#dammit Jimmy i blame u for this

[mildly-threatening-potado]

Can't even hear the damn taco bell ding anymore without a vivid mental image of that fat fucking cat falling off the wheelchair and that upsets me in a way i can't even explain

#idk why i keep getting them #im doing shit and then all of a sudden D o n g #dammit Jimmy i blame u for this #the Vibes of the image is fundamentally more sinister in my head and idk why #its just Different #i dont trust it #i thought it was just a hamster or some shit but nope O Lawd He Comin #im second guessing myself again is it even a C a t ??

[yourcroweater]

C o r r u p t

Chapter 2

A/N: this takes place in the first episode of season 5 of SoA. Chapter 3 will be set in episode 1 and 2. I’ll be taking some liberties when it comes to the time-line, I hope I don’t make a mess out of this lol. The lyrics are from Dark Nights - Dorothy

Tag list: @sam-samcro @telford-ortiz-teller @telfords-glasgow-smile @jaaxsoadeaanspn @i-was-made-of-nutella @dolphingoddess81 @i-am-the-luna @teller-telford-old-lady @dmagicreality @meggzz21 @i-like-it-heavy-so-i-can-panic @enjoy-the-destruction

“don't send me no angel, this city's too cold

cause I need a man with a black heart of gold

don't give me no lover, if he ain't got the stones

cause I need a man who will fight for his own.”

The sun was setting by the time I passed the Charming welcome sign. It hadn’t been hard spotting Charming in a map. Making my way there wasn’t hard either. It was an hour and a half drive through the I-580 according to Google Maps but I made it in a little less than an hour on my bike.

I would have left first thing in the morning if I wasn’t so damn tired. Those corpses Jimmy left for me took forever to clean up. Pieces of brain scattered everywhere -- I even found some on a far back wall -- and I had to make sure there was no evidence left behind.

I had taken an extremely long and necessary shower once I got to my loft, at almost 7am. I crashed on my bed totally naked afterwards, almost 9 in the morning then, still partially wet from my shower.

My whole body was sore from dismembering and carrying body parts and it took me forever to find a comfortable position in bed and finally sleep. I woke up at 4pm still feeling like shit. I tossed and turned all throughout my sleep and I hardly felt rested. This time, I blamed the nightmares on too much wine and on Taco Bell’s fat filled food -- but I knew better. I pushed it to the back of mind though. I could wallow in guilt later. Meeting my real father was more important than rethinking my sins.

Still, the guilt spoke louder and I found myself praying Our Father as I took the turn to leave I-580 and enter Charming town. I would have held the cross on my necklace if my hands weren’t on the clutch. My faith helped me constantly with my line of work and I always calmed down a little when I prayed. It would be good if I could find a church in Charming. I didn’t need to confess. Sunday mass was enough for me.

This time, however, I got a tad too distracted with my praying. I lost my grip on the bike for a second and I swayed on the street, earning several warning honks from cars. The honks startled me and I brusquely tried to straighten the motorcycle. A van had been trying to pass me on the right and when I swerved back into my lane it hit my side, sending me and the bike sliding against the road.

I landed on my side with my bike pinning me down. It took me a second to register the pain and start cursing. My left leg, the one under the bike, burned like a motherfucker and my left shoulder took most of the impact for my body. The car behind me hit the brakes, putting me face to face with its front bumper. There was big sticker on it that read ‘Jesus is my car insurance’. I doubted Jesus would cover the wreck if the guy had ran me over.

It was so ridiculous and ironic that I started laughing. God really had my back. I removed my helmet and threw it to the side still laughing.

“God fucking dammit,” I muttered to myself as I chuckled.

I looked down, trying to see the damage and wondering how much strength I would need to lift my Harley. As I tried to sit up so I could wiggle out from beneath the bike, I noticed three men jumping from their own Harleys and running my way. Bikers always helped it each other when it came to road troubles. Drivers rarely gave a shit, like the van driver who just took off after I went down.

“Hey hey, hold on,” called the first man ahead. He removed his helmet, revealing a mass of blonde hair.

I stopped moving so he and the other two men could lift my motorcycle.

“One, two, three,” the blonde guy counted and they pulled it up. I breathed out in relief once its weight was off me. The man with a big belly — made of beer and fried food, I supposed — kicked the footrest down so my bike could be propped up.

The third guy strode to me, offering me his gloved hand. I couldn’t see much of his face because the setting sun was right behind him, making him a silhouette. I grabbed my helmet with one hand before letting him pull me up to my feet.

I cursed under my breath once I was up. Pain flashed from my knee to my thigh and I stumbled. The man that pulled me up put his arm around me so I wouldn’t fall and I swung my arm around his shoulders so I could rest my weight on him.

“Ye okay, lass?” He asked. I looked curiously at him, trying to put a face to the Scottish accent, but the sun was in my eyes.

“Can’t say for sure,” I replied. I twisted my body a little so I could have a look at my leg. There was a mixture of red, black and grey and it took me a second to realise it was blood, asphalt and the colour of my jeans. It wasn’t gushing blood but it looked ugly. “Yeah, I’ll be fine, had worse before.”

“What happened?” Asked the blonde.

“I got distracted, it was my fault,” I explained. “Is she alright?” I pointed at my bike.

The fat guy checked it out from behind his blue sunglasses. “Yeah, she’s good. You took most of the fall. There’s a few scratches but we can fix it for you.”

Before I could say anything, the driver from the Crown Vic, the one with Jesus insurance, honked loudly at us. Fair enough, we were standing in the middle of the road but I had had an accident and I was hurt. I leaned past my Scottish saviour so I could give the driver my middle finger. The driver honked again and there was a collective raising of middle fingers from all of us this time and a loud “fuck off” from the fat guy.

“C’mon, let’s free up the road for that shithead,” the blonde said, nodding at the Scotsman and helping the other guy steer my Harley to a close lay-by.

I half limped, half hopped my way there with the aid of the man at my side. He was a few of inches taller than me, three or four inches I would guess, and he had to lean down a bit so I could rest my weight on him. I stole a glance at him -- actually, several glances, especially when I realised he was pretty good looking.

“Sit down,” he told me as he unhooked my arm from around him. I did as he said and sat down on my bike, hanging my helmet on the clutch and immediately looking up at him. He removed his sunglasses and met my eyes. I assumed my brain got overflowed with endorphins because I stopped feeling pain. Yeah, he was that hot. Mind numbingly and pain numbingly hot.

I noticed how hot the blonde guy was when he jumped off his bike but he was far too pretty for my taste. I liked my men ruggedly handsome, older and -- well from now on -- Scottish.

I stared at him and he stared right back. He had scars across his cheeks, I noticed -- hard to miss actually, and somehow it made him look sexier. It added to the whole dangerous and mysterious vibe he put out. He had a kutte on over a brown button-up shirt and I could read the patches if I squinted enough. Sons of Anarchy, Sgt. At Arms, Redwood Original. I stopped staring for a second so I could have a quick look at the other two men. All of them wore kuttes and the blonde one had a President patch. Rescued by a motorcycle club. Neat.

I turned my gaze back to the Scotsman. He tilted his head, his dark eyes meeting mine as a lopsided smile played on his lips. He was watching me with interest. In fact, I’d say he was checking me out. Good. I wasn’t being discreet about it -- when was I ever discreet with my flirting? Never, that’s when. I was laying on the ground a minute ago and here I was, lusting after my rescuer. And oh, there was a lot to lust after according to his tight jeans. I tried not to stare too hard at his crotch but it was difficult, especially because I was sat and he was right in front of me.

I managed to unglue my eyes from his junk and meet his eyes with a smirk. The blonde man cleared his throat. He was trying to hide his smile but he wasn’t being very good at it.

“Sorry. You said you guys can fix my bike for me?” I asked, trying to brush off the flirting.

“Yeah, there’s only a few scratches. We can paint it over at T-M but it’ll ruin the original paint job,” the guy with the blue glasses stepped forward as he spoke. He had long greying hair and a beard.

“T-M?”

“Teller-Morrow Automotive, our auto-shop,” the Scot supplied.

I felt all blood leave my face.

Of fucking course. I came to Charming looking for my real dad, knowing his name, where he worked and that he was criminal. And now I was face to face with bikers, probably criminals, who owned the place my father worked in. I knew I was bound to meet some uncomfortable truths about my dad but actually realising how close to it I was, scared me. Not only that, but I was flirting with some guy who could very well be my dad. He looked old enough.

Jesus. What if he was my dad? That would be extremely weird. But he couldn’t be my dad. My mother said I looked like him and I had nothing in common with the Scotsman.

I had to just get on with it and ask.

“You happen to know an Alexander Trager then?”

At first they stared at me, their eyebrows twitching as if they expected me to say more. When I didn’t, all three of them shifted on their feet while exchanging looks. None of them reacted to the name as someone would if they heard their own name, which calmed me a little.

“What’s yer name?” The Scotsman crossed his arms over his chest, all traces of his flirting gone.

“Giulia,” I said. He cocked his right eyebrow in response, prompting me to say more. “Giulia Lucchese.” He looked at the other two and they shook their heads. “Look, I get that you don’t know me but I just wanna talk to Trager.”

“Why?” the blonde asked, his baby blue eyes piercing mine.

It wasn’t hard to tell they were suspicious of me. I would be too if some stranger came around my town asking for a friend of mine.

I took a deep breath before opening my mouth.

“Because he’s my father.”

Blondie and Scot raised their eyebrows and Blue Sunglasses let out a chuckle. Life would be a bit easier right now if I at least knew their names. It’d be nice to be on first name basis if they were gonna judge me.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Blondie said, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“It’s not that hard to believe, Jax,” Blue Sunglasses scoffed. “It was bound to happen. The way Tig fucks around... I knew some lost kid was gonna pop up someday,” he shook his head to the sides, laughing. His eyes analysed me and he stopped laughing as if he just realised something. “You said Lucchese?” I nodded. “Ain’t that fucking great?” he looked up at the sky as if he was cursing God.

“What?” I asked along with Scot and Blondie (or Jax).

“Lucchese, as in Bianca Lucchese,” my eyebrows shot up upon hearing my mom’s name. “Remember her, Chibs?” Blue Sunglasses stopped so he could look at Scot. Chibs was his name? I doubted it, probably a nickname.

“Shit. Aye, I remember her. But now she’s… Fuck. Tig sure chooses them well.” He smoothed his greying hair back with both hands, looking frustrated.

“What?!” Jax shouted, his blonde eyebrows furrowed. Apparently he wasn’t a fan of being kept out of the loop. I was right with him in this one.

“Ye were a kid, Jackie boy. Ye don’t remember her. Bianca, yer mum,” he eyed me for a second, “was drivin’ on 580 when her car broke down and she called T-M fer a tow. Tig and Bobby went to pick her up…” he stopped and looked at Blue Sunglasses, who I deduced was Bobby.

“Bianca was real pretty. Italian accent. Tig was onto her the moment she spoke,” Bobby explained, rolling his eyes. I leaned forward, my injured leg long forgotten, eager to hear the details of how my mother and father met. I knew nothing, I’d take any information those bikers had to give me. “We fixed her car but she stayed in Charming for a month because of Tig. Bianca broke things up because Tig was divorcing Colleen and then she left to Oakland. Pregnant apparently,” he pointed at me. “Since Giulia is here now.”

“So? What’s the problem?” Jax asked.

“Bianca’s married to Jimmy Cacuzza now. Which makes her,” Bobby pointed one fat finger at me again, “Jimmy’s stepdaughter and italian mob.”

“No I’m not,” I replied instantly. Took me a second to realise they knew Jimmy Cacuzza. More than that, they knew he was mafia. The name meant something to them and right now it meant trouble. At best they had a good relationship with Jimmy and my, well, existing put them at odds. “Yes, I’m his stepdaughter but I have nothing to do with the mob.” Okay, I was sorta lying. “Look,” I stood up, ignoring the flash of pain that coursed through my leg, “until yesterday I didn’t know who my father was. I came here to get to know him, I don’t want to cause any problems. You guys clearly have, uh, a relationship with Jimmy and I don’t wanna get caught in between that. It’s not my fault who my mom fucked or who she got married to,” I shrugged. “I just wanna meet my real dad and if he doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. I’ll just go back to Oakland if that happens. But I’m not leaving until I get to at least see him.”

For a moment we all stared at each other. The sun had finished setting, leaving the California sky in a purplish shade. With the sun gone, the wind started picking up and the blood on my leg became cold as it dried. Headlights from cars passing on the I-580 were the the only source of light.

Finally, Jax nodded.

“Fine but you only get to talk to him after we’re sure you’re his daughter.”

“I’ll take a DNA test if you want me to,” I replied, sitting down again. I could have leaped in joy but my leg stopped me from doing that and I was not doing that in front of badass bikers. “I want to be sure, too.”

“Yeah, yeah. Until then, you’re not leaving our sight,” I was sure he was using his threatening voice, yet it had little effect on me. I just stared back. “Can you ride?” He looked from my leg to my bike.

“I’m good for riding but I should probably get this looked at later,” I said.

“My old lady is a doctor, she can check it out for you,” he walked to his bike, a Dyna Super Glide, and picked up his helmet. “You follow us out,” he commanded. No shit he was President, the man ordered people around like it was nothing. He could’ve said it nicely and I would follow them out anyway.

I was getting up to swing my leg over my Iron 883 when Chibs stepped forward, grazing my shoulder lightly with his hand.

“Yer leg’s still bleedin’. Ye have anythin’ to tie around it?” He frowned as he looked at the wound.

I could have drooled at this point. Not only was he hot, he was also caring. He was actually concerned about my leg. Yeah, he was making me horny with only that and that was a good skill to have.

“I have an old shirt in my saddlebag, you can use that,” I managed to say, pointing at the studded saddlebag attached to my motorcycle.

He bent down so he could open the saddlebag and retrieve my old over-sized Ozzy Osbourne shirt. I usually slept with it but apparently I wasn’t using it tonight, since it was going to be covered in blood. He united the two sleeves before squatting down in front of me. He wrapped it around my leg, staring dead straight into my eyes with his eyebrows arched. I bit my lip to stifle my smile as I watched him.

“Not how I imagined you going down on me,” I quipped. His hands stopped for a moment as he looked up at me, a grin appearing on his face. Bobby and Jax laughed as they mounted their bikes and then Chibs chuckled too. He finished tying my shirt and made sure the knot was secured.

“No need for a DNA test, Jax,” Bobby told him but he was looking at me. “After that one, she’s definitely Tig’s kid.”

Jax nodded, chuckling as he started his bike and soon his and Bobby’s laugh were drowned out by the Harleys’ powerful engines. I meant to ask what he meant by that -- was my dad a horndog like I was? -- but Chibs still had my attention.

He offered me my helmet after getting back on his feet and then leaned forward and gave me a wink paired with a smile. On top of everything else, he had dimples. To say my panties were soaked would be an understatement.

“Try to keep up with us, love,” he told me before turning his back on me and heading towards his own bike. His kutte had a nice design on the back with a reaper and an AK-47.

I tilted my head, my eyes fixed on his ass as he strode. Nice junk and a nice ass. He alone was reason enough for me stick around awhile. But I came to Charming with a purpose and that was to find my dad -- not a lover. I wouldn’t complain if it happened, though.

#sons of anarchy #soa #sons of anarchy fanfic #soa fanfic #chibs telford #jax teller #bobby munson #tig trager #gemma teller #clay morrow #happy lowman #juice ortiz #tara knowles #opie winston #corrupt #jessica de gouw

[one-deranged-son]

(This is Not) The Way of God

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language, description of violence, thoughts of suicide, torture, and a lot of things. Read at your own risk.

Honestly, I don’t really care about the grammar anymore because it’s been months since I write this so whatever.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

"Fucking hell."

The Revelator tighten the belt strapped in his thigh even more; pressing the open wound to prevent it from dripping another single drop of blood again. He had lost a lot of them today, yesterday, and the other days. He can't afford that again.

His vision started to get blurry and, god-fucking-dammit, even now he can't help but to curse out loud as he felt himself trembling like mad. He can't even hear the guttural noises in the background as the crowds screeched, screamed, and shouted for their dear life. Yet, the distinct smell of smoke—of burnt blood—of the remaining ashes—were pungent in his nose.

The Revelator pulled his feet close to his chest, biting his inner cheeks as he tried to handle the pain. It was really a suicide plan, to actually ambush his target in an open space when his shot wound hasn't healed just yet, and now he has to bear with another one which, unfortunately, was placed on his vital part of escaping plan.

Standing up hurts like a bitch.

"Motherfucker..."

He should've seen it on the first hand, his plan was somehow lacking of intel and as soon as he executes it, it was already going southward. Now he's stuck like a lost (feral) kitten inside a dark alley, far away from his home, with a burning building just outside his spot, and losing blood.

He's fucked, that's for sure.

John struggled to keep himself awake, but really, it's hard. And without even realizing it, everything turned black.

Motherfucker, indeed.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Ian Nashton stepped foot in New York City. 

But he wasn't there on a vacation—far from it, actually.

He was visiting his goddamned baby brother in a hospital.

Rewind to couple of days ago.

The younger Nashton mentioned that he had a convention in New York to attend to. 

All was well until the second night of his stay.

Ever heard of the saying "caught in the wrong place at the wrong time"? That's precisely what happened with Jansen. During the middle of the night, there was an explosion that originated a couple of rooms adjacent to Jansen's. 

That side of the building almost immediately caught fire, and of course, the younger Nashton and many others were injured. But many more lost their lives because they were (somehow) asleep during the fire or they have been rendered unconscious by carbon monoxide. 

Jansen was no stranger to things blowing up. Explosions often happen in his lab; whether done deliberately as a demonstration, or an accident. 

Miraculously, he's never gotten seriously injured from from those explosions, nor have they ever claimed anyone's lives. Perhaps because they tend to be smaller in scale than the hotel explosion. It also helps that Jansen had his lab built some distance away from residential areas.

Jansen's injuries weren't too extreme (compared to some other survivors), there were some minor burns on his limbs, some cuts from splintered wood, a sprained ankle and a broken arm—which he got because he tripped down the emergency stairs.

However, in the eyes of Ian Nashton, it wasn't just the injuries hat got him worried. What got him worried was the attack. More specifically, WHO was behind it.

Without a shadow of a doubt, the detective knew who was behind the attack. It was glaringly obvious. Unfortunately, New York wasn't his area, so he could only leave it to NYPD.

At the very most, he could leave an anonymous tip.

As soon as the news dropped, Ian immediately packed and booked an express ticket to New York—he had dropped Monty by Jeffrey's place because he wasn't exactly sure how long he'd stay in New York. 

Back to the present, now.

The doctor told the brothers that Jansen could leave within two weeks.

"Oi. I'm gonna go out and look for food, okay? Do you want anything?" Ian asked.

"Borax." Jansen said in a groggy tone. Obviously, he was joking. That man sometimes say the stupidest of things. Such irony for a mind so brilliant. Maybe he's gotten a little loopy from his meds.

Ian sighed loudly and grabbed his hat. "What the fuck. I'll get you a burger, then."

Jansen responded with a tired hum. By now, the detective was out of the room already.

Once outside, Ian took out his phone and dialed a number—hoping that the person would pick up immediately.

After a few seconds, the call was picked up. Thank the stars.

"Hello, detective! Did you hear about—"

"—the explosion at Roosevelt Hotel? Yeah. I did. My brother was caught in that damn explosion. It's him, it's glaringly obvious. I'm in New York right now, but I need a favor. Tell me everything you know so far about the attack."

As he walked and talked, Ian had a faint scowl on his face—he was sure agent Moore could hear it through the call.

"Well, our victim is Anton Pavlov. He's a small time politician from Russia—known for his love of gambling and infidelity. Now also known for getting burnt to a crisp." There were some quick rustling of paper on the other side, agent Moore was probably reviewing his notes. "Often frequents the United States on so called business trips, when in actuality, he was taking part in high stakes gambling."

Ian groaned loudly and massaged one side of his temple with his free hand. "As if relations between these two countries weren't bad enough, right? God damn it. He's getting balls-y." 

"I'm sure that thanks to the publicity he's gotten, the Russian government would have known who he is by now. This could mean trouble."

Agent Moore was right. It could. 

"Also. One more thing. A couple of days before this, Jimmy Carter—not the former president, obviously—was murdered and his mansion burnt down. And get this, Carter had similar vices to Pavlov."

"Um… thank you. Listen, I'll call you back later, okay? Keep me updated… if you can." With that, Ian ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket. 

The detective wasn't actually sure where he was headed. He said he wanted to get food, but his main intention was to take some fresh air and talk to the agent. Ian didn't want his younger brother to know because he'd probably worry about Ian instead of himself. 

(To be fair, Ian had only recovered from his own injuries recently)

Now, the detective walked through the streets aimlessly. He was deep in thought, indicated by the frown on his face.

A couple of days back, Jimmy Carter was crucified, and his mansion was burnt down. Then, after that, Anton Pavlov was burnt alive—like Dick Foster—and his hotel room exploded. 

The fact that these attacks occurred within a short time frame made it seem as if the Revelator already had everything planned—as if he had a list. Ian thought that he wouldn't be surprised if by tomorrow, someone else would become deranged Jesus' next victim.

Just his luck.

Ian didn't need to wait until tomorrow—because he heard the faint but familiar sound of sirens. Police, ambulance and firefighters all combined together in that all too familiar cacophony. When the detective looked up, he could see a glow of blue, red, white and orange—as he walked closer, he could hear people screaming and he could smell it. 

Smoke, burnt flesh, ashes—you name it. 

Sure enough, there was a burning building a few blocks away. What building it was, Ian wasn't even sure, the flames had consumed the sign, and Ian wasn't a New Yorker, so he didn't know for sure. If he had to guess, he'd guess that it was an apartment complex.

Even in the midst of all the chaos, the detective's senses were sharp as ever.

He noticed something moving in a dark alleyway. Too big to be an animal. It must be a person. At first, he thought it must have been a homeless person, but as he walked closer, he could hear a faint grunting and… cursing?

Someone's hurt. 

Instinctively, Ian rushed into the alley. He used his phone's flashlight to make it easier for himself to see. "Hello? Are you—"

Oh.

F U C K. 

It's the goddamned Revelator himself. Curled up in a dark alley with some sort of wound on his thigh. Ian nearly dropped his (new) phone, but the detective quickly regained his composure and for a brief moment, he only saw red.

The thought of his younger brother in hospital crossed his mind. His younger brother who had absolutely NOTHING to do with the Revelator was now hurt.

He thought of Sam. How the poor man had to rely on a cane as he recovers from his leg injury, also caused by the Revelator.

He thought of poor Jeffrey. His dominant hand just happened to be the one that got broken. The poor man's productivity was greatly affected because of it.

He thought of Thomas and his family—how they could have lost him that day.

He thought of himself. And what the Revelator has done to him.

Can you blame Ian for wanting revenge?

Ian lowered his hat so it concealed his face, just in case the Revelator wakes up. 

For a brief moment, the detective felt nothing but pure hatred and anger. He considered taking one of the arsonist's weapons and just… end the poor bastard's life then and there. 

It seemed so easy. 

There were no cameras, and there were some bins they could hide behind. NYPD would probably shrug off the case, anyway. The Revelator had been a thorn in their side lately, no?

Actually…

Forget murder and revenge, Ian could even just leave him there to bleed out.

Fortunately, his conscience finally came through.

What he was going to do instead isn't ideal either. But at least (hopefully) the Revelator would still be alive. 

Ian sent his current address to agent Moore's number, along with a text which read:

'I found him. Please send someone here ASAP. He's injured, by the way, so bring a medic along.'

The detective left the dark alley and blended in with some of the bystanders. He only had to wait a measly half an hour before a black sedan parked near the alley. Out came a short man with ginger hair and freckled face. 

That must be agent Lewis. Agent Moore wasn't in New York at that moment, but he said he'd drop by as soon as possible.

Ian watched as the ginger man discreetly walked into and out—with the Revelator—of the alley. The two men were now in that sedan, and before Ian knew it, the car had driven off to who knows where.

Perhaps now would be a good time to get that burger for his brother.

That night, Ian had returned to Jansen's room, and he brought a burger along, just like he promised. When he got back, he found Jansen sitting up in his bed and playing on his phone, the younger man was probably updating his followers about his current situation.

"Got your burger." Ian dropped the paper bag on his brother's lap.

"Took you long enough. There was a McDonald's just down this street! Where the hell were you, man? I was starving here!"

How ungrateful he was, but Ian only rolled his eyes in response.

"Actually, I went the long way. I... uh... I saw the Revelator."

"YOU WHAT?!" Jansen screamed, it looked as if he was ready to jump out of his bed.

"Hey, relax. I'm not hurt. He was, though. I found him in some alley. Unconscious." A part of Ian didn't want to tell this story to Jansen, but they've always shared things with each other, so Ian grabbed a chair and sat next to the younger's bed.

"He was so vulnerable, J. I... I wanted to... you know... kill him. Right there." There was a slight look of shame on the detective's face.

"But you didn't, because you don't like the idea of taking someone else's life." Even if it was Ian's own. Jansen always found it a little puzzling, but who was he to judge?

"No, I uh... I gave him up to the authorities. But... still. The thought crossed my mind. Even if he's a notorious fugitive, I'm pretty sure in that circumstance, it would count as murder. So..."

"Yeah, well... terrible thoughts cross everyone's minds from time to time. But if you don't act on it, that doesn't make you a bad person."

Ian had began to smile, his brother can be so wise sometimes, and the detective was damn proud of that.

"What DOES make you a bad person, however... is the fact that you forgot to ask for extra pickles on my burger, you blithering idiot!" Jansen finished his whining by throwing a pillow to Ian's face.

The elder Nashton retaliated by groaning and throwing the pillow back. 

How he missed these banters.

John

"Wake up."

Truth be told, John couldn't even understand those words. He just felt like it was the word being said in front of his fucking salad when a cold water splash his face.

Hey, this pattern is familiar.

He actually jerked up straight, mind blaring sirens and drove his whole mind on full alert mode. His eyes were still blurry out of the blood loss, and his limbs hurt like shit, but it wasn't just his feet now who feels as if it was refusing to move. It was his arms too.

"Hello, John."

Oh. Oh, not again.

John groaned, low and guttural as the realization hit him. He was still high from the pain, the tranquilizer (maybe), and from, basically, everything. He could barely see anything clearly, but, although John ain't an observer, he could understand what kind of shit he is in to.

The room was every shade of gray, from the cold concrete to the bland ceilings. Every corner was sharp and straight, and there was a bulb hanging just on top of his head, threatening to fall down as it dangles left and right without the actual consent of his worrisome heart towards the future impact.

At this point of time, someone had began to speak. And, holy fuck, John couldn't even understand what he means as his hearing only caught some faint "Hello", "Interrogation", and "Do you understand?"

No, he doesn't understand at all.

He knew that the room was jammed and somehow... crowded. He recognized the man behind the prior questions, and he was sitting in front of him. John couldn't make up his face as his eyes were still hazy and the room was poorly lit. Then there were two more people beside him on a tactical gears and were heavily armed. He can obviously see where this shit is going.

And with how this goddamn stranger keeps asking question, things just doesn't better.

So now all John did was groan softly as he tried to gain his composure back, because everything was too quick for him, but not enough for them. And he knew that because while John is sitting still, barely budging and saying any coherent word, he could feel the strand of his hair getting yanked behind and some loud "answer me!" before some blows were landed in his face.

Repeatedly. Over and over again.

At least take off your ring, goddamit.

"What's your name?"

"Who's on your list?"

"Is there anyone involved besides you?"

At one time there were fingers around his throat, at one time he was forced to stare right into that face full of wrinkle, and at another time he realized that maybe he should cut his hair soon because they're enjoying this shit too much. Kinky.

But he refused to answer. Even as he regained his full focus, he didn't answer. He wouldn't even give them the satisfaction of seeing him whimper or react.

So the Revelator sat still, letting the man fuck the shit outta him as he bit down his inner cheeks. 'Cause even though he didn't say anything, it didn't mean he didn't feel any pain.

It hurt like a goddamn bitch.

Ian Nashton

The next morning, Ian told Jansen that he had to go somewhere, something about seeing an old a friend.

He wasn't completely lying, but the full truth was that during the middle of the night, Ian Nashton received a text from agent Moore. The latter invited the former to meet in a certain location.

It was regarding the Revelator, who was now in their custody.

Ian was THRILLED to be invited. So, like going out to see an old friend, Ian dressed in his best suit, complete with a matching hat.

It may be a little extra, but hey, if you're going to see someone who (probably) thought you were dead, you might as well go all out.

When the detective reached the building, he was greeted by agents Moore and Lewis. Seeing them side by side was always a treat, because agent Moore was (freakishly) tall, whilst agent Lewis was short.

"We have provided the things that you asked for. Although... I'm still confused as to why you want them." Agent Moore explained as he led the detective down a flight of stairs.

"It's a Chicago thing."

It took some convincing, but Ian was allowed to be in the room alone with the Revelator.

When he entered, the room was pitch black, just the way he wanted it to be.

Ian can be such a theatrical bastard sometimes.

He felt around for the chair and sat down. Then the light flickered on.

"Hello, John."

And there he was.

The Revelator.

Restrained securely in his chair. He was all battered and bruised, looking so pale and tired. Confused and dazed.

Ian feigned a look of pity as he observed the other man's injuries.

"You don't look so good. I guess my friend's men really roughed you up, huh?"

Ian glanced to the left of the room and smiled thinly when he saw a telephone book and a baton.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not quite dead, John. As a matter of fact, I'm very much alive." Ian finished his sentence by patting John on the cheeks, purposefully hitting the latter's bruises.

ㅤㅤ

John

God knows how many hours had he passed out in the most painful position ever existed. When those bastards decided to leave the room and switched the lights off, John knew that he won't meet whomever they told him anywhere soon. So after a moment of short whining and groaning, John decided to sleep.

He deserved that good nap.

Wrong.

John could barely register the very fact that the jammed door had started to budge and gave this annoying, heavy creak. It took him a moment to regain his consciousness, until there come a flash of light and, really, it didn't do any good but to blind his eyes out.

His breath hitched when the heard the anonymous steps closer to him, and well, although John knew he's probably going to die in this miserable room, nothing had managed to cause his heart to beat so furiously except for a cheery voice.

That cheery voice.

"Detective," he whispered, unable to contain the soft chuckle or the slight tremble in his voice. He didn't know if it was because of pain or something else. But at this point of time, John knew that he's not going to die.

It's going to be ten times worsen with Ian fucking Nashton and his fancy hat.

"You look nice."

John glanced towards the man who had purposely hit the bruise on his cheek. ‘What an asshole,’ he thought, as he flashed a playful smirk towards the nosy detective. He was about to say something that might annoy him, again, but John figured out that by sealing his lips as secure as possible might be his best option—for now.

Especially after his eyes caught the slight glint of a baton and... a phone book

Seems like he ain't the only one losing his mind.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"You don't." Ian shot back almost immediately, his voice was laced with venom and hatred, yet his face remained neutral.

The detective removed his hat and placed it on the table. 

"Tsk, you're getting reckless, John. Going after foreign politicians, now? You could've started a war, you know?" 

The detective held back his smile. He wanted to play his cards right, because he's gotten a couple of things he could use against John.

Physical methods wouldn't work on John, Ian already knew that, but he knew things no other interrogators do.

But for now, he'll just get his revenge, physically.

"You've hurt my brother, John." Ian stated coldly. The detective stood up and walked towards the baton and telephone book. He never condoned using physical beatings during an interrogation, but after what John has put him and his friends through, he would make an exception.

"I can hold this book to the side of your head and use the baton at full swing, it'd hurt like hell, but it won't leave a mark. Would you like a demonstration?"

He didn't even wait for an answer. The detective did as he described, he held the phone book to the side of John's head and hits the arsonist with the baton at full swing. The resulting impact sound was loud, and it echoed through the room.

Ian was in disbelief for a moment, but truth be told, he's always wanted to do that. 

"Work with me, John. Tell me who's your next target." Another hit, harder than the last one.

The detective's voice had gone lower, angrier, and more aggressive. 

The detective has been penting up his frustrations and anger ever since he got out of the hospital.

He felt small then, but now? Now he wanted John to feel small. 

ㅤㅤ

John

Russian and brother. It didn't take a long time for John to realize that Ian's hatred wasn't exactly directed to the fact he literally almost started a war. And it was true that he was very reckless 'bout that, but John knew damn well that wasn't the reason.

Detective Ian fucking Nashton just wanted a revenge because of his brother.

So much for just.

John knew what's coming at him, and he wasn't entirely surprised when a full land blew across his face. His face closed in a grimace, its skin pale, clammy, and goddamn bruised. Every few minutes his mind begged so he could scream, like those guys in any Tarantino movie that was being tortured, but he can't. And this shit is worse.

So much worse.

John ain't letting the bastard get the satisfaction to see him scream, groan, or even hear a single fucking whine.

The detective didn't even let him answer as another hard blow hits his already bruised cheeks. Searing pain pulsated around the wound, intensifying the cut like a goddamn bitch. With every hit, his muscle quivered, twitched, making him jolt in surprise. The black mists swirled at the edges of his eyes, but John ain't going to answer.

He just tilted his head, and smiled.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's true. This was mostly revenge, though having other reasons helped his conscience.

Blow after blow, the detective hadn't stopped. Perhaps after John did the same thing to him, something dark in him might have awakened, and it showed its ugly face now.

So much hatred, so much anger.

It was consuming him.

And then there's that smile again. Ian dropped the baton and used the phone book to hit John directly on the face—he wanted to wipe the smile off of that bastard's face.

If the chair wasn't so sturdy, John would probably have been knocked backwards by the blow. 

The detective slammed the phone book on the table, and he sat on the edge of it. 

He'll take a break and change tactics now.

"Playing this game again, are you, Mr. Monsoon? That's your name, isn't it? Or at least, it's the name that you took. You're not the real John Monsoon, he died in the late nineties. Agent Moore was there. You remember him, don't you?"

The detective was so, /so/ kind to brush John's hair away from his face.

"After all, you were the fourth shooter on that day, weren't you? John Monsoon—the real one, Cole Hedlund, Paul MacCullagh… and… you."

Ian wasn't a hundred percent sure yet, but the trick was to appear confident. And he was confident. 

"I'll ask for your real name, but you're probably just going to smile at me. You know, I admire your strength. I really do. We're alike in that respect. But I can see it—your body's beginning to tremble. How long will it be until you finally crack?" 

ㅤㅤ

John

Another blow landed on his face, another pain in the goddamn ass.

John was stumbling now, and he thanked the God for the fucking chair because everything was fading. And it hurts. Holy fucking shit, it hurt like a goddamn bitch but John sat quietly. Nothing can ever fucking wipe the smug on his face.

That, until, the goddamn detective stopped his movement, stared intently at him, and said the word, ‘Monsoon’. But it's nothing new. After all, he literal crave those words on the detective's skin.

And John was about to flash that goddamn grin again when it finally hits him.

"John Monsoon."

"Cole Hedlund."

"Paul MacCullagh."

Something new. Not his name.

His foster parents' name.

John eyes blown wide.

Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not ask a shit to the goddamn CIA, or the FBI, or any other shit, but he's alive. Ian fucking Nashton should've been dead and not know about John Monsoon, Cole Hedlund, or Paul MacCullagh, but he's alive.

And he knows.

He's fucked.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now it was Ian's turn to smile. 

It was genuine, you could even call it sweet.

His deduction was right. The man in front of him /was/ the fourth shooter. 

John didn't even need to say anything—his reaction said it all. 

"Gerard, old friend! He really was your fourth shooter." 

The detective wasn't sure where it was, but he knew there's a device somewhere in this room that'd allow others on the outside to listen in.

The detective turned his attention back to John. He grabbed the man's chin oh so gently and tilted his head up.

"Are you ready to talk now, or do I have to spill all your secrets first, hmm?"

Ian leaned in closer, until his lips were mere centimeters away from John's ear. He whispered, so only the two of them can hear what was being said.

"Trust me, John. They're better off between me and you than with them."

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't even get himself to be disgusted or anything by the sudden contact. He was far too distracted with multiple set of ‘what’ and ‘how’ and just, ‘why?’

Even now calling himself as John feels so wrong. It felt so weird in his own mind because deep down he know that name wasn't his. The Revelator wasn't ‘his’. It was never his and it should have never been his, but, fucking hell, what are the odds

When the detective lifted his head ever so slowly so now that bastard could clearly see how John's pupils had shrunk so badly, he wished he could just back away and lift that usual smug grin of his, but he froze. Heavens, he froze.

That fucking grin had faltered away and now it's planted on Ian fucking Nashton's annoying face.

That son of a bitch.

John would rather bite his motherfucking tongue off and be a mute than having to talk. 'Cause no matter what the fucking detective said, no matter how good and relishing that goddamn offer sounded in his ears, nothing—for fuck's sake—nothing will actually get better.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Perhaps something had changed in the detective ever since that incident at the barn—but Ian hadn't realized yet.

The detective landed a sudden, full-blown slap across John's face and exhaled forcefully.

"That was for trying to burn me alive. Nice try, though."

Beating with a baton and telephone book for what John did to his brother, and a slap for what he did to the detective himself.

"Anyway. John, Paul, and Cole. Most people would wonder what your connection to them is, but by process of elimination, /I/ know that they'd have to be a parental figure of some kind. Why else would a teenager be with three grown men?"

There could be other reasons, but Ian had crossed those out already.

"I also know that John Monsoon—the one that died—must be the one you were closest to. Because you took HIS name. Not Paul's, not Cole's. But John's." 

The detective had backed away by now, and he was idly flipping through the pages of the telephone book. Occasionally, he did glance at John, just to see if the latter had changed expressions.

"He must be the one you considered a father. I mean, you took his identity, not just as John, but also as the Revelator. He taught you. And you hold him in high regards, I'm sure."

ㅤㅤ

John

The fact that detective Ian fucking Nashton known about the holy trinity shocked him, but it didn't leave that much of an impression. After all, they were long gone. What does that have to do with John? It might shake him a little, but it ain't gonna make him tremble forever.

At this point of time, it wasn't even surprising to him anymore that all of the deductions were right, yet of course, he won't ever, ever, ever say that in front of his face.

Despite having beaten up like a pulp, John still managed to reply. Not directly, though, fuck that silent treatment. Now he's rolling his eyes 'cause he's really irritated and, gosh, if only John ain't having his arms and legs tied up, he might have smacked the detective's head so hard, just to make him shut his mouth.

But neither sentence nor a single word slipped from his mouth. John has been kind enough to his own self for letting him whine or groan or just sorta respond to the surprising slap. Yet he still didn't speak a thing. Even without having him to talk, the detective just keeps talking and John figured out that he might as well let him do that rather than spilling all the tea.

Instead, John giggled. A quiet and short one, just to see if it could taunt the detective even more.

My, oh, my. It might hurt him like a bitch, but seeing how desperate someone could look even if it was hidden beneath a triumphant smile surely bring some pride to blossom in his chest.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

There's that giggle again. That brief yet fucked up giggle he couldn't shake off ever since the barn incident. 

        He hated it.

But Ian kept his attention to the phone book, as if he was looking for something. 

"You're giggling now, but I know something that they don't. Something very precious to you."

The detective's finger stopped at an address in the phone book. He tapped it a couple of times before showing it to John.

"You recognize this address?" Ian asked, that smile was back on his face.

       A sweet but knowing smile.

Of course John would recognize it.

It was the address of Peter's school.

"I know who they are." The detective suddenly closed the telephone book shut, it made a loud thud which echoed through the room. 

"Peter's a bright kid, you know? I was helping him solve the murder of his classmate whilst you were wreaking havoc in my town. Has he ever mentioned that?" 

The detective flicked John's forehead with his fingers and chuckled to himself. 

"He probably already knows, if not from his own investigations, then the news. He probably doesn't know the full truth, though, hm? I wonder what he would say if he knew more than what he knows now? If he knew that you kidnapped me and tried to burn me alive? If he knew that you've hurt Jansen?" 

The detective got off from the table and returned to his seat across from John.

"What would he say if he knew that you might have just started a war because you were so reckless? I know about them, John. Your family."

The detective adjusted the position of his glasses. His smile was now gone, and instead, there was a cold expression on his face. 

He actually only knew about Peter, but part of it all is to let the enemy think you know more—to keep a poker face. Just as he was doing now.

"Now they know, too."

Ian gestured at the door, referring to the agents that may be outside.

"So, John. Are you still keen on playing the silent game?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John was leaning away, whatever the bastard is showing him, he doesn't really care.

Hell, he thought as if it was easy to actually read without a proper lighting. But when the book echoes around the room and the detective said "I know who they are", John's heart skipped a beat.

"Peter's a bright kid, you know?"

And that's what it takes for John to still, again. Eyes blowing wide, but his mouth isn't shut. John's jaw was slack. His face fell faster than Humpty Dumpty with a cement boots.

He could feel his brain stutters for a moment and every part of him went on pause while his thoughts were struggling to catch up. And when the detective pointed at the door, the notorious Revelator feels as if his blood were drained to the last bit.

It was hard to breathe.

"Shut up," he whispered, his voice sounded as if there were ropes coiled around his neck.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

That look of terror on the Revelator's face somehow brought positive feelings to the detective, and he laughed.

He was amused, though still in disbelief that he managed to shake they infamous Revelator.

Him, a four eyed detective with good connections and observation skills.

"What was that, John? I can't hear you."

As a matter of fact, he did hear it, but he wanted to hear it again. After minutes of silent treatments, John finally began to crack. Even if it wasn't anything useful.

       He cracked.

"You had your chance, you know. I really didn't want it to come to this, but you were so stubborn." The detective slammed his hand on the table—as if about to begin an outburst, but he inhaled slowly.

"You were priding yourself on being able to keep quiet, but… look what it has come down to. That's selfishness, John. Even /I'm/ not like that."

ㅤㅤ

John

"Shut up," he whispered again, lower, quieter, and it was even barely inaudible 'cause he knew that the goddamn detective could hear himself crystal clear.

And John was about to keep it like that, but as time went by, the laughter just makes his blood boil and his skin scorching and the piercing headache just made him want to rip himself apart, 'cause after all this time, after facing into countless of a problem either caused by himself or by some other useless fuckstains, this is the first time John felt so hopelessly useless.

"Shut up, shut up, shut the HELL up!"

He barked, eyes glaring as if he was trying to drill a hole into the other's face, and teeth gritted as if he had been staring at the devil himself. There was no softness in that gaze. It was a look that conveyed a bubbling hatred. Disgust perhaps.

The chain rattled as he jolted his body forward, perhaps almost stumbling but the urge to bite the latter's neck off was so fucking irresistible. He doesn't give a damn fuck if those things are going to leave a mark, he doesn't give a damn fuck about anything.

Except for his kids.

And it's a real flaw,

Now he's failing 'cause of it.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Finally, there's that reaction he's been waiting for. The Revelator was no longer the one smiling—the detective was.

Ian leaned away when John tried to lunge forward, though there's still a (smug) smile on the detective's face.

The Revelator may have broken people with his fists, his guns and his knives. But Ian Nashton has broken plenty of other criminals through his words and wits alone.

The pen is truly mightier than the sword.

"Peter mentioned the name Andre a lot—that's his friend, no?" The detective closed his eyes and visualized the Revelator's living room again, he visualized the socks scattered in the room.

"A son and a daughter. You took them in, they might have been dropped by your doorstep, but you began to care more and more for them. Somehow balancing a suburban life and being the Revelator. Until… I came around. Now, history has its eyes on you."

The detective crossed one leg over on top the other.

"Piece by piece, bit by bit. I unraveled you, John. You once told me that I should be afraid of you—but I think it should be you who's afraid."

And he knew, deep down, John was afraid. If not for himself, then for his kids.

"Let me ask you a riddle: I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one but priceless to two. What am I?"

The detective has never really felt like this before. He felt so… powerful.

And he didn't wait for an answer.

"Love. For some, it can be their strength. But for others, it can be their weakness. What is it for you, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John's nose flared. He could barely breath due to the immense sensation on his lungs. His mind was clouded, his chest heaving heavily with every breath he took, and now his heart beating furiously against his ribcage, threatening to jump out and breaking away all his bones.

In another situation, John would shrug at the question, but now he's just furious. The once soft panic had grown into a turmoil inside his mind, swirling against his thoughts into a vortex of impulsiveness and stupidity. He found himself gnawing the inside of his cheeks until the taste of blood filled his mouth, and yet, John can't help but to stare intently at his captor and bark some more.

"Compared to the probability of me getting outta here alive, there's a bigger chance I would die on this shit hole," he begins, never for once his eyes left the other's sinister gleam. Just by letting the hatred slip into his brain already makes his breathing rapid and shallow. John can feel his pulse pounding in his temples.

"But lemme tell you what, detective. If I do manage to get the fuck out of here, I will let you know, 'cause that would be the day when no aid will come at you. Hell will be naked before you and destruction has no covering upon your fucking, pretty face. And just when you thought you were safe behind those closed walls with your fucking FBI dogs, I will proof you wrong, sweetheart. You know who I am, baby, you know who the Revelator is. With a donkey's jawbone I have made donkeys of them. With a donkey's jawbone I have killed a thousand men. But I ain't gonna start by killing you first, oh no, I will fill your mountains with the dead. Your hills, your valleys, and your streams will be filled with people slaughtered by the sword. I will make you desolate forever, sweetheart. And when the last light burns out in your dense skull, I’ll be there to inhale the smoke that comes from your fucking burnt bones."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

To any normal person, those threats alone would send shivers down their spine.

But detective Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person by any means. He always smiled and kept his head up in the face of danger.

So he smiled. As if John had just told him the sweetest of words instead of threats. 

It helped that he knows that he has some sort of leverage over John. With his knowledge and connections, Ian was certain he'd have more. 

"My dearest John," he began, "I know exactly who you are. Maybe better than you know yourself. But you don't know me—not as well as I know you—or what /I/ am capable of. With what I know about you, and your family… are you really willing to risk that?"

The detective's eyes darted towards one corner of the room, where he assumed the microphone would be. 

He knows that there was at least one agent on the other side.

"One of his kids' name's Peter Brown. I've talked to him. Nice kid—you wouldn't believe the Revelator's his father. Anyway, I'm sure he won't mind to have a little chat."

The detective returned his gaze to the man sitting in front of him. The expression on the detective's face was cold and unfeeling—perhaps John could even see the darkness behind those spectacles.

        It was unlike himself.

"Are you just going to continue making threats, John?"

ㅤㅤ

John

Any normal person would just back off, but John has always known that Ian Nashton wasn't a normal person. If any way, John is most likely to be digging his own grave for blabbering too much, but there's no pain in trying, right?

Seems like he was wrong.

When the words started to roll from the latter's lips, John had anticipated for the words outcome. But he didn't anticipate... this.

When the goddamn detective flicked his eyes towards the corner of the room, John's bowel dropped. And not just that, when he starts mentioning Peter's full name, he felt the world shatter around him. He wasn't even sure if his heart had skipped another one or two beats or whether it was thumping so fast to the point it feels like nothing at all.

"Y—you're a monster."

He choked, biting his lips so hard as he struggled to keep himself from stammering too much. God forbids him from trembling, but as the gut-wrenching sobs tore through his chest, he just couldn't help himself. John could feel his head spinning around when the realization finally hit him; those cold eyes are giving it away.

He had just reached the end of his fall.

"You're worse than the devil himself."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"That's rich, coming from the man who has a tendency to burn people alive. That's not even the worst of your crimes, is it? You're the one that has tortured and murdered people. You're the one that caused needless deaths and destruction. You're the one that has raped that poor woman," Ian scoffed, disgusted. 

"And yet, /I'm/ the monster? For what? All I said was that I'm sure Peter would LOVE to have a chat to us about his dear old dad. Fine, maybe today I've used more extreme methods with the telephone book and baton. But it pales in comparison to what you have done. Aside from that… our time together here has been perfectly legal."

Truth be told, Ian felt a slight guilt when John began to sob. But he's built himself up to this moment now, and the detective kept that cold expression. 

"Maybe in your twisted little world, I am worse than the devil. And so what? Do you see yourself as a saint? I doubt it, but it'll be laughable if you did."

Somehow, this was no longer really an interrogation anymore, but more of a 'break The Revelator' session.

"I'm an agnostic man, if you haven't noticed. So go on, threaten me with hell all you want. Because I don't believe in it."

The detective wasn't done yet. Oh no.

"I would have left you in that alley to bleed out that night. I don't know if you remember. But I helped you—I WANTED to help ou. For Peter's sake, anyway. He loves you very much, surely he'd be devastated if he saw that you've been found dead in some dark alley."

The detective stood up and leaned over the table, and he pointed to the other man accusingly.

"YOU were so stubborn, though. Even more stubborn than I had been. We tried so hard to work with you, but you were just so arrogant and prideful, weren't you? Like I said, I REALLY didn't want to pull this card, but you brought this upon yourself, John."

The detective crossed his arms and scoffed once more.

"This. Is. YOUR. Fault."

ㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't the type to deny the truth. Hell, how could he? All of his shit has been exposed to the rest of the world. Even recently, he saw a blog dedicated to him, the Revelator himself.

And although John could actually manage to say that he's doing it for the people's own good, although he could actually say that everyone he had ever slaughtered like a lamb had given one chance to change, although John could actually tell the detective that the police sucked bad so he decided to do anything by himself, John didn't. Not that it mattes now.

What matters now is now the official knows about his kids, and that was due to the courtesy of Ian Nashton.

John didn't even bother to contain the choked out sobs as he feels his eyes starting to burn, surely he had brought this all to himself, but who knows that the detective could be this petty?

Using his kids to blackmail him, heh, so must for just.

He started chewing on his lower lip and his eyes welled up with tears. Pitiful as it sounds, John was on the edge. He knows he had failed one thing he desperately try to do.

"Yet you haven't seen me punishing a son for his father's crime," he whispered.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective sat on the table again, and he grabbed John's chin to lift the man's head. Just with one glance, he could see that there were tears in the other man's eyes.

      He did this.

He reduced the Revelator to tears. 

He wasn't proud of it, though. He knows it isn't the most clean of methods, but the detective doesn't consider this to be straight up blackmail. He'd call it… persuasion.

Blackmail is the act of demanding money or another benefit from someone in return for not revealing compromising information about them.

Ian hasn't actually done that—but he wanted John to think that he did.

      (He had to do what he had to do)

And it seemed to work. He reduced the fearsome Revelator to tears by mere words.

The detective actually felt genuine pity for John.

John looked so pathetic.

The detective took out his pocket square and gently patted John's eyes dry. For a moment, that cold gaze was gone, replaced by something more affable. Caring, even.

He lowered his voice, so only the two of them could hear it. The detective made an effort to sound kinder, too—it was as if he had become a different person.

"Tsk, tsk. /I/ never said anything about punishing him. You see, I'm not in charge here. But those guys out there? Who knows what they'll do? Agent Moore is one of the best men here that I've ever met. But as for the rest of them, I can't say the same thing." Ian placed the fabric on his lap and once again brushed John's hair away from his face. "It's your fault, yes, but you have a chance to fix it. To make it right. Cooperate and answer the questions you have been asked. It's simple, isn't it?"

The detective folded the fabric neatly and placed it back where it was. He took his hat and idly brushed his thumb across the fabric.

"Then we can get you help. Professional help. Think about it, John. You could live normally amongst society. With your kids—you don't have to do any of this anymore."

Ian let out yet another sigh, "I'm sure your children would like that too. Not having to deal with you being absent, or in jail. Think about it, John. Because once I'm out of here, I don't think I can help you anymore."

ㅤㅤ

John

At some point of time, John knew he has to say something. He highly doubted that the detective will let him slide that easily without getting any answer, especially since he had thrown all the cards at him. He had come this far, why would he stop?

But it still leaves a huge question mark on his head. Some people might be able to pull some strings for him, but it won't ever cleanse him from all the crimes he did. If not in front of the law, then maybe God will, but who fucking knows?

Hence John stayed still, lips sealed tight. He refused to meet the man's eyes and decided to stare right into the cold, gray concrete.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Depends. Some of us can pull some strings. Not me, though. I don't have that kind of power." The detective shrugged and placed the hat back on his head.

"Would you rather stay here with uncertainty, or would you rather have the chance to be able to see your kids again? I hate the insanity plea as much as the next person but I'm just saying that there's a chance you could be put in an asylum."

The detective now stood behind John and gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

"Now it's up to you. Just answer a few questions, it's not that hard, is it? If not for me, do it for your kids."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"It's fine. Take your time to think—but I really don't have much. So I'll ask you again. What's your real name? Who's your next target?" Those two questions were the main things that they wanted—especially Ian.

"What made you like this, John? Do you even remember?"

Ian honestly wanted this to be over just as much as John did—though he's played all his cards, the detective wasn't proud that he had to stoop so low. Now that the anger had left him.

The children were perfectly safe.

But John needed to think otherwise.

The detective had to do what he had to do.

ㅤㅤ

John

John had it seen coming at him. Everyone and their curious mind and their oh-so-important questions. Have they heard about curiosity killed the cat? He doesn't think so.

So when the detective begins with his questions, John takes a deep breath, hoping it would stop himself from trembling. It didn't work, but at least he tried.

What's your name?

"John."

Who's your next target?

"Haven't decided yet."

What made you like this?

"I don’t know."

Do you even remember?

He stayed quiet.

"No."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian was familiar to the saying. Curiosity killed the cat. Who isn't? After all, it is a well known saying—warning people of the dangers of unnecessary investigation. 

But how many people are familiar with the later half of the saying? The rejoinder?

But satisfaction brought it back. 

Finding the answer would be a reward in itself. That's why the detective pressed on.

"I asked for your REAL name. Not the one you took from your parental figure!" The detective slammed his hand on the table again. "Don't lie to me, you bastard."

Ian narrowed his eyes and spoke in a warning tone. "Don't make me do something you'd regret."

ㅤㅤ

John

John was never a good liar and he wasn't even planning to hide it this time. Instead, he stared down at his feet, again, struggling to keep himself on hold 'cause now the slightest pitch of tone from the detective had managed to bring himself into a full alert mode. He can feel himself trembling again.

So he didn't respond.

Not a single word, not a single huff of breath.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Being observant as he was, it's no surprise that Ian would be like a living lie detector.

The detective crossed his arms and sighed in disappointment.

"Fine. Have it your way. But let me just remind you, that you brought this upon yourself."

Ian Nashton glanced at the corner of the room again.

"Bring the kids in."

ㅤㅤ

John

Eyes widening in surprise, John weren't expecting any of that to come from the detective's foul mouth. But he shit you not that the very first response he gave was not a defiant look, but it was a smile full of disbelief. Half frowning, half quirking his brows, John said, “You're mad.”

But when he saw the cold look across the man's visage, John felt himself getting light-headed again. Everything was spinning and falling and he could feel his arms struggling to free himself from the chair. And when it should hurt a lot, John could barely register it as he feels the dam of his eyes breaking away, again.

"You can't do that," he said, and even though he was still smiling—chuckling, even—the glints of his eyes were filled with nothing but a full terror.

"You're fucking mad, they're only seventeen, you can't do anything to innocent kids, they don't have anything to do with this, you bastard!"

And that was supposed to be a threat, but with the way his voice stammering, eyes reddening, and streams of tears flowing faster than his own heartbeat, it sounded more of a plead.

"Jesus Christ!" John barked, his body wracked with an onslaught of sobs and tears.

"You're absolutely mad, please, oh my god, kill me already, just kill me, but don't do anything to them, please, please, please, please, please don't."

He wasn't even trying to free himself anymore, all the frantic movement was just an attempt to get himself closer to the detective because he can feel his voice breaking away, and he's afraid he couldn't hear him in between the choked sobs.

"I'll tell you anything, just don't do anything, please, it's Monsoon, it's Monsoon. My name is Monsoon, please."

John stared at the man, his voice breaking away every second which passed them.

"It's Isaiah Monsoon."

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian would be lying if he said he didn't feel his stomach drop when he saw those terror stricken eyes. Yes, at the beginning he'd laughed and smiled at John, but now? Now the detective's conscience was starting to get to him.

But he kept that cold and unfeeling expression as best as he could. He has gotten this far. He can feel the guilt later, after this is all done.

"What about the innocent lives lost because of your actions, huh?! They also had nothing to do with it, yet they suffered! Innocent people have lost their lives too because of you, John!" Ian raised his voice again. "And what of my brother? He was just a man going to a video convention, caught in your explosion that night. Besides, I never said anything about hurting them. You just assumed that that would happen."

The detective inhaled sharply and cleared his throat. He hadn't anticipated how John was begging and pleading. Not for his life, but for death. 

He was in tears.

And it didn't happen because he was beaten to a pulp. Not by agent Moore's men, not even by the detective himself.

    But because of Ian's words.

And finally, there's that name he has been after this entire time. Said in between sobs and pleads, the detective almost didn't hear it.

"Isaiah. Of course. It makes perfect sense. See, I expected it to have been a Biblical name. Kind of odd to be addressing you in this way, though. Huh. And I'm sure it must be odd to hear it roll off my tongue."

That information satisfied his own curiosity (and probably agent Moore's as well), but technically speaking, it wasn't of much use.

"You still have other unanswered questions. But I believe you were telling the truth. At least... about your next target. There is no list, is there? You just go after whoever you can, correct?"

Despite the horrible feeling he had in his stomach, the detective still managed to force a thin smile. John's statement about the detective being mad had amused him.

How ironic that the deranged Revelator accused the detective of madness.

"By the way, I'm not mad, /Isaiah/. Just a well connected man who happens to notice everything. Although... I wouldn't blame you for thinking otherwise. There's a quote often thought to have been said by Aristotle, "No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness". What do you think?"

When Ian looked into the other's eyes, he no longer saw the fierceness he was so familiar with, he just saw desperation and hopelessness. He saw /fear/. The once fearsome Revelator was now a mess, covered in bruises and dried up blood; his cheeks dampened with tears and his voice breaking with each word he tried to say.

Ian felt pity for the man, but a tiny part of him in the back of the detective's mind wanted to laugh at John.

Like it was a sickness.

    Was this how John had felt at the barn?

The detective leaned against the doorway, he was ready to leave, but he kept his gaze locked on the other man.

"Anything? Well, go on then. You better have something good, otherwise I will go. For starters, tell me. Do you work alone? Or do you have some sort of a team, just like the previous Revelator?"

ㅤㅤ

John

John can't—Isaiah can't even think straight as the only thing in his mind was, "the detective is right".

All of the things happened, all of the innocent life he had taken away, and all of the things that might happen to his kids, everything were all his fault. He knew he'd done something awful when he had to work so hard to justify it. The more demanding the reparations his subconscious required, the worse he knew it was.

He couldn't even hear whatever the detective had been blabbering because now the guilt did not only sit on his chest, but also deep inside his brain. All the things he had done could never be un-done. Even if he tried to make amends, Isaiah knows that it was still out of the questions.

Even confessing to Father Brown won't erase the guilt nor lift any single weight from it. Even if he speaks his heart to God and beg for his mercy, nothing would make him feel better.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed. No words came out of his lips except for restless murmurs of pleading, choked out sobs and a loud sniff. He could only shake his head when the detective asked him something. The guild that had been eating himself, pestering him, and burning the end of his throat had prevented him on speaking anything.

Four second. Five seconds. Six seconds passed. He wonders if his tears would drain out in a night because he couldn't stop himself from bawling. He had clung his faith in the love of Christ and hung the remains of his sanity on it. Every night he prayed that one day all of his pain would be let unfurl and his sin will be washed clean. But now he had to face the truth.

He had done this to himself, he had done this to his kids.

And if something happens to them, how could he forgive himself?

He shook his head.

ㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

The detective wasn't sure what he was feeling. He felt guilt, but somewhere inside him, he also felt satisfaction.

He had a principle that sometimes, surely the right way is the ugly way. But was this the right way, or is it just ugly? Ian wasn't sure.

Would this be worth it in the long run? Perhaps.

He let out a deep sigh. He wanted to give John—no, Isaiah—some pats on the back out of pity, (and perhaps subtly apologize) but he was certain that that may ruin the illusion he has built this far. So he only cleared his throat to get the other man's attention.

"Well, I'm afraid I must go now. As long as you cooperate and behave, your children will be safe." That sentence alone was hard for him to say, because it was a lie—his children are perfectly safe regardless of what he'll do.

But it's all an act. He had to keep it up.

"I really didn't want it to be like this, but you left me no choice. I suppose it's been kind of nice meeting you again. See you never, J—I mean, Isaiah." 

The detective immediately stumbled out of the room and slammed the door behind him. There wasn't a single soul outside except for agent Moore. 

Still, Ian Nashton leaned against the door and slumped to the ground, he let his head hang low as he massaged his temples with both of his hands.

"Fucking hell, I can't believe I did that. That was cruel, even for someone like him. Tell me everyone else was gone when I mentioned his family."

The ridiculously tall agent Moore crouched in front of Ian and gave a reassuring nod, though he wasn't sure if the detective had seen it. "Yes. I ordered them to leave as soon as you had stopped hitting him."

Ian removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a groan. "I feel sick—it was my idea but somehow I feel sick. I feel conflicted. Damn it, Gerard, I feel sick."

The agent placed a comforting hand on the detective's shoulder, "I'm sure… even I was a little… surprised, Ian. But… hey. The ends will justify the means, wouldn't it?"

"I guess—I hope so. I know his kids are perfectly safe. But still, seeing him like that? I feel kind of… pitiful. Underneath that Revelator exterior he seem like he could be a good father." Ian sighed deeply and held his head in his hands.

"Trust me, detective. I've seen worse methods. What you've done today pales in comparison to what I've witnessed first hand. Now, come on. I think you should go home." The taller man stood up and held out his hand for Ian.

The detective took it and pulled himself up. He casted a hesitant glance at the door and an image of a broken down Isaiah crossed his mind, though he immediately shook it off.

"R-right. I should probably go—clear my head. Thank you, for the opportunity and for arranging all of this. And, um. Yeah. Do no harm." Ian wasn't sure what came over him, but he pulled the older man into a brief hug before he made his way out of the building.

He trusted agent Moore, Ian knew he wouldn't do anything to John's kids because he has a nephew of his own.

ㅤㅤ

John

When the door shut close, Isaiah didn't even stop himself from tearing out. It hurts, everything hurts. His muscles, his head, his heart. It could be a hundred degrees out and he'd still be frozen on the inside. Everything feels cold and he can't stop shivering, trembling.

There is static in his head once more; the side effect of this constant fear, the constant stress he lives with. The pain came out like an uproar from his throat in the form of a silent scream, then a heart wrenching wail.

The detective was right.

He had done this to himself.

He had done this to them.

Now he could only beg.

"Just kill me already."

#deus det nobis suam pacem #9

[jessicakmatt]

15 Richard Furch Mix Tips Every Producer Should Know

15 Richard Furch Mix Tips Every Producer Should Know: via LANDR Blog

Learn from the best: Richard Furch shares his unique studio insights.

There’s a good chance you’ve heard a record mixed by Richard Furch whether you knew it or not.

His Grammy-filled discography includes mixing and engineering credits for Frank Ocean, Prince, Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis, Tyrese, Whitney Houston, Macy Gray, Usher, Outkast and many more.

It’s a career that spans more than 15 years of top-notch mix engineering. In that time, Furch has formulated a unique approach and philosophy to mixing.

Figuring out all the little things you need to think about every time you mix comes down to hours behind the board—something Furch has A TON of. Normally, you’d have to log your own long hours to figure out what all those important little things are.

But in the spirit of sharing and pushing the craft of mixing forward, Furch took some time out from the studio to share some of what he’s discovered and show you how to approach certain parts your mixing process.

Ranging from mix referencing to the results of too much coffee, these 15 Richard Furch mix tips are valuable to every producer looking for a better mix—regardless of genre, DAW or skill level.

Get your pen and pad ready…

1. Find Your Anchor

It’s easy to get lost in a mix while asking yourself if the snare is too loud, the bass too low, the guitars to distant etc. You need an anchor for your mix. Define one element that stays static and mix around that.

Starting points could be the vocal (after you figured out some basic eq and compression to get it sitting in the right place), or the snare. Both are very important, forward parts of many mixes.

Mix around them. If you get lost, ask yourself how the part in question relates to your anchor.

If you feel lost, mute everything around the anchor and start adding instruments back in until you pinpoint the parts that are too loud, too soft, too distracting, too…wrong in the mix. Then fix, instead of questioning every level and every part.

2. Listen Through Imperfections

This one is major time saver if you can perfect (pun intended) this approach. If you stop mixing every time you decide an ess is too loud, a smack is too audible, or an edit is too rough, you’ll waste hours and hours.

Leave that stuff aside. Instead, listen for the broader musical relationships (the definition of mixing).

Chances are, half of the things you thought were important to fix early on disappear in the final mix. And the rest, you can Fix after you’re done with the song, outside of the creative zone.

3. Don’t Mix Drums While Listening Loud

If you listen to your mix very loud, you’ll likely think that the drums and percussion are too low. It’s part of their transient nature.

Get a feel for the impact of the drums while listening loud. Does it move your body? Are you dancing? Great.

But when it comes to mixing your drums and deciding how loud they are in the mix, listen at medium or low volumes. You will get a better blend.

And hey, you can always check it again loud when you’re done. Still dancing? Good work!

4. Don’t Get Distracted

Try this little experiment: Play your mix from the top and at about verse 1 pick up your phone and check your snapchat or switch to your browser and scroll through some Facebook.

I guarantee by the time the chorus rolls around, you’ll admit to yourself that you have no idea about what you were listening to and what changes you might have to make. Which is the only reason to listen to the mix in progress.

Silence your phone! Put it behind you so you can’t glance at it or leave it in the kitchen and check your texts every hour or so.

Studies have shown that if you break your concentration to do something like checking your email, it can take you up to 25 minutes to get back to the concentration level you were at before. Mix fast, go home early. THEN do all the social media you think you need.

5. Get Distracted

On the other hand, once you get very close to finishing your mix, make it a point to get distracted.

Loop your mix in the background, turn it down to a level where you can easily talk over it. Turn your back to the speakers and do some emails, texts, call a friend, whatever.

Keep listening subconsciously. What sticks out to you? Did you just lose the vocal on a few words here and there?

Make small changes in the mix based on your passive listening. Try some tweaks, and keep it looping. Once nothing irks you anymore, you might just be done!

6. Reference But don’t Compare

This is an easy and frustrating trap to fall into. You’re checking out how your mix compares to your favorite artist of a similar genre (always level match!).

After listening, you find the bass is too low in your mix and the snaps are just more crisp in the other song, the vocal is dryer and the strings are closer and blah, blah, blah…none of this matters.

The reference is not the song you’re mixing. Referencing means you take a sampling of what other records sound like and you use your findings to get your song sitting somewhere amongst these songs, while still preserving the song you’re mixing.

You will quickly figure out that every song sounds different, even in the same genre. Your song should sound different, not the same as something else. Don’t make it sound like some other song for no reason.

7. Change Your Perspective

You’ll hear a lot of mix engineers talking about the importance of checking mixes in their car.

Do you swear by the car check? Why? Does your car have the most accurate, awesome sound system ever assembled? Then why don’t you mix in your car instead?

The car check is important because the sound system is DIFFERENT. The biggest reason you should listen to your mix somewhere else is because the speakers are NOT the ones in your studio. It’s all about the change of perspective.

It will make you listen to music differently and highlight new aspects of your mix. If the car reveals something that you cannot hear in your studio, on any of your speakers, or headphones, it’s might be time for a studio tweak or upgrade.

8. EQ and Level Match

Pretty much every plugin these days has a tweakable output level. So after EQing always match your output level with the level of the bypassed signal. Ask yourself: Is it really getting better? Or were you just impressed by a louder signal after boosting bass or midrange?

You’ll find yourself EQing less and more efficiently. Which is not necessarily better, but it goes faster.

The answer to “why is this part not cutting through” is not always about adding midrange or brightness. Sometimes it’s as simple as just turning it up. Seriously… It might be just that easy.

9. EQ and Listen as a Section

Many people say you shouldn’t EQ in solo. Personally, I think that’s not necessarily right.

You might want to EQ in solo because you already know what kind of EQ you need (lower midrange, presence, etc).

EQing while soloed can help you zone in on the instrument and how the EQ will affect it. It’s a matter of marksmanship. Get as close as you can and affect only what’s necessary.

It’s a matter of marksmanship. Get as close as you can and affect only what’s necessary.

Always un-solo and listen in context to check your decisions. Level match with the bypassed signal as described above. Tweak more—in solo or not—But always check in context of the whole mix.

There’s good and bad aspects to pushing an EQ that are always related: Mud/warmth, presence/harshness, air/lightness, bass/boom. Finding the sweet spot is the art.

10. EQ From the Top Down

Try EQing from the top down (high frequencies to lows).

It’s definitely subjective, but it’s a process that works for me when defining the high end and upper midrange of a sound first—before dealing with mud or bottom frequencies.

Some of the muddiness and lack of clarity automatically goes away once you’ve defined the presence of a sound, because you’re changing the relationship between present frequencies and murky frequencies when you boost upper midrange (level matching definitely helps as described above).

I find that if you work from the bottom up you might make sounds too skinny, as you fixed the lower midrange first and then later possibly added high end when it was really not necessary. As always. Listening helps. Duh

11. Don’t Look, Listen

Here’s another experiment to try: Position your cursor at top of song, start playing your song, now turn off your monitor. Keep listening. Are you perceiving your reverbs differently? Can you focus more on the vocal detail?

A lot of people hear better when the monitor is dark or with the lights low or off. My theory is that darkness creates less brain activity and sensory input which heightens our ability to listen.

Dammit, I’m a record mixer, not a doctor. But it makes sense to me and it works! Try it.

My theory is that darkness creates less brain activity and sensory input which heightens our ability to listen.

12. Know How Beverages Affect You

Sounds funny, but it’s a real issue…

If you’re four coffees deep by 3pm, I can almost guarantee that come 5 or 6pm your hearing will be changed by the way caffeine affects your capillaries.

Try to put a finger on how different beverages affect you. Is everything starting to sound thin and harsh? Maybe it’s time to ease off the caffeine.

Or use it to your advantage. Need more vibe and caution-to-the-wind attitude? Maybe it’s Margarita time. But don’t blame me if you have to fix the mix the next day…

13. Know Your Margins

Throw up some drums, bass and a (decently compressed) vocal in a session.

Can you get the vocal sitting within 3dB of where it should be in a minute or so? How about 2dB or 1dB? Maybe even .5db?

Finding, and knowing your margins will help you stop guessing how much ‘too loud’ the vocal is.

Need more vibe and caution-to-the-wind attitude? Maybe it’s Margarita time.

To figure it out, set the vocal to where you think it might work. Now turn it up until you go “This is definitely too loud”. What is that number? 2db?

Now do the opposite: Turn the vocal down until it’s definitely too low. How many dB is that?

Now you have a window of where the vocal might sit in the final mix which will help you confidently mix around it. Hopefully that range will get smaller the more you do this. This means you’re getting better at instinctively mixing. See “find an anchor” as well.

14. Mix Without the Bass for a Long Time

I like starting my mixes with the drums. Most of the time, the drums define the whole frequency spectrum of the record from the kick to the cymbals.

Drums will often need considerably more work to sound right than a lot of the other instruments, so I like to get that done right away. I follow that with the keys, guitars, strings and vocals, and leave the bass out for a long time. It helps me really hone in on where the low-mids and low-end in the instruments sit in the mix.

I like starting my mixes with the drums. Most of the time, the drums define the whole frequency spectrum of the record from the kick to the cymbals.

Once I feel that spectrum feeling natural, I add the bass and work it in. I find that leveling a bass while only listening to drums is very hard as there is little harmonic content to put the bass in perspective. So leave it out until you have something to work around.

15. Find a Safe Place in the Mix:

150+ tracks on one project can get confusing VERY fast. There are only a few songs that actually need that many tracks. Musical intention can normally be described with much fewer musical events.

Musical intention can normally be described with much fewer musical events.

The solution? Find the center of the record. The instruments and vocal that play through the whole song that COULD be the whole song if nobody added the other bells and whistles.

Focus on making those elements sound good and remember what they are. Now. If you get lost when adding the rest of the music, mute instruments until you get back to the safe place, the place where the music feels good but the record is not finished.

Add the other elements until the song starts to feel bad. That’s the culprit, fix it. But never lose that safe place feeling and you’ll be fine.

Visit Richard’s site for more on his discography and studio. Follow Richard via his Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

The post 15 Richard Furch Mix Tips Every Producer Should Know appeared first on LANDR Blog.

from LANDR Blog http://blog.landr.com/richard-furch-tips/ via https://www.youtube.com/user/corporatethief/playlists from Steve Hart https://stevehartcom.tumblr.com/post/160990429609