reward you for being a good guy.”

“What if I don’t want your thanks, or your reward?” I ask.

She smiles and her big toe tickles the undercurve of my testes. “Don’t you?” she asks, and her expression is salacious. I provided her with no bra, I had none to give, and under my borrowed tee-shirt her nipples are pert.

“I do.” I set aside both of our beers and reach for her. She comes into my arms, gladly, little mouth wet and insistent against mine as she wriggles her way onto my lap. Iridescent green smears up her thighs. “But maybe…oh!” I gasp into her mouth as clever little fingers work their way inside my waistband. I return the favour. Intelligence must be rewarded.

“Maybe?” she prompts, pressing down against my hand.

“Maybe I just want revenge on your mother, too.”

She jerks back as if I’ve bitten her. “Oh my god, how can one man be such a dick?”

I press upwards so her pelvis comes in contact with the part of my anatomy in discussion. “I am honest, Rachel. There is a difference.”

She sits back, arms crossing over the breasts I hadn’t yet touched. “An honest supervillian,” she scoffs.

I stand, dumping her onto the floor. “I think we’re done here.”

“Are we, Profess—”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that!”

She cowers back from my anger. Then it fuels her. “Fuck you, Olly,” she says, standing.

“I thought that was the idea,” I agree, “but apparently not.”

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be!”

I laugh again. “And how could you have had any concept of how I’d be? Did the Dynamic Dyke tell stories? I bet she did. And you felt sorry for me. The poor Professor, beat up by mommy, hated – like you were. An outcast, like you were. Not good enough, like you were. Was I your imaginary friend, Rachel? Did you write my name in hearts on your binders? Did you fantasize about me?”

“Shut up!” she screams.

Her cheeks are red again, her eyes glistening, her mouth bruised, and I want to grab her, kiss her, feel her ass through the borrowed sweatpants. Instead I fold my hands behind my back, because I told the truth before—I am a gentleman. I say nothing.

“You’re not supposed to be like this!”

“Be like what?” I ask, again. “Explain, Rachel.”

She collapses. It’s a slow folding inward, knees and stomach first, face in her hands, physicality followed by emotion as she sobs into the carpet. I stand above her and wait, because she deserves this cry. Crying helps people engage with their emotions, or so I’m told.

When her sobbing slows, precisely one thousand six hundred and seventy-three seconds later—twenty-seven point nine minutes—she unfolds and stands, wiping her nose. I offer her a handkerchief from the pocket of my labcoat, and she takes it and turns her back to me, cleaning up her face.

She picks up the textbook. She opens it to the back, to those useless blank pages that are the fault of how books are bound, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am shocked.

The back of the book has been collaged with photographs. Of me.

Computer printouts of me when I was the Prof. Newspaper clippings of my trial. Me, walking down the street, hunched into the shadow of my sweater’s hood. Me, buying soymilk. Me, through the window of the shitty apartment on which Oliver Munsen can barely afford to pay rent. Me, three days ago, cutting through that same parking garage.

Genuine joy floods my blood. A small shot of adrenaline seethes up into my brain and I can’t help the smile, because I missed this, I really did. “Oh, Rachel. Are you my stalker? How novel! I’ve never had a stalker before.”

She snaps the cover shut. “I’m not a stalker.”

“Just an admirer?” I ask, struggling to keep the condensation out of my voice. “Or do you want me to teach you how to be a villain? Really get back at mommy dearest?” Her expression sours. “Ah. But you already know that you can’t be. You knew before I told you that you were born boring. So this is the next best thing.” I reach out, grasp her elbows lightly, rub my callused thumbs across the tender flesh on the inside of them. She shivers. “Tell me, how were you going to do it, Rachel? Were you going to accidentally bump into me in that parking garage? Were you going to spill a beer on me in a bar? Buy me a coffee at my favourite cafe? Surely getting shot was not in the plan.”

“It’s not like that!” she says, but her eyes are closed, her lashes fluttering. Her chest bobs as she tries to catch her breath.

“Then what is it like?”

“I don’t know! I just…I just saw you one day, okay? I recognized you, from mom’s pictures on the wall, and I thought, you know, I should tell her. But I thought I would follow you first, you know, figure out where you live, or something.”

“Except that I wasn’t being dastardly and villainous.”

“You sat in the bookstore and read a whole magazine. And then you paid for it.”

I smirk. “How shocking.”

“For me it was.” She tips forward, breasts squishing, hot and soft, against my chest. “The kinds of stories I heard about you as a kid…”

“And you were fascinated.”

“And I was fascinated.”

“And so you followed me.”

“I followed you.”

“And then what, my dear Rachel?”

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss I don’t resist.

“You seemed so lonely,” she says, breath puffing into my mouth. “Are you lonely, Olly?”

“Oh, yes.” I pick her up and carry her off to her bedroom.

The mattress is new, she is the first person to ever have slept on it, but it still squeaks. After, she drops off, satisfied, mumbling amusing endearments about how wonderful it is to make love to someone who is so studious, makes such a thorough examination of his subjects.

Tonight I decide to sleep. I don’t do it very often, but I don’t want to be awake anymore. I don’t want to think. I close my eyes and force my dreams to stay away.

In the morning, I’m troubled.  I think I’ve made a very bad choice, but I’m not sure how to rectify it. I am not even sure how to articulate it.

Rachel was right. I am lonely. I am desperately, painfully lonely. And I will be for the rest of my unnaturally long life. But Rachel is lonely, too. Desperate in her own way, desperate for the approval of a mother I can only assume was distant and busy in Rachel’s youth, and then too famous and busy in her adolescence. Rachel wants to be nothing like her mother, wants to hurt her, punish her, and yet…wants to impress her so very badly that she is willing to take the ultimate step, to profess love for a man her mother once hated, to ‘fix him,’ to ‘make him better.’ To make him, me, good.

Only, Rachel doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be better, or good, or saved. I just want to live my boring, in-extraordinary life in peace and quiet, and then die. I don’t want to be her experiment. And yet her fierce little kisses…her wide green eyes…

I look down at the schematics under my elbow and sigh. The scent of burning bacon wafts in through the vents that lead to the kitchen, and the utter domesticity of it plucks at the back of my eyes, heating them. I ‘m still a fool, and I’m no less in over my head than I was two days ago.

I abandon the lab and rescue my good iron skillet from the madwoman who has pushed her way into my life. When she turns her face up for a kiss, I give it to her, and everything else she asks for, too.

And I can have this, because I am not a supervillain any more.  But I am not a superhero either. If I was, I could turn her away, like I should.

After lunch, I hand her my cell phone. It has been boosted so that the signal can pass through concrete bunker walls, but cannot be tracked back to its location.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Call your mother,” I say. “Tell her you’re okay. You’re just staying with a friend. The shooting freaked you out.”

She frowns. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You were arguing that I should let you call.”

“Yeah, before.”

“Rachel,” I admonish. “Do you really want her frantically looking for you?”

She pales. I imagine what it must have been like for her when she ran away from home for the first time. “No, guess not,” she mumbles and dials a number. “Yeah, hi Mom. No, no, I’m cool. Yeah, decided to stay with a friend instead of coming home from campus this weekend. No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need for the guilt trip! I said I’m fine! God!…okay. Right. Sorry. Okay. I’ll see you next…” she looks at me. “Next Saturday?” I nod. “Next Saturday. Right. Fine. I love you, too.” She hangs up and places the phone between us. “There, happy?”

“Yes. I am curious Rachel, how do you intend on springing me on your mother? And how will you keep her from punching my face clear off?”

She picks at her cuticles. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

“I gathered.” I stand from the table and go to do the dishes. I can’t abide a mess.

She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek against my back, and asks, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“Whatever you want,” I say. “I’m all yours.” I turn in her arms to find her grinning. She believes me, whole-heartedly, and she should. I never lie, and it’s the truth. For now.

When the week is over, I sit her down on my operating table and carefully poke around the bullet wound. In the x-ray, the bones appear healed without a scar. Her skin is dewy and unmarked. The stitches have dissolved and a scan with a handheld remote shows that the nanobots are all dead and ninety-three percent have been flushed from her system. I anticipate the other seven percent will be gone after her next trip to the toilet.

I do another scan, a bit lower down, but there is nothing there to be concerned about, either. We have not been using prophylactics, but I’ve been sterile since I used the serum. It was a personal choice. I had no desire to outlive my grandchildren.

Rachel hops from the table, bare feet on the white tile, and grins. “It’s Saturday!” she says.

“Yes, it is.”

“Time to go!”

“Yes.”

She takes my hand. “And you’re coming with me, Olly. You’re coming with me and then they’ll see, they’ll all see. You’re different now. You’re a good man.”

I smile and close my fingers around hers and, for the first time in many decades, I lie. “Yes, I am, thank you.” I use our twined fingers to pull her into the kitchen. “Celebratory drink before we go?”

She grins. “Gonna open that champagne I saw in the back of the fridge?”

I laugh. “Clever Rachel. I can’t hide anything from you.”

Only I can. I am. When I pop the cork she shrieks in delight. Every ticking second of her happiness stabs at me like a branding iron and dagger all in one.

I thought I would need a whole machine, a gun, a delivery device, but in the end my research and experiments offered up a far more simplistic solution: rohypnol. Except that it is created by me, of course, so it’s programmable, intelligent in the way the cheap, pathetic drug available to desperate, stupid children in night clubs is not. My drug knows which memories to take away.

Clever, beautiful, dear Rachel trusts me. I pour our drinks and hand her the glass that is meant for her. I smile and chat with her as she sips, pretending to be oblivious as her eyelids slip downwards, giving her no clue that there is anything amiss.

I catch both her and the glass before they hit the floor. Tonight she will wake in her own bed. She will honestly remember spending the week with a friend she then had a fight with, and no longer speaks to. She will wonder what happened to her backpack, her cell phone, her law textbook. She will not remember the Prof, or The Tesla. Her mother will be annoyed that she will have to tell her the stories over again, stories that Rachel should have internalized during her childhood.

And I will shut down this hidey-hole and go back to my apartment and cash my welfare cheque and watch television. And it will be good. It will be as it should be.

The stupid boy with the gun might have been the bad guy in our little melodrama, but I am the villain.

I am the coward.

#short story #free short story #The Maddening Science #J.M. Frey #Prose #Oliver Munsen #Olly #writeblr #superhero #Supervillains rule #supervillian #Rachel #full story #free story #freebie #free book #science fiction #urban fiction #speculative fiction #near sci fi #sci fi #scifi

[antihero-writings]

Tu Fui Ego Eris—Don’t Starve Fic (Full Fic)

Fic Title: Tu Fui Ego Eris

Fic Synopsis: “As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so shall you be.” Poetic prose from the Ancient Fuelweaver/King.

Character Focus: Ancient Fuelweaver 

Notes: I was watching Zeklo’s lore/theory videos and I thought my brain might explode if I didn’t do something with all the information, so this happened! Aside from the actual quotes from the Ancient Fuelweaver (the bolded parts), I think most of the ideas behind this fic come from his video about the murals in the Ancient Ruins.

(This is a repost of an old fic!) 

Fic:

How we’ve fallen.

It was not enough. The earth and the sky were not enough. Not enough, and full of storms and winters.

So we went beneath the ground, where the only thing to fear falling from the sky was the earth.

When there were no stones left, we mined our own nightmares.

I think we forgot what light looked like.

“King,” “reign,” even “love,” became empty letters in our infected plane. I thought I knew what those strings of symbols were, what they meant, but some lightning-struck, honeyed words, and a spiked staff, told me otherwise. And my heart turned black.

We are so far beneath the flowers.

I was not always a shadow. Neither were my people. But we consorted with nightmares, until nightmares we became. No light. No life. Left.

I promise you, there is a right. Do not pretend, do not tell your soul, otherwise. And I was wrong.

Hard shells on our backs, into soft black, into nothing at all.

We lost our hands and faces…I called back their hands and faces...

I will make you understand.

It is not an easy fate. To be a king, then a prisoner. It would be grim indeed, to be a prisoner in a foreign land. It is, I think, worse yet to be a prisoner in your own land, chained to your head; still a king, still on the throne, still with the power—more of it perhaps—but the throne blooms into thorns beneath your feet, beneath your reign, beneath your brain, in your tattered city, beneath the ground. The nightmare throne, where there is no such thing as ransom. Where the hands clasping yours belong not to your queen, but the demons that talked you into this current plight—even if they’re your demons, and your own mind made them.

Cannot leave. Cannot die. Cannot see Metheus again. Watch, and wait, with all that power in your grasp. The only choice is to go mad with it. The only choices are wrong, and wrong, and wrong. You don’t make them because you think they’re, in any way, right. Not for any righteous reason; not glory, nor even show of strength, not to save someone, not even yourself. Not for any reason at all. Just boredom. Just waiting. Just to fill the nothing. Because sometimes you’d rather have something, than nothing at all. Even if it’s terrible, cruel—the motives of a mad creature, mad king, ruler over this insanity, and ruled by it all the same—to cause them this pain, and this much, at least it’s better than hollow wind, and taunting memories. It is a rare affliction, I do not expect you to understand it (you, with your head full of needs and wants, and your blood still red…you are so very lucky) but sometimes you’d rather have nightmares than no dreams at all.

Or at least watch them play out for someone else.

You forget the importance of dreams until nightmares are all that is left.

You will be unraveled. You will rip apart at the seams.

And watch them die. No pleasure in their pain, though there may have been a sick part of it all at first. Pure jealousy. You start to long for horrible things. And when they cry ‘please, I don’t want to die!’ before they starve, before the hound’s tooth is shoved through their heart, before the darkness snatches their light away, and with it their life, you want nothing more than to take their place. When you know this to your core, then you will know why Death itself is pure mercy.

So you make them come back. You refuse to give them that mercy. It was not granted you, why should it be granted them? Revive, resurrect, just to watch them die over and over again, feeling a pang like addiction in the back of your heart. Mercy or torture, all depends on the voice you use to say the words. All depends on if you’re watching the scene from before, or beyond, the grave, or somewhere in between.

Or upon the nightmare throne.

You will not suffer. You have not known suffering.

It is not an easy fate. To be a blackened heart dropped by the shadow of a machine you once created. Our clockwork, still ticking, fighting a fight they no longer remember. To be thrust into a corpse, not your own, to be made to fight too—like you’re the toy, and not the once-king—and, at last receive the drug you crave, and carved: death. To slumber, only to come back again, because someone else upon the throne named it so.

How long have I slumbered?

Full of hate and rage and regret. I remember it all. Unlike you, who seem to have forgotten your past, as the world has forgotten mine.

You will fall, as we did.

Steal our gems, break down our walls, steal our hearts, take our souls. It doesn’t frighten we, who are shadows. But the moment you hold dreams-gone-awry in the palm of your hand, I feel a phantom stir in a heart-gone-wrong, that reminds me of something I used to call fear. I know you took the idea from us—this notion that bad dreams can fuel things—but, like a disease, we caught it from them. Knowledge may be power, but when fueled by nightmares, when wielded by them, power and knowledge are less than worthless; they are a negative.

They will not show you mercy. They are coming. It cannot be stopped. You know not what the gateway holds.

Broken gateways of forgotten realms (our threadbare world, our listless skies) may seem harmless, but they will arouse something inside you called curiosity. Find the key, steal it from the Ancient Guardian. Just to see what it does. Revive the king. Just to win the fight. Curiosity may be more lethal, more venomous, than you bargain for, with more bite to it than knowledge or power.

You saw an entire civilization built on nightmares and you thought, why not us too? Did your mind (still working, still with the dreams) ever wonder if maybe the blackened tears, and the reddened floorboards, were more than just an eerie exhibition, but a warning? That maybe it was the past, begging you turn away? Then you gave those frayed yesterdays my voice. And still, you refuse to listen.

I must do this. For your sake.

I am not some animal to kill for sport, or meat, or treasure in my heart’s beat. Don’t mistake me for a beast, or a boss. I am not merely a shadow. I once weaved the fuel as you do; weaved the tale of my own demise into carpets, and tapestries. My city...in tatters... this world… threadbare.

I have fought very hard to remain more than merely a shadow, and will not be reduced to the absence of light now. Cast into this fight, the light, but I have decided to be more. It may be hard to imagine, but this is about more than blood, and victory.

I will save you.

I would have nothing worth fighting for. If it weren’t for you. New creatures. Humans, as you are called.

Maxwell. The new king. ‘Amazing’. Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps no creature can be amazing enthroned in nightmares. With a flair for magic all-too-real, with too much knowledge, and too much power, you would succumb, far too fast.

This was another important piece I learned about humanity: darkness has a way with you.

Willow. The fire, without the spark. There is always something to burn, child, and sometimes you’re the only thing left. Best not reach the point where you’ll burn it all, with yourself in those flames too. Or when it is yourself you wish to burn, but your heart will not even char.

Wolfgang. the strongman. Too little brain, and a heart too soft. Afraid of the cold and the dark. What good is a strongman with a weakened heart? But, then again, what good is a creature with a callous heart, and the strength to follow the threats through? Perhaps it’s for the best that you were made to be kind.

Wendy. The girl, and the ghost. The one who knows death is inevitable, but how, here, though death runs rampant, life is far more impervious to being overthrown. The one who knows there is more to life than curiosity. But weakness can go a long way, and the things that haunt you may protect you now, but one day they may turn around, with reddened glaze. Maybe one day you’ll remember how memories can come alive, and why they are called ghosts.

WX-78. Invention, not man. Metal, not flesh. I wonder, does a thing like you have a soul? I wonder, when the lightning strikes, do you feel its burn, its warm glow? Or are these strings just numbers tied to your wires? If I tried to talk to the sense in you, would there be any sense in you to talk to? When you tell the living things their inadequacy, I must admit, you have your points. But I wonder if it means anything to you, if those words are yours, or if they are numbers your maker wrote into you. Maybe that's all any of us are, and the question was pointless from the beginning.

Wickerbottom. The librarian. The library. The reader. The writer. The stuck-in-her-ways. Do you see how knowledge can only get you so far? That your hands may not be the right ones to wield it? Though, there may be no one to wield it right; too much of knowledge should be left on the forest floor. Still, perhaps it is better to know, than to wander in the dark. But when you choose ignorance for the sake of curiosity, for the sake of more knowledge, what good is the knowledge you had in the first place?

Woodie. Now there’s an interesting sight. The lumberjack, with the axe who talks like a lady, and a condition of the moon that is laughable at best, and pathetic at worst. Still, though your story may sound as such, you are not the least sane of the bunch.

Wes. The silent. The mime. Not to be confused with the actor. Only there to make things worse for the ones behind the strings. Only there to make balloons and pop them, and not say a word, and try your very best to be a living thing, and fail from the beginning.

We are all tied to strings, waiting to hit the sky, to fall back down, or pop apart somewhere in the middle.

Wigfrid. Here’s the actor. The one to take things just a little bit too far. If the acting kills you dear, if it gives you more reason to fear, and less fear to draw from, then perhaps its best to live in the real world.

Or perhaps this world was never real in the first place.

Webber. The spider-boy, the one who understands perhaps more than the rest give him credit for. The child, with the face of a monster. And if only the rest of you understood, maybe you’d say poor, poor thing, until your lips bleed with pity. You poor, poor boy, you should not go into the dark. Should not go into the light. Sometimes the grown ups are more childish than the young. And I wish they listened to you.

The darkness’ sister. With rough hands, and a mind to mend machines and metal, but with no less darkness in her than the sister herself.

And at last Wilson. The scientist. The comedian. The perfect balance. Nothing too weak, nothing too strong. But people want strength, and will ignore the weakness for it sake. They don’t want normal—even if you’re a little bit mad, and your story, a little bit sad, they may choose someone with a little more flash, a little more to be had.

In the end, that is the moral to my sad little tale—my bedtime story of the ticking clock and nightmare hands: Science, with a dash of madness, and magic; mind, with a dash of heart; will kill us, or save us all. And maybe you—the first, the most logic-bound, and perhaps maddest of us, were the protagonist after all, and it is your hands, your lips, your brain, your heart, that will seal our fates.

You are more like me than either of us might care to admit.

I know your tale too; how science failed you, and how those demon-hands reached out to grab your wrists, your heart, to chain your mind to the nightmares too. But unlike for me, or Maxwell, somehow you were shown mercy. All of you, brought together, to defeat me, and enter their world. You may not be the king, that may not be your rule. So my question is far more simple: if science and magic destroyed you once, twice, who will you turn to in the end? Will you fall back to the lightning’s warm glimmer, or will you dare to refuse the nightmares that call from below?

This is the reason I am still willing to fight; you. All of you.

The future. The fight. The guilty-of-theft. The curious. The cold. The only thing left.

I will save you.

The gate is not what you think. And even if where it leads may seem harmless, of little consequence, at first, they are still there, waiting. They are unfathomable. I know you think you can reset ruins, because the things you mine beneath the ground, in the nightmares' realm, are the most valuable, but they are ruins for a reason, and restarting will not make them, make me, whole again.

Don’t open the gate. Don’t restart. Don’t try it, but don’t lose heart. I will not protest to death, if it means you will understand, and leave the broken parts.

Don’t…

...Don’t…

...(Don’t)...

...Y-yy...

You made your choice.

#dont starve #ds #ancient fuelweaver #don't starve together #dst #fic #fanfic #writing #fic: tu fui ego eris #antihero writings

[clarke-kom-eden]

We’ve Waited Long Enough.

Bellarke, canon compliant, post season 4. Chapter 1 on my blog, thanks! #waited long enough

Chapter 2

Clarke had tried everything she could think of, but she just couldn’t make it work. She threw the tools across the room with as much force as she could muster, narrowly missing Andrew.

“ Clarke, I told you, Raven said most likely once we landed we wouldn’t be able to communicate with the ark anymore.”

She knew this, of course she did, but what else could she do? She had been trying to communicate with them for 6 years. It was her way of staying sane, she couldn’t just stop now, she had to keep trying.

“ Anyway, they’ll be here soon. I’m sure of it!” Andrew was one of the most optimistic people she had ever met, it was impossible to stay mad around him. He was just 18 when he had been put into stasis, although he seemed younger still, and was so skinny he really brought out Clarkes maternal side. Madi had also taken a real shine to him, though as Clarke kept reminding her she was much too young and he was a criminal! Clarke had begun to spend more time with the prisoners over the past few weeks, but still kept herself and Madi at a distance. She had tried to get an idea of the various crimes these men had committed, but as she had no way of knowing the truth, she just had to trust what they told her. Although, in Andrews case, she really felt like he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, she hoped. Three weeks had passed and still no sign of the others, and the prisoners wanted to focus on getting to the bunker. With their mining equipment, they should finally be able to dig them free, but it was taking time to get the equipment back to working order, as it had been dormant for over 100 years. Clarke knew this should be her focus too, she was desperate to see her mother, but she couldn’t take her mind off of them, up there, alive. She knew that the bunker had only had limited supplies, knew that difficult decisions would have been made, her head should be underground, but her heart was in the stars. She thought of what she would say to him, she thought of the last time he held her. As she picked up the tools scattered around her and calmed herself once more, she heard distant excited shouts.

She stood slowly, as Madi came bounding in. She didn’t even speak, just gave Clarke the biggest smile and reached out her hand. Clarke took it and followed Madi outside, legs shaking with each step. She watched as the rocket she had waited for crash landed into the ocean.

“Well, let’s go get yer friends.” Thomas walked out in front of Clarke and towards the sea.

With every step closer to the crash site Clarke got faster and faster, until she was running so fast that Madi could no longer keep up. She stopped when she realised she had been dragging the poor girl.

“Clarke, it’s ok,” Madi let go of her hand, “you go, I’ll follow.” Clarke nodded, and started running again, no longer feeling the ground beneath her, no longer feeling her own breathing, just running. She ran until she was waist deep in the water. The hatch of the shuttle was just beginning to open, and someone climbed out. The person reached back into the shuttle to pull someone else out. One by one they all emerged from the rocket. Clarke stood and watched, silently. She meant to shout, to move, but she was frozen. She watched them help each other down and splash into the water, watched as they helped each other swim towards the shore on the opposite side of the bay from her, still unaware of her presence.

Finally, they began to remove their helmets. First she saw Murphys face, same smug grin as ever, as he helped Emori off with her helmet. They still looked as in love as she remembered. They all now faced away from her, looking toward the trees. Then she saw him. He ran his hand through his unruly curls and dropped his helmet on the ground. The group all spoke amongst themselves, but he separated himself and walked around a little. Then, finally, he turned to look back across the water. He stopped dead. For what felt like forever, they stared at each other. They were still a fair distance apart. He began to move back towards the water. Clarkes feet finally began to work. She moved deeper into the ocean until she could no longer stand. She tried to swim as best she could, but had never really gotten the hang of it. She kicked and splashed but got nowhere. Her head dipped below the surface. Suddenly, she felt strong arms around her, bringing her back up, carrying her to shore and laying her down on the beach.

“Are you trying to drown yourself!” He shouted.She coughed and spluttered and clung to his arms, digging her fingers into his suit. He pushed the hair from her face, then pulled her to him and squeezed her so tightly her ribs hurt, his face buried into her neck.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t, I don’t know, I, just…” She couldn’t finish. She had no answer for him. Her mind had switched off and her body had taken over. He enveloped her entirely, as she wrapped her arms around his back, and cried.

“I left you.”

“You had no choice!” Clarke finally loosened her grip on him, he pulled back slightly to look at her.

“Are you real?” He asked, as he studied her face. She nodded and laughed. He pulled her in again, this time more gently, and held her. She began to shiver, the water had been cold. “God, Clarke you’re freezing,” he rubbed up and down her arms.

“I don’t care”.

“ Clarke?” It was Raven. Bellamy and Clarke suddenly remembered they weren’t alone. He helped her up, as Raven threw her arms around her, followed by Monty, all the while Bellamy kept his arm around her waist.  Finally, the cold was too much for her.

“We should head back to camp, I’m assuming you probably want something to eat that’s not algae?” At this Murphy jumped in, “Clarke, please tell me you have something meat based? Anything. Honest to god I’ll eat rat right now.”

“Just, head that way.” Clarke pointed towards the trees, just as Madi, Thomas and a few others appeared. “Raven, you know Thomas”

“It’s good to meet you in the flesh.”

“I knew you’d make it down, never had a doubt”.

Madi greeted Clarke with a hug and eyed up Bellamy.

“He looks just like your drawings.”

“My drawing? Clarke has drawings of me?”

“Yes. I know all about you. You’re Bellamy.” at this Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

“I, mentioned you, a couple of times. Madi is a nightblood, I found her, alone, after praimfaya, I’ve been teaching her. Your name has come up a few times.” Bellamy smirked, that same way he used to when he’d call her princess. “Madi, could you lead the way back to camp?” Madi looked like she wanted to say more, but did as Clarke asked. They started the walk back, Raven and Thomas in deep discussion, Monty and Harper talking with Andrew, Murphy and Emori keeping together, Echo staying close by them. Clarke and Bellamy fell to the back of the group.

“Clarke,” He said her name in that same deep voice that she had longed for, and it felt for a moment as if the last 6 years hadn’t happened,

“I still can’t believe you’re alive. You saved us, again, and I, just, left you.”

“Bellamy, I meant what I said. You did the right thing.” She smiled, remembering their last conversation. “You used your head.” He returned her smile. “Besides, i told you to go, Bellamy, over the radio. If you hadn’t, you’d be dead, and we wouldn’t be here now. Together.” She reached for his hand. As he locked his fingers with hers, he repeated her words,

“Together”.

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #bellarke fam #the 100 fanfiction #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #canon compliant #john murphy #emori #madi the 100 #the 100 #the 100 speculation #waited long enough

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Born Under a Bad Sign- Part 6

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,809

Warnings: Typical Supernatural violence, angst, language, minor character death, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. If you’re a junkie for this sort of thing, then a tag list is the right thing for you! If you want to be a Queen, I’ll add you to that list too! Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Feel like talking now?” Dean asked.

“Sam's still my meat puppet. I'll make him bite off his tongue.” Meg threatened, glaring at Dean.

“No, you won’t be in him long enough. Hit it, Bobby.” Dean, standing up straight. Bobby immediately started to read from a book, the exorcism for a demon.

“See, whatever bitch-boy master plan you demons are cooking up? You're not getting Sam. You understand me? 'Cause I'm gonna kill every one of you first.” Dean said, talking over Bobby. Sam started to struggle, the effect of the exorcism taking place but it wasn’t as you would hope. It was like Meg was resisting the chant.

Suddenly, Sam stopped struggling and laughed manically, mocking the three hunters in the room. Bobby stopped talking in surprise. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“You really think that's what this is about? The master plan? I don't give a rat's ass about the master plan, ask Y/N here. If I wanted her dead, she would be and I wouldn’t be in Sam right now.” Bobby glared at Sam and continued the chant but Meg cut him off again.

“Oops. Doesn't seem to be working. See, I learned a few new tricks,” Sam said with a sadistic grin, chanting some words in Latin. The fire behind Sam in the fireplace flared and the room started to shake as he continued chanting.

“This isn't going like I pictured! What's going on, Bobby?” Dean asked, going to you and grabbing your hand. You looked over and saw the mark on Sam’s arm. Of course, this is what Meg did before she got into Sam.

“Dean, Bobby, there is a binding link burned onto Sam’s arm! She can’t escape unless it’s off. I can’t believe I didn’t put it together earlier.” You said, looking at Dean.

“What the hell do we do?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know!” Bobby said. Shit, if Bobby didn’t know what to do, then you wouldn’t know but you had to think.

“Burn it off!” You said right before Sam threw his head back and screamed, the shaking of the walls and the ceiling began to crack, breaking the seal of the protective circle. As Sam lowered his head, his eyes were pitch black.

“There. That's better.” Sam said with a smirk, ripping free from his restraints. Sam jerked his head to the left, sending Bobby flying into the wall.

“No!!” You said but before you could go to Bobby, the same thing happened to Dean and he flew right into the wall quite heavily. “Dean!”

Sam raised his hand and you flew to the wall with a thud, Sam walking right over to Dean.

“You know the word people use to describe the worst possible thing? They say it’s like hell but they don’t really know the meaning of it.” Sam said, kneeling in front of Dean.

“Don’t touch him!” You yelled.

“This one is for you, Y/N. You’re going to watch me beat the shit out of your boyfriend.” Sam said, with a smirk, grabbing Dean’s collar and clocking him in the jaw hard. You screamed out, feeling that bubble rise up fairly quickly.

Sam kept hitting Dean, making sure blood was coming out of his nose and mouth.

“You know, hell is just a word but it’s actually a prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear,” Sam said, hitting Dean again. You couldn’t get off the wall and you were crying, hating what was happening to Dean. “And you sent me back there. How is that fair?”

“That’s where you belong, bitch.” Dean said, spitting his blood on the floor.

“By the way, Johnny-boy says hi. He’s having real fun, carving up your mother.” Sam said, turning his head to look at you. You were crying and you just needed a few more power to let loose on this one.

“Go back to hell, bitch.” You said, glaring at him. Sam turned back to Dean with a grin and punched him again. You gasped and looked over at Bobby to see him already up and moving around quietly.

“All that I had to hold onto, was that I would climb out one day, and that I was going to torture you. Nice and slow. Like pulling the wings off an insect. But whatever I do to you, it's nothing compared to what you do to yourself, is it? I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You're worthless. You couldn't save your Dad, and deep down, you know that you can't save your brother. They'd have been better off without you.”

Bobby came rearing up behind Sam and he grabbed his arm, pressing a hot poker into the mark on his arm. Sam screamed in pain as black smoke poured out of him out to the chimney, leaving his body for good. Sam fell to the ground as did you.

You grunted as you fell to the ground and you rushed over to Dean, not caring about yourself. You pulled him up and you looked at Bobby with a slight smile. Sam groaned and came to, sitting up, grabbing his arm in pain.

“Sam!” You said.

“Did I miss anything?” Sam said, still groggy from anything that happened to him. Dean glared at Sam and reared his fist back, hitting the real Sam in the jaw before groaning as he clutched his bad arm, leaning on your body.

Sam groaned, holding his cheek in confusion.

Tension was piled high in this room with Sam behind Bobby’s desk with an icepack on his arm, Dean on the other side of the desk, holding an icepack on his face, you were sitting on the edge of the desk, making sure the wound on Dean’s arm was not worse than it already is.

“So, I think I’ve discovered a new “ability”, I guess you could say, about myself.” You said, fixing the gauze on Dean’s arm.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

“Well, back at Steve’s house, when I handed my lock pick over to Sam and my hand touched his, I got a vision of Sam hurting Jo and a few hours later, that is what happened. That is why I was able to warn Jo first. I’ve never had this happen to me before so I don’t know what it meant but I don’t know what to do.” You said, looking at Dean.

“Wait, I hurt Jo?” Sam asked. Oh yeah, you forgot to mention that part.

“Yeah, I would call and apologize to her soon. Don’t worry, she doesn’t have any wounds on her besides maybe a rope burn on her wrists.” You said, sighing.

“We’ll figure this out.” Dean said, putting a hand on your thigh.

“It also happened when we found Sam in the first place but when I touched him, I saw what he had already done so I don’t know if I’m seeing visions or premonitions.”

“Hey, I’m right here, you know.” Sam said. You looked over at him and gave him a small smile.

“Yeah, you are. You’re you and that’s all that matters right now.” You said with a smile.

“By the way, you really look like crap, Dean.” Sam said cautiously.

“Yeah, right back at you.” Dean said. Bobby suddenly walked into the room slowly, very concerned about one thing.

“What is it, Bobby?” You asked.

“You three ever heard of a hunter named Steve Wandell?” You gulped and looked at Dean for help but he acted casual.

“Why do you ask?”

“I just heard from a friend that Wandell's dead. He was murdered in his own house. You wouldn't know anything about that?” Bobby asked. You told Sam about this and he looked down, already blaming himself.

“No sir, we’ve never heard of the guy.” Dean said, acting like everything was okay.

“Good. Keep it that way. Wandell's buddies are looking for someone or something to string up, and they're not going to slow down to listen to reason. You understand what I'm saying?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah, we better hit the road. If, uh, you can remember where you parked the car.” Dean said, looking at his brother.

“Before you leave, take these,” Bobby said, handing you, Dean and Sam a necklace with a small metal charm on the end of it.

“What are they?” You asked, inspecting it.

“Charms. They'll fend off possession. That demon's still out there. This'll stop it from getting back up in you.” Bobby said.

“That sounds vaguely dirty, but uh, thanks.” Dean said. You slapped his arm playfully and got up, smiling at Bobby.

“You're welcome. Please be careful now.”

“You too.” Sam said, smiling at Bobby but Bobby didn’t return it.

“You guys go find the car, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” You said, looking at the brothers. They nodded and left the house, leaving you and Bobby alone.

“You okay?” Bobby asked.

“I just wanted to say, thank you. Not only for this hunt today but for everything you’ve ever done for me from the moment I was born.” You said, fingering the charm in your hands.

“I would do it all over again if I had the chance.”

“You do have the chance; you have it now. I’m not getting any younger and neither are you. Yes, I’m still sad that you weren’t there as I would have liked you to be but you’re here now and that’s all that matters. I want us to be father and daughter. I want to make up for lost time.” You said, looking into his eyes.

“I would love that more than you know.” Bobby said with a smile. You leaned up and kissed his cheek, smiling when you pulled away.

“If you don’t mind, I’m still going to call you Bobby for right now. I have to work up to ‘dad’. You understand, right?” You asked shyly.

“Of course.” He said with a smile. You nodded and held up the charm awkwardly, backing up.

“Thanks for this.” You nodded and turned around, walking outside to see the Impala waiting. You got in the backseat and smiled to yourself, putting the necklace on.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asked, not talking about your wounds.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You said with a smile. Dean took off down the road and you looked back to see Bobby watching. You looked back at the brothers, sliding in between them. “You know what we should do?”

“What’s that?” Sam asked.

“Get tattoos of this symbol. Necklaces are easy to pull off and break but tattoos stay on forever. Plus, I think the two of you would look hot with a tattoo.” You said with a grin, leaning back.

“That means you have to get one too.” Dean said, looking at you through the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, I know.” You said with a wink.

The Queens:

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The Dean Beans:

@akshi8278​ @mega-mrs-dean-winchester​​  @winchesterandpie​​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​​ @carribear31​​ @tacklesackles​​ @oreosatmidnight​​ @not-naturalfangirl​​ @missselinakitty​​ @iam-a-cutiepie​​  @kristendansmith​​ @milo-winchester-4ever​​ @jensenackesl​​ @codyshany316​​ @pheonyxstorm​​ @helllonearth​​ @juniorhuntersam​​ @pouterpufftrain​​ @ruprecht0420​​ @shut-ur-face-and-get-in-the-car @carriemichelle2012​​ @aubreystilinski​​

Series Rewrite Junkies:

@helllonearth​ @amyisabellal​ @deanwnchstr​ @caseykitten6​ @quixoticcat​ @supernaturalblogging​ @notmoose45​ @crowleysminion​ @mina22​ @tahbehonest​ @hadleymcallister2177 @destielsangels​ @spnhybrid @oreosatmidnight​​ @valerieshubin​​ @seninjakitey​​ @flyonlittlewinchester​​  @aubreystilinski​​

#Supernatural series rewrite #born under a bad sign #dean winchester #dean winchester angst #dean winchester x reader #spn series rewrite

[frederickwiddowson]

The writings of Luke the physician starting with his version of the gospel - Luke 23:32-43 comments: to day shalt thou be with me in paradise

Luke 23: 32 ¶  And there were also two other, malefactors, led with him to be put to death. 33  And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. 34 Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots. 35 And the people stood beholding. And the rulers also with them derided him, saying, He saved others; let him save himself, if he be Christ, the chosen of God. 36  And the soldiers also mocked him, coming to him, and offering him vinegar, 37  And saying, If thou be the king of the Jews, save thyself. 38  And a superscription also was written over him in letters of Greek, and Latin, and Hebrew, THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS. 39  And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us. 40 But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss. 42  And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. 43  And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

 Two condemned men are crucified next to Jesus, one on the one side and one on the other. Matthew 27:58 and Mark 15:27 refer to them as thieves. There were many more crimes for which you could receive capital punishment under Roman rule than we would allow for today. Rome was essentially a military society almost constantly at war with someone and justice was harsh. Jails were places to keep a person awaiting execution. Executions were public and the suffering imposed on the condemned was particularly brutal. They were also public spectacles, entertainment in a world without television or movies.

 The penalty for any crime depended mainly on your citizenship status and social class. Non-Roman citizens (Paul was a Roman citizen as revealed in Acts), lower class Romans, and non-citizens had the most brutal and painful forms of execution reserved for them. In criminal cases the governor, Pilate, had sole authority. And while Roman citizen Paul could appeal to Caesar non-citizens like Jesus and the Apostles had no right of appeal. This is one clear reason for God’s plan of allowing this to happen in His plan for redeeming mankind to Himself in this culture and at this time. Pilate was forced into his decision by political necessity and his own lack of moral courage and once the command was given there would be no appeal.

 For verse 34 please note this cross-reference;

 Psalm 22:18  They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture.

 God’s plan was unfolding and His executioners had no idea what their part in that plan was. Think of Joseph talking to his brothers in Genesis acknowledging that when they sold him into slavery there was a higher will than their wicked intentions toward him.

 Genesis 50:20  But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.

 Men and women make a choice to do evil or good yet have no control over how far their choice will take them or what greater purpose they will serve or be used for.

 Matthew 18:7  Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!

 Jesus, God in the flesh, hanging on a cross, is mocked by the Jewish rulers and the Roman soldiers. For verse 36 note this cross-reference;

 Psalm 69:21  They gave me also gall for my meat; and in my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.

 Pilate himself mocked the Jewish rulers in the placement of a placard calling Jesus king of the Jews in three languages; Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Hebrew was for the Jews. Greek was the dominant language of the culture of the Roman world which is why Paul refers to Gentiles as Greeks. Latin was the official language of Rome. Our Bibles are mainly rooted in these three languages from the Old Testament Hebrew, the New Testament Greek, and the first complete Bible containing Old and New Testaments in the middle of the second century, the Old Latin Bible. Of course, this does not make these sacred languages as Bible writing can be found in Aramaic and scholars tell us that Christian and Jewish writings were made in every language of the age and area and were translated from one into the other and then back again. See H.C. Hoskier’s Concerning the Genesis of the Versions of the New Testament.

 Now a curious thing happens. Here is a man, a bad guy, a condemned prisoner who has never been to church, never prayed a 1-2-3 repeat-after-me prayer in front of a preacher and a congregation or been baptized, appealing to Christ, who promises that this very day the man will be with Him in paradise. Where is Paradise?

 The same word is used by Paul and John to describe something that is in Heaven above.

 2Corinthians 12:4  How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter.

 Revelation 2:7  He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the tree of life, which is in the midst of the paradise of God.

 There is a great gulf between Heaven and Hell that no man can cross and yet in the world of the spirit those suffering in one can understand the joy of the other. See;

 Luke 16:19 ¶  There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day: 20  And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, 21  And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. 22  And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham’s bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; 23  And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. 24  And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. 25  But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented. 26 And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence. 27  Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father’s house: 28  For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment. 29 Abraham saith unto him, They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them. 30  And he said, Nay, father Abraham: but if one went unto them from the dead, they will repent. 31  And he said unto him, If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.

 Now on a side note and bear with me a moment here, the Greeks received a great deal of second-hand knowledge of Hebrew belief over the previous thousand years from the mouths of slaves they had taken of the Hebrews in war. The Greeks, as merchants and mercenaries, were everywhere in the Ancient Near East. Greek words and roots are found in the main languages from that influence as well as Alexander the Great’s empire later in the dominant Hellenistic culture that his conquests spread. But, the Greeks were always there. They even fought on both sides of battles such as Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon and Necho of Egypt’s Battle of Carchemish, historical writers tell us.

 The Greeks were Javan, a word used seven times as Javan and also used for Greece and Grecia. Javan was a son of Japheth from Genesis 10.

 Zechariah 9:12 ¶  Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope: even to day do I declare that I will render double unto thee; 13  When I have bent Judah for me, filled the bow with Ephraim, and raised up thy sons, O Zion, against thy sons, O Greece, and made thee as the sword of a mighty man.

 Jeremiah 46:2  Against Egypt, against the army of Pharaohnecho king of Egypt, which was by the river Euphrates in Carchemish, which Nebuchadrezzar king of Babylon smote in the fourth year of Jehoiakim the son of Josiah king of Judah.

 Joel 3:6  The children also of Judah and the children of Jerusalem have ye sold unto the Grecians, that ye might remove them far from their border.

 Later, Christian Greek writers insisted that while Plato was uncertain of where Greek myth came from that it grew partly as a mixture of Hebrew belief with, for instance, based on his story, Hercules being a combination of Samson and Jonah. In the same respect the Greeks’ version of Hell, which they called Hades, consisted of a place of the damned and one of the blessed not far from each other.

 Christian writers used this reference to Hades as the root word from which our Hell is translated as the Bible uses words and concepts already understood from Greek culture to explain concepts that have a definite difference in meaning. A study can be made of different Greek words translated for wine or love that, in the context, have basically the same meaning in the Bible. But, the Greek mythology of the detail and story of Hades is a cultural creation and while perhaps based on Hebrew understandings went, like Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodoxy way beyond any clear statements of the Bible. In other words, Greek mythology was created for cultural and political reasons using, in part, the Bible stories told by Hebrew captives and from Greek interaction with Hebrew culture as a foundation.

 This brings me to my point that perhaps Paradise was taken to Heaven by Christ. Many evangelicals claim this, that Paradise and Hell were side by side in the heart of the earth, as the Greeks would perhaps admit, but that after Christ preached He took Paradise to Heaven. The text does not explicitly say this, though. It is assumption based on assumption and presumption. It may be true but you would have a hard time arguing it from the revelation of the text itself just like you have a hard time arguing Calvinism and Arminianism, that people are created to go to Hell or Heaven and have no choice or that people can gain and lose their salvation repeatedly. The text doesn’t say so and can even seem contradictory if you stick to an “ism” when interpreting it so be careful coming up with a structure of thought about what the Bible is saying between the lines and then forcing the Bible to back up what you are saying.

 The text says that by this thief’s acknowledgement that Jesus is Lord He is promised that he will be in Paradise that day with Jesus. This reminds me of Jesus’ activity in healing. As healing was an immediate response to faith so here in Luke 23 so is salvation.

 Luke  8:48  And he said unto her, Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.

 Luke 17:19  And he said unto him, Arise, go thy way: thy faith hath made thee whole.

[superleeleehipster]

“Confessions” Pt 3

So I am terribly sorry for how long this took me to write, it was a combo of a hectic life and losing my writing groove for a bit, but I’m back! 

This chapter’s going to be angsty too but it’ll get better, I promise. Carol’s going to have to deal with her crap as well, but once they weather out the storm, they can begin to heal together :)

One more chapter after this… I think

Enjoy loves!

She heard the screaming again, the terrifying sound of someone about to lose their life, and she sprinted towards it as she tried to get there in time. But her feet seemed to be dragging in mud, and the closer she got to the screams the heavier her legs became. She turned the corner of a building and ran into a herd of walkers who were attracted by the screaming and she immediately began stabbing each head. 

“Help me!” the voice cried out.

“Hold on!” Carol screamed.

She took down walker after walker, but the more she stabbed the more that seemed to appear in front of her. Her heart was beating fast enough to cause a stroke as she fought desperately to get to the source of the screaming. Finally she pushed her way through, but the moment she saw who needed help she was too late. She watched in horror as Sam was torn apart alive, holding onto his mother as she cried out in anguish. Carol knew that pain, she knew what it felt like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and stabbed with a jagged knife over and over again. Carol wanted to cry out with her but she couldn’t speak, tried to yell to the mother to let go but she knew it was futile, for a mother would never leave her baby behind, even if there was no hope left.

Then she watched as Jessie was torn apart by the walkers, and she let out a sob of frustration as she witnessed more people die because of her. “Why can’t I save them?!”

“Because you’re a monster,” a tiny voice rang out. 

She turned and gasped as Lizzie and Mika stood behind her. “Oh my god…”

“You killed us Carol,” they said simultaneously.

Tears were running down her face as Carol shook her head. “I… I didn’t want… I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s your fault I’m dead,” Mika barked. “You should’ve protected me from her!”

“I’m sorry-”

“And you executed me like I was cattle!” Lizzie added. “How could you do that to a child?”

Carol’s hands ran through her hair as she shook with sobs. She had to get out of there, she needed to get away from the guilt and the shame of losing so many people. So she turned and ran as fast as she could through the woods as she tried to escape her demons that plagued her.

“You can’t run from it,” a voice said, close by.

Carol began dragging her legs as they became heavier and heavier, and she soon collapsed when the weight became too much. She heard growls of a walker ahead of her, and she pleaded. “Leave me alone!… Please!”

“Why’d you leave me?”

Carol’s head immediately perked up when she recognized her daughter’s voice. But her face turned to horror as the thing that once was her daughter stared back at her. “Oh god… S-Soph-”

“Why did you leave me momma?” she whimpered, limping towards her. 

“Oh baby…” Carol cried, her hands gripping the ground for dear life. “I… Rick-”

“He left me!” Sophia growled. “You should’ve kept an eye on me in the first place. You know Rick can’t be trusted!”

“N-No… I didn’t… I’m so sorry…” Carol choked out, bowing down in submission.

“You let them take me momma. You left me. I got bit and I suffered and died all alone in the woods because of you…”

“S-Sophia…” Carol cried. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not! You’re the one that’s still alive! I don’t deserve this, you should’ve been the one that died!” Sophia growled before launching at her, her jaw snapping as it neared fresh meat. 

“S-Sophia,” Carol cried, not even fighting as her daughter sunk her teeth into her neck.

Carol woke up with a start as she fought for self control, her wide eyes taking in the room as quickly as possible. She found herself leaning against the wall in a sitting position, her legs tightly hugging her chest as she tried to catch her breath. She recognized the bedroom in the fire station, and she looked down to see Daryl still dead asleep to the world. She shook her head and clasped her hand over her eyes, trying to calm herself down as beads of sweat ran down her neck. 

It was only for a few minutes that she shut her eyes, in hopes that this time would be different, that she could actually relieve the exhaustion in her body as she let the drag of sleep control her. But the nightmares came back full force, and unfortunately they were getting worse. She placed her hand on her neck, convincing herself that she wasn’t bitten. But the dream was so vivid she could still feel the pain of her daughter’s teeth sinking into her flesh.

She needed to distract herself, get her focus away from the horrors of her subconscious. So she looked out the window and focused on a flock of small birds flying around the sky, creating beautiful shapes in their seemingly coordinated movements as they went from tree to tree. The colors of the clouds continued to change as the sun rose beyond the horizon, giving the landscape an opaque and peach haze. It would’ve been perfect scenery to use a camera, if it were the old days at least.

The herd itself was definitely thinning down compared to the day before, and she was grateful it was moving in the particular direction it was going. Whether or not they were an influence to it’s track with their olympic sprinting, it was good because the herd was heading towards the Sanctuary and not the other communities. That would at least give them some time to prepare for the backlash that would come from their attack on the outposts a few nights before.

The sudden flinch to her side redirected her eyes to a sleeping Daryl, curled up next to her as his soft snoring filled the room. She couldn’t believe how long he had been sleeping. It had been at least 15 hours since he last woke up, for it was only around lunchtime when he fell asleep. He had sobbed violently into her neck for a long time as he let go of his grief before basically passing out on the floor. She knew she couldn’t coax him onto one of the beds on her own so she just fixed a few pillows under his head and near his shoulder to make him more comfortable.

When he first fell asleep though, he surprised her by hugging her close to his body, keeping her from moving away from him. Whenever she shifted or even tried to get up, he tightened his hold on her and buried his face into her neck, and she couldn’t help but smile at his unconscious affection. She had no idea if this was merely comfort or a sign of some underlying feelings (she hoped for the latter), but she enjoyed his protective cocoon while it lasted.

A few hours later though, she was able to wiggle herself out of his grasp and move to the corner of the bay window in order to keep watch. But then he began to whimper in his sleep, and she grabbed his hand and traced her thumb over his wrist, calming him down as he slept through a possible nightmare. As the night went on, he slowly shifted closer and closer, using her hand he held for direction until he was right next to her.

That’s where he had settled all the way up till morning, right next to her body as she held his hand, giving him subtle comfort whenever he was fighting through a nightmare.

He had been sleeping for so long that she was even debating to wake him up for food, or at least to relieve himself. But she decided against it since he was catching up on some much needed rest. She shouldn’t be that surprised though, for he had admitted earlier he hardly got sleep nowadays. He didn’t even have to admit that to her, for she had seen the exhausted bags under his eyes as he pushed through the days. She imagined he didn’t get that much sleep when he was Negan’s prisoner either…

She shook her head at the thought, fighting back the tears as her heart broke for him. She knew that he was in a lot of pain, but she didn’t realize the severity of it until this trip. She wasn’t angry at him for lashing out at her, for she knew he didn’t mean anything by it. Most people would be pissed at how he reverted back to his old habits of anger and lashing out at her in spite of her good intentions. But with how much that has happened to him lately, and how he wasn’t able to release any of it because of entrapment or just not enough time, she wasn’t at all surprised that he acted like he did last night.

She knew a good reason why he snapped at her was the situation they were in at the time. She had just struck an open wound within him, unintentionally of course, and he had yet to come down from that when the Saviors were driving by the station. He was in complete fight mode when she decided to intervene, and naturally he ‘fought’ her because she was getting in the way. She felt bad for forcing him to reopen his wounds, but knowing they were still alive and undetected by the Saviors, she considered her actions justified.

Unfortunately, she herself couldn’t sleep last night, for her brain was too wired to even try and relax after he had unleashed his anguish. The few times she did try and sleep, she would wake up minutes later with her heart racing and body on ‘fight mode’ as she woke up from a terrible nightmare. The latest nightmare took the cake though, and she had only closed her eyes for a few minutes before it occurred.

She hated the grief that he was under and what he had gone through while she was away. But his anger had unintentionally caused old wounds of her own to fester, and she was terrified of the fact that it seemed to be growing in strength within her.

Ever since he reminded her of what happened, she couldn’t stop thinking about Lizzie and Mika, Karen and David, Sam, and all the other lives she felt responsible for. She thought she was getting better, for by the time she came back to Alexandria she had accepted her past actions and was on the path in trying to forgive herself for what she had done. But with Daryl forcing them back up, she worried that the only way to truly heal was to clean out her old wounds, just like what they had done for him the night before.

But with how long it’s been since she forced it down, she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to survive it.

The sudden intake of breath caught her attention and she turned to see Daryl rubbing his eyes as he let out a big yawn. She watched him as he took his time to regain consciousness, stretching his aching body before combing a hand through his hair. If he noticed their joined hands he didn’t let on. In fact, she could’ve sworn his grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly. 

Unexpectedly though, she felt a tinge of fear watching him wake up, for she didn’t know how he would react to what happened last night. Would he remember everything? Would he be mad at her for pushing him, or for not letting him kill the Saviors?

Pushing her fears aside, she cleared her throat. “Morning.”

His eyes shot open and he glanced over to her and then to the window before sitting up fairly quickly, their hands still interlocked. “Shit… how long was I out?”

“Long enough for me to debate whether or not to wake you up.”

To her shock, he chuckled with almost a full smile before looking out the window, checking the herd that had been moving through. As he was distracted, she took the time to look him over, and was blown away by the change in him overnight.

The bags under his eyes were no longer there and the color on his face returned. He was visibly more relaxed than he had been lately, the tension in his face and shoulders at a minimum at this point. But there was an underlying confidence she could feel radiating from him, as if he wasn’t being weighed down anymore. She didn’t sense any hesitancy or pain or anger, in fact, she sensed what almost felt like hope. The last time she had sensed that kind of strength from him was right after Terminus when they were all reunited. That was the most confident she’s ever seen him, and for the first time, it seemed like he was on the road to gaining that back. 

The relief in seeing him begin to gain his true self again was so strong she almost began to cry, but she didn’t want to start this morning off with him worrying about her. So she fought back the tears that threatened to fall down her cheeks and looked out the window. 

“Herd’s nearly gone now, might be able to leave the next few hours,” she said.

He nodded. “Gotta find a car. Don’t wanna risk gettin’ in the same situation once we leave.” He grabbed his stomach when it made an obnoxious noise, and he huffed. “Guess I’m hungry.”

“I’ll get us some food,” she said. 

As she stood up, she tried to hide the smile when she noticed his hand was hesitant to let go of hers as she moved away. She grabbed her pack and was able to find two protein bars, thanking herself for being ready for the ‘just in case’ scenarios. She sat back down to where she was originally and handed him the protein bar, getting a gruff ‘thanks’ out of him before they began to eat their breakfast. 

While they ate in comfortable silence, Carol continued to quietly watch his new calm demeanor. She still couldn’t get over how much he had changed from last night, and although she was extremely grateful he was better, she felt a slight pinch of envy. It had been so long since she had been able to live without a weight on her shoulders, and the idea of sitting in a quiet room and being free of traumatic memories sounded incredibly far fetched to her. But seeing Daryl in a state that might as well have been bliss in her eyes caused an unwelcome feeling of self-pity.

She winced unintentionally, reacting to her thoughts. She hated it when she acted so selfish. She should be grateful for how he’s improved, why should she be so self centered-

“Hey,” his whispered, his voice jolting her out of her thoughts. 

She turned to see him sitting right next to her, their shoulders touching as he looked at her with concern from her changed demeanor. She looked down and noticed that her initial relaxed posture had changed into hugging her bent legs to her chest, almost as if she wanted to become smaller. 

“Ya alright?”

“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes to herself at how quickly she replied. When she saw the doubt in his eyes she sighed. “I will be.” 

After a moment of hesitation he nodded, and she smiled softly at him, thanking him for letting it go. They sat in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again. “M’ sorry.”

She turned to him with her brow furrowed. “For what?”

He huffed, almost in disbelief as he looked at her with concern and a mix of shame. “I shouldn’ta yelled at ya like I did.”

Fearing he might’ve thought her reserved behavior was because of him, she quickly shook her head. “No. Daryl-”

“Nah,” he interrupted, waving her off, his eyes pleading her. Realizing he needed to say what was on his mind, she kept quiet and nodded. “What I said, I didn’t mean any of it. I… I was jus’ angry at… fuck… everythin’. Everythin’ that’s happened to us, everythin’ that happened to me.” He met her eyes and it broke her heart to see such guilt in his ocean blues. “But ya didn’t deserve to be yelled at… M’ sorry I treated ya like shit.”

She gave him a soft smile. “How did you sleep?” 

His brow furrowed at that sudden change in subject. “What?”

She nodded her head. “How did you sleep?”

He sighed and shrugged. “Helluva lot better than I have in a while.”

“And how do you feel now?”

He studied her face. “Feel 100 pounds lighter… like I can actually move without bein’ weighed down.”

She smiled and placed her hand on his knee. “Then there’s nothing to be sorry for. You were able to let go of it all and… knowing I helped makes it worth it.”

He smiled briefly but ducked his head down. “Ya didn’t deserve me yellin’ at ya though.”

She nodded her head. “I’ll admit, it wasn’t the most ideal way to feel better, but it worked.” She squeezed his knee. “But I accept your apology.”

He sighed and slowly looked up at her. “So… we good?”

She smiled. “Yeah, we’re good.”

He smirked then and he let out the breath he was holding, releasing the tension from his shoulders. But then she noticed his fidgeting hand resting right next to hers on his knee, slowly making it’s way towards her fingers. She bit her lip to keep from smiling as she watched him debate with himself as to whether or not to make a move. Giving him an out, she turned her hand so that her palm was up and waited, and after a moment, he placed his hand over hers and interlaced their fingers. Her heart skipped a beat as he traced his thumb over her knuckles, and she straightened out her knees before leaning against his shoulder. 

“This okay?” she whispered.

He nodded and leaned his cheek against her head. “Yeah.”

She smiled and nuzzled him slightly as he continued to rub her knuckles with his thumb. She closed her eyes and willed herself to be in the present, trying her best to enjoy this rare, quiet moment with him. She could definitely get used to this new found confidence in himself, and she nearly lost her breath at the thought of him trying more intimate touches in the future. 

But her smile suddenly faded as she felt the guilt and the pain from her past coming back in full force. She didn’t realize that allowing herself to feel the good of the moment meant it would bring up the bad as well, and her heart was beating out of her chest at the sudden wave of emotions. 

Daryl seemed to notice the tension coming off her, and he leaned his head up and looked down to her. “You okay?”

She nodded but she was getting more and more stressed by the minute, and she knew she had to occupy herself somehow soon before everything blew. So quickly got up off the floor, shaking her hand out of his grasp. “Yeah… yeah I’m okay.”

He immediately got up and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hey-”

“No it’s fine,” she said, struggling not to hyperventilate as shrugged off his hand. “I-I’ll be alright. Just… give me a minute.”

She didn’t even wait for his reaction, hightailing it out of there as she desperately sought after breathing room. She prayed that he wouldn’t follow her, for she knew everything would break open if he were near her at this point. But the farther she moved away from him, the harder it was to breathe, and she looked around desperately to find another room before finding another stairwell. She practically ran up the stairs and outside onto the roof of building, hoping she could find relief from the open air. But the unconfined space wasn’t giving her any reprieve from the weight on her chest, and she clutched at her shirt as she tried to push her grief back down. 

Part of her wanted to tell Daryl, release everything that has been bottled up for way too long. He was the only person she would even consider telling. But she was terrified of what he would do. She never thought in a million years that someone whom she trusted with her life would ever betray her the way Rick did. It was hard enough to learn to live with what Rick did to her, but for Daryl to reject her, well, he might as well shoot a bullet into her heart. She just couldn’t take that chance. Their relationship, whatever was left of it, she cherished with her whole being, and she didn’t want to destroy it. Therefore, she couldn’t tell him, for how could he comprehend the fact that she had basically assassinated a child? 

She knew everyone has had to do things they were not proud of these days, things that have haunted them as well. Daryl himself had reassured her that no matter what happened, that she wasn’t ashes, that “we ain’t ashes”, and we get to start over. But so far the only person she had met who has killed a child was Negan, when he bashed that teenager’s head in to make sure the Hilltop understood what he wanted. 

So what made her different than a man like Negan?

She shook her head at the idea of telling him, for she just couldn’t bear the thought of reliving everything. She didn’t know if she had enough strength to survive it, or even just to say it out loud. The demons living inside her scared her more than the walkers ever did, and she didn’t know what would become of her if she allowed herself to feel it.

Because what if what Rick said was true that day? What if he saw what she truly was and actually made the right call by banishing her? Was she cold, had she truly become a monster?

Her body began to shake uncontrollably as she fought with her emotions, and she collapsed on her hands and knees when a strong sob escaped from deep within her. Images forced their way into her head, and she hugged herself tightly as she watched her memories fly by. She saw her baby girl run into the woods, she saw her walking out of the barn, she saw Lizzie standing over Mika with a bloody knife, she saw her worst fears of Lizzie killing Judith, or the way in which Sam died. Every image gave way to a new wave of unimaginable pain, and she clutched her arms so tightly that her knuckles were turning white as she sobbed into the grief.

‘Oh god, not now,’ she thought, pleading with herself. ‘Please, not now.’

She was so consumed by the pain that she didn’t even register the strong arms wrapping around her body. She watched herself being carried to a certain section of the roof until she was lowered to the ground as Daryl sat down, cradling her in his arms. Her initial reaction to flee from him was strong, and she pushed against his chest as she tried to get away. Daryl loosened his hold but never let go, and calmly spoke to her to try and calm her down.

“Shhh, yer okay,” he whispered, keeping her from escaping his arms. “I’ll keep ya safe.”

It took a moment for Carol to finally give in, and once she felt the safety of his arms wrapping around her, she clung to him immediately, seeking out his comfort.

“Tell me,” he whispered into her hair. She shook her head violently, her stubbornness just as strong as ever. "Please.”

“I…c-can’t,” she choked out.

“Why?” When she shook her head again and buried her face into his neck, he gently pulled her back to keep her from hiding. “What’re ya afraid of?”

Her body was shaking at this point, but after a moment to collect herself just enough, she spoke. “I… I-I don’t… I’ll lose you.”

He stroked her head and pulled her closer into his chest. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

She shook her head again. “You.. you don’t know.”

He shook his head this time and traced her jaw with his thumb before tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Don’t care what the fuck ya did, don’t matter ta me. There ain’t no way in hell I’m leavin’ ya.” He cupped her face and wiped the tears off her cheek. “Trust me… I won’t leave no matter what ya say.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “But ya gotta tell me… or it’ll kill ya.”

Her composure broke completely, and she buried herself against his neck as she clung to his chest and arms for dear life. He rocked her gently as she sobbed through her pain, and he caressed her head gently while he waited patiently for her to speak again. Here he was, doing what she didn’t want him to do, yet exactly what she needed to do, making her open up and feel through the pain just as she had done to him the previous night. She realized then and there that he was right, this would kill her if she didn’t release it. She needed to rid herself of the pain once and for all, so at the very least, she will be able to help her family win the war. 

She just had to have faith that he wouldn’t see her the way in which she saw herself.

After a few moments she was able to compose herself enough to speak. “I-I kill-” She coughed against the knot in her throat before swallowing. “I killed them… I killed Karen and David and tried to burn their bodies to keep everything from spreading…” She ducked down as if to hide from him. “But… I didn’t plan on killing them… they were begging for death… They asked me to kill them when I checked on them. I… I had to… they were choking on their own blood Daryl… I had to help them.”

He nodded and leaned his chin on top of her head, rubbing her shoulder with his hand.

She took a deep breath. “I… I thought I was strong to be able to do that… but Rick didn’t see it that way…” She shrunk into her body, trying to become smaller than she was, getting ready for the first hurdle. “He didn’t even give me time to explain. He… he thought no one would want me there when they found out… I… maybe he was right-” 

“Bullshit!” Daryl suddenly hissed, startling her. When she began to push away he apologized immediately, and after she hesitated for a minute, he was able to pull her back to his body. “Rick shouldn’ta done that. He had no fuckin’ right to suddenly play leader again after all that time ‘n play God.” 

She sniffed. “But you said you would find the person who did it and kill them.”

He winced at the sudden memory, somewhat ashamed of what he made her believe. “I said that to calm Tyreese down. I didn’t want ‘em to attack Rick again for not doin’ nothin’ to help… When Rick told me what he did ‘n why he left ya, I nearly lost it. I wanted ta beat the shit out of Ri…” He sighed, cutting himself off before he got more angry. “I knew ya wasn’t cold, I knew ya had to have done it for a good reason. Ain’t doubted ya for a damn second.”

She let out a breath of relief as she felt a tiny piece of her heart mending from his words. Despite the intensity of the guilt she bare, his pardon gave her a sliver of hope that it will be okay, that he will forgive her for what she had done to Lizzie… No. How could anyone forgive her for killing a child? He’ll look at her in disgust and yell at her for being so cold before leaving her here-

“Stop,” he admonished, bringing her back to the present. “Don’t beat yerself up.”

She winced and let out a sob as another wave of emotions passed through her. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care,” he said, pulling her close. 

She sniffed. “You will.”

“Then let me prove myself to ya,” he asked, raking his hand on her hair. “Trust me.”

She closed her eyes and let a few whimpers escape as she came to terms with what she was about to do. She knew she had to confess, for it had been eating away inside of her, and if she didn’t let it all out, then it would consume her. 

So she took a shaky breath and began to speak of what happened on the road after the prison. “The day after I was on my own… I went back to the prison because… I saw the smoke from where I was. That’s when I found out it was abandoned.” She tightened her grip on his shirt, and he instinctively pulled her closer, reminding her that they found each other. “I… I went to see if I could find anyone. That’s when I found Tyreese and the girls… we walked on the train tracks until we came across a small house at a grove. It had a lot of nut trees and a creek nearby, and it had a barbed wire fence around it so the walkers had a lot of trouble getting in. It was… it was perfect.” 

She tried to close herself in from the memories but Daryl pulled her head back so she wouldn’t be able to hide from him, and he caressed her hair to give her comfort. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath. “The girls thought it would be a good place to settle, and it really was. It was isolated, there was game in the area, it was a good home for a few days.” She shuttered. “I… I knew… even before the prison fell, that Lizzie had problems… she didn’t understand walkers, didn’t think they were a threat. She thought…” She let out a sigh. “She thought they were her friends.” She raised her head up just slightly. “Do you remember at the prison there were half eaten rats out at the gates? Almost as if they were being fed?”

He nodded, getting an idea of what she was about to say. “Yeah.”

“That was Lizzie, she even named the walkers like they were pets. She uhh, I caught her playing with one outside and after I put it down she screamed at me for killing her friend… she could kill people with no problem but not walkers, could never kill walkers.” 

Carol grasped at Daryl’s hand and quickly interlocked their fingers, needing his comfort as her body began to shake in anticipation. “I’m here.”

She let out a shaky breath. “We were only gone for 20 minutes… just 20 minutes, and when we got back we…” She cupped her other hand over her mouth to stifle the strong sob. “W-We found L-Lizzie with.. with a bloody knife in her hand, smiling at us. Mika was laying on the ground, her little body coated with blood…” She whimpered as her heart began to break again. “Lizzie just smiled at us and said, “it’s okay, I didn’t hurt her brain. She’ll come back, you’ll see”… she was planning on doing the same to Judith…”

“Jesus,” Daryl muttered, squeezing her tense hand.

“I uhh… convinced her to go inside with Tyreese, and I shoved the knife in Mika’s small head before she could turn…” She began to shake her head. “I can’t-”

“You can.”

“I-I can’t do it-”

“Yes you can, you have to,” Daryl whispered softly yet sternly. 

Carol’s whole frame was shaking hard enough for someone to think she had hypothermia, and she took a few deep breaths before she continued. “Tyreese and I thought that she was too dangerous to have around, that all it would take is one slip up, or one of us to fall asleep before she’d kill us or Judith so…” She gripped Daryl’s hand impossibly tight. “I-I took her out… to the field… she saw me crying and she thought she was in trouble because she didn’t listen to me about something stupid… s-she didn’t get it…” Tears were streaming down her face. “So I told her to look at the flowers… that’s what her father had taught her whenever she was upset, to look at the flowers… s-so she looked away and…”

Daryl tensed and pulled her closer to his chest, awaiting what he knew was coming.

“I… I shot her,” Carol whispered so softly he almost didn’t hear it. “I shot her.. I shot a child Daryl… I killed my little girl…”

Daryl’s brow furrowed and he looked down towards her. “What?”

“I killed her Daryl… it was my fault Sophia’s dead,” she cried out. 

Daryl shook his head. “No-”

“I should’ve kept an eye on her,” she choked out. “I shouldn’t have left her… why didn’t I protect her?”

Daryl winced at her confession, for nothing sent daggers into his heart like his own hateful words thrown against him. “It wasn’t yer fault.”

She nodded her head. “I should’ve been the one that died… I deserve it.”

“Stop,” he choked out. “Ya don’t deserve that.”

“She’s dead,” Carol whimpered before burying her face into his neck. “My baby’s dead.”

Daryl’s breathing was labored as his own tears ran down his face. He held her as powerful sobs forced their way out, her entire body shaking as she suffered through her grief. There was nothing he could say at this moment to make her feel better, he just needed to allow her to feel it, just like she did for him the night before. It killed him to realize the intensity of the weight she was carrying this entire time, but he was grateful that she was working through it now, for holding it in any longer would’ve killed her. 

So he gently rocked her back and forth, whispering words of comfort as he kept her safe while she walked through her own version of hell.

#caryl #twd #caryl fanfiction #carol peletier #daryl dixon

[noonachronicles]

Angels and Demons Final

Choi Seunghyun/ TOP X Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Genre: Mafia AU

Warning: Language, Violence, Drugs

Authors Note: I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know. I hope you like it.

Moodboard by @memoiresofaneternaldreamer

When he was thirteen Kwon Jiyong watched Scarface for the first time. He wanted to be Tony Montana more than anything else in the world. That night he stole brandy from his father’s bar and one of the cigars from his office. He didn’t smoke it, he just sat in the oversized leather chair his father had and let it hang from his mouth. He kept a poster of Al Pacino sitting behind his desk full of cocaine over his bed until college for motivation.

That was his dream, and he just knew he could do it. He could run drugs through the family business and be good at it. It was his calling, he just needed someone to believe in him. Of course, his father never believed in him. His father was loyal under Seunghyun’s father’s leadership and consequently Seunghyun’s. He hated the way his father talked about Seunghyun. He was always so proud of him, of how well he took care of his family. How his serious he took the business. To Jiyong it felt like Seunghyun was his son and he was no one to him.

“Jiyong, can’t you be more mature? Look at Seunghyun.” his father would say, “Always dressing nicely, always professional. All you do is go out and drink with your friends. You’ll watch Seunghyun rule the world one day while you waste your life.”

It was when Seungri and Jiyong had been to prison together that Jiyong found his support. It wasn’t that Seungri truly believed in Jiyong’s idea but he was tired of fighting and stealing. When he was younger and his father explained the business he thought it would be cooler, but being in the clan felt more like having  an office job than he’d expected. Tracking shipments and payments and being the muscle when one of the two didn’t add up. What Jiyong offered him sounded just like the kind of exhilaration he’d wanted out of life, but Jiyong didn’t need to know that’s all it was.

With Seungri by his side, Jiyong felt ready to take over. A week after he was released from prison he sat at Sunday dinner with his family and watched his father drink from his personal brandy bottle. A wide grin spread over his face and five minutes later his father was dead on the ground. The room was screaming and in chaos as he finished his meal as head of his family.

Now with Seunghyun gone, he was on top of the world. He felt, more or less, that he was now the head of the clan. There would, of course, be a vote by the heads but he felt confident. He’d shown what he was capable over and over. He could not be denied now. Not with Youngbae under his thumb. Now the rest would fall in line as well.

He rubbed his hands excitedly as he waited in the dimly lit warehouse. He was with his twelve best men, they watched as crates were moved around on forklifts. Two men with guns holstered at their sides came out from behind a stack of crates and brought Jiyong to a  small office towards the back of the warehouse.

“Sorry for the wait. It’s been a long day.” said the man behind the desk, “Would you like to see the merchandise?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

The man behind the desk nodded to one of his men who left the room for the briefest moment before coming back in with a bag of rice flour. He laid the bag on the desk and pulled a sharp bladed knife from his back pocket. Jiyong watched as he dug the blade into the plastic bag, rice flour slipping all over the desk. He reached his hand inside and pulled out a smaller package. Silently, he cut that package open as well, this one more delicately than the last. He covered the tip of his knife in the white substance inside and offered it to Jiyong.

Jiyong dipped his finger into the powder and ran it across his gums. After a moment he nodded happily and waved over one of his men, who placed a black briefcase on the desk and opened it to stacks of cash.

“Quality shit you have here and at a bargain price. I’m excited to be in business with you.”

“We’ll get the shipment to the location you provided within the hour. It’s been a pleasure.” The man behind the desk said as they shook hands.

“I’m taking this.” Jiyong said grabbing the small package off the desk before making his way with his men out of the small office.

He walked out of the office and through the warehouse with such a pep in his step that he didn’t even notice that the men that had been manning the forklifts were gone. That everyone in the warehouse was gone. It wasn’t until he stepped outside into the dark early morning and was blinded by police floodlights that he realized what was happening.

They’d kept him in the back of an unmoved police car for what felt like hours. He overheard one of the officers say that an anonymous tip had been called in. The sun was rising, starting to turn the sky from indigo to navy, by the time the car started rolling away. Jiyong watched, only slightly disappointed that he’d failed, at the scenery that passed by. He’d be fine in prison, he had been just fine before. He would come back and try again. He was young and had plenty of time. His gaze shot forward as the car jerked.

“What the hell?” The driving officer said as he seemed to be losing control of the car. The car came to a screeching halt as the driver hit the breaks.

A second set of tires was screeching as well and Jiyong turned in his seat to watch as a black van stopped just behind them. Three masked men jumped out of the back.

“Well that’s interesting.” He said quietly, The policemen in the front seat were too focused on the car to notice what was happening behind them. In no time at all two of the masked men opened fire on the police officers while the third popped open the backseat and dragged Jiyong out into the street.

“If you’d only asked nicely, I would have gotten out on my own.” Jiyong said annoyed as he was pulled to his feet and shoved over to the van. “Is this a rescue or a kidnapping?”

“Shut him up please.” The driver hissed as the van took off in a flurry.

One of the shooters looked over at Jiyong, a twinkle of a smile in his eyes, “Gladly.”

The last thing he saw before black was the butt of a gun headed towards his face.

When Jiyong came to he found himself tied to a wooden chair. Hands behind his back, ankles tied to the legs. He was shivering, shirtless, sitting in the center of a meat cooler. As his eyes adjusted he noticed the corpses of swine that had surrounded him. Just in front of him was the large limp body of a pig swimming in what he assumed was its own blood. He scoffed nervously at the large hunting knife that was standing up right, the blade digging deep into the pig’s belly flesh.

“Hey!” he shouted, “Either let me out or come in here and kill me already!”

A few seconds passed before the shutter of the door could be heard. A man stepped into the cooler with him. Jiyong laughed. The man’s mouth was covered with a face mask. His hair drooping down into this eyes. Just a gray tank top and a black rubber apron covered his torso. He also wore black jeans and rubber boots with matching rubber gloves that covered his entire forearms.

“Who are you supposed to be? Do they call you the butcher? I don’t know what you expect to get out of me.”

The man bent down and pulled the knife from the blood soaked swine, and then stepped over it towards Jiyong.

“Everything.” the man said and Jiyong’s eyes shot up in surprise, “I expect to get everything out of you. Your heart, your lungs, your stomach…”

“Who...who are you?” Jiyong asked, a hint of fear finally reaching his voice.

“You can call me death.” The man said pulling the mouth mask from his face.

Jiyong’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

-

The museum was always quiet on Tuesday nights. They were her favorite night to go. At first she felt vain doing it. Going to the museum and sitting in the dark room that they had kept her sculpture. Watching the way the lights flickered and reflected against the walls. It made her think of her first time with Seunghyun. The way the lights danced across his face, half red and half white. Her angel and her demon wrapped up in one beautiful man.

Her love for him had been planted deep and grew fast. She felt like she had barely gotten a taste of life with him before she was forced to go back to life without him. Life without Seunghyun was nowhere near life with him. It was scarier and lonelier and she hated it. There was relief in that almost a month had passed and while she still cried often she finally could find the joy in her memories of him as well. The laughter that he had saved just for her. Mornings hidden under the sheets. The way he made her smile so hard her cheeks ached.  

She was used to the exhibit being empty. Not many people even knew it was there. People rarely dared to enter rooms with closed doors. Sometimes when she came in she would find teenagers in a liplock or an elderly person that had been dropped off while their family walked the rest of the museum. However, usually it was just her. She went to her usual bench and put her bag down. She jolted upright when she heard the clearing of a throat and turned around to see just the silhouette of someone on the other side of the sculpture. She grabbed her chest and as she chuckled at herself.

“Just as jumpy as ever I see.” his voice resounded through the room. Tears instantly brimmed her eyes. “...I missed you, angel.”

“Seunghyun?” Her lips trembled. Her hands trembled. Her whole body was a leaf in a windstorm, hanging on by a stem.

“You have someone else calling you angel now?” He asked stepping around the sculpture with a smirk.

Her breath shortened as her lungs grew tight in her chest. It was him, standing there looking just like before. He was wearing his dress pants with his blazer and a white button down shirt. She could see the tan skin of his chest from where the shirt was open. It was him.  He was there and she could no longer breath. Her head and her heart unable to make sense of the sight in front of her.

“Hey...hey…” with just a few of his long strides she was in his arms. She let out the gasp of someone who had been drowning. Seunghyun was the surface.

“It-it’s you.” She gasped between sobs. “You came back.”

“I promised I would.” He whispered against her hair.

“You were dead.” she clung to him, afraid that he might disappear again. “You were dead, and it hurt so much.”

He held her in his arms as she cried. She wasn’t sure if she would ever stop. She didn’t understand how this could be real but she didn’t need to at this moment. In this moment he was back and his arms held her tighter than before to make up for lost time. They stood there until his shirt was practically soaked through. His grip never loosened and he let his tears fall freely as well. Only for her, only in their private moment would he cry.

She refused to remove her arms from him as they left the museum and practically sat in his lap on the drive home. She kissed his neck and his chest, and sighed deeply when he pulled her mouth to his. Tears threatened her eyes again just from the feel of his hands on her body. She peeked beneath his shirt to view his unharmed torso. His hand massaged her back and she fell asleep on his shoulder. 

When they arrived home he carried her upstairs and laid her in bed. With a permanent smile across his lips he took off her shoes and her jeans. He pulled a blanket up over her shoulders and laid down beside her. He watched her sleep, running his fingers over her cheek and through her hair, leaving kisses here and there. There was plenty of business to take care of. There were people to see and explanations to be made but he would take care of it all later. He had taken care of the most pressing issues and everything else could wait. Seunghyun wrapped his arms around his girl and fell asleep almost immediately. He was home and that’s all that mattered to either of them.   

#choi seunghyun scenarios #kpop scenarios #big bang scenarios #Angels and Demons

[mortvivanthqs-blog]

welcome to the outpost, landon scott, we’re sure you’ll find the place accommodating. daniel sharman is now taken! please review our checklist and send in your account within twenty-four hours!

🡶 OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME andres

AGE 24

TIMEZONE mst

PRONOUNS he&him

🡶 IN CHARACTER:

NAME landon scott

FACE CLAIM daniel sharman

GENDER & PRONOUNS cismale / he&him

BIRTHDAY  november 13, 1991

BIRTHPLACE london, england

JOB(S) commander-in-chief, medic, floats generally though (mostly field but sometimes hospitality work)

KILL COUNT twenty-one (a couple of these during his time in the u.s. army, the rest post apocalypse)

ANYTHING ELSE?  leader of original and current group

🡶 BIOGRAPHY:

a smudge of orange acrylic accidentally adorns strong features, but he’s spotted all over, touches of reds and blues and yellows and all those shades in between. a canvas, flesh, pigmenting a canvas, cotton.

mum and dad never liked that very much, the young boy’s hobbies, the psyche permanently in the clouds. utters of you’re no van gogh, go outside, go play football with the boys your age. this’ll get you nowhere, they said, crushing, nowhere but a mess.

he was a quiet boy– shy even; too timid to speak up, too afraid of consequence to stand up for himself…. he, an easy target. with a single friend to his name and a rocky home life – parents too acquainted with the bottle – primary was relentless.

‘s not so bad, landon, ‘least both your parents are still together, your dad only strikes you to knock a little man into you.

sixteen, oh sixteen, supposedly sweet. nothing was sweet about the binds he had to his home. all wasn’t lost. he met someone, online (myspace), couple years his senior, an american. a man. david, who he spent hours upon hours skyping, sacrificing his sleep just for a few more hours to see that face he adored so much. they went on this way, couple of years, landon’s brain unable to remember the last time he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep. everything was on david’s schedule, david’s timezone, david’s convenience. was alright though, landon always told himself, david was worth it. david was all he had.

he’s twenty now, attending vocational schooling, working one too many jobs. he and his “main squeeze” still in cahoots, though he still hadn’t relayed the truth of his sexuality to the ‘rents. something inside him, something deep in the gut, knew that talk could never end well. so, landon internalized. internalizing: landon’s specialty. the loneliness. the inadequacy– never living up to his parents expectations. never the son they wanted. the feeling of indestructible shackles.

an impasse, he versus himself.

let’s get married, a blinding smile tugs at his features, c’mon, david, you love me, don’t you? we’ll head up to new york, tie the knot. I could be with you, there’s heartbreak pooling in impossibly blue eyes, it’s been four years, we can finallybe together.

no.

david, he isn’t ready. doesn’t know when he’ll be ready.

landon packs his bags anyway. clothes, small trinkets. everything else is sold or donated. hands clutch the handles of his entire life, boot clad feet lead his person to heathrow, never even spares a glance out the window at the country he leaves in the dust.

marching down in the valley I heard a loud roar, curly locks litter the floor, it was a bravo trooper treating alpha like a toy, he drops and gives his sergeant twenty, so put your feet on the peddle step down on the gas, left faces every corner, legs marching in sync with a cadence ringing in his ears, move over awful alpha let the mighty bravo pass, wonders what he’s gotten himself into. bravo company is on the go.

68w combat medic, landon finds himself stationed in texas, fort sam houston in san antonio. texas, a state away from david. yet david never, in landon’s five years of service (when not deployed), does he visit landon. he offers to pay for his airfare, babe, one weekend, please, to no avail.

doc… you can’t save them all.. rounds in afganistan both hardened and crippled, gaining and losing brothers and sisters, if i try.. i can if i try.. that sweet and timid boy from london, who loved to paint, who was afraid of his own shadow, buried underneath a lifetime of horrors. and landon, the poor fool, still spent every minute of leave with david, the man who wouldn’t dare spend a cent or second to come to landon, who barely wrote, barely called. that innate need to be loved, even with an element of pretending, to be touched, and feel wanted for just a little while won over the soldier every single time.

it’s april, he’s twenty-six, still a fool sprung on a man who if he’s ever loved the londoner, hasn’t in a long time. the pair are seated outdoors, a rhythmic jazz in the new orleans air, coffee in paper mugs: one sickeningly saccharine, a scoop of unbothered bliss, no real strings attached to the man opposite him; landon takes his coffee black these days, bitter to the core, hurt etched in the heart. the man-at-arms rests his leg over his thigh and pretends, pretends he’s fine, pretends being on holiday with a man who he’s expendable to. if david was his king, landon was nothing but a jester in his court.

a screech, piercing and afraid – screaming bloody murder – rattles the ear drums. he furrows his brows, what was that? david doesn’t even spare a glance, mind ya business, landon. dick. a sea of pedestrians rush down the street of the french quarter, berserk. a harmony of emergency alerts sound from hundreds of cellular devices. the beginning of the end.

time clocks, the end of may creeps around the corner, humidity’s risen. it’s all the same, death and the dead unwilling to stay dead. the ex soldier’d gone awol shy of two months back. every passing day hope slips, he slips, nothing will ever be the same. david grows more and more useless, obscenities and degradation constantly on the tongue (falling on landon, toward landon). and something snaps, a deep-seated anger brewing for years and years and years unearthing.

snarling and restless, decay hanging from reanimated extremities clawing, clawing, and clawing. a man and his “lover” prisoned atop a rooftop; fresh meat. it’s been hours baking in the sun, emptied magazines and a single can of peas between two. they’re surrounded every which way. Hands, greasy and matted, run through brown curls. eyes, blue and bloodshot, capture the undead in their crosshairs then to david. this isn't where you die, not for this man, never for this man.

“y’know, david,” there’s something sick, something sinister pulling at the englishman’s lips, the ghost of a smile, “been a decade now. gave you my whole life– and that’s on me. i’m the fool. but there comes a point in a man’s life,” fingers feel over the hilt of the blade strapped at the thigh, “where he needs to shed the dead weight holding him back.” hunting knife unholstered, landon marvels the blade, “trim the fat.”

david’s wrestled to the ground now, he never loved you, landon, fists fly and a strike manages to connect, never gave you the time of day. a snigger escapes chapped lips, and perhaps, perhaps a sliver of humanity too. david’s pinned– landon’s taller, stronger, hungrier. a blade rests at the back of the elder man’s ankle. funny how much one mutilated tendon can have a man down, how much he can scream, how lips who utter nothing but self-serving charm and bile can beg for mercy.

he never loved you anyway.

combat boots force the mass of dead weight to the ground, a sacrifice, living and breathing. the horde pools in like a herd of starved hogs. he takes off the opposite direction, feet catching himself hitting the foundation beneath him. never looks back. but that scream? that scream went on for miles.

landon indulges in carnal pleasure, thrives in the lawless of the land. robs and kills, and not just the dead. every man for himself. the thing that keeps a man human further and further. never recognized himself in a mirror again.

yet, he meets a character or two along the way – forces violent and irrational tendencies down, far, far from the surface – allies himself. there’s a strength in numbers, one man is nothing to twenty. he’s got a plan now. a vision. throws on the charm, undigs the courageousness he’d held in his few years of serving. his true – now true, this world’s truth, that landon scott of the old world gone with the wind – colors too untrustworthy to stand a chance in rallying people, in gaining their trust. they hole up in an old baptist church and he offers himself (protection, direction, and a promise of a better tomorrow) in exchange for skills. empires aren’t built alone. stragglers come and go, landon offers a night or two and a hot meal at most to some, and a permanent position to others. the leader goes out of the way to gain the people’s trust, build a personal relationship with each and every one, acts in fearlessness and ‘selflessness,’ and never lets a wicked thought bleed through. it’s important people can vouch for the man they take a chance on. he’s nearly always out, always gathering and collecting, to stockpile supplies. never comes home empty handed. works his ass off. proves himself.

they’re nine when they abandon the church. lugging along scavenged necessities (food, water, firepower), in route to somewhere much larger. we need to stop just surviving out here, he says, create something the future generations can inherit and thrive in this madness.

but, it’s only a matter of time, a ticking time bomb, ‘till lost-and-never-found sanity uncoils at the seams.

#accepted #landon scott #fuck around n deny my own app

[yespoetry]

Jody Chan: Not a Woman, Not Not a Woman

not a woman, not not a woman

more a zombie-tortoise hybrid, slowed by my own mean

brain / I mean I look in the mirror & crave another femme’s heart

all over my thighs & unmoisturized back

I don’t reflect well in calm water / my mother named me

after her favourite actress, Jodie Foster / who is white & rich

& gay / I don’t believe in being self-made

or in astrological destinies but I don’t not believe in astrology

either / what’s the sign for people who binge on self-sacrifice

but forget to actually eat

I had a crush once & a dream

I beheaded her to plant a flytrap in her throat / boyfriends can’t compete

if they’ve been digested / my insecurities are more photogenic

than my face / my only picture of my mother was also shown

at her funeral, but I know we share her nose & taste

for bad men / my father raised me to sit with my ladylike legs

clamped around my mouth / I swallowed my depression

& now I can’t stop smiling / to show off the well-fed lizard

peeking from my throat / I’ll bare these canines for anyone

my rude neighbour & his grumpy

dog / the man who messages me on Tinder to say you’re pretty but

it’s a shame you’re queer / right before I crack open his forehead

full of fresh meat like a coconut / take a long hot sip

letter for my future daughters

— after Rachel McKibbens

there was a before & an after / before the first ravage / after the last man I trusted / I thrashed to the surface / on my own / before your breath muddied the air / there was a time for burning everything / prisons / courtrooms / fucked up diagnoses / gold towers / erected on top of graveyards / & then there was a time for building / a body from my body / there were the times I was told / I wish you weren’t born / by someone who loved me / & meant it / there were the times I agreed / & there was the time I authored / you a mouth / a fist / a name / I am tired of defining myself as not / now I am a universe that grows / every time our brains beat / back their inherited burdens / you too will ache like a cavity / that cannot be filled / someone will leave a bootprint / in your heart / but I will drag your skin open / as you crawl back to yourself / I remake myself in your image / you who began as my flesh / & are now my blood’s king / Daughter / you teach me to be borderless / Daughter, everything continues / Daughter, I have kept myself alive / & now there is a reason / Daughter, you mother / a new song from my ruined throat / Daughter, we are unroyal / we flinch / cut / flee / brim / weep ourselves hoarse / & still / we are enough / we are enough / we have always been enough

frequently asked questions

1. how was your day?

I put on hot water for tea & the kettle calls in your voice. every week I buy stone fruit & let them rot on the shelf. I catch feelings & fold them away on laundry day like you’d want me to. I don’t eat peaches except from your fingers. the pits in my stomach fuzz into pink octopi. sweet disease. I don’t trust my gut, it’s a pressure cooker. our names sound good together, but mine is a pebble & your tongue is full of holes. at night with the lights out, I mouth your favourite poem about sunflowers & open myself like I am both the flower & the sun.

2. what does BPD feel like?

an infinity of mirrors & not one of them knows my name.

an infinity of asking the same question & expecting different answers.

an infinity of questions taps against the windows of joy.

an infinitesimal joy waits for the right camera to expose its canned smile.

an infinity of cameras trudges out to document another accident.

an infinity of accidents has propelled me to today.

today crashes into me like a downpour of tambourines.

today drags me headlong like a caboose.

my head drags me along while I number today’s spoons.

a day with you fills my spoon with honey & lavender, stirs calm into the circuitry of this riotous machine.

 3. are you ready to get out of bed?

 con: the weeping is more likely to be public. con: without the sheets I need my skin to hold me together. con: it won’t be reciprocal. I haven’t lotioned in days. pro: keep my job. keep my friends. time is a coin I toss at other people, some of whom deserve it. they know who they are. what I save for me, I use to make wishes at my shortfalls. pro: I’m trying to be reliable, but I’m all out of soy milk & stamps. con: I might see an acquaintance at the store. I might trip & break my fall on the neighbour’s dog. does being prepared for the worst count as a life goal?

             I’m not the easiest to love. give me one day where I inflict myself only on myself. con: I’m out of work appropriate outfits. I wear sunglasses at all times, especially when I don’t feel sparkly. don’t get me wrong: I don’t want to be beautiful unless I’m also useful. let me be post-celebration sidewalk, the glitter under your feet. & if not, let me be the mirror in the morning, the moment before I recognize myself

4. how do you know when you’re sick?

always, always

4. how do you know when you’re sick?

when I write a swallow that is just a bird or a downpour of saliva, a tulip just a bloom that signals spring. when the world divots into manageable disappointments: the subway delayed, not having the right change for laundry, all my friends, too sick or busy to care for me. I said I was okay & I meant I haven’t been touched in days. this is no poem. no small beautiful thing gutted from the dirt. my art performs artless tricks to please. if I knew what you wanted from me

I’d write nothing else.

showing up to Sunday dim sum with a fresh shave

over har gow / siu mai / your frowns name me feral / inexplicable / I can smile & nod with the tamest of them / but I did not do this to be beautiful / I am less well-trained housegirl / more carrion defiling my own flesh / to send a message / you are the ones who taught me / it is wrong to lie to family / at my most wicked I was comfortable / today I am almost myself / a harvest of bones / a rooster’s foot / spare rib / a skull / so naked / I could confuse me / for something dead / or almost / today I coil your judgment to my scalp / like a barbed crown / fill your cup with bitter tea / let your anger rattle my teeth / tomorrow I’ll remember how to feast / without permission / let my friends tell me I look wild / in my big bad skeleton / my fallow field where I once had hair / I try not to be hard / but if you think I am delicate / then no / I am not the daughter / you thought you knew

Jody Chan is a writer and organizer based in Tkaronto/Toronto. They are a 2017 VONA alum and the 2018 winner of the Third Coast Poetry Contest, judged by Sarah Kay. Their first chapbook is forthcoming in 2018 with Damaged Goods Press, and their poetry is published or forthcoming in BOAAT, Nat. Brut, The Shade Journal, and elsewhere. They can be found online at https://www.jodychan.com/ and offline in bookstores or dog parks.

#Jody Chan #poetry #special feature

[badass-unicorn-with-glitter]

Phoenix Society Chapter 1 Rhea Algamora

My hands hurt, head ached, and back burned. The marks from a paladin's whip still streak my back. The steady drip of small droplets of water hitting the cold, stone floor of my cell was the only sound I heard other than the erratic beating of my heart. My end was dragging so close I could feel Alkila's excitement to gain a new soul. The king of the underworld, the leader of the damned was going to take my soul and there is nothing I could do to stop it.

Murderer, a little voice in my head sang, not only are you abomination, but you're a murderer as well. That little voice has been chittering in my head since the day I got here with crazed glee. My gaze fell to the blood underneath my fingernails.

Not yours, the voice chattered, an innocent's.

"He wasn't innocent," I hiss aloud. "He was a monster and he got what he deserved."

Now so are you, it whispered. It was right. I am a monster. A filthy, marked, useless monster.

The voice faded into the background as I replay the day of the incident that got me here.

It's been almost eight years after the blight. I had been in my room by the reading corner with my nose buried in a book like usual when I heard a crash and a scream from the parlor. Normally, I would ignore any and all commotion from the outside world. This time was different because the constant screaming sounded like my younger sister Iris.

I made my way out of my room and through the halls I used to know so well. When I finally got to the parlor, the door was ajar and a man, my uncle, was yelling drunkenly at someone who was cowering in the corner. I cought a glimps of blood on his knuckles and drops on the floor.

"Please," my sister's voice begged," Don't hurt me." Fear struck through my heart and gripped it tightly. Normally my uncle would not lay a hand on my sister. She wasn't marked like me. Even though she caught the blight, Iris was never marked. Somehow the luck of the gods saved her from that fate. She was valuable to him, unlike me. I was marked with, black lines that swirled up and down my arms. My once raven black hair turned the color of gold with snow streaks running through it. I still retained some of my past beauty, with my bone structure and eyes that remind me of Geodes, dark around the edges but a bright violet on the inside.

"I'm going to kill you," he slurred his words. Fear and anger mixed in my gut. Years ago I made a promise to myself when our uncle took us I would never let him hurt Iris. I wasn't about to break that promise now.

I flung myself through the door and slammed into his large frame. Due to my small size, I wasn't even able to knock him over. He let out a stream of psychotic laughter.

The fear grew, and grew, and grew as he made his way toward me. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I wanted it the shadows in my room to take me away from here. For a few seconds time seemed to stop. Red threads spread out from me, my uncle, and Iris. They connected to each other in a beautiful tangle of chaos. When Time finished his break, I reached for the thread that went from my uncle to me and I pulled.

The thoughts of shapeless shadows still danced in my mind as I yanked on the thread. They came to life. Horrid, faceless phantoms danced around me.

"Dear Gods," Uncle gasped.

The shadows began to whisper. They demanded I kill him. They hissed and spat profanities in his direction. They all had one voice, my voice. They demanded retribution for the nightmares that plagued me. Nightmares he created.

Uncle began to cower and shrink down. His fear was evident on his face. I savored every moment. I commanded the shadows to attack. They ripped and slashed at him. Blood dripped down the front of him, he began to gurgle and gasp for breath. I didn't stop. It didn't feel like I could for a time, but when my sense finally returned my mind clear. The shadows vanished and all wounds and blood from my uncle went along with them. He still gasped and sobbed, trying to regain his composure. Iris was still in shock. Her breaths came out fast and short. The whole thing wasn't real. It was an illusion.

After a time my uncle finally rose, "What was that?" My legs began to shake. I tried to conjure the phantoms back to protect me but they wouldn't return, I was too tired. He turned to me with a sick grin on his face. I backed up until I ran into the arch of the fireplace. My hand brushed against an iron poker. Instinctively, my hand wrapped around it. "Come here Rhea," he demanded. I shook my head, whimpering in fear. He rushed me, charging with hatred filled eyes. Without thinking, I raised the poker. It ripped through flesh and chipped bone, tearing a cry of pain from my uncle. My body tensed as he slumped to the floor, eyes wide and dead.

I was torn from my thoughts as muffled voices came through the door. Onces I heard the lock turn, I scrambled to the back corner of the room. I pushed myself down as far as I could, hoping they wouldn't see me.

"There's no use hiding," worn, black boots with beaten metal buckles and floral carvings came into view. "You're going to die anyway." I lifted my head to meet the cold blue eyes of the head Paladin, Rowan Marith.

"We all die eventually," I say rising, "But I didn't expect to shake hands with death so soon."

His jaw clenched, "Not all." I was too worried about how I would make it out of this situation to fully process his words.

"So what's it for me? Beheading? Firing line? Letting me go?" I tried to taunt Rowan.

"You will be burned at the stake," He replies without even facing me.

¨So we will have a roast then,¨ I couldn't help what was coming out of my mouth. In situations like this, I can get horribly sarcastic.

¨You have a sick sense of humor,¨ Rowan comments as he clamps down irons on my wrists.

¨I've been told many times,¨ I smile with mock politeness.

That's not the only thing that's sick about you, the little voice buzzed, you're sick in the head too. I was about to tell the voice to shut up when a small, tan mouse ran across my foot. It was disgusting in here. Mold grew on the walls and blood from who I assume was the last prisoner still stained the pile of straw and fabric they call a bed. Maririth lead me out of the cell and up a winding staircase with six other paladins behind us. On our trek I studied my executioner's features. Brown hair that hung just below is his ears was tied up behind his head in a messy ponytail with stray hairs flying everywhere. Along his left temple and down to the top of his lip, Rowan bore a prominent white scar. His eyes where to pieces of chipped ice with no feeling in them at all.

"How did you get that scar?" I nudge him with my shoulder.

"One," he growled, "do not touch me. Two, don't speak."

"Has anyone ever told you you'll probably die alone surrounded by 30 cats who would not think twice about eating your rotting face?" the paladins behind us coughed and choked to cover their laughter.

"No," he sighed, "No one has ever said such a thing to me."

"That's surprising," I chewed on my lip to think of something else to say. "Do you think the queen picks her nose?"

"If you don't shut up right now I'll-," Rowan snapped but I cut him off.

"You'll do what?" I go toe-to-toe with him," You'll kill me?" he only snarled and continued to pull me along. So much for the plan to end it quickly. Looks like when they put me in the ground I'll look like a slab of meat someone forgot about over a fire.

The sun was barely showing once we got outside. The scent of rain hung heavily in the air. Hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. A lightning storm was coming soon. Hopefully it would put out the fire.

"Good people of Camani," Rowan's booming voice rang out through the square. "We are gather here to witness the burning of a demon, a hated creature of the gods. On this day the abomination's blight on our peaceful city will end." A red chested robin on the house to my left started to chirp wildly. "Tie her to the stake." The six paladins brought me forward and wrapped pitch covered ropes around my ankles and wrists.

Sickening fear coiled itself around my gut as Rowan lit a torch ment to start the flames that would spell my doom. See you on the other side, the voice whispered to me. No, I told myself, you aren't going to die today. I tried the one thing that would save me now. I searched for those red threads connecting each person. My soul searched for something, anything to save me. Once my mind found what I was searching for, I pulled. An army of black, shapeless phantoms rose with ear-splitting screams. The crowd flew into a frenzy and the palladians drew their swords.

"You," Rowan hissed at me. "I will end this." With that, he dropped the torch on the pile of kindling at the bottom of the stake. The flames licked at my feet and the hem of my night gown, charing the fabric black. The bottoms of my feet began to scorch when masked figures clad in silver and lilac capes appeared.

"It's the Phoenix Society," Someone shouted in panic. I remember hearing about them once. An elite group of satsu with cursed gifts given to the by the blight. Many times I have wished to be one of them If only to leave the cage my uncle put me in.

A slim, tall Phoenix, probably a woman judging by their build, slashed at each palladian that crossed her path with a brutal scyth. A weapon wielded by only one member of the Society, The Reaper. Her movements where swift and unforgiving. Every enemy she faced went down, red staining their once stark white uniforms.

The robin I had mention before began to shift in a hooded figure wielding two daggers. A shape shifter, my mind was temperarly stunned. It wasn't until I felt the pain of the bottoms of my feet burning did I call for help.

Two members of the society turned to face me. By their stature I assumed they were male. "Reaper," one of them said, "carve us a way out of here. You," he pointed to the boy next to him,"Get the girl. The rest of you, watch our backs!" Everyone sprang into action.

The boy who was ment to get me waved an armored hand and the flames licking at my feet went out in a whisper of smoke. The Paladians and Phoenixes fought violently. In the wake of each Phoenix rows of corpses were strewn about. Blood stained the cobble stone ground and bled into the dirt.

The Phoenix that was once the robin was surrounded by several Paladian. She took multiple down before one managed to run his blade through her lower stomach. "FOX!," One cried for their fallen companion. "Someone get her outta there."

My vision began to fade as I saw my captors and rescuers clash. Paladians tried to keep the fire wielding Phoenix away from me but he forced them away with a blade coated in flames. The last thing I saw before the world went black was onyx eyes swirled with vibrant reds and oranges coming towards me.

#PhoenixSociety

[johnchiarello]

Wednesday

WEDNESDAY 6-28-17

1 Peter 4:10

As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

 Ten Decades-

https://youtu.be/bKj6QJKdXMo

http://wp.me/a4V5qQ-CF

.Beeville triple homicide

.New York cam

.How does God speak to us?

.Jason- Jammer- Mike- Paisley- Fat Boy [mentioned- not seen]

.Ten Decades- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBecM3CQVD8

.Jail Break- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRo3u04vY1E

1Corinthians 16:1 Now concerning the collection for the saints, as I have given order to the churches of Galatia, even so do ye.

 Dons pier- https://youtu.be/x8I-BhDDROk

http://wp.me/a4V5qQ-CG

.Word from apostle Allen

.The collection FOR the saints

.Junior

.Jimmy D- Mando

Albert

.Mike and Bear

 45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.- Matt.

 Guitar Jason- https://youtu.be/4IVPpDHQmM4

http://wp.me/a4V5qQ-CH

.Austin

.Jammer

.Fat Boy

.Paisley

.Imagine- Lennon [sung by Jason]

Proverbs 17:22 [Full Chapter]

A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.

 Jammers request- https://youtu.be/mV5ZLEYmJog

http://wp.me/a4V5qQ-CI

.If you know where Helen Pope is- please comment on this post- she moved from Temple- TX.- her son wants to find her- thanks

Matthew 5:13 [Full Chapter]

Ye are the salt of the earth: but if the salt have lost his savour, wherewith shall it be salted? it is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men.

 Zechariah 10:1

Ask ye of the Lord rain in the time of the latter rain; so the Lord shall make bright clouds, and give them showers of rain, to every one grass in the field.

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

 NEW- [more verses below]

Today I saw lots of my friends- On the first video I mentioned that I saw Jason and Jammer [aka caveman] the other day when it was raining hard.

I never stopped to talk to Jason- just waved at him as I drove by- he waved back.

But I did stop and talk to Jammer- I mentioned I saw Jason earlier [the other day].

On the video titled ‘Guitar Jason’ Jason told me I must have seen someone else.

Jammer must have mentioned it to him.

It was no big deal- I thought I saw Jason.

 But that’s what put it in my head to give him the guitar [also prayer].

After I gave him the guitar and shut the video off- he told me his guitar just broke down- and the one he had with him was borrowed- so it came just in time.

That’s why it effected him- to see God provide.

 The guys- on their own- had real good fellowship- talking about their experiences- Furman sharing verses with Austin.

 But they were doing it on their own as I just hung out for the day.

That’s what matters.

 All of these guys know each other- but they don’t often talk about their real experiences with God among themselves.

But they have real experiences- things of value to build each other up.

 That’s what I liked the most- seeing them build each other up.

That’s it for today- hope you get something out of this roll out.

God bless- John

   NEWS-

http://www.mysoutex.com/beeville_bee_picayune/news/last-witness-missing/article_18661f3c-529a-11e7-85d3-9326dd7e13e0.html

http://www.kiiitv.com/news/local/beeville-triple-murder-charges-to-be-dropped/452632699

  PAST POSTS-

http://corpuschristioutreachministries.blogspot.com/p/how-to-stop-addictive-behaviorfor-good.html

http://corpuschristioutreachministries.blogspot.com/p/njnyc-2017.html

http://corpuschristioutreachministries.blogspot.com/p/new-jersey-201516-i-made-these-videos.html

When I do videos/posts on Wednesday- I also pray and quote these specific portions of the addiction recovery writing I made years ago-

As you read today’s post- please pray and try and read thru the verses below-

In a spirit of prayer- praying them over all of our friends-

Thanks-  John

PRAYERS [read together at the start of the meeting]

1;

I confess to almighty God and to you my brothers and sisters- that I have sinned thru my own fault.

In my thoughts and in my words- in what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

And I ask Jesus Christ- and all my brothers and sisters- to pray for me to the Lord our God.

 2;

Our father who art in heaven- Hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come- thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread- and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation- but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom and the glory and the power- now and forever- Amen.

 CONFESSIONS [repeat 3 times each]

 1;

I hate vain thoughts- but thy law do I love.

 2;

Commit thy works unto the Lord and thy thoughts will be established.

 3 PILLARS

 [Readings from Peter, James and John- either read together- or have one person read one ‘pillar’ each. The bible refers to these 3 men as spiritual pillars of the church]

1;

Gird up the loins of your mind and be sober and hope to the end for the grace that is being brought unto you at the appearing of Jesus Christ.

Abstain from fleshly lusts that war against the soul.

Those that have suffered in the flesh have ceased from sin- that they should no longer live the rest of their lives in the flesh to the lusts of men- but to the will of God.

 2;

Blessed is the man that endures temptation- for when he is tried- he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord has promised to those that love him.

Every man is tempted when he is drawn away of his own lust- and enticed. And when lust has conceived it brings forth sin- and sin- when it is finished, brings forth death.

Resist the devil and he will flee from you- draw near unto God and he will draw near unto you. Cleanse your hands- ye sinners- and purify your hearts you double minded.

Be afflicted and mourn and weep- let you laughter be turned to mourning, and your joy to heaviness- before that great and notable Day of the Lord.

 3;

Behold- a new commandment I give unto you- which thing is true in Him and in you- because the darkness has now passed- and the true light now shines.

Whosoever is born of God does not commit sin- but his word remains in him, and he cannot sin- because he is born of God.

This is how we know he hears us- because we keep his commandments and do those things that are pleasing in his sight.

   VERSES-

2 Corinthians 4:7

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

Isaiah 30:14

And he shall break it as the breaking of the potters' vessel that is broken in pieces; he shall not spare: so that there shall not be found in the bursting of it a sherd to take fire from the hearth, or to take water withal out of the pit.

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

Revelation 1:10

I was in the Spirit on the Lord's day, and heard behind me a great voice, as of a trumpet,

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

Revelation 21:10

And he carried me away in the spirit to a great and high mountain, and shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from God,

In Context | Full Chapter | Other Translations

John 3:16 For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

Acts 16:31 And they said, Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house.

31 When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:

32 And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:

33 And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.

34 Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:

35 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

41 Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:

42 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:

43 I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

44 Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

46 And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.

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#bible #religion

[frederickwiddowson]

Luke 23: 32 ¶  And there were also two other, malefactors, led with him to be put to death. 33  And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. 34 Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do. And they parted his raiment, and cast lots. 35 And the people stood beholding. And the rulers also with them derided him, saying, He saved others; let him save himself, if he be Christ, the chosen of God. 36  And the soldiers also mocked him, coming to him, and offering him vinegar, 37  And saying, If thou be the king of the Jews, save thyself. 38  And a superscription also was written over him in letters of Greek, and Latin, and Hebrew, THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS. 39  And one of the malefactors which were hanged railed on him, saying, If thou be Christ, save thyself and us. 40 But the other answering rebuked him, saying, Dost not thou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? 41 And we indeed justly; for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss. 42  And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. 43  And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To day shalt thou be with me in paradise.

 Two condemned men are crucified next to Jesus, one on the one side and one on the other. Matthew 27:58 and Mark 15:27 refer to them as thieves. There were many more crimes for which you could receive capital punishment under Roman rule than we would allow for today. Rome was essentially a military society almost constantly at war with someone and justice was harsh. Jails were places to keep a person awaiting execution. Executions were public and the suffering imposed on the condemned was particularly brutal. They were also public spectacles, entertainment in a world without television or movies.

 The penalty for any crime depended mainly on your citizenship status and social class. Non-Roman citizens (Paul was a Roman citizen as revealed in Acts), lower class Romans, and non-citizens had the most brutal and painful forms of execution reserved for them. In criminal cases the governor, Pilate, had sole authority. And while Roman citizen Paul could appeal to Caesar non-citizens like Jesus and the Apostles had no right of appeal. This is one clear reason for God’s plan of allowing this to happen in His plan for redeeming mankind to Himself in this culture and at this time. Pilate was forced into his decision by political necessity and his own lack of moral courage and once the command was given there would be no appeal.

 For verse 34 please note this cross-reference;

 Psalm 22:18  They part my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture.

 God’s plan was unfolding and His executioners had no idea what their part in that plan was. Think of Joseph talking to his brothers in Genesis acknowledging that when they sold him into slavery there was a higher will than their wicked intentions toward him.

 Genesis 50:20  But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.

 Men and women make a choice to do evil or good yet have no control over how far their choice will take them or what greater purpose they will serve or be used for.

 Matthew 18:7  Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh!

 Jesus, God in the flesh, hanging on a cross, is mocked by the Jewish rulers and the Roman soldiers. For verse 36 note this cross-reference;

 Psalm 69:21  They gave me also gall for my meat; and in my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.

 Pilate himself mocked the Jewish rulers in the placement of a placard calling Jesus king of the Jews in three languages; Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Hebrew was for the Jews. Greek was the dominant language of the culture of the Roman world which is why Paul refers to Gentiles as Greeks. Latin was the official language of Rome. Our Bibles are mainly rooted in these three languages from the Old Testament Hebrew, the New Testament Greek, and the first complete Bible containing Old and New Testaments in the middle of the second century, the Old Latin Bible. Of course, this does not make these sacred languages as Bible writing can be found in Aramaic and scholars tell us that Christian and Jewish writings were made in every language of the age and area and were translated from one into the other and then back again. See H.C. Hoskier’s Concerning the Genesis of the Versions of the New Testament.

 Now a curious thing happens. Here is a man, a bad guy, a condemned prisoner who has never been to church, never prayed a 1-2-3 repeat-after-me prayer in front of a preacher and a congregation or been baptized, appealing to Christ, who promises that this very day the man will be with Him in paradise. Where is Paradise?

 The same word is used by Paul and John to describe something that is in Heaven above.

 2Corinthians 12:4  How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter.

 Revelation 2:7  He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the tree of life, which is in the midst of the paradise of God.

 There is a great gulf between Heaven and Hell that no man can cross and yet in the world of the spirit those suffering in one can understand the joy of the other. See;

 Luke 16:19 ¶  There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day: 20  And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, 21  And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. 22  And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham’s bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; 23  And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. 24  And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and

send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. 25  But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented. 26 And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence. 27  Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father’s house: 28  For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into

this place of torment. 29 Abraham saith unto him, They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them. 30  And he said, Nay, father Abraham: but if one went unto them from the dead, they will repent. 31  And he said unto him, If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.

 Now on a side note and bear with me a moment here, the Greeks received a great deal of second-hand knowledge of Hebrew belief over the previous thousand years from the mouths of slaves they had taken of the Hebrews in war. The Greeks, as merchants and mercenaries, were everywhere in the Ancient Near East. Greek words and roots are found in the main languages from that influence as well as Alexander the Great’s empire later in the dominant Hellenistic culture that his conquests spread. But, the Greeks were always there. They even fought on both sides of battles such as Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon and Necho of Egypt’s Battle of Carchemish, historical writers tell us.

 The Greeks were Javan, a word used seven times as Javan and also used for Greece and Grecia. Javan was a son of Japheth from Genesis 10.

 Zechariah 9:12 ¶  Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope: even to day do I declare that I will render double unto thee; 13  When I have bent Judah for me, filled the bow with Ephraim, and raised up thy sons, O Zion, against thy sons, O Greece, and made thee as the sword of a mighty man.

 Jeremiah 46:2  Against Egypt, against the army of Pharaohnecho king of Egypt, which was by the river Euphrates in Carchemish, which Nebuchadrezzar king of Babylon smote in the fourth year of Jehoiakim the son of Josiah king of Judah.

 Joel 3:6  The children also of Judah and the children of Jerusalem have ye sold unto the Grecians, that ye might remove them far from their border.

 Later, Christian Greek writers insisted that while Plato was uncertain of where Greek myth came from that it grew partly as a mixture of Hebrew belief with, for instance, based on his story, Hercules being a combination of Samson and Jonah. In the same respect the Greeks’ version of Hell, which they called Hades, consisted of a place of the damned and one of the blessed not far from each other.

 Christian writers used this reference to Hades as the root word from which our Hell is translated as the Bible uses words and concepts already understood from Greek culture to explain concepts that have a definite difference in meaning. A study can be made of different Greek words translated for wine or love that, in the context, have basically the same meaning in the Bible. But, the Greek mythology of the detail and story of Hades is a cultural creation and while perhaps based on Hebrew understandings went, like Roman Catholic and Eastern Orthodoxy way beyond any clear statements of the Bible. In other words, Greek mythology was created for cultural and political reasons using, in part, the Bible stories told by Hebrew captives and from Greek interaction with Hebrew culture as a foundation.

 This brings me to my point that perhaps Paradise was taken to Heaven by Christ. Many evangelicals claim this, that Paradise and Hell were side by side in the heart of the earth, as the Greeks would perhaps admit, but that after Christ preached He took Paradise to Heaven. The text does not explicitly say this, though. It is assumption based on assumption and presumption. It may be true but you would have a hard time arguing it from the revelation of the text itself just like you have a hard time arguing Calvinism and Arminianism, that people are created to go to Hell or Heaven and have no choice or that people can gain and lose their salvation repeatedly. The text doesn’t say so and can even seem contradictory if you stick to an “ism” when interpreting it so be careful coming up with a structure of thought about what the Bible is saying between the lines and then forcing the Bible to back up what you are saying.

 The text says that by this thief’s acknowledgement that Jesus is Lord He is promised that he will be in Paradise that day with Jesus. This reminds me of Jesus’ activity in healing. As healing was an immediate response to faith so here in Luke 23 so is salvation.

 Luke  8:48  And he said unto her, Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace.

 Luke 17:19  And he said unto him, Arise, go thy way: thy faith hath made thee whole.